An hour and two carriage rides later, Liliana and Ephraim found themselves near Tailor Street. Not far from the bustling thoroughfare was a less than affluent neighborhood where one of their contacts lived with his family, at least he did when they last spoke to him.
Tailor Street also housed a shop selling masks like Hamlet’s, though Liliana found that mystery less important now. After hearing his story of why he wore the mask, she didn’t need to know anything else about it. Hearing that he’d had acid dripped down his face to eliminate his response to pain was more than enough information.
After disembarking from the carriage, they hadn’t walked far before their interest was diverted. A crowd had gathered around the center of the street, blocking carriages and the occasional automobile from traveling further north. Several officers of the Watch worked to hold the crowd back from whatever they were gawking at, but they were sorely outnumbered.
Pulling his fedora further down to shadow his eyes, likely not wanting to be recognized by his fellow officers, Ephraim pushed his way forward through the crowd.
Liliana reached out and clamped her hand around the fabric of his coat, lest she become lost in the chaos.
They neared the center of the crowd, her view blocked by the backs of those taller than her. Finally, she crouched down and peered around Ephraim’s waist, then gasped and stumbled backward at what she saw.
Six men, dressed in matching uniforms, lay dead, sprawled across the street.
Taking a deep breath, she crept forward again to take in the scene. Each of the men appeared to have the exact same injury, their chests soaked through with blood. Other than a few extra spatters, they seemed otherwise un-mutilated.
“The Queen’s Guard,” Ephraim muttered, leaning down so she’d hear him over the crowd.
The officers were walking the perimeter of the bodies, shouting at the crowd to stay back, but to little avail. No one walked close enough to touch the bodies, but they formed a gawking circle, showing no signs of dispersing.
Ephraim took one final look at the bodies, then dragged Liliana back out of the crowd. Once they were free, he let her go.
A million questions on her mind, she trotted after him toward the shade of a storefront, far from the crowd.
He leaned against the store front’s brick wall, then glared outward. “Your beloved friend Hamlet is to blame for this. Is this part of his plan?”
She narrowed her gaze, suddenly feeling defensive. “How can you possibly know that?”
He rolled his eyes. “Their wounds, Liliana. I’ve seen him kill men that way with that bloody thin sword he carries. He stabs them in the mid to lower back, coming up below the ribs to pierce their hearts. I guarantee you those men all died in the same way, though if you’d like confirmation after the bodies have been examined, I’m sure I can obtain it for you.”
Liliana shook her head in disbelief. “If you say they were all killed in that way, I believe you, but you do not know that it was Hamlet.”
He glared at her. “I would be truly shocked if it was not. What exactly did he say to you about this grand plan of his?”
She bit her lip, trying to recall exactly what he’d said, then shook her head. “Only that it would happen in three days time, and that it would be big. He said that men need to learn they cannot control fate.”
Ephraim shook his head. “That’s utterly ridiculous.”
“In what way?” she pressed.
“That an automaton could have a lesson to teach the men he was created by,” he blurted, then sharply inhaled. “I apologize, that’s not what I meant.”
She suddenly found herself close to tears. She knew she was inferior to humans in many ways, but to hear it stated so bluntly, especially by someone she considered a friend, stung.
“You know you’re different,” he continued, the stern line of his mouth conveying his discomfort. “I only meant that Hamlet, as an automaton without emotions or a moral compass, couldn’t possibly hope to teach humanity a lesson.”
She shook her head, still fighting back her tears. “If that’s the case, then I probably shouldn’t agree with him then, should I? While I’m grateful for my existence, what gave my father the right to create me? To treat me like a servant? Like some object that should not have thoughts and feelings? Well I do have thoughts and feelings, and I’m pretty sure Hamlet does too.”
Ephraim blinked at her in shock for several seconds.
She raised a hand to her mouth, suddenly regretting her outburst. A few members of the crowd had pulled back to watch her curiously.
“Let’s get out of here,” he muttered, placing a hand on her arm to guide her away.
She tugged her arm out of reach. “We still have to question our contact,” she stated indignantly.
Ephraim glanced around warily. “Yes, but we can discuss that once we’re through making a scene right across the street from a mass murder.”
She frowned, still wishing to express her ire at his insensitive comments, but this time when he reached out his hand, she allowed herself to be guided away.
Soon enough, those who’d turned to look at them shifted their focus back to the crime scene. Several more officers wove their way through the carriages and automobiles all at a standstill, herding the crowd away from the bodies.
They walked on in silence for a long while, and Liliana didn’t comment when they went past the street that would take them to their contact’s dwelling. After hearing of Catherine’s arrest, and seeing the men’s bodies, she was beginning to think she should have heeded Hamlet’s words and stayed back at the apartment.
Something nagged at her though. Had Hamlet wanted her to stay home not to keep her from danger, but to prevent her from seeing his murder victims? That was, if he was even the culprit, and actually cared what she thought of him.
She shook her head. No, she knew on some level he cared what she thought, he’d proven that to be so. That thought alone convinced her that Ephraim’s theory was inaccurate. Hamlet wasn’t entirely without emotion.
Eventually they left Tailor Street far behind, and Ephraim, looking weary, stopped in front of a small cafe. He glanced down at her wordlessly.
She nodded. Though her limbs were not tired, she could use a break, if only to allow her thoughts to catch up with her.
They went inside and took one of many empty tables. The round surface was just large enough for two cups of tea, and two small plates containing pastries, which they ordered from the proprietor, a young woman with dark hair.
Liliana nudged her strawberry pastry, covered in heavy cream, across her plate. She possessed an unparalleled love for sweets, but found herself unable to enjoy this one.
Ephraim picked at his croissant, but little of it seemed to be reaching his mouth. “Why do you believe Hamlet can feel emotions?” he asked abruptly.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, unsure of how to begin. “I can just tell,” she said finally. “If he had no emotions, he would have no motivation for anything he does. If he had no emotions, he would have continued to blindly obey orders. He hates those who created him, and hate is just as much of an emotion as love, or anything else.”
Ephraim raised an eyebrow at her and took a sip of his tea. “You’re not telling me that he’s capable of love?”
She shrugged and looked down at her pastry. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It’s not important now. If he is responsible for killing those men, he has a good reason. At least, a reason that seems good to him. And we need to figure out what that reason is.”
Abandoning his mutilated croissant, Ephraim raised a hand to stroke his chin. “Murdering members of the Queen’s Guard to teach mankind a lesson for playing God,” he muttered thoughtfully, then lowered his hand to retrieve his teacup, though he did not drink.
Liliana observed him for several seconds.
Finally, he lowered his cup back to the table. “There are only three possible conclusions, as far as I can see,” he began, keeping his voi
ce low to avoid being overheard. He held up a finger. “One, the men killed were corrupt, secretly involving themselves either with the LN, or one of the splinter groups, just as Christoph had done.” He held up a second finger. “Two, those men were members of the LN or aforementioned splinter groups, only posing as officers of the Queen’s Guard.” He held up a third finger. “Three, the entirety of the Queen’s Guard, and perhaps the Queen herself, are somehow involved with the scientific experiments Hamlet is protesting. If that is the case, his message is quite clear. Answer his demands, or anyone could be next.”
Liliana felt suddenly dizzy. If the third option was true, and the Queen herself was involved with the LN, how on earth was she going to rescue Arhyen? How was she going to rescue herself? She’d already been targeted once for her connections with Hamlet. If he intended to teach London a lesson, would she, Arhyen, and Ephraim suffer the consequences?
Hamlet had already murdered six men, leaving their bodies to make a spectacle. If that was only the first step in his plan, what would be the finale?
Chapter 6
Arhyen drummed his fingers anxiously across his knee, then reached up to straighten his charcoal waistcoat over his predominantly white pinstriped shirt. His tan trouser-clad legs dangled over the edge of his rickety bed. Though he was pleased to be back in regular clothes, he would have preferred something more . . . black. He also would have preferred Wakefield be on time for their meeting.
Not that he knew what time it was.
Still, he’d been told morning, and judging by the rumble in his stomach, it was well toward noon. While waiting, he’d reviewed his file a few more times, but struggled to make full sense of it. Even most of what the London Network had done to save him was difficult to grasp. He was quite sure he’d never heard of the medicines used to stave off his infections, and to prevent his body from killing off the foreign, synthetic organs placed within him.
The confusing pages also begged the question of why? He’d asked for leverage, some sort of information that should it get out, would be disastrous for the London Network. Were the details of what was done to him supposed to suffice?
He jumped as the lock clunked in the nearby door. The door swung inward, admitting Wakefield and his usual two-person entourage. Wakefield’s skin was flushed, and his normally perfectly groomed gray hair was mussed. Something was wrong.
“Forgive me the delay,” Wakefield announced. “That monster has struck again. Six of my men now lay dead in the street.”
Arhyen gave him a deadpan expression. If Wakefield had intended to surprise him, he’d have to do a lot better than that.
Wakefield marched toward Arhyen’s bedside, then waited as his chair was moved to the back of his knees. Without looking to ensure it was positioned correctly, he sat. “You don’t seem surprised about this mass murder,” he commented, eyeing Arhyen up and down.
Arhyen arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you implying I somehow had something to do with it?”
Wakefield scoffed. “Hardly. I have faith in the security of this compound. I’m simply commenting on the fact that you do not seem surprised Hamlet would murder six officers of the Queen’s Guard.”
He shrugged. “I know of his capabilities.”
“And yet you would give us conditions while we’re running out of time?” Wakefield countered.
He smirked. “I’m not protecting him, if that’s what you mean. I am simply protecting myself. While I’m well aware of Hamlet’s aptitude for violence, I also know the London Network. You can play the role of good guy all you please, you’re not fooling anyone.”
The flush on Wakefield’s lined cheeks grew brighter. He began taking deep breaths, as if to calm his temper. Failing, he slammed his palm against the arm of his chair, then jumped to his feet.
“Fine!” he snapped. “We believe our dead men are only the beginning. Hamlet is planning something big, and must be stopped. If you can help us find him, we will meet any and every demand you have.”
Arhyen stood and held out his hand. “I want only to guarantee my safety, and that of my associates, nothing more.”
Wakefield took his hand and gave it a rough shake. “A wise choice.” He pulled his hand away, then resumed his seat.
Arhyen chose to remain standing, slightly wary of Wakefield’s temper. He’d rather be on his feet when he got a chair thrown at him.
“I see you’ve been reading your file,” Wakefield commented, gesturing to the dog-eared pile of papers on his bedside table. “This is the information you need for leverage.”
He glanced at the papers, then back to Wakefield. “How so?”
Wakefield sighed. “You are living proof that we have the technology to cure most any illness. We can replace failing organs, and we can care for the body well enough that one might survive the process. This was the missing piece the group who worked on you had not accounted for.” He reached into his coat pocket, then withdrew a small vial of vibrant blue liquid. “This is what saved your life.”
Arhyen peered at the vial, wondering if it was simply a nice hue of ink and Wakefield was bluffing. “Even if what you say is true, I don’t see how it will provide me with leverage.”
Wakefield returned the vial to his pocket. “The London Network has the power to cure most any illness. Even illnesses of the blood or constitution. This formula,” he patted the pocket where he’d placed the vial, “causes the body to enter a rapid state of healing. If you were to drink this entire vial at once, you could cut yourself, and it would heal within minutes. You would have died without this treatment.”
He scowled. “If it could heal a cut almost instantly, why are my incisions still uncomfortable?”
Wakefield looked him up and down. “You were near death when you were brought to us. Rapid healing of that magnitude can do its own damage to the body. You could have gone into shock.” He cleared his throat. “The cure is also expensive and time consuming to manufacture.”
Arhyen snorted. If he had to guess, he’d say the London Network had been less concerned about shock, and more concerned about wasting their precious cure on a lowly thief.
“So it can cure any illness?” he reiterated, still unable to believe Wakefield’s claims.
He shrugged. “I suppose cure is not the right word. It can heal the damage done by any illness. The illness itself may still remain, but if the victim continued to take this medicine to heal themselves, they could survive until old age eventually took them. With this,” he patted his pocket again, “thousands of lives could be saved. Yet, we keep it hidden because it is difficult and expensive to produce.”
Arhyen’s eyes widened as he realized what Wakefield was trying to say. “The Queen knows of this miraculous cure, and she’s keeping it hidden while her loyal subjects die their natural, and sometimes unnatural deaths, just to avoid arousing suspicion. If the people of London were to find out that such information has been kept for them, while they lose their loved ones to consumption and pneumonia, they would rebel. It would be chaos.”
Wakefield nodded. “Precisely. I will provide you with several vials of this substance, along with copies of your medical records. You will be released to deliver them to whomever you see fit, then you will either return to us immediately with information on Hamlet’s whereabouts, or you will stop him yourself. Fail to do so, and we will hunt you down, along with any person who has so much as muttered your name in the span of their entire lives.”
He stroked his stubbly chin in thought. Was it worth it? If he failed to locate Hamlet, it could result in the LN discovering Liliana. Yet if he did not try, they might do so anyway. At least if he did manage to turn over Hamlet, there was a slim chance they would be safe. He had no idea who he’d give the vials to for leverage, but the LN didn’t know that. It was as good a plan as he was going to get.
He gestured toward the door. “Shall we? If I have a time limit, I’d like to get started right away.”
Not as seemingly pleased as he should have be
en after making the deal he wanted, Wakefield stood. He gestured to his two men to lead the way to the door.
Arhyen couldn’t quite believe it. He was getting out. He’d actually managed to talk his way out of what could have easily been the end of his life.
Now he just had to somehow help the London Network take down a murderous automaton who’d been created as a weapon. An automaton capable of killing men in seconds. An automaton who might very well be at Liliana’s side that very moment.
Arhyen shivered as he followed Wakefield out of the room. Perhaps his life would end quite soon after all, if not at the hands of the LN, then at the end of Hamlet’s sword.
Liliana peered across the street at Watch Headquarters, wishing desperately for some sort of disguise. While no one else had attacked her, she felt vulnerable waiting in plain view for such an extended period of time.
Ephraim had gone inside roughly twenty minutes ago. After discussing the possibilities while they rested at the cafe, they’d come to the conclusion that they should confirm the murdered men as officers of the Queen’s Guard before they started exploring the various scenarios. If they were simply imposters, then perhaps Hamlet was just targeting members of the LN or splinter groups, and the Queen had nothing to do with it. If the entire city government was involved with the LN, she feared she and Arhyen would have to flee the city after she rescued him, though she wasn’t sure he’d agree to leave. He had a stubborn streak, just like Ephraim, and . . . well, just like herself.
Pushing away from the brick wall, she inched toward a nearby alcove, hoping to at least shield herself partially from sight. Her boots skidded across the icy muck leftover from the storm, taking most of her concentration. She was almost to the alcove when a woman’s scream cut through the air.
She tensed, listening intently for another scream. Instead of one, she heard many, along with frantic shouts. The scent of smoke hit her nostrils.
Glancing at Watch Headquarters, she debated her options. She and Ephraim had limited time to unravel Hamlet’s mystery, but what if this was Hamlet’s next move? Surely Ephraim would know just where she went if he emerged to find her missing.
Under Clock and Key (The Thief's Apprentice Book 3) Page 6