Whitechapel Gods (13 page)

“Something troubling you, Sebastian?” he asked.

Sebastian Moran rubbed his round chin before answering. “Not that I would doubt your methods, sir, but your treatment of Mr. Boxer is…unsporting.”

Scared chuckled. “I do enjoy your outdated sentiments, my friend. I might have had him shot or tossed from the tower, but he presented an invaluable instructional opportunity for the children.”

Scared shuffled to the dockside edge of the roof. Moran clasped his hands behind his back and kept with Scared’s halting pace.

“Children are indeed a blessing, are they not, Sebastian?” Scared said.

Moran coughed. “I wouldn’t know, sir. They don’t make terribly sporting targets.”

“I regret never having any of my own, you know,” said John. “Though perhaps that was unavoidable, as no woman I have ever met seemed fit to bear them. Have you any children, Sebastian?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Beyond the docks, another zeppelin angled towards the dock’s spire, cables already descending to be fastened on. It pitched and slid to its port as a gust of hot air from the Stack jostled it. The red, white, and black of the German empire came into sharp relief as the vessel floated into the powerful electric lights of the dock. The silence dragged for some moments.

Scared sighed. “No reminiscing tonight, eh, my friend? Very well. You have a report to make, I’m certain.”

Moran nodded again, stiffly, and began in crisp military tones. “The Crown agent captured by the Boiler Men was named Aaron Bolden. My contacts in the gold cloaks report he was hooked to the Chimney soon after he arrived.”

“I assumed as much. Even if he hadn’t been, I don’t expect any ordinary man to long keep his secrets in such hands.” He rubbed a dull ache out of one elbow. “Bolden, though. I wondered who could have penetrated my defences. The man’s knack with machinery is legendary.”

“He’s still alive, sir. Boxer’s team failed to remove him.”

“That was immaterial, Sebastian. I merely had to get Boxer out of the hideout while I moved my operations to locations unknown to him. He was a spy for the crows, and though I am unlikely to be arrested on account of my high allegiances, I do not want the bother of some ambitious young cloak causing trouble.”

“I see.”

“Von Herder will have a rifle for you by tomorrow evening. Are you certain everything is in place?”

Moran snorted, incensed. “My men are not to be doubted, Scared.”

Scared laughed. “A mere prick in the flank to rile you to superb performance, my friend. No disrespect was meant.” John squinted against a gust of wind kicked up by the landing zeppelin’s propellers. “Our dear baron has far too much loyalty to his patron deities. It is a pity his fate must be a messy one. It will be a stain on an otherwise artful enterprise.”

“Yes, sir.”

John read the man’s sudden uncertainty without having to look at him. “Ask your question, Sebastian.”

Moran cleared his throat. “Again, sir, not that I doubt your methods, but Grandfather Clock is only half the problem. What will we do about the Lady and the black cloaks?”

Scared looked out at the Stack’s glowing apex.
What indeed, my sweet? What shall we do with you?

“Grandfather Clock is a creature of logic and precision,” John said. “He allows neither change nor error and can be handled in no way other than destruction. Mama Engine, however, is a creature of sentiment, a mother in truth. Leave her to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Our conference is at an end. Return to your men and prepare.”

“Yes, sir.”

Moran quit the roof by the trapdoor, leaving Scared alone with the distant clamour of the dock and the quiet voices of the two children.

The children would run away tonight, shortly after their meal. Repulsed by horror at him and at themselves, they would hide in those holes they knew best. And in a few days or weeks, when they got hungry again, they would return. They would endure more lessons to quiet their hunger. They would grow. Eventually they would see no need to leave.

Ah, I am ever accepting, my sweet. Ever patient.

The Stack threw its hellish glare into the sky. The heat in John’s brain stem quivered, like a lover shuddering in a tight embrace.

But though we each love dearly our adopted sons and daughters, they will never be enough, will they?

Just think of what wonderful children we will make, once I have tamed you.

He turned from the docks to see if Boxer was dead yet.

This is the crux of my self-made oblivion: I am not Job, who can endure endless quantities of earthly hardship, but a weak man and a slave to drink and opium. The hand that now pens these alien letters would have been my destroyer, but that They promised me an emptiness without emotion or memory, a release so much more profound than the restless slumber of death. How could I refuse?

And to my shame: even knowing what is to come, I do not regret.

II. iii

Oliver awoke to the cold.

It was not cold as he knew it. In the perpetual heat of the city, he knew cold to be merely a temperature at which one did not constantly sweat. He did not know it as the shriveling chill that now assailed him.

It was as if all the strength had been sucked from his muscles, all the sturdiness from his bones. He quaked uncontrollably, clutching feebly at his collar to draw it tighter. His heart lay still, his blood stagnant. His lungs scraped a minimum of air through chattering teeth, when he breathed at all. His body felt like a great hollow cavity, its sides ancient and flaking away.

He knew himself to be dying, and so did she. The subtle heat of her furnace miles distant played on the back of his neck. It beckoned to him with the promise of its warmth.

Oliver buried his creaking, shaking fingers in his armpits and waited for the darkness to take him.

Someone shook him.

“Ollie? Still with us?”

Oliver pried his eyes open. The world swished in front of him like soapy water.

The hand shook him again. It was warm and large. Oliver drew in a lungful of scalding hot air, which spread rapidly into his body, reviving him enough to speak.

“T-Tom?”

“He lives! Our own John Bull—knew we could count on you, chap. Looks like they gave you a grand thumping, though.”

Two powerful hands slid under his armpits and scooped him up. Tommy’s greasy stench enveloped him. Once released, Oliver staggered back into an uneven, moist wall. He drew in a second, deeper breath, realizing from the taste of it that his mouth was full of blood. He rubbed his eyes until they came back into focus.

He found himself in the courtyardlike end of a back alley that he recognised as being just off Petticoat Lane. Tommy’s bureau-wide shoulders plugged most of the alley’s width, but Oliver made out two smaller shapes behind him.

Tom looked like an aged sow happy her piglet had come home.

“Haven’t seen you for almost an hour, mate. Feared they’d picked you off.”

Oliver nodded but said nothing. Each breath brought him further back to wakefulness and gave his body more life. The muscles in his arms quivered and could move again. The cold fled, burying itself in the pits of his gut.

Someone had bandaged his burnt hand—recently, as the wraps were still free of blood and grime. The skin he could see between the wraps and his cuff was red from exposure. In his left hand, he still clutched a folded newspaper and his newly acquired copy of the
Summa Machina
.

His heart beat, and the sudden pressure of blood blinded him.

“Careful, old chap,” Tommy said, propping Oliver upright with a meaty palm to his right arm. “Better get your head on. We’ve a slight change of plan.”

One of the smaller men squeezed past and tossed Oliver a rifle. He snatched at it and dropped it, then bent to retrieve it and managed on the second try.

The shadows resolved themselves into Winfred Bailey Howe’s broad moustache and humourless eyes. “Everything well in hand, I see,” he said.

That roused enough ire to bring Oliver fully back to life. “You were to be here some time ago, if I recall.”

Bailey’s jaw muscles flexed before he spoke. “The murder of most of my men at our hideout necessitated an alteration in the plan,” he said. “How did you come to be found in such an undignified position?”

Oliver started as he discovered that he wasn’t entirely sure. He remembered the escape, then running into the street, crowds of people he recognised, then charred bones, then people again, then a blur. He tried to keep his indecision from his face as he concocted a plausible story.

It occurred to him that Bailey didn’t really want an answer: he had already concluded that some pack of canaries had taken Oliver unawares, and that Oliver was a careless amateur.
Fine by me. I’m through trying to change your opinion, old man.

“They got the drop on me,” Oliver said.

Bailey loosed a guttural noise of frustration. “And the hand?”

Assaulted briefly by the memory, Oliver was tempted to actually tell the truth.
Fine idea, man: tell him you were visited and invaded by our mortal enemy—a sure way to earn the man’s trust.

“I burned it on a stove during the tussle.”

“And I suppose they bandaged it for you?”

“No, sir. I escaped, then bandaged it. They found me again shortly thereafter.”

Bailey nodded satisfaction, though his eyes still searched Oliver’s face. “Walk it off,” he said. “Mr. Moore, here, Mr. Macrae, and yourself are to accompany us to the downstreets. I’ve left Heckler in charge of the Underbelly.”

Oliver’s hackles rose. “You’ve given orders to my crew.”

“Had you been among your men and conscious, I wouldn’t have had to do it.” Bailey spun on his heel and marched away, brushing Tommy aside with the sheer force of his presence. “We must leave immediately. Scared’s group has several hours on us already.”

Bailey and the man accompanying him strode away towards the flickering lights of Petticoat Lane.

Tom dropped his voice.

“‘Mr. Moore,’” he scoffed. “Like I’m a gentleman or some foolishness. So what happened, really?”

Oliver felt some tension ease away in the presence of Tommy’s toothy grin. “I’ll tell you when I sort it out.”

“That’s fair.” He indicated the book. “Never fancied you for a reading man.”

Oliver turned the book cover up. The title and author’s name glittered on the front cover—inlaid gold?

“I was talked into buying it, I’m afraid.” Oliver stowed it back under his arm. “We’ll pass it to Michelle on our way through the square.”

Oliver gestured to get moving, and Tommy began his clunking walk out of the alley.

“‘Michelle’?” he asked.

Oliver shrugged. “She tells me that’s what she prefers.”

Tommy grinned over his shoulder. “Does she now?”

Oliver did not have the energy to scry the meaning in that statement. Echoes of the flaming hell he’d glimpsed reverberated in his mind. It must have distracted him visibly, for when he next looked up, Tommy loomed down at him with a quirk of concern in his perpetual smile.

“Sure you’re all right, Chief?”

Oliver nodded. “Fine enough to move my feet, Tom. I just…I never realised exactly what we were up against before. The Lord and Lady—they’re not
natural,
Tommy.”

Tommy nodded, jaw set, face grim.

Oliver sighed. “We’re in deep-shit trouble.”

“Wait until you see the Ticker Hounds” was Tom’s answer.

It was a thrill to have a gun.

Just to hold it gave Missy tingles. The cold of it, the heaviness, the etched scrollwork on the cylinder—these things were alluring in a way, titillating almost. Her stomach burst with butterflies, and she turned it over and over.

“It’s just a bitty one,” said Heckler, who flinched every time she waved the barrel in his direction. “Think it might do for you, though, being not too bad on the wrists.”

“It’s marvelous,” Missy said. “No wonder men so fancy the things.” Her gloves whispered against the wooden grip as she wrapped her fingers around it.

Heckler held his hands slightly forward, as if Missy held something fragile. “ ’S just a .38 and not much good beyond, say, fifty yards.”

“Oh, I very much doubt I would be able to hit anything at that distance,” said Missy. She took aim at an unfortunate sconce over a nearby doorway. “It is a fine specimen, as guns go?”

“Prettier’n most, if that’s what you mean.”

Missy sighted on a scuttling clickrat at the far end of the alley. “Forgive my ignorance, but I did not think guns were judged on their appearance.”

“Oh…er…” Heckler shuffled a bit. “ ’S all right in terms of power.”

“How many shots would it take to kill someone?”

The American flushed. “Now, ma’am, that ain’t no proper talk…”

“Oh, hush. You’re beginning to sound like Tom and Phineas. Why lend it to me at all if you’re just going to become squeamish and womanly?”

Missy smiled as the young man seesawed visibly between masculine pride telling him not to be womanly and masculine pride telling him not to be talked to in such a way by a woman. Eventually, he steadied himself, straightened his suspenders, and replied, “Depends on where you hit ’em, ma’am.”

“Where would you suggest?”

“Uh…chest is good. Head’s better but a harder shot. Stomach’s good too, but real slow.” Heckler swallowed. “Bad way to go.”

“Is it.”

The alley had one guttering oil lantern that had not been cleaned in some time. That and the light flooding in from Coll’s Bystreet combined to give the metal a multitoned fire.

“Look, ma’am, you be careful with it,” Heckler said. “It ain’t no toy.”

“I’m quite aware of what it is, Heckler.”

“Well…just, I’ve seen a lot of folk shoot off their own fingers, or their brother’s toes and such.”

She shook her finger playfully. “Mothering me again, little man. That will not do.” She dropped the gun into her small leather handbag, where it landed with an energetic thump. She hefted her handbag a little to feel the weight.

Heckler looked at her curiously.

“For protection, you say, miss?”

Missy smiled broadly. “Surely you cannot object to it in such times as these.”

“Best protection’s not to get shot at.”

Missy swept past him towards the street. “Advice I’m certain you have ignored at every opportunity. Shall we?”

After a moment, Heckler followed her into the street.

Coll’s Bystreet murmured under the meek blaze of four oil-fed streetlamps and one eye-stinging electric. People moved about it like shadows, spilling from the Beggar’s Parade into Marlowe Square and washing about like leaves in a river. Hawkers, musicians, and beggars stolidly held their places, while pickpockets floated around the crowds like hungry ghosts. In the centre of the square stood a smashed, dry fountain. It had been a figure once, of what Missy did not know.

“There,” said Heckler.

She looked up in time to spot three canaries crossing the square. Two were toughs, the kind of men she’d known too much of back in Shoreditch, in her previous life. The other seemed a gentleman of some stature, sporting an immaculate grey suit and silk hat. The electric light cut severe lines across their flowing cloaks.

“Now, where are you three off to in such a hurry?” she thought aloud, then to Heckler: “I’ll take them.”

Heckler nodded and moved off up the Parade towards the lift.

Missy took a vantage point on the front steps of a tenement on the square’s corner, where she watched the cloaks jostle their way through the uncooperative crowd, who showed them only the barest of respects: a tip of the hat (causing the elbow to block the cloaks’ path), a slight bow (therefore remaining in the cloaks’ way a few seconds longer than necessary), a sales pitch (louder and more insistent than with anyone else). The tension of the crowd grew second by second.

They’ve not forgotten the Uprising,
Missy realised.
Not a safe place to be a cloak, I’ll wager.

They were heading directly for St. Margaret Street. Missy slipped into the crowd to pursue. She had chosen today a large-brimmed, backwards-slanting ash hat, an oversized wool coat, and a tweed skirt. She had also neglected any makeup, and so blended in seamlessly with the Underbelly unfortunates in the square. Hiding from view was a new activity for her, unknown before joining Oliver’s crew.

She’d always been a feast for the eyes. In her younger years she had fancied herself a succubus, like in the old fairy tales, stripping men of all qualities but lechery and stupidity.
And it was such fun—wasn’t it, bird—to watch them drool over you?
And then things had changed, and the kindly old woman had turned out not to be so kindly, the men cruel and lustful and endless.

She brought down a wall on the memories.
It’s over, love. Another life. A bad dream. You have Oliver now.

And she had a gun.

And she’d killed. That knowledge shivered in her stomach with excitement and revulsion. It had been horrible, the feel of the act so base and vicious, and yet…the lecherous sot had gotten exactly what he deserved.

She felt a flush creeping into her face and dropped the sentiment behind the mental wall, returning her attention to her task.

Oliver’s lessons in pursuit came back to her.
Stay behind crowds, greet people you know, look at shop windows, linger sometimes. Do not watch your fox too closely. It’s your attention on them that they will notice first, even if they don’t know you’re there.

So she greeted passing ladies, who gave her a polite smile, and passing gents, who gave her a lingering taste with their eyes and tipped their hats. She bought an ugly tin brooch from a vendor for a penny. She hurried when the cloaks vanished momentarily over a rise in the road or behind a group of locals, so as not to lose them.

You’d stick out like a brass boil if anyone was watching you,
she said to herself. She checked around and found a few sets of eyes idly looking her way. Avoiding notice was not her strength.

She crested a rise in the road, where the lateral slant was so pronounced the buildings on the left were a storey higher than those on the right. From that vantage she could see the Blink, shimmering in the lamplight like a city of smoke—from which all the streets had been excised. The Blink’s various roofs and balconies sported an improbable assortment of weather vanes and chimneys, lending the whole an appearance of an oversized pincushion. The cloaks hurried towards it.

The sight of the Blink stirred up memories of the German fellow she’d followed that morning. Raw stupidity, that was. She’d been lucky to escape with her life and person intact, and yet a part of her sat with crossed arms and pouted at the memory.
Why did he have to be such a gentleman? I could see it in his face, that sick, sinful desire, and yet he held back and didn’t give me the chance to stick him.

She gasped at that thought. One hand flew to her lips.

Oh, poor bird. What has happened to you?
Suddenly her handbag felt a much heavier burden.