by Gwynn White
She scoffed under her breath. “I know what happens to indentured laborers, and I’ve no skills to offer as a colonist.”
Neither of them mentioned the other way to leave Earth: transported as a convict to a penal colony and assigned to hard labor for life.
“Besides,” she added hastily, “I can’t leave my mum, and she’s too ill to travel.”
Ah, she’d almost forgotten her story. He hid his smile. Despite her wariness, Diana was dropping her guard around him. Whether it was his Irish charm, or his innate ability to set people at ease, he was glad of it. This young woman intrigued him—more than she should. Then again, he’d long ago learned to trust his instincts.
The server came around with more coffee, the aroma blending with the smell of spices wafting from the kitchen. Just as he began to pour, a woman called to him in fluid Arabic from the doorway. Distracted, he turned slightly away. The stream of hot liquid shifted and Derek flinched as it landed on his forearm.
Except… it didn’t. Somehow, Diana had lifted her cup and intercepted the pour. Instead of splashing all over his arm, the coffee landed neatly in her cup.
“So sorry!” The serving man lifted the enameled coffee server, then stared a moment at Diana, who was taking a calm sip from her now-full cup.
Not a drop of coffee showed on the tablecloth, or on Derek’s sleeve.
“No harm done,” Derek said, blinking with the aftermath of his surge of adrenaline.
As soon as the server left, he leaned forward across the table.
“How did you do that?” he asked Diana in a low voice.
She shrugged. “I could see it was going to be a mess. Easier just to intercept the stream.”
“Yes, but how?”
“In my cup.” She tilted her head at him, her tone suggesting he was being rather obtuse.
He sighed and sat back in his chair, taking a moment to breathe deeply. Perhaps what Diana had just done was not so extraordinary after all. Catching the coffee so deftly could be attributable to luck or timing.
Still, she had extraordinary reflexes, even for a streetrat.
Conversations in both English and Turkish eddied around them, and he noted that her plate held only crumbs.
“I’m not much in the mood for lunch,” he said, sliding his falafel toward her. “Please, take it.”
She glanced at him, and he was struck by the clarity in her eyes.
“I couldn’t,” she said, lacing her fingers tightly together as though to keep herself from reaching for the food.
“’Twould be a pity to leave it to be thrown out,” he said. “I have more a taste for baklava, anyhow.”
“Sweet tooth?”
“Aye.”
The memory came, unbidden, of filching Ma’s butter cookies fresh from the oven, burning his mouth on them from eating them before they were cool. She’d yell at him and Seamus to get out of the kitchen and threaten to whack them with her spoon.
“If you’re sure, then.” Diana’s gaze went to his food.
“I am.”
While she was eating, he flagged down the server and ordered a large plate of baklava. A few pieces would do well enough to tide him over until supper, and he’d no doubt Diana could do with a sweet. He’d press any leftovers on her to take home to her “mother.”
“I want to ask you something.” He flicked on his handheld and set it on the table between them. The screen showed a drawing of a strange symbol: three lines scored across a precise triangle. “Have you seen this image before?”
She leaned over and peered at it, not a flicker of recognition on her face. “I haven’t. What is it?”
“Copy of a tattoo—the only identifying mark on a body we fished out of the river last week.”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Bodies are tossed in the Itchen all the time. Why’s this one different?”
“It just is.”
He took his handheld and slipped it back into his pocket, reluctant to divulge police details. Like the fact the body had been wearing expensive clothing and two gemmed rings, which meant it wasn’t an ordinary steal-and-stab. Plus, there were no overt signs of violence on the corpse. Derek was betting on poison, and maybe it was just a dispute among the nobility, but his intuition said otherwise.
Cripps wanted to close the case and be done with it, but there had been another clue besides the tattoo. One of the man’s rings had a few words etched around the inside of the band. In Arabic, which was why Derek had come to the Ottoman district. The proprietor of the baths was discreet and, though almost no one knew it, in the employ of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. He’d apparently passed a vital bit of information to the force several years ago, when the safety of the Empire was at stake.
Derek had given the man the ring, under pretext of writing out a minor citation. The proprietor had warned him not to come back, however, insisting he’d be in contact as soon as he had any information.
So now it was down to waiting, which Derek did not enjoy. At least he could distract himself with Diana’s surprisingly interesting company.
The baklava came, deliciously sticky with honey, and he attempted once again to find out more about the underbelly of West Quay.
“I hear a fellow named Breggy runs the dockside gangs,” he said quietly. “Heard of him?”
Her expression a little too blank, Diana glanced at him. “Surely—enough to steer clear of the fellow.”
Derek wiped his hands clean, then gave her a mild look. “And how is it, exactly, that you’re making a living?”
“Not working for a gangrunner,” she said, with enough heat that he believed her. “Anyhow, I need to be off to check on Ma.”
She gave the half-empty plate of baklava a regretful glance.
“Take some to her,” he said. “I’ll have the server wrap it in waxed paper.”
He wanted to insist he accompany her back across the river, too, but though she’d accept the leftover pastry, he knew she wouldn’t take his company.
It was hard to remember that this poised young woman was actually a streetrat going by the name of Diver. Not when the curve of her cheek was so feminine. And her accent, when she was relaxed and well-fed, veered toward the posh.
“Right then.” She stood. “Meet me outside. I’m going to change.”
“Change?” he asked, but she whisked off, ignoring his question.
Derek paid for the meal, then took the packet of neatly wrapped baklava outside. He strolled down the block, unsure of what Diana had been planning. Had she decided not to take the leftovers after all, and was even now laughing at having given him the slip so easily?
“Hist. Byrne, over here.” The whisper came from the dark shadows of a nearby alley.
Derek sidled over and glanced into the narrow recess between the buildings. A boy skulked there, grubby-faced and wearing trousers. The transformation was so complete that Derek blinked for a moment—even though he knew it was Diana beneath the ragged clothing, her hair hidden under the cap.
“Di?”
“’Course.” Even her voice had changed back to the rougher syllables of the street. “Got my package?”
He handed it over. All the words he wanted to say were clogged in his throat, kept back by common sense. She didn’t need his admonition to be careful and would no doubt find his concern insulting.
It was even surprising to him.
“See you across the river,” he managed.
She tucked the sweets into the cloth-wrapped bundle she carried—probably her skirts, he realized—then flashed him a quick smile and darted away without a word of thanks. A moment later he was left staring at the empty, soot-colored wall, left with only the memory of her grey eyes and the unsettling surety that there was far more to her than he’d guessed.
5
Diana doubled around and waited for Byrne to head back across Half Shilling bridge before following at a leisurely distance. Not that she thought he’d try to shadow her home, but caution was a lesson
learned early on the streets, and one she wasn’t about to abandon over a full belly and a packet of leftover pastry.
She floated along with the foot traffic, snagging a coin here, a kerchief there. Small things, and mostly just to keep herself amused as she went.
Once they gained West Quay and she was satisfied the policeman was going about his rounds, she headed off to Tipper’s favorite corner. Sure enough, he was there, occupying a nook near the spaceport’s service entrance. He wore a dingy bandage around his hand, making it appear to end in a stump, and a piteous look that always coaxed a few coins from the softer-hearted among the spaceport’s laborers.
She strolled by without looking at him, then nipped around the corner. Of course he’d seen her—not much escaped those sharp eyes. When he was ready, he’d empty his bowl of coins into his pockets and join her.
In the meantime, she leaned back against the dingy bricks and thought about her lunch with Byrne; their conversation, the food, the kindness he’d shown her. Each moment glowed, the whole like a handful of marbles catching the light. She hadn’t felt like that in forever. So… herself.
Which was, of course, a dangerous thing to be. Bad if anyone discovered she was a noble-born girl, and worse if Breggy or his gang found out about her peculiar talents. The gangrunner was as clever as he was cruel, and quickly gaining a reputation for turning every tool to his hand. Or streetrat to his advantage, no matter the cost.
She’d given too much away, earlier, when she’d caught the spilled coffee, but she hadn’t wanted to see Byrne scalded. Although she’d passed it off as nothing, she worried that he hadn’t quite believed her.
Ah well, there was naught she could do about it now except keep her head down. Their paths wouldn’t cross again, if she could help it. Streetrats and coppers had no business together, unless it was of the most unsavory sort—snitches or slags. She wouldn’t stoop to that, and she didn’t think Byrne would, either.
Tipper limped around the corner, then straightened and pulled off the bandage covering his hand.
“You look too clean,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“It won’t last. I brought you something.”
She wasn’t entirely sure why she was sharing her bounty with Tipper. They had a rough camaraderie, certainly, but it wasn’t wise to get too close on the streets. It’s for my own protection, she told herself. If Tipper felt he owed her, he’d be less likely to spill her secrets.
She held out the packet of baklava, watching as he took it and peeled back the waxed paper. He dipped his head and sniffed, a look of bliss crossing his face as the aroma of cinnamon and butter drifted up from the pastry.
“Smells like heaven.” He took a bite, then nodded vigorously. “Tastes like it, too,” he said through a full mouth.
He extended the packet to her, but she shook her head. “I had plenty. Eat up.”
It didn’t take much urging. Tipper practically inhaled the pastry. When it was gone, he licked the paper clean of crumbs, then his fingers.
“Pistachios, honey, a bit of cardamom. Like eating pure sunshine.” He sighed and slid down the wall to sit, legs splayed in front of him. “If that’s what’s on the other side of the river, mayhap I’ll come along next time. As long as you don’t try to clean me up.”
“I’d never.”
He folded the waxed paper into a small square and tucked it in his pocket. Then his head lifted, eyes widening as he looked past her. Diana whirled, stiffening at the sight of Breggy himself sauntering down the street.
Tipper scrambled to his feet, and they both turned to run, but Breggy’s black-clad boys were there between one heartbeat and the next. The one called Pick dug his fingers into Diana’s arm, while another caught Tipper by the shoulder.
“Not going to run off from an audience with his majesty now, are ye?” Pick asked, his voice hard.
“Course not,” Diana lied. Always best to play along with their little games.
“I’m most pleased to hear it.” Breggy came to a halt before them. “How fortunate to find the two of you together. It makes collecting my tithe so much easier.”
His smile glinted gold, and held not a trace of warmth. His eyes were colder still, pebbles of ice and silt.
“Give it over.” The man holding Tipper gave him shake.
Mouth twisting, Tipper reached into his trousers and brought out a small linen bag. “This’s all I got.”
Breggy took it and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “I’m afraid that’s only a fraction of what you owe, young man. Surely you have more concealed about your person.”
“I don’t—” Tipper’s words ended in a yelp as he was shoved roughly up against the wall. The bricks scraped his cheek, raising a welt on his skin.
“Search him,” Breggy said. “Be rough.”
The man holding Tipper laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. Nearby pedestrians averted their eyes and crossed the street. They knew better than to intervene in gang justice—especially when it grew violent.
“Stop.” Diana shrugged free of Pick’s grasp and stepped forward. “I’ll pay for the both of us.”
“Di—ouch—don’t.” Tipper’s voice wavered, and she was reminded again of how young he was.
“Shut it,” she said to him, digging through her pockets for her hidden purse.
Breggy’s icy gaze shifted to her and she tried not to shiver. “A deplorable weakness, Diver. Hasn’t the street taught you to care only for yourself?”
“Here.” She held up the purse, a ragged velvet thing with nearly all the nap rubbed off.
By all the stars, she hoped her store of coins would be enough to save them both from a beating. Her bruises from last time had barely healed.
Breggy turned his palm up and she dropped the purse in the hollow of his manicured hand.
“Hm,” he said, still looking at her. “Haven’t been holding back on us, have you?”
“I was across the river,” she said.
Something flashed in his eyes. “Daring of you, to work another gang’s turf. I approve of your initiative.”
No doubt he approved of taking proceeds from his rivals, too. She waited, breath shallow, while he opened the purse and pushed the coins about inside. They made a dull clinking and for a moment she wished she’d taken more risks in her pickpocketing.
But increased profits also meant increased danger. No matter how friendly Officer Byrne had seemed, he’d pop her in the clinker without an eyeblink if she were caught.
“Almost enough,” Breggy said.
Before Diana could ask what more they had to give, he turned and casually backhanded Tipper across the face. His diamond rings scored two lines of blood on the boy’s cheekbone. White-faced, Tipper bit his lip, but she saw the wetness in his eyes.
“You…” Diana swallowed the hot insults pressing against her teeth. She trembled with the effort of holding them in, even as rage flashed through her like lightning.
Don’t cross Breggy, or you’ll be floating in the river, she reminded herself.
“Now we’re paid up,” the gangrunner said. “This time.”
“Bow,” Pick said, grabbing Diana’s shoulders and forcing her into an awkward bend forward. “Thank his majesty for his mercy.”
She mumbled something, blood still prickling with white-hot anger. Thank him? Oh, Breggy was getting worse every day.
Tipper bowed, too, and croaked out a stilted word of graditude.
“You may rise,” Breggy said. “Don’t fight too long, streetrats. Easier if you accept the inevitable, and join me now. I’ll treat you well, I promise.”
His promises were as empty as the air, but misgivings pooled at Diana’s feet like oily puddles. How much longer could she and Tipper stay clear of the gangrunner’s clutches?
They watched silently as Breggy strode away, flanked by his men. Once he was out of sight, Diana turned to Tipper and blotted the blood from his face with her sleeve.
“Oh, Tip,” she said, overcome by a ru
sh of fear-tinged affection.
“Don’t worry.” Despite his brave words, he leaned against her. “I’ll find that secret entrance to the spaceport, and then we’ll be out of Breggy’s reach. You’ll see.”
“I hope you find it soon,” she said, trying to sound positive, though all her confidence, all her hope, was withering like tender flowers under a hard frost. Soon enough she’d have nothing left but a handful of slimy, blackened stems and colorless petals.
The roar of a ship taking off made the ground tremble slightly under their feet. Silently, she and Tipper lifted their faces and watched it rise over the spaceport, a silver and red dream escaping gravity. Flying far, far away from where they stood.
6
Derek strode through the Southampton Spaceport market, keeping an eye out for trouble. And the slight figure of a dark-blond pickpocket. He found the former, of course—in the first fifteen minutes of his shift he’d already broke up a fistfight and rousted a drunk slumped half-asleep in a doorway—but there was no sign of the latter.
He supposed it was for the best. If he caught Diana at her trade, he’d have to take her in. Down here at the docks, a policeman couldn’t get a reputation for being soft.
“Stop! Thief!” The call made him whirl, and he sucked in his breath as he saw someone dart through the crowd.
The culprit was too short and thin-faced to be Diana. Derek let the air out of his lungs in whoosh and sprinted after the boy. Just as the lad was about to dash down the mouth of a stinking alley, Derek caught him by the collar.
He grabbed the boy’s arm for good measure and turned him about.
“Let me go,” the boy said, then stilled as he took in Derek’s uniform. A flash of fear crossed his face, quickly replaced by a piteous expression.
“Turn out your pockets,” Derek said.
“Please, sir—I’ve done nothing wrong.” The boy was a good actor, summoning the touch of a quaver to his voice. But Derek wasn’t fooled.
“Now,” he said, not loosening his grip.