“We are weakened,” the spirit finally said, its cold lipless voice somehow faintly obscene, issuing from a stout woman’s throat. “We have… there is a draining of Our vital energy. A threat.”
A draining? Weakened? Emma frankly stared. The world seemed to shift a bit beneath her. “Ah,” she managed, finally. “I see.”
“No.” Britannia drew Victrix’s mouth back, into a rictus. “You do not. But We shall enlighten you.”
Chapter Nine
How Many Acquaintances
A few effects stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his trusty Gladstone, and Clare halted to stare at the bed. It was neatly made, the linens snow-white and the red velvet counterpane as familiar as the worn quilt covering his narrow Baker Street bed. Here the furniture was heavy and dark, of a quality to last; his flat seemed rather shabby in comparison.
How many times had he slept here, though? Contemplated a case at Miss Bannon’s dinner table, had a companionable tea in the solarium–both of them silent except for a Pass the marmalade, if you please or a How droll, this article claims thus-and-such? How many times had Miss Bannon quietly arranged matters to suit him, or anticipated his need for a particular item? A woman’s sorcery, she would remark, brushing aside his thanks.
He was behaving most shabbily. The voice of Logic demanded he halt and consider, and he would heed that dictate before pausing to even consider the voice of Manners.
His breathing came heavily. His heart thundered in his chest, the heart she had repaired–Valentinelli had dragged him here, spattered with ordure and in the throes of a severe angina. Miss Bannon had not questioned or demurred in the slightest. Instead, she had thrown her considerable, if illogical, resources into working a miracle to keep Clare alive. It was Miss Bannon who had brought him to Ludovico in the first instance, during the affair with the army of mecha. Protection for Clare’s tender person, indeed.
He would not, if he understood her correctly, have to fear a repeat occurrence of the angina, or the slow clouding of old age. His faculties would remain undimmed. The greatest fear a mentath could suffer, set aside with breathtaking speed.
The fear of physical harm, never overwhelming for a mentath used to calculating probability and setting aside Feeling, was now non-existent.
The possibilities for experimentation were utterly boggling.
He could, no doubt, find a fraction of coja at an apothecary’s, and begin there. Clare snapped the Gladstone closed. He glanced at the door, opening his mouth to tell Valentinelli…
… absolutely nothing. The Neapolitan’s place was empty, and would remain so.
Now there was an avenue of thought best left unexplored: dealing with how many acquaintances Clare would outlast.
If I had known, I would not have allowed him to attend the trial. The danger was clear.
How could he have halted the Neapolitan, though? Stubborn as a brick, that man. And why had Miss Bannon not inflicted this burden on him? They were two cats, the sorceress and the assassin, disdainful but never far from each other, sidelong glances and mincing steps. Valentinelli had been married once, but the name of his wife was a mystery, just as so much else about him.
His last word, strega, whispered the way another might take a lover’s name into the dark.
The dark Clare would not experience for a long, long while. How long? Was there any way to tell? Questions! Questions that required answers.
He sank his sweating fists into the velvet counterpane. Bent over until his forehead touched the bag’s use-blackened handles, and attempted to impose some order on his scattered thoughts.
It came slowly. The rest of him was wet with sweat by the time he braced his arms and straightened, his knees creaking.
“I should apologise.” It was not quite the thing for a mentath to speak to himself. It was rather a sign of uncertain faculties, wasn’t it? “I treated her most dreadfully. Yes.”
He found himself at his chamber door, clutching the bag with a sopping hand. A great undifferentiated mass of Feeling rose again, swamping him, and he dropped the Gladstone with a solid, meaty thump that unseated his usually excellent digestion.
He could not remember breakfast, but he bolted for the water closet and evacuated it in a most decided fashion, pausing to suck in deep breaths between the heaves and wincing at the taste of his own bile.
Chapter Ten
And Nothing Came Of It
Emma sighed and indicated the settee, faintly surprised when Britannia did not take offence. The ruling spirit settled her vessel carefully, and for a long moment her face became Victrix’s as she arranged her voluminous skirts. Drawn despite the doughiness, careworn as well, Emma could not find the young queen she had known in the matron’s features.
Did it disturb Victrix, to find her former servant so unchanged?
If it did, she did not show it, merely pursed her lips with distaste. When she spoke, there was only a faint shadow of Britannia under her words, a chill wind mouthing the syllables. “There have been… events. In the Eastron End of Londinium. Whitchapel.”
“Events.” The blood crusted on Emma’s left glove was irritating. “In Whitchapel.” The thought of that filthy sinkhole, the Scab covering its floors and cobbles with thick green caustic sludge, was unpleasant, to say the least.
“We felt these events, Lady Sellwyth. In Our very core.” One plump hand waved, diamonds flashing. “And now there are… disturbing signs. A weakness, such as We have not felt since…”
Since when? But the practice of holding her tongue in the presence of royalty had always stood Emma in marvellous good stead, and she found it easy to adhere to at the moment. And Lady Sellwyth, as if Victrix sought to remind her of the fanged gift of a title set as a seal upon Emma’s faithful service, and the Sellwyth ancestral lands held in Emma’s fist, guarding its secret.
Victrix’s mouth barely opened far enough to let the words loose. “Since those ingrates sought to disturb the taproot of Our power.”
Which ingrates? History is full to the brim of those who would supplant a vessel. Perhaps it was Cramwelle’s reign she referred to–the shock of Charles the First’s execution must have been a nasty one. Or perhaps she meant Mad Georgeth’s reign, though Britannia had held fast to even that ailing container.
She could even have meant the affair with the dragon, given her mention of Sellwyth.
Interesting as that avenue of questioning might prove, the issue of what the taproot of a ruling spirit’s power consisted of was even more intriguing.
A heavy sigh, and Britannia retreated from Victrix’s features. Her shoulders rounded, a flicker of expression crossed her broad face—what was it?
Almost haunted, Emma decided. “Your Majesty.” She aimed for a soft, conciliatory tone, and perhaps did not succeed. Still, the effort had been made. “This seems to trouble you greatly.”
“Can you imagine, sorceress, what it would be to lose your powers?”
I do not have to imagine. “Yes.” Memory rose–dripping water, smell of stone, the manacles clanking and her own despairing noises as she struggled fruitlessly–and Mikal’s steady breathing as he throttled and eviscerated the Prime who had trapped her and sought to tear her ætheric talent out by the roots. His own Prime, the one he had sworn to serve… a vow broken for what?
He hurt you, was all Mikal would say of the matter. She had never sorely pressed him on that point, for a variety of reasons. Clare’s accusations rose before her again, unwelcome guests indeed, in the crowded room her brain had momentarily become.