A Study in Darkness (21 page)

But it wasn’t the ship who answered. There was a sepulchral croak from the rigging above. Nick looked up to see Gwilliam land in the rigging.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Mycroft muttered.

“An informant,” Nick replied. “And an ally. Fair winds, Gwilliam.”

Fair greeting, but ill winds
. The bird bobbed and gave another raucous croak.
The human is right, and your vessel
steers to safety. More ships wait in the direction the steersman tries to go. They have guns and flame. But no ships venture to the east
.

Nick put it together quickly, but not before a surge of anger brought him to his feet. “There’s an ambush waiting. Athena is trying to avoid it.”

Mycroft drew himself upright, casting the rook another curious glance. “No one knows where these supplies are bound.”

“Obviously someone does.” Nick’s mind had raced on ahead. The Schoolmaster had said their next destination was Exeter, but his note had given coordinates just outside Salisbury. Either one was southwest of London. He turned to Mycroft. “Where is a viable drop-off for the crates where no one will expect to see us?”

“Hampstead,” said Mycroft at once. “Or Harlow.”

Both were north of London, but closer in than their original destinations. “Are you certain those skies are clear?”

“Perhaps you should ask your bird. Or your ship.”

He felt Athena’s disgust.
Must I do everything?

You’re the shining treasure of magic and wonder
, Nick replied. Then he turned to Gwilliam. “Would you please scout for us until we land safely?”

Gwilliam made an odd sort of bow, and then flapped off with a sound like feathered thunder. Athena’s voice was wry.
Keep in mind they’re birds. If they spot a tasty bit of carrion, there’s no keeping them on task
.

Now there was an image he could have lived without. He felt the ship changing direction and turned to Digby. “Double the watch. We’re relying on feathered scouts.”

“Aye, Captain.” The tall man moved away.

Nick sat down, giving Mycroft a hard look. “Elias Jones said there was a traitor. He was right.”

“It appears so. Tell me more about that bird.”

“The ash rooks assist from time to time. They love metal and will trade their services for some bit of ornamentation. They don’t share all their reasons for working with the
Red Jack
, but they like my ship and they don’t like the steam
barons digging mines everywhere. We started to see them when a forest was cut down near the Welsh border. I think they must have nested there.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “How useful they must be for carrying information.”

Nick shrugged. “They talk to other birds, especially other crows and ravens, and so messages can be relayed easily over long distances. But they can’t be relied on to remember details, or why timeliness matters. Birds have their own priorities and they aren’t necessarily ours.”

Mycroft’s face fell. “Oh.”

Nick almost laughed.
Thought you had stumbled onto something you could exploit, did you?
“So what’s your role in all this? Why are you at Loch Ness?”

“I am a bureaucrat who is loyal to the Crown. An interesting enough job when the Steam Council has its own men in every position of influence. But as far as a revolutionary role goes, I’m afraid I merely push paper.”

Nick was out of patience for chess games. “Don’t play me for a fool. You’re not merely anything.”

Mycroft gave a dry chuckle. “Call me a repository, then. I absorb information like a sponge. I was with the rebels squeezing myself out to a handful of forward thinkers like myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“The problem with most revolutions is follow-through. Once Rome burns, someone has to pick up the pieces. If we sweep away the council’s supporters, who will take their place?”

A cold chill swept through Nick. “You’re forming a shadow government for when the Steam Council falls. That explains the remote location. You’re keeping your star players safe and secure, far away from the action.” With a glance down at the chess board, he suddenly noticed patterns he hadn’t seen before. His streetkeeper took Mycroft’s baron.

“Very good, Captain Niccolo.”

“And you trust me with that information?”

“I’m trusting you with my life as we speak. It’s a long way to the ground.”

“Why did you want Elias Jones so badly?”

Mycroft sucked his upper lip, moving one of his engines a few squares. “He believed he was part of a very deep game, playing one faction against another. We got that much out of him. He went to work for the Blue King, and ended up serving the Gold.”

“He nearly blew up your brother and niece.” Nick moved his king a square, making him a little safer.

“If that bomb failed, it was meant to.”

“Then why—”

“An explosion was enough. The goal wasn’t murder, but to kick over the rebel anthill and see who came running out.” Mycroft moved the engine again. “Explosions cause confusion, consternation, chaos. No one pours tea and goes back to the newspaper like nothing happened. Not even my brother. Not even if he appears to do so. Someone meant to put our pieces in motion and it worked. It’s up to us to double our vigilance. Your move, Captain.”

Pieces. Sherlock. Evie. The Schoolmaster. The
Red Jack
. Nick looked down at the board. The pattern had become a lot less comforting, especially when he thought about the Blue King’s weapons. It would have been easy—even sensible—to tell Mycroft Holmes what he’d seen, but instinct told him to keep his cards close to his vest. He didn’t quite trust the man—at least not yet. “Who is the traitor who relayed my ship’s position to council forces?”

“I don’t know.” The words sounded like they came at a cost. Ignorance was no doubt an unfamiliar experience. “I would like to say that it was Jasper Keating and his network of spies, or more of the Blue King’s forces, but I cannot be sure. This matter is a little like those Russian dolls, where you pull one apart only to find another inside. There are plots within plots.”

Nick reached for his streetkeeper.

“Think about that move, Captain,” Mycroft chided. “You’re about to put your queen in danger.”

Nick withdrew his hand. “You’re right.”

“But then sometimes we have to sacrifice our queen for the greater good.”

He thought of Evie, and the explosion, and the fact that
someone was pulling their strings. “There is no world where that kind of sacrifice is worth it.” He moved his king another square.

“Perhaps, and perhaps not.” Mycroft hopped his white streetkeeper over Nick’s Steamer. “Checkmate.”

THE WOMAN ON THE BED WAS DYING—THERE WAS NO DOUBT
about that. Someone had propped the single window open to relieve the stink, but it was a needless gesture. Half the panes were broken anyway, inviting the cold morning air to seep into the lodging house. The sun was a different matter. It wasn’t a bright day outside to begin with, and the angle of the building seemed to shoulder away any stray light with an unsociable shrug. Evelina could barely make out the face of the sick woman until she was halfway across the tiny room.

“They want her to go,” said the boy by the door, whose name she had learned was Gareth. His accent was pure gutter and he spoke quickly, so she had to pay attention if she wanted to catch the words. “Can’t pay for the bed anymore.”

What do you think I can do about it?
Evelina wondered. She had rented a room on the floor below, and Gareth slept in one of the houses nearby. He’d noticed her because she’d finally scrounged a job fixing the illegal generator hidden behind the brothel next door. After ten minutes’ conversation, Gareth had dragged her up here. Maybe he thought she could bring the woman back to life like a freshly oiled motor.
If only that were possible
.

Then again, anything Evelina could do had to be an improvement. She drew closer to the bed, giving in to the urge
to press her hand over her nose and mouth. The only sign of life was the labored rise and fall of the woman’s chest, each heave of the ribs accompanied by a wet rattle. It seemed a monstrous effort for so little air.

Evelina bent closer, her gorge threatening to rise at the stink of stale body fluids. She wrestled it back, searched for some sign of the woman’s identity, and failed. The straggle of sweat-plastered hair might have been gray or blond, and her face was so pale that it washed into the mattress cover. There were no sheets. It looked like she had lain down in all her clothes beneath the thin blanket—not uncommon in a place where anything out of one’s grasp was likely to disappear.

“I cleaned her up some,” said Gareth.

A roughness in his voice made her turn to look at the boy. His face was almost expressionless, but she could sense turmoil. He’d taken care of this woman, so she meant something—but what? “How do you know her?”

He raised a thin shoulder. It was hard to guess his age—thirteen, perhaps, or an underfed fifteen, with soft dark hair and eyes the color of autumn heather. Too frail to go to work on the docks, and too pretty for his own good. “Lacey worked for Mrs. Loren, like I did, before Miss Hyacinth came along. I did odd jobs. She worked upstairs.”

Evelina had never met either woman, but had heard Miss Hyacinth’s name. She was the abbess of the pleasure house with the broken generator. That meant Lacey had been a whore.

“She’s a friend, then,” Evelina said evenly.

“A friend, yeah. The sickness went to her chest.”

Consumption, she guessed. Her skin was gray and from the sound of it, Lacey’s lungs were already gone. Life was a matter of days or hours. “How can I help?” Evelina asked, keeping her voice gentle.

“You know what to do, right?” He looked her up and down, almost accusing.

Evelina’s insides clenched. She understood all too well what was going on. She was well fed—or had been up until a few weeks ago—her simple traveling clothes luxurious by
the local standards. She sounded educated and had useful skills. That made her one of the blessed, and by rights she should possess almost mythic abilities to make things right.

But what magic powers she had were useless against disease this far gone. She had called wild magic—and half the devas in London—to heal Nick’s ankle last spring, but simple injuries were another matter entirely. A raw sadness turned her cold, and she clutched her arms to keep in the heat. “I’ll sit with her if you like.”

“I can do that. I don’t need you to do that.” He sounded angry, like she was missing the obvious. “She needs medicine.”

Evelina closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the claustrophobia that was as much a part of this place as its dirty walls and broken windows. There was no way to block out the sound of the woman’s gurgling breath and the faint whimpers that spoke of a nightmare of pain. She longed for birdsong and the genteel clutter of Baker Street, or the high, airy chambers of her Grandmamma Holmes’s house, or even a circus ring. Someplace where people didn’t die abandoned like flies on a windowsill.

But Gareth wasn’t leaving his friend; he was trying to get her help. That was probably why he’d attached himself to Evelina in the first place. She looked like the well-meaning, easy mark who could be talked out of a shilling or two. Still, decency demanded that Evelina do something. “Very well. You stay. I’ll see if the apothecary has anything that might help her.”

“Good. That’s good.” Gareth stood by the doorway, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt.

Evelina’s throat hurt with the sadness that clung to him. “You should know that there’s a risk. She’s very weak. Even the smallest amount of medicine might be too much.”

He took a sudden interest in the view out the window, probably so that she couldn’t see his face. “Not bad if she goes peaceful, is it?”

“No.” Better than listening to those struggling breaths, each one a desperate battle for the fetid air. She picked up her carpetbag. It was heavy, but keeping it with her was
safer than leaving it in her room. Anything that could be sold was fair game around there. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He didn’t thank her and she didn’t expect it. That would have been too much for his young pride.

Outside the room, she let herself linger in the narrow corridor, sorting out her thoughts. It was dim here, too, the only light coming from tiny windows at either end of the long passage. The floors were bare of carpet, covered instead in a layer of grit and dust kittens that clung to the baseboards, the grimy drifts broken by the half-dozen identical doorways that opened into the hall. The place had been a fine house maybe a hundred years ago, but time had taken its dignity. None of the rooms were any larger than Lacey’s—or her own—and many held entire families who paid five shillings a week to share a bed. Evelina shuddered. It was no good trying to think here. She started for the stairway, careful to avoid the mildew staining the walls on either side.