She shook her head, then hurried across an intersection to continue onward, with Ephraim following close behind. “I wonder if perhaps he was the one who was lied to. Viola had been working under the guise of the LN, even though she’d gone rogue from the organization. Perhaps there are more groups in existence like hers, only claiming to be part of the London Network.”
“Run by someone with less power, who would stoop to hiring common criminals,” Ephraim agreed.
Liliana tried not to beam with pride at having figured things out herself. She would be horribly embarrassed if she was wrong, so best to leave her comments out there as pure speculation. Martin Burbank had claimed the LN hired him to stand lookout over a warehouse. He’d never actually been allowed inside, but had managed to glimpse a few things through slats in boarded up windows. Most of what he’d seen appeared to be medical equipment, but he hadn’t managed to deduce what actually went on within the warehouse. All he’d known was the pay had been good, and the job not overly dangerous. Then his sixteen year old son disappeared, and Martin believed his employers were at fault. He filed a report with the Watch, but had been dismissed because of his criminal background. Since then, he’d been in hiding, worried the LN would come for him next.
“There’s another thing,” she added softly as they neared Arhyen’s apartment.
Ephraim silently nodded for her to go on.
“He claimed he’s been in hiding,” she whispered, “but you found him easily enough. If the LN truly wanted to eliminate him, he would already be dead.”
Ephraim nodded again. “You really should be a detective, rather than a thief,” he said, almost smiling. It was rare that he truly smiled, but she’d come to understand the faint twitching at the corner of his lip was about the same thing.
“They don’t allow women into the Watch,” she stated haughtily as they reached Arhyen’s door.
The usual spies did not seem to be present, but she had little doubt one would show up soon. Whether they were simply watching them to make sure they didn’t convey information about the LN, or suspected them of a greater betrayal, she was not sure. It didn’t matter. They’d come too far to turn back now.
“Nor do they allow automatons,” she muttered in addition as she searched her handbag for the apartment key.
Arhyen had readily accepted her into his profession, both as a woman, and an artificial construct, though they hadn’t had much time for actual jobs. They’d been too busy researching the LN. It had all been exciting, at least, but she had a sneaking suspicion they were fast running out of coin, and would need to do something to remedy the situation soon.
Finding her key in between a sheathed dagger and a small fabric case containing smoke bombs, she lifted it from her purse and unlocked the first set of locks on the door. She then riffled back through her purse for the second key, replacing it with the first one. Soon they were inside, and she turned to re-lock the door, which always took awhile. Ephraim stepped over the interior trip wire a few feet inside the doorway, then turned right into the small kitchen. He paused to disarm a trap that would spring if weight was placed upon one of the floor tiles, then retrieved a copper kettle from the stove and began to fill it with water from the small sink.
Finished locking the door, Liliana deflated slightly as she scanned the apartment, verifying what she already knew. Arhyen wasn’t home. He was out in the city investigating a grave-robbery, probably getting himself into all sorts of trouble without her. She stepped over the tripwire, set her handbag on the low table in front of the sofa, then sat. She knew without question that Ephraim would be waiting with her until Arhyen returned home. The two men never left her entirely alone, though she felt she was quite capable of taking care of herself.
She glanced over her shoulder to see Ephraim waiting on the kettle, then reached forward to one of her various notebooks on the table. Before removing it, she untied a hair-thin string attaching it to yet another trap, one that would set off a small bomb beneath the table. She really wished Arhyen would stop rigging everything to harm possible intruders. He’d made her practice the steps needed to disarm the traps, but did he really have to attach them to her notebooks?
She sighed, looking down at the journal in her hand. Maybe he would place more importance on her books if he knew what she was doing. In an effort to be useful, she’d been researching various alchemical formulae, the first of which were Arhyen’s smoke bombs. The small bombs were expensive, and she was quite sure she could make them herself, among other things.
Opening the journal and placing it in her lap, she quickly skimmed over her notes, debating an attempt at actually realizing her theories. The smoke bombs were clearly a product of alchemy, composed of a minute amount of liquid within tiny glass capsules, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure them out. The capsules actually had two compartments, a larger one for liquid, and a smaller one for powder. The larger compartment held simple water, while the smaller held a ground up mixture of ammonium nitrate, ammonium chloride, and zinc dust. When the capsules were shattered on the pavement, the water would interact with the powder, creating a sudden burst of flame, followed by distracting smoke. Unfortunately, while she understood the basic concepts of creating the smoke bombs, she was unsure of where to obtain the glass capsules. They were roughly the size of the first joint on her thumb, with small holes leading to either of the two compartments. After the holes were filled, they were sealed with a clear polymer of unknown origins.
Ephraim appeared at her side, startling her out of her thoughts. He had two teacups in hand, which he set on the short table before lowering himself to the sofa. He glanced down at the handwritten formulae in her journal and raised an eyebrow at her. “Thinking of following in your father’s footsteps?”
She shook her head, then left the journal in her lap to take her own tea in hand. Ephraim knew Fairfax Breckinridge was her creator, not her father, but he rarely drew attention to the fact she wasn’t human. “I’m just hoping to make a few things that will be of use to Arhyen,” she explained. She sipped her tea, nearly sputtering as its bitterness assaulted her tongue.
“Such as?” Ephraim pressed.
She shrugged, suddenly feeling self conscious, and returned her too-strong tea to the table. “More affordable smoke bombs, acids for dissolving locks . . . perhaps a few incendiary devices . . . ” she trailed off, once again becoming absorbed in her thoughts.
“Hmm,” Ephraim muttered, regaining her attention. His eyes had taken on a mischievous sheen. If she didn’t know any better, she’d guess he seemed almost excited. “How would you contain an acid that could dissolve metal?” he questioned.
Could it be that the great Ephraim Godwin was asking a sincere question? She tried to hide her smug grin. “Acid doesn’t erode all things the same. Certain acids will react with certain types of metal, but not glass, or vice versa. You simply must choose the correct type of container for the given acid.”
He nodded, then rather than replying, glanced around the room, taking in everything on the various shelves before returning his gaze to her. “Do you have what you need to make any of the things you mentioned?” he asked finally.
“W-what?” she stammered, following the trail his gaze had made around the room.
“Well,” he replied, “if you’re going to make all of those things for Arhyen, you should get started sooner rather than later. They could be quite useful.”
“Um,” she began, searching her brain for an excuse. Theorizing on what she could make was one thing, actually working with potentially unstable compounds was another. “I still need to verify that my formulae are correct,” she said finally. “It would be risky to make any of these things now.”
Ephraim snorted. “You’ve said yourself that much of alchemy is just testing what works and what doesn’t. You’ll never make anything if you don’t experiment.”
“I don’t have all of the materials,” she cut in quickly.
Ephraim stood. “Then let’
s get some. We need something to do while we wait for Arhyen regardless, and I’ll even provide the coin if you’ll supply me with the prototypes.”
She rose, feeling almost dizzy. What had she gotten herself into? She stared up at Ephraim, noting the almost maniacal glint in his normally serene pale eyes.
“You know this could be quite dangerous?” she questioned, hoping she might still talk him out of . . . experimenting.
He waved her off. “I’ve blown stuff up before. We’ll be fine.”
She frowned as Ephraim gathered his coat and hat. “Why do I not find that reassuring?” she muttered.
He didn’t seem to hear her, and instead moved across the room and began unlocking the door, obviously expecting her to follow. With a sigh, she retrieved her handbag. If they burned down Arhyen’s apartment, she was going to make sure all of the blame was placed on Ephraim . . . that was, if they both survived.
Chapter 2
Arhyen paced around the turned earth of the grave. The wind had picked up, forcing the living to hitch up their collars and hold onto their hats. The weather was fortunate, as it kept visitors to a minimum. The few mourners present weren’t nearby, and didn’t seem to be paying him any mind.
He looked down into the open pit where Ms. Conway had rested for such a brief time. The coffin from which her corpse was stolen had been removed, but the dirt was yet to be filled in. Would the desecrated corpse, now in the hands of the coroner, be returned to the same hole? He knelt and ran his fingers lightly across the smooth marble headstone. It didn’t seem right to return the corpse to its grave like nothing had happened.
He rose and looked about the grave, unsure of what he was hoping to find. It would have been nice of the grave-robbers to leave some readily apparent footprints, but he knew that was asking for too much. No, his best bet was likely speaking with the victim’s family. Perhaps they would know why Ms. Conway’s grave was chosen amongst all the others.
He was about to turn away when he noticed something glinting in the soil beside the grave. With a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching, he knelt and retrieved an unusual silver coin. He pocketed it, scanned the gravesite once more for any other glints of metal, then strolled away. He found it odd that the Watch might have missed the coin, but it had been mostly covered in dirt. Perhaps the wind had shifted enough of the soil aside to reveal it once he’d arrived.
With an extra spring in his step, he made his way across the cemetery grounds toward the residential streets that would eventually lead him back to Tailor Street. There he could catch a carriage to White Heights, an area of town he was truly beginning to detest. Unfortunately, that was where Ms. Conway’s family resided, which made them quite wealthy. Perhaps wealth was a motivator in the grave-robber’s scheme, but he doubted it. All of this strangeness reeked of the LN, and he found it unlikely they were in need of coin.
He neared the edge of the cemetery and was prepared to leave, when something caught his eye. He’d never seen a headstone like that before. It was taller than the others, made of marble so dark it was almost black. Its glossy surface glinted in the sunlight. Curiosity getting the better of him, he changed course and neared the grave. Its face read:
Fairfax A. Breckinridge
The father of modern alchemy. May his contributions to the great city of London carry his memory forever forward
Arhyen scowled. He knew Fairfax’s body had been found, but was unaware that he’d been provided a proper burial. It made sense. He’d been a prestigious member of society, though he’d lived in a hidden compound far outside the city for the past decade. It must have been quite a train ride carting the long-decayed corpse all the way back to London.
He glared down at the grave, wondering if he should tell Liliana. She had viewed the man as a father, after all. A father who’d kept her away from society and treated her like an object, but a father none-the-less. He briefly envisioned her weeping at her father’s grave and found the image difficult to stomach. As far as he was concerned, Liliana had cried enough.
With a sigh, he turned away from the grave and retreated from the cemetery, glad to leave the dead behind. Reaching the nearest street, he stopped to fish out his pocket watch from his waistcoat. Four in the afternoon. It would be a little while before the carriages made their rounds, ferrying London’s citizens about for fancy suppers and perhaps some evening spirits . . . those who could afford such things, at least. The lower classes would just be coming home after too-long work hours to prepare simple suppers, then to sleep in preparation for rising with the sun, or well before it.
He stuffed his pocket watch back into his waistcoat and started walking. Though he’d avoided the life-draining jobs that would have been available to a man of his low station, he knew all about simple suppers. Or no suppers. Early in his life, he’d decided to stop thinking about suppers at all, instead focusing his attention on taking advantage of the night, rather than sleeping through it.
Paying close attention to his surroundings as he walked, he fingered the coin in his pocket, hoping it would lead to something. The neighborhood he walked through was but a few steps above the slums. The small, white-washed wooden houses likely held hard working families with no knowledge of the LN, or the frightening sciences the organization was gathering. It wasn’t his job to save the city, but if such a rescue resulted from his actions, well, he wouldn’t be opposed to it. London had not done him many favors, but its lower denizens were the ones who would suffer should synthetic emotions, or automaton weapons, like Hamlet, come to light. Even if his own life didn’t hang in the balance, he wanted to prevent whatever plan the London Network was brewing.
Reaching Tailor Street, named after the multitude of clothing shops and tailors that resided there, he glanced around for a carriage, but saw only small, private vessels. He’d have some time to kill before he could make it to White Heights, if he made it there that evening at all. Ms. Conway’s relatives would not likely appreciate a visitor so late in the evening.
Hoping to pass some time, he began walking down the street, perusing the various storefronts. Women and men hustled about, toting garment bags and hat boxes up and down the pavement. He would have liked to venture into some of the shops to buy Liliana more clothing, as she’d come to him with only the dress on her back, but he sadly could not afford anything. They were running perilously low on coin. He would have to start working again soon enough, even if it would take time away from their LN investigation.
He strolled past another shop, only partially paying attention, when something caught his eye. He paused in front of the large glass pane showcasing the shop’s wares and stared. Held aloft on a stand above an ornate, emerald velvet gown, was a porcelain mask. The mask was the exact replica of the one Hamlet had worn. He’d recognize it anywhere. The mask’s features were so lifelike, they could easily be mistaken for a real face upon first glance. He took a step back from the building to peer up at the hanging sign. Isobella’s Costumery. Had Hamlet purchased his mask at a simple costume shop? Arhyen couldn’t quite imagine it, unless perhaps it was purchased by those who created him. Either way, a visit to the shop might prove interesting.
He stepped toward the door and opened it, announcing his presence with a loud jingle. Glancing quickly over his shoulder for spies, he stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.
It took a moment for his eyes to pick out the shopkeeper, a woman in her late fifties, amongst the chaos of the costumes. Gowns in every color and fabric took up most of the walls, and adorned numerous mannequins positioned across the main floor. Any extra space was taken up by enormous hat racks, stands with masks in every shape and color, and garish feather ornaments meant for draping across the shoulders.
The shopkeeper stood at his arrival, placing herself behind a small countertop. She tugged at her gray hair, a mess of wild curls, then seemed to force a smile onto her face. “Good evening,” she said in a scratchy voice. “I was just preparing to close fo
r the night.”
Arhyen stepped forward and met her eyes, painted bright blue across the lids. He gave a slight bow, then plastered his most charming smile across his face. “My lady, I had simply hoped to enquire about the mask in your display.” He gestured back at the storefront window.
She pursed her lips. “You wish to purchase it?”
He smiled so hard his face hurt. He’d love to simply purchase it, but he couldn’t waste coin on a mask when he could barely afford food. “I was simply hoping to learn its origins. It is a most unusual mask.”
The woman’s stare was so icy, Arhyen thought the room’s temperature may have dropped a few degrees. “Everything in my shop is most unusual,” she snapped, not offering further information.
He sighed. He should have just waited until evening to investigate the shop once the old woman had gone home. “I was hoping to find the mask’s maker,” he explained happily, “to hire them for a custom job.” There. That at least made it seem like he had money to spend.
Her expression softened, if only slightly. “I have a girl who makes them. Each mask is one of a kind. Custom jobs are extra.”
He had the urge to argue that the masks couldn’t be one of a kind, as he’d seen the exact replica of the one in the window, but he bit his tongue. Perhaps the mask-maker had created Hamlet’s mask without the shopkeeper’s knowledge. Since Viola had once worn one startlingly similar, perhaps the mask-maker had created many. He really needed to meet this girl.
“Perhaps we could set up a consultation so that I might explain to your craftswoman what I desire,” he offered pleasantly.
She pursed her lips again. “She’s not here at the moment, but you may return tomorrow.”
Arhyen smiled, hiding his disappointment. He was tempted to press for further information, but the shopkeeper was glancing at the door impatiently, and the crowds in the streets were beginning to thin. He’d have to hurry as it was if he hoped to catch a carriage back to the Market District.
Clocks and Daggers (The Thief's Apprentice Book 2) Page 2