The Ripper Affair

Chapter Four Some Order Here

It was, as a Colonial might say, a bloody horrific hell of a mess.

By the time Emma half fell out of the bay clockhorse’s saddle–her morning dress was never going to be the same–into Mikal’s hands, the narrow street leading to the Clerkewold was jammed with a milling crowd, straining carriages and a great deal of nasty smoke, as well as policemen blowing their damnable silverwhistles and clacking blocks together instead of doing anything useful.

In short, it was a situation only a sorceress could remedy, and Emma Bannon stalked forward. The tugging of the Bocannon had crested and subsided, and why it should lead her here she had no idea, except that Clare was somewhere in this disorder and needed her aid. She had not seen him for a week or two, but that was normal, when he had an affair engaging his attention.

The fog was not bad this afternoon, pale yellow and merely unpleasant instead of choking. Still, Londinium’s great bowl seethed differently, as if potent yeast had been added during her absence. Or perhaps it was merely that she had lost the habit of familiarity with crowded, odiferous streets and high-pitched cries.

First, a bit of quiet. A half-measure of chant slid from her lips, spiked with ætheric force, every inch of jewellery on her flaming as she drew upon its accumulated charge. The screaming, both human and equine, cut off sharply. It was a moment’s worth of work to clear a path to the Clerkewold’s set of high narrow double doors, but three of the four were fastened shut and the stream of people fleeing whatever disaster had taken place had dammed itself to a mere trickle.

Emma paused, the crowd exploding away as it realised one of sorcery’s children was present and quite likely irritated. Mikal was at her shoulder, having no doubt attended to the clockhorses in some fashion; she set her heels, her hands coming forward, fingers curled around empty air.

She pulled, a second rill of notes issuing from her throat, and expended a little more sorcerous force than she strictly had to. The doors exploded outwards, shards of wood whickering as they sliced the air, and smoking bits peppered the crowd.

A torrent of persons issued forth, stumbling down the stairs, their cries shrill and tinny as they met the blanket of silence Emma had laid over the street. She unknotted a single strand of the first spell with a discordant note; it would unravel on its own and slowly return clamour to this part of Londinium.

She picked up her skirts, suddenly acutely aware of being outside her domicile with nothing even approximating gloves, a shawl, or a hat. Her hair was likely disarranged from the ride here as well, and familiar irritation at being dishevelled rose inside her.

At least the escapees, singed and shrouded in foul smoke–had Clare been conducting experiments in a courtroom?–had the wit to give her space as she climbed the worn stone steps; dividing around her much as a river embraces a stone.

The Bocannon’s tugging was faint now; whatever had occurred was now largely finished. Its bearer was still alive; beyond that, she could sense nothing.

He has Ludo to guard him. And he has… it. The Stone.

She discarded the thought as useless. Besides, why would she wish to be reminded of that nasty affair? It had cost them all dearly.

The vapour was foul, and there was a sick-sweet odour of roasting. What manner of disaster had he embroiled himself in now? She should have paid closer attention to the affairs he was engaging himself upon.

It was no use to scold herself now.

Mikal’s hand touched her shoulder. He pointed, and there was another set of doors, old wood rubbed with so much oil it had turned black. The walls teemed with the rose of Henry the Wifekiller’s family crest, worked over and over again, an explosion of arrogance. Of course, the man had been an apotheosis of pride, almost rivalling a Prime’s traditionally large self-regard. It was a very good thing a reigning spirit would not deign to inhabit a vessel with sorcerous talent. A double measure of such overweening vanity might well leave whatever Empire it graced a smoking ruin.

It was another moment’s work to shatter the blackened wood, widening the aperture through which more smoke-maddened human beasts poured. She was spending force recklessly, and found she did not care one whit.

Where is he?

Some manner of legal proceeding had been in session; paper fluttered, blackened and torn. The stink of a battlefield roiled out with the smoke, but she could spare no attention for an air-cleansing charm.

Because there, amid the shattered bodies, knelt Archibald Clare, a lean man past his youth whose sandy, greying hair was flame-crisped at the ends. His shirt and jacket had been blown away, ribbons hanging from the cuffs, and his trousers were just short of indecent.

He hunched over a horribly burnt and battered form.

Emma, who had seen many a death in her day from illness or… other events, halted. The sorcery she had been gathering to restore some order and breathable air to the room died unformed, her rings sparking and sizzling, the bronze torc at her throat warming dangerously as ætheric strings snarled, tangling against each other just as the fleeing crowd had.

No. Oh, no.

There was nothing to be done for the shattered body; no spark of life left to seal into the violated flesh. Even had she been a Mender, there was no help for Ludovico Valentinelli now, and Emma let out a shaking breath.

“Clare?” She sounded very young, even to herself. Firmed her expression and strode briskly through the wreckage. In the remnants of the judge’s bench another well-built man torn by the force of some ungodly explosion–though there was no trace of fiery sorcery lingering in the room, merely the quivering shreds of truthtelling and inkwell charms unravelling as their physical bases lay broken–bubbled and croaked, probably close to dying. She paid him little mind. “Archibald. Dear God.”

He did not move. Muscle under the flour-pale skin of his narrow back did not flicker, and for a moment something black lodged in her throat. Was he… despite the Stone’s gift, was he…?

“I hear his heartbeat,” Mikal murmured. “But not… the other’s.”

Ludovico. It was unquestionably the assassin she had blood-bound to Clare, the most intelligent and reliable of his ilk she had ever come across during her erstwhile service to the Crown. One of his hands was whole and uninjured, slack against the stone pavers lining the floor. His fingernails, of course, were filthy, and for some reason that detail caused a great calm to descend upon her.

Who did this?

For the moment, it did not matter. First things must be tidied, Clare must be made safe, and… Ludo. There were arrangements to be made for his eternal rest. She owed him as much, at least.

Then, she told Clare silently, I shall visit vengeance upon whoever did this.

Mikal’s hand had tensed, fingers digging painfully into her shoulder. Did he think she would buckle? Swoon, like some idiot woman? Or was he relieved at the fact that it was the assassin who lay dead, and not the mentath? Who knew?

“Turn loose of me,” she managed, and her tone was ice. The words echoed in the suddenly empty room, and the wreckage quivered. She rearranged the ætheric strings that had become tangle-frayed, and the air-cleansing charm crackled as she set it free. “Help Clare. And for God’s sake let us have some order here.”