As the crowds thinned near the slums of Gallowgate, Chand asked quietly and not without anger, “So is this what you do? Rob thieves? I was wondering how someone so charmless found the coin to drink out most nights.”

I side-eyed him, pretending the comment on my personality didn’t sting. “As opposed to robbing the hapless who only want to conduct their lives without fear of the Requiter’s axe?”

Chand stopped. He handled his low top hat, pushing it back into shape, his dark eyes reevaluating me. “Is that what you think of those men? All gathered amongst themselves at a molly house?”

I looked up at him, wondering where he stood on the map of the Empire’s constant sins. Thinking of my uncle’s predilections and the line of shavers in the alley, I replied, “I didn’t see any children there. So yes.”

Chand brooded with, “Oh, aren’t you a clever one?” He turned me back down the street. “Come on. The least you can do is buy me a meal.”

Back in Serpent & Wren I did just that, Chand joining me at a corner table. I slid into my seat, hidden behind his taller frame as he charmed the waitress with his usual bright smile and ordered for both of us. In addition to wine, he ordered pheasants, potatoes, roasted meat with vegetables and, worst of all, sauerkraut. I briefly considered lacing his food with one of poisons I carried in my spare cartridge box, but decided against it.

Instead I filled my pipe as I said, “Awfully presumptuous of you. That’s more than either of us order on any given night.”

Chand’s smile increased by a few candelas. “Been watching me have you?”

I hoped the dim light of our corner hid my blushing, so much so that I hesitated in lighting my pipe from the table candle, chewing on the long stem. Chand inspected me, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing? You look like a child pretending to be a gentleman with that pipe.”

Obstinate, I reached for the candle whether or not it showed my burning cheeks. “I’m hardly a child and the smoke helps me relax.”

Chand laughed at me, something I was not accustomed. “Why do you need to relax? I’ve seen you idling in here night after night.” I puffed on the pipe instead of answering, trying to keep the thoughts of the Blackcoats and interred uncles out of my head.

Nevertheless, Chand discerned quickly, “You’re in some kind of trouble.” He stared at me while I studiously avoided eye contact. “Is that why you robbed Peyton? The family holdings running dry?” Chand’s constant, persistent, and accurate observations were continuing to rush blood to my face, making me feel as if the pipe I was sucking on fed me fire.

I was saved from having to answer his question by the return of the waitress with wine and two cups. She giggled and swatted Chand’s hand away as he pretended to pinch her bottom.

Alone again, Chand eyed me. “Is that why you’re walking around with a small arsenal?”

“A gentleman,” I used the word to indicate myself, “is always prepared to defend himself. Seems you should be grateful for that.”

Chand’s lipped curled in a droll smirk “Is that so?” I couldn’t tell if he was amused by the idea that I was pretending to be a gentleman or that he should be grateful. Either way, he snatched my pipe from me and puffed on it lightly. “Well, that’s quite a flintlock you’ve got. I’ve never seen its like before.”

Annoyed at his quick theft of my pipe and proud that I possessed something that interested him, I placed the Kalthoff on the table. Chand admired it while ignoring the implied threat. He pointed at the pistol, tracing the barrels with the pipe’s stem along to the convex sphere at its side. “What’s this all about then?”

Unable to hide my pride at the weapon or my knowledge of it, I demonstrated how the Kalthoff stored powder in the rounded container next to the lock and that the capped barrel under the muzzle was a ball magazine. A testament to his quick wit, Chand deduced, “So it can fire multiple times without being reloaded?”

I answered, “Yes,” and demonstrated the reload process, how the powder and balls would be placed, and how rotating the trigger guard cocked it.

“And how many times can it fire as such?”

“Seven,” I answered.

“Astounding. I wonder why the Blackcoats don’t carry them.”

“Some do. But the weapon is too fine a craftsmanship for every lowly constable to be issued one.” With Chand leaning over to inspect the firearm, I snatched my pipe back.

He grinned at my own deftness, but it just as quickly disappeared. “Well, mate, if you’re trying to solve your problems through robbery, you picked the wrong mark.”

I puffed on the pipe. “Why do you say that?”

“Peyton’s with the Red Hook mob.”

I blew a long stream of smoke to cover my ignorance. “So?”

Chand filled his cup from the bottle, drained it, refilled it again, eyeing me the entire time. “You eejit. You don’t even know you robbed the most dangerous gang in Dunhill.”

Remembering my uncle’s abuse of me I reached for the bottle. “I’m supposed to be afraid of a group that hustles and enslaves children?”

“That’s just Peyton. He might be an old ginhound, but he’s a Red Hook from back before Gloriana was queen. The mob has dangerous men and they aren’t going to let one of their cardinals being robbed pass.”

Tired of being the one on the answering part of the conversation, I asked, “So if you admire this group of bullies so much, why do they have you standing in line with the rest of the orphans? Shouldn’t someone your age have graduated to higher ranks?”

Chand gestured to his dark features. “Why do you think?”

I took the pipe from my mouth, pretending to give the question some thought. I pointed its stem at him. “You’re too handsome?”

Chand’s anger disappeared in burst of laughter, slapping the table so the wine bottled danced. “Oh-ho, he shows some charm.” He slugged down his own wine and I thought I could detect his own cheeks reddening. “No, I’m afraid the overlords of the Red Hook are immune to my good looks. They’ll never let a wog officially be a member of the ranks.”

“Then why work with them? Or put up with that bully with the whip? He seems to save it just for you.”

Chand laughed, more lightly, less sincerely. “It’s adorable you think I have a choice.” He unconsciously touched his brow where one of the taskmaster’s blows had landed. “I’d rather get knocked about from time to time then end up at the bottom of the Tamesis.” That river’s murky waters had covered many crimes.

The waitress arrived with our first course. Perhaps sensing the topic had darkened, she quickened away. I flipped a coin across the table. “Give that to her when she comes back with the pheasant. Maybe she’ll smile at you again.” Chand only stared sourly at it, then back to me. I couldn’t resist needling him with, “So you work for this Red Hook because you’re afraid of them?”

Chand’s jaw tightened at its joints, betraying the grinding of teeth. “I pay them a percentage for protection.”

“Protection from them.”

“And the Blackcoats. Some of it makes its way into their pockets so they look the other way. As long as we don’t cause too much trouble.”

“Really?” The penny dreadfuls I read has always cast the Blackcoats as paragons of justice and protectors of the weak. Rotella certainly had the right man under suspicion for my uncle’s murder.

Chand began digging into our meal with his hands. Between mouthfuls, he answered, “I have to be more careful than most.”

I drank more wine, knowing I should eat to soak it up, but enjoying feeling the warmth from something other than embarrassment. “So how long till you end up working for one of those shavers you stand in line with? Just because his skin is more fair than yours.”

My teasing resulted in silence. I watched him while mostly drinking wine, waiting for him to pick up the conversation until he didn’t. He began to rush through the meal.

Not wanting Chand to leave I asked, “How did you end up in Dunhill? Doing such dastardly work?” I added the last adjective in the hopes it would appeal to his obvious delight in being a scoundrel.

The question did not improve his mood. “My mother was an ayah, brought over from the subcontinent. She got herself into a fix with her master. She managed to hide who my father was for nearly a decade before his wife’s suspicions got to be too much and she cast us out. Been a tramp since.”

While alive, my father had been kindly, so I had difficulty envisioning a man so hard that he would allow his own son to be thrown out onto the cold cobblestones of Dunhill. This inspired me to ask, “Who is your father? Perhaps we can get a piece of the inheritance that is due you.”

That stopped Chand’s quick and greasy eating, him leveling a gaze at me that burned in the shadows of our corner table. “Look, mate – “

“I told you my name is Cole.”

“Don’t remind me. I don’t need to know your name and you don’t need to know mine.”

“Everyone here knows your name, Chand.”

Chand’s gaze sharpened on me as if I had just told him he was in danger. Eventually he said, “I think it’s time for me to go.” He brushed his hands together scattering crumbs then reached for a napkin to wipe the grease from his face. I noticed his long, tapered fingers, the quickness of his stealthy livelihood inhabiting them.

Emboldened by the wine I asked, “Do you want company?”

That paused him, giving me hope. There was no reason not to take him back to McDowell manor. I considered mentioning its many comfortable and empty beds before Chand responded, “I think we’ve risked enough being seen together like this.” With that, he stood.

Not understanding I said, “Don’t be silly – “

“Don’t be an idiot,” Chand interrupted. “If Peyton asks around and anyone says they saw us together, I’ll be lucky to see the next morning.” Disappointed, but seeing his point, I watched without a word as he flipped on his cloak and grabbed his battered top hat. “You seem nice enough, mate.” He flashed his smile one more time before adding, “Stay away from me.”

Then he left. 

McDowell Hall was particularly cold and empty that evening, only the Blackcoats I snuck past and my uncle’s ghost to keep me company. Regardless of the constabulary’s desire to speak with me, I continued to sneak out and visit Serpent & Wren almost nightly, hoping to see Chand. I didn’t. The tavern continued to be filled with its parade of drunks and rotters, my table only visited by the occasional prostitute that I was tempted by, but sent on their way.

I caught snatches of the staff referring to me as the, “gloomy ghost.” I appreciated the alliteration if nothing else.

After several nights with no sign of Chand I pondered using my evening to roam Dunhill in search of another pub. My considerations were halted by the entrance of two men. I was fortunate that I was in my corner when I spotted the crimson lining of each of their cloaks. Remembering Chand’s comments about the Red Hook, I sank deeper into the shadows around my table as they eyed the tavern’s inhabitants from underneath their cowls.

Both men were armed, which was not strange at Serpent & Wren nor anywhere in all of Dunhill for that matter. However, one had the hard look of a man who knew how to use those weapons, his scarred nose a testament to the painful lessons learned in such matters.

I surprised the waitress by slipping out of my corner to quickly pay my bill. I was barely quick enough to disappear out the door before the barkeep pointed me out.

I knew this part of Dunhill as well as any Red Hook so it was easy to lose the killers in its narrow streets and winding alleys. Eventually, I found my way to Gallowgate. I kept an eye out for anyone dressed similarly to the enforcers at Serpent & Wren, biding my time, waiting for Peyton to visit his alley and collect dues from his urchin crew. Even as it passed midnight, though, and the little larcenists began to gather, the ginhound did not appear.

When a younger Red Hook, a skinny lad no older than most of the cutpurses, appeared and began collecting dues, I knew Peyton wouldn’t show. I swept around the alley, approaching the urchins from the darkness beyond the street lamps. In my dark coat and hat I was nearly upon them before one sharp-eyed tramp spotted me and raised the alarm. Clearly practiced at avoiding Blackcoats, the gang scattered, leaving me only able to trap two against the brick wall of the alley.

One of the little daubers actually pulled a dirk from his vest, imposing himself between me and his friend. With the street lamps now behind me, I doubt he could see me smile. “There’s no need for that,” I said, “I just want to know where Peyton is.”

The knife-wielder, a pockmarked, emaciated redhead, proved more able at profanities than melee combat. When his stream of vulgarities showing no signs of stopping, I grabbed his wrist and took the knife from him. Pushing him back into the other, he extended a hand to protect them. With their dirty, wide faces and light eyes, they might have been siblings.

I disappeared the knife into one of my cloak’s many pockets. “I repeat my question. Where’s Peyton?”

More cursing followed, but I was able to translate it: “Why do you care?”

I stared at the pair, tempted to intimidate them into submission. Then I felt the chill in the air and noticed the many patches and holes in their clothes.

I produced a Dunhill crown from my purse, holding the gold coin between us. “Notice anyone missing from your line up tonight?”

“Peyton ain’t here you saucebox.” said the eldest. Despite his curse he eyed the coin.

“Cheeky,” I couldn’t help but smile. “Anyone else?”

“Eh, right, you were the one working with Chand to rob Peyton.” He clutch his tiny fist as if he wished he still had his blade. “We all paid for that.”

“Chand and I aren’t partners.”

Both of them spit at me, the eldest more successfully managing saliva. “If you aren’t working with him, why do you care he isn’t here?”

I held the coin in the air long enough to give them a good look at it while I plumbed my own depths to come up with an honest answer. “Because I like him.”

Even with the promise of gold, I could see the reluctance pool in their eyes. I changed tact. “Do you like Peyton?” No answer came forth, but I could see their reluctance flow into fear. “If you tell me where Peyton and Chand are, I’ll give you the crown. And I give you my word you’ll never see Peyton again.”

From behind, the younger urchin finally spoke in the high voice of a frightened girl. “Do you promise?”

“Yes. And that is the closest thing you’ll get to an iron-clad oath this side of the River Styx.”

Nudged on by his sister, the eldest looked from her to me, then said, “They’re in the Red Hook lair. Peyton’s giving Chand a slow death for betraying the mob.”

At these words the mercy I felt for the pair threatened to boil into a rage that needed another outlet. “Where is this lair?”

Staring firmly at the crown now, the eldest rushed into, “There’s an inn, close to the city walls, called The Open Wicket. There’s a barred door in the back. If Peyton has him, he’s there.”

Specific enough instructions, I decided. I produced another coin, giving one to each. With that, I turned to walk away.

“Hey!” the eldest yelled. “What about my knife, you ninnyhammer?”

I couldn’t help but admire the impertinence of the little saltmouth. “Come by McDowell Hall in a few days. I’ll give you lessons on how to use it. Once you convince me you can possess it without hurting yourself, I’ll return it.”

With the urchins jutting chins at me, I left them with the gold and a promise I looked forward to keeping.

To read the previous chapter, go here.

See the author’s published work here.

Related Posts

• The Dunhill Usurpers, Chapter 4

• 

  Trickery

• 

  The Dunhill Usurpers, Chapter 3