Underworld

by Oliver Bowden

  And . . .

  She caught her breath.

  There was the vault.

  She wished Henry were here to see this. She savored the thought of his reaction. In fact, she thought, she savored the thought of spending a lot more time with Henry Green when this was all over.

  But that was for later. Right now she could only hope Jacob was neutralizing the threat from Starrick’s men so she could concentrate on making her way down to the vault. She went to go, then caught sight of herself in a long mirror at one end of the drawing room, adjusted herself, smoothed her dress, then, with the blueprints hidden in her cleavage, let herself out of the drawing room and into the corridor beyond. She made one more stop to avoid sentries along the way and was quickly back into the throng of guests, anonymous and invisible once again. Now for the vault . . .

  Just then came a voice that stopped her in her tracks. “There you are.”

  Damn. It was Mary Anne Disraeli, a friend and ally, and not someone to be easily palmed off.

  “I have someone I am simply dying for you to meet,” exclaimed Mrs. Disraeli, and brooking no argument, took Evie by the upper arm, leading her through the guests, skirting the ballroom and to the terrace outside. There stood a woman whom Evie Frye recognized. Such a recognizable woman, in fact, that the young Assassin had a moment of simply being unable to believe her own eyes.

  “Your Majesty,” said Mary Anne Disraeli, giving Evie a surreptitious squeeze to remind her to curtsy, “may I present Miss Evie Frye.”

  Her Royal Highness, wearing the dark garb that was now her custom and an expression to match, looked upon Evie with a mixture of disinterest and distaste, then quite unexpectedly, said, “You are the one responsible for Mr. Gladstone’s mishap?”

  Evie blanched. The game was up. They had been discovered. “Your Majesty, I apologize—” she stammered.

  And yet . . . the Queen was smiling. Apparently Gladstone’s “mishap” had left her most amused. “The cake is particularly good,” she told Evie. “Enjoy the ball.”

  With that she turned and left, a footman scurrying to her side. Dazed, Evie simply stood and gawped, too late realizing that she was all of a sudden the center of attention. She was in plain sight, and not hiding.

  She moved to quickly go, but the damage was done and a hand grasped her upper arm, and not the friendly, assuring grip of Mary Anne Disraeli, who had drifted off in search of more socializing to do. No, this was the firm custodial grasp of Crawford Starrick.

  “May I have this dance . . . Miss Frye?” he said.

  It was a breach in protocol that drew gasps from those around them, but Crawford Starrick didn’t seem to care about that as he led Evie to the middle of the terrace—just as the orchestra began to play a mazurka.

  “Mr. Starrick,” said Evie, joining him in the dance, hoping she sounded more in command of the situation than she felt, “you’ve had your fun, but the game is over.”

  But Starrick wasn’t listening. Eyes half-closed, he seemed transported by the music. Evie took the opportunity to study his face. With satisfaction she noted the tiredness and anxiety written into the dark rings and wrinkles around his eyes. The Assassins’ activities had truly taken their toll on the Templar Grand Master. Any other leader might have considered capitulation, but not Crawford Starrick.

  She wondered about his state of mind. She wondered about a man so consumed with victory he wasn’t able to admit defeat.

  “One, two, three,” he was saying, and she realized that he was gesturing around them at the rooftops overlooking the crowded terraces. Her eyes went to where he was looking. Yes. There they were. Men in the uniform of the Queen’s Guard but evidently Templar marksmen, half a dozen or so. As she watched, they leveled their rifles, pointing them into the courtyard below, awaiting a signal.

  The massacre was ready to begin.

  “Time is a wonderful thing, Miss Frye,” Starrick was saying. “It heals all wounds. We may make mistakes while dancing, but the mazurka ends and we begin again. The problem is that everyone forgets. They trip on the same mistakes over and over again.”

  Evie tracked her eyes from the men on the rooftops, expecting the shooting to begin at any second. What was he waiting for?

  And then he told her. “This dance is nearly over. Soon the people will forget the generation on this terrace, the ruin you nearly wrought on London. When the music ceases, Miss Frye, your time is up and mine begins once more.”

  So that was the signal the men were waiting for.

  The orchestra played on.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  When the mazurka ended . . .

  Evie’s gaze went to the rooftops again and her heart leapt to see the familiar figure of Jacob, now in his Assassin’s clothes, hiding and very much in plain sight as he moved in on one of the marksmen and slit his throat.

  She knew her brother. She knew that if there was one thing she could depend on him for, it was to get this particular job done.

  And he did. By the time the dance was ended, the rooftops were empty and Starrick was suddenly roused from his reverie. Furious then frantic, his eyes went to the rooftops, saw them empty, then found the smiling face of his dance partner as she said, “I have a feeling someone is about to cut in . . .”

  He bared his teeth. “Then with regret I will relinquish you.”

  He was fast. His hand had reached to snatch the key from her neck before she had a chance to stop him. Then he turned and was hurrying away, leaving Evie gasping, with her hand at her throat. Around her came outraged cries. “Did you see that? Did you see what he did?”

  She moved quickly away in the wake of Starrick but had lost him in the crowd. Behind her scandal raged but she put her head down and made her way to the edge of the terrace, grateful for the sight of Jacob, who took advantage of the sudden tumult to emerge.

  She pulled the papers from her décolletage, thrust them into Jacob’s hands. “Here,” she said quickly, breathlessly, “the location of the vault. Go.”

  He looked at the plans. Eyebrows knitted. “Just like that? No plan?”

  “No time for plans. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m rid of this.” She gestured at the hated dress, took her gauntlet from Jacob’s outstretched hand and scooped up a satchel containing her Assassin’s garb, then made off in search of a suitable spot for her transformation.

  * * *

  Jacob ran. The vault marked on the blueprint was located close to the wine vaults, and presumably had been constructed at the same time before being struck from the plans and disappearing into secrecy. Its door was hidden, ordinarily just another part of the ornate paneling in that section of the Palace. But as Jacob arrived, he saw it ajar, no doubt opened with the key that Crawford Starrick had stolen from Evie.

  The party was a long way behind him now. Probably the women were still clutching their pearls after what happened between Starrick and Evie. This part of the Palace was deserted, silent.

  Except not that silent. As Jacob made his way along a narrow tunnel toward the vault he heard the dull thump of an explosion from ahead. Starrick had unsealed the vault.

  Jacob tensed. He heard his knuckles crack. His blade made less noise as he flexed his forearm to engage it.

  Even more cautiously now, he made his way toward the blown-out vault door. Stepping through he found himself in a room with medieval architecture. So, it was older than the wine vaults, which dated back to the building of the Palace in the 1760s. In fact, it looked very much to Jacob as though the Palace had been built on top of the vault.

  Despite himself, he suppressed a smile. How Evie would have loved to have made this discovery for herself.

  At the center of the vault stood the Templar Grand Master, having opened a box he’d found there. The trunk was a receptacle the like of which Jacob had never seen before. A dark gray, futuristic rectangle inset with strange, angular ind
entations, inscriptions and carry handles. And for a second all he could do was stare at it, as transfixed as Starrick by it. Just to lay eyes on the crate was enough to convince him that there was something otherworldly and unknowable about it. Perhaps Evie was right to place such store in these artifacts.

  Crawford Starrick still wore his suit, but draped over it was a shimmering piece of linen that appeared to exude the same sense of suppressed energy and menace as the box. Even as Jacob watched, patterns seemed to form and disassemble on the golden cloth, and different colors glowed. Inside the box was a series of what looked like decorative baubles, and either they too hummed with power, or were reflecting it from the crate. Still Jacob was hypnotized, falling into deep belief, feeling the call of the artifacts—until, with an effort, he shook his head to free himself of it, stitched the smile back on his face and stepped forward to greet the Grand Master.

  “Aren’t we a little too old to put faith in magic?” he said.

  Starrick looked up at him with a puzzled expression that Evie Fry might have recognized from the dance. Only now he was so transported that it was almost beatific.

  “Come now,” he said, with a smile, “allow an old man his indulgences.”

  “I will allow you nothing,” said Jacob, bemused, stepping forward.

  Starrick took no steps to defend himself, merely smiled indulgently. The smile of the truly wise. “The young think they can make their mark on this world, a world entirely built to exploit them.”

  Jacob shook his head and drew himself up to gang-leader stature. “I don’t think I can make my mark, old man, I know.”

  Starrick’s face hardened. He was back in the here and now, drawing ancient power from his find.

  Jacob attacked.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Henry had decided. He would leave the life. Leave the Assassins to whom he had become a burden, and leave Evie to whom he was a liability. He had spent his entire life running away from the knowledge that he was an unfit Assassin. Held prisoner on the grounds of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, Covent Garden, Henry understood that it had caught up with him.

  Awash with memories, he had closed up shop and extinguished the lights at the front, retiring behind the curtain to his workroom. Clocks ticked and he wondered what Evie was doing now. No doubt she and Jacob were arriving at the Queen’s ball. When they returned it would be the end of the line. Either way, win or lose, this battle would have been fought to its conclusion: the Assassins would be once more in the ascendant, with the rule of London by the Templars at an end, or they would be having to retreat, regroup, think again.

  And Henry? He sat at the central table, with documents and inscriptions laid out around him, maps and plans over which he and Evie had pored, and put his face in his hands, thinking back to his life as a child and the years he had spent as The Ghost. A lifetime of delusion and shattered dreams and failure.

  It felt like a lifetime ago he’d thought of leaving the Brotherhood. You can’t turn your back on a belief, he’d thought at the time.

  Yes, he decided now. Yes you could.

  He drew a blank piece of paper toward him, reached for his stylus and inkwell.

  “Dear Evie,” he wrote.

  And then was stopped by a sound from the front of the shop. It came again. Knocking.

  Henry stood, reached for his blade and began to strap it on as he moved through the curtain, bare feet noiseless on the floorboards as he traversed the clutter of the shop to the door. He shook his sleeve, obscuring the blade, studied the glass of the door where he could see a figure, an outline he recognized at once.

  “Come in,” he said, opening the door, throwing glances up and down the busy Whitechapel street outside and stepping back to allow his guest entry.

  Over the threshold, stepping from the balmy evening outside into the darkened, oppressive atmosphere of Henry’s shop, came George Westhouse. “You’re armed,” he said, by way of a greeting. Trained eyes.

  “We have the Templars cornered,” replied Henry, “and you know what a cornered rat does?”

  “It attacks shopkeepers?” said George.

  Henry tried to force a smile but smiles never came easily to him and sure enough the muscles refused to obey. Instead he closed the bolts, turned and led George through tottering shelves to his workroom. There he brushed aside the letter he had begun and directed George to a chair, previous occupant Evie Frye.

  George carried a small leather satchel that he placed on the tabletop as he sat down. “Perhaps you’d like to fill me in on events in the city?” he said.

  Henry told how, with the help of his information network, Jacob had organized the gangs in the East End, then successfully carried out a series of operations against the Templars, severely weakening their position; how he and Evie had discovered the likely location of the latest Piece of Eden; how Jacob and Evie were at this very moment at the Queen’s ball, Evie seeking the vault where the Shroud was kept . . .

  At mention of the artifact, George’s eyebrows rose.

  Yes, thought Henry, more accursed artifacts. More death in the name of baubles.

  “And you’ve had a willing cohort in the person of Evie Frye, no doubt?”

  “We had different reasons for seeking the Piece of Eden,” agreed Henry. “She wanted to witness it. She wanted to look upon the powers of the First Civilization. I already had done so. I wanted to make sure that power never fell into the hands of the Templars.”

  “Had, you say . . .”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You said you had very different reasons for seeking out the Piece of Eden. What makes you think these events belong in the past tense?”

  “I have every faith in the twins. Even if Evie should fail to recover the Shroud, then I am confident Jacob will neutralize Crawford Starrick. Either way, the Piece of Eden will be safe for the time being.”

  “And that’s it, is it?” George pointed across the table to where Henry’s “Dear Evie” letter lay. “Nothing else?”

  Henry looked at him. “No,” he said. “Nothing else.”

  George nodded sagely. “Well, then good. That’s very good. Because, you know, as Ethan told you, and as your mother told you, the Assassins need their analytical minds as much as they need their warriors.”

  Henry avoided George’s eye. “A true Assassin would be both.”

  “No, no.” George shook his head. “What you’re describing isn’t a person, it’s an automaton. Our organization—any organization—needs a conscience, Henry. It’s an important function. We may be slow to recognize it on occasion, but the fact remains, it’s a vital function. Whatever you do, I’d like you to remember that.”

  Henry nodded.

  “Right, now that’s clear, perhaps I should come to my next order of business . . .”

  George opened the satchel, removed a leather-bound book and slid it across the table to Henry. “Evie contacted me about this. A book she dimly remembered seeing in her father’s library, that may or may not contain some information about the artifact you seek.”

  Henry frowned at him and George shrugged. “Yes, all right, I knew about the Shroud. I merely wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Well, another horse’s mouth.”

  Curious, Henry drew the book toward him, slipped open the cover and straightaway felt a tickle of the old excitement. Contained within was what looked to be a series of testimonies handed down throughout the ages, details of battles fought, assassinations carried out, treasures won and lost, all of it referring back to the very earliest years of the English Brotherhood.

  Had Evie come across something about the Shroud, perhaps? Something that made no sense to her at the time but resonated now?

  George watched Henry’s face with a smile. “It took some finding, I can tell you,” he said. “Hopefully it will be of use.” He stood to go. “No doubt you will wan
t to read it at once. I shall leave you in peace. You’ve done well, Henry. Your mother and father will be proud. Ethan would be proud.”

  When Henry had locked up after George he returned to the book. They knew that the Shroud was reputed to offer eternal life, and from that Evie assumed the artifact had healing abilities.

  However, she had since become convinced that it also contained some greater, perhaps darker power. Her curiosity had sparked a memory; the memory had brought her to this book.

  Henry leafed through quickly now, anticipating what he might find, until he came to a particular entry, one that told of—yes—a shroud. It was written in the most elliptical terms but nevertheless confirmed that it did indeed confer eternal life upon its wearer.

  However, the account mentioned something else besides. A negative to its positive. The drawback—or maybe, for some, the advantage—of wearing the Shroud was that it would draw energy from whomsoever he or she touched.

  The report concluded that nothing else was known of the Shroud; that what appeared here might be mere gossip or conjecture. Even so, it was enough for Henry to think of Evie—Evie going to the vault without knowing the Shroud’s true power.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  At last Evie was back in her usual clothes. She tossed the hated dress to one side, adjusted the clips on her gauntlet and shook her shoulders into her coat at the same time. Once more she caught her own reflection in a window of the small antechamber she had chosen for the quick change but was altogether happier with the results this time.

  Forget that imposter’s finery. This was her real self. Her father’s daughter.

  And now to the vault. Like Jacob she left the ongoing uproar of the party behind and rushed in the direction where she knew it to be, and like him she arrived to find the door open, rushing down the slope and into the tunnel, checking herself as she came closer to the open vault door.

  From inside came the sounds of a struggle. The unmistakable sound of Jacob in pain, and her blade was already deploying as she rushed toward the portal, crashing through in time to see Starrick, wearing the Shroud and pinning Jacob with one hand.