The 7th of London

Published by

Harmony Ink Press

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Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The 7th of London
Copyright © 2012 by Beau Schemery

Cover Art by Beau Schemery

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
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ISBN: 978-1-62380-099-4

Library Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-915-7

Digital Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-100-7

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

December 2012

My earliest heroes, people who profoundly influenced me, were men who inspired imagination and creativity. They were storytellers and artists in very different mediums. Those men, in no particular order, were Jim Henson, Stan Lee, and Walt Disney. All giants in their fields, and the things they created were wonderful things to me. I’d like to thank them each for the inspiration they offered.

But this book is not for them. This book is for my mother and father. Two people who weren’t afraid to let a weird kid be a weird kid without judgment or ridicule. If it hadn’t been for not only their tolerance but their encouragement, I may have stifled the imagination that got me to this point.

Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. This one is for you.

S
EV
pulled the collar of his secondhand military coat up and wrapped his scarf tighter to block the cold November wind whipping through the streets of London’s Blackside. Sev hated the cold almost as much as he hated the smoke-heavy air this side of the city. Victoria had the slums cut off in 1861. Just before the death of Albert. In whispers they called that period the great spiral. Sev didn’t get the reference, but he understood the intent. The queen’s mum died, and things started to go wrong. Now it was 1865, and Sev slipped in and out of the throng on King Street. He’d been following the man in the stovepipe hat for a few blocks, blending into the shadows to observe his prey. The once-crimson military jacket he wore was almost black with wear from years on the street, but that suited Sev just fine. He knew what it felt like to get noticed. It hurt more often than not, and Sev’d had enough hurt for two lifetimes.

The man Sev trailed was tall and oddly built. His arms seemed too long for his body; his legs towered, but he moved with mechanical purpose. He wore goggles beneath his stovepipe hat and had a beard as black as night to match his clothes. Sev had been watching the man for more than a week now and was completely intrigued by the dark man’s strange errands. Something about the man’s movement seemed wrong. Sev couldn’t explain it, but he knew to trust his instincts, and there might be money in it for him if he told the right person. Sev needed money if he ever wanted to escape Blackside, and he desperately wanted freedom. He’d heard stories of the colonies and how someone with strength and determination could make a living despite the circumstances of his birth. If there were even a chance that was true, it was a chance he was willing to take. The man looked toward the shadows that hid Sev, and Sev pulled his newsboy hat down to shield his eyes. He looked in the window of the bake shop, feigning interest in the window’s contents. Glancing at the emerald-green eyes of his reflection, he pushed his too-long burgundy locks behind his ear before he allowed his gaze to dart back to the dark stranger. He waited for the gangly man to turn the corner before leaving his perch to follow.

Sev had grown up on these streets. His parents emigrated in 1845 like many others during the potato famine in their homeland, and Sev was born a few years after. He could barely remember how happy he’d been as a small child with his family. Although he remembered being branded like it was only yesterday. Funny how the pain could remain so vivid while the contentment faded so easily. Sev escaped after four years of hellish labor and horrific circumstances. Freedom should inspire pleasant feelings, but when he thought back to that day in 1861 when he’d escaped and took Lord Fervis’s eye, his chest tightened with guilt and regret. Sev barely remembered his mother. She’d died in Fervis’s factory when Sev was scarcely nine.

The city was more of a mother to him now, and he knew her streets, could dash along them without thought and know exactly where he was at any given time. Sev prided himself on not being seen. The skill was born of necessity: trying to avoid detection by the Coal-Eaters, Scotland Yard, and Fervis’s Footmen, Blackside’s own police force. Sev spent more time in shadow than in light and excelled at remaining unnoticed. It kept him alive. He stole some things he needed, sold information to get things he couldn’t, all the while trying to set something aside for his escape. Not to mention trying to stand up for the factory orphans, making sure those who tried to take advantage of them met with unfortunate accidents. If only someone had been there for him and his siblings. It wasn’t an ideal existence, dashing from shadow to shadow and avoiding observation, but it beat living in the workhouses and factories like Fervis’s Auto-Matic Cobblery, which sprang up in Blackside, and which Victoria was rumored to have encouraged. Sev would rather die than return to a place like that, and he had no intention of dying. The young Irishman knew, without a doubt, after what he’d done, showing his face anywhere near a factory would be a death sentence.

Sev wasn’t sure if the queen’s intentions were good when she established London’s factory district, and he didn’t care. It was what it was, but as soon as the filth the industries spewed into the air started to encroach on the affluent portion of the city, she’d commissioned giant fans to be placed along the division, keeping the filth in the air over the filth in the streets and away from the nobles and high society. Sev paused on the edge of a roof, hitching up his oversized trousers, reminding himself to tighten the bracers on his shoulders. He regarded the stranger beyond the toes of his boots, which he’d mended more times than he could remember while desperately keeping a lookout for a new pair. The thought brought memories of his father, and Sev swallowed against the swell of feelings still strong after so many years.

The dark man dashed down another alleyway, and Sev skipped along the rooftop following the man’s every move. He loosed the first few buttons of the double row that led down his jacket despite the chill night. The garment beneath was filthy, and he longed to switch it out for his other shirt awaiting him in the small hideout he maintained above the Royal Museum.

Sev’s ability to avoid detection allowed him to pass easily above or below the guarded lines between Blackside and Fairside. He didn’t have much, but he aspired to something more. He managed to slip from his attic hideout into the museum from time to time and had forced himself to learn to read, sort of; he still had a bit of trouble. His thoughts drifted to Henry, the owlet he’d nursed back to health a few months ago. They shared his attic room. Some other streeters, kids who lived as he did, had killed Henry’s mother for food, leaving the tiny owl orphaned and alone. Sev couldn’t allow the tiny creature to starve to death and had saved the little owl chick. Henry hadn’t left Sev’s nest since.

The dark man ducked into Curtis’s Mercantile, and Sev paused, watching from above. He observed the tall man purchase an odd variety of items: cloth, metal, coal, gears, food, water, and oil. The man didn’t leave with the items, and Sev assumed they’d be delivered later.
To where?
he wondered.

He’d watched the man speak with an eclectic group of people throughout the week as well: the nobleman Sutherland; the criminal, Midnight; a prominent madam; three floor foremen from various industries; and a duchess. Sev tried to piece the connections together but could spot no obvious correlation. The stranger dashed ahead once more, and Sev lost sight of the man. Sev cursed and forced himself to run faster, turning the corner only to find an empty wall. The dark stranger was nowhere to be found. Sev scanned the alley for any means of egress but detected none. He dropped to the ground.
Nothing
, he thought.
He’s just gone.
Sev removed his hat and scratched his head. Someone shouted from the alley’s entrance, and Sev scrambled up a drainpipe onto the opposite wall.

Ten minutes later, Sev dropped into an alley that fed onto Cheapside. The street used to be primarily a produce market until Victoria cut Blackside off, making Cheapside the center of commerce for the entire east side. Sev picked his way down the street past the stalls and tents, looking for Montcour’s cart. The Frenchman had sold Sev the arm-mounted crossbow he never traveled without. It was one of his most prized possessions, along with the cutlass he had won in a poker game against someone who may or may not have been the pirate Parr a few years ago, just after Sev had escaped Fervis. Sev always carried the simple but well-made sword and the hidden crossbow. The young Irishman searched for the Frenchman, who’d emigrated after the Crimean War, just before Victoria ordered the evacuation of the lower classes from the west side. Renee Montcour had a variety of clockwork mechanisms of various quality and questionable acquisition. As Sev walked east, he searched for the Frenchman’s stall and found it somewhere just beyond King Street as usual. The cart expanded into a traveling storefront with a tatty awning. Sev sidled up to the cart, now open for business, and inspected Monty’s recent acquisitions. None of the pieces interested Sev, and he sighed. Montcour appeared from behind the curtains at the sound.

“Monsieur Sept,” he said in greeting. “It is so good to see you again.” The man’s accent remained thick, and it had taken Sev some time to get used to. It didn’t help that the man spoke faster than an auction house master of ceremonies.

“Monty, how are ye?” Sev asked, his Irish inflection still detectable. Though he’d grown up in England, he’d spent his formative years in the company of his countrymen. Most of the workers at Fervis’s Cobblery were Irish as well, and Sev had adopted his home country’s inflection as well as his people’s inherent stubborn disposition.

“Bon,” the Frenchman answered. “What are you looking for today, mon ami?”

“Have y’found any o’them clockwork pistols yet?”