The Ripper Affair

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.”