The Black Rose (7 page)

Jack tried it. It was bitter and not particularly pleasant, but he didn't want to make a fuss in front of Ruth, so he swallowed it in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. As soon as her back was turned, he spat as subtly as possible onto the floor, trying to clear the taste.

They deliberated, and then squeezed into seats at a nearby table. Ruth was drinking her pint at a considerable pace, and he felt obliged to keep up with her. It fizzled up his nostrils, and he had to suppress a splutter. The more he drank, the less he liked what he was drinking. Moreover, he felt himself becoming increasingly light-headed the further the froth reached down the inside of the flagon. The liquid made him feel uncomfortably full, too, as if his insides were a churning barrel. But Ruth seemed completely unaffected, so he soldiered on as best he could.

The people at the table quieted slightly, apparently all listening to a man in the center.

“There's rumors of strange folk around. Men in black cloaks who're runnin' a big business operation. Somethin' to do with the Goodwin factory. And a woman, a temptress, who comes and goes on the cold wind and beguiles men—”

“Ruth, I'm not feeling so good,” Jack said.

“You're not livin' in the country anymore, Tommy,” another across the table called. “This is Albion. There's no room for your farmer's fairy stories ‘ere.”

“Ruth, I'm really not feeling great.”

“Where were these men seen?” Ruth asked the first man, ignoring the interrupters.

But before she could get a reply, Jack had vomited onto the floor next to her.

The table erupted into jeers. Jack's head was spinning. He was aware of being pulled away from the table and guided out of the barroom and up the stairs. Ruth kicked open the door to their room and supported him onto the bed. He couldn't find the willpower to sit up straight. In his periphery, he saw Ruth tossing the murky contents of the basin out the window before positioning it under his dripping mouth.

For a few moments, Ruth was silent whilst Jack spat a little more into the basin. Then she broke into a laugh. “You didn't even manage one pint!”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack spluttered. He felt foolish and angry with himself for having put on this performance in front of Ruth, of all people.

“Well, I suppose you must've lost quite a lot of body weight this week… And we haven't been eating properly…”

“Yeah, let's go with that,” Jack replied, appreciative of her efforts to save some of his pride. He was more thankful still when Ruth came to sit next to him on the bed and placed an arm around him. “Do you think that guy knows anything useful about the Cult?”

“I don't know, but we can go back and ask him in a bit. Maybe…”

Jack was aware of the door opening and someone stepping inside. He and Ruth looked up, surprised.

In the doorway stood a sailor or, rather, the exact caricature of a sailor, with a heavily woven jumper, a thick raincoat and boots, a flat cap, and even a pipe, which protruded from his bearded face.

“Who are you?” Ruth demanded.

“For Davy Jones's sake, it's me,” the figure replied, fumbling with the hat and beard. A moment later, Sardâr's face emerged. “I've clearly got a little
too
into character.” His gaze moved to Jack, who was feebly crouched on the bed. He grunted in annoyance. “I've spent a week undercover in the presence of some of the slyest and sharpest men I've ever met, and meanwhile you've been drinking yourselves into a stupor! Come on, both of you, next door. We've got a lot to talk about.”

There was, it seemed, little work to be done in the goblin camp during the long haul of the winter season. With all the provisions collected and stored during the summer and autumn, the goblins were mainly preoccupied with keeping warm and vigilantly protecting their home. From slender wooden towers raised sporadically among tents, sentries held watch every night, always returning chilled to the core by the piercing wind.

For the most extreme climate Lucy had ever found herself in, the time they were spending there was frustratingly dull. She and varying combinations of the other Apollonians took excursions around the encampment, but, with little to occupy their attention other than what there was to see in Maht's tent, she always returned fairly soon afterwards. The matriarch, it seemed, dwelt in almost continual solitude, enshrined within her fur nest, pondering her ring of candles.

The one occupation Lucy found was when Maht's daughter, Doch, was awake. Appearing only five or six years old, she had wide blue eyes and an even wider mouth. Not remotely intimidated by the discovery that she now shared her home with four strangers, she had made a point of introducing herself to each of them. She had fixed Lucy with an expansive stare before announcing phonetically: “My name's Doch. What's yours?”

“Hi. I'm Lucy. Doch—that's a funny name.”

“No, you've got a funny name. Loo-see.”

Wandering around the encampment, Lucy became aware of a difference in Maht's household. Every other family she saw had either a father or an elder son, mostly in the service of the guards. During the winter months not having a man around probably didn't matter much, she supposed, but Maht must have had a hard time during the sowing and harvesting seasons.

She asked the goblin about it one evening. “Doch's father… What happened to him?”

Maht was sewing at this point. She pushed the needle through the fabric and took her time pulling the thread to its full length. “He left. It's not usual for the men here to leave, but that didn't stop him. He went to seek his fate elsewhere and left her… and me.”

Lucy felt a rush of affection for the woman. “Have you ever thought of finding someone else?” The question sounded stunted, even cruel.

Maht looked up from her sewing and smiled. “The women of my tribe are famously strong. We do not need men to command our lives. I can raise Doch by myself. The men can come and go, but we remain.”

As the affection mingled with pride, Lucy returned the smile.

Later, when the goblins were asleep, the group of Apollonians were crouched around the circle of candles. There had been little to talk about, so they had said little. Now, with no prospect of developments ahead of them, Lucy decided to find out more about their situation. “So who are the Cultists we're up against this time? Phaedra and Paethon?”

To Lucy's slight surprise, it was not Hakim, the fountain of knowledge, but Vince who answered. “They're twins. Girl and boy.”

“How do you know about them?”

Vince took a hefty swig from the wooden cup clutched in his fingers and put it to one side, rubbing his hands in front of the flames. “They're the reason I got involved with the Apollonians in the first place. My elder sister and I grew up on a council estate in Scotland, and she sometimes had to go away for days at a time. Then, one time, she disappeared.”

“She didn't come back?”

Vince's expression tautened. “Oh, she came back. She came back in a shoe box. That's when I met Isaac. He came and explained what had happened. She'd been on a humanitarian aid mission to a world ravaged by the Cult when they mounted a second attack. Those two—Phadrea and Paethon—were leading it, and they set fire to the land. My sister was burnt alive.”

He let out a long, low breath, shadows of candle flames flickering across his face. “They murdered her because she was trying to help the people they wanted to conquer. She did nothing to them. That's why I'm here, on this particular mission. I've wanted the chance to come face-to-face with them ever since I found out what they did. I want to make them pay.” Vince finished, his eyes glazed over.

Adâ and Hakim looked despondent. Lucy grimaced, wishing she hadn't asked.

“I've
finally
got some idea of what's going on,” Sardâr said. He had taken to his usual pacing before the fireplace, his shadow twisting in and out over the uneven wooden floor. The flickering light of a street lamp shone through the window. The other three Apollonians were crowded onto the bed, Bál still in his nightclothes.

“So where've you been this week?” Ruth asked.

“Undercover. I've been a courier, a clerk, a porter, a pickpocket, a debt collector, a sailor—and you have
no
idea how much criminal activity is going on under the surface of this city. I've chased up several leads which have turned out to be parts of completely separate undertakings, not relevant to the Cult at all, and I've been very tempted to intervene. Robberies, smuggling, fraud, blackmail, embezzlement—but we're here for a purpose, so I've let things lie. And now I think I've got enough evidence to give us an idea of how things stand.”

He stopped pacing, staring intently at the three of them. The reflection of flames from the fireplace shimmered across the left side of his face.

“As it turns out, by apparent chance, your workplaces have been linked with this. The prime object of my investigations”—he turned to Ruth—”has been your employer, Lady Osborne. She is a new presence in the city, who is apparently married to a very successful businessman. She has been in contact with several of the major manufacturing firms, one of which is”—he now turned to Jack and Bál—”your employer, Mister Goodwin of Goodwin Construction Limited—who, I might add, would fit very comfortably into the criminal underworld if he didn't have a family reputation to safeguard.”

“Well, I'm not surprised,” Bál snorted, “given the way he treats his workforce.”

Jack grimaced, all too aware that his one day off was swiftly drawing to a close.

“So you think this woman—
my
boss—is somehow connected to the Cult?” Ruth said.

“Yes, the timing of her arrival works out alongside the Cult's. Lady Osborne, whether or not that is her real name, seems to be overseeing the construction of something. What it is, exactly, I do not know. No one I have spoken to, even when their tongue has been loosened by a few drinks, could tell me anything about it. All I know, thanks to a cooperative dockside clerk I happened to come across, is that its eventual destination is upriver.” He fell silent.

The three on the bed exchanged looks. Jack was struck suddenly by how dirty they all were, having spent over a week in a smog-soaked city without washing properly. He thought he and Bál had looked bad, but Sardâr looked as if he'd been dragged through the countryside during an autumn thunderstorm. He had exchanged his sailor garments for some more generic ones, but these were barely cleaner.

“So I presume you want me to find out more, then?” Ruth prompted him.

“Yes. We have an advantage in that Lady Osborne has no idea who you really are, so you could be an ideal spy in the household. Be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary—well, out of the ordinary for Albion—and report back. I think we can safely assume the Cult hasn't got its hands on the Third Shard yet; otherwise they wouldn't be undercover. The top priority at the moment is to find out what is being made and where they're planning to take it. That might give a clue as to where the Shard is.”

Jack, Bál, and Ruth nodded. Despite the situation in which they and Sardâr found themselves increasingly submerged, Jack smirked. They had a direction and a purpose again.