The Hanged Man (28 page)

“Indeed?”

“No thief or cutpurse could be bothered with that sort of work; there's nothing to gain in it. Same goes for any mad, murdering blackguard. He may have the temper to kill, but needs a reason. That line of shooters were drilled. They followed commands under fire and kept coming until we made it too hot for 'em over open ground. They're soldiers or I'm a Dutchman.”

“Soldiers? But from what country?”

“Don't know yet. Could be anyone we've insulted in the last decade, which takes in a large portion of the globe. Could be our own; there's many discontented with how things are run on our own patch. They could be paid mercenaries. Plenty of those about if you know where to look.”

“Colonel,” said Brook, “if I may inquire…”

“Go ahead, lad.”

“The Ætherics—they're an eccentric metaphysical group that hosts—uh—unusual parties. Certainly one or more members could blackmail others, but why on earth would they want an army?”

“Why indeed? It was also discussed. What do you think?”

“The equipping of even as few as twenty men would be costly. They were in nearly identical clothes, in the same hooded cloaks, carrying the same weapons. While Ætherics might have the money to kit them out, why do so? What return would they get from such an investment?”

“Destruction of the Psychic Service seemed to be the goal today. After the attack on Dickie Desmond all the eggs were in a single basket. If not for Miss Sybil shooting that first man—she saved who knows how many lives, bless her mad heart.”

“But who would benefit most from its destruction?”

“Anyone with a secret to keep. The higher you go, the bigger the secret.”

“There's no reading of thoughts involved, so you've both said. Secrets are safe enough. What if—” said Brook, “—what if the attack on the Service was a distraction?”

“Damn big distraction,” said Mourne. “From what?”

“Lord Richard's death. Instead of investigating who would most benefit from his removal, we're led to think the Service itself is under attack.”

“Which it was. If Dickie alone was the only real target, that puts a new face on it. But whoever is behind things sacrificed over a dozen men as a distraction.”

“Sacrifice was never the intent. They expected to win. If Sybil hadn't anticipated things, hadn't shot that first man, the assault would have been successful. Who are Lord Desmond's enemies?”

“Enemies we guard against; let's instead ask who are his friends. That cuts things down. It'd have to be someone with deep pockets, which leaves me clear.”

“Unless
you're
being paid well, sir.”

Horrified, Alex held her breath.

Colonel Mourne suddenly released a boom of laughter. It was too loud for the confined space and she winced at the noise, but at the same time she opened her defenses enough to Read his reaction. It was wholly genuine.

When Mourne regained control of himself, he blew his nose and coughed to clear his throat. “I can see why you were transferred, Brook. Too cheeky and truthful by half. That's never gotten much respect in the army. The navy would have had you striped, whatever your station. Well, girl? Did I pass muster? No Reader worth the name would let that opportunity go by.”

“Yes, sir, you did. We can trust you.”

“Ah, but can I trust
you
? Don't bother answering, you'll show me.”

“I'll do that now, sir.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, Colonel. You said it yourself: the higher you go, the larger the secret. Or in this case, the more valuable. Nothing is more priceless than knowing the future. There's little to gain by destroying the Service, but it could be to someone's considerable advantage to kill or kidnap Sybil. Who knows of her existence?”

“Too many. Dickie had the influence to keep them quiet, but with him out of the way—but no, this is long planning. She started going off the rails weeks ago. We thought it was her bloody gift catching her up, making her even more mad, then worked out she was being countered by some outside influence.”

“Blinding her from seeing the future.”

“And playing holy hell with decision making. There's some who don't take a step forward without her say-so.”

“Who?”

“Never you mind.”

The prime minister, the queen herself? To have such an asset as a Seer and not make use of her was ridiculous. Alex knew her godmother would be open to anything that would preserve and protect the realm. She'd been the target of considerable criticism about the creation of the Psychic Service, but her foresight had proved correct, time and again. Those like Aunt Honoria, who had a horror of supernatural matters, politely overlooked the issue as one might for an eccentricity displayed by a wealthy and powerful relative.

Mourne continued. “If Miss Sybil had been in top form, Dickie would never have been caught out. Who knows but your pap might still—well, never mind. What's done is done, God help us.”

“Which may be what prompted the Service attack. Yes, kill as many of us as possible, but find
her
. With her dead, whoever is behind these attacks can proceed toward some goal in happy security. But this is speculation. We must have more facts.”

“We'll get 'em, missy. We've arrived.”

Their wagon had stopped; the driver tapped twice on the wall between.

“I'll take a reccie. Lieutenant, you're heeled, you—”

“Out of ammunition, sir,” said Brook.

“Are you now, and you still waved iron under my nose as though you meant business. Don't do that again. Here's my shooter, see to it I get it back. You and Pendlebury stick here and keep sharp.”

Mourne opened the door, bringing a welcome flood of fresher air. After the stuffy blackness, the ordinary night seemed bright. Alex was not familiar with this part of London, but knew from the smell they were close to the Thames. She expected great dirty buildings and a dearth of street lighting and was not disappointed. They were not quite at the address, though, but halted several numbers away.

In addition to their driver, four men on horses were along for the expedition. The colonel issued orders. Each went off in a different direction to reconnoiter the wider area for suspicious hooded characters.

Mourne departed south toward the river, walking briskly. He was soon lost to the shadows.

The buildings were home to a number of businesses, some with foreign-sounding names and few clues to what was made or sold behind their walls. They were, of course, closed and silent with no sign of a watchman or owners living on the premises. It might be a busy place during the day, but seemed as empty as the moon at this hour.

Which was wrong. London, being London, had a surfeit of population to fill the streets. Even unfriendly, deserted ones like this usually had a share of drunkards, prostitutes, and thieves wandering through. What did locals know that kept them away? Brook seemed to sense the oddness as well, holding himself alert and restive, though he was silent.

Alex decided she did not care for, nor was she suited to, sentry duty. She was impatient and cold, but moving around would make noise and possibly draw attention. She kept the solid bulk of the Black Maria to her back and hoped this venture yielded fruit. That alone might (
might!
) mitigate her ignoring orders.

But in retrospect, it was ridiculous to hang expectations on an old address even if the source was Lord Hollifield himself. On a mere recollection he'd connected the air rifles to a visit from a self-proclaimed inventor. There might be a hundred such engineers roaming about with plans for making air guns with cranking mechanisms.

Which was the problem: someone had obviously executed those plans.

What a nasty yet appropriate word:
executed
.

She glanced uneasily at the tops of the surrounding buildings.
That's
where she should be, on the high ground—

What the devil?

Floating and silent, a vast rounded shape drifted over them, blotting out the gray sky. It was so unexpected a sight that she did not immediately take it in. Her first instinct was to duck, for anything that huge could not possibly remain aloft.

An airship?

Those were not permitted over the city; they caused too great a disturbance when people ran into crowded streets to stare. Sometimes one saw a ship in the high distance or moored in empty fields set aside for that purpose, but not over London and never so low.

Brook likewise noticed and to his credit remained quiet, though he was clearly just as startled.

Their driver quit his perch, reached into the wagon, and brought out the dark lantern. This one doubled its use as a signal lamp by means of an attached mirror. He lifted its gate, and the light flashed upward toward the ship. He blinked it in a set pattern until another light answered from above.

As the bulky ship maneuvered against the wind, the rumble of engines could now just be heard. This was a much larger, more improved craft than the one that had carried her over the hostile lands of the American territories; the lines were smoother, more graceful. With power for propellers it was not dependent on the prevailing winds for push. It was, just possibly, big enough for an Atlantic crossing.

Activity was afoot in the gondola; lights flickered and moved about. Alex strained to hear orders being called, but the wind and engine noise prevented that. The ship was soon parallel to their street in an excellent show of deft piloting.

Then lines were thrown over the side and, most unexpectedly, men began sliding down them, as swift as circus acrobats. They had control over their rate of descent, some quicker than others, and shortly after a group of fifteen disembarked. They detached from the lines, which were rapidly pulled back up.

The driver signaled again. The airship continued south toward the river until intervening structures blocked it from view.

The men wore thick rugby pullovers, knitted balaclava helmets, leather gloves, and riding boots, every stitch and scrap in unrelieved black. Leather-and-glass goggles protected their eyes against the vicious cold and wind of the higher altitudes. They were armed with Webleys on lanyards, truncheons, and what looked like—if one could judge by the length and shape of the scabbard—throwbacks to a Roman gladius, also on lanyards.

Though hard to see against the black and in the dark, they were partially armored, too, with formfitting plates strapped to their chests and arms. Metal that was strong enough to stop a bullet tended to be too heavy to wear, but evidently this well-built lot had no difficulty with the burden.

The last man down, noticeably bigger and taller than the others, carried a captured air rifle, along with its crank, which hung from his belt. How he'd managed that and lowered himself one-handed on a hundred-foot line was a mystery.

One man alone was formidable enough. Collectively, they were terrifying.

“I would hazard to deduce,” whispered Alex, “that
that
is a flying squad.”

Colonel Mourne's lean figure emerged from the dark. The men snapped to attention.

“That was sharp work, lads. Finally got to use that training, what? Ready for a rat hunt?”

They murmured an affirmative.

“Right, then. I had a look, and there's an ambush ahead.” He cast a cold eye on Alex and Brook. “Anyone fool enough to try the front bell will get a warm reception, so we won't touch it. Whoever they are, they're set up to defend themselves.”

“How many, sir?” asked someone in the back.

“I don't know, could be two or twenty. I'm going in to flush 'em out. Your objective is to capture if possible. We need prisoners to question, but if it's your life or theirs, don't hesitate. You're more valuable, choose yourself every time. If they have those special air rifles, it's twenty shots to your one. You won't hear their fire. Keep your eyes open.”

He then gave a concise description of the building. The front wall, twelve feet high, made of stout brick, had a wooden gate wide enough to admit wagons, locked of course. Inside were a delivery yard and the building itself, which was three floors, also brick with barred windows.

“There are only two openings in that wall for escape. You six cover the mews in back. There's four of ours there already. Tell them what to expect. You eight post up and down this side to watch the gate. You”—Mourne nodded to the man carrying the rifle—“are with me.”

They slipped away. The ones remaining found concealment in doorways and shadows and seemed to magically vanish in the darkness.

“We'll come along,” said Alex. “We can watch their back while they watch yours.”

“You trained for fighting?”

“I've seen my share. Practical experience, sir.”

“That's jolly for you, then, but I trained these lads myself and we all know what to do and when. You stick to Reading. Let them do the heavy work.”

“Yes, sir.”

Her easy reply stopped him in midturn and he snarled a curse. The man with him muttered into his ear. Mourne nodded and faced her. “I don't appreciate being lied to, missy, however keen you are to help. That ends or I'll toss you in the wagon and lock the door. If you want to watch, you may do so, but keep clear and take cover if it turns hot. Brook?”

“Yes, sir, I'll see to it, sir.”

“There's a man who knows the value of discipline.” Mourne and his tall companion hurried on.

The snapping remark stung. Alex full well understood discipline; her life and sanity depended on maintaining it. She looked at Brook, frowning.

He shrugged. “You were going to rush in regardless, weren't you?”

“Not rushed. I'd have been careful. This excursion was not my idea. I was going to report and let the Service handle it, but we were abducted. Since I'm here, I want to be useful.”