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I like walking my dog at night. I hate running into other people.
Like everyone else, I try to avoid crowds since the Kansas City Flu. No one is certain how it passes from person to person, or if it really came from Kansas City, but we all know it didn’t come from a pig in China or a monkey in Africa. It’s American born and here to stay and lives in people. So my dog is of great comfort and companionship, while encounters with other night walkers are possibly fatal.
The street lamps still come on at night, though. Or most of them anyway. So me and the stranger see each other from a ways off. Maybe hoping it will be someone we recognize from the Beforetimes, me and the approaching stranger don’t turn away from each other, but move to opposite sides of the wide street. That’s one good thing about the slow apocalypse we find ourselves in – there’s no traffic.
We get close to each other in one of the dark hallways between burned out streetlights. The stranger clicks on a flashlight and hits me with it, kind enough not to shine the light in my eyes, but glancing the beam up and down my body. Probably checking for weapons. I don’t blame them; people have been killing each other over the stupidest things. I read about a shootout in the only Walmart left in town that’s inciting incident was an argument about the last tube of toothpaste. And everyone seems to have a gun. The firearms industry is one of the few that still thrives.
I’m not carrying, though. Owning a gun would be a bigger danger to myself than anyone else these days. So I take my hands out of my pockets and let the light sweep over us, holding Cujo’s leash, his high whining the only sound to be heard. The stranger clicks off the light. We don’t say anything and pass each other without word.
He’s about three steps behind me when I drop the leash and reach into my back pocket for the collapsible baton. It’s light and quick, but steel-cored, so when I bring it down on the stranger’s head it knocks them cold. I hit them a couple of more times while Cujo murders their tiny chihuahua. I can’t blame him. He hasn’t eaten in days.
I move quick, going through the stranger’s pockets, grabbing their wallet and whatever might be valuable. I find the pistol and throw it into the woods, then roll the body off the road. It looks like there’s enough cash for some grocery’s the next time my phone rings and I’m told it’s my turn to go to the ration station.
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I wished I had time to return to McDowell manor to properly stock myself on what promised to be an assault on the Red Hook stronghold. However, it sounded as if I had little time to find Chand. Unsheathing my rapier, I took a phial from my belt and poured its liquid down the scabbard. A contact poison, sheathing my blade coated it, guaranteeing its slightest scratch would mean death. After doing this, I undertook the rather more complicated process of loading my Kalthoff repeater from the cartridge box on my belt. Doing so reminded me of showing the process to Chand in Serpent & Wren and that brief moment of mutual interest.
Finding The Open Wicket was the easiest part of the night’s journey. A quick coin to a streetwalker and they pointed me in the inn’s direction. Regardless of what waited for me inside, the outside appeared as a thriving public house, its brick facade painted white and lit with torches. It was three stories, with bay windows lit with an orange glow, through which guests could be seen carousing. From a mounting pole hung a welcome sign displaying a small, open door within a large city gate. The green front door was open, drinking men spilling out onto the street.
I walked past these and headed towards the back. The place was bustling, maids taking orders, tables of boisterous patrons vying for their attention while musicians played from a mezzanine. Through the beer hall, the inn opened into a gambling den, patrons tossing dice and playing cards while Cyprian ladies encouraged them to reckless betting. Between the smoke, drink, and excitement, no one paid me much mind.
I walked the inn’s interior perimeter until I saw one hallway, unlit under a stairwell. Quickly dodging down its dark length, I followed it until it came to a solid metal door, its hinges on the other side, no handle. A small horizontal slot was set within it at eye level.
Even this casual evaluation of the door told me I would not force my way in. Instead, I took one of the number of phials from another case on my belt and knocked on the door. As I suspected, the horizontal slot rasped open, revealing the eyes of a pale-faced stranger on the other side. His bloodshot eyes quickly shifted across my person. He then bluntly asked, “Who the hell are you, fancy boy?”
I smiled as best I could, the malformed expression on my face becoming a fateful question. “Red Hook?”
“What’re you? Simple? Away with you.” The man spit at me through the grate. A quick side step avoided the rude projectile.
I returned the compliment by quickly putting my hand through the slot, crushing the phial between my gloved fingers and the metal on its other side. Exposed to oxygen, the phial spread its poison in the doorman’s face. Within a second he began to cough hoarsely. “What in God’s name – ?”
I didn’t let him finish, but explained, “You’ve been exposed to a lethal toxin. It is fast acting and you’ll be dead within minutes. Only I possess the antidote.” I paused to watch the man, wracked with coughs, to make sure he understood. “Try to raise the alarm and I leave. Try to fight me and I leave. Do anything but open this door now and I leave. You die. Do you understand?”
The doorman only took his eyes away from me when the wracking cough forced him. He came back up with tears in his eyes and drool on his lips. “You idiot, you’ll die if you come in here.”
“And you’ll die if I don’t.”
It only took a few more painful coughs for the coward to see my way. As I heard a series of locks being undone from the other side of the doors, I took the urchin’s dirk from my cloak. The door opened, revealing the doorman standing in a red coif, one hand on the portal, the other extended out. “Give me the remedy!”
I replied, “Certainly,” and stabbed him with the dirk where the shoulder meets the neck. He collapsed under the force of the attack, spouting blood as he went down, splashing crimson onto my glove. A shame, really. It was my favorite pair.
Leaving the dagger embedded in his neck, I drew my flintlock and rapier. Beyond the door was only small stone antechamber with a single hall carved from crude stone and lined with candles sitting atop human and animal skulls. With a foot, I closed the door behind me and then made my way into the macabre headquarters of the Red Hook mob.
Before I moved two steps, I heard the chirping of a mockingbird. I knew little of ornithology but knew the species wasn’t subterranean. I realized this was a subtle alarm, letting the Red Hooks know an intruder was present without having to reveal themselves. Perhaps this den of thieves was more than the gang of brutes I assumed them to be.
This hypothesis was immediately called into question by a huge man, broad shoulder, big-bellied and hairy, striving down the narrow hall. He carried a short, thick cudgel, perfect for the hall’s enclosed space. From behind his beard he bellowed, “I’ll crush your skull.”
Instead of listening to the brutes words, though, I watched him walk down the hallway. I noted his feet touched on no less than three areas that depressed as he walked across them. I watched him do this until he was nearly close enough to engage in melee.
That’s when I shot him. I wasn’t about to spar with this behemoth, poison blade or no, and even with the power of the Kalthoff’s shot he still staggered a few more paces towards me. His footing fell off its well-chosen path as he collapsed, resulting in a dozen darts shooting from the walls and embedding in his corpse.
The brute’s thick body hit the floor and I used it as a launch point, pushing myself to a wall and off the next, my soft-soled boots gripping as I bounced between them, avoiding the floor entirely. As I came close to the T-section at the end, two smaller thugs moved to follow their ogre, startling back as I landed between them. I fired another ball into one and sliced the other’s cheek with the rapier. One fell instantly and the other gurgled out words I couldn’t hear over the pistol’s report as he died from the poison.
I quickly looked down each direction of the T-intersection. One was lit with the skull-topped candles that stretched into the distance, the other empty and dark as Dunhill’s catacombs, complete with shelves inset into the walls, filled with piles of bones.
I picked up a smallsword from one of the downed thugs and slid it down the lit hallway, skittering it so it bounced between one wall to the next. True to my suspicions, it tripped across an invisible seam, causing the flames of the candles to leap impossibly high and gout the hallway with fire. I decided not to go that way.
I moved as quickly as quiet would allow down the darkened path, the empty eye sockets of the city’s martyrs following me. With the distant glow of the candles beginning to fade, I heard the howls of animals, somehow both tortured and vicious. In the narrow passage I at least knew which direction any guard animals would come from and reached into the quickly diminishing supply of my phial box.
Two vicious creatures came bounding down the hall. Long and lean, with mouths that appeared to be nothing but teeth, they moved faster than any of the Red Hooks. I protected my face with my cloak as I hurled the phial of etheric vapor at them mere yards before they would have set upon me. Running through the cloud, both animals were worked up into such a lather that they breathed it in deep, slowed, and stumbled to a halt inches from me.
Yes, I carry knockout gas. Out of the dozen or so vials I carry on me, I thought the mercy of one incapacitating agent might be useful.
As I waited for the vapor to dissipate, a man carrying chains with collars on the end came running down the hallway at me. Wailing in pain and vengeance, he swung the heavy leashes of his unconscious pets like a flail.
I stepped forward to bring myself inside that arc before it could connect and punched the handler with the basket-hilt of my rapier. He collapsed, sputtering blood and teeth, cursing me for murdering his “babies.” Crouching down before him, I tapped him with the hilt.
“They’ll live,” I assured him, “And so will you. If you tell me where the Red Hook keeps its prisoners.”
I kept a steely grip on my nerves as I heard the dogs snore and stir behind me. They’re movement showed the truth of my words to the Red Hook who pointed out the way when the Kalthoff’s muzzle came level with his nose.
The warren of catacombs I moved down echoed with the readying of unseen Red Hooks assembling to deal with my sudden threat. Unsurprisingly, the dog handler’s directions were incomplete or lies, but I found a long hall with closed doors on either side, the Judas hatch in each giving me hope this is where the prisoners were kept.
I moved from one door to the next, pulling open each hatch, looking through the embedded bars and calling for Chand. A few rooms appeared empty, while others held hordes of debtors, others emaciated ghouls hunched into corners chewing on bones.
After passing through this parade of man’s inhumanity to man, I stared into a room to see Chand, stripped to the waist, his bare flesh lashed and his hands tied to chain that hung from the ceiling. The pale fat man, Peyton, stood next to him, still wearing his brown derby, otherwise stripped to an undershirt soaked through with this own sweat. He set down the scourge he had been using to reach for a red hot brand.
I’m no lockpick, so I shot the door, the shock of metal colliding with metal adding to the repeater’s report. The latch destroyed, I kicked the door in. I would have liked to enjoy Peyton’s stunned expression, but I took what satisfaction I could in running him through with my sword.
I sheathed my blade, freeing a hand to wrestle Chand from the ceiling. He was taller than me and, at first, as limp as a Chinaman’s noodle, both of which made it impossible to lift him from the iron hook by which he hung. However, after a small eternity of fruitless wrestling, Chand’s eyes fluttered and he looked down at me with dawning recognition. “Hullo there troublemaker.” The words were weak, but held an odd fondness.
My hat fell off as I struggled to lift him from the hook, which may have been the only reason I heard him when he whispered, “Behind you.” I quickly turned to see an ax-wielding Red Hook enter the room. I lifted my flintlock, shot him dead, and returned to struggling with my rescue.
I instructed the waking Chand to lift his bindings from the hook, which he managed when I raised his weight. His unsuspended body fell across my shoulder, nearly collapsing both of us to the ground. I managed instead to sit him down against a nearby barrel that had numerous torture tools laid out on it.
As I freed Chand’s wrists he smiled at me in the way of the doomed. “You made a lot of noise. They’ll be here at any moment.”
“Then we’d best hurry.”
“I might have talked my way out of this if you hadn’t stumbled in here.” He smiled with a confidence that was mystifying to me.
“I think you’re overestimating your charms,” I told him as I undid his hands. He shrugged, conceding the point as I put his arm over my shoulder to lift him up.
As we hobbled past the corpse at the room’s exit Chand said, “I know that chap. He was alright.”
“Not anymore,” I growled as we exited, getting no more than a few yards down the hall before more Red Hooks brandishing weapons charged at us. I fired until the Kalthoff was empty, was then forced to drop Chand in order to defend us with my rapier, killing each man as their numbers set upon us.
While the funnel of the hall allowed the Red Hooks only to attack us a few at a time, I doubted my ability to make our escape with just my sword. With thugs laying dead from the wounds and poisons I inflicted on them, I turned to Chand, who had propped himself against the wall and was rubbing feeling back into his wrists and long fingers.
I pushed the repeater and cartridge box into his hands. “Do you remember this? How I showed you to load it?”
His expression was momentarily befuddled by the repeater’s configuration and the question, but then, thank the dark gods of Dunhill, he nodded. I turned with my blade back to defend our position.
I could hear more men and yells echo through the maze as they searched for us. At intervals, I would see some run past until one saw my shadow standing over the newly made corpses of their confederates. My hope that the criminals here were a cowardly and superstitious lot was dashed as the head man yelled and led his contingent down the hall, wielding hatchets, cleavers, knives, and other preferred tools for murder.
Their martial skills were clearly honed on the unsuspecting citizens of Dunhill as I was able to deal with them in three quick thrusts and a lunge. Still, I was running out of breath when more bullies poured into the narrow hall. Grateful as I’ve ever been for anything, I heard Chand say, “It’s ready.”
I snatched the repeater from his proffering hands. The three Red Hooks charging down the hall stopped as I aimed the pistol at them. With a satisfaction I was grateful that my kindly, departed parents would never see on my face, I pulled the trigger. There was a click, a spark, then nothing.
It was the Red Hooks turn to laugh as they recognized the misfire. I cursed and tossed the flintlock back to Chand, with a quick order of, “Try again.”
Muscles burning, one murderer nearly broke my guard before I stabbed him in the heart. With the increased noise and trail of bodies littering the hall, more Red Hooks noticed our location, but gathered at the end of the dungeon’s hall rather than charge down and face the same fate as their accomplices.
I panted heavily, feeling sweat soak every inch of me as I stood at guard. Hearing what I assumed were Red Hooks preparing for another charge, I said, “Every one of your thief brothers has assured me that I would die down here.”
Fumbling with the repeater, Chand said, “Is that so?”
“Indeed. And if you don’t recall my reload instructions properly you’ll prove them right.”
To his credit, my barb did not pause Chand’s tinkering. He only replied an epoch later with, “Then you’d better try again.” He tossed the flintlock back to me.
He did this as a Red Hook appeared at the mouth of the hall, a bottle of whale oil in hand, a burning rag stuffed into its spout. While a lesser man might have prayed, I poured my concentration into aiming at the cleverly improvised bomb.
If there are gods, they smiled on Chand and I as I fired the repeater, bursting the burning vessel, spreading its flaming contents onto the grenadier and, by the sound of the screams, several nearby thugs. The hall filled with new light, the smell of burning flesh, and screams.
Using this confusion, I handed the Kalthoff back to Chand, telling him, “Shoot anything that isn’t us.”
With those instructions, I picked him up with one arm, my poisoned blade in the other. I hauled both of us, Chand holding the flintlock high to keep its powder from the heat as we made our way through the crooked flames.
On the other side, confusion reigned. Several Red Hooks fled while others attempted to extinguish their burning comrades. The few that tried to stand against us were greeted with shots from Chand, breaking their ranks and making them easy prey for my blade. This set the thieves’ warren to buzzing like an angry wasps’ nest, the halls continuing to fill with smoke.
With confusion and speed on our side, I moved us as quickly as I could, giving Chand the opportunity to whisper in my ear, “Head to the roof.” Utterly dumbfounded by this, I had no reply, which Chand clearly saw as he provided more basic “Left,” or “Right,” instructions.
Whatever the Red Hooks were doing, the staircase we came to was unguarded. I began to climb it, pulling Chand up as he pushed with weakened feet. After a number of flights, the rough stone of the halls was replace with wooden boards, through which the bawdy sounds of The Open Wicket could be heard.
The stairs opened into the rafters of the tavern, revealing a garret with its joists partially uncovered, providing a space to view down into the gambling hall. Used by Red Hook cheats to spy on playing card hands, I’m sure, we could hear the merry sounds from below. These were transformed at the rough hands of the Red Hooks who pushed their way into the crowd, searching for Chand and I as they secured ground floor exits.
Seeing our escape routes being cut off, I asked, “What are we doing up here Chand?”
“Don’t be thick,” he replied, nodding to a dormer window that would, at least, take us outside. “I have a plan. Take us to the roof.”
Feeling that this would only trap us in a more precarious position, I ignored those instincts to trust my companion. I sheathed my rapier, then took out another phial from its box and hurled it down into the gambling hall. It was nothing more than a smoke bomb, but with the Red Hooks manhandling patrons and the miasmas’ sudden appearance, the panic from the catacombs spread into the rooms below. To add to this, I backhanded a hooded lamp onto the floor, starting a promising fire in the garret.
I kicked open the dormer window and hauled Chand out. As the fire in the rafters spread, I spotted why Chand had brought us here. Some enterprising thief had laid planks from the roof of The Open Wicket to the neighboring buildings. We balanced carefully across one, where on the other side I kicked it down into the alley below. From the new rooftop, there was another such plank, then another, leading across Dunhill’s gray-dust skyline.
When we had scrambled across enough of these, I lay Chand against a chimney to see if I could spy how we might descend to the streets. I was doing this when I heard him say in quiet whisper, “Why did you do this?”
I peered off the building’s edge, considering that we would most likely have to break into another building to make our way down. “Because they were going to kill you.”
“So?”
I pivoted away from the roof’s edge to stare at Chand. “So? Your Red Hook friends sent a couple of killers to Serpent & Wren for me. After that, I spoke with some of your fellow urchins. They made it clear you were going to die and die horribly.”
Chand shook his head. “How do you think they knew where to find you?”
I shrugged. “Because you told them, I would guess. Blame the entire incident with that child-beating ginhound on me so they wouldn’t punish you.” I looked at the bruises and cuts that decorated his flesh. “Sorry that didn’t work out.”
“You knew? I gave you up and you came to rescue me?”
I turned back to the street, for some reason unable to meet Chand’s gaze. “I didn’t know. I assumed you told them the truth. I can hardly blame you for that. Your only sin was having a meal with me after my robbery.” I reached up and realized I had lost my hat somewhere along the way. Suddenly quite tired, I sat next to Chand, our back’s against the chimney.
Chand stared at me in confusion, exasperation in his voice. “I don’t understand. Why rescue me? Why even forgive me?”
Watching Dunhill’s leaden sky begin to lighten, I considered putting my head on his shoulder. However, this seemed too intimate a gesture in his weakened state and I worried I might be taking advantage of him.
Instead I said, “Because I like you.” I smiled as I realized the red and oranges coloring Dunhill’s clouds weren’t from daybreak, but from The Open Wicket‘s spreading fire. Blackcoats scrambled in the streets towards the blaze.
I held up an arm, indicating the arson’s glow. “And I think we might do great things together.”
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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.
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
The first time I saw the rings of Saturn was through a home-made telescope she had set up in the yard. It seemed to me, like most everything she did, impossible. But when I looked through the eyepiece there they were, floating in the infinite black, one thing circling another, just like me and her.
For an audio reading, select the play button above.To read the first story, go here.
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 thetavern, 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.
