Whitechapel Gods (11 page)

Oliver cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. May I browse?”

“Suit yourself.” The shadowed eyes flicked to the paper Oliver still held beneath his arm. “Glad to see the younger folk keeping current.”

He swivelled without sound and vanished back into the rows of bookshelves. How had he not heard that ghastly gentleman approaching? He mentally reprimanded himself for such a lapse and retreated into the stacks.

The building from the outside appeared to lean some thirty degrees to its right, hanging over the alley and perhaps ultimately resting on its neighbour on the second or third storey. The inside conformed so perfectly to that configuration that Oliver wondered if perhaps the building had been built standing straight and had fallen over. The ceiling and walls were skewed at a disorienting angle; the rafters were steel beams thick enough to be of natural growth. The shelves were an eclectic collection of makes, styles, and states of disrepair, filled with cobweb-sheathed books arranged in no discernible order.

Oliver idly inspected the bookends and let his thoughts run. Was the crew in danger?
Likely not. The grey-suit just recognised me from this morning.
And the men captured yesterday had never seen the faces of Oliver’s crew. Bailey had made sure of that by keeping contact exclusively between the crew captains and himself. Hews had mentioned something about the vast knowledge of the man called Aaron, but…no, he had to assume the crew was safe for now, and even if they were spotted and unmasked, they could escape through the terrain of the Underbelly, which they all knew well. Old hats at criminal enterprise, they were, one and all.

No, not criminals. Rebels. Soldiers. They hadn’t even commented on their missing stipend.

The bell dinged again. Oliver ducked behind the shelf closest to the inward-slanting wall, squishing into a triangular space half his height. In the process he coated his hat and much of his left sleeve with abandoned cobwebs.

The crisp footfalls of well-tailored shoes sounded against the faint buzz of the electric light. The bell dinged again as the door swung closed.

“Fickin!” the new arrival shouted, much louder than necessary in the closed space. Oliver recognised it as the clicking voice of the grey-suited cloak. “Fickin, where’ve you got to?”

Oliver heard the proprietor answer: “Who is it? I’ve had quite enough interruptions for one…Oh. It’s you.”

“Hardly a proper greeting for one of my stature, Fickin. Have you no manners at all?”

“I hand mine out sparingly, Westerton. Now state your business or move on. I am in prayer right now.”

Westerton sounded a derisive grunt. “The Lady will forgive you. Did a man enter your shop?”

“Plenty of men enter my shop.”

“Just a few minutes past.”

“Sticky fellow. Tall like a willow.”

“That’s him. Where did he go?”

“What’s he done?”

“He is a rebel and a murderer. For your sake, I hope you are not concealing him.”

“Your accusations are unwarranted, and frankly, insulting, Westerton. He’s in the back. Browsing, he said.”

Oliver drew the derringer. Two shots, and small ones at that. What good would those do against a man who could be shot to death and be taking a sprightly stroll a few hours later?

The proprietor raised his voice again. “If he must be shot, please do it on the front steps.”

“Quiet!”

Conversation ceased. Only the faint taps of the cloak’s shoes remained. Oliver was sure he had that oversized weapon of his out. He fished in his pockets for his flick knife, and found it missing: he’d left it on the floor of the warehouse. He snatched a heavy book off the shelf instead, almost laughing at himself.
A book and a gun shorter than my index finger. Always prepared, eh?

A pile of books blocked the other end of his hiding spot, so he positioned himself to face the aisle he’d come from. His motion, though careful, stirred up the dust and the scent of paper and old leather.

The footsteps reached the aisle just beyond. Oliver raised the derringer, wishing it were a rifle. With only two shots, he would have to take his enemy through the eye or forehead. Any shot to the torso would probably end up lodged in springs and gears.

A gold glove appeared, followed by a grey trouser leg. Oliver’s hands tightened on the derringer.

The barrel of the man’s weapon poked into the space, followed by his face. The dull whirr of the man’s inner workings spread into the hole, buzzing icily in Oliver’s ears.

Go on, in the face.

Oliver sat frozen.

And then? Rush a man who can’t be killed wielding nothing but a book?

The cloak scanned the interior of the hole briefly, flicked his gun’s barrel at the floating dust particles, and then withdrew.

“He isn’t here.”

“You’re disturbing me again, Westerton.”

“Where is he?”

“He must have left. Probably robbed me as well. I was in
prayer,
Westerton. I didn’t hear.”

Oliver dared to breathe. How on earth had the man not seen him?

“Well, my boys will catch him if he’s taken to the street. The Brothers of Time thank you kindly for your service.”

“The Brothers of Creation thank you kindly for leaving me in peace.”

“You are a cantankerous fool, Fickin.”

“Then it seems
your
manners are also in limited supply. Now, will you be going or shall we continue this transgression against common etiquette?”

The little bell dinged. The muted noise of the street filtered in. The cloak spoke once more, with a dangerous edge in his tone.

“You have no clock, Fickin. It isn’t proper not to have a clock. People will talk, you know.”

The door closed. Silence descended. Oliver waited for the shop owner to retreat back into whatever room he took prayer in, but heard only the buzz of the electric lamp and the scritching of rats inside the walls.

He should get back on the street, he knew. Find the crew, locate Westerton and somehow detain or eliminate him. Otherwise, Oliver could not move safely in the open street. But how long to wait before attempting an exit? He couldn’t very well stay too long in the abode of a crow, but he had to give Westerton and his cronies time to move off a few blocks.

Eventually his cramping muscles decided for him, and he shuffled out of his place of concealment. Instantly, the proprietor was there, poking his gnarled head from behind a bookcase. Oliver’s fingers clenched on the derringer.

The old man smiled without guile. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the gun.

“I wondered if you had left or not,” he said. He shuffled silently up to Oliver and offered a hand. Oliver did nothing for a moment, waffling between a feeling of knotted suspicion and an inbred impulse to politeness. As the silence stretched, etiquette won the field. Oliver dropped his weapon casually in his pocket as he accepted the man’s hand.

His shake was frail, the skin seeming to swim on top of the bones without the intervening benefits of flesh and sinew.

“Grimsby Fickin, at your service.”

“John Bull, at yours, sir.”

The man winked. “Risqué to be using such a name, don’t you think? I don’t mind, though. I understand the old patriotism dies hard, just like the old religion. You’ll be taking that, then?”

Oliver blinked.
The book.

“Ah…certainly,” he replied congenially. “What are you asking for it?”

He reached out a hand to the book, which Oliver passed over to him. The man let the book fall open and flicked through several gold-coloured pages marked with angular symbols in thick black ink.

“This is a fine edition,” he said. “There’s real brass in the pages, you know. I can’t part with it for less than a crown.”

Oliver coughed up the requisite coins, mentally despairing at how light his pocket had become.

Mr. Fickin vanished the money into his clothing somewhere. Oliver noticed then that the man, as well as dressing all in black, wore no trousers. Instead, a canvas skirtlike garment hid his lower extremities. Smoke trickled idly from the man’s nose and ears, and he emitted an unpleasant, lingering heat.

“Good to see the younger generation taking an interest in scripture,” Fickin said. “You’ll be taught to read it only after you’ve taken your vows, but there is much to be learned through simply becoming familiar with the symbols.”

Oliver nodded as if he understood. He glanced down to find himself holding a copy of Atlas Hume’s
Summa Machina,
the sacred book of the golds and blacks.

Treat carefully with this one,
a little voice warned him, but the man seemed nice enough and a few minutes’ further delay seemed prudent, so Oliver embellished a tad.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been wondering what it’s about, you see. The
Guardian
rarely gets into specifics.”

“Of course,” said Fickin. He turned and led Oliver back through the stacks. “The bloody canaries print it. Bunch of self-important bureaucrats. I don’t know why the Lady keeps them around.”

Oliver’s interest piqued.
Yet more dissention? A lovely day this is, indeed.
“Beg pardon, sir, but isn’t that a bit blasphemous?”

The man snorted, shooting smoke out like the puff of a cigar. “Says who? Those fops are like their namesake: pretty to look at but fragile. Now, black! That’s the colour of
iron,
my lad, a sturdy and enterprising material worthy of emulation. That’s something a man can build a dynasty on.”

Oliver suffered a sudden chill.
Dynasty?
“Then, you have children, sir?”

The man halted his soundless floating and winked over his shoulder. “It’s not really mine.”

As they navigated to the rear of the shop, Oliver noticed increasing layers of dust on the floors, shelves, and rafters, undisturbed by the tread of man or rodent. The air also became increasingly thick and hot, and heavy winds meandered through the aisles, reminiscent of the skies around the Stack. Mr. Fickin led him to a mahogany door on the rear wall. It must have at one time been quite lavish, but now sported the first pits of rot on its panels, and dark burn marks around its edge.

The old man reached for the door handle, hesitated. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m aiding an accused murderer?”

I wasn’t going to bring it up, in fact.
“I’m no murderer, sir.”

He waved off the comment. “Likely you murdered Westerton himself. This would be his sixth time, I believe, and I wish him a dozen more. And you, lad: a young man who reads the
Guardian
and the scriptures
and
murders canaries in his spare time? A fine postulant, I say. Mighty fine.”

Oliver alternated between marveling that the rebellion’s great enemy could be so divided and marveling at his own near-mystical ability to draw paternal responses from aged men.

Fickin’s hand clenched and unclenched on the doorknob. “You wanted specifics, Mr. Bull. Well, what you are about to see is my own humble part of the Great Work.”

Choking back his excitement, Oliver answered, “I’m honoured, sir.”

He waved that away as well. “It seems the Good Lady favours you, my boy. You’ll find, once you have one, that the furnace”—he tapped his chest—“guides your decisions sometimes. You’ll learn to trust it. The Mother is quiet, true. She doesn’t demand things of you like her consort, but she still tells you what to do, if you listen.”

He turned the knob.

“And she’s telling me, furnace or no, that you’re ready.”

The door swung wide. Oliver staggered back, his hand shooting into his pocket and snaring his gun. Beyond the door loomed a monster, a grotesque giant of cast iron, reaching two storeys in height. In its centre hung a black globe twice the width of a man, studded everywhere with brass rivets and covered in bulbous glass eyes. From this central point issued a mangled array of limbs, ranging in form from humanoid to tentacular, tipped with claws and blades and spikes of steel. Lengths of chain tethered the creature to the ceiling, while the glow of open furnaces on all sides cast it in a hellish red light.

Fickin glided into the room, across a floor littered with tools and bits of scrap metal.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked.

Oliver could not find an answer. Fickin did not seem to expect one.

“It’s finished,” he said. “For near a fortnight now, finished.”

“What is it?” Oliver choked out.

“A child of the Great Lady,” Fickin said. “Incubated in the hands of her adopted son. These are her seeds, and when they are sufficient in number, they will roll out over the world and grow gardens for the Mother to dwell in. All the Earth will be made a paradise in the image of her great city.”

Oliver took a step back. The words escaped his mouth of their own accord. “A dynasty.”

Mr. Fickin looked up at the beast with tears in his eyes. “Now kneel with me, Mr. Bull. Pray to the Great Mother.”

Not waiting for a response, Fickin lowered himself closer to the ground. The skirt he wore flared out in a wide circle, revealing ominous bumps and edges.

“Blessed and holy Mother,” he began, “who loveth boundlessly…”

Oliver jumped as the furnaces in the room’s four corners flared, blasting him with heat.

“Praise to your sacred womb,” Fickin continued. “Praise to your Great Work.”

The furnaces flickered and their light changed from dull red to scorching orange and Oliver decided it was time to leave. He spun to find the door shut behind him.

He leapt for the knob. As his fingers closed over it a horrid electric heat shot up his arm, searing him through skin and bone. He screamed in pain and terror, plucking his hand away.

Fickin cried out suddenly: “Mother! You’re here! You’ve come to me.”

A sound like the tolling of a bell smothered the howl of the furnaces, fading away into a watery thrumming.

Fickin’s voice echoed as if heard from the end of a long pipe.

“We, your children, who love you to the coming of winter…”

Rigid with fright, Oliver watched as the shadows on the wall before him retreated before an intensifying light.

Reach for the door,
he urged himself.
Escape.