Authors: Sharon Joss
Steam Dogs (27 page)
Sir Magnus fumed for two more hours, watching the airships from
among the crowd until the exhibition was over, and the royal entourage
descended the viewing platform. Her guards kept him and the rest of the crowd
well back--there was nothing he could do.
He stayed until she was settled into her coach and watched them
go, satisfied in the knowing that they would arrive at Greenwich dock in an
hour at most. He knew she always slept aboard the
Alberta
the night before departing for the Isle of Wight. Already,
the spring sun was descending toward the horizon, and the chilly afternoon
breezes promised a clear night tonight.
Sleep well, Victoria. By
midnight, you will belong to me, body and soul. And through you, I will soon
become the ruler of all Britain.
He walked back to the chapel where Raikes had parked the carriage,
deep in thought. It was only when he discovered the chloroform-soaked rag and a
bloody apron lying in the dirt several yards from the carriage that he realized
something had gone very wrong indeed.
PART IV
The crowds had thinned by the time Roman, Welsie, and Atters made
their way back up to the hangar. As the stands slowly cleared and people
drifted toward the barricades and the road back to London, Roman searched for
Sir Magnus, but the wizard was neither among the crowd or on the viewing
platform with the other dignitaries.
Captain Paretti was still on the observation platform with the
other airship captains, and Simon wanted to wait, but at Roman’s urging, he eventually
agreed to leave a message with the engineer, Gregorio, saying only that they’d
be back in a few hours.
“Look, she’s leaving,”
Welsie pointed to Queen Victoria, easily recognizable in black, being assisted
into her brougham by a sour-faced, kilted Scotsman, who then climbed up and
took the reins. She sighed audibly. “She’s safe, Roman. Maybe we don’t have to
do this.”
“As much as I’d like to believe that, there’s too much evidence to
the contrary. Sir Magnus killed Hamm for a reason. And the only possible reason
is because he needs a pilot.
The Slough
Maid
is part of this somehow.” Roman shook his head. “We’ve got to destroy
that ship.”
While Atters changed into dry clothes, Roman and Welsie helped
Louie Ma, the fireworks expert, pack gunpowder and fuses into the man’s leather
backpack and waxed waterproof vest. When Atters returned, he was carrying a pair
of matched dueling pistols. To Roman’s surprise, he handed him one, grip forward.
“Have a care, they’re loaded.”
Roman hefted the weapon. Silver-chased iron, with rosewood grips.
Heavy, but well-balanced, and the weight gave him comfort.
Simon offered the other to Welsie.
“She’s not coming with us,” Roman said.
Welsie whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “Oh yes I am, Roman
Greenslade, and you can’t stop me.” She held up a ball-peen hammer. “If it
weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about
The Slough Maid
or where to find it. I wouldn’t be much use with a
gun, but Gregorio gave me this.”
Chastened, Roman slipped the pistol into his belt. Welsie had
grown up the youngest of five brothers, and he’d witnessed her toughness on
many occasions. “I seem to recall Alderman Fitzhugh mentioning that the thief
that robbed him also borrowed a pair of his fine dueling pistols.”
Simon gave him a humorless stare. “Unless you have any ideas, I
know of no other way to stop a wizard.”
Roman met Atters level gaze with a hard one of his own. “Don’t forget,
I’ve already seen what Sir Magnus can do. I just hope a lead ball is enough.”
“No magick in the world can stand up to a bullet.”
“What about Hamm?” Welsie asked. She gripped the hammer fiercely.
Roman knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
“Bullets won’t affect
him. The only way to stop him is to stop the man who controls him.”
“But you scared him off!”
“
Si.
He ran from my flames, not knowing they couldn’t hurt him. I
doubt he’ll fall for that again. That’s why we need Louie.” Simon brushed a
stray hair from her forehead and she leaned into his touch.
A sudden catch in his throat made Roman turn away. Padraig was
right. He’d lost his chance with Welsie long ago. She’d been too young for him
when he joined the cavalry. And now—even a fool could see how it was
between her and Atters. Time to move on.
“I am ready.” Louie Ma
stood before them, wearing a weather-worn canvas vest with bulging pockets and
a full pack on his back, heavy with gunpowder.
Roman offered the man his truncheon, but the smaller man shook his
head. “Anybody come after me, I blow up like a big firecracker.”
#
The sun was just touching the horizon when the four of them
reached the chapel behind the hangars. Brilliant yellow and purple streaks
painted the evening sky. The carriage was gone. Only the impression of the
wheels and horses hooves in the mud and wheel ruts across the damp grass gave
any indication that the vehicle had been parked for a time.
“It was here, I swear it.” Welsie’s voice trembled with emotion. She
looked as if she didn’t quite believe her own story.
“Maybe you didn’t hurt
him as bad as you thought.” Roman examined the scene, but the light was fading
quickly.
“If you’d seen all the blood, you wouldn’t say that. I’m certain
he was dead.”
Roman urged them on, skirting the outer wall of the Millwall Dock.
On a hunch, he led them past Sir Magnus’s estate, at the very end of Cahir
Street. The estate was screened from the road, surrounded by a tall hedge and
iron fence, but here and there, gaps showed a closed black carriage and a pair
of matched dark bay horses tied up at the front of the house.
“There it is.” Welsie said. “That’s the carriage.”
The old Mellish estate had been neglected for years before Sir
Magnus moved into it. Roman remembered sneaking inside the place as a boy with
his friends a time or two. He remembered little, except for how loud his
footsteps echoed on the stone floors and a grand central staircase, thick with
dust. But now, the garden was well-tended, and lamplight glowed from behind the
drapes of every window on the main floor.
Perhaps she was wrong, and John Raikes was still alive. Sir Magnus
had raised no outcry. Instead, he’d brought the man here. Why?
And how many others did the wizard control
within his sphere of influence? Atters had told them the undead required raw
meat or blood for sustenance. For Sir Magnus to have the knacker under his
thumb made sense, in a way. Roman clenched his fists, more convinced than ever
that his suspicions were correct.
They crossed West Ferry Road and made their way to the boarded up
shipyard where, according to Welsie,
The
Slough Maid
was being refurbished. She seemed to know the way, and was the
first to spot the watchman; sitting on a crate in the shelter of the doorway,
picking at his nails with the tip of a knife.
Keeping to the shadows, they circled the yard, searching for
another way in, but there was none, except from the river. Roman eyed the
twelve-foot walls surrounding the yard and dock. Although not as tall as those
of the commercial docks, these were more than effective in preventing entry.
They’d have to wait until the watchman made his rounds.
But every passing minute seemed to weigh on all of them. “The knackers
is right next door,” Welsie whispered. There must be the way in through there.”
Roman knew Sir Magnus owned the slaughterhouse, but he wasn’t
certain about the boatyard. The signs in the boarded up windows indicated that
the vacant property belonged to the bank. But there had to be a door between the
two businesses. There was no other way to reach
The Slough Maid
.
They rounded the corner and stepped beneath the covered porch of
the squat two-story building. Only the dimmest glow of a gaslight shone from
the single storefront window. In less than a minute, Simon had the door to the
knacker’s open and they stepped inside. Roman smirked at how fast Atters had
managed to open the lock, but said nothing.
The stench of blood and death, thick as a blanket, filled the
darkness around them.
Simon covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief, and the
others did the same.
Raising his hand, he allowed
his greenfire to spread across his fingers, illuminating the cramped
interior
of the shop
.
A single empty display case and
metal counter stood opposite the door, dominating the room. In spite of the
gleaming surfaces, the iron stench of blood and rotten meat surrounded them. On
the back wall, a curtained doorway led toward another room.
Simon led the way. In the second room,
Simon
noted a pile of stacked wooden crates looming over them, nearly to the ceiling,
in an implied threat. On his right, an empty cot crouched forlornly in the
airless cell, with a only a wadded woolen blanket for a pillow.
“Raikes must be living here.” Roman observed.
An all-too familiar wave panic gripped him as he
recalled his own terrifying imprisonment in Master Benoit's dungeon. More
than anything, he wanted to leave.
A scraping sound came from the opposite side
of the room. Simon raised the brightness in his hands and they all saw it at
the same time—a crate.
No—not a crate, a cage.
No larger than a beer keg
laying on its side. Pale, thin fingers reached through the mesh across the
front.
As Simon leaned closer to look inside,
a glassy-eyed, filthy child stared back at him.
Simon choked back a cry. Anger, suppressed for more than a decade,
roared up within him. The sight of the child, locked away like this—all
alone in the dark… All the old torments come rushing back. Who would do such a
thing?
Roman seemed to recognize him. “Twitch, is that you?”
The child merely groaned.
“Why, he’s just a nibbler.” Simon unlocked the catch, and the boy
tumbled into his arms, a jumble of bony limbs and legs. The filthy rags he wore
did little to disguise the fact that the boy was a mere skeleton—no fat
on him at all.
He weighs almost nothing. Just
a gallybagger, really.
“Who did this to you?” Simon asked.
The boy merely grunted and pointed at his mouth.
“I can’t understand him. What’s he saying,” asked Welsie.
“Bring up the light,” Roman ordered.
With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Simon flared his
greenfire and Roman pulled the child to his feet. He gripped his jaw and pried
the boy’s mouth open. The inspector made a disgusted sound before turning his
head away. “His tongue’s been cut.”
The boy sagged against Greenslade, his expression dull.
Simon snapped his fingers and waved his hand in front of his face,
but the boy did not react. “I think he’s been mesmerized. Probably to keep him
calm.”
“Is he all right?” Welsie cupped her hand to Twtich’s cheek.
“He’s sleepwalking. I
can bring him out of it, but it don’t think this is a good place to do it.” The
others quickly agreed, each with the same horrified expression. “I owe you an
apology, Greenslade. This Sir Magnus of yours is a fiend of the worst sort. If
he’d do this to a child--.” Simon stopped, unable to finish.
The sour taste of bile rose in the back of his throat. It wasn’t
only the wizard who’d killed his father that had destroyed his childhood. Benoit
had had a role in it as well. “What kind of a monster would do this?”
“The same sort who brings the dead to life to fight his battles
for him.”
Simon clenched his hands into fists. “No man has that right. The
last earth wizard disappeared from Ryde over a century ago, but the remnants of
their living dead still walk the land at night. We call them wights. Sad,
doomed things.”
Roman stared at him
with a strange expression, as if seeing him for the first time. “That’s what
Sir Magnus did to one of my constables. A fine young man, he was. Now he’s
aught but an unhappy spirit out on the marsh. On the Isle of Dogs, we call them
wraiths.”
That’s right, we’re both
islanders
.
Simon had never considered himself a religious man, but could not imagine a
worse fate than spending eternity as wight.
We’re
not so different after all.
“Let’s get this done.”
Welsie followed the men and the boy, Twitch, through the dark
narrow hallway, illuminated only by the green flames of Simon’s fingers. The
smell was awful; she fought to swallow the gorge in her throat. Every time she
closed her eyes, her imagination showed her the terrible things done to that
child. How could anyone have done such a thing? After all those years of hard
times on the island, she’d thought of herself as tough-skinned. Mudlarks like
Twitch had a hard life; harder even than most, but the boy’s gaunt frame and
anguished moans were almost more than she could stand. The sheer brutality of
what was done to that poor boy made her sick as angry.
And afraid.
No
. She gripped the hammer in
her hand more tightly, wishing she still had her knife. Roman was
right—Sir Magnus Vetch had to be stopped.
She didn’t know him, except to nod on the street in passing. He’d
never come into the Tavern, or to her knowledge, taken the ferry.
They passed into another room, this one much larger than any of
the others.
And cold. Her breath made swirling green clouds in the in light of
Simon’s magick. This room must be where the butchering took place. Her gaze was
drawn upward to the animal carcasses hung from the ceiling.
She gasped. There were human corpses here as well. A half-dozen
naked men had been hung by their feet upside down.
Roman gave a smothered cry. “Give me a hand, Atters. Help me get him
down!”
Afraid to look, she could only ask. “Who is it, Roman?”
“It’s Padraig.”
She grabbed the boy and held him tight to her, as much to keep him
from seeing, as for her own need for comfort.
Working together, the two men lifted Padraig’s lifeless body from
the hook and lay him on the floor. Roman smoothed the old man’s forehead.
The sight of Padraig’s blue-grey skin and sightless eyes, and the
reek of blood was too much. Welsie fought the rising taste of bile in her
throat, but could hold it in no longer. She pushed the boy away and raced to
the corner, retching. Hot tears coursed down he cheeks, as anger and grief
flooded through her.
Simon reached for her, but she turned away, hating her own
weakness.
“I’m fine,” she panted.
I’m
not some simpering damsel!
She shook her head angrily, holding her skirts
away from the splatter. “Go ahead. Just give me a minute.”