by Ben Galley
*
Merion was indeed taking Dizali’s advice: trying to get some rest for the morrow. He wanted to be sharp for it.
‘Are you sure you’re alright, Merion?’ Lilain had shuffled over to him again. Gunderton was picking at the floor. Calidae slouched in a corner, silent and brooding. Witchazel stared longingly at the stairs through the bars. Rhin was also trying to sleep, hidden in his cage.
‘I’m fine, Aunt. Don’t worry,’ he lied. His hand throbbed; Lilain had bandaged it with a strip of his shirt to stop the bleeding, but it still felt as though he had been hammering an anvil for a day straight.
A hand pressed itself to his forehead, and then withdrew.
Merion turned to look at her. ‘Aunt Lilain, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’ He put his finger to his lips. Lilain nodded, shifting her eyes to the two Brother Eighths lingering on the stairs, monitoring their prisoners’ behaviour and on the lookout for meddling Fae. The captives had barely said a word since the cell door had slammed. None of them trusted themselves to give anything away. Brothers were not your usual doltish key-keepers.
Although the events of the last hour had been far from pleasant, the plan was progressing smoothly. Well, except for the fact that the cell was only supposed to have two occupants—him and Calidae—and not the whole of this strange family he’d collected. Dizali’s actions had tangled some vital threads, and now it all depended on one man alone, rather than an aunt, a Brother, a lawyer, and a faerie. Lurker. He will know what to do, Merion told himself, trying to make it sound like a proclamation rather than a prayer. He will.
‘So who’s this associate of Dizali?’ said Lilain. ‘I don’t like the sound of him.’
‘Fever Rowanstone,’ Witchazel whispered, with a shudder.
‘The one who…’ Gunderton’s words fell away as he looked over the man’s cuts and scars.
‘…who tortured me, yes,’ said the lawyer, voice as frigid as a winter’s eve. ‘If you get a chance, stick something sharp in his beady little eye.’
‘That can be done,’ said Calidae.
‘He won’t get anything out of me,’ asserted Gunderton, although he couldn’t hide the glint of worry in his strange eyes. He had been on the run for years, fearing this exact situation. Now that he was finally here, perhaps he was doubting his resolve.
‘I don’t think he wants anything,’ said Witchazel. ‘Apart from fun. There are two twins as well. Sven and Sval. Monstrous bastards.’ Witchazel reached up to feel his cheekbone, still tender.
‘I think it’s best we just try to sleep,’ suggested Merion. ‘We wouldn’t want to yawn through our punishments, now would we?’ He raised his voice so the Eighths could hear.
Lilain patted him on the shoulder before moving away. He half-closed his eyes, flooding his mind with thoughts of the day ahead. If he lingered too long on the possibilities, his heart began to lurch. It was part excitement, part nervousness. He could not wait to be done with it all. To be free.
Just before sleep took him, he stretched, and in doing so caught the gaze of Calidae, narrow like a blade at the back of the cage. They held each other’s eyes for a moment, before she turned away.
Freedom, it seemed, would come with a price.
*
Lurker poked the empty metal cup towards the barman and nodded. A shot of whisky tumbled in. The prospector beckoned a finger, and another shot joined it. He slid a coin bearing Lincoln’s face across the metal of the bar; a length of airship fuselage bent into purpose.
‘You’re lucky I take all sorts of coinage in ‘ere, mate. That won’t do you no good in any other pub in this city.’
The man was right. The image of Lincoln wasn’t exactly welcome in London. Here, in The Prop and Gondola, it was good enough as Cathayan, Prussian, or Indus coin. That’s what you get for having a saloon full of aviators, thought Lurker. And when you put a “pub” at the top of an airship tower…
He had kept well away from the porthole windows and the precarious view they held. If he sat straight and still, he swore he could feel the tower moving in the wind. Jake didn’t seem to mind, nutting his head into his ear ever now and again.
‘Say, you don’t know where I can find a Captain Higgis do you?’
The barman snorted something into his throat. ‘It don’t do too well askin’ names in a place like this, mate. People start to wonder why.’
Lurker shrugged harmlessly. ‘She’s a friend. Helped her out on a previous run. Got into some trouble over the ocean. Said I owed her one,’ he explained.
‘That’ll get even more tongues waggin’. Ships with captains like her float on favours, not gas. Nobody likes ‘em called in. You’re not from ‘round ‘ere are you?’
‘America.’
The barman narrowed his eyes at the magpie sat on Lurker’s shoulder. ‘And if it weren’t for the bird I’d say you aren’t no aviator, neither.’
‘No, sir.’ Lurker shook his head. ‘I’m the prospectin’ type.’
The barman grumbled and moved away, clearly upset by something.
Lurker slid from the stool and went to find a quiet corner, far away from the windows. He found a space between two booths and settled in to watch the goings-on.
He had seen The Cloudy Belle docked just a tower away. After trying his best to get close to her, the guards had turned him away and told him to come back tomorrow. Higgis had either done another run, or stuck around in Britannia for some more business. In either case she was in London, and that’s what mattered.
Lurker held onto his drink as a huge airship—a Prussian zeppelin-class—passed by the tower. As the ship peeled away towards a larger spire, The Prop and Gondola caught the full brunt of her wake, all eighteen engines of it. The pub shuddered violently. A cheer went up from the patrons, deafening and altogether disturbing.
Lurker rolled a cigarette, feigning nonchalance, but ears wandering from conversation to conversation. He sniffed deeply, letting the smell of engine grease, deck plating, old ale, and cheap stew fill his senses. He tried to catch Higgin’s scent, but it was fruitless.
‘Off to Greenwitch no doubt.’
‘Full of snobs as well.’
‘You ever see the inside o’ one of those?’
‘I may have snuck on one. Midair dock. Like a flying mansion inside.’
‘ ‘Eard The Cloudy Belle is still docked.’
His ears pricked at the airship’s name. Two accents, not too far away. They sounded European. He listened as smoke wreathed his face.
‘Yeah, seen it three nights now. She must be workin’ on something big.’
‘Thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’
‘Hijack it?’
‘No, follow her to the source. Replace ‘er. The Endless Horizon’s far quicker than that hunk of shite.’
Lurker sniffed. There it was. That tang of gun-oil and grubby coin. Higgis.
There was a scrape of chairs and Lurker wafted the smoke out of his face, revealing Higgis and her ginger-moustachioed crew-member, Smythe, standing at the edge of a table. Two scrawny tanned men sat there, black hair greased back, faces sharp and ratty.
‘Jovio. Pleasure to see you again,’ said Higgis, before her fist connected with his jaw; the crack was audible over the rumble of patrons. Jovio went down like a sack of potatoes, falling off his chair and onto the sticky floor. His friend went for a knife but Smythe headbutted him hard in the bridge of the nose, and he too sank to his backside, blood gushing over his hands.
From the corner of his eye, Lurker spied another man working his way through the crowded tables. Fights were apparently ignored here. Only a few had turned to watch the commotion, slyly swapping coins on who might win. Lurker saw something shiny in the man’s hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rose from the table and moved to head him off.
The knife was flashing through the air when Lurker barged its owner to the floor. A swift kick saw his wrist broken, and a pistol in his face kept the whimpering to a minimum.
&n
bsp; Higgis had whirled around, fists ready, eyes wild. She saw the knife on the floor, next to the scrunched-up face of her attacker. ‘You, John Hobble, are a good man to have around,’ she said, clapping him heartily on the back. She wore a big brass knuckle-duster, and he felt it thump against his shoulder-blade. ‘Where’d you spring from?’
Lurker shrugged. ‘I was lookin’ for you, actually.’
She cocked her head. ‘You do know there’s a magpie on your shoulder?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’ Higgis nodded. She stood aside as a few burly men in red waistcoats came forwards to drag the fighters outside. Lurker wondered briefly if they’d find themselves taking a shortcut back to solid ground. He listened for screams, but nothing came.
‘Don’t worry. We ain’t killing them,’ said Higgis, as Lurker led them back to his corner. ‘They’ll make us a good pot of coin. They’re the three sons of the Duke of Donager. He’ll want them back in one piece.’ Lurker sat back down, and Higgis and Smythe took a seat opposite.
‘Fancy themselves as aviators, do they?’ said Lurker.
‘Amateur sky pirates, more like,’ said Smythe, twirling his moustache.
‘So, come to catch up on old times?’ Higgis said. Straight to business. Lurker liked that.
‘I’m calling in that favour you owe me.’
She winced and sat back in her seat. She chewed her lip, then whacked Smythe on the arm. ‘I should really stop sayin’ I owe people, shouldn’t I?’
‘Prob’ly,’ Smythe said, looking around for a forgotten drink to pilfer. Lurker sipped his whisky and waited for an answer. When none came, he decided to hurry it along.
‘I did save your airship, don’t forget.’
‘Oh, I haven’t,’ said Higgis, drumming her nails on the table. ‘So what is it?’
‘You’ll help?’
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘That ain’t how favours work.’
‘Equal in measure, that’s how they work,’ lectured Smythe.
‘So you got to save my life, in that case?’
There was another moment of silence. Higgis winced some more. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Good,’ said Lurker. ‘ ‘cause that’s exactly what I got in mind.’
He slid his glass aside and set his elbows on the table, leather creaking. Jake kept his eye on the airship captain.
‘Now here’s what I need.’
Chapter XIX
OF CONFESSIONS
12th August, 1867
Calidae was enjoying the plush comforts of a velvet bed when the carriage lurched her from her dream. The puckered cloth of the carriage walls were nowhere near as comfortable, and she set a deep furrow in her forehead.
She was travelling with four others: Gunderton, Lilain, Rhin and Hanister, who was rushing something strong; Calidae could see the glimmer of magick in his mismatched eyes. He watched them all like a starving pickpocket, gaze switching to each in turn. She swore he had not blinked since they had set out from Clovenhall.
Cheapside rolled past their window, or at least as much of it as she could see through the gauze of the blind. Skewed buildings all wrapped up in peeling plaster, betraying warped grey oak beneath. Carts and people jostled for space on cobble and grubby gutter. A few of the more curious loiterers—the still-drunk or the just-getting-started—hooted as the carriage rolled by, calling to the driver to name his passengers. Though the coat of arms had been painted over, it was still an impressive beast of a vehicle, drawn by four piebald stallions. Her father had always loved piebalds.
‘Are we close?’ she asked, when the Brother turned his eyes on her once more.
‘Almost,’ he replied before resuming his vigil.
Two more streets and they heard the sound of boots climbing from the carriage. Calidae rolled her eyes and tensed once more against the thin ropes around her wrist. They had been expertly knotted; Hanister must have been a sailor in a previous life.
She took a breath and considered her options. She could make a run for it as soon her feet hit the pavement; or she could wait it out and see what this Fever had to offer, see how he fit into her web of intentions. She chose the latter. She was a Serped, and Serpeds don’t run. Even from fires.
A lordsguard with a young and acne-ridden face opened the doors. He beckoned them out. Calidae was first, followed by Lilain and the others. Hanister brought up the rear, carrying Rhin in his cage.
They were shown to a thick door which swung outward to greet then, almost knocking the boyish lordsguard flat. Calidae snorted before looking up at her new hosts. And up. And up. The two men were huge. Their necks were as thick as some men’s thighs, their chests like barrels fit to burst, and their arms lumpy protrusions beneath straining shirtsleeves. They were blonde as a fresh haystack, and strikingly blue-eyed. Quintessentially Nordic.
‘Monstrous big,’ Lilain whispered behind her.
One of them took Calidae by the hands and wrenched her forward. It was like being manhandled by a bear. She was a scrap of paper in the grip of his strength.
Hanister tipped his bowler hat to the twins. ‘Don’t have too much fun, gentlemen. Except with this one.’ He shoved Gunderton in the small of his back, drawing a fierce growl. ‘Have all the fun you want with this turncoat.’
Gunderton hissed something Calidae couldn’t hear, but it sounded appropriately foul. With no more than a nod from the seemingly tongueless twins, the door slammed shut. They were practically carried up the stairwell.
The building stank of mildew. Patches of it seeped through the grey plaster. No pictures. No lamps or tables to break the monotony. Just flat walls and bowing stairs, all of which led to a cluster of doors spaced along a narrow corridor. The twin escorting Calidae rapped on the furthest door. A murmur from within was taken as a sign to enter.
Inside, the gaslight was so bright she was momentarily blinded. She squinted hard, trying to squeeze some sense into her eyes, feeling the others shoved in alongside her.
Like the rest of the building, the room was square and dull. It was a cell, to be precise. Its only features were a few caged gaslights, a table sporting a thick briefcase, and a chair, which was currently occupied by a man of small stature indeed. He had the look of a man in his thirties, but the body of a boy. He wore a smart suit and a casual smile, as though they had merely popped in to talk about their investments. Calidae hated him instantly.
‘Welcome, friends. I am Mr Rowanstone, but you may call me Fever.’
‘What a horrid name,’ Calidae spat.
‘I agree,’ said Lilain. They shared an awkward look. No so long ago they had been enemies.
Fever did not look the slightest bit impressed. He motioned to the Nord twins. They stepped forward, and punched Lilain and Calidae in the ribs. Gunderton received a fist from each, for good measure, and Rhin had his cage kicked across the floor.
‘As I was saying,’ Fever continued, still playing at hospitality but eyeing Calidae menacingly with his little rat eyes. ‘I bid you welcome. We shall be spending some time together over the next few days, and I wanted to introduce myself before we got to know each other. Inside and out,’ he said, with a sickening smile.
‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,’ Lilain replied. ‘Here’s a suggestion. You let us go, and you won’t have to work for Dizali no more. How’s that sound?’
For the briefest of moments, a flash of surprise ran across Fever’s face, chased by intrigue. He straightened his bowtie and cleared his throat.
‘I am not the sort of businessman to spit in the hand of my employer, I’m afraid.’ His voice was oily.
‘What a shame,’ said Lilain.
Calidae exhaled. ‘Are we going to stand around all day, or should we get started with whatever twisted game you’d like to play, little man?’
Fever got to his feet—not much of an improvement—and glowered at her. ‘As you wish. Perhaps you should be first, seeing as you are so keen to entertain me.’
/>
‘Just you wait. I’m a hoot,’ said Lilain.
‘So am I,’ threw in Gunderton.
‘And if they don’t rip your spine from your neck, I’ll finish the job,’ spat Rhin, from his cage.
Calidae had to admit, she was momentarily impressed by Hark’s ragtag family.
Fever sighed dramatically. He pointed to Lilain and Gunderton, then waved to his twins. ‘Sven, Sval, soften these two up for me, would you? Thank you kindly. You may take them to the other rooms. You, Master Creature, can remain in the hallway and dwell upon what’s waiting for you. I’ve never dissected a faerie before.’
‘We’ll be keeping it that way,’ Rhin told him, winking as Sven nudged the cage into the hall with his enormous boot. The door slammed behind him.
Calidae was left alone with Fever. He was smart, she gave him that. He never turned his back on her even when he moved to the briefcase to fetch a scalpel.
‘The chair, if you please,’ he gestured with the blade.
She did as she was told, luring him in. He wrapped another rope around her wrists and looped it through the chair, all the while holding a scalpel a hair’s breadth from her neck. The man had steady hands.
‘I used to be a renowned surgeon, you know,’ he announced, stepping away from her. ‘One thing leads to another, and all that.’
‘Doesn’t it just?’
Fever smiled his sickly smile. ‘You’re a fiery one, pardon the pun,’ he chuckled. ‘Do you know what Dizali recommended for your punishment? That I burn the other side of your face.’
Calidae seethed at that, ropes creaking as she tensed. But Fever held up a hand. ‘I am many things, but I am not that manner of man, dear girl. Fire is too quick, too messy. I prefer a more precise approach.’ He opened his briefcase to reveal his proof; a glittering array of sharp and needle-pointed things.
‘My tools!’ Fever announced.
‘Fascinating.’
Fever prattled on, gesturing to different implements. ‘And this is what I believe we will start with.’ He held out a squat tubular device with an evil spike sticking out of one end. ‘It cuts perfect circles from the skin with just a twist of the wrist.’