I am a killer, a poisoner by trade, and a thief by convenience. Of course, it was not always this way. To be a good thief, one needs a partner.

I did not consider this until Inspector Rotella of the Blackcoats showed up at the door of McDowell Hall, which sat in the smog-choked heart of Dunhill. Since interring my uncle and his servants for their myriad sins, against me and all of humanity, I had been expecting such an arrival. My uncle had been a reclusive, a skinflint, and much worse, so he was not popular with his neighbors or the high society to which his wealth would have granted him access. However, I knew that it was a matter of time before his absence was noticed by the constabulary or, gods forbid, one of the heretical priests from Lechia he fornicated with. Witches and warlocks were still burned by the Church in Dunhill, so with the Supreme Ecclesiarch residing in the city, I feared the Blackcoats more.

With no servants remaining in the manor, when the knock came I answered the door myself, and looked into the dark eyes of a man who was taller than I, but just as sinewy, his hair nearly as light as mine was dark. On the lapel of his black coat was stitched a silver insignia, the all seeing eye of the Inspectors division. I had hoped the Blackcoats might send someone lazy and incompetent, given the contempt my uncle was held in by his neighbors. When this constable locked his eyes onto mine, I felt a shiver that told me that I had no such luck.

“Cole McDowell?” he asked in the tone of one knows the answer. I nonetheless put a confused tone into my voice when I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “I’m Inspector Rotella. Please allow me to enter.”

Naturally, I did. I straightened my voluminous longsleeves along my frame, making that I was more concerned in covering my profligacy than I was about the Inspector’s arrival. I had, in truth, been enjoying what remained of the wine cellar and larder since I had buried my uncle in his laboratory beneath the manor. It had been a long, if lonely, celebration.

My prodigal state didn’t escape Rotella, his sharp eyes raking me as he entered, but he did not mention this, only, “You answer the door yourself, Master McDowell? Where are Lord Daman’s servants?”

I wiped an eye to avoid the Inspector’s gaze. “I do not know. My uncle is not a trusting man, with only two servants. He took both with him when he left for the Continent.” I closed the door behind to keep any more of the coal dust from Dunhill’s streets from blowing in. In the vestibule, the inspector shook the edges of his coat to cast off what he had brought in with him before doffing his hat. 

Stepping into the gas lights of the manor’s main hall, the inspector gazed up the large central stairwell that led into the gloom of the upper floors. “Where did his travels take him?”

“I do not know. My uncle does not trust me with such matters.”

“Master McDowell, I have made inquiries before my arrival. When you became your uncle’s ward, he secured for you the best private tutors on everything from the Queen’s English to maths, chemistry, biology, and anatomy, as well as many facets of physical education.

“It would appear that, after your parents’ death, he had taken you in and was preparing you as his heir.”

I thought about what my uncle had actually planned for me, that I was nothing but a vessel he would have used for his next incarnation through the black magic of his metempsychosis. Truth, though, was that, in a way, the Inspector was correct. So I answered honestly, “He told me as such.”

Inspector Rotella walked in a wide circle around the hall, keen eyes examining everything they fell upon, his words echoing throughout the many lacquered beasts that lined the arched ceiling. “For weeks now, the Crown has begun to receive complains – credits of letters unanswered, ship inventories left unpaid for, contracts for rations and wine unclaimed. Have you failed in your duties to maintain the family estate while he was away?”

I hardened my gaze to meet the Inspector’s. “As I said, my uncle does not trust me in such matters.”

“Your uncle, who has been preparing you as his heir, neither trusted you with the upkeep of the family business while he was away, nor told you his destination so he could handle such matters through correspondence?”

At the implied, and accurate, accusation the Inspector was constructing, I felt my hand flex for wish of my rapier. “I have no knowledge of his final destination. What little I gathered of his business, he wanted to keep it to himself. I’m sure in your inquiries you learned that it was mostly dealing in the islands of Sulaiwest. Perhaps you’ve read Dr. Brodie’s report?”

The Inspector cocked an eyebrow at me. “But you said he had departed for the Continent, not to uncivilized lands.”

“That is what he told me.”

Eyes still upon me, the Inspector said, “Before your parents died, they had little of their own. Your father was a country doctor, your mother his nurse, both renowned amongst those they served as kind and generous. What money they earned seems to have been used mostly for your early education and keeping up their small homestead.”

He turned back to the cavernous hall of McDowell manor. “This must have been quite a change for you.”

“Yes,” I replied. Thinking of my uncle’s nightly pedophilic visits to my bedroom, I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “It was not a pleasant one.”

“It certainly appears to improved your station. And your uncle’s passing will do much the same.” 

I wondered how long my uncle would have survived a slow death by paralysis in his subterranean laboratory. “Perhaps some day. But I would rather return to my parents’ home then remain in Lord McDowell’s Hall.”

The Inspector turned to me with his grey eyes and asked, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“So your uncle will surely return before you cease to be his ward.”

Fearing any deviation from the truth would be detectable by the Inspector, I answered, “He did not give me that impression when he left.”

“Master McDowell, you can certainly see how strange that must sound. For a man of such standing in Dunhill to simply vanish.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Inspector Rotella returned to the vestibule to retrieve his hat. “I’m suggesting that the Blackcoats will be looking for your uncle’s return. And if he does not do so, I will return with many more questions.” He tipped his hat slightly before donning it. “Good day to you.”

It was then that I began to spend more time away from the manor at a pub called the Serpent & Wren. I had no interest in answering any more of Inspector Rotella’s questions, so I found myself inventing ways to avoid him. TheSerpent’s cheap wine taxed my dwindling savings less, and the food was palatable. Since I had entombed the manor’s servants with my uncle, the tavern was one of my better options on the occasions when I wished not to cook for myself.

That was when I first noticed Chand. He was a fine young man with a smile always ready to sprout from under his aquiline nose. His dark, tousled hair could never quite be contained by the hat he wore, its top nearly brushed the tavern’s low ceiling. It didn’t take long for a keen observer, though, to notice the perennial bruises that stained his olive skin; sometimes a cheek, sometimes a hand. Or that his clothes, once of a fine quality, on closer inspection, were frayed about the edges, with rips and tears that had been repaired many times. His ancestry clearly crossed the Empire’s many far-flung borders, so he must not have come from the higher classes.

Still, seeing his gregarious and good nature, I was surprised he patronized an establishment of such low repute. I had begun inhabiting Serpent & Wren as its reputation as a den of iniquity made it a spot to collect information about my erstwhile uncle. Now it was my refuge from the law.

On its best days, though, Serpent & Wren was a tavern built on the old stone of whatever it had been before, wind whistling through those bones with only its shingles and boards to slow it. Whether accompanied by a new or exiting patron, the front door often blew open on its hinges, bringing in more of the constant coal dust from the streets of Dunhill.

Seeking to avoid notice, I kept to my moody corner, fancying in the shadows around me that I went unnoticed. This was preposterous, of course, as I had no magic or elixir to render me invisible, but I clung to my perceived anonymity.

It was from this perch that I watched Chand jape and jest and found myself increasingly fond of a man I had never spoken with. On nights I stayed longer, sinking into the morose pool of the tavern’s wine, I noticed a pattern. He would often arrive early, make his friendly way through the crowd, then depart, only to arrive again hours later, always happy or disconsolate, ordering food when he was the former and only a meager pint if the latter. It was at this second appearance he would often have fresh bruises.

With my parents dead, my uncle inhumed, and me keeping out of the constabulary’s way, I lacked companionship. Like many a young man, I thought this was something that I could live without, so I told myself it was my curiosity that got the better of me. As such, one evening, after he had made his way through the crowd of the tavern, I watched for him to make his first departure. As he exited the creaking front door, I stowed my Kalthoff pistol and rapier under my cloak and followed the tracks he had left behind in the coal dust.

Outside, even at that late hour, one could hear the grind of Dunhill’s mills. With the tread of my soft boots undetectable under that din, Chand made himself easy to follow by sticking to the gas lamps, their orange glow illuminating the shadows of cobblestoned streets. Near the Serpent & Wren, pedestrians were thin on the street. However, Chand headed to more populous areas, thick with horses and carriages, merchants trying to sell the last of their wares, paupers lining the streets, and gentle couples ignoring them as they headed out for an evening’s entertainment.

After a walk suitable for an evening’s constitutional, we arrived in Fens Bank, a district near the river that separated Gallowgate from the better parts of the city. There he stopped, leaned his tall frame against a lamppost, and turned up his collar, hiding his handsome face in shadows as the night’s crowd went by. Standing further down the street, I chewed on the long stem of my briar pipe as I watched him, wondering what he was at.

Eventually, I noted that Chand ignored the passersby, keeping an eye on a decrepit house across the street. While no one entered or exited the building’s street door, the alley next to it would occasionally produce men, single or in pairs, or couples of men and women, who would quickly make their way into the flood of the crowd and disappear into the night. Chand would follow these individuals, closing the distance in the crowded street, then peel away.

After gathering a suspicion of what he was doing, I closed the distance and confirmed that Chand was thieving, skillfully so none took notice of his quick fingers. He must have learned pickpocketing from someone, else the Dunhill’s Requiter would have taken some of his fingers, if not his life.

This also brought me close to his victims where I noticed that at least some of the women leaving the house weren’t women at all, but only dressed as such. I surmised from this that the alley they were surreptitiously leaving by must be connected to a molly house. I nodded in understanding. None of the men departing would admit to being robbed near such a place. 

After several hours, Chand did not return to the post where he had been keeping his stealthy vigil, but headed back towards Gallowgate. I shook the smog from my cloak and wide-brimmed hat and followed. It wasn’t long before we were back in the low part of Dunhill and I watched as Chand disappeared into an alley.

By this time the streets were as empty as they ever become in Dunhill, so I approached the alley entrance carefully, taking off my hat so I could peek around the brick corner and down the alley. There a man whose paleness was highlighted by the dirt smeared across his skin, stood in a green evening coat and brown derby. He was surrounded by exhausted urchins who obediently formed a line to hand over their spoils to to whoever this rake was. As I watched, he took the evening’s loot from one with a smile and tousling the urchin’s hair before returning some of the coin to him. The next, though, received an increasingly angry stare as the pale man counted out the coins, then a cuff so hard the tiny dipper fell to the cobblestones. An admonishment sent him on his way with his failure. Watching this, I felt my hand stray to my pistol, but was stayed by own callousness.

Seeing Chand stand the among the urchins, I realized that, like myself, he wasn’t much out of adolescence. His easy confidence and smiling ways at the Serpent & Wren had made me mistake him for a more mature gentleman, but here he was queued with a group of children.

With his height must have come greater expectations from the taskmaster. Though he handed over quite a larger sum that his compatriots, the pale man produced a riding cop and cracked Chand over the head with it.

Whatever had been restraining me at the sight of the reprimands to the children slipped away as the man continued to beat Chand with his rattan. I moved down the alley with quick strides, scattering the remaining urchins. I was upon the taskmaster before he realized it, grabbing his wrist as he tried to bring down the switch again.

This close I could smell the gin on the his breath and see the warts on his coal-stained face. His height was greater than mine, but the years of physical education my uncle insisted upon had built quick and strong muscles around my narrow frame, so I was able to hold his wrist as anger overcame his surprise. He cursed me in an accent so guttural and thick I could not decipher it, but a quick crack from the butt of my pistol brought him down to my height where I was able to kick him to the ground.

While I could hear Chand stir behind me, I made a quick search of the taskmaster to come up with his collection of coins. I was quite pleased at this, as it was no small amount and, much like the molly house patrons, I suspected the taskmaster wouldn’t go to the Blackcoats with a complaint of being beaten and robbed.

Taking stock of this, I heard Chand rustle behind me. In a slightly retroflex accent he asked, “What are you doing?”

“Saving you from a further beating,” I replied, hiding the coin purse under my cloak before turning to him. 

“And robbing Peyton of the night’s take,” Chand responded, eyeing me. Damn, he was quick eyes even with his head knocked about.

“Well,” I rationalized, “something for my trouble.”

He rose, brushing himself off and fetching his now crushed hat. “He’ll remember seeing my face last when he wakes up.”

I pointed my flintlock at this Peyton’s head, but kept my eyes on Chand. “Do you want me to kill him?”

“No!” Chand eyed me more carefully then, “You’re that brunette from the Serpent & Wren that’s always skulking in the corner.”

This was, I admit, not the gratitude I had been expecting. “Cole. My name is Cole.”

Chand inspected me with narrowed eyes, then demonstrated more bravery than I expected by taking my elbow and directing us both out of the alley. “Let’s get out of here.” After a few strides toward the street he said, “Put that away,” meaning my pistol.

With my weapons back under my cloak, we made our way along the streets of Dunhill back towards the Serpent & Wren. I answered Chand’s silence with my own, uncertain that my rash action had been the right one, but feeling better with him at my side.

To read the next chapter, go here.

See the author’s published work here.

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