Dodging down alleys and racing from doorway to doorway to avoid scrutiny, it took them five minutes to find the house. Of all the run-down tenements in Alsatia, at first glance it was one of the worst, windows covered with planks, no signs of life within. A second glance revealed an incongruously heavy door with a large lock, and in the shadowed doorway of the next property, the dark shape of a sentry, arms folded, unmoving.
“Master Carpenter?” Will whispered.
Drawing a weighted knife, Carpenter measured the distance and then let the blade fly. It thudded into the guard’s throat and he pitched forwards into the street.
Mayhew gaped at the fallen body. “God’s loaves! Where did you learn that trick?”
“Why should I not have natural skill?” Carpenter snarled, adding sullenly, “It was taught me by one of the natives brought back from the New World.”
At the door, Launceston kept watch while Carpenter retrieved his throwing knife and Mayhew dropped to his knees and unfurled a roll of purple velvet on the step. A set of locksmith’s tools was revealed.
“A steerpointe three-chamber.” He sniffed. “The lock of kings. A grand addition to such a hovel.”
“Pickering lives cheek by jowl with the greatest thieves in all of England, and there is no honour among them. Of all places, this needs the best protection,” Will replied. “You can open it?”
With a theatrical sigh, Mayhew’s skillful fingers swiftly manipulated three of the tools in the keyhole until the lock turned.
Aside to Miller, Will said, “It is time to put all doubts behind you, Tom. We face only mundane foes here. Pickering will have guarded his riches with the strongest arms in Alsatia. We will have to fight to reach him. Are you ready?”
“You need not doubt me, Will,” Miller replied.
Easing the door open a crack, Will slipped in, drawing his sword. The hall was dark, but he was instantly caught by the scent of lavender pomanders, and bowls of spice to keep the smell of the street at bay. From high above them came the dim sound of revelry.
Putting a finger to his lips, Will beckoned the others in. He had expected there to be at least one guard on the other side of the door and was uneasy to find the hall deserted.
A blast of chill, smoky air reached him. Further along the hall, the door leading to the cellars hung open, and muffled noises came from the dark below. Carpenter made to climb the stairs until Will motioned to him to stop. The cellars would offer a secure place to store riches or prisoners.
Cautiously, he approached the open door. Rough stone steps led down past glistening, damp walls to where a ruddy glow was visible through the smoke, as though a furnace roared beneath. The voices were louder, but still indistinct, yet something in the tone made Will uneasy. Sword at the ready, he edged down a step at a time, covering his mouth against the smoke. As he moved below the level of the hall, he crouched down until he could peer into the room.
The smoke came from the open door of a blazing stove, burning clothes, purses, and other indecipherable objects spilling around its feet. What Will perceived to be the next bundle for the fire was revealed by the shifting smoke to be a body, tossed against one wall, leaking blood. Growing still, Will waited for the smoke to uncover the rest of what the cellar had to offer.
The murmur of voices continued, a susurration ebbing and flowing, but now it was joined by a low, throaty rumble. Near the fiery maw of the stove, Will saw two hot embers suspended in the smoke. They moved slowly.
From the shifting grey appeared a black dog, bigger than a calf, heavyset with muscle, its implacable eyes surveying the cellar. A leather leash stretched from its thick neck to a dark shape hunched over another.
Will waited.
The dog’s growl grew louder as it sensed his presence.
Finally the smoke shifted to reveal a lithe, strong figure, brown hair falling across his shoulders, wearing a shirt and breeches of a timeless cut in deep forest shades, brown leather boots to his knees, an oddly shaped knife at his belt, and the hilt of a sword curved at the end into a dragon’s head. With the dog’s leash held loosely in his hand, to Will he resembled a hunter. Though Will couldn’t see his face, the stranger’s presence burned as hot as a furnace.
In front of the Hunter lay another of Pickering’s guards, his eyes flickering on the brink of death. His stomach had been torn open by the dog. The Hunter held the poor wretch up with one powerful hand wrapped in the folds of his shirt and was clearly questioning him in a low tone.
When the timbre of the dog’s growl changed, the Hunter paused. Slowly, he turned his head towards Will. Slipping back before he was seen, Will was sure he caught a fleeting glimpse of eyes as glittering and intense as the dog’s red glare.
Easing back into the hall, he closed the cellar door and sealed it with the iron key protruding from the lock, although he knew at best it would only slow the Hunter for a moment.
Miller instantly read Will’s face. “What is down there?”
“Nothing of note,” Will lied. “They are burning the leftovers of Pickering’s ill-gotten gains.” As he moved past Miller, he whispered to the others, “Time is slipping through our fingers, men. We must find what we came for and be gone in a twinkling.”
Leading the way up the tight stairs, Will slowed as he neared the second floor to peer around the turn where two men waited halfway along the landing. They were rough, unshaven, in poor clothes, their numerous scars detailing their violent life.
Withdrawing, Will rapped on the wall. A second later the shadows of the men loomed across the top of the stairs. Miller burst forth, and before the guards could raise the alarm, he cracked their heads together and they fell to the boards unconscious.
On the third floor, four more men waited, arguing noisily as they drank ale, too many to eliminate without a fight.
Bounding from the top of the stairs, Will took them by surprise. His sword went to the throat of the nearest, while Carpenter, Miller, and Mayhew attacked the others, but not before shouts rose up. Launceston ran one of the guards through, and Mayhew rammed his knife under the ribs of another, withdrawing it with a flourish to slash his victim across the throat. Miller’s solid punch broke the jaw of the remaining guard.
A clatter on the stairs signalled the arrival of a guard from the fourth floor who let out a cry of shock before scampering back up. Before he had climbed half the flight, Carpenter’s throwing knife was embedded in his back.
“How many guards above?” Will asked his prisoner. The tip of his blade brought a droplet of blood on the guard’s throat.
“He was the last,” the man croaked.
“Pickering is up there?”
“He is making merry with his copesmates for his bene fortune.”
“He speaks the thieves’ cant,” Carpenter said. “Prick him some more until he recalls the queen’s English.”
“The meaning is clear.” Will brought his sword hilt up hard against the guard’s head and knocked him unconscious.
From below came the faint rattle of the cellar door. The others didn’t notice, but Will was acutely aware that the Hunter would soon stand between them and their only route out of the building. He would face that conundrum when he came to it.
Will took the remaining steps two at a time. The sound of festivities emanating from the room at the top was so loud Will understood why no one from within had investigated the disturbance. A woman’s exclamation of surprise. The smash of a broken bottle. Music and raucous cheers.
“Some wine would be good now,” Mayhew said.
“You can have all the wine in the Palace of Whitehall if we recover the Silver Skull from this den of thieves.” Will peered through the keyhole.
Men in gaudy costumes and masks sat at tables around the outside of a large room, the roughness of what features were visible at odds with the delicacy of their outfits: gold and silver, black and red diamonds, green velvet, purple silk. The masks had long beaks like birds, or resembled devils or farmyard animals. Piled high
on the tables were chicken and pork, cheese and bread and honeycakes, and numerous jugs of wine and ale, on the finest tableware Will had seen outside of the queen’s dining hall. In the space among the tables, a buxom, half-naked woman frolicked with a jester.
From his narrow view, Will estimated twenty men were present, all of them undoubtedly the hardest, most violent cutthroats who had sealed with blood their ascension to the ranks of Pickering’s inner circle.
On the edge of his view was a grand, high-backed chair that resembled a throne. In it sat a fat, ruddy-faced man with a booming laugh. His manner was confident, and the others appeared to be paying deference to him.
“We are about to step into a pit of vipers, outnumbered by four to one,” Will said, “but we have surprise on our side. Cause as much disturbance as you can. I will seek out Pickering. The others will calm once I have a knife at his throat. Agreed?”
Nodding, the others drew their swords.
Kicking the door open, Will bounded onto the nearest table, booting a platter of meat into the throat of one of the guests. Amid the deafening outcry that erupted, knives were drawn and cudgels pulled from beside seats. Shrieking, the woman scrambled beneath the tables.
As two men pushed back their chairs to attack, Carpenter and Mayhew ran them through. By the time the other cutthroats had thrown off the effects of their drink and food, Miller and Launceston were among them. Blood spattered across the floorboards as the spies carved a swathe through the drunken underworld lords.
Leaping over the jester’s head, Will avoided the fray and went directly for the King of Cutpurses. Leaping onto the table, and then, with one boot on the back of the throne, propelling himself behind Pickering, he turned fluidly to slide his dagger against his throat.
“Hold now, or your master dies,” he shouted. Sheathing his sword, he tore off Pickering’s mask to reveal a red-faced man, hair lank with sweat, piggy eyes roving fearfully.
Slowly, the cutthroats came to a halt, gazes flickering between Pickering and the door.
“Any attempt to leave this room will ensure you leave your life,” Will continued.
Through the open door came the creak of the stairs and the advancing rumble of the dog’s growl.
“Matthew.” Will pulled a small pouch from his cloak and tossed it to Mayhew.
Slamming the door, Mayhew poured the contents of the pouch—salt and a mixture of herbs—along the floorboards from hinge to lock. “Now we shall not be disturbed,” he said, gesturing to the protective concoction that Dee had created long ago.
“Now, Pickering, I presume?”
Rolling his eyes towards Will, Pickering looked so frightened he might faint.
“All we want is the Silver Skull,” Will continued. “You have overreached yourself this time. This is not some purse from a poor country visitor or a necklace from some dowager fresh off the ship from Flanders. The price you pay for this prize will be your life.”
Pickering opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish. Beyond the door, Will could hear the tramp of boots, the rise and fall of the dog’s throaty rumble setting his teeth on edge. All eyes flickered uneasily towards the door.
Spinning Pickering around roughly, Will pressed the knife harder against his throat. “Speak, now!”
“I … I …” Pickering stuttered, “I am not who you think I am!” His eyes darted towards his associates.
“He lies,” Launceston said. “Cut him a little. It will loosen his tongue.”
But Will could see the fat man was too scared to lie. He scanned the faces of the other cutthroats and saw puzzlement there. “So, even you did not know this was not your master.” The stand-in tried to scramble away, but Will caught him and dragged him back. “So Pickering keeps his identity a secret even from those closest to him for protection from rivals and injured parties,” Will continued. “Who is your master?”
“I do not know.”
“He hired you.”
“He wore a mask!”
Throwing the fat man to one side, Will stepped onto the table and walked slowly around the perimeter so he could study his prisoners. “Take off your masks,” he ordered.
Reluctantly, they obeyed, revealing sullen, brutish eyes and unshaven jowls, scars and missing ears, teeth, and eyes.
“The court of the King of Cutpurses,” Will mocked. “A poor king deserves a court like this.” He watched for any sign of offence, but all eyes were downcast.
Outside the door, the dog’s growl became a low howl that had a chilling, hungry quality. Everyone in the room started.
“What, you would feed us to your dog once we speak?” one of the men said. “We know nothing. That one there is Laurence Pickering.” He pointed to the fat man. “He gave me ruff-peck and shrap every time I brought the lifts.”
“Feeding to the dog? A good idea,” Will said. “Matthew, John, what say we toss one out of the door at a time until we find the real Pickering?”
“A good idea,” Mayhew replied. “Our dog has a frightful hunger.”
Laughter rose up from the back of the group of cutthroats. Unable to see who had made the sound, Will jumped from the table and advanced. The cutthroats moved away from him.
In the middle of the room, Will scanned the faces slowly for any clue to the man who had laughed. A faint click reached his ears, and a second later the boards fell away beneath his feet.
HAPTER 15
s Will surfaced from a deep, dark pool, the first thing he saw was the ruddy, grinning face of Pickering’s jester filling his entire vision. “Life is an illusion,” the jester hummed with a slight sibilance. “Laugh now, for there will be none of it when you are gone.”
When the jester tumbled away with an insane giggle, Will was overwhelmed by the colours, sounds, and smells of his surroundings. Fiddle music soaring over a hundred drunken, clamouring voices. Woodsmoke and roasting pig, fat sizzling and spattering in the darting flames. Lanterns dancing on the awnings of stalls, the brightly coloured canvas glowing in reds, greens, and golds, banners on the tall poles flapping in the breeze. Jugglers and fire-eaters moved among the crowd, alongside the vendors selling hot pies and sausages. The Thieves’ Fair had transformed a dirty courtyard constantly thrown into shade by the crumbling tenements into a sea of colour and life that raised the spirits of people dragged down by day-to-day survival.
Will turned his attention to Miller, who was bound to a wooden frame beside him. Beyond, Carpenter, Mayhew, and Launceston hung from a beam by their wrists, toes just resting on the cobbles. Their faces bloomed with bruises and cuts from a harsh beating.
“Tom, are you well?” Will called.
“No bones broken. When you fell through the trapdoor, they rushed us, and beat us with their cudgels. We took several of them with us as we went down, but that only inflamed them more.”
Around the market, the thieves’ strong-arm men patrolled with cudgels clutched in meaty fists. Glowering eyes watched every face for sign of trouble. Sizing up the force, Will reckoned they were a formidable barrier to any way out of that enclosed space.
“What now, Will? They mean to do us in, I fear,” Miller said in a low voice.
“Keep steady. An opportunity will present itself.”
“I am not afraid. Better to go this way, looking a man in the eye, than facing up to those things that should not exist in any sane world.”
Miller held himself defiantly, despite the bonds. Will had decided he liked him, and admired the way he fought to keep his equilibrium in the face of knowledge that filled him with dread, but the fatalistic note in his voice was a concern.
“Tom, you must trust me,” Will said. “I have stared into some dark and dismal holes in my short but exhilarating life, and yet here I am.”
A commotion on the far side of the fair caught their eye as a torchlight procession made its way among the stalls. Cheers rose in its wake. When the parade drew near, Will saw the torches were held by young women in fine dresses, coquettishly flirting with t
he men they passed. They were accompanied by five men in the masks and costumes worn at the feast. At the head of the procession was a tall, wiry man in a robe embroidered with so much silver and gold thread it gleamed like a lantern in the reflected torchlight. He wore a white mask with a long, cruel bird’s beak that arced down at the end and several peacock feathers sprouting from an elaborate headdress. It was flamboyant and unthreatening, but through the eyeholes Will glimpsed an aloof, menacing persona.
“Is that him?” Miller whispered. “Laurence Pickering?”
“We forced him to step out of the shadows,” Will replied. “But he still wears his mask.”
As Pickering led the procession forwards, Will saw more prisoners trailing behind them, bound with ropes and covered in blood and bruises, and at the back a cloaked figure who walked accompanied by two guards, but unbound. The prisoners appeared Spanish in dress and features, and from the way the crowd assailed them with threatening gestures and the occasional missile, Will guessed that was correct.
Pickering came to a halt in front of Will and looked him up and down silently.
“Life is an illusion,” Will said wryly. “Laugh now, for there will be none of it when you are gone.”
“You are far from the fields you know. This is my court now.” Pickering rolled the words around his mouth like pebbles. A note of at least rudimentary education shaped his tone, which was a dangerous thing for a man brought up among the rough criminal class of London where the skill of cutting purses and handling a knife or a razor were taught at the mother’s apron.
“You appear to lead a grand life. I am surprised your fame has not spread further afield,” Will said.
“I do not seek attention. Indeed, I detest it. I am a private man—”
“And the work you do does not thrive in the full light of the sun.”
Pickering hardly blinked, which added a strange, detached manner to his demeanour as though he were examining another species. “I would not appreciate more of your kind crawling around here like beetles on a dung-heap. And that is why I cannot allow you to return to your masters to tell them what you know.”
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