“Do you like bowing and scraping to that magical whore? Does it please you to be held in contempt for your power and pride? I know what moves you, Prima, and I offer you alliance. And more.”
She remembered the nosegay left on another sorcerer’s narrow bed, a bloodstain upon the floor, and the same trick used to distort a voice in a filthy Whitchapel yard.
This was most likely the same Prime who had mysteriously moved to aid her during the Red affair, and she had thought it quite likely he was another in Victrix’s service.
Now, she wondered.
Did he know his sorceries weakened Britannia? What was his aim?
A new spirit rising.
“Do you think,” she began, choosing her words with care, “that a new spirit will be more amenable than the old?”
“Amenable?” The laugh was chilling, and another sound of breakage intruded. What was he doing? “Perhaps not. But certainly weak, for a long while. And grateful.”
It was one thing to privately compass such a thing, but quite another to hear her adversary speak of it so blithely. She relaxed, abruptly, all her considerable attention brought to bear. “You know little of royalty and rule, sir, if you expect gratitude from either to be of any duration.”
“And you know far too much to be allowed to become my enemy.”
Another shattering sound, Mikal’s exhale of effort. What on earth was occurring? She did not open her eyes, every inward sense twisting through a labyrinth, following shifting ripples as they doubled back upon each other, circling ever closer to the artfully camouflaged well of disturbance that would be her opponent.
“Think upon it, Emma. Would you rather serve, or be served?”
I would rather be left to my own devices, thank you very much. But she did not reply, for her attention snagged on a single flaw in the pattern, a break in the ripples, and she pounced without moving, plunging through the matrices of ringing æther. Snake-quick, but he was quicker, and sorcerous threads snapped as he cast his coat of camouflage aside. More shattering sounds, and she was driven to her knees by the expended force of her own blow, reflected back at her.
Oh, how very droll. A great ringing in her head, she shook to clear it, her skirts ground against something sharp and powdery.
“Prima?” Mikal, longing to give chase.
“No.” She could not find the breath for more. If he has laid his plans so thoroughly, he will have an ambush waiting, and I shall not lose you to such idiocy. She fumbled for her veil with fingers that felt swollen-clumsy. Blinking furiously, she found herself kneeling before a heap of… shattered tiles?
Yes, they were roof tiles, of the old red clay in use on the sloped top of the stable opposite, which was ringing with the sounds of clockhorse distress.
The equines did not like this Prime, or his works.
Mikal crouched easily at her side, his hands covered in vicious, shallow slices, bright beads of blood against thick pink dust coating his skin. “Good practice,” he said, tilting his head as he deciphered her expression behind the veil. “Simple locometry, I should think. And triggered from afar.” He pointed to another rooftop, with a half-shrug that told her it was his best guess. “Crude. But effective.”
Had she possessed another Shield, she might have also possessed a chance of catching the mad Prime while one stayed to protect her from the assault of flung tiles. But now was not the time for guilt or remonstrance. Her stays cut, her dress was covered with dust; her skirts were torn and stiff with blood. Mikal was a sight too, rolled in Scab and covered with various substances. His coat was shredded, and the glimpse of his muscled belly crisscrossed with angry red scarring–perhaps irritated by his exertions in the last few minutes–caused her a pang she did not care to examine more closely.
“Your hands,” she managed. Her throat was very dry. She coughed, delicately, and reacquired her customary tone. “And… oh, h—lfire blast it all. This rather changes things.”
“They are already healing.” He held up his palms, and the sight of his flesh closing, sealing itself under the not-quite-ætheric glow of a Shield’s peculiar healing sorcery, sent another bolt through her. “See?” Very gently, as if she were a still a student at the Schola, unfamiliar with a Shield.
“Yes. Help me up.” She was glad of the veil, and doubly glad of his strength as he steadied her. Her legs were not quite as strong as she would like, and her left thigh trembled, on the verge of turning in its resignation due to savage overwork. She swore, vilely, in an exceedingly low voice, and was further grateful Mikal was accustomed to her somewhat unladylike language upon certain occasions. She finished with a few scathing terms directed at whoever had thought to tile-roof a stable, though she knew such a thing was perfectly admissible, and when she ran out of breath, she inhaled sharply and fully, shaking her head, feeling the quivering all through her. She had expended a great deal of the force Tideturn had flushed her with.
It was small comfort that her opponent had, as well.
Mikal paused, making certain the storm was past, then turned to glance down Whitehell Road. There was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing: clockhorse hooves and excited voices through the rapidly greying fog. “What next?”
She took stock. She simply hated to be so dishevelled, but there was no help for it, and a few cleansing-charms would waste what limited strength of hers remained.
“Next,” she said grimly, “we find Clare. And Aberline.” She took advantage of the moment to tuck a few more curls away under her veil, and blinked away fresh, welling hot salt water.
“That sounds too easy.”
Indeed it does. “It is only a first step, Mikal.”
“And then?”
“Then,” she continued, setting her chin and taking an experimental step, her heeled boot catching and grinding on broken tiles, “we return home to repair ourselves. Afterwards, I avail myself of every means necessary to track down this mad Prime and halt his insanity. I must confess, Shield, that I am more than peeved.” She took another step, leaning on his arm, and found she could walk. “I am downright vexed.”
“Heaven save us all,” he muttered, and she let it pass, leashing her temper tightly.
This mad Prime, whoever he was, had finally managed to anger her. She would teach him the error of such provocation soon enough.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In Sorcery, As In Science
Clare wrapped his hands around the thick, glazed mug of fragrant tea. It was not a mannerly attitude to take, but he found he required the heat and the support to brace his shaking fingers. The ripples in the surface of the liquid could be blamed on the tension outside–and inside–Inspector Aberline’s office.
Young Pico had settled himself, one hip on Aberline’s desk, and was glowering fiercely at him. “She’ll have my hide,” he kept muttering, between inspecting the sleeves of his torn jacket and his similarly injured waistcoat, at great length.
Clare affected not to hear him, though he had been immensely glad to be found by the rufous lad, who bore all the marks of a rough passage through Whitchapel’s burning riots. The entire Eastron End was still heaving with unrest, the Metropoleans simply standing at every major ingress and egress to keep the disorder from spilling out. As soon as dawn was fully risen, no doubt the Crown would send Guard and sorcerers to quell whatever unrest remained, no doubt with a bludgeon or two to sweetly kiss the pates of anyone whose excitable nerves failed to settle.
Fortunately, the riots did not seem to have been directed at the Yudics, despite the simmering in the more irresponsible dreadfuls and broadsheets. Clare was of the opinion that such uncivilised things as “pogroms” did not belong upon the Isle; however, uncivilised behaviours were piling upon his Englene with distressing regularity at the moment.