Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

“Right,” she agreed. “For how long?”

  I didn’t know. Communion had asked for four days. Only three had passed, but the Ferryman were already moving.

  I took a slow, steadying breath. It ached all the way to my toes. “Until it’s all burning,” I said. “And then get out. Grab the bantlings, any of the children who have nowhere to go. Don’t go to Baker land, and stay out of Shadwell and Ratcliff.”

  “All right. We’ll go north.” Another shout cracked through the Menagerie quiet, and a faint rolling boom. Something had collapsed. The building, likely. “Go on, then.”

  I took the opportunity where it was given. Fear filled me for the sweets, but I was no commander capable of choosing her soldiers.

  The sweets would harry the lingering servants loyal to the Veil, and wreak havoc across the grounds. Lives would be lost, I had no doubt.

  My only comfort was that most of the Ferrymen were likely to be assaulting Baker lands.

  The quickest way into Poplar was from the eastern gate.

  Summoning all of my determination, I lurched into an awkward run.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My plans only rarely unfold accordingly. Was it any wonder I’d developed a habit of making it up as I went along?

  Poplar by day was a crowded thoroughfare, with many a working man and woman afoot. I ran through by way of the lanes I’d mastered, and saw little enough of the Baker troubles along my path.

  It came a different tale when I entered Blackwall.

  Men in blue wool ringed the mouth of Preston’s Road, where Poplar turned to Blackwall. Recognizable by the tall helmets they wore and the truncheons at the belt, the low street bobbies faced what looked to me like a tangle of furniture and upended carts.

  A wide swath of cleared ground between the barricade and the police that watched it bore signs of a struggle: splintered wood, bent lamps, and a shattered window at the fringes.

  The bobbies stood rigid and uniformed, and that they faced inward suggested that they were less worried about keeping others out as what might leave the barricade.

  I caught my breath whilst catching a lamppost for balance, blotting at my brow with a sleeve. It came away spotted with red; blood, no doubt, scabbed from the fight I had with Osoba and dampened by my own sweat again.

  I looked a sight, I knew that. As likely to earn attentions as not.

  The Poplar pedestrians were a diverse lot, whose defining characteristic was that of poverty. There wasn’t a face among them lacking in haggard symptoms of hunger, want, or warmth. Even them seen better off by way of steady work boasted patched togs rather than new, and mended handkerchiefs to wipe the soot stain away.

  They clambered for a ringside view of whatever show unfolded beyond that barricade, shooed away by the bobbies when they meandered too close and otherwise left to congregate.

  I studied them from my claim at the post marking the entrance to a grocer’s shop, but saw none that I recognized.

  Had I turned about, I might have rectified that issue.

  A hand came down on my shoulder; all too familiar for the attempt, but this time with the added benefit of wrenching the injured socket.

  My knees buckled, and the hand that meant to catch my attention caught a fist full of my borrowed urchin’s jacket instead. I swung awkwardly, sucking in a breath between clenched teeth lest I yelp my mingled pain and shock.

  My back collided with another, the arm supporting my suddenly tottering weight went taut, and I looked up into a face capped by greasy blond hair and a scarred smile. “Rough go, missy?”

  I bit off a too-brusque rejoinder, but allowed the Baker to right me upon my feet. Cradling my arm at the elbow softened some of the sting. “Not nearly so rough as that,” I managed. I tipped my head at the row of police. “What in the name of reason is going on there?”

  “What, them rozzers?” The Baker let me go when I proved capable of maintaining my own balance, and a bit of an apologetic slant tugged at his smile. “Communion ordered it.”

  That made no sense. A barricade like this was guaranteed to draw the attention of London officials. Gangs were one thing, often given the run of the district they claimed, but it had always been an unspoken rule that neither bobbies nor crew push the others too far.

  “That’s guaranteed to earn the Bakers a noose,” I pointed out grimly. “What’s he thinking?”

  “Best a noose fer th’ Bakers,” he told me, all trace of a smile fading, “than th’ Ferrymen dogs out here, aye?”

  Ah. So that was it.

  I frowned at the pedestrians all finding some reason or another—or giving up on the playacting entirely—to watch the police and the silent barricades. There was precious little more beloved than the theatrics of a street show made real.

  The Bakers had created the barrier to save as many innocents from the bestial Ferrymen as they could.

  If they only knew what fate would burden them should Communion or his blokes care less. At least it might be a very short fate, indeed.

  Alchemy was not meant to be used in the open, and here the Veil had gone and done just that. What on earth was there to stop them from utilizing such skill to take over London’s streets?

  Why stop there?

  Why not unleash these hounds of hell upon the well-heeled above the drift? Upon Parliament?

  Against Her Majesty?

  Once upon a time, I might have considered such matters beyond the Veil’s interest. It had already been made clear that the Veil was beyond the entity I had originally thought. Now I had no choice but to treat them as a wholly new enemy with an uncertain game.

  I knuckled at my eyes until the overwhelming fear of a burden too great faded from them. “I need to talk to Communion, and quickly. The rozzers won’t let me by. What’s a better way?”

  “Ain’t one,” he replied, leaning against my lamppost like he was one of them what simply watched. A lookout, for sure. Meant to dissuade or to carry messages inside?

  It didn’t matter. He was high enough in Ishmael’s esteem to claim his company.

  I planted both hands on my hips and bent forward. “What’s your name?”

  His scar crinkled with his smile. “Luther.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Luther,” I said politely, and then compounded propriety by thrusting my face close enough to his to startle his shoulder right off the post. He managed a bit of a jog before righting himself. “Do you know what collector business means?” I demanded.

  “Everyone knows it,” he replied scornfully. “Don’t apply here.”

  I thought about the notices I’d plucked from the wall. My eyes narrowed. My voice lowered. “You willing to bet your dimber damber’s life on it?”

  To his credit, Luther was not a disloyal man. He squared up, towering over me, fists ready where I could easily see them. “You threatenin’ Communion?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head and backing up enough that he might feel less pressured by a twist my size. “I’m trying to ensure he lives through the night.”

  Luther was silent, leaving the thrum of the watchful crowd and the barkers beyond to fill the gap. I watched him carefully, and he studied my features, searching for some thread, some clue, he could seize upon.

  I gave him impassive collector’s face.

  He sighed. “He’s not here,” he admitted, as though it wrested from his better judgment.

  “Why isn’t he?”

  “The first wave came about three hours ago,” he explained, jerking his chin at the barricade. “They come in groups of six, all howling and snarls and shouting. Bakers kept watch, you know? So we weren’t unawares, but we lost thirty-four men.” His voice hardened. “First wave, missy.”

  My jaw set. “My condolences,” I said, knowing it wasn’t enough. The Bakers, at rough count, numbered nearly seventy. To lose half of the mass in one go was a terrible blow. “Was Communion caught in it?”

  “No.” Luther jammed his thick-knuckled hands into his pockets.
“But he left about an hour past to take care of it.”

  Damn it all. “Where, then?”

  He huffed out a breath. “He and the brimstone took it back to Limey.”

  This took me a second or so to process, until I remembered that “brimstone” was common cant for an abandoned prostitute.

  Zylphia.

  “Bollocks,” I breathed.

  Luther studied me. “You going after him?”

  I nodded.

  “Bring him back alive, right?”

  When I half turned, nodding still, he caught my arm. I winced when the cloth rasped over the burn. “You owe,” he added tightly. “Life for a life. You bring Communion back, it’s as good as done.”

  Not the way I wanted to absolve this debt, but I would take it. “I will bring him back alive,” I said fiercely. “I promise.” I broke his hold easily, ran from Luther without another word. He called out in my wake, but I lacked the time to explain what I meant to do.

  Communion had given me four days, but that was before any of us knew the Veil would launch its own assault sooner. Had I remained with Zylphia in Fanny’s home, I might have been made aware of this change.

  Bloody bells and the devil’s own. The very same I’d meant to save had gone to cut the head off the serpent.

  I ran as though my very life depended on it. It didn’t. I had the means to flee, if I wanted, to go with Ashmore wherever the world might take me. I had the option.

  It wasn’t my life that rode on my speed, but that of my friends.

  I had so few left. I’d be damned if I lost even one.

  Halfway through Limehouse, just by the Limehouse Station, I heard my name. I drew up sharply, prepared for a fight, but Ashmore leapt from the carriage he rode to grab me by the shoulder. Rage sharpened his features. “Where the hell—”

  “The Menagerie,” I panted. I seized his lapels, shook hard, “The Ferrymen are attacking Blackwall but Ish—” I gasped for breath, “—Ish and Zylla are trying for the—the Veil.”

  Ashmore’s reprimand turned into a sharp curse. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded hard. “I need to go.”

  “I don’t have the means here to—”

  I broke Ashmore’s hold, stumbling back. “Whatever you must do, we have to help them.” He stared at me, searched my flushed face.

  I did not hide anything from him. “Please,” I said on a hard breath. “Please, it can’t end like this.”

  His gloved hand curled into a fist. He pressed it against his forehead. “If you were anybody else,” he said, nearly a growl. “Damnation.”

  Relief forced me to bend over, bracing my hands on my knees and drawing great gobs of air. It stung, but no worse than the burns I bore.

  “I cannot convince you to accompany me,” he admitted, already acknowledging what I did not need to say. “Go, then. Try to stop your friends. I need to collect my tools.” He did not wait for me to confirm, but once more swung into the carriage waiting idly by. He braced himself out the window, voice cold as I’d ever heard it. “Survive this, Cherry St. Croix.”

  I lifted my head. My smile, though wobbly, bit deeply. “I will. Come rescue me, you hear?”

  He did not smile in kind. “Always,” he said grimly, and pounded on the roof of the carriage.

  The driver, used to his master’s antics, flicked the whip. The single horse lobbed into a canter, easily maintained given the quiet of Limehouse’s streets.

  Given what little respite I could, I summoned my strength and hurried to the Menagerie.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The sweets—and whatever army they’d mustered—had wasted no time. While I’d crossed Limehouse and Poplar, then done it again in reverse, they’d set their own plans into motion.

  Hell had come to the Karakash Veil’s doorstep.

  Black smoke hung over the Menagerie as I approached the eastern gate. Smoke that was not shifting, as expected of the aether-fueled apparatuses that were meant to keep the grounds clear.

  It did not require any particular intelligence to suppose that Delilah had taken my order to heart.

  Fierce girl.

  I could not see the grounds beyond the wall as I approached it, but I heard the noise clearly. Voices rose on the blackened air, yelling orders, screaming; the report of irons discharging peppered all, and I wondered how long before the police engaged. There was little doubt that the Limehouse Station had been bought and sold by the Veil, but certainly no amount of bribery could hide what sounded as a full-scale battle behind the Menagerie walls.

  Though high, the stone facing was riddled with ridges and clefts, the sort only the terminally deranged might consider scalable. I didn’t tend to think of myself this way, but I knew some who did, and it suited me for the moment.

  Who in their right mind would want to get in?

  I snorted as I looked up at the top of the wall. I backed up until a good space between provided ample room, crouched to steady my limbs and my nerves. My shoulder wouldn’t enjoy this, nor thank me for it, but as long as it obeyed me, I would mend.

  “One,” I whispered, and eased into a stance better suited for sprinting. “Two...” A steadying breath. “Three, and...” I darted towards the wall. A pace away, I grunted, “Allez, hop!” and leapt for the top.

  My fingers hooked the edge, the soles of my boots caught on the rippled facing, and only a twinge from my shoulder provided any discomfort. I held most of my weight on my left arm, easing my right into balance rather than strength.

  It was no graceful climb, I was not quite so agile as Flip might have been, but I scaled the whole with some effort and a curse or two.

  The grounds unveiled before me stole my breath.

  The source of the acrid smoke thick in the air came from the fires glowing brightly even in the shaded daylight. The market stalls had been set ablaze—likely coated with kerosene or oil. Wood would never burn so black.

  Beyond, a roiling cloud rolled over the private gardens, and I suspected the cabin ensconced within had gone up, as well. To my right, far in the distance, the Veil’s manor remained untouched—a fact that gave me some pause.

  Were it my task, I’d burn that first. Unless the previous were meant to draw the Veil out?

  If so, it had obviously worked. A bitter wind whipped over the Menagerie, carrying soiled smoke and a choking fragrance that reminded me rather much of overly bitter spirits. Patches of the Menagerie had turned murky with the low-hanging smolder, and between such shrouded pockets, I spotted corpses left to blacken and burn.

  Knots of men and women clashed, and among them were the Veil’s warriors—notable primarily for their pale tunics and wicked grace.

  Blood, fire, fear and pain.

  War.

  I had seen something similar once, confusing though it had been. Zylphia’s original mutiny, forced too early to save me from the mad ringmaster Hawke had become, and colored by flashes of what I later understood to be alchemy and magic.

  Certainly, I was no stranger to death, but this jarred my spirit in a completely different way.

  I knew this Menagerie. I had spent many a night here, roaming its paths and searching for quarry and coin. I knew what it was to give the footmen in their formal livery the slip, to laugh and dance away just out of sight; carefree and often caught in bliss, I had made of this a sort of second home.

  A place where I could go to see Hawke. To thwart him, to torment him in my own childish way.

  And now I watched it burn.

  It shouldn’t have caused such an ache in my breast, but I rubbed at my chest as it hurt. I was no longer quite so arrogant as to believe this my fault, yet it still stung.

  I would mourn this loss as I mourned the loss of all my homes. Yet as I thought it, as I recognized the hurt for what it was, I knew that I would sacrifice this home again if it meant saving my friends.

  As I crouched atop the narrow wall, a shout of alarm from my left drew my eyes. A small group of Bakers hemmed two sweets I onl
y recognized by nature of their appearance—even frightened and overwhelmed, their looks were unmistakable. They clung to each other as four Bakers warded off a single Ferryman wielding a club. Not a dog, thank heavens, but fierce enough.

  Across the way, I saw two figures in leather aprons, the sort like to be caught elbow-deep in the mechanical devices of the Menagerie, and whether they were fighting the Veil’s men or for them, I didn’t know.

  Friend and foe mingled until blood bound them all.

  In the distance, the red canvas tent I despised thrust into the blackening sky. It was one of few not yet burning, aside from the manor, and I suspected where I’d find Hawke.

  His cage, after all, was held below ground. And where Hawke was, I’d find Communion.

  That was my target, then.

  Setting my jaw, I stayed atop the wall and ran lightly along it as though it were a wire and I the act. I wobbled some, but thanks be to whatever fortune guided me, I did not fall—nor did the myriad shots heard echoing across the grounds threaten me.

  Once I could make the run direct, I slid from the top of the wall, caught the edge to slow my descent and swung myself down. The very instant my feet planted upon the mucky ground, I launched into a sprint. Raw determination, fear for my friends drove me; were I less concerned, I might have thought of revenge.

  “Please,” I panted to myself and whatever gods might be listening from Ashmore’s bag of exoteric tricks. “Please, let them be all right.”

  Everything else could wait.

  Or, as it came to be, not.

  When the noise lessened around the tent, I wondered why. As I approached it, I realized the men who loitered on the outside weren’t mine—most wore the white tunic and black trousers of the Veil’s warriors, and they looked prepared for a plan that did not bode well for any.

  I drew up hard, darted back into the gloom lest I be seen, and squinted through the acrid smoke.

  Corpses dotted the ground, splayed where they dropped. The air was thick with the stench of char and blood.

  A few Ferrymen—or perhaps not them, precisely, but blokes hired for muscle—waited among the Chinese warriors, each holding a weapon of some sort, but they looked much more uneasy than the implacable servants conversing with each other.