I am a killer, a poisoner by trade, and a thief by convenience. Of course, it was not always this way. To be a poisoner, one needs a clientele.
Even with the murder of my uncle, his servants, and so many of the Dunhill mob under my cloak, I still did not think of myself as a killer-for-hire, though, but merely as an ersatz noble of the Empire. The years away from my parents’ country home and the tutelage of my uncle as he groomed me to be his vessel had seen to that. And Chand, my one connection to the world outside of McDowell Hall, had vanished.
After rescuing Chand from the erstwhile kingpins of Dunhill, the Red Hooks, he disappeared into the crushing humanity and din of the city. That was not difficult for him. Even wounded as he was, he was still a better thief than I. We had clamored across the city roofs in our escape together, climbing down into the crowd that had gathered to witness our arson of the public house that had been the Red Hooks’ den. Then I looked around and he was gone, disappeared into the humanity and smog, the capitol’s mills grinding away as if nothing had changed.
Forlorn and slighted, I retreated to McDowell Hall before the Blackcoats noticed my presence. While the fire burned, it was unlikely any were looking for me, but I did not wish to encounter Inspector Rotella again with his multitude of incriminating questions. Fortunately for me, I had discovered my uncle’s manor had many entrances and exits, some of them meant for the public eye, while others were not.
I did not return to Serpent & Wren to search for Chand as I had before, instead sulking in the great empty mansion. I spent hours drunk, staring at the secret door that I had sealed my uncle behind, wishing I could kill him again. His nightly visitations had left me with a stain that I felt all could see, his miscegenation with the subhumans of Nr and the priests of Lechia a blight on our entire bloodline. With this upon me, I felt that I would live here in the darkness of McDowell Hall alone, one more monster at the heart of the Empire.
It was only a few days of this self-flagellation that passed before there was a knock on the Hall’s main entrance. Cracking open the Judas hatch, I saw no Inspector Rotella or other Blackcoat, only the crowds and carriages crossing the cobblestone boulevard in front of the Hall. I moved to close the hatch again when I heard a familiar, high-pitched voice say, “Where’s my knife, you knut?”
Opening the Judas hatch fully, I was able to look down and see the urchins from nights before. I had to admire their courage at taking my invitation to McDowell Hall. Even in daylight, the mansion was intimidating, with its high steepled roof, many wings, and windowed turrets.
The sister was standing next to the boy instead of behind him in fear as she had before. That was not the only change. Both were dressed in warmer clothing, and looked better fed. I took these as signs they had spent the crowns I had given them prudently. The pale skin under their red hair, though, showed the same dirt stains as before, telling me they were still sleeping rough.
I blinked away the blots from last night’s wine. “What knife?”
“The one you took from me!” the brother shouted, his cheeks already reddening with the expectation of betrayal. This would have be added to by the long walk from Gallowgate, the lower part of the city where they plied their trade as cutpurses.
I pushed my dark hair out of my face, remembering I had left the brother’s dirk buried in the neck of a Red Hook. “Hold on,” I looked at the many bolts that held the studded and sturdy portal in place. Still feeling a bit of last night’s drink, I replied through the hatch, “Walk west to the gatehouse and cross into the courtyard. I’ll let you in there.”
I closed the Judas hatch on the sour face of the brother and his giggling sister. I headed over to the courtyard entrance, pulling on longsleeves as I did. Once at the courtyard door, I opened it to invite the pair in. While the younger sister moved to step, her brother blocked her with an outstretched arm. “Where’s my knife, ninnyhammer?”
I rubbed an eye, responding, “When asking for something, politeness is usually recommended over insults.”
“It’s my knife!” His yell was loud enough to echo throughout the stone walls of the courtyard.
“Yes,” I agreed. “You’ll also remember I said I would return it to you when you had learned how to use it without hurting yourself.” I eyed his sibling. “Or unintentionally wounding others.”
I stepped back into the Hall, gesturing to its interior. “Now you may come in and we will commence lessons.” I swept my hand to the gatehouse, “Or you may leave.”
With a grumble that demonstrated his accomplished grasp of vulgarities, he stepped inside. The sister followed her brother without hesitation, giving me a toothsome grin as she did. Without further ado, or breakfast, I led them into the armory, a long room dedicated to an assortment of weapons that my uncle had collected over the years of his oceanic explorations of the Britannian Empire. It was long, with nothing but a strip of carpet lying over the floorboards that separated the vitrines of the collection. It doubled as a gymnasium of sorts, where I had taken my own lessons in fencing and physical education.
Recalling the urchin’s dirk as best I could, I looked over the displays to see which of the many blades might make a good substitute. While doing this I said, “I am Cole McDowell, Lord of McDowell Hall.”
“Aren’t you a pooter?” replied the brother. I wasn’t familiar with the term, but his derision was unmistakeable.
I turned to him, adjusting my longsleeves into some semblance of dignity. “No, young sir. This is the part where you tell me your name.”
“I’m Aaron,” he responded. Pointing to his sister, whose eyes were wondering across room’s contents, he added, “This is Erin.”
I blinked, their resemblance making it clear they had at least a mother in common. Presumably the one who named them. “You’re both named Erin?”
“You can call me A. She’s E. If that helps your keep track of who’s who.”
“And your last name?”
“Pershing.” Erin added this without thought, taken as she was with a display of polearms.
“Pershing,” I repeated, eyes on the brother.
“You deaf? Yah, Pershing.”
“You are named after the man who founded the Blackcoats?” History was one of the many subjects my uncle had made certain I was tutored in. Aaron Pershing, now deceased, had played a crucial role in the creation of Queen Gloriana’s modern Dunhill.
Aaron eyed me with the suspicion of someone expecting a joke to be sprung on them. “Who?”
My mind tried to reach for an explanation that would cause a mother to name her children after a lawgiver that most likely threw her into debtor’s prison. I suspect gin may have been a factor.
I abandoned this pointless conjecture by returning to my search. I quickly settled on a poniard, excellent for stabbing, but sturdy enough to block a larger, heavier blade. I unlocked the glass lid and extracted it and a waster.
I faced Aaron. “I must confess that I lost your dirk.” He began to curse what I’m sure he saw as my inevitable betrayal until I held the poniard out to him, its cross-guard balanced across my palm. “I believe you will find this a worthy substitute.”
While he clearly knew little of dueling or snickersnee, he clearly had an appraising eye for value. He slowly took the dagger and spoke, for the first time, with admiration. “Pukka.”
Inferring his approval, I snatched the poniard away and replaced it with the waster. “We’ll begin by learning with this.”
Disappointment curdled Aaron’s features as he stared at the wooden knife. In the moments we were chatting, I noticed that Erin had somehow gotten ahold of a blunderbuss which I crossed the room to take from her. “That is a separate set of lessons,” I chided, impressed at her quick work on the cabinet’s lock. “Let’s begin with the blades and perhaps we can move forward from there.” Replacing the musket in the vitrine she had pulled it from, I added, “Perhaps you can teach me a thing or two as well.”
So over the next several weeks I began instructing both Aaron and Erin on the finer points of knife wielding; effective feints, offensive techniques, and defensive parries. After the first few days, with the lesson completed, I led them to the kitchen where I’d make a breakfast of porridge for us. Aaron initially ridiculed my manhood for even this paltry demonstration of domestic skill, insults which struck me in my narrow chest. With my uncle’s predatory touch still haunting me, and my own deviant longing for Chand, it stung me in a way that I desperately tried to hide. This was quickly remedied, though, when Erin suggested I not provide him with any of the oatmeal that I cooked, which shut her brother right up. While blithesome, Erin was laconic, and her insights proved effective in teaching both of them. I began to worry what might happen to her when she grew to unmistakably a girl, living on the streets of Dunhill, but also knew that I was far from their trust to do anything about it.
As such, each day after our breakfast, I invented a reason for them to stay. Aaron often fell asleep in whatever furniture was available while his sister taught me how she had opened the vitrine with no key. I was familiar with the concept of lock-picking, but it wasn’t one of the subjects I was tutored in.
Eventually, they would leave the Hall, often scouting out into the busy streets around the manor to tell me if Rotella or any other Blackcoats were about. They had become so inclined to avoid the constables that they never asked me why I would be concerned.
One day, though, I opened a side door for the siblings’ daily exit to find Chand standing there, leaning jauntily on a gentleman’s cane. His smile lit out from under his aquiline nose as if he had been expected this entire time. His dark hair was barely contained by the pearl grey top hat that had replaced his old one, the rest of his clothes shopworn, but in fashionably subdued colors that complimented his honeyed skin. I do not know what he had been doing in the few weeks of his absence, but he had evidently been up to his old thievery, and successfully at that.
His smile shrank to an expectant grin. “May I enter?”
The siblings stared up at Chand’s tall form, then joyously cried his name and wrapped themselves around his legs in embrace. I was surprised by this warm welcome. I knew they had all worked under the same Red Hook taskmaster, but hadn’t been aware of any mutual affection.
Hobbling in with the urchins strapped around him like a favored cousin, Chand’s smile returned like the sun clearing Dunhill’s smog. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, prying Erin off and lifting her into his arms.
“Not at all,” I replied, unsmiling. I stared at Chand, expecting him to disappear with the siblings even as he walked further in.
Aaron let go of Chand’s leg to pull out the poniard he had only recently earned. “I know snickersnee now!”
Chand, with the sister held in one arm, handed his hat to me, which I took without thinking. “Knife fighting? Who’d be fool enough to teach a street rat like you that?”
Erin whispered in his ear, and Chand smiled at her. “Really? No flapdoodle?”
She giggled and buried her face in his hair. Feeling like a stranger in what was nominally my home, I hung his hat by the entrance and walked to the dining room. Breakfast had been finished and there were dishes to clean.
Before I even began this menial task, Chand was following, Aaron right behind. “You’ve been teaching these two how to handle a blade?”
I stopped what I was doing, trying to cool my hot feelings at Chand’s continued presence. I thought about my uncle and how I wished dearly that I’d had a knife when he had first come for me. “Every gentlemen and lady should know how to defend themselves.”
Chand looked down at A and E. “Did you hear that? He called you a gentleman and lady.” Erin giggled at this while Aaron brayed his mocking laugh.
Feeling ridiculed, I stared hard at Chand. “Perhaps I could show you a thing or two about being a gentleman.”
His smile faded to a grin of secrets. “Perhaps you could.”
I felt my cheeks flush at these words, but I pressed my lips together, fearing what might come out. After sorting out the rock tumbler of my mind, I decided to act as the good host. “Would you like some breakfast? I believe there’s still some porridge.”
Instead Chand set Erin down and ordered her and her brother to, “Help clear the table now. Quick like a bunny.”
At this simple command, the siblings moved spritely to clear the table, taking the bowls and spoons to the kitchen. I tried not to resent the sudden improvement in behavior Chand’s presence created.
With the children gone I looked in his dark eyes. “What brings you here?”
With the weight of Erin off of him, Chand hobbled a bit, leaning on his cane. Evidently he had not yet healed entirely from the tortures of the Red Hooks. I felt my hard judgement soften as I hoped there was no permanent damage.
Shifting his weight, he replied, “After I had found a place to tend to my wounds, I went to see what had become of Peyton’s gang.” Chand looked at me. “I wanted to make sure that without Peyton’s guidance they would not become more lost than they already were.”
“How noble of you.”
“Sure enough, the others were afraid enough of Peyton that they kept showing up to the same place to give the old codger his piece of that night’s take. I – ” he paused, then continued, “I reassured them that their place in the world had become a bit brighter with Peyton’s disappearance. But I did notice A and E were missing.”
“So you tracked them here?”
“Indeed. They didn’t show up to wait in line for Peyton, so I deduced they knew of his demise.”
“Murder,” I corrected Chand, my eyes feeling heavy and cold as coal. “You make it sounds as if he fell down. I murdered him.”
Chand tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, looking at me in new way. “I know. I was there. I wouldn’t call killing a man who would have me crucified ‘murder,’ so I thank you for that.”
Even at these small kind words I felt as naked as the open breast of my longsleeves. “If you wanted to find Aaron and Erin you could have just followed me home after our escape.”
“True,” Chand acquiesced.
“Then why did you not simply come with me and heal from your wounds here rather than in whatever four-penny coffin you climbed into?”
Chand pushed his hair out of his eyes, raising his chin to look at me. “I assumed you wanted something. So I left.”
“I do want something. I told you that.” I stepped closed to him, feeling my own skin heat as I did. “I think we can do great things together.”
Chand snorted into the narrow space between us. “Killing a few dozen Red Hooks and burning down a public house is hardly great.”
“Everything great starts small,” I answered, feeling his words depreciate the effort I had gone to in rescuing him.
As if pushed by magnetic torque, Chand stepped away from me and pulled out one of the wooden dining chairs. He sat, kicking his feet up to the table, his unassailable confidence returning. “Then what would you suggest we do next?”
I gave Chand my own smile then. Judging by the guarded change in his eyes, it did not have the warmth or charm his did. “I would suggest we start by robbing your parents.”
Read the next chapter here.
See the author’s published work here.
Related Posts
The Case with No Client, Conclusion Next Post:
The Dunhill Usurpers, Chapter 2
