The Ripper Affair

A violet flower bloomed between her and the thing in a coachman’s form: sorcerous force widening like a painted Chinois fan. The Word she spoke, sliding harsh and whole from her throat with a harsh pang, was not of Mending or Breaking or even of Binding. No, she chose a different Language entirely, and one not of her Discipline.

Strictly speaking, Naming belonged to neither the White nor the Black, nor the Grey besides. Its only function was to describe, but such was a law of sorcery: the Will makes the Name.

Had she not been Prime, she perhaps could not have forced the creature’s dubious reality to temporarily take the form most suited to her purposes. The Word warped as the thing fought her humming definition of its corporeality, and that very twisting and bulging gave her indications of its nature.

But only indications.

A tricksome beast you are, indeed.

It hit the shield of violet shimmering and Emma was driven back, her heels scraping long furrows through crisping, peeling Scab. Her gloved hands flew, describing a complex pattern, and the violet light snapped sideways and forward, again fanlike. The edge slashed up, sharply, and the thing’s howl blew her hair back, cracked the folds of her mantle, stung her watering eyes.

She ignored the irritation. It was a coachman, its yellow and red striped muffler wrapped high to conceal a void where the face should be and its high collar doing its best to shade the face as well, its coat flapping open, worn and patched in places with tiny needle-charmer’s stitches; its boots caked with manure and street-scum. The hat was of fine quality, a jaunty black feather affixed, the waistcoat of embroidered purple and gold a proud bit of flash. It was not liveried, but the boots and the hat said servant instead of hire, and who would send a creature like this in a livery which could be identified? The clothes were no doubt pawnshop acquisitions, probably corpsepicker gains.

It fell, splatting dully onto the Scab-covered cobbles. More vile steam rose. Its fingers had torn through the ragged woollen gloves, being far too long and corpse-pallid, each sporting an extra joint that no doubt helped the thing wield a knife.

Or its whip, which clattered on the cobbles beside it.

Emma set her chin, bringing the fan-shield back smoothly. The creature’s advantage of surprise was lost, and she had successfully driven it down. But where was Mikal, and what precisely was this unholy thing?

It hissed, scrabbling at age-blackened cobbles with malformed hands to find its weapon, and she had a moment to be grateful Clare was not further involved in this matter before it twisted upright with inhuman speed and flung itself at her again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine A Babe In Woods

The saying Foul as Limhoss breath was marvellous apt. Whitchapel had its own stench, and Limhoss no Scab, but in Archibald Clare’s considered judgment there were few places in Londinium to outdo the latter in matters of fragrance. Perhaps it was the Basin, or maybe the mariners who congregated in its dens and dosses, the tar of the ropes or the tight-packed press of alien flesh–for the Chinois population of the Isle was concentrated here, and their suffusion of odours was foreign as well as rank.

Ginger and spices, the starch of their rice and boiling of their odd oils, different fish than an Englene would eat, the dry rough note of raw silk, and an acrid smoke enfolded them. Even the fog was a different shade here, its billows assuming the shapes of their odd writing, their crouching, painted charter stones near the doors alive with weak saffron light so they could practise their native arts of minor charming without the risk of nasty side-consequences.

Aberline knocked twice at a collection of splinters masquerading as a door, which shivered and opened immediately. Perhaps he was expected, or perhaps, Clare thought as he ducked to pass through the tiny opening, anyone was expected after dark.

Down a close, reeking passageway and into a womblike dimness, the light turned red by the paper lampshades it passed through, and Clare realised it was a poppy den.

Long shapes reclined on bunks built into the wall, giving a rather nautical flavour to the room. A brown fug rose from winking scarlet eyes as Morpheus’s chosen flower carried its devotees into fantastic languor. The eyes were the bowls of the pipes, a beast with a thousand gazes.

“Your methods are indeed unusual,” he remarked, breaking the hush. Coughs rose in protest, weakly; he had not adjusted his tone for the confined quarters.