The 7th of London

by Beau Schemery

  He shook his head. How could he have been so stupid? People who saw this room rarely saw anywhere else afterward. Waverly’s gaze fell on a butcher-block table with metal instruments glinting on the surface. He saw chains, ropes, and whips in varying quantities. His brain protested, not wanting to believe what his eyes were sending it. He strained at the belts attached to the chair in which he was strapped. He felt heat behind him. Had he seen a stove that first night? He may have, but before he could examine his memories any further, the door opened.

  A wiry, rat-faced man in a filthy bowler hat stepped in, his mouth twisted in a grin revealing nearly black, crooked teeth. He must be new. Waverly didn’t recognize him as one of the old guards. The bracers of his trousers were down, and he wore a stained undershirt. He chuckled and cracked his knuckles ominously. Waverly didn’t like that sound, didn’t like it one bit. He liked it even less when Blacktooth slipped on a set of brass knuckles.

  “Well, isn’t this just cozy?” Waverly heard Fervis’s voice before the man strode through the door. The old bastard was almost just as Waverly remembered him, though his hair had gone a little grayer at the temples. He still combed and oiled it every day, and his mustache was still impeccably trimmed, a cigar clenched in the teeth below. One sharp, sparkling hazel eye looked out from beneath a bushy eyebrow raised in perverse amusement. The other eye was gone, thanks to Sev. The vain bastard wore a fancy brocade patch over the ruined socket. He was dressed as if he was attending a dinner party rather than a torture session, but that was Fervis.

  “Isn’t it just?” Waverly answered. He tried to keep an eye on Blacktooth, but the man had moved to Waverly’s back.

  “Do you know why I’ve brought you here, Billy?” Fervis exhaled a large puff of smoke toward his prisoner.

  Waverly winced, more at the nickname than the smoke. “I’ve an idea.”

  “That’s our sharp little Billy,” Fervis simpered, pinching Waverly’s cheek. “You’ve grown into quite the handsome young man, haven’t you, Billy?”

  “Thanks,” Waverly answered. “You’re lookin’ well. Put on some weight?”

  A scowl washed across Fervis’s face. “Smug little bastard.” Fervis stood. “Reilly.” Blacktooth stepped into Waverly’s peripheral vision and punched him with the brass knuckles. Pain bloomed bright and fresh across his cheekbone. He heard something crack and wondered if the others heard it as well. His eyes teared up on impact, another spot of hurt to join the others. Waverly spat out a tooth and some blood. “Lovely shot, Reilly,” Fervis congratulated the man.

  “Fank you, sir,” Reilly answered in a thick cockney accent.

  “Not at all, Reilly.” Fervis continued to puff his cigar and began pacing in front of Waverly. “Now, Billy, down to it, yes? Yes. You escaped my employ with your miserable little friend a few years ago. I let you go. True, I was a bit preoccupied with my factory and home burning to the ground, but I’m a good, Christian man, Billy. I believe in forgiveness. I forgive you, Billy.”

  “Get to the point, Fervis,” Waverly growled. Fervis curled his lip and waved to Blacktooth. The sweaty man cocked his arm back and walloped Waverly in the ribs. The boy coughed as the air was forced from his lungs.

  “Show some respect, boy. The only reason you still live is because I allow it. Do you really think I couldn’t come for you, bring you back? Don’t believe it. A small stipend paid by your benevolent employer has kept me disinterested.” Fervis injected the last word with venom. “And my pleasant and forgiving nature, of course,” he added with a falsely kind smile. “So in truth, Billy, you should be thanking me for the pleasant life you have now.” Fervis stopped pacing and crossed his arms, seemingly waiting. “Well?”

  “Well what?” Waverly snapped.

  “Thank me,” Fervis answered calmly, dangerously. Waverly stubbornly said nothing. “I’m a patient man, Billy, but don’t push your luck.”

  “Piss off,” Waverly answered.

  Fervis roared in response and kicked the chair with all his might. Waverly toppled over, landing hard on the concrete floor. “Thank me, you insufferable little prick!” He didn’t give Waverly a chance to answer, just gave him another kick. Waverly was sure one of his ribs cracked. “Pick him up!”

  Blacktooth rushed to obey, righting the chair and Waverly. He leaned in and whispered, “I’d do ’ut ’e says, luv.” The man’s breath stank. Waverly groaned.

  “What was that, Billy?” Fervis leaned forward and cupped his hand around his ear. “Did I hear a thank-you?”

  Waverly ground his teeth and without moving his jaw, bit out, “Thanks.”

  “There we are,” Fervis said, beaming. He clapped Waverly on the shoulder, exacerbating the pain in his ribs. “All friends again. That’s good. Grand. Lovely.”

  “Brilliant,” Waverly agreed dismissively.

  “Right. Let’s talk about Seven.”

  “If we must.”

  “My good Christian nature only extends so far,” Fervis continued. “I’ve forgiven you, Billy. I don’t blame you. Seven, on the other hand, was nothing but a pestilence since the day he arrived in my life. I want nothing more than to scrape the little shite off my boot for good. I thought keeping an eye on you would afford me a way to find him, but he’s been maddeningly difficult to locate. Imagine my surprise when I’m attending the Yule Ball at the royal palace and the horrible son of a bitch emerges from Lord Fairgate’s personal quarters!”

  “Oh my,” Waverly stated with honest surprise.

  “Shocking, I know. Then I found out he stole that man’s personal journal. So me being a good and decent Englishman, I offered to find the reprehensible little bugger. Men all over Blackside and not a hair to be seen. Do you know what happened next?”

  “I don’t.”

  “His body was found on the steps of the palace! Supposedly killed by that bounder, Jack Midnight, and offered up like some pagan sacrificial lamb. No point in watching you any longer, is there?”

  “I suppose not,” Waverly answered.

  “Then some time later, three of my men not only see but chase someone they swear is Seven, back from the dead apparently. And can you imagine, he disappeared into the sewers in a puff of smoke like the filthy little turd he is. I listen, you know. To the peasants, the rumors, the word on the street as it were. And do you know what amazing thing I’ve heard?” Waverly shook his head slowly. Fervis pressed on. “I heard a most fantastical story about an underground city filled with children, where our Mr. Seven has taken up residence. Isn’t that silly?”

  “Very silly,” Waverly agreed. He wanted to shrug, but it hurt too badly.

  “You think so? Yes. Well, do you also find it silly that my men started watching you again after that little sighting? And that they saw you disappear into the same sewer in an equally silly puff of smoke?”

  “I don’t know where Seven is,” Waverly answered before the question was asked.

  “Really? What’s in that sewer, then? Snooker club? A pub for local gobshites like you? Certainly not a goddamned underground city like Alice in bloody Wonderland! But there’s something down there that attracts you bastards, and I want in.”

  “I didn’t go into a sewer,” Waverly answered, deciding denial his best course of action.

  “Don’t worry, Billy. I won’t ruin your secret underground boys’ club. I only want Seven. My men and I will go in, fetch him, and leave your little clubhouse completely untouched. You have my word.”

  “I—” Waverly wasn’t sure what he planned to say. Certainly he couldn’t give up the whereabouts of the revolution. No. Sev wouldn’t talk in his situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Fervis made another gesture with his hand. “No need to answer so quickly, Billy. Take a moment to think about it.”

  “I don’t need to think about it.” He heard Blacktooth stirring the coals of the stove. “There’s nothing to think about. I don’t know anything.”

  “Billy. Billy. Billy. Are you certain
this is the tactic you’re committed to employ?” Fervis asked with a frown.

  “It’s not a tactic. I don’t know where Seven is. I don’t know what sewer you’re talking about, and I’ve never been in any sewers, clubhouses, or underground cities.”

  “Pity.” Fervis turned his back.

  Waverly breathed. “I’m sorry, Fervis. If I knew anything at all, I’d tell you. Honest.” Waverly couldn’t believe the old bastard was just giving up. He wagered apologizing, maybe promising to keep an eye out for Sev, would get him out of here a little quicker. Then he could warn everyone about Fervis’s renewed hunt.

  “Honest?” Fervis repeated, his back still facing Waverly.

  “Yes. You know I hear a lot of gossip at the B & T. I could listen for word of Sev. If I see him or hear anything, I can bring it back to you.”

  “Do you remember what Seven’s behavior forced me to do? Of course you do. How could you forget? That was one of the reasons I chose to do it. As an example to anyone else who thought they could stand up to me. I regret that his siblings had to suffer for his transgressions, but how else would he truly learn his lesson? Then you all started calling him Seven. Like it was a badge of honor instead of shame. I don’t even remember what the whoreson’s real name was. I wonder if he does.”

  “He doesn’t. Neither do I,” Waverly whispered, slightly disturbed by Fervis’s angry, dreamy tone. He wondered if Fervis even remembered he was there.

  “What should have destroyed him utterly turned him into some kind of blasted folk hero. A Robin Hood of factory children. They call him the Seventh of London. Bloody hell. It makes me sick.” Fervis paused, his shoulders heaved with the deep breaths he took. “Do you know what I did with those branding irons, Billy? I kept them. I was so proud and ashamed of them all at once. My worst and greatest invention. They get results. I’ll ask you again, Billy. How do I get to Seven, and what will I find in that sewer?”

  “I told you, Fervis. I don’t know anything. Sir.” He threw that last word in hoping to appease Fervis. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sure you are. Is it ready, Reilly?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Prepare him, then.” Fervis turned around, and Waverly gasped. Anything human in the man’s eye was gone, replaced by murder, cold and sure. Reilly stepped up and ripped Waverly’s shirt open, exposing the smooth, pale skin of his chest, barely a dusting of hair just beginning to appear. “Bring me ‘1’.”

  “One what?” Waverly asked, frantic. “One what?”

  “1 through 7,” Fervis replied. “We’ll keep going until you tell me what I want to know.” Reilly reappeared with a red-hot brand, handing it to Fervis. “Have you put ‘2’ in the coals?” Reilly nodded. “Good.”

  “You don’t have t’do this! I don’t know anythin’! How can torture work on someone without the information y’need?” Waverly pleaded, squirming desperately.

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” Fervis extended the poker slowly toward Waverly’s exposed flesh. Waverly screamed, begging, pleading, swearing he knew nothing. The anticipation was intolerable until the brand pressed searingly to his chest, and Waverly finally knew the true meaning of the word intolerable. He screamed with his soul even as his flesh sizzled, and the smoke and smell of his own cooking skin filled his nostrils. It occurred to him that he smelled like bangers cooking on the griddle, and then his gorge rose and he vomited, just managing to turn his head to the side, the hot, steaming sick rolling over his arm.

  “Where is Seven, and what’s in that sewer?” Fervis’s voice was too calm. Waverly mumbled nearly incoherently, ashamed to realize he was crying. He tried to think of Sev to bolster himself. “Billy?” Fervis whistled. “Are you in there?”

  “I don’t, I don’t know. No. Please, don’t kill me.” Waverly sucked in ragged gasps of air. Not until he said it did he realize that was exactly what was happening. Fervis was preparing to kill him.

  “It’s time for ‘2’, I think, Reilly. Is it ready? Ah, splendid.” Fervis handed the first brand back to Blacktooth, taking the second, glowing red-hot. Fervis worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat on the brand. The sizzle coaxed new screams from Waverly, and he shook his head and whipped his body from side to side as much as the chair would allow.

  Undeterred, Fervis placed the brand against the skin in the center of Waverly’s chest just to the left of the blistered number “1”. Waverly screamed and his stomach convulsed, forcing bile up his throat. Fervis held the brand there a little longer, and Waverly’s bladder released. He appealed to God, the devil, and anyone who would listen to free him from this insanity. When Fervis removed the second brand, Waverly noticed a bit of his skin still clinging to the iron.

  “Can you make it to ‘7’ for Seven?” Fervis asked with a sneer. “Reilly. ‘3’, please.” Waverly heard the words, and he wept violently, snot running out of his nose and his chest throbbing with pain. He wanted to struggle, but his body, his soul was exhausted. His mind was hurtling through possibilities, but the pain made it very difficult to form anything coherent. Seven. The number. His friend’s face. They swam into his view like ghostly apparitions. He wished for death. If he died, he wouldn’t have to endure this.

  Red-hot iron interrupted his thoughts as Fervis pressed the “3” over Waverly’s left pectoral. He thought he heard Fervis laughing. The man was asking him questions again, taunting him, but the words ran together with the pain, and consciousness left and returned. If he did live through this, he’d never eat another sausage for the rest of his life. He heard Fervis call for Four. No, Waverly thought. God no. He couldn’t take another. Waverly smelled the hot iron beneath his nose as his head hung forward, sweat beading on his brow.

  “Wait,” he rasped.

  “What’s that, Billy?”

  “Wait.” He tried desperately to formulate some sort of a plan. Seven. Remember Seven, he told himself. Seven wasn’t in the city. He was in the ruins. That’s it. Seven would be safe. He can tell Fervis where the city is, how to get in, and the bastard still won’t find Sev.

  “Tick tock, Billy,” Fervis interrupted, letting the heat of the iron punctuate his threat.

  Damn it, Waverly thought. All those children. Kildeggan and the others. He didn’t want to betray them either. Fervis would go in there and slaughter them.

  Fervis doesn’t know the city’s down there, mate, Sev’s voice spoke in Waverly’s head.

  That’s true, Waverly agreed.

  So don’t tell him how many people are down there, Sev’s voice instructed. Make him think there’s only twenty kids.

  He won’t take as many men, Waverly thought. I get it. He’ll take a small group, and the revolutionaries’ll beat them easily.

  Exactly, Sev’s voice answered, pleased.

  “I’ve got it,” Waverly barked.

  “Got it?” Fervis repeated.

  “I can show you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what will we find once we’re there?” Fervis asked.

  “Small camp. Twenty boys.”

  “See? Was that so difficult, Billy? You’d better not be lying to me, Billy.”

  “Not. Swear.”

  “You know what will happen if you are,” Fervis told him, and to drive his point home, the older man jabbed the “4” onto Waverly’s belly, just quick and away, but it was enough to rob Waverly once again of coherence. He thought he heard Fervis telling Blacktooth to fetch some morphine for Billy and then gather the men. It sounded like Fervis was playing it safe.

  “Twenty boys, my ass. I won’t get down there and be taken by surprise,” Fervis told Reilly. Waverly fought to stay conscious and hear the rest of the plan, but the pain dragged him down into the darkness.

  20

  SILAS woke early, washing up and stopping by the entrance to the ruins. He had a quick word with the boys posted there. No one had seen or heard anything, as Silas suspected. With no news, he shuffled his way to the tower, eage
r for a task to take his mind off Sev and the rest.

  All through the streets, the children of the city were busy preparing for the impending revolution. Many engaged in creating armor, leather, and metal alike. He learned that Faraday and Tesla were with the Prometheus Project and a small army of children, helping to assemble the guns that would be mounted on the shoulders of the clockwork.

  Plans seemed to Silas to be moving apace. They were expecting a shipment of gunpowder and rifle parts to finish off the arsenal it would take to launch their offensive. Silas always thought it strange that the revolution had yet to actually arm itself, excluding blades and a pistol here or there. He supposed it resulted from Hephaestus’s innate dislike of violence. The man knew it was necessary, but he wouldn’t use it as a crutch, and he was confident of the safety of his headquarters. He trusted all of his conspirators completely. Silas touched the hilt of his sword and the butt of his pistol, feeling a little silly carrying them along these streets.

  He rode the lift to the third workshop where he found Heph and Carrington lost in frantic invention. They were designing and assembling a fire-throwing mechanism with a large tank one would wear on one’s back to feed the delivery system.

  “That’s a little bit of genius,” Silas observed as he approached them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kettlebent,” Carrington greeted him. “It isn’t yet. A little bit of genius, that is. If we can only figure out how to introduce flame to the stream of combustible fluid.”

  “Please, Professor Carrington, call me Silas. I don’t call you Jeffries any longer.”

  “Good point. Good point.” Carrington barely acknowledged Silas, so engrossed was he in the designs.