Clockwork Princess (15 page)

“Information about his connection to Mortmain. Information about any other Clave members that might have had a connection to Mortmain. Clues as to Mortmain’s whereabouts—”

“And his devices?” Henry said.

The Consul paused midsentence. “His devices?”

“The Infernal Devices. His army of automatons. It is an army created for the purpose of destroying Shadowhunters, and he means to bend it against us,” Charlotte, seemingly recovered, said as she set her napkin down. “In fact, if Benedict’s increasingly incomprehensible notes are believed, that time will come sooner rather than later.”

“So you
did
take his notes and journals. The Inquisitor was convinced of it.” The Consul rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Of course I took them. And of course I will give them to you. I always planned to do so.” Eminently composed, Charlotte picked up the small silver bell by her plate and rang it; when Sophie appeared, she whispered to the girl for a moment, and Sophie, with a curtsy to the Consul, slipped out of the room.

“You should have left the papers where they were, Charlotte. It is procedure,” said the Consul.

“There was no reason for me not to look at them—”

“You must trust my judgment, and the Law’s. Protecting the Lightwood boys is not a higher priority than discovering Mortmain’s whereabouts, Charlotte. You are not running the Clave. You are part of the Enclave, and you
will
report to me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Consul,” Charlotte said as Sophie reentered the room with a packet of papers, which she silently offered to the Consul. “The next time one of our esteemed members turns into a worm and eats another esteemed member, we will inform you immediately.”

The Consul’s jaw set. “Your father was my friend,” he said. “I trusted him, and because of that I have trusted you. Do not make me sorry I appointed you, or supported you against Benedict Lightwood when he challenged your position.”

“You went along with Benedict!” Charlotte cried. “When he suggested I be given a fortnight only to complete an impossible task, you agreed to it! You spoke not a word in my defense! If I were not a woman, you would not have behaved in such a way.”

“If you were not a woman,” said the Consul, “I would not have had to.”

And with that, he was gone, in a swirl of dark robes and dully sparking runes. No sooner had the door closed behind him than Will hissed: “How could you give him those papers? We need those—”

Charlotte, who had sagged back in her chair, her eyes half-closed, said, “Will, I have already been up all night copying down the relevant parts. Much of it was—”

“Gibberish?” Jem suggested.

“Pornographic?” said Will at the same time.

“Could be both,” said Will. “Haven’t you ever heard of pornographic gibberish before?”

Jem grinned, and Charlotte put her face in her hands. “It was more the former than the latter, if you must know,” she said. “I copied down all I could, with Sophie’s invaluable assistance.” She looked up then. “Will—you need to remember. This is no longer our charge. Mortmain is the Clave’s problem, or at least that is how they see it. There was a time when we were singularly responsible for Mortmain, but—”

“We are responsible for protecting Tessa!” Will said with a sharpness that startled even Tessa. Will paled slightly when he realized everyone had looked at him with surprise, but he went on anyway: “Mortmain wants Tessa, still. We cannot imagine he has given up. He may come with automatons, he may come with witchcraft and fire and betrayal, but
he will come
.”

“Of course we will protect her,” Charlotte said. “We need no reminders, Will. She is one of our own. And speaking of our own …” She glanced down at her plate. “Jessamine returns to us tomorrow.”

“What?” Will upset his teacup, soaking the tablecloth with the dregs. There was a buzz around the table, though Cecily only stared in puzzlement, and Tessa, after a sharp intake of breath, stayed silent. She was remembering the last time she had seen Jessamine, in the Silent City, pale and red-eyed, weeping and terrified…. “She tried to betray us, Charlotte. And you are simply allowing her back?”

“She has no other family, her wealth has been confiscated by the Clave, and she is besides in no fit state to live on her own. Two months of questioning in the Bone City has left her nearly mad. I do not think she will be a danger to any of us.”

“Neither did we think she would be a danger before,” said Jem, in a harder voice than Tessa would have expected of him, “and yet the course of action she took nearly placed Tessa in Mortmain’s hands, and the rest of us in disgrace.”

Charlotte shook her head. “There is a need here for mercy and pity. Jessamine is not what she once was—as any of you would know if you had visited her in the Silent City.”

“I have no wish to visit with traitors,” said Will coldly. “Was she still gibbering about Mortmain being in Idris?”

“Yes—that is why the Silent Brothers finally gave up; they could get no sense out of her. She has no secrets, nothing of worth that she knows. And she understands that. She
feels
worthless. If you could but put yourself in her shoes—”

“Oh, I don’t doubt she’s putting on a show for you, Charlotte, weeping and rending her garments—”

“Well, if she’s rending her
garments
,” said Jem, with a flick of a smile toward his
parabatai
. “You know how much Jessamine likes her garments.”

Will’s smile back was grudging but real. Charlotte saw her opening and pressed the advantage. “You will not even know her when you see her, I promise you that,” she said. “Give it a week, a week only, and if none of you can bear to have her here, I will arrange for her transport to Idris.” She pushed her plate away. “And now to go through my copies of Benedict’s papers. Who will assist me?”

The Consul’s carriage was a shining red five-glass landau with the four Cs of the Clave on the side, drawn by a pair of impeccable gray stallions. It was a wet day, drizzling faintly; his driver sat slumped in the seat up front, almost entirely hidden by an oilskin hat and cloak. With a frown the Consul, who had said not a word since they had left the breakfast room of the Institute, ushered Gideon and Gabriel into the carriage, climbed up after, and latched the door behind them.

As the carriage lurched away from the church, Gabriel turned to stare out the window. There was a faint burning pressure behind his eyes and in his stomach. It had come and gone since the previous day, sometimes rolling over him so strongly that he thought he might be sick.

A gigantic worm … the last stages of
astriola
… the demon pox
.

When Charlotte and the rest of them had first made their accusations against his father, he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Gideon’s defection had seemed like madness, a betrayal so monstrous it could be explained only by insanity. His father had promised that Gideon would rethink his actions, that he would return to help with the running of the house and the business of being a Lightwood. But he had not come back, and as the days had grown shorter and darker, and Gabriel had seen less and less of his father, he had first begun to wonder and then to be afraid.

Benedict was hunted down and killed
.

Hunted and killed. Gabriel rolled the words around in his mind, but they made no sense. He had killed a monster, as he had grown up being trained to do, but that monster had not been his father. His father was still alive somewhere, and any moment Gabriel would look out the window of the house and see him striding up the walk, his long gray coat flapping in the wind, the clean sharp lines of his profile outlined against the sky.

“Gabriel.” It was his brother’s voice, cutting through the fog of memory and daydream. “Gabriel, the Consul asked you a question.”

Gabriel looked up. The Consul was regarding him, his dark eyes expectant. The carriage was rolling through Fleet Street, journalists and barristers and costermongers all hurrying to and fro in the traffic.

“I asked you,” the Consul said, “how you were enjoying the hospitality of the Institute.”

Gabriel blinked at him. Little stood out for him among the fog of the past few days. Charlotte, putting her arms around him. Gideon, washing the blood off his hands. Cecily’s face, like a bright, angry flower. “It is all right, I suppose,” he said in a rusty voice. “It is not my home.”

“Well, Lightwood House is magnificent,” said the Consul. “Built on blood and spoils, of course.”

Gabriel stared at him, uncomprehending. Gideon was looking out the window, his expression faintly sick. “I thought you wished to speak to us about Tatiana,” he said.

“I know Tatiana,” said the Consul. “None of your father’s sense and none of your mother’s kindness. Rather a bad bargain for her, I’m afraid. Her request for reparations will be dismissed, of course.”

Gideon twisted about in his seat and looked at the Consul incredulously. “If you credit her account so little, why are we here?”

“So I could speak with you alone,” the Consul said. “You understand, when I first turned over the Institute to Charlotte, I had some thought that a woman’s touch would be good for the place. Granville Fairchild was one of the strictest men I’ve known, and though he ran the Institute according to the Law, it was a cold, unwelcoming place. Here, in London, the greatest city in the world, and a Shadowhunter could not feel at home.” He shrugged fluidly. “I thought giving over administration of the place to Charlotte might help.”

“Charlotte
and
Henry,” Gideon corrected.

“Henry was a cipher,” said the Consul. “We all know, as the saying goes, that the gray mare is the better horse in that marriage. Henry was never meant to interfere, and indeed he does not. But neither was Charlotte. She was meant to be docile and obey my wishes. In that she has disappointed me deeply.”

“You backed her against our father,” Gabriel blurted, and was immediately sorry he had. Gideon shot him a quelling glare, and Gabriel folded his gloved hands tightly in his lap, pressing his lips together.

The Consul’s eyebrows went up. “Because your father would have been docile?” he said. “There were two bad ends, and I chose the best of them. I still had hopes of controlling her. But now …”

“Sir,” Gideon cut in, in his best polite voice. “Why are you telling us this?”

“Ah,” said the Consul, glancing out the rain-streaked window. “Here we are.” He rapped on the carriage window. “Richard! Stop the carriage at the Argent Rooms.”

Gabriel flicked his eyes toward his brother, who shrugged in bafflement. The Argent Rooms were a notorious music hall and gentleman’s club in Piccadilly Circus. Ladies of ill repute frequented the place, and there were rumors that the business was owned by Downworlders, and that on some evenings the “magic shows” featured real magic.

“I used to come here with your father,” said the Consul, once all three of them were on the pavement. Gideon and Gabriel were staring up through the drizzle at the rather tasteless Italianate theater front that had clearly been grafted onto the more modest buildings that had stood there before. It featured a triple loggia and some rather loud blue paint. “Once the police revoked the Alhambra’s license because the management had allowed the cancan to be danced upon their premises. But then, the Alhambra is run by mundanes. This is much more satisfactory. Shall we go in?”

His tone left no room for disagreement. Gabriel followed the Consul through the arcaded entrance, where money changed hands and a ticket was purchased for each of them. Gabriel looked at his ticket with some puzzlement. It was in the form of an advertisement, promising
the best entertainment in london
!

“Feats of strength,”
he read off to Gideon as they made their way down a long corridor.
“Trained animals, strongwomen, acrobats, circus acts, and comic singers.”

Gideon was muttering under his breath.

“And contortionists,” Gabriel added brightly. “It looks like there’s a woman here who can put her foot on top of her—”

“By the Angel, this place is barely better than a penny gaff,” Gideon said. “Gabriel, don’t look at anything unless I tell you it’s all right.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes as his brother took firm hold of his elbow and propelled him into what was clearly the grand salon—a massive room whose ceiling was painted with reproductions of the Italian Great Masters, including Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus
, now rather smoke-stained and the worse for wear. Gasoliers hung from gilded mounds of plaster, filling the room with a yellowish light.

The walls were lined with velvet benches, on which dark figures huddled—gentlemen, surrounded by ladies whose dresses were too bright and whose laughter was too loud. Music poured from the stage at the front of the room. The Consul moved toward it, grinning. A woman in a top hat and tails was slinking up and down the stage, singing a song entitled “It’s Naughty, but It’s Nice.” As she turned, her eyes flashed out green beneath the light of the gasolier.

Werewolf
, Gabriel thought.

“Wait here for me a moment, boys,” said the Consul, and he disappeared into the crowd.