Clare blinked, and leaned closer. “Yes, indeed. How very curious. It seems to follow the blood channels and nerves.”
The barrowmancer coughed, nervously. Clare’s attention fastened on him. “Well?”
“Nothing, sir.” But the man was much paler than he had been when Clare had arrived. “Just… well, sorcery follows blood and nerve, mostly. But to sear it… nasty stuff, that is. Especially there.”
“Miss Bannon shall be informed.” Clare nodded. “Very well, then. Detective Inspector, I believe we are to endure each other’s company for some little while longer.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Such Guile To Make Headway
The hansom rattled along, and Emma’s chin dipped as her attention turned inward.
Outside the carriage’s shell, Londinium seethed, and she felt the drag of the Scab along the wheels lessen. Passing out of Whitchapel might improve her mood, but she rather doubted it.
In any case, the hansom was merely a gesture to misdirect a pursuer, albeit an exceedingly lazy one. Still, it was a matter of habit not to approach some things too directly.
Also, it gave her a small increment of badly needed time to think.
The bodies bore the marks of the blackest of sorcery–not of Emma’s Discipline, thank the heavens, but the marks of ætheric force harnessed to an intent so foul even those of the Endor would fain avoid it. The only major Discipline deeper of the Black than Emma’s own was the Diabolic itself, but this held no smoky, addicting incense-ghost of that art.
Those of the Endor had once been murdered as soon as certain… disturbing signs… were noticed during their schooling. Those of the Diabolic still were. Not in civilised Englene, of course, but elsewhere. Especially where the Papists still held sway. Any of sorcery’s children unfortunate enough to have a Discipline darker than Diabolic most often became a malformed monstrosity, ending their short lives dead in the womb. At least, that was the current understanding. She could safely rule out such a hapless monstrosity, and likely rule out the Diabolic as well.
And yet. The bodies were merely instruments; it was the locations that showed deeper marks. The taproot of Our power, Britannia had said.
Which seemed to imply that the power of a ruling spirit was a force that renewed itself, as Tideturn’s flow filled sorcery’s Englene children twice a day. Or was it otherwise, and the draining Britannia was experiencing more… permanent? Was it a longed-for result, or merely a symptom?
I do not know nearly enough. Frustration boiled inside her; the rock in her throat refused to be dislodged. And there was the unwelcome chain of thoughts again, rising inside her skull’s few inches of private space.
Had Clare expected her to let him die of the plague? What had he expected her to do to ensure Ludovico’s survival? Did he think she would wrench the Stone from her mentath and return him to fragility?
For good or for ill, she had chosen Clare. At that moment he had been the one in direst need. Had he not been… would she have married her conscience-heavy burden with Ludovico’s flesh?
Another question I do not require an answer for at this moment. Or that I will not answer, even to myself.
The driver huphuped to his clockhorse, and she took stock of her surroundings. She had precious little time before she alighted and Mikal appeared again.
The bodies are torn; the womb is the locus. A root is driven down in the location; it is a matrix… A root, more likely. Into what? How does it echo with Britannia? Can it be Sympathy? How to target it so effectively, though… it makes little sense.
Of course, Clare would likely chide her for assuming it was so, and Britannia’s weakness simply incidental. What proof did she have otherwise?
Britannia’s word. Besides, the need would have to be pressing indeed for Victrix to come to Emma’s door alone, and lower herself by asking, instead of merely commanding, a sorceress’s aid.
It was small comfort that perhaps even Britannia thought Emma Bannon unlikely to simply obey.
Clare, now there was another worry to be had–that Pico would not be able to effectively restrain him from descending into another fit. It was all she could do, barring keeping watch on the mentath herself. Finch was reliable, and there was the blood-binding as well–which she had performed on an unconscious mentath, and not spoken of.
Clare would no doubt be quite put out by that, too. When he realised she had done so, or when he questioned Pico closely on the matter, or…
The driver chirruped, and the hansom jolted again, slowing. Her moments of precious peace were disappearing. Continuing on too scattered to even think properly, she told herself sternly, would only result in more deaths.
Will it? Unfortunates die every night in Londinium. If their deaths weaken Britannia… is that acceptable?
The woman she had been before the Red Plague exploded into the world would have retreated from such a thought, shelving it as absurd. Now she considered, quite calmly, something absolutely treasonous, as well as repugnant.
Clare assumed she would throw herself upon this mystery and seek a solution as a matter of course.
There was also the little matter of the most recent murder intruding upon her in a most rude fashion. She was sensitised to whatever Work was being performed now, due to her tampering with the site of Tebrem’s misfortune. Which could have unpleasant symptoms–yet the work she had done yesterday in her study should have insulated her from such effects.
Obviously, it had failed to do so properly.
The hansom halted. A bare few moments later, the door was released and Mikal’s hand was as steady as ever as she alighted. The driver, well satisfied with an easy fare, tipped his hat and was off with a clatter and a crack.
Londinium’s soup-thick fog, lit with morning sun to a nauseous glow, walled a busy street-corner, shapes moving in its depths. Mikal did not let go, and she was forced to look up at her Shield.
A Prime normally kept a half-dozen of the brotherhood in service, for physical defence and as a guard against an overflow of ætheric force. There were also other… uses… for them, quite obviously. She had not seen the need for more than Mikal in a very long while. And Eli—
Do not think upon that. The dead shall wait; we are concerned with the living at the moment.
Mikal waited. Of course he would betray no sign of impatience.
The fog was choking-close this morning. For all the sound of traffic, they might have been alone, just outside the north-eastron edge of the Scab’s furthest creep. Pedestrians hurried by, almost faceless, for Mikal had drawn her aside, the brick wall next to her scarred and pitted with age.
For a moment, his face was a stranger’s, too. Emma gave herself a severe mental shake. “Mikal.”
“Prima.”
“We are bound for Bucksrow.” I might as well tell you.
“Just inside Whitchapel again.” He nodded. “The site of the second murder?”
“Yes. I wished no witnesses.”
He nodded, but still paused, in case she wished to add anything further.
What did you do, Mikal, when I lay dying? Clare said you performed a wonder. I survived, and you have not mentioned a price for any feat you performed.
The question bubbled up inside her, was forced back, and she was suddenly aware of the weight of her mourning-cloth; the heaviness of her jewellery; her hair braided, piled and pinned by Isobel’s quick fingers; the constriction of her shoes; and her stays–she had never followed the fashion of extraordinarily tight corseting, but they were tight enough–compressing her.