“What?” she said innocently. “That’s what you asked me to do.”
“I meant in a handkerchief!”
“Ah. Well next time be more specific,” she replied. “And maybe think twice before ordering me around. Oh, and buy me a handkerchief.”
They reached Seven, the traffic flowing like cold molasses as people tried to avoid Six to get to the Great Bazaar. In the middle of the thoroughfare, a man had erected a platform like an island in the middle of the flow of traffic, and standing on top of his makeshift podium, he shouted a sermon at the passing throng. Rory kept her head down and followed Longinus closely. As an urchin, she was always a prime target for religious zealotry. Why everyone kept trying to save her soul was beyond her — last she had checked, her soul was fine, it was her stomach that was in need of saving.
Longinus crossed Seven in a long diagonal with Rory in tow, and they dived off into a quieter side street.
“And you’re sure the eyes were clouded and blue?” Longinus asked.
“Yes! How many times am I gonna have to tell you? What’s the big deal with them being blue, anyway?”
“It’s a very specific side effect of one of my poisons. In fact, it is my new signature poison, my most recent and most deadly creation. I call it The Writing on the Wall. No one has the formula. No one. But what you’re describing sounds exactly like the effect of my poison. Do you understand, Rory? Someone might have stolen my work.” He gasped and grabbed her arm. “What if whoever this is has stolen more of my poisons? My work, my life’s work! Oh…” He looked down at her arm, only now realising that he was holding it. He released it as one might something foul, fingers recoiling in disgust. He fished for a handkerchief to wipe his hand on, and then let it fall to the ground.
“I have just had several sodding baths, you know,” Rory said, annoyed.
“Yes, and it’s quite impressive that you still manage to smell this bad.”
“Must be my clothes,” she replied, trying to look like she didn’t care.
The truth was that she had shuddered with disgust as she had gotten dressed. The fabric of her tunic and trousers had been slimy from the heat and steam, the stench almost overpowering now that she was clean. The fabric was itchy, but it was a travelling itch that moved from one part of her body to the next. She wondered what Longinus would say if he knew she had fleas.
“I have to go home and make sure nobody has tried to access the formulae for my poisons,” said Longinus. “This could be a disaster. A disaster.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I’m blackmailing you? You’re supposed to train me?”
“Yes, yes, that can wait. Come back tomorrow.”
Rory watched him hurry off, nonplussed. She wondered if any other blackmailer had ever got told by her target to ‘come back tomorrow.’ Longinus was turning out to be more difficult to control than she had expected, although she was grateful for the time alone. She wanted to think things over, work out what her next move should be.
* * *
Night had fallen by the time Rory decided to head to the docks. She had ambled aimlessly up on the rooftops since leaving Longinus, and she was no closer to working out what she should do. It was an odd feeling to find herself in the debt of a dead man. She knew that she was possibly the last person to have spoken to him before he had died, and the thought made her shudder.
Part of her wanted to find out what had happened to him, to bring him justice. He was one of the few people who had shown her kindness without being condescending or pitying. And yet she was worried that to do so would take her off course. It had been hard enough to get this far while being utterly single-minded; if her focus shifted, would it endanger her chances of meeting the Scarred Woman again?
She had just reached Tinsbury Dock, busy as it always was ahead of the Revels, when she smelled something familiar.
“Jake,” she said, not turning around.
“Aye aye.”
Rory faced him, giving him a dark look. Adrenaline pumped through her, her skin tingling with awareness. If he was going to try anything, she would be ready for him this time. Her hand hovered by the handle of her dagger.
Jake looked and smelled like he hadn’t stopped drinking since they had last met.
“What do you want now?” she asked, voice cold.
“No need for that, I ain’t gonna hurt you,” said Jake with a sad note to his words. “I need to talk to you. I knew you’d come back here eventually. There somewhere quiet we can go?”
“What, so you can give me a right eye to match the left? Sod off.”
“Hey, you started that. You’re the one that cut me after I tried to give you money.”
“Right,” Rory replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s all my fault.”
“I swear I ain’t gonna hurt you or nothing,” said Jake. “I got to talk to you, got an offer for you. That’s all.”
Rory fiddled with her medals.
“Fine,” she said. “We go down that lane, there. And I’m keeping my blade out,” she added, unsheathing her dagger.
Jake nodded, and they stepped into the lane’s gloom.
“So what’s this all about?” asked Rory.
“I come to make you an offer. See, some man approached me last night after you’d left, and made me a deal. He paid me to convince you to come back and be partners again.”
“He what? Why?”
“Dunno why. But he wants you to stop what you’re doing at the moment.”
“What am I doing?”
“Don’t you know?”
Rory shook her head. “What if I refuse?” she asked.
Jake hesitated and looked down at his hands. “Then I’m to kill you.”
Rory’s blood ran cold.
“Course I’d never do that,” Jake added hurriedly. “But he looked proper serious. If it ain’t me, it’ll be another. I think it’d be best if you came back. It’s a win-win, really. I’ll share what he paid me, and we’d be set up for a good long time. I never got why you wanted to leave, anyway. We had something good going, we can just go back to that, pretend the last few days didn’t happen. Look what he paid me and all.”
With a grin, Jake produced a coin from his pocket that made Rory’s jaw drop. A Damsian golden guinea. Currencies from all parts of the world flowed through Damsport, which was why Damsians used coin weights for their currency, to make conversions easier. The only coins that were created in Damsport were the golden guineas. They were thick coins of pure gold stamped with the Old Girl’s likeness. No piece was worth as much as a Damsian golden guinea.
“He paid you all that, because of me?” murmured Rory, unable to take her eyes off the gold. “Why?”
“Dunno. Guess you must have pissed some people off.” Jake pocketed the coin. “So, shall we head back to the shelter? Although we could afford to get a room somewhere with that, you know. That would buy us a year in a decent joint, for sure. Beds, roof, the works.”
“I ain’t coming, Jake,” whispered Rory, still staring at the place where the coin had been. She could see a dark spot in the shape of the guinea, as if it had imprinted itself on her eyes.
“Maybe we could do the cobbler thing on the side, too,” continued Jake, not listening to her. “Be a good way to get potential marks in, you know? I fix their boots, you steal their purse. Could work well.”
“Jake, you ain’t listening to me. I ain’t coming.”
“What? You have to.”
“Or what, you gonna kill me?”
An awkward silence hung between them for a heartbeat too long.
“Don’t be daft,” Jake said at last.
“I ain’t coming with you, Jake. You betrayed me twice. I meant it when I said we’re over.” As soon as she said it, Rory realised how true that was. She felt a brief pang of crushing sadness, and then it was gone.
“Look, don’t be silly about this,” said Jake. “I get that you’re mad at me, but
you know it makes sense. I dunno what you did this last day, but you’ve obviously stepped on some toes, so best to do as the man says. Sleep on it, think things through, and then tomorrow we can decide what the plan is.”
Rory didn’t reply. No point if he wasn’t listening to her.
“Alright then,” said Jake, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As he walked away, Rory called after him.
“What did he look like, the man who paid you?”
“Very tall and skinny. Taller than me, even. Ain’t used to looking up at people. And a big nose, like a hook. Why, you gonna go look for him? Don’t be stupid, Rory.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
Jake laughed. “What do you think? Doesn’t matter anyway, he only wants you to come back and work with me. He won’t be no bother, and if he is, I’ll see to him. See you at the shelter tomorrow morning.”
After Jake left, Rory made her way to the beggar-house roof. She sat against the chimney, watching but not seeing the activity in Tinsbury Dock.
The last trace of sadness had vanished, and for good. It occurred to her that her partnership with Jake had reached the end of its life a while ago and she just hadn’t noticed. The realisation was liberating. She took a deep breath.
What he had said about the tall man was disturbing, though. Why would someone pay all that money because of her? She was nobody; she was nothing. What was she doing that he wanted her to stop? She thought of the man who had been kind to her, of his body at the baths. Now someone had killed him, and Jake had been offered a small fortune to get her out of the picture. Why?
Was it something she and the dead man had talked about? They had barely said two words to each other. Something he had seen, maybe? But what?
Rory froze.
The tall man had obviously been following her to find Jake. What if he had continued following her after, somehow, and seen her go to Cruikshank? She felt as though her breath had been snatched away. What if he had done something to Cruikshank?
Rory broke into a run down the roof slope and leapt across the gap to the next house. She landed on soft knees, quickly climbing up that roof, ready to jump onto the next one.
If that bastard had got to Cruikshank, oh, there would be hell to pay.
* * *
The windows of the workshop were dark. The usual smell of tar and hot metal was absent, as was the usual rhythmic banging. Rory ground her teeth. If the tall man had so much as touched a hair on Cruikshank’s head, she was going to exact such a vengeance on him, he was going to wish he’d never heard of Rory, and no mistake about it.
She picked the lock open and let herself in, silently closing the door behind her. The workshop was dark, with only a faint glow from the furnace to provide a little light, although not enough to see properly.
“Cruikshank,” she called in a whisper, as she felt her way around the workshop. “Cruikshank.”
Everything looked normal — except for the fact that Cruikshank, who Rory had never known not to be working at night, wasn’t there.
Near the furnace was the large shape hidden by a tarp that she had seen before. Rory headed towards it, skin tingling with nerves. She lifted a corner of the tarp gingerly, but it was too dark for her to make out anything. With a wide arc of the arm, she threw the tarp off. Before she could take in what was in front of her, two hands grabbed her and threw her back. She went crashing into a set of shelves, setting off a deluge of small machine parts.
Rory rolled to the side, pulling out her dagger as she did. In the gloom, she could make out a thickset man with long hair. She picked up one of the fallen machine parts and threw it at him, catching him square in the face.
“Oh, you’re going to regret that,” he growled, and charged at her. She ducked, but not fast enough, and he sent her sprawling on her back.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Rory blinked as a vapour lamp was shaken to life. Behind the lamp, looking none too pleased, was Cruikshank.
“Caught her breaking in to spy on the spider,” said the lad, picking Rory up by an arm. He was about Rory’s real age — eighteen or so — with dark hair, thick features, and a face spotted with acne.
“It’s fine, Norman, that’s just Rory. What you doing here this time of night, lovey? And how many times am I going to have to remind you to use the damned doorbell? You can’t keep breaking in here.”
Rory yanked her arm away from Norman, throwing him a dirty look.
“Who’s he?” she pointed at Norman.
“The son of a friend of mine. He’s helping me get ready for the Revels. Lovey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, I just got worried, alright? The workshop was dark…” Rory let her voice trail off as she realised how lame she sounded.
“You broke in because the workshop was dark?” said Norman. “You do realise people sleep at night?”
“Hey, don’t talk to me like that,” snapped Rory. “Cruikshank normally works all the time, alright?”
“Lovey, it’s very kind of you to worry about me, but I’m fine.”
“So no one’s been causing you trouble?”
“Why would anyone cause me trouble?” asked Cruikshank. “What’s with you tonight?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just being a bit pecked in the head, that’s all.”
“You got that right,” said Norman.
In the light from the vapour lamp, Rory could now see clearly what had been skulking beneath the tarp. It was an enormous copper spider big enough for a woman to ride it. She pretended to examine the spider to give herself time to collect her thoughts. Maybe whoever had followed her had stopped at Jake and hadn’t seen her go to Cruikshank’s.
“You sure you’re alright, lovey?” asked Cruikshank.
Rory pointed to the spider. “Is that what you’re bringing to the Revels?” she asked to change the subject. The spider’s abdomen had been polished to a mirror shine so that it showed a distended reflection of the workshop.
“Yes,” replied Cruikshank. “I made the Marchioness a spider to go with the spiderweb layout of Damsport. You’ll see on the day, should be a pretty good show. But don’t change the subject — why would someone be causing me trouble?”
“Jake’s been hassling me and I was worried he might have followed me here last night, that’s all.”
Cruikshank frowned. “What’s he doing? I’ll go to the guards if he —”
“Whoa, easy on the mention of the guards, Cruikshank.” There it was, that damned unpredictable honesty. Why complicate things further by bringing the guards in? To anyone with sense, that would be the last thing to do. “I ain’t on the best of terms with them myself, remember. It’s fine, I’m handling Jake. You ain’t got to worry about nothing, alright.”
“Want me to rough him up a bit for you?” asked Norman. “I’ll only charge you friends’ rates.”
“You changed your tune. You was gonna thump the crap out of me a few minutes ago,” replied Rory.
“If Cruikshank says you’re alright, that’s enough for me.”
Rory turned to Cruikshank. “Look, I got to go, but I’ll see you real soon.”
Cruikshank watched her leave with narrowed eyes. “You look after yourself, lovey, you hear?”
“Of course. I always look after number one, don’t I?”
Rory stepped outside, back in the cool night air. The relief that the tall man hadn’t gone after Cruikshank was palpable. Still, she didn’t want to take any chances. A warehouse roof was just as good as any other to spend the night on. She circled the building to the back, where the wall was exposed to the sea air. The mortar was looser there, nibbled away by the salty wind. She had climbed up it often enough to know exactly where the footholds were, and in no time she sat atop Cruikshank’s roof.
She positioned herself near the entrance so she could keep an eye out for anyone attempting to come in. She made herself comfortable and settled for a long, sleepless night. She didn’t think the tall man
would come to see Cruikshank now, but better safe than sorry.
As she replayed the events of the last couple of days, she let her talismans tinkle through her fingers. She had obviously stumbled on something, but what? The corpse? But then if the tall man wanted her out of the way because of that, why approach Jake before she found it? There was no way he’d know she’d be in the baths when it was found. And why copy the Viper?
She remembered the sadness in the dead man’s face, and she knew that if she didn’t at least try to find out what had happened to him, she’d feel guilty. Very guilty. Then there was Longinus. From what little she knew of him, he was going to be impossible to deal with until he had found the man who was trying to impersonate him. She might as well help. It would keep him on side, and that wouldn’t hurt as far as getting him to train her.
She sighed. Why did nothing ever happen according to plan?
Chapter 16
Longinus’ notes, the gods be thanked, hadn’t been tampered with. His secret formulae were still safe. In spite of this reassurance, he had spent a fitful night’s sleep, which was very unlike him. Longinus always did everything properly, and this philosophy extended to sleeping. So on the morning after the baths, he was feeling less than his usual, composed self.
He poured himself a generous measure of port (there was no ailment that couldn’t be cured with a little port), and threw himself down on the blue velvet chair in the weapons room. He sipped his port and observed his poisons. The thought that they might somehow have been compromised was simply intolerable, but his sleepless night had brought him to a very disturbing conclusion.
Provided that the girl was correct in her description of the body (and that was a stretch in itself, given the girl was filthy and uneducated), the poison had to be an approximation of his. For the umpteenth time, Longinus railed against having to rely on the observation of an urchin. The ramifications of those observations were larger than the girl could possibly have comprehended, and what might have seemed insignificant to her could be an essential piece of the puzzle.
But there was no denying that if the body looked as she had described, either someone had found a way to replicate his work, or worse, there was an alchemist who had come to this result independently. That would mean an alchemist to rival him.
The Viper and the Urchin: A Novel of Steampunk Adventure (Bloodless Assassin Mysteries Book 1) Page 9