Whitechapel Gods (28 page)

You forgot!

The handbag! She turned, snatched it, didn’t look at Oliver, returned to the door, and all but bolted into the street. The grey of Whitechapel afternoon closed over her. Dunbridge, not having any classifiable streets, had neglected to install streetlights, and thus the day was only slightly brighter than the depths of night.

The bag settled over her shoulder like an old friend. Just the presence of it kept her safe.

Couldn’t he keep you safe?

I’d rather have the gun.

The heat and the weightlessness ended with that thought, and she screamed in her mind to take it back.

Well, child. Is it not yet clear to you that your fate is one of villainy? With such thoughts as that, it is a wonder you even affect a liking for him.

He would take care of me.

That was always my promise, as well.

She walked on, to move, to flee fitfully from the voice that haunted her. She told herself over and over that she would indeed go back to him, and that she would bring something to eat. Something small, and perhaps he would smile at her again, in that way.

Six turns, two flights of stairs, a pair of Chinamen babbling in their disturbed language, and she was lost. Hopelessly. The only landmark visible was the Stack, its top crowned by a fierce, incessant red glow.

There were no proper stores to be found, only an endless succession of tenements, growing one into the other with the vagaries of the tower’s supports. No alleys or façades broke the endless stretch of doors unmarked and without signs, even in Chinese. At last, she stopped in an open plaza and stomped her foot. “Prick on a stick,” she said.

“Now, now. What would the good matron think if she heard you using such language?”

The hobgoblin man shuffled from the dark.

Reflections boiled in her memory: his words, his laughs, the too-sweet smell of his breath, the horrid prodding of his goblin nails, the commands that sunk down to stimulate the baseness of the animal, words inscribed on the mechanisms of thought.

He trained you. I fed you the tea; then he came to you to implant deeply the lessons I rendered. He primed you for this obedience, and you cannot cross him.

“With me, if you would,” he said.

Her feet followed his. He led her down a thin walkway to a dead-end circle stacked with garbage. Rats—flesh ones—chittered and ran at their approach.

He’s real. Why didn’t I remember it?

“Come, my dear. Time is short,” he said. “It wasn’t unexpected, your lot coming here. The cloaks know about this den of yours, too. But not to worry. I’ve put them off.”

He halted in the centre of the little circular end to the alley and pivoted, hunched over his cane. “What
was
unexpected was my German being with you. I assumed my boy had done his duty, though he was left a mess. Though his days upon the earth are limited, your Continental friend could still be of use to me.”

Missy strained, breathed, whispered: “What do you want?”

The man perked. He adjusted his top hat and regarded her quizzically. “Tick, tick. Did you just speak under your own volition, my dear?”

Her head moved.

“Heh.” The man reached one knobby hand into his pocket. “Either you are exceptionally strong-willed or you are simply a remarkable freak in nature’s panoply. This will be quite dangerous, indeed, but I suppose there’s no avoiding it.”

He slipped from his coat a stoppered bottle of red fluid. Her chest tightened up at the sight of it. “I trust you remember this, my dear. Gisella’s preference is to dilute it with hot water.” The man opened the bottle with two rough fingernails, then upended it and allowed a single drop to fall onto his fingertip. It stayed there, quivering, like a blot of honey.

“Open your mouth, my dear.”

Her head shook slowly, back and forth.

“That won’t do, girl,” the man said. “I have other affairs that need tending. Open.”

Her mouth opened.

The man approached. “Stick out that tongue of yours, girl.”

The tongue obeyed.

The hobgoblin man smeared the drop from his fingertip along the length of her tongue. He tasted like sweat and granulated sugar.

The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun…
Words echoed in her mind. The fingers twitched. The handbag opened. Inside: deliverance, power, revenge.

And suddenly a prison of ice closed on her, a glacial field too vast to cross, and canyon walls too high to climb. It froze away the awareness of her body, the perception of walls and street and air. She dreamed cold dreams. She dreamed of the hobgoblin man.

“Always a new experience,” he said. “I enjoy pure tastes myself time to time. It is a jaunt to heaven or hell, as you please.”

Fingers rubbed her forehead, temples, cheeks, neck, prodded in armpits, ribs, hip bones, thighs, ankles, arches.

Her shoes were off. Did he take them off? Did she?

“Speak to me of Oliver Sumner, my dear.”

Missy’s mouth opened, and she dictated Oliver’s every motion and word over the past day, up to his frightening and cryptic remarks in the den.

Fingers over the eyes. The hobgoblin man was whispering under his breath, into himself.

“Why did you choose him over me, my love? Was he to be your champion and liberator?”

Fingers bearing down, penetrating, shearing into the brain.

“I am wounded, my love. I am betrayed.”

Fingers shaping, pulling.

“Heh, heh. But my, it is strange, my love, how things fall into place. Perhaps you intended to put our weapon into his hands, to stay mine.” A gruesome smile. “But now my German is alive and he will carry our torch into your husband’s depths instead.”

The fingers withdrew, wisps of thought and intention clinging.

“And so now I will do as rivals are meant.”

Missy floated up, buoyed on frigid winds ripped from the juices of foreign plants and the chemicals of the brain. The hobgoblin man wrapped his horrid hand about her chin and cradled her skull.

“Little one, listen now. And as always, forget after you have heard, and be as you always were.”

Missy nodded.

“Heh. Or be as I made you, should I say? No matter.”

Fingers from the other hand, snaking along the jaw, scratching, soiling.

“Here is what I wish of you, girl. Go to Oliver Sumner, on whatever pretence suits the moment. Then dispatch him by the most expedient means available.”

The head nodded.

“Obey me,” the man said. “But remember nothing until you next lay eyes on me. Now get on your feet, dress, and go about your business. This should be done with all haste.”

Her shoes were back on.

“Off you go, now.”

The moment crumbled and the memory fell with it. She found herself at the edge of a dim, unremarkable junction of several walkways.

“Prick on a stick.”

Where was she going? What was she doing?

You went to fetch food, you scatterbrained child.

Yes, of course. Something to eat. Something to make Oliver smile at me.

A flash of inspiration hit her and she knew exactly what he needed.

What does our dog-turned-whore-turned-murderess have on her corrupted little mind, I wonder.

Shut your trap, you old bat.

Missy strode into the dark.

The third principle of the forge is Pride. One may call it love, one may call it scrutiny, but it remains a necessary act to review and regard one’s work, and to smash it or exalt it as it deserves. In this, how is the creator of the smallest thing unlike God? Judgement is the domain of the creator; artifices like ourselves exist only as victims of Her whim.

V. iv

Bergen’s abdomen pulsed like it was about to burst. It took all his willpower not to double over with every step. It felt as if an unseen bellows pumped more air into his body with every movement. On top of that, lightheadedness had set in, a sure sign of continuing blood loss.

“You’re certain you know the way?”

Bergen shook off his thoughts; it would not do to be distracted by pain. He turned to his companion, who always walked a half stride behind and with one hand in his pocket.

“I am certain.”

Hews simply nodded and gestured forward. “Lead on, then.”

Bergen set off around the corner. The doors had begun blurring together the moment he’d entered the hide. The design of the hallways held a devilish sort of madness that kept the visitor doubting his faculties no matter how many times he had walked them.

“Here,” he said. He reached for a doorknob. Either a set of well-lit stairs or a swift and ingenious death awaited him on the other side.

He gripped the knob, turned, pulled. The promised staircase stretched downward.

“How far down are we now?” Hews asked.

“The hide is built around one of the tower’s support columns,” Bergen said. “It goes much farther down than the streets do.”

“Hmm.” The Englishman pondered and rubbed his fat fingers into his facial hair a moment. “How does this mechanic get his supplies, all the way down here?”

Bergen spun on him. “Must you all assume I mean you harm? There is no trap here.”

Hews smiled broadly. He did not remove his right hand from his pocket. “No offence was meant. I was merely curious.”

Quickly, Bergen turned away and descended the stairs. Years ago he had convinced himself not to feel pain as other men do, but while that effort functioned it was detrimental to the temperament. He needed to maintain control over himself. Von Herder would have Scared’s device together in a matter of hours, and then the real business would begin.

Bergen descended with stiff and heavy footfalls. By the time he entered the workshop, spots swam on his vision.

The old mechanic sat hunched over the sleek and beautiful form of a steam rifle. One of his boy assistants held a plate in place while von Herder secured it. Bergen’s clomping drew his attention.

“Eh? Who’s that?”

“Herr Keuper, sir,” Bergen said.

“Herr Keuper!” The old man grinned toothily. “A pleasure as always. Who is that with you?”

Bergen was about to make some vague reference to “a comrade” or “another soldier” when Hews stepped forward. His right hand came out of the pocket.

“Herbert Lewis, sir. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Von Herder flashed open his pale, cataract-scarred eyes and reached out in the space across the table, searching for the expected hand. Of course, the old man did not see Hews’ reaction to his blindness.

“Ferdinand von Herder,” the mechanic said, at last finding Hews’ hand and shaking firmly. “You are a servant of our mutual patron?”

Hews recovered. “Ah, no. I’m a companion of Mr. Keuper’s. A business partner, as it were.”

“Of course. I’ll pry no more.” Von Herder released Hews’ hand and bent back over the rifle. The boy hadn’t moved an inch during the conversation. His jaw clenched in the effort of holding the heavy boiler casing in place.

Hews’ glance at Bergen communicated much of his confusion.

That’s right, Englishman. He’s blind.

Von Herder placed a rivet along the casing’s edge, feeling around its edges with deft fingers. “So what brings you back to my little abode, Herr Keuper? From the quiet of your footsteps I assume you are not returning my steam rifle to me?”

“No, sir,” Bergen said. He stepped up to the table and leaned heavily on one arm. The stitching that doctor had given him was little better than field dressing. “Though I will require more ammunition for it.”

“Olaf has poured a new batch. Two dozen, by the wall.” He gestured vaguely. “This one is nearly finished. Just the casing and a few modifications to the breech and handles and it will be ready for its work.”

“Might we perhaps borrow it when it’s finished?” Hews asked. “Might come in handy, if the other one’s any indication.”

Von Herder cast his eyes in Hews’ direction, then back towards Bergen. “Herr Scared has approved this, yes?”

“The mission is his design,” Bergen said, trying not to speak the lie as he felt it. “A second rifle would be invaluable.”

Von Herder sighed deeply. “Well, what is an artist supposed to say to the enjoyment of his work? Unfortunately, this rifle is called to duty in other matters. It is to go with another of Herr Scared’s teams later tonight.”

The pressure in his stomach continued to increase, and Bergen found himself gritting his teeth against it; sweat had broken out all over his body.

“There is another reason we’ve come to you, Herr von Herder,” Bergen said.

Hews stepped up and produced the American’s translated pages from an inner vest pocket. He froze, indecisive for a moment, then passed the papers to the boy.

“What is it, Andrew?” the mechanic asked.

The boy set the boiler casing down on the table and scanned the papers. “Uh…plans, sir.”

“Well, read them, boy.”

Andrew spent the next few minutes fumbling through letters and instructions he obviously could not properly read. The lad’s speech halted so often Bergen experienced a growing impulse to rip the papers from his hands and take over.

Von Herder nodded at each step. The paper contained physical theory and mechanical instruction of such arcane complexity that Bergen could not follow. Andrew explained the diagrams, which von Herder clarified by way of a hundred different questions.

When the boy finally reached the end of the last page, von Herder stood very still a long time. Bergen turned to the lad.

“A glass of water, boy.”

Andrew looked first to his master. Seeing the old mechanic deep in thought and unable to approve the action, the lad set the papers down and ran to the back. He returned with a pewter stein. Bergen drained it in one pull, grimacing at the metallic warmth of the water.

Another few minutes passed. Hews eventually broke the silence.

“Not to break the gentleman’s train of thought,” Hews said to von Herder, “but can you build it?”

Von Herder ignored the question, facing Bergen precisely.

“It is genius,” he said, voice filled with breathy awe. “Undoubtedly Herr Scared’s work. I find myself wishing I had a better command of pure mathematics.” Then to Hews: “Of course I can build it,
Englisch
. Once the principles are understood, the design itself can be made from the most basic materials.”

He leaned forward, across the table and into Bergen’s space. “You know, of course, what it does?”

“Yes.”

“You know it will only work in one place?”

“We know.”

“Then I will build it for you, my friend.” He tapped the steam rifle. “Once this is done.”

“How long?”

“Return by midnight, and we will see.”

Bergen pushed himself back to his full height. The water had helped, but not enough: his knees were weakening, and the belly pain grew minute by minute. “You have my thanks, as always, Herr von Herder.”

“Think nothing of it.” He and Andrew bent again over the rifle.

“We shall head back,” Bergen said. Hews regarded him with detached coolness.

As Bergen mounted the first of the stairs, von Herder called him back.

“I have been thinking about our conversation yesterday, Herr Keuper,” he said, not looking up from his adjustments. “And I have determined that you cannot possibly be from Stuttgart.”

Bergen tensed.
Not in front of the Englishman, you old fool!

“I spent a number of years there as a young man,” von Herder said. “My first job with munitions, as I recall. The accent is quite distinct.”

The statement demanded an answer.

“No disrespect, sir,” Bergen said, “but you are wrong.”

To that von Herder chortled, then bent back to his work with a smile on his lips. A few seconds’ passage found him barking at his apprentice for letting the boiler casing slip.

Bergen climbed the stairway, each step an eternity of weakness and struggle. They reached the hallway above. Bergen stumbled forward into the dimness, and decided it was safe to place his hand on the wall for support. The door clicked quietly shut behind them.

“Now, though he’s young,” Hews began, “Oliver is an extraordinary judge of character. Line up identical twins and he’ll tell you which is the sinner in each pair.”

Bergen felt a shiver on his nape, and knew that Lewis had drawn his pistol.

“Oliver thinks that you have a secret,” Hews continued. “So does your friend down there, and so do I. I will have that secret now.”

“You are a fool,” Bergen said. “Without me you would be dead at the first door you tried.”

“I have only your word on that, remember,” Hews said. “The alternative is for me to do this again once we’re safely on the streets, and I’d sooner ask my question where there’s a bit of privacy.”

“I thought it was the boy’s custom not to pry into the past.”

“I don’t hold to the same custom, sorry to say.”

Bergen hesitated. His wound shifted and he felt warmth spread through the fingers he held over it. He drew his hand away. Blood stained his palm and the shirt over his bandaged wound.

“We can wait here all evening, if need be,” Hews said.

Bergen growled, knowing he was caught. His first impulse was to lie, but the fog in his mind precluded any vestige of creative thought.

“Will you tell Sumner?”

“Only if he needs to know.”

Vague, noncommittal. Practical.
I might have said the same.

“Bergen Keuper is dead.” Bergen breathed before continuing. “I shot him.”

“Do you have a proper name, then?”

Bergen stared down the long hall, seeing mockery in the flickering lamps, feeling defeated. “I was born Nicholas Ellingsly.”

“Ah, the explorer. I’ve read a number of your tales.”

Bergen snorted. “They’re all lies. I was little more than Keuper’s translator. Keuper shot the tigers. Keuper fought the Zulus and Boers. He never deigned to learn English, and so I could tell the tales however I wanted.”

“Why do you use his name?”

Bergen—Nicholas?—sighed deeply. He had not done so in a very long time, and something passed out of him with that long breath. Some edge or anger softened, some tension of the mind evaporated as water in the hot sun.

“You’ll want to hear the tale, then?”

“We have time enough.”

He slid down the wall to a tense squat. The words poured out of him like so much oozing blood.

“We were trekking through Zululand to Ulundi—Keuper, myself, and seven or so native porters. We came across a group of Boers camped in a little valley. We were shooting at one another within an hour.”

The ghosts of gunfire echoed in the halls of Scared’s hide.

“It wasn’t as if I’d never been in combat before. I knew my way around a rifle, and I brought down several myself over the first few hours. By the time night fell our porters had died or fled, and their men were spread over the hills and the forest. Bergen and I stalked them like animals. It was in the night when I started to slow down. I froze at ordinary night sounds. My hands and knees shook. Keuper took a hit in the arm defending me just after moonrise. At that moment he finally decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Nicholas shuddered as the memory came upon him of the German’s cold, stone eyes in the light of that moon, with the dry trees closing around like the fingers of death on all sides, and the air prickling cold as the last heat of the day seeped from it.

“He valued a life only so far as its strength. I knew he was going to kill me.”

In his mind the German raised that long-barrelled Gasser he cleaned but never polished. A dirty, ugly, remorseless weapon.

“I killed him first.”

The German hadn’t fallen. He’d stood with his neck a mess, glaring and cursing, as blood gushed onto his shirtfront. After an eternity, he’d fallen, but fallen forward, and in that memory Nicholas swore he saw Keuper take one step to reach out to his murderer.

“His blood got into my mouth and my eyes. I don’t know what happened then; perhaps I fainted. When I came to myself it was morning, and his body was in the grass beside me.”

The Gasser had been lying inches from his right hand.

“It was all wrong. It should have been the coward lying in the grass, not the hero.” He pulled the sidearm reverently from its holster. It sat in his palm like a block of lead. “And so I made a choice: the hero lived, and the coward died.”

Hews shifted his feet. “Killed by Zulus, as I recall.”

“One more lie to the British public.”

“Did Bailey know?”

Nicholas nodded.

“You should know he kept that secret to his grave,” Hews said.

A pause. The Gasser found Bergen’s hand, natural as rain into soil.

“And so will I.”

“I wouldn’t allow it any other way,” Bergen said. He slipped the pistol back into its holster and pushed himself to his feet. When he turned at last to look at the older man, his eyes were hard as granite.

The Englishman examined him a moment without expression, then pocketed his British Bulldog and straightened his vest and coat.

“Well, I have the answers I need. We’d best get on so we can tend that wound of yours.”

Bergen nodded and led the way up through the maze and into the fading light of evening. Then Hews, now the only man who knew his secret, took the lead through the incomprehensible ways of Dunbridge.

Much to Bergen’s surprise, he didn’t shoot the Englishman in the back.

He should sleep. He should eat. He should drink.

The red tea had cooled to match the temperature of the sticky air. The sots in the room lay insensible again, having woken one by one and gasped and pleaded for Mrs. Flower to bring them the pipe. She had obliged in her efficient and dignified way and relieved them of their coin in exchange for their demon. In the corner, beneath burlap blankets painted with Oriental writing, one poor wretch shrieked and gibbled in the grip of his nightmares.