Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

There was no reply, just the sound of bolts sliding to free the entrance mechanism, and with a soft creak, the gate swung inwards.

  The guard told them Josiah saw no-one overnight, no matter how important they thought they were. Instead, he organised a room for them until the morning.

  The rain stopped at five am. Simmons had slept a little but had spent more time thinking through their current situation and where they went from here.

  Could they trust Josiah? He hadn’t been forthcoming about his relationship to Dent, either junior or senior—but did that make him untrustworthy? He had put them in contact with the Ravenmaster, and that led to finding the schematics, so what was his problem with the man? Why did he have this nagging feeling that things weren’t right here?

  The glimmer of first light crept in through the curtain-free windows, and Simmons realised he wouldn’t get back to sleep now. The birds were awake and made sure everyone else knew what a beautiful morning it was regardless of how tired or hung-over they were.

  Simmons sat with Bazalgette in the same octagonal room where they last met Josiah. Light streamed in from the bright morning sky, glinting from the display cases and the polished brass and silver clocks within. The single entrance door opened, followed by the clicks and whirs of Josiah’s mechanical enhancements. “Good to see you two again, back so soon after your previous visit.”

  The hydraulic pumps down the left side of his body shifted in time with his movements as he made his way to sit behind the desk. A slight hissing noise faded as his weight settled into the large wooden chair.

  “So, what have you learned that you return here in the middle of the night, Mr Simmons?” he turned his attention to Bazalgette, exposing his stitched leather profile, and nodded. “Mr Bazalgette.”

  “We found what you were looking for, the schematics for the watches,” Simmons said. “We met Dent in the Tower and listened to his tale of their original construction and where he hid them.”

  “Which was where?”

  “In the workshop at the Strand.”

  “Impossible,” Josiah spat out. He took a deep breath and then let it out again slowly. It seemed to calm many of the devices which had burst into frenzied motion at his outburst. “Apologies, gentlemen, that was unwarranted. I have been under some considerable strain with my work and perhaps should take a little more rest. Please, go on.”

  Simmons shared a sidelong glance with Bazalgette. “We located the microfilm hidden within a toy spider. After Bazalgette performed some technical wizardry, he found it held hundreds of detailed schematics of the pocket watch as Dent had suggested.”

  “Excellent work, my friends. You brought these designs with you?”

  “Yes, but don’t you want to hear what else we learned from Dent?”

  “If you feel it’s important,” Josiah said, failing to keep the annoyance from his voice, and followed, once more, by a flurry of clicking dials and gears. “Please complete your tale, but perhaps remember, time is pressing.”

  Simmons stretched his shoulders, the muscles having grown tense. “Dent had a younger brother, who he thought was dead, killed in a collapse during the invasion. We weren’t able to rescue Dent, he took the honourable way out, but he identified his brother’s name as Josiah.”

  Josiah’s leather face rippled and creased, accompanied by a frenzy of whirs and clicks before he replied. “By your attitude, and how you told this tale, you think I am that younger sibling? That I should somehow be a broken and weeping wreck for losing a brother?”

  He held Simmons’ eye for a few seconds, then continued. “I know nothing of this brother you speak of. Even if I did, it makes no difference to the task at hand, to the direction we must travel to achieve it. Dent’s death is—unfortunate—but time marches on, and so shall we. Now is there anything else before we get to the business of deciphering the schematics?”

  Bazalgette stood. “You can’t believe it’s mere coincidence, can you? We mention your name, and he mourns that his younger brother, Josiah, saved him from a collapsing building, and was crushed doing so. Everything fits. Are you saying you learnt your skills of horology in total isolation from the Dent family?”

  The hissing and whirring faltered for a second before bursting into high speed. “I have told you I know of no connection, and that should be enough for the both of you. I have no care for what happened to Dent. His part in this was complete once he informed you how to retrieve the damned schematics from Otto. To be honest, I don’t give a damn if he shot himself or you butchered and fed him to the rats.”

  Josiah rose, surpassing Bazalgette’s height by six inches, the leather skin on his face twitching. “You, Nathaniel, of all people should understand the importance of avoiding distraction from your work. I do not have the time to waste on these idiotic fancies. Now, where is the microfilm?”

  All was silent, Bazalgette looked from Josiah to Simmons, a frown growing across his forehead. “We didn’t mention the toy’s name.”

  “What?” Josiah said. The whirs and clicks increased as his eyes widened.

  Just let it go, Bazalgette, Simmons thought. But, of course, he couldn’t.

  “You called him Otto. We never mentioned that.”

  “What do I care about this contraption? Where are my schematics?”

  Simmons inched his right hand towards the holstered pistol. He hadn’t thought to leave it unclipped. Now it would need the toggle flipped to release it from the holster. The sound from all the clocks around the room seemed to drown out everything else as they ticked in perfect unison. Tick, Tock, Tick.

  “Do you think I don’t know what you are doing, Simmons?” Josiah asked, his voice had darkened, dripping with contempt. “Do you really believe you can draw and fire that pistol before I reach out and snap Bazalgette’s neck?”

  Josiah’s mechanical arm flashed across the space, grabbing Bazalgette by the throat. Thick metal fingers tightened as he raised Bazalgette into the air with the ease of lifting a toddler.

  Bazalgette croaked something as his hands thrashed to grip either side of Josiah’s wrist. Simmons had only just pulled the Mauser from its housing, but continued his draw and aimed at Josiah’s face.

  “Release him,” Simmons said, cocking the weapon.

  “Now, now,” Josiah said. “There’s no need for incivility. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

  Bazalgette’s feet scrambled for purchase, dancing a foot above the beautiful wooden flooring.

  “Put him down now, before I blow that freakish head from your shoulders.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Simmons.” A loud click issued from the mechanical arm. “That sound means, the arm is on lockdown, so it cannot release unless I instruct it. Even if you tore it from my body, it couldn’t open without fully constricting first. With dear Nathaniel’s oesophagus and spine in the way, that could prove unpleasant for him. Well, look at him,” Josiah turned his attention from Simmons to Bazalgette. “He’s already going red, next comes purple, then black. No air, you see? Now be a good little soldier and give me the schematics. Or would you prefer to watch him struggle for breath, his brain dying from lack of oxygen and the pain in his lungs burning till he bursts?” Josiah laughed—a harsh grating noise. “His eyes are bulging. They might pop out if we’re lucky.”

  Simmons faltered. What could he do? The arm was a biomechanical mass of wires, pipes and clockwork. If he only knew which controlled the hydraulics, but that was Bazalgette’s field. He lowered the pistol. “It’s in his jacket pocket, the inside one. Just let him go.”

  “Drop the weapon.”

  Simmons knelt and placed the Mauser on the floor and stepped back, arms raised. Bazalgette had ceased kicking. A weak twitch came from his left foot, and his hands slackened, falling from Josiah’s arm, leaving his face a horrifying purple, darkening by the second.

  “Take the damned thing and leave him be.”

  Josiah’s other hand darted into Bazalgette’s pocket and retrieved the octagonal box, flicking it ope
n. His ruined features creased with a grotesque sneer as he saw the microfilm. “Now, that wasn’t hard, was it?”

  Another loud click and Josiah launched Bazalgette the full length of the room. His limp body crashed through a bookcase near the doorway and fell in a crumpled mess, wood splinters and shards of glass dropping around him. Simmons hung his head. What have I done? If I’d just handed the film over at the start, Bazalgette could have—

  A whoosh of something cut through the air from his right. By instinct, Simmons ducked away but was too slow. Sharp metal cogs tore into his cheek, and the full impact of the arm followed behind it. Unbelievable pain flooded his mind, and it felt as he imagined being hit by a train might. Brilliant white filled his head like a thousand arc-lamps, then sudden all-consuming darkness.

  27

  William, son and heir of Lord James Blakelocke, wiped the mud from his boots. A liberal application of polish and elbow grease brought them to the level of shine he expected of both himself and his men. Now, where did I leave that damned pistol?

  “Willie, come back to bed,” a muffled and sleepy voice called from under the bedcovers.

  “Got things to do, Chloe,” he replied. “This damn city doesn’t patrol itself.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She pulled the silky covers tight and rolled over, hiding her naked form from his gaze. He never tired of looking at her, the curve of her hips and breasts etched into his memory.

  Blakelocke rose from the velvet-lined four poster bed and crossed to the nightstand where he grabbed his uniform jacket. His hand brushed the fine material at the shoulders just below the collar where three silver daggers marked him as a captain of the Black Guard.

  He pulled a brush through his tangle of short dark curls and applied a liberal amount of hair cream to tame the unruly strands which refused to stand in line. It took several minutes before his appearance was that befitting an officer of his reputation. He nodded at his reflection in the mirror and moved to the door.

  The bell from the nearby clock tower rang out four times in the darkness. Angry cawing erupted from its roof where a handful of disgruntled birds leapt into the air, their disagreement with their early alarm fading into the distance.

  Blakelocke took the steps two at a time and almost bowled another of the madam’s girls over at the first landing. “Look where you’re going, stupid whore.”

  He knew it was his fault but wasn’t one to apologise to commoners like her. She scurried past mumbling apologies, but he was already moving down the stairs as if she never existed.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  “What the bloody hell?” Blackelocke turned to rebuke the girl for interrupting him again, riding crop raised. She seemed a little different, though he wasn’t sure. These damned whores all looked the same.

  No, this one wore a wave of red hair cascading down the left side of her face, matching the fetching crimson satin dress.

  “Who the hell—”

  Blakelocke stumbled backwards, his ears ringing much like the bell he’d heard earlier. His nose throbbed as blood gushed from it. She’d bloody hit him. Before he could react, something pulled over his head, cinching tightly at the neck. A crunch sounded, and he tried to scream as agony flared from the pressure on his face. An acrid chemical scent invaded his senses, and his world melted into darkness.

  Blakelocke awoke. God knew what time it was, but the sky held a dull grey pallor. A narrow tunnel with a rectangle of light dominated his view. He struggled, realising his limbs were bound. The scene still made no sense, and with his head throbbing, he looked to the side, and almost threw up there and then.

  “Awake then?” a woman’s voice called, one of two silhouetted heads peering from the light six feet ahead. It was the redhead from the brothel—he was sure of it. The other was a heavy-set man who stood behind her.

  Blakelocke struggled with his bonds. “What the hell do you think you’re—”

  “Shut up,” the woman said.

  “What? How dare you. Do you know—”

  “Who you are? Yes,” she said. “William Blakelocke, second son of Lord Blakelocke, and murderer of your older brother, if I’m not mistaken.”

  That stunned him—he was lost for words. His surroundings came into closer focus as the pain in his skull subsided. Packed earth walls led to the bright rectangle—he was in a bloody hole.

  “A user of illicit substances, banned throughout the Empire,” she droned on. “Sadist, torturer and a perverted arsehole of the first order.”

  “I’ll not take that from the likes of you. Get me out of here at once, or—”

  “Or you’ll what? Have me arrested? Torn limb-from-limb in one of your dark cells while your cronies watch, or perhaps subjected to more interesting torture?”

  He could hear the hatred and bile within her, and his bowels turned to water with recognition. “Oh God. It’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Respect at last. Please tell me you’re not going to cry and plead for your worthless hide?”

  His gut clenched and when he found his voice, it quivered. “I didn’t realise what they would do. I had no part in it, just organised the people they required. I was never there. You’d remember me if I were. Wouldn’t you?”

  She hawked and spat: it was a good shot. The splatter of viscous liquid hit him below the left eye and snaked down into his ear. He moved his head, trying to wipe it on the cushioned lining. Realisation struck him—he was in an open coffin. “Please no, Rosemary. It doesn’t have to—”

  “Don’t speak as if you know me,” she roared.

  He shrank back from the ferocity in her voice and felt warm liquid dribbling down the inside of his immaculate pressed uniform trousers. “I didn’t know. I swear I had no idea.” He broke, great sobs heaving from him. “Don’t kill me like the others. They were the ones who tortured you, not me. I—”

  “Had nothing to do with it?” she sneered at him. “You were complicit in making it happen. You brought them together to have their sordid little game at the behest of my father. That vile, degenerate bastard,”

  Rosie stood at the lip of the grave, her breathing ragged with fury. “Carrington got what he deserved.” She looked over at Maddox and nodded once.

  “It wasn’t him,” Blakelocke shouted. “He didn’t organise it.”

  Rosie motioned for Maddox to wait. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I can tell you who was behind it all, who orchestrated everything. But if I do, you let me go.”

  Maddox shook his head at her, a shovel full of dirt waiting, but there was something that intrigued her.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, “but this better be good.”

  “It is. I promise.”

  “Out with it then.”

  “It was Robertson.”

  “What? Your great Lord Commander?”

  A spray of earth fell over Blakelocke. He screamed in shock. “You said you’d free me if I told you.”

  “John, stop,” Rosie said. “What are you doing?”

  Maddox dumped another shovelful of dirt into the grave. “He’s fucking lying. There’s no way Robertson would speak with someone like him.”

  She held her hand out to calm the situation. “Wait. I want to know what he has to say.”

  “Robertson doesn’t deal with mere captains or even majors,” Maddox said. “He only speaks with the upper-brass. They do his dirty work for him.”

  “No, it’s true,” Blakelocke said, his voice frantic. “I spoke with him myself. He gave me the task to recruit the people he needed. Cargill, Addison, Woodruff.”

  “Bollocks,” Maddox said. “Utter shite. He never deals with underlings. That’s not his style.”

  Rosie watched as Maddox poured two more shovelfuls of soil onto Blakelocke’s face.

  “Please. You’ve got to believe me,” Blakelocke said between spitting dirt from his mouth.

  “No, I don’t think I do,” she replied. “Maddox is right. General Sir George
Frazer-Robertson is too up his own arsehole to deal with small-fry like you.”

  “No, it’s true,” Blakelocke screamed, his voice cracking. “Said he’d sacrificed as much as anyone for this task.”

  “Enough of this shit,” Maddox yelled, shovelling more dirt into the hole. The man coughed and gagged, trying to wriggle a way to clear his mouth of the soil, but the weight of it was already pushing him down.

  With each new load Maddox piled in, they heard less of Blakelocke’s muffled coughs and screams, until all Rosie could see was a single bloodshot eye, wide with terror. Then earth covered that too.

  She perched on a gravestone watching as Maddox finished the job. He worked tirelessly, never once stopping to rest, powering the dirt back until it filled its original home. He threw the shovel down, wiping the sweat from his brow. “So, where now?”

  “I shall head to Greenwich. I have to speak with Josiah. What about you?”

  “I have a few loose ends that require tidying up around the city. I’ll be at the usual place when you need me.”

  Rosie kept her face calm as she walked away, but something was wrong. Something deep inside her screamed. She should be rejoicing at the end of her long journey of revenge. The four perpetrators and her father dead, all by her hand. So why, instead of relief, did she feel like a whole new bag of trouble had burst open? Blakelocke’s frenzied attempts to convince her of Robertson’s involvement were nonsense. Weren’t they?

  But why did it seem, in his last frantic piss-drenched moments, Blakelocke had been too afraid to lie?

  28

  Agony blazed through Nathaniel’s body, and his throat was raw. Shooting pain followed every breath, ragged fingernails tearing down the soft fleshy interior. He reached for his neck, pulling his fingers away sharply at the gentlest of probing touches.

  In the darkness, he struggled, trying to recall how he ended up here. Other than thrashing about unable to breathe and being lifted from the ground to dangle from Josiah’s grasp, he remembered nothing more.