As a group they walked in silence while Isolde followed behind with a cat’s pace. Alex turned back to look at her, but she flicked those eyes up at him. They were two russet pips that saw straight through his soul and read his intentions before he was aware himself. They carried on up staircases. Up, past the library, past the treasury, and finally to Percy's study. He cradled a key in a palm which snapped the lock open when turned. Heavy tumblers rolled on the inside of the door, which opened further locks.
'It would take a door such as this to be here. Ironic that the secrets and valuables of thieves have to kept safe from themselves.' Percy motioned for the thieves to go in first, watching them carefully. Alex and Cyrus walked into the study. The desk at which the Benefactor worked formed a semicircle that cut the rest of the room off. Visitors, rare as they were, would have to ascend wide steps before reaching a set of worn stools, each of which looked more uncomfortable than the last. Ash bookcases lined with brass, older than Alex could have guessed at, loomed over him.
'I will be quick. Isolde is the mastermind of how we secure the gold. Please if you would.’ She bowed to the men and carried from where Percy left the conversation.
'Your commitment has impressed us,' she said.
'Me too,' Cyrus replied, with a cocky smile. Alex suppressed a snigger. The Benefactor rapped his stylus on the desk. He stilled them with a look.
'Lady Saville will be looking for supplies and men for the expedition tomorrow. She’ll go to Greenmarket, where the freemen gather.'
'She expects trouble then.'
'Word of my informant has mentioned she already has a ship and crew. She wants to hire guards to protect her. She expects trouble, and needs capable men.'
'This is where we are stepping in,' said Alex.
'You will need costumes and you will need history: battles, conflicts, wars. Which have you lost, and which you have won.'
'But if she doesn't buy us, the plan will fail.’
'I’ve bought one of her men. He will meet with me, and when the Lady Saville is seeking two guards, he will point and recommend you. The Lady will have her suspicions, no doubt, Sarah Saville is not stupid. However, coming from one of her own, she will seize the chance.'
'And then we meet this Lady, sign a contract in blood, and do a merry jig once we're away?' said Alex.
'As you say it, sir,’ replied Isolde.
‘Sorry, Master, but it seems an awful amount of effort for a rumour,’ asked Cyrus.
The Benefactor coughed. ‘As mentioned, Lady Saville is not stupid, like with her sister. Once set on a task, wealth and fortune seems to follow them. She is, of course, to be the only person who knows what this gold is, and where to find it. Her sister does not. The fact she has hired a seaworthy ship and crew is also likely it is not in England proper.’
‘And if we fail to find this trove?’ said Alex.
Percy folded his hands. ‘Then an opportunity is lost. See that you don’t return empty handed, or the Tower will be a permanent residence, for the pair of you.’
✽✽✽
Alex and Cyrus, after no breakfast and little sleep, discussed the punishment that would await them if they failed. Cautious, they washed, dressed, and met Isolde just outside Redbridge market. She massaged deep creases on her brow and tugged her lips when she talked of her plan, and walked with them to Greenmarket, answering questions along the way. Alex noticed her hair was strange. It was as translucent as frozen smoke; it curled about her in bunches of cloud–white; it was almost as if some trauma in Isolde’s past had shocked it into losing all colour. When she was out of earshot, he grumbled with Cyrus over placing both their fates in the hands of a woman, no matter how sanctioned. In the afternoon, reinventing a new past was harder than they had first thought; Isolde had helped them with the intricacies: the why, who and when. How to spot when someone (namely Lady Saville) was trying to fish the truth out of you. There was a chance of small rest before they started, and the two men dined on stale bread and thin ale.
'It was to put a mean, hungry, expression on both of you, to look the part,' Isolde chuckled.
Alex and Cyrus (dark–eyed and stomachs rumbling) arrived at Greenmarket with Isolde pacing ahead. Before seeing them, they could hear the ring of metal on metal of smithies as they toiled to complete orders for the next day. Squeezed down one alley were farriers and coopers, grasping at hoops and nails, in another slip of a street, gathered soldiers and guards waiting for their shift to be finished. Flower–girls, errand–boys, and debt–collectors rubbed shoulders as they grew closer to the heart of it all. As they followed Isolde deeper into the streets, the urgency and people in Greenmarket grew. It was a throng of timeless effort, a chorus of energy never satisfied. In the bustle Alex spotted Isolde ahead, an unfamiliar man stood next to her in converse.
'Over here,' she cried and waved to them. Isolde’s bought man jogged over. He looked over Isolde’s hands with as he whispered in her ear. His eyes darting from the crowd behind, and to Alex and Cyrus, who patiently waited.
'So, what now?' asked Cyrus.
'Now,' Isolde said, clearing her throat, 'we wait for our Lady.'
Alex studied Isolde, but she gave nothing away. It came to late afternoon; the sun swelled more confident, parting more heat into the air. Soon traders and their associates were out with fans and shade. The savvier of which had carts filled with cool pitchers of water or pressed juice; and if exceptionally entrepreneurial, brought out blocks of ice and began to shave them into small cups much to everyone’s joy. Alex watched, on the edge of his vision, as stacks of coins disappeared into small bags or sagging pockets. Some were tucked behind make–shift desks, some straight into lock–boxes and carried away once full. Isolde raised an eyebrow at him; one shared between mother and naughty child.
'Wait. Be patient,' scolded Isolde.
'Business is good,' Alex said. His eyes never shying from the money.
'Ours will be the sweeter.'
Lady Saville had an immediate hold on the men in the market. She swam through the crowds with two sailors as entourage. Men offered her drinks and shade as she came to rest in front of the bought man, who waved and bowed before her. They conversed openly for a time, until Isolde’s man whispered in the Lady’s ear. Lady Saville moved to Alex, Cyrus and Isolde out of curiosity.
'Lady Saville, my name is Isolde, and may I present my men. The others have been purchased this very morning,’ lied Isolde.
‘Remarkable coincidence my dear,’ said the Lady.
'What war were you in?' one of the sailors asked Alex.
'Frankish.'
The sailors both nodded in unison; they whispered into Lady Saville's ear each in turn. She sent the sailors on with a wave after a discussion.
'I would give you a demonstration of their ability to fight. But London as a rule, does not allow violence.' Said Isolde.
'Shame.' Lady Saville had a mongrel accent Alex noticed. English, with a twist of Southerner. 'Have they ever sailed?’
'Yes, of course,' lied Isolde.
Alex had an aversion to open water, and couldn’t bear more than dipping his toes. Cyrus, he remembered, rarely had seen the coast; he had been born amongst the slums and rooftops. A true city–man. Alex cursed to himself if the journey was to cross any great span of ocean; it was the one question he had failed to ask. Lady Saville summed them up with a twist of her hand, and paused to take in the market. She levelled her eyes at Isolde, Alex and then Cyrus in turn. With an intake of breath, she retrieved a purse, and paid with a promissory, to which Isolde accepted with a courtesy and gave it to the bought man, who waited as eagerly as a dog waits for his dinner. Alex noticed the Lady Saville’s demeanour had changed; she now had a curt disinterest in everything around her. The bought man gave them both a thin waif of a contract, which, once signed, was then bound in parcel and twine and sealed with wax. Isolde, task complete, left them behind, her cowl pulled tight across her head, her white hair hidden except for a few errant curls.
She gave Cyrus a glance and Alex a wink, before she blended into the crowd and disappeared with a skip of her feet.
Cyrus. nonchalant, spilled his charisma over Sarah Saville immediately. He made sure he treated her as a Lady should be. Alex suspected she could handle herself just fine. Although Sarah Saville’s sloop was the smallest at the dock just beyond Greenmarket, it had enough room for twice their number. Two sailors, and the bought man, the same entourage from before, looked at Alex and Cyrus with unease. Once aboard, they threw sails, retrieved the moorings, and took the sloop out of Darkwater and towards the coast.
'Is she sea worthy?' shouted Alex from the stern. He kept a close view on the streets above as they left, trying not to look at the murky water below him.
'Wouldn’t be sailing her if she wasn’t,' mocked the younger of the sailors.
Alex cursed their profession, loud enough for them to hear. Below, his bunk fell down a crack of a space; a heavy throw and soft blanket waited for him on top of a hard mattress. Alex sat, and rested his feet. His wish had come true in a roundabout fashion; he had gotten his new start away from the Tower. A diluted freedom, but freedom nonetheless. He curled up onto the pillow, and before he knew it, tiredness emptied his mind and softened the world in oblivion.
✽✽✽
It was sharp metal stuck into his skin that woke him. It turned and curved along his neck, around his cheek and down his jaw. Alex's eyes shot wide as the sailor he had insulted earlier pressed a hand down hard on his mouth.
'Think you're a funny man?' the man said, eyes aglow.
Alex stared; answering yes or no was pointless. It would give him something to use. The small shank nicked on his stubble as it brushed up and down. The man on top of him was a Westlander. Alex could smell his breath and taste the sweat that dripped from the palm squeezed over his face.
'Say something funny, something funny that'll make me laugh dead man.'
The sailor twisted his torso enough for Alex to see Cyrus's dagger behind. It was gripped in one gloved hand. Cyrus pushed the blade into the man's neck. It popped through with a snap, the silver tip sparkling as it let blood. A spray of red streaked across Alex’s mouth. The sailor gave a strangled cry and fell limp.
There was a moment’s turn before Cyrus spoke. 'You've never killed a man before, have you?'
'No, I steal Cyrus, that’s enough.’ Alex said, through short breath.
'I just stole his life Alex, there’s no difference. It's all currency. A man's life is no more than coin to spend. Once it's gone, you never get it back.'
Alex shook his head. He turned his hands over and rubbed the palms into his sockets to rid them of sleep that still lingered. Cyrus offered him the dagger. Something real about it worried him; a bloodied weapon, a tool that stole lives, not to cut purse strings. Alex took the dagger into his hands. He cradled it; the pommel cold, lifeless.
'Get rid of the other one now, don’t be a fool.' Cyrus nodded, pointing above deck.
'I'm a thief, not a murderer. And as a thief you have a choice to return whatever you take.' Rasped Alex. Ethics turned in his mind. A man’s life was worth more than coin, he knew this.
Cyrus snatched back the dagger and walked away. Leaving Alex alone in the dawn's light. The dead Westlander had curled up as an infant, the body growing stiller by the second. He gave it consideration. The only course was to either wax murder with murder or shed the truth of the matter. Alex wanted truth. He may not always be faithful to truth, or be at its side, but in this moment, it comforted him. He walked down a tight passage, ignoring the lanterns that hung low, passing over cargo and stringed foodstuffs. He raised his hand, hesitating before Lady Saville's cabin. He rapped three times, unsure if she would wake at this hour.
'Enter,’ came a woman’s voice.
Alex entered. From the small porthole to the cracked boards underneath, everything was washed in orange. Lady Saville was sat, at rest, a book opened on her lap, angled to make the most of the candlelight. Her shoulders were bare to her cleavage. A corset and well–travelled leggings the only clothes she wore. Alex blushed. He forced his eyes to wander to the ceiling and back to the lone candle.
'You made the right choice not to kill. That tells me there's something of merit about you. It means you’re a thinking man; one who understands right and wrong clear as day inside them.’ Sarah Saville threw him a look, eyebrows peaked. ‘He was a thug that Westlander you know. He did some terrible things in his life, terrible.'
'How could you have known?'
'I am a witch, like my mother. And you, Alex, a thief, like yours.'
'I never told you my name.'
'It didn't stop me from knowing it, has it? You've led a life of a blackguard in service to that dreadful tower and its dreadful master. But we both know that's not the whole truth to the matter.'
'I owe the Tower my servitude.'
'No, you steal to survive, and the Tower takes its alms. There is nothing else to it. There’s no honour or prestige amongst your kind. No matter how much deception you use.' She gave him a comely smile before slipping a nearby fur over her skin. 'You steal to live, and it feeds you. You give yourself a false appellation and that protects you. Blankets wrapped over blankets. That Tower of thieves has poisoned young minds for years now, and yours is no exception.'
'You seem to know much of my life.’
There was a twitch that ran across her cheek, ending on her brow. Alex ignored it as a trick of the light. ‘I do. I also know about that woman at the market. The one with the dark skin and white hair.’
‘Isolde.’
‘Isolde. Thank you. Her ruse was easy to see through. She was the one who had bought one of my men, a clever woman.’ Alex felt compelled to remain quiet. She knows it all. He could feel his stomach sink. ‘It does not matter. I will carry on and secure my prize.’
‘The gold?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not; what hearsay have you been fed I wonder?’ She fixed him as a spider towards a fly.
Alex swallowed. He bade her a good night, the words hollow, and left. A raw fear came over him as he left her cabin and refined into anxiety as he made his way topside. The Westlander’s mate was there; sat calm on the tiller. A single mast shivered. Its canvas caught the moonlight in shades of pewter. The old sailor looked around with lazy eyes and noticed his mate wasn’t there.
‘It’s done then. Your friend killed mine.’
‘He attacked me.’
‘Yes, he did–you did well not to give in. I didn’t fancy my throat cut also.’
Alex nodded. Cyrus stood just before the threshold to the top; his eyes searched in the dark. They looked up, and for a second held something close to sorrow. The sailor smacked his lips and scratched.
‘I’m glad he’s gone.’
‘Why?’ asked Alex.
‘He had a hunger in him. A fire that was burning him away, leaving only an animal behind. He had lost his sense of reason. He wasn’ a man no more.’
‘Was he sick?’
‘If he were, it were of the soul. There’s a story to tell. When he was young and brave, I knew little of him. Beard of red, big brawny ham fists, and he would eat and drink himself into a state. This was before we joined the Tail–and the Ladyship below. Connor was as good a mate as any I’ve had. But the violence started recent–he kept punching and swearing, sometimes in his sleep. It was always there, just below his skin, where you couldn’t see it. I’m glad he’s gone–that’s no way to live young man, in constant rage with the world.’
✽✽✽
The sloop sailed along the coast. Layers of pearl foam that had crusted on the hull signalled the end of London’s bay. Boulders, pink and blue, dominated the beachheads and cliffs topped with stubborn sod. After two days of skirting the Channel they passed Land’s End. Close enough for Alex and Cyrus to see the Lion’s Tail in her small glory. She sat there with a rogue pride in her matted sails and flaking hull; she was alone, separate from fishing boats and other trade ships that
weaved about. Port’s Mouth, as he knew it from gossip, had grown large enough to occupy a man for the entirety of his life. Alex couldn't see the town before him match the callous monster that was London. From the sunken piers and floating homes, he spied shallow and long faces. Cliques of priests from exotic lands gathered with shore–men and fishermen, navvies and marines. Most, if not all, flocked around brothels, whose tall tar basted planks struck Alex as twisted churches. A terracotta sky broke over the boardwalks and chaos, blending the shadows into one tone. Lady Saville walked with confidence onto the top deck. She cradled an orb in one hand, held by a golden chain suspended around her neck. Her other hand tugged over the sequins on a billowed dress lined with bronze studs up and along a high collar. What was in her hand took Alex a moment to recognise. A glass ball, filled with shellflower and a dandelion. It was a curio that winked at him as the Lady swayed down to the gangway, her snaked fingers beckoning the men to listen.
'Come, we'll meet the Captain this afternoon. We set sail in one day. Everything is ready.' Said Sarah
'Time enough,' said Cyrus, and helped the old sailor secure the mooring.
At a tavern, despite little sleep and wandering thoughts, cognizance gripped Alex. Between the food and drink, conversation stalled in his mind after the killing. Cyrus, the man he thought he knew, the childhood friend he once laughed with at the tower, had become bitter. He was a man who had been set loose; his moral leash had slipped. They talked low of murder. They talked of its semantics as much as Alex could bear, which led nowhere; both of their minds too stubborn to settle the question of how far a man should go in violence and justice. He broached the subject of Lady Saville, head bowed to the table, speech all hushed.
The First House Page 4