Corroded tscc-3

by Karina Cooper

  Sheepish, now, she shrugged from the straps and let the device clank to the rooftop.

  “Hurry it up,” warned Ishmael, this time with an edge.

  I peeked over to find them lacking one—the scarred youth—and the other nervously watching the end of the lane. “Expecting trouble?”

  Ishmael had long since learned not to answer the more rhetorical of my questions. Of course we were all expecting it, weren’t we, with a brawl between gangs a stone’s throw away?

  “Now,” I said, firming my tone, “you hold on here.” I showed her the grooved ledge. “Lay on your stomach, reach down with a foot until you feel the window casement beneath it. Treat each step like a ladder.”

  Maddie Ruth followed my instructions, white-faced before she’d even eased over the edge. “Mind your eyes,” she called, though it shook with fear.

  I was polite enough not to snort my critique of Maddie Ruth’s concern of modesty. Communion was too much a mountain to bother.

  The third man was not so kind. Scarlet tipped Maddie Ruth’s cheeks as he laughed.

  “Ignore him,” I suggested. I seized her wrists, holding her white-knuckled grasp in place. “Lower your weight, there’s a girl. Communion?” I used his surname out of deference for his crew, who might not take kindly to such close intimacy with a collector.

  “More,” he suggested.

  “Let your arms straighten,” I told her.

  “But—!” A gasped word.

  I squeezed her wrists gently, working to keep the pain of it from my face. The wounds on my palms were scabbing, and what didn’t itch burned fiercely. “I won’t let you go.”

  Trembling, she scrabbled for purchase with her feet, slid down. When her weight sagged sharply, she bit off a high, warbling shriek.

  The sound cracked across the lane and into the fog.

  “Arseholes,” swore the dockman, just as Ishmael called, “Let her go.”

  Without asking Maddie Ruth’s permission, ignoring the reassurance I’d only just delivered, I wrenched her white-knuckled fingers from the ledge.

  To her credit, she didn’t scream again. Shocked soundless, I think. Her head vanished from sight, eyes so wide I could see the whites clearly, and then I heard a muffled, “Oomph.”

  Followed abruptly by, “Get ’em, lads!”

  “Two east by three,” came the roared, deep-voiced demand, loud enough that I could not mistake the source. I drew back from the ledge before I could be seen, seized Maddie Ruth’s apparatus in both stinging hands and hurried back across the rooftop, dragging the device.

  I had no fear for her safety. Ishmael would protect her; he was a man to whom I would trust with my life. I had already done so, even, and this was a thing I still needed to thank him for. I wasn’t certain how to find the words. The acts by which Hawke had saved me still left me red-faced and conflicted, and to broach the one seemed a likely opportunity to embrace the other.

  I was still too unprepared.

  Too bloody sober, and I’d admit that much.

  I wanted to delve into my pocket, to retrieve the bit of opium I had left and take a fortifying bite, but I had no time. That I did not feel the bite of anxiety was to the medicinal’s credit. It simply wasn’t enough, that’s all.

  Once I touched ground, I would rectify this.

  Slinging the device onto my back, grunting beneath its overly sturdy weight, I surveyed my exits quickly. Two rooftops east, I’d find a marker of three. Perhaps three windows, perhaps three chimneys. I’d know it when I saw it. Such things weren’t a map in the usual way. Them what lived on the street knew them different than a mapmaker.

  I set off in the proposed direction, keeping my head low, my eyes sharp. In seconds, my back ached beneath the weight, and my estimation of Maddie Ruth’s fortitude rose a notch. To think she’d carried this on her back the whole time and barely gave a word.

  As I made my escape, the noise faded behind me. The tiff was still confined to a narrow band of streets, then. In its place, an eerie silence set in—one not entirely quiet, for London could never be accused of stillness. It was a pressing feeling, an anticipation as Ratcliffe drew back into the permeating miasma and resigned itself to waiting. Whichever gang won this one, regardless of the victor, it would be business as usual once it was decided.

  I walked a narrow plank set over a larger divide, moving quickly and with my head up, and shimmied down to a second ledge where the last rooftop slanted sharply up. I climbed it, feet digging in for purchase in the shingles, and grasped the fenced peak for balance.

  Three of what, now?

  The answer came almost as fast as I thought it. Three poles thrust up from the front of the steepled ridge, each sporting a tattered flag. The Queen’s colors, naturally, for British patriotism kindled in the hearts of all stout-hearted men. Even those who demanded change did so in the name of betterment for London, for England, for what ever business venture, all in the name of Her Majesty the Queen.

  Lip-service, mostly. Them what flew the Union Jack hoped to be given a bit of leeway by the rozzers, most useful when an evening’s gathering turned unruly. The two other flags suggested this was a deliberate act, as each signified the presence of two of London’s many low street salons. No fashionable entry, here, nothing like the Society gatherings I had never been allowed to join. The closest I’d come was Lady Rutledge’s scientifically minded salon, and even Fanny had been unsure of the use of such a mixed gathering.

  These flags were even less reputable. Troublemakers, the lot. Loud-mouthed sorts who searched for any opportunity to gather where there was drink to be had and women to dander on one knee as they spoke grand plans of change and committed to none. I doubted the Queen’s colors helped them overly much.

  They would help me today. I adjusted the straps of Maddie Ruth’s device, ensured it remained tight in place. I had never attempted this with such a weight upon my shoulders. Compensating for the awkward balance would take a great deal of care.

  I slid down the steep slope, caught my weight on the ledge and ran across it as lightly as I could. The dizzying drop to my left was only a floor higher than the one Maddie Ruth had navigated, but I had no Ishmael to catch me if I were to fall.

  The thought sent a surge of energy through my veins, bubbled in near manic glee.

  I reached the front lip of the rooftop. “Allez, hop!” I said cheerfully, and leapt to the flag pole.

  I dared not try anything too risky. My body felt as if I’d bruised it, forehead to toes, and even the simple act of seizing the flag pole in both hands drenched me in painful, cold sweat. I clenched my teeth, re-adjusted my grip so abruptly that I nearly slid one hand clean off the rod.

  The weight of the net-launching device jerked me to the side, but wrapping my legs around the metal haft helped ease the rock from my stomach. The air whistled past my ears, and then I was upon the ground, tottering for balance, my shoulders aching

  “Nicely landed.” Ishmael’s voice was not so quiet as to be a whisper, but it was near enough as he was capable. It came at me from behind, still in the vee of the lane I’d run beside. “Hurry, girl, before the Ferrymen come.”

  My knees were a bit more watery than I expected them to be. I stumbled some as I turned.

  Maddie Ruth was a pale blur behind the Baker’s greater shadow, eyes wide and dark.

  “I’ll escort you close to Limehouse,” he said as I approached.

  I joined them, saw the dockman was no longer present, and eyed Ishmael. “Why are you in Ratcliffe?”

  His features were difficult enough to read, but there was no mistaking his apology—and the implacability of it—as he rumbled, “Baker business.”

  Close enough to my frequently declared collector’s business that I knew the warning.

  I kept up with his pace easily, even with the device upon my back. Maddie Ruth struggled some, but she did so without complaint.

  I edged closer to him. “Ish? You’re not encroaching on the Veil’s land, are y
ou?”

  His rolled grunt sufficed as a denial.

  “Are the Ferrymen?”

  The man said nothing, his gaze focused on the streets on either side of us as we hurried east through eerily empty thoroughfares.

  “Likely,” Maddie Ruth piped up, not so lack-witted, after all. “Limehouse has the best dens.”

  Opium dens, she meant, and she was right enough. They claimed the best because the Veil imported the best of the resin from China, where the organization hailed. Smuggled, more like. “‘Tis not something one may just step in and seize,” I pointed out.

  “Baker business,” Ishmael said again, cutting off Maddie Ruth’s proposed wisdom with a glare. “Best stay clear, girl.”

  The “girl” was mine. The glare was Maddie Ruth’s, deadly enough serious that I left both alone.

  Fair enough. I would find out another way; I always did. Maddie Ruth, on the other hand, needed to keep her soot-smeared nose a good sight cleaner. “Right,” I said, ending it for the both of us.

  We walked in silence, quickly as we could, but relatively unbothered. Short of a full-sized crew at hand, no one would dare take on Baker’s famed Communion. Soon enough, we approached near enough to Limehouse—and subsequently, the Menagerie—that he drew up short.

  “There.”

  I nodded. “Go ahead, Maddie Ruth. I’ll be on your heels.”

  “But what about—”

  That girl and her arguments. “Skiv off,” I cut in firmly, fitting her with a glare that suggested my already raised ire would be sharper if she didn’t obey me right this moment.

  She did. There was hope for her. Not too terribly much, but some.

  I turned back to Ishmael, looking up into his pitch-dark eyes. “Thank you. You were under no obligation.”

  He shrugged, I think somewhat uncomfortable with the direct sincerity of my observation. “Not your fault you were caught in it.”

  Perhaps. I could have argued in either direction, but did not. “Also,” I continued slowly, seizing my moment, “I owe you a great deal for—”

  A very broad hand settled atop my head, in a move he had never before attempted on me. It was one part affection, I think, but mostly I believe it a way to cement my attention. I peered at him from under his fustian-clad forearm, surprised into silence.

  “No thanks needed,” he rumbled in his dark, matter of fact voice. “Some things are best left.”

  My brow furrowed. “Ish, I owe you—”

  “No debts,” Ishmael cut in, his fingers—easily the span of my skull—squeezing gently. “I’m your man, girl.”

  That simple statement stole my aching heart. To my consternation, tears sprang sharp and fresh to my stinging, too-long dry eyes. I blinked them back forcefully. “And I’m your girl, man,” I replied, repeating his turn of phrase with a smile. “Come case to crack or word to spread, you know where I am.”

  His near-black eyes lifted behind me, to where Maddie Ruth lingered awkwardly. Then back to me. “Be careful. Word is that miller’s still about. Your miss there seems a ripe target.”

  Miller, one of his many words for murderer. “You mean the murdering Jack?”

  He nodded, and let go of my head. “And the other.”

  The sweet tooth. The very mention of him turned my spine to brittle ice.

  “Not for long,” I said, a quiet assurance. “I’ve promised to collect the latter.” I still hadn’t figured out how I would go about doing so, or who to deliver him to. This little escapade had cost me the first step in my nebulous plan.

  “That’s the face what worries me,” Ishmael said, flat features arranging into grim lines. “Can’t be at your back all the time, girl. Be careful.”

  It didn’t matter how often he said the words, they bounced off my determination like stones from iron. Yet I still nodded, because in the end, it made the large man feel better. “You, as well,” I said.

  He did not nod. He simply turned and walked away, his distinctive heavy tread lingering long after the peasouper swallowed him.

  I turned to find Maddie Ruth watching me warily, hands clasped at her waist.

  My eyes narrowed. “Now,” I told her, ominous resolve, “we deal with you.”

  Chapter Six

  The tongue-lashing I gave Maddie Ruth spanned the width of Limehouse’s western quarter. By the time the fog thinned, a miraculous occurrence just outside the Menagerie’s gates, my companion gave every appearance of proper contrition.

  I didn’t buy that for a single second.

  “Of all the reckless maneuvers,” I said, marching her past the gates and around. There were a few entries into the pleasure gardens, but the front gates would not open for another few hours.

  I made for the western entry, which would put me farthest from the circus tent. And, fortunately, closer to the sweets. I could ring the market and avoid the red canvas altogether this way. And if she were very, very lucky, I would not drag Maddie Ruth to the Veil and demand restitution for my trouble.

  Of course, I had no inclination to do so. The threat alone seemed to do the trick.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” she said, not for the first time.

  Apology, I heard. What I didn’t perceive was a promise not to do it again.

  “What would you have done were I not there?” I asked her, pushing aside a hanging fall of thick green ivy cascading from the wall protecting the Menagerie’s grounds. A door behind it was unlocked, but likely not unguarded. The Veil was too mindful of its grounds for such luck, and as this led to the private garden, it would not be overlooked.

  “I wouldn’t have been there were I not following you,” she said. Logical, certainly, but lacking.

  I threw her an irate glance. “Whether you followed me to the collector’s wall or someone else, eventually you would have ended up in that very situation. Accept it, Maddie Ruth, you are ill-equipped.”

  As soon as the poor choice of words left my mouth, I regretted them. A look of such smug satisfaction filled her no-longer-contrite features that I was seized with an urge to rub her face in dirt. Just to dim the bright light of triumph some. “I think I came very well equipped,” she retorted. “What would you’ve done were I not there with my net-launching device?”

  “Fight them, and put them quickly out,” I said, with such certainty that her smile dimmed.

  “What? Both?”

  “Both,” I repeated grimly. I did not say it would have been easy—it wouldn’t, by any stretch. Scuffling outside one’s odds never ended well for everybody. Still, between my old mate Dicker and the squat Abe, I could have done so.

  “What about the others in the fog?”

  Damn. That was the rub, wasn’t it?

  “Shush,” I said instead of addressing the validity of her point. “No reason to go shouting rumors all over the garden, now.” I pushed open the door, gesturing Maddie Ruth inside before me. Best that a member of the Menagerie go first, just in case. I was still often disregarded by them what worked the grounds, and did not fancy a scuffle by mistake.

  “Cheers, Tovey,” Maddie Ruth said as she emerged from the foliage. A legitimate concern, then. I did not recognize the name. “How’s the work?”

  I stepped into the open portico after her, saw an average-looking gent wearing a working man’s kit and a scarf to keep the chill out. His hair, bright ginger in the gray daylight, glinted like new copper.

  The smile he gave Maddie Ruth was polite enough, but I wondered if she noted the way his gaze only touched me before snapping back to her. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, so quietly I nearly missed the sound of it. “Er, good afternoon,” he added to me. An afterthought, naturally.

  I nodded at him.

  Maddie Ruth lowered her voice as Tovey shut the door behind us. “You seen any of the whips about?”

  Whips, I understood, was the common term for them what held authority in the Menagerie. Hawke, naturally, was among them. He held the most authority of the lot, save the Veil itself. I was led to b
elieve that Zylphia had a sort of ranking over the other sweets, though this seemed to be a malleable situation. I’d never heard her called a whip, but I did witness a kind of respect the other sweets bore for her.

  I wasn’t sure who else might operate as some measure of command, and I did not wish to learn. Especially not when engaging in the very trouble I was to be avoiding.

  The lad shook his head. “Been quiet in the private gardens since the prince wandered through.”

  “Osoba’s been by recent?” Wariness replaced Maddie Ruth’s deliberate smile. She glanced at me, but her gaze did not stick; it shifted, as if afraid to meet my eyes.

  Not a good sign.

  “Prince?” I asked, and then remembered the pamphlets. Sometimes, in the leaflets provided by the Menagerie, the circus would promote a prominent act. Among them, I remembered a bit for His Highness Ikenna Osoba, lion prince of far-flung Africa.

  If he were truly a prince, I did not know, but lion-taming was not a kind profession—even for the supremely confident. That he was numbered among the Menagerie whips was telling. The man was likely to be dangerous, and as capable with the weapon as the metaphorical title suggested.

  Though a part of me could not help but wonder if he’d be as smooth with the length of black as Hawke. I’d watched the ringmaster wield a whip with such skill, the memory invoked more envy than the wariness the act warranted.

  “Not long past,” Tovey was saying, and I shook my head. “Stepped into the cottage and out again without fuss.”

  There was a cottage buried in the private gardens, the kind that was often used for entertainment, but also for various needs by the Menagerie staff. I’d seen the Veil there once. My first meeting.

  It had not gone well.

  “Did he say anything?” Maddie Ruth asked, worriedly picking at her lapels. Easy for her to be so nonchalant. I still wore her damned machine.

  “What?” The lad scoffed. “To the likes of me?”

  For some, there is not so much a physical indication as a sense when one’s hackles are raising. Though Maddie Ruth did not seem to change posture, I was aware of the impression of fear about her. Of wariness and deep concern. Perhaps it was in the eyes, suddenly skating across the hedgerows inset into this side of the menagerie grounds.