Sev considered the offer seriously before he shook his head. “I can’t,” he confirmed. “A Public House is too, well, public,” he explained. “And I’m too used t’bein’ me own boss.” Waverly nodded and opened his arms. Sev hugged him happily. “Thanks, mate.”
Waverly squeezed Sev firmly before allowing him to slip back into the shadows. Sev stood on the roof, watching Waverly gather the empty mugs and dishes. He remained until his old friend disappeared into the kitchen of the Bacchus and Tun before he spun and dashed off.
Sev considered Waverly’s offer as he headed west toward his roosting spot. He was tempted. With regular work, Sev could save up enough money to book passage on a ship to the new world, purchase the permits and paperwork he’d need to travel, and still have a bit left for room and board once he reached Victorica, within a year or two.
The colonies had won their independence before Sev had been born but when the Royal military started utilizing the steam-powered strong suits, Victoria decided to retake the newly formed United States. She allowed them a certain measure of autonomy but their taxes still traveled across the ocean to England. Many Blacksiders had emigrated to Victorica as it had been renamed, and many still had dreams of moving to the new colonies and escaping the oppression of London. Sev shared that dream and regular paying work might allow him to reach that dream sooner.
It’ll never do, he thought. After his experience with Fervis, he knew he wouldn’t be able to take orders from someone. Even though Sev knew Waverly’s boss wouldn’t beat or touch him, the trauma he’d experienced in Fervis’s workhouse prevented him from taking regular employment, as well as the fact that Fervis’s men and the real authorities still sought his capture. Sev stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat, touching the bit of sausage he’d saved for Henry and pushing the memories of that time away. He’d had to deal with too many deaths in that place, and Sev still blamed himself for them. Sev stopped a block away from the Line. He could already hear the giant fans along Gray’s Inn Road. Sev leaned against a post until he was satisfied no one paid him any attention before he slipped away to scale the alley wall.
Once Sev reached the roof, he dashed forward and leapt from building to building. The structures stood so close together in the crowded streets he could easily jump from one to the next. He paused, watching the Coal-Eater on the roof across the street. Steam whistled from the scuffed, red gear-suit he wore as he paced along his post. The armed guards used to be called Red Coats until they were outfitted with Wrathsbury’s Patented Steam-Powered Gear Suits. Now folks called them Coal-Eaters or Steamcoats. Some of the kids called them Steamies as well. The man turned away, the gears of his suit grinding noisily. Needs oiled, Sev thought. After taking the opportunity to leap across the street, he grabbed the lip of the roof on the other side and dangled from his hold as he listened to the guard’s heavy, metallic footsteps. When they faded slightly, Sev scrambled onto the rooftop past the fans into considerably clearer air. He took a deep breath as he dashed along the much more expensive roofs than those he’d followed the dark stranger over through Blackside.
It would have been quicker for him to drop to the street, but he would be much too conspicuous. In Blackside he could blend with the other denizens in their worn, sometimes filthy clothes, but no one would mistake him for one of society’s upper crust on these streets. Luckily the farther he ventured into the affluent west side, the fewer Coal-Eaters and sentries he had to worry about. The rich were so confident their fence kept the lower element where it belonged that security was much more relaxed except around the palace proper, and even Sev wasn’t daring enough to attempt to get close to it. Not that he wanted to. He returned happily to the relative warmth of his attic above the museum. Sev smiled when he saw the signature row of columns. He slipped off the roof, then paused in the shadows. Royal guards patrolled the grounds, but Sev knew their routes and patterns by heart, and he waited for his chance and dashed through. There wasn’t much cover this close to the museum, but Sev didn’t need much. He popped the arms on his crossbow, seated his grapple, and fired it up to his window. The grapple-bolt flew, trailing the bit of rope that he used to scale the side of the building.
Excited hooting greeted Sev as he ducked into his little crawl space in the attic and slipped a panel of spare wood over the portal to block out most of the draft. Sev scratched a match alight and touched it to the wick of the gas lamp, filling the little space with a warm glow. The lamp illuminated the cluttered space filled with labeled crates containing items they had no room for in the museum or that had fallen out of the public’s interest. Sev had stacked them to block off his little area, hiding it from anyone who entered the attic from the entrance on the opposite side of the room.
“Evenin’, Hank,” Sev addressed the little owl perched in the rafters as he placed the lamp on a barrel that served as a table. “Got a treat for ye, mate.” He pulled out the bit of sausage and held it up to the little bird. Sev smiled at the excitement in the golden orbs of the owl’s eyes. Henry snapped the sausage up in his sharp beak, passed it to his fuzzy talon, and tore a bit off, then swallowed greedily. Satisfied by Henry’s happiness, Sev pulled off his hat, then ran a hand through his hair as he hooked the hat on a nail. He’d managed to collect a few things over the years: his lamp and a few warm wool blankets, one of which he’d stretched between two posts like a hammock. Recently he’d managed to acquire a small potbellied stove from a woman near the docks. She sold toys, things aristocrats purchased for their pets. This stove was built to warm a doghouse, but it worked just fine for Sev’s purposes. He stoked the flame and threw in two of his last four lumps of coal. “We’ll need more coal soon, Hank.” The owl hooted at his nickname but continued to preen his feathers, now finished with his meal.
Sev peeled off his coat as the temperature slowly climbed in the attic room. He reached out his window, snapped off an icicle, and placed it in a tin bowl that he sat on top of the stove. He removed his filthy shirt as the ice melted and the water warmed. Then Sev retrieved a rag and washed his face and armpits. He dipped the shirt into the remaining water and let it cook while he removed his boots. Sev whistled a tune his older sister, Katie, used to sing when she did the washing back at the cobblery. It comforted him a bit as he removed the shirt from the bowl, twisted the water from it, and draped it over the rafter above the stove. Water dripped from the shirt and sizzled on the stove while Sev climbed into his makeshift hammock. The wool was scratchy but welcome and warm on his bare skin. He leaned over and blew out his lamp before he wrapped the other blanket over him.
Sev looked at all the dusty acquisitions that crowded the small attic room. Boxes and crates were scattered among visible artifacts. Sev saw it as another example of the corruption of his kingdom. He regarded the familiar shards, paintings, and tapestries, wondering what the countries who actually owned these statues and other items considered Britain’s right to the pieces. Sev had used a few of the priceless tapestries to insulate his space, trying to trap the heat. This entire building was a temple to Britain’s arrogance.
Sev listened to the water droplets sizzling steadily slower, like a clock running down. He realized the extent of his exhaustion as his mind wandered to the dark stranger in the stovepipe hat. “What’s his game, Henry?” The owl cooed in response. “Ye’re no help,” Sev whispered just before sleep claimed him.
2
AS SEV drifted off to sleep, an almost silent auto-carriage crept along Great Russell Street, carrying the object of his most recent consideration. Kettlebent hunched awkwardly in the cab of the carriage as it made its way to Stafford House, the odd, tiny driver atop the vehicle, bundled head to toe against the chill night, manipulating the various levers, pedals, and wheels with ease. Kettlebent drummed his fingers impatiently on the door of the black carriage and wondered if it were wise for him and his people to trust William Wrathsbury, the third Duke of Sutherland. The man had never given them any reason to distrust him, but Kettlebent knew how cor
rupt the upper echelon of society could be. Wrathsbury’s grandfather had assisted William IV with the Highland Clearances. His original Wrathsbury Clockworks had been integral to the reform of Scotland, and the young inventor’s prowess had attracted the notice of the Countess of Sutherland. She forsook her original suitor, the Marquess of Stafford, George Leveson-Gower, and in a desperate attempt to regain her affections, despite his agreement with their goal, Leveson-Gower tried to stop the clockwork juggernaut, only to be trampled unceremoniously. The king bestowed Leveson-Gower’s lands and titles on Professor Lawrence Wrathsbury upon the former’s death and named the inventor the first Duke of Sutherland. The title had passed from father to son twice over since.
Kettlebent’s carriage pulled up to Stafford House, the duke’s city residence. The current Lord Wrathsbury’s grandfather had purchased the partially completed mansion and incorporated his own designs into the original construction, making the building one of the most lavishly furnished and technically advanced dwellings in all of London. Kettlebent had heard that the queen, upon entering Stafford house, said to the Duchess of Sutherland, “I have come from my house to your palace.” Kettlebent had visited Stafford House before, but each time inspired awe. He disembarked his carriage and approached the front doors to knock. He adjusted his collar and shifted his weight as he stood listening. Soft footsteps approached, and Kettlebent stood straight, exaggerating his full height. The butler who opened the door flinched at the sight of the huge dark man. The aged manservant quickly mastered his fear in the spirit of fine British stewards and greeted the visitor. “Good evening, sir,” the older man simpered. “His Grace awaits you in the library. He’s expecting you. Shall I show you in?”
“I know the way.” Kettlebent’s deep, metallic rasp echoed in the entryway.
“Very good, sir,” the old man sneered. Kettlebent shouldered past the manservant and stalked to the library. The butler allowed this but stood, watching the strange guest diligently. The decadent surroundings unnerved Kettlebent, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with his task as he approached the elaborate doors to the duke’s library. Kettlebent placed a hand on the rich wood and opened the heavy door. Sutherland sat behind a great, polished desk, reading a huge tome.
His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland looked every inch the cultured, upper-class British gentleman with his perfectly coiffed golden locks and his impeccably tailored, respectably gray waistcoat atop his crisp white dress shirt. Even with the collar open and his silk ascot untied, Sutherland looked dapper and well-arranged. The man was fully in his twenty-ninth year and was obviously more fit than most of his class, with a face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. He looked up as Kettlebent entered, fixing his piercing, ice-blue eyes brimming with intelligence and intensity on the dark guest.
“Your Grace,” Kettlebent growled.
“Damn it, Kettlebent.” The duke waved his hand. “What have I told you?”
“My apologies, Wrathsbury,” Kettlebent answered. The duke had insisted numerous times that Kettlebent should address him as William. The duke expressed his distaste for needless formality but Kettlebent still didn’t feel comfortable addressing the duke in such a manner. Using the man’s surname seemed a proper compromise.
“No matter,” Sutherland returned. “What news?”
“We’ve recruited a few more orphans to the cause.”
“Excellent.” Sutherland rubbed his hands together at the news. “Anything more?”
“We’ve made some progress refining the design.”
“Not surprising.” The duke rose and paced the room. “Mr. Kildeggan is nothing if not a perfectionist.”
“True,” Kettlebent agreed. Sutherland paused next to his guest and raised an eyebrow, presumably at Kettlebent’s tone.
“But?” The duke inferred the provision. Kettlebent was almost unreadable behind his goggles. Sutherland had to look up to even try to read his eyes as Kettlebent stood a full head and shoulders taller than the duke.
“But we’re running thin on funds,” Kettlebent confirmed, remaining stoic, his hands folded in front of him. “For raw materials.”
“I see.” Sutherland moved back behind his desk and removed his chequebook. He scratched the date and his name, leaving the amount decidedly blank. “You know where to take this.” The duke held the slip of paper out to his guest, who nodded. “Are we close?”
“We are,” Kettlebent confirmed.
“I hope so.” Sutherland collapsed in his chair. “Just keep gathering the children.”
“Of course.” Kettlebent slipped the cheque into his inner pocket.
“You weren’t observed coming here?”
“No, Your Grace,” Kettlebent assured him.
“Good. I can’t afford to be connected with this,” Sutherland sighed.
“No, Your Grace,” his guest repeated in agreement.
“You have what you need, then,” Sutherland observed. “It’s late. I must bid you good night.” Kettlebent nodded. “Keep me apprised of our progress.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Kettlebent bowed as he backed out of the library.
Sutherland pinched the bridge of his nose as his guest slipped away. “Kettlebent,” he called, stopping his co-conspirator.
“Sir?” He turned his goggled eyes back to the desk. “Something else?” Kettlebent waited for the duke’s answer.
“Have you spoken to Jonathan? Mr. Middlenight?” Sutherland asked without looking up. Kettlebent scratched beneath his beard but said nothing. “How go things on his end? Has he not sent any word?”
“I have spoken with Jack Midnight,” Kettlebent answered, using the man’s theatrical alias. “He’s keeping up his end of the bargain. He’s very good at what he does, sir. That’s why they call him the Prince of Blackside.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” The duke was silent, waiting for Kettlebent to answer his second question. Kettlebent wondered at the noble’s interest in Blackside’s most famous criminal mastermind.
“Mr. Midnight said to tell you to ‘Come round for tea, if you’re in the neighborhood’,” Kettlebent informed the man behind the desk. A smile crept cautiously onto the duke’s lips beneath the shadow of his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Kettlebent. You’re service, as always, is appreciated.”
“Sir,” Kettlebent said as he tipped his stovepipe hat.
The tall dark man stalked through the decadent surroundings toward the door. The butler emerged, seemingly from nowhere, to escort Kettlebent out.
“I hope your visit was beneficial,” the old man said.
“Yes, thank you,” Kettlebent agreed, his voice like the grinding of gears.
“Very well,” the butler observed. “Good evening, sir. Safe journey.”
“Thank you,” Kettlebent responded and descended the steps to his carriage. Kildeggan will be happy when he sees this, Kettlebent thought as he regarded the blank cheque from the duke. The auto-carriage pulled away from Stafford House and into the London night.
SEV heard the gunshots, felt the heat from the fire and heard children screaming, but when he bolted awake, he realized he was the one screaming. Henry flapped his wings and hooted at the sudden commotion. Sev flopped back into his hammock, sighing loudly.
“Shh, Hank.” Sev tried to calm the little bird, who dropped from the rafter onto his roommate’s stomach. The young man stroked the smooth, soft feathers of the owl’s head while he tried to ignore the talons scratching his skin even through the heavy wool of his blanket. “It was just the dream again, little friend,” Sev explained. The owl cooed in response. Sev closed his eyes, still tired. “I know,” he said, carrying on his one-sided conversation. “It never gets easier.” Comforted by the closeness of his feathered friend, Sev once again slipped off to sleep.
When Sev awoke a few hours later, he was starving, and Henry had flapped back up to the rafters, where the owl feasted on the corpse of a mouse. “That’s a good idea, mate,” he said as he dropped to the chill
y wooden planks of the attic floor. He pulled his blanket off the hammock and draped it around his shoulders as he looked for something to eat. He found a tin of potted meat—Haversham’s Pleasantly Potted Meat, the label proclaimed with no indication of which animal the contents came from. Sev shrugged. Food’s food, he thought and looked at his little stove, now cold. He remembered his coal situation, decided against building a fire, and pulled the key from the side of the tin, then peeled back the lid. The contents smelled salty and his stomach growled. Sitting on a crate, Sev clicked open his pocket knife and dug into the tinned meal.
Finished, Sev placed the tin aside, stood, stretched, and cracked his back. He walked over to the window and peeked out to get an idea of the time. Judging by the crowd on the street and the sun, it had to be midday. Sev knew he had some people to see this afternoon. He hated trying to slip out of Fairside during the day, preferring evening or early morning to avoid detection, but today there was nothing for it. He looked into the mirror with its frame of gold leaf. He’d scavenged the treasure from one of the crates. He dragged a comb with only a few of the teeth missing through his mop of scarlet hair, preparing for his day. Henry crunched away on the bones of the mouse.
An hour later, without much resistance, Sev found himself back on the streets of Blackside, breathing the far murkier air. He pulled his hat down and his scarf up, recognizing a few of the plainclothes bobbies who wandered about Blackside to keep an eye on things. They were rough men, as likely to beat you as arrest you, and Sev had no desire to be recognized by them. No decent person in their right mind came to Blackside if they weren’t forced to. Sev brushed against one of the produce carts that ventured just over the Line from Fairside. The nobles’ vendors knew there was money, not much but some, in Blackside, and they took their carts just into the east side, close enough to dash back across the Line should the need arise. Sev pocketed a few apples as he passed a cart, moving deeper into Blackside.
The 7th of London Page 2