The Ripper Affair

Chapter Six Too Winsome And Winning A Place

She had never thought to be glad there were still Papists left in Londinium. As always, where there was Religion there was also a man whose palm was amenable to greasing. Consequently, even a wayward son of a Church such as Ludovico Valentinelli could be laid to rest in Rome-approved fashion. Emma paid for masses to be sung for his soul, too, though it was her private opinion that Heaven would bore him to a second death and Hell was entirely too winsome and winning a place to hold him for long, did he seek amusement elsewhere.

Yellow fog wreathed the gates of Kinsalgreene, elbowing uneasily with the incense puffing in clouds from swinging censors. There was a choir of small urchins, and the rolypoly Papist in his black cloth, scarlet-crossed stole, and long supercilious nose looked askance at her as she stood, clearly not willing to leave as a woman traditionally did before the coffin–the most comfortable that could be obtained, for he would not rest in a beggar’s box–was lowered and covered.

The Papist muttered something and glanced at Clare, who stood leaning upon Horace the footman’s proffered arm. Finch was there too, in his dusty black–appropriate despite himself, it seemed–and her housekeeper, Madame Noyon as well, dropping tears into a small, exquisitely wrought lace handkerchief. Even broad genial Cook, whom Ludo had tormented shamelessly, stood solemn and sedate. The footmen wore their best, indenture collars glowing softly, and the maids, both lady’s and common, scullery and all-work, sniffed and dabbed.

Of course he had been at the maids too, but they seemed to have forgiven him.

The hearse and attendants, not to mention the pallbearers, constituted quite a crowd. Pages, feathermen, coachmen, mutes, how he would have hated the attention.

If she raised his shade through the lead sleeve and oak covering, he would sneer and spit.

Or perhaps he would not. That was the trouble–how could one ever be sure what someone would do, could you restore them to a manner of breathing? Memory was an imperfect guide, and Ludo in all his changefulness could not be compassed.

It was, she suspected, why she had kept him so close.

Mikal was at her shoulder, and she denied herself the faint comfort of leaning against him. There was a toll exacted here, and she paid it as Madame Noyon and the maids retreated, as the coffin was lowered and the footmen clustered around Clare. She paid double when Clare did not so much as glance at her, staring at the coffin’s mellow polished gleam with his bright blue eyes narrowed and intent.

You should have told me. Of course, even a machine of logic trapped in flesh would feel disturbed, or even outright betrayed, at such a secret. Sometimes she wondered if other mentaths were as thin-skinned as her own. They had alarmingly sharp faculties of Perception and Deduction, and were said to have no Feeling whatsoever. Indeed, it was supposed to discommode them quite roundly.

Sometimes, though, she suspected that a lack of Feeling was not quite the condition Clare suffered.

Her mourning-cloth was not quite appropriate, for what proper lady would feel the need to mark the passing of a man who was, strictly speaking, a hireling?

Yet she chose to wear something close to a widow’s weeds for him, if only to silently tell Clare… what?

Black henrietta cloth, an unfashionably small bustle, a crêpe band holding tiny diamonds to her throat, long silver and jet earrings thrumming with Tideturn’s stored charge, matched silver cuff-bracelets ice-burning under her sleeves and gloves. She had not worn these earrings for years, not since the last time she had been in grief..

Thrent. Harry. Jourdain. Namal. Eli. Now another name to add to the list. Ludovico. A rosario, perhaps, like the one the Papist clutched as he mumbled his prayers, sealing the baptised body of one of his God’s children into eternity.

There were other matters to worry over, chief among them the richly appointed carriage that had lurked behind the cortège and even now squatted, toadlike, outside Kinsalgreene’s high, flung-open iron gates, their spikes wreathed with anti-corruption charms and deterrents most–but certainly not all–grave-robbers would hesitate to cross. She had paid to have the Neapolitan well armoured against the theft of his shed mortal cloak. Time and rot she could do little against now, but she could make certain nothing else interfered with his resting.

Whoever was in the carriage, well, she would deal with them after this ceremony.

Clare’s paper-paleness. The thin bitter line of his mouth, drawn tight. Tiny tremors running through him, as well as the haphazard haircut–he had trimmed the burnt bits himself, shrugging aside Gilburn, who would have been more than happy to perform a valet’s duty.

Ludovico’s duty.

Though the bowl of the sky was a blind eye of cloud, the rain held itself in abeyance. It had been a cold, damp summer even for Londinium, and some whispered Britannia was unhappy.

Had Emma not been so painfully aware of her surroundings, she might have made a restless movement.

If she is unhappy, it is no concern of mine. Not now.

The thump of the oaken cask settling sent a shudder through her, one she quelled even as Clare’s face crumpled and smoothed itself, soundlessly.

Yes, I should have told you. I was afraid of the illogic unsettling your mind. I was afraid of…

Such an admission could not be borne. A Prime did not fear.

“Prima?” Barely a whisper, Mikal sounding not quite happy with her movement.

She had taken a step forward.

Hushed greenery and glowing marble mausoleums, their cargoes of quiet rotting hidden behind the gleaming façade and held safe in nets of ancient barrowcharm, to ensure they slept soundly.

Her Discipline roused slightly within her, and even the weak sunlight stung her sensitive eyes. She was glad of the veil’s obscurity, and still miserably compelled forward.

Wet earth full of mouldering, the open grave and the stone sleeve within it, nestling the coffin and its inner lining of charmed lead. A box within a box, within another, and inside them all a kernel that had once been… what, to her?

More than an acquaintance, more than a hireling, not quite a friend, caught in some space for which there was no proper word.

The first time she had ever engaged his services, he had played, catlike, as if she were a mouse under his paw. When the mouse turned out to be a lioness, the cat had merely blinked once, and afterwards still practised a cool disdain. There had been another woman involved, and sorcery, and plenty of blood. The sounds he made as he almost choked on the gallows, before she cut him down.

Strega. Whispered, like a curse, afterwards. She had paid him double, though he had sought to refuse her. You should have let me die.

Her own reply–That, sir, would not please me at all–greeted merely with a knife driven into the wall beside her head, and a muttered curse. Mikal had come very close to killing the Neapolitan, the first great test of his obedience to her will as her Shield… and the first moment she had begun to think that perhaps she might not have erred in accepting his service and sheltering him from the consequences of murdering his previous master.

She blinked, rapidly, grateful again for the veil. Later, glowing marble would rise above the nested boxes, and the stonewrights would chip a farewell into its gleaming face. Building a house for a dead man required time, even if one could pay double or triple for the best.

Her throat closed as she stared at the polished oak.

I am of the Endor. Did I will it, he would rise even from this… but it would bring no comfort.

The dead did not grant absolution. They merely answered simple questions of fact, and to ask them of Feeling was a waste. Once, one of her Discipline had brought a spirit fully to flesh to answer a king’s questioning, but such a feat was beyond Emma, Prime or no.

Or is it? There was little comfort in finding, at last, an act of sorcery that she did not dare attempt. It had merely taken her entire life so far to discover it.

Ludovico. Her back held iron-straight, Emma Bannon extended her hand. A sharp flicker of sorcery, the fabric of tangled æther that condensed into physical matter shivering, and her glove was sliced neatly open.

The black glove–and the flesh underneath.

“Madam!” The priest, scandalised. She ignored him. The barrowmancer, standing ready at the periphery, stepped back nervously.

Ludo. I am sorry. Blood dripped, and her housekeeper, as the women obeyed custom and retreated, let out another sob. Emma did not move.

Mikal hissed in a breath as a spatter of scarlet drummed on the polished lid. Its pattern trembled for a moment, the sensitised fabric of reality rippling. Here was not a place for one of sorcery’s children to shed blood.

It mattered little. For this, nothing but blood would do. There was no vengeance to be had: Ludo’s killer had vaporised himself with the explosive as well. Were she to hunt down every last one of his accomplices, or even take her rage to Eire’s green shores, the scales still would not balance.

After all, hers was the hidden thumb upon one side. A cheat so accustomed to thievery it becomes habit, a partial judge. A sorceress who chose one life over another.

I am sorry, and I shall pay penance. She stared down at the bright scarlet spots. Mikal snatched her hand, and she let him. His fingers folded around hers, and she resisted only when he sought to draw her away from the graveside.

“Fill it in,” she said, each word a dry stone in her throat. “For God’s sake, as you cherish your lives, fill it in.”

There was a soft commotion. Clare had faltered, Horace and Gilburn caught him. There was a tingle up her arm as Mikal applied healing sorcery, a Shield’s capability. Part of a Shield’s function.

That was worrisome, too. Your Shield worked a miracle… you lost nothing in the transaction…

All this time, she had thought her survival stemmed from a different source; from the sorcery worked by the greatest Mender of his age while the city lay wracked under the lash of a plague let loose on the world by the very Crown Emma had sworn to serve. If her recovery had not been of Thomas Coldfaith’s making…

Troubles thick and fast, and she could do nothing but stand and watch the open mouth of the grave as the diggers bent their backs to the work, the lone barrowmancer in his long black gown and traditional red stripes still eyeing her nervously as he felt the disturbance spreading from her.

A Prime was a storm-front of ætheric force, sorcerous Will that brooked precious little bridle exercised and fed until it became monstrous.

A woman with a Prime’s will and corresponding ætheric talent, monstrous indeed. If she lost control of herself here, in this place of the dead, what could she set loose? If she opened the gates of her Discipline in this place, she could well shatter every stone and coffin. She could hold the door wide for a long while, and fuelled by this, what could it bring forth?

A spatter of earth hit the lid with a hollow noise, each shovelful another barrier between her and… what?

She could not name what he was to her, even now.

Ludo, Ludovico, I am… sorry.

It was not enough.