The 7th of London (10 page)

Midnight laughed. “The beard is false. He’s a noble, but not Fairgate.”

“False?” Sev asked. “Who was it, then?”

“A friend,” Midnight answered.

“He looked like more than a friend,” Sev guessed. Midnight smirked but said nothing, ushering Sev into his office to look at the layouts of the palace. Sev was amazed as Midnight unrolled the floor plans.

“He might not even be a friend when he finds out what I really wanted these layouts for,” Midnight stated. Sev raised an eyebrow at Midnight’s declaration. The criminal shook his head once, brows furrowed before he leveled his gaze on Sev. “You spied on me. I warned you. That was your free pass. Next time… well, just make sure there is no next time.”

“I’m tired,” Sev stated truthfully and sighed, more unnerved by Midnight’s threat than he let on. “I’m not sure what’s goin’ on here. But if ye’re double-crossin’ me, ye will be sorry,” Sev vowed seriously.

“I’m playing straight with you, Seven. About everything,” Jack promised, the hint of threat still in his voice. “Don’t worry. Get some sleep.” Sev studied Midnight for a moment before he decided the criminal spoke truly, then ascended the stairs to his bedroom and blessed sleep.

K
ETTLEBENT
slammed the ebony doors of the Black Chapel, then stormed down the steps to the idling carriage awaiting him and Sutherland. He climbed in, his bulk rocking the cab of the mechanical hansom to wait for the duke.

Seconds later, his companion emerged from Midnight’s church and climbed into the seat opposite Kettlebent. The duke peeled the false beard from his face. “Thank God,” he sighed as he dropped the prosthetic into a small wooden case. “That thing makes me look like that weasel, Fairgate.”

“Why do you associate with that blackguard?” Kettlebent asked, ignoring the duke’s declarations.

“Middlenight?” Sutherland asked. “He’s not as bad as he plays at.”

“Midnight is a vicious bastard.” Kettlebent refused to use the man’s Christian name.

“He has been forced into the world he inhabits by his unfortunate circumstances,” Sutherland explained. “He’s a product of his environment, a violent response to a violent upbringing.”

“Very forward-thinking of you,” Kettlebent observed with unmasked sarcasm. “But for all your excuses, his association with this project jeopardizes all the work we’ve done.”

“Our ‘association’ is also responsible for many of the breakthroughs we’ve discovered as well as most of the specialized equipment we’ve acquired.”

“I won’t deny he’s useful,” Kettlebent allowed. “But I don’t trust him at all.”

The duke sighed. “I do. That’s all you need to know.”

“Why give him the palace diagrams? That’s a
huge
risk.”

“Mr. Kettlebent, I appreciate your concern.” Sutherland’s tone was soothing, cajoling. “Jonathan is a criminal, but he isn’t without honor.” The duke paused, staring out the window. “Above all, you can count on his mercenary attitude. He’s been paid to extract ill-gotten servants from the palace. That’s why he needed those maps.”

“Perhaps,” Kettlebent mumbled.

“What?” Sutherland chuckled. “Are you afraid that Jonathan will beat you to Fairgate’s spell book?”

“Is that so outrageous?”

“Of course it is,” the duke said dismissively. “Middlenight can’t get anywhere near the palace himself, and there is no way he knows about Fairgate’s book.” The two men sat in silence for a pregnant moment. “You’ll be able to slip away and secure the grimoire with little or no interference.”

“I hope you’re correct,” Kettlebent murmured.

“It will be easier than taking candy from a baby,” Sutherland assured him. Kettlebent had a bad feeling but was unable to articulate his concern. After another stretch of silence, the duke added, “This isn’t steamwork science. You sneak in, steal the book, and sneak out. Simplicity.”

“The road to heaven…,” Kettlebent mused. “We shouldn’t take anything for granted.” Sutherland nodded slowly in agreement. Kettlebent squinted behind his tinted goggles. The man in the stovepipe hat remained unconvinced that the duke had taken his words to heart.
One of the problems with the aristocracy
, he thought.
Overconfidence
. The clockwork cab clattered quietly along the cobblestone streets toward the Line and out of Blackside, though Kettlebent remained in a black mood, like the smog that clogged the air above.

“I
DON
’
T
need this,” Sev scoffed, holding the trolley ticket. “I can slip across the Line anytime I want.” Midnight nodded. The two men sat over a dinner of roast pheasant with Chinese noodles and vegetables a few days after Midnight’s meeting with Pointy Beard on the eve of Sev’s departure for the palace. Midnight ate his meal with sticks, but he laid them aside and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. Sev had learned the utensils were called chopsticks, but he remained unwilling to try to use them.

“Seven.” Midnight’s tone was falsely sweet. “I have every confidence in your abilities. It’s why I chose you, but we need to play this plainly.” Sev opened his mouth to protest, but Midnight interrupted, adding, “At first.” He picked up his wineglass and sipped at it. “We’ve discussed this. It’s extremely important for you to appear like any other servant applicant, and that means riding the trolley across the Line.”

Sev knew Midnight spoke true. The only honest way for Blacksiders to enter Fairside was on the trolley. The conveyance was the only way for day laborers, who worked in Fairside but were too poor to live there, to get back and forth. And the only way to secure passage aboard the trolley was with a ticket purchased by an employer and issued by the Minister of Transportation. Not even the horse-drawn omnibuses operated by the London General Omnibus Company could cross the Line, though they operated routes on both sides. The underground rails were similarly restricted. “Do you know how difficult it is to obtain one of these falsely?” Midnight plucked the ticket from Sev’s hand. The younger man nodded; it was next to impossible. Even a good forgery would cost dearly, and the ticket in Midnight’s hand was genuine.

“So I ride the trolley,” Sev conceded, turning his attention back to his meal. “When it stops at Charing Cross, I need t’find someone named Michaels.”

“And present him with this letter of recommendation from the Duchess of Inverness,” Midnight stated, handing Sev the sealed document. “He’ll take you to the palace and introduce you to Cartwright, who will question you mercilessly to test your qualifications.”

“I got it covered,” Sev assured him.

“I know.” Midnight raised one eyebrow. “After that it will simply be a matter of biding your time.”

“There’s nothin’ simple about this,” Sev observed.

“That you can recognize that fact is why you’ll succeed, my young friend.”

“I hope ye’re right, Jack.”

“Seven, I’m always right,” Midnight crooned. Sev couldn’t help but smirk at the villain’s vanity.

The two men finished their meals, and Xiang cleared the dishes after bringing brandy and the savory course, Angels on Horseback—bacon-wrapped clams.

“Ye’ll see to Henry?” Sev asked, concerned for his feathery friend.

“I take care of Hank,” Xiang interjected. “No worries, Mr. Seven.”

“Thanks, Xiang,” Sev answered and sipped his brandy, letting it spread its warmth through him. The small Chinaman exited with the dirty dishes. “Guess I’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Midnight asked. He popped an Angel in his mouth and washed it down with a swig of brandy. Sev shrugged. “Fancy a game o’billiards?”

“I’m pretty tired.” Sev faked a yawn, noting Midnight’s slip of diction, attributing it to the wine and brandy.

“Scared?”

“Not likely,” Sev returned, standing with his brandy.

“That’s the spirit.” Midnight stood also, then grabbed his snifter and the decanter of brandy.

“I’m not goin’ t’let ye win, ye know that, right?”

“I’m counting on it,” Midnight confirmed as they walked to the common room.

S
EV
had beaten Midnight twice before the villain had managed to turn the tables on his young guest. Midnight stayed up celebrating long after Sev turned in. The young man rose bright and early, long before his host, to prepare for his first day as a new person. He dressed in the clean clothes Xiang had lain out—a simple white shirt, dark trousers with bracers, and brushed leather shoes. A duffle bag rested on the floor beneath a heavy coat and hat, hanging from a peg. Sev said his good-byes to Henry before he snatched up all three articles and crept downstairs.

His nostrils were assailed with the scents of a proper breakfast. Xiang stood next to the table setting, a smile punctuating the deeply creased lines of the old man’s face. Sev wondered when the Chinaman slept.

“Eat, Mr. Sev,” the small man instructed. “Probably best you’ll eat for some time.” Sev didn’t argue, just sat down and tucked into the meal. Xiang beamed with pride for his young charge. “You take care of yourself,” Xiang ordered Sev as the young man cleaned his plate and his mouth.

“I will, Xiang.” Sev gripped the smaller man’s shoulder. “I promise.” The Chinaman’s eyes looked glossy and wet with emotion, completely contradictory to the dutiful, emotionless servant and instructor Sev had observed over the last couple of weeks. Unsettled by the manservant’s sudden emotion and unaccustomed to such displays of genuine feeling, Sev retreated hastily from Midnight’s church. He picked his way through Blackside toward the nearest trolley stop.

Even with his hat pulled low and the collar on his new coat turned up, Sev felt too exposed in the early morning sun. The currents of people flowed in equal directions, preparing for their days at work in the factories to the east or the posh district in the west. Sev followed the iron tracks barely inlaid among the uneven cobblestones. He felt as though everyone watched his every move, but surely that was paranoia brought on by his dangerous and imminent task.

As he moved swiftly but cautiously, he noticed one of Fervis’s men propped against the filthy brick wall of a nearby building. Sev would swear that the rat-faced man with the greasy moustache was following him, and he soon realized he was right. Sev ducked down an alley hoping to lose his pursuer, but when he emerged once again on the main thoroughfare, the man was right there. Sev drifted into a group of Blacksiders headed for the factories, and Fervis’s man elbowed his way toward Sev. The young man increased his speed as he broke off from the crowd. Fervis’s man shadowed Sev’s every move.

Panic gripped Sev, his chest tightening, his pulse quickening. He could feel sweat trickling the length of his spine as he focused on walking determinedly from the bustle. Every step he took was echoed by his pursuer. He searched for a spot to duck into, but he couldn’t break the man’s line of sight. From the corner of his eye, Sev caught movement as the mustached man signaled to someone to his left. The new pursuer nodded and took up a flanking position across the street from the first.
Damn
, Sev thought. Not even on the trolley yet, and things were going terribly wrong. Sev had no choice but to deal with this, and as he dashed along the walkway, an opportunity presented itself in the form of a narrow alley, which Sev ducked into. He scrabbled up to a second floor windowsill as he listened to the men’s footsteps growing closer.

Fervis’s men turned the corner and stopped, surprise evident on their filthy faces. Sev waited as they searched fruitlessly for him. He held his breath until both men were just beneath him, and then he dropped, knocking them to the stones. Without missing a beat, Sev regained his feet and slipped from the alley. He could hear the trolley clattering along its tracks, and instead of waiting for it at the nearest stop, he chased it and jumped aboard while it traveled.

Mustache and his companion emerged from the alley, searching frantically. Sev watched them without being too obvious, but his eyes locked with his pursuers’. Mustache slapped his buddy’s shoulder and pointed to Sev. The other man nodded, and they both sprinted after the trolley. The mechanical conveyance chugged steadily on its tracks as the two men closed the distance. The bigger man was growing winded quickly, but Mustache pushed steadily ahead. Sev tried to work his way farther onto the trolley, but it was packed with the early morning commuter crowd. He had nowhere to go. Mustache’s hat flew off, and Sev could see the sweat gathering on the man’s brow as he approached the rear of the trolley. His hand snapped out to grasp Sev’s pant leg.

The young man kicked and pulled, trying desperately to loosen Mustache’s grip, but the man gritted his teeth below his lip hair, snarling to hold on. Mustache stumbled and Sev slipped, almost losing his grip on the trolley with the added weight of the other man. Sev held onto the trolley for dear life as he kicked out with the foot not held by Mustache. Sev’s shoe connected with Mustache’s shoulder, and he stumbled a second time. This time his grip loosened, and he fell in the wake of the trolley, rolling across the cobblestones. From the ground, Mustache reached into his coat, and Sev was sure the man would shoot him off the trolley, but a crowd of people gathered to see if Mustache was injured, and, surrounded by so many witnesses, he abandoned whatever he had planned with what was in his coat. Sev let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and turned his attention to the front of the trolley and his destination. Despite his weeks of extensive training, he remained apprehensive at what awaited him in Fairside.