Wakefield stood. “I am prepared to offer not only your safety, but the safety of your associates, minus Codename Hamlet, of course, in return for information.”
Arhyen shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t believe for a second that I will remain among the living after you find Hamlet. I’d rather only my death be on my hands.”
Wakefield’s expression contorted with rage seconds before he swatted his chair, sending it clattering across the room. “You realize you’re protecting a terrorist!” he growled. “You’re endangering the lives of all within this great city!”
He tried to keep his expression calm in the face of such sudden fury. He supposed Hamlet could easily be considered a terrorist, but he’d been working for the LN. Surely they were the ones accountable for his actions.
“What do you mean, terrorist?” he questioned finally.
Seeming to calm himself, Wakefield retrieved his chair and resumed his seat.
Sensing an opportunity for more information, Arhyen finally sat on his bed, facing Wakefield.
“Codename Hamlet was created a long time ago,” Wakefield began. “I only learned of his existence after many years of service to the Queen. Though all I really knew was that he worked for us, not against us. Recently, it was brought to my attention that he was no longer obeying orders. He was not just eliminating the splinter groups of our organization, but loyal members. We also believe he’s hiding potentially devastating information, and planning something that will mean ruin for us all.”
A million thoughts flitted through Arhyen’s mind, though chief amongst them were Fairfax’s synthetic emotions. Did the LN actually possess the formulae now, like Hamlet had led them to believe, or had he kept them for his own purposes? He couldn’t very well ask in case they were unaware of the matter.
“What makes you believe he’s planning something?” he asked instead.
Wakefield laced his hands together, then leaned forward, elbows balanced on knees. “Destruction of evidence, top secret files going missing . . . hidden associates,” he added with a stern look for Arhyen. “The list goes on. He’s hiding something. Those who last interacted with him believe he’s gone mad, which is likely. To our knowledge, no automaton has been allowed to survive for anywhere near as long as he has. Most are remanufactured every few years to prevent any . . . malfunctions. Truly, it doesn’t matter if he’s mad, or plotting, or both. He’s capable of great destruction, and has managed to elude us now for weeks. Even once we manage to locate him, he will be difficult to destroy.”
Arhyen frowned. “So, in other words, the London Network created its own problems, and now rather than dealing with them yourselves, you’ve roped me into this whole fiasco.”
His anger returning as abruptly as it had the first time, Wakefield stood. “The London Network saved your life, young man, and you should not be naive enough to think we don’t know just who you are. Arhyen Croft, born into poverty, climbing the ladder rungs of the underground as a thief. You should be rotting in prison right now, not receiving medical care and offers of protection.”
Arhyen smirked. “I almost did rot in prison thanks to your corrupt Captain of the Watch.”
“How did you know about that?” Wakefield gasped.
“I know a lot of things,” Arhyen replied, rising from the bed to hover over Wakefield’s shorter form, “and you are correct, I am not naive enough to think you don’t know just who I am, therefore I am not naive enough to believe my life in any way matters to you. If you want my help, we are going to play by my rules, else I’ll gladly sit here while Hamlet burns London to the ground.”
Wakefield opened his mouth then shut it several times, his eyes bugging out of their sockets. Finally, he seemed to gather himself. “What do you propose?”
“I propose you provide me with leverage,” he replied, quickly formulating a plan. “Give me top secret information that I will provide to certain associates that should I die, will be released to the public on a grand scale, but as long as I live, the information will remain unknown.”
Wakefield puffed up his chest and bristled his moustache. “You would like the London Network to entrust valuable information to a common thief, trusting on his word alone that it will not be spread regardless if you live or die?”
“Do you want help locating Hamlet before he enacts his dastardly plan, or not?”
Wakefield’s face grew increasingly red as he seemed to genuinely consider Arhyen’s proposal.
Honestly, he’d just been testing the man. He hadn’t believed in a thousand years that his deal would be accepted.
“I will discuss this with my superiors,” Wakefield said finally, then turned on his heel and marched out of the room, followed by his cronies, just as currently red-faced and bug-eyed as he.
As the door shut behind them, Arhyen slumped onto his bed with a sigh. Life as a thief never could have prepared him for offering ultimatums to the alleged Captain of the Queen’s Guard. Nor could it stop his heart from hammering at the slim chance that he might actually live to see Liliana again. He would not hesitate to take her in his arms and kiss her, though he was afraid once he did, he would never let her go.
Chapter 3
Liliana awoke the next morning with a groan. Though she wasn’t overly affected by the cold, her foggy breath signaled that the apartment had turned into an ice cave. She pulled the blanket up over her face, strongly considering staying in bed all day. She had no desire to further test the mysterious blue liquid, but other than that, she had absolutely nothing to do. Ephraim would be working through their normal noontime meeting that day, and Hamlet wasn’t likely to show himself before his three days were up.
She threw aside the blanket and lowered her feet to the floor. There had to be something she could do. She rubbed her bleary eyes as she glanced around the small apartment. Except for the pile of evidence on the low table, there wasn’t a speck of dust or mess anywhere. After years of tidying up after Fairfax Breckinridge, she tended to clean without realizing it. Since Arhyen had been gone and she’d had extra time, she’d cleaned the entire apartment top to bottom, even organizing Arhyen’s old trunks of clothing they occasionally used for disguises.
She padded across the cold floor toward the stove to prepare her morning tea. She’d taken to not eating much the past two weeks, as she didn’t really need food, and it wasn’t as fun to consume without Arhyen around, but she still enjoyed her tea. It seemed to help her think. Perhaps it would help her think of something to do to occupy her time.
Reaching the stove next to the short countertop and sink, she filled the kettle and lit the flame. Ten minutes later she found herself on the sofa, with a nice cup of hot tea in hand, wearing her comfortable stealthy clothes since she didn’t plan on seeing anyone soon.
Her eyes scanned the evidence on the table, all covered in that bright blue substance, the composition of which still eluded her. Taking a sip of her tea, she rifled through the facts in her mind.
The day after the Captain confessed to his crimes, his home had been searched for additional evidence. Ephraim, newly reinstated as a detective after his erroneous arrest, had been involved in the search. According to him, the blue stains had still been in liquid form, moist and sticky to the touch. Unfortunately, the detectives had all worn gloves, so they had no experimental evidence as to what the liquid might do if touched when fresh.
She took another sip of her tea. That the liquid was still fresh at least told her it likely had something to do with the Captain’s confession, since it must have been spilled right before he went to Watch Headquarters to turn himself in. Could it be some sort of truth serum? Such a thing existed in her novels, but not in real life . . . that she knew of. Yet, if it was a truth serum, he could have simply avoided Watch Headquarters until its effects wore off. The story went that he marched right in that morning and confessed his crimes without any prompting.
That led her to believe it was due to mind control, though that once again was only
part of the fictional worlds she liked to read about. Perhaps she was making things too complicated. It really could just be ink.
She frowned and set her half-empty teacup on the table. If it was mere ink, why did it contain human cells? Perhaps that should be her starting point. Of course, the only use for human cells she could think of was the creation of automatons, and that made little sense regarding this case. It had to be something else.
She leaned forward and started shuffling through the various stained papers and other articles. That was the other thing that didn’t make sense. There was so much mess. Had there been some sort of struggle, spilling the liquid everywhere? She’d love to ask the Captain himself, but he’d gone conveniently mute after his confession, refusing to speak to anyone, even those who knew him best.
Her thoughts trailed off. She was repeating herself. She’d gone over all this before, and it still made no sense. She was missing something.
That something was likely Hamlet. She knew he was in some way involved with the Captain’s confession. If only she had thought to ask him the previous night. Now she had no way of finding him.
She pursed her lips and leaned back against the lumpy sofa cushion. Perhaps that last thought wasn’t entirely true. He’d somehow known she was going to attempt Arhyen’s rescue, so either he was watching her, or he’d assigned others to the task. That meant if she wanted to see him again, all she had to do was draw him out.
Her resolve strengthened, she stood, then walked to one of the clothing chests where she’d draped her magenta dress the day before. If she was going out during the day she’d need to blend in, and that meant dressing like a lady. Staring down at the dress, she tsked. She’d much rather be one of the women in her novels, exploring mysterious tombs in Egypt, or braving the Amazon in search of hidden treasure. Not sipping tea in a shop in a frilly dress and matching hat, oblivious to the secret organization running London.
With a sigh, she took her garment to the bathroom to change.
Soon she was prim and proper in her modest gown, her neck and wrists demurely covered. Her hair was in its customary bun, though no hat bedecked her vibrant red tresses.
Feeling a thrill of excitement at her mission, she rushed around the apartment, equipping her handbag with throwing daggers and a few smoke bombs, just in case. She paused beside the low coffee table in thought, then plucked a small piece of stained paper from its surface, folding it in two before stuffing it in her bag. Finished, she left the apartment, locking the door behind her.
The sky outside was gray, and there was a crispness to the air, promising snow. It would be her first snow since she came to live in the city, a thought that caused her an odd feeling of heartache since she’d be experiencing it alone.
Shaking her emotions away, she clutched her handbag firmly with one hand, then lifted the hem of her skirts with the other before taking off at a jog.
Taking a left at the first narrow intersection, her mind shuffled through the places she might go where Hamlet was likely to find her. Her first thought was the building where Arhyen was being held, but after Hamlet’s warning, she feared being seen by someone other than him. She didn’t want to risk Arhyen’s life simply to draw Hamlet out. Her next thought was London Bridge. Would he attempt to stop her if she left the city?
She slowed her pace as she neared the main thoroughfare of Market Street. It would be a shame if she traveled all the way out of the city, only to have him not reveal himself.
Two gentlemen in frock coats and short top hats eyed her up and down as they walked past. At first she thought she should probably be offended, then realized the looks may have been garnered because she’d paused in the middle of the sidewalk, deep in thought, oblivious to those attempting to pass her.
She picked up her pace, hoping to not draw any extra attention to herself. She hurried past the various cafes and other businesses, ignoring the odd pangs of memory that accosted her, especially when she passed the shop where she’d had her first slice of chocolate cake, the morning after she’d followed Arhyen out of her father’s hidden compound. She realized sadly that she was beginning to believe she’d never see Arhyen again. What if Hamlet’s plan went awry, and he was not able to deliver on his promises? What if he never meant to keep them in the first place?
She lifted her hands to her lips, remembering the kiss she’d shared with Arhyen. She’d never imagined that such a thing could happen to her, but now that it had, she could not let the feeling go, even if it was a feeling she didn’t fully understand.
Her steps slowed as another familiar storefront came into view. She looked up and read the sign, Flowers of Antimony. Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? Last she’d seen, Victor Ashdown’s daughter, Chirani, had been running his alchemy shop. What if this new, brightly-hued compound was something else he’d left behind like his electricity stones? Chirani might be able to tell her what she was dealing with, and she wouldn’t need to find Hamlet that day after all.
With a new spring in her step, she approached the storefront and peered through the glass. Sure enough, Chirani was within, mixing something in a large bowl behind the counter. Her dark skin and exotic features contrasted beautifully with the simple lilac dress she wore, though her expression seemed troubled. Perhaps because her father had never been officially pronounced dead. Liliana grimaced. Or maybe it was because she had never returned to notify Chirani of such news as promised.
Suddenly anxious, she opened the shop door, which announced her with a cheerful jingle. Chirani looked up from her work in question, then smiled. Liliana hurried forward, feeling encouraged by Chirani’s expression.
“I’d thought perhaps you’d left the city when I didn’t see you again,” Chirani admitted, stepping away from her work.
With a smile, Liliana approached the counter and set her handbag down, though she did not yet withdraw the stained paper. “I apologize for not visiting sooner. I know I assured you I’d let you know if I found anything out about your father, but I never did.”
Chirani frowned and shook her head. “I’ve lost hope in those regards. If he was still alive, he would have returned by now, or at the very least, would have found some way to send me word. I’m not naive enough to believe that my father told me all his secrets, but he wouldn’t let me worry all this time if he was still around.”
Liliana nodded, wondering how much she should tell her. She deserved to know the truth, but certain information could be dangerous. She didn’t want to risk making Chirani a target. “I believe he’s dead as well,” she declared with a sad sigh. “An associate of mine claimed he’d heard of his death, though I was unable to recover the exact details.”
She felt guilty at the small lie, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Chirani her father had been tortured and killed by Clayton Blackwood, and that his body was likely rotting in a sewer, or perhaps had been burned to ash. Clayton was dead now, murdered by Hamlet, so at the very least, justice had been served.
With a sad smile, Chirani nodded, accepting Liliana’s explanation. “As I said, I suspected as much, but I appreciate you coming here to tell me what you know.”
“There’s something else,” she added, making a snap decision. She reached into her handbag and withdrew the sheet of paper with its incriminating blue stain. “Do you know what this is?”
Chirani took the offered paper and peered down at the stain, then raised her eyes to meet Liliana’s. “Ink?”
Liliana’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. Perhaps not a creation of Victor Ashdown’s after all.
“Why is this of interest to you?” Chirani questioned, handing back the paper.
She clenched her jaw, reluctant to tell another lie, though she knew she had no choice. The entire city had heard of the Captain’s confession, but his crimes were still under investigation.
She tucked the paper back within her handbag. “A friend asked me to look into it,” she explained. “He seems to think it is something other than ink,
” she hesitated, “and it contains human cells.”
Rather than showing signs of shock, Chirani furrowed her brow in thought. “Human cells, you say?” she muttered. “I wonder if it has anything to do with creating automatons.” Her distant gaze became more clear as it turned back to Liliana. “I unfortunately know little about that aspect of alchemy, though my father was always intrigued by them.”
“Them?” Liliana questioned.
“Automatons,” Chirani clarified. “He was never involved in creating them, but he did research.”
That didn’t come as a surprise to Liliana. Victor had created the Advector Serum used to grant her human emotions, after all. Though she couldn’t say so out loud, as Chirani didn’t even know she was an automaton. She’d likely not speak so freely with her if she found out.
“I’d considered that the liquid might be an aspect of growing artificial life,” Liliana replied finally, “but it doesn’t necessarily make sense with where this liquid was found.”
Chirani arched a dark brow. “And where was it found?” she asked suspiciously.
She blinked up at her, furiously attempting to concoct a lie that would make sense. She was saved by someone knocking on the storefront glass behind her.
Chirani peered in the direction of the sound. “There’s a rather strange man attempting to get your attention.”
Liliana turned, half-expecting to see Hamlet, but what she got was Wilfred Morris, known thug for hire, and also someone she and Ephraim had questioned several weeks ago in relation to the LN. Wilfred had allegedly been hired by the LN to smuggle goods through the canals, only to have his employers knock him over the skull, leaving him for dead in a remote waterway.
Upon gaining her attention, Wilfred waved.
She turned back to Chirani, wondering what she could possibly say to explain the burly, scarred thug waiting outside her shop. “M-my cousin,” she blurted. “He occasionally escorts me to see that I don’t find myself in trouble. He must have grown impatient with waiting.”
Under Clock and Key (The Thief's Apprentice Book 3) Page 3