Praise for Lilith Saintcrow...

“Darkly compelling, fascinatingly unique. Lilith Saintcrow offers a breathtaking, fantastic ride.”

—NYT bestselling author Gena Showalter

“Lilith Saintcrow is a master at world building. And her imagination is endless. I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

—Cheryl B, NetGalley reviewer on Sons of Ymre: Erik

“From cover to cover, I could not put this book down. So happy to be reading a new and exciting fast-paced series from Lilith Saintcrow.”

—Neal Bravin, NetGalley reviewer on Sons of Ymre: Erik

“In the Watchers series, Saintcrow writes stories that are almost always nonstop action from beginning to end. Her women are kick-ass strong, her men ruggedly handsome and dedicated to the women they serve. It isn’t a bad combination at all.”

—CJReading

“I read Dark Watcher with growing delight. As chapter followed chapter, I never quite knew what was around the corner.”—Ebook Reviews

Of Dante Valentine . . .

“Dark fantasy has a new heroine . . .”

—SFX magazine

“Saintcrow snares readers with an amazing alternate reality that is gritty, hip, and dangerously mesmerizing.”

—Romantic Times magazine

“She’s a brave, charismatic protagonist with a smart mouth and a suicidal streak. What’s not to love?”

—Publishers Weekly

“This mind-blowing series remains a must-read for all urban fantasy lovers.”

—bittenbybooks.com

Other ImaJinn and Bell Books Titles by
Lilith Saintcrow

The Watchers

Dark Watcher

Storm Watcher

Fire Watcher

Cloud Watcher

Mindhealer

Finder

The Sons of Ymre

The Sons of Ymre: Erik

The Sons of Ymre: Jake

Ghost Squad

Damage

Duty

Gamble

The Society Series

The Society

Hunter-Healer

Other

The Demon’s Librarian

Hell’s Acre

Hell’s Acre

A Hell’s Acre Novel

by

Lilith Saintcrow

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-260-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-61026-271-2

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2024 by Lilith Saintcrow

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Steampunk scene (manipulated) © Jhmahim5|Dreamstime.com
Clock (manipulated) © Arhi713|Dreamstime.com
Horse (manipulated) © Tudorpopaart|Dreamstime.com

:Eahy:01:

Dedication

For N. D., whom I miss.

Part One:
A Rose in New Rome

Rosa Resurget

NEW ROME WAS trapped in an inverted haze-cup, steadily more umbrous as both dusk and the watery line through the city’s heart thickened. Salt-marsh swell from the river Thamis’s mouth a good forty miles away pushed the goddess’s aqueous skirts wide while human scavengers, losing both light and footing, retreated from treacherous flats becoming slightly less odorous as liquid imperfectly covered their sins. The last nail-paring of a venomously orange sunset burned at the horizon, gilding mansion windows in the West End while draining from wide avenues receiving the last of their several-daily sweepings. Crowded tenements in the poorer areas rarely saw daylight even at noon, so their shadows merely thickened at this hour. Quays and docks gave one last burst of activity while there was enough light, and those parts of the metropolis most active at night either began to stir or attended to a few adjustments before resuming their affairs. It was the moment before candles, godglows, and steadily proliferating gaslamps would be lit, night creeping from the east like a housebreaker along a garden wall.

Taurrock Abbey sat stone-browed and glowering between a pair of roads too young to disturb its historical solidity, a wide, columned stone façade enduring the caress of a few final forlorn sungleams. The temple proper had been dedicated in the days of First Empire and its bulk endured into the Third in somewhat genteel disrepair. Temple and abbey anchored one end of the Thrash, that great avenue lingering between the slums of Brickneedle and the greater ferment of Hell’s Acre, both brimful of immigrants and poor country labourers wherever a cheap doss or a measure of oily gin could be found.

The temple’s great dome glowered at the great grey rectangle of Imanuel Orphanage and Poor-School across a wide cobbled confluence of street-streams, watching as the first flames glittered upon taper or hissing gaslamp burners. A hired hack of the better class detached from the Thrash’s occasionally slowing but never quiet welter to pull up smartly before the Abbey’s gates, and the brownrobe brother in the stone gate-cubicle peered out with some bewilderment.

A dayhire footman hastened from his perch upon the rear of the conveyance to open the door; a heavily veiled lady emerged. Her trunk was set down with a grunt but not an oath—in deference to her modesty and the closeness of a priest, no doubt. She paid from a rather deflated reticule, and by the time Brother Jacob regained his wits the driver had cracked whip, the footman leapt to cling monkeylike once more upon the hack’s rear, and the entire affair shot away into the shadows like the evanescent equipage of Teutonica Freyja.

Taurrock’s environs were held to be somewhat unhealthy at night, after all. Not for the Brothers, of course, but loiterers before the gates sometimes had . . . accidents, especially if they meant ill.

Mithras looked after his own, even in these modern times.

A much greater danger was a curious footpad or two issuing forth from the Thrash, or the periodic clashes between Acre, Brickneedle, and other toughs fought upon the cobbled field. The expanse between Abbey and Imanuel had seen more than one pitched battle, accounts of which—suitably embellished—were cried at corners for a sliverpence only when there was no other news to be had.

“Uh . . .” Brother Jacob rubbed at his close-cropped pate. The Unconquered Sun still required his worshippers to shear themselves in preparation for battle, though it was more than possible for a priest, monk, or dedicant to never see such a thing. “Oh . . . good evening, madam, I—”

“Good evening, Brother.” A soft, crisp tone issued from behind the veil, slightly louder than might be entirely well-bred, as if she suspected her interlocutor hard of hearing. “I must see Father Alec Nossorton immediately. It is rather late, and my journey has been long.”

Brother Jacob continued scrubbing at his bristling head with wide, capable hands. His frame said he was blessed with great physical strength, but his wide brow and mild brown eyes, somewhat oxlike in both colour and placement, seemed to denote only middling intelligence.

The lady’s trunk was well-corded and its nameplate indistinct in the dimness. More temple, abbey, and seclusor bells rang in every part of the city New Rome marking the holy hour of the sun’s death as she did its birth and various points between, not to mention other times of interest to various divinities. Every god was propitiated at the heart of the Third Empire, even the hungry, animal-headed Old Pantheon of Ægypt’s desert sands.

Yes, every god save one was given honour in the Empire, according to the weight of their followers. That was not the source of Brother Jacob’s hesitation.

His reluctance was simply and solely due to the fact of her femaleness, and he was fairly certain creatures of such persuasion were not to be let through the Abbey’s gates between dusk and dawn. “Madam,” he began, in his profundo which made afternoon plainsong so memorable inside the stone hallways, “I am not quite certain—”

The woman reached for her veil, visibly thought better of removing its protection, and leaned forward slightly. “Rosa resurget,” she said, quite calmly, and not in the common tongue of the streets. Instead, she pronounced the syllables in the ancient way, laying unwonted stress upon first and third syllables, and she accompanied the words with a curious, though very graceful, gesture of one small gloved hand.

Brother Jacob’s face drained of both colour and good cheer. He beckoned her forward, and she stepped through the small postern with a sigh of relief. The priest hefted her trunk through as well before taking a moment to bar the door of the cubicle and lock the postern gate, then set off across the paved pathways—not for the main bulk of the temple but to the right, where a smaller, lower annex crouched, its windows alive with godglow and gaslight.

Beth-Anne Guilfoile, born Livia-Beth Gemiara Grant-Roissy, the orphaned Lady Greywood, had at long last returned to New Rome.

Little Beth

QUINTUS HAD BEEN chanted, supper for the brothers was well underway in the long bright refectory, and the evening reading was a Great Reform text upon the avenging of wrongs. However, tall spare Alec Nossorton—once Baron of Helthings and now a simple servant of the Bull—was not at table. Nor was he at rest within his comfortable, well-appointed cell. Instead, he still laboured in his private study, scratching at a sheet of heavy paper with an exceedingly old-fashioned reservoir pen. The gaslamps providing illumination were much more modern; there was no shortage of light.

It was one prerogative of his rank.

However, there was a word for the accompanying responsibility of such exalted station, and it began with paper. Being quite elastic, its hind end rhymed with several low terms a good Mithraic brother should never allow to cross his holy lips. Sometimes even the best was tempted, though. Especially when he heard hurrying footsteps in the hall and knew his few precious moments of dinner solitude were about to be assaulted.

The only surprise was the face upon the problem’s vanguard, pausing in the door with his sandaled toes very respectfully not quite touching the threshold. “My lord Greatfather?”

“Hm?” The Abbot of Taurrock rubbed at his watering dark eyes, pinched the bridge of his wide nose, and looked up to find Brother Jacob filling the doorway with broad shoulders and a quite unwonted frown. “What is it, Jacob? Some manner of disaster before our gates? A request from Imanuel?” If the childcatchers were lurking about, word would have to be sent to the Rook, and quickly.

Jacob shook his head, mournfully, and spread his wide, ham-like hands. “No, Father. It’s . . . a woman.”

“With a shame upon her?” Such poor creatures sometimes mistook Taurrock’s gates for Imanuel’s, or thought the Brothers could be prevailed upon to take a boy, as in the old days.

Mithras no longer wanted infants raised in his service. Nowadays, the god required only the adult willing—or so the laws of Britannia said, and rendering unto the Third Empire its due was a necessity some even called pleasant when they wished to cover their own indiscretions.

It was about to be a very long evening full of unpleasant thoughts; Alec could already tell.

“No, Greatfather.” Jacob’s broad face changed, as if he hadn’t thought to ask if the visitor was carrying a bundle of shame or ingratitude. “She, er . . . well, it’s that . . .”

“Pardon me.” A low voice, melodious and cultured, ribboned around the good Brother’s browncloth bulk. “Father Alec Nossorton, I presume?”

“She knew the sign,” Jacob whispered loudly, cupping his big hands on either side of his mouth. He also stepped over the threshold. “And the words.”

Well, this is most irritating. “Which words were those, my son?” Alec laid his pen aside. He had taken no holy second-name to cover his own, perhaps from misplaced pride, and he suspected he was about to be importuned by some exceedingly silly woman who fancied a cousin-linkage with supposed riches. “Do come in further, so I may see our guest. You realise this is most irregular?”

The younger priest pressed himself to the side, nearly blundering into the crammed bookshelf lurking just past the door and revealing a slim, indistinct feminine shape in his wake. Clearly he sought to grant her every scrap of space he could; perhaps he feared some manner of contamination.

“You sound exactly like Aunt Hay, sir.” The woman pushed her veil aside with dark-gloved fingers. A hint of pale chin showed, as well as a gleam of pearly teeth as she smiled. Dark braids, curls ruthlessly tamed yet somewhat disarranged from travel, moved under the veil.

No. It can’t be. The entire situation changed in the space of a single heartbeat, an evening miracle. “Mithras preserve us.” Alec started to his feet, his right thigh hitting the desk’s edge with a solid, painful sound. “Ouch. Beth? Little Beth, is that you?”

Jacob lumbered further into the room, mild and curious, as the Greatfather limp-hurried around his desk, simple brown Mithraic robes brushing stacks of ledgers, manuscripts, bound items, and a great lectern where the Taurrock Book resided every half-year when it was time to pen a few entries. The Abbot could have worn velvet or something similar, of course—proper cloth was hardly grudged to one of his position or former rank.

But he did not bother to. Such visible eschewing of luxury might have made a few temple-goers smile behind cupped hands, if any of sufficient Fashion or Income could be found at this end of the Thrash.

“My dear little niece.” The Abbot threw his arms about the young woman, who returned his embrace so far as she was able under her heavy traveling cloak and additional weight of pelisse—New Rome was far chillier than her accustomed clime. “Henrietta sent no word; I shall scold her in my next letter.” His laugh was somewhat forced; he held the girl at arm’s length, studying a rather pale, triangular face under an old-fashioned veiled hat with a pin slightly too large for its circumference. “How is she? Why did she send you with no warning? The mail must have been most delayed.” Behind his surprise lurked sudden unease, and a great deal of it.

His sister would not have sent her ward across the Channel unless some terrible danger had reared upon the Continent. They had agreed Gaul was safest, nobody would think to look for a treasure of ages in the sleepy depths of a widow’s quiet country estate, and Hay had made no secret of yearning to retire across the windswept, ill-tempered sea girdle for at least a year and a half after her husband’s untimely though quite welcome demise.

The girl—now that her face was uncovered, she seemed far too young for the brisk self-possession displayed at the Abbey’s gate—shook her head, and cast an eloquent, dark-eyed glance at the younger Brother.

Another worrying sign, one Alec did not like either. “Don’t be troubled, Brother Jacob is no gossip.” If only she knew how reliable the young priest was—but that was not a subject fit for maidenly ears. “As far as anyone suspects, he and I are both geldings left to rot in priestly robes. Come, dear, sit down. Tell me, when did you leave St Courcy?”

“Three days ago. Uncle . . . I apologise, but I could not wait until morning to visit. I bear unpleasant news.” Little Beth, heir to much more than she knew, grasped his hands with far more strength than her small frame warranted. “Aunt Hay, sir. She is . . . she . . .”

Alec Nossorton felt his face change, the placid mask he’d worn for years cracking. “Ah. I see. When?” The urge to shake the girl and demand a full accounting of precisely what had brought her to Taurrock was repressed, but only just.

Beth glanced again at Jacob, who folded his arms inside wide brown sleeves.

“Shall I leave, Greatfather?” He was broad in every beam, this Brother of Mithras, but not quite so dim—or so torpid—as he appeared. In nautical terms, his top-rigging was very nearly excellent. “The gate is locked, but I am still on duty.”

“No, my good son.” Alec released his niece, returning to the desk. He did not, however, settle behind its bulk. “Rare good fortune you were at the door tonight. Little Beth, you may trust young Jacob here as you trust your uncle. Come. Sit down, and tell me everything. How did . . . how did it happen?” If the Priory had discovered this young lady’s existence, Alec would not only have to avenge his sister but also break oaths to two gods instead of merely abjuring one, and that was a daunting proposition even in this semi-faithless modern age.

“Influenza.” The girl’s eyes, red-rimmed, glazed for a moment. It was the only crack in her uncanny calm; nevertheless, her lips were slightly chapped and her cheeks roughened. Salt water, especially under a veil, left unmistakable traces. “She . . . her health was broken before she retired to the Continent, after all. She went very quietly, just before winter solstice. St Courcy is in Sampson’s care.”

“Just after solstice?” The Abbot nodded as if he were not internally reeling; why had Bayard, that old soldier, not written? And the girl was not in mourning-cloth, either. “Sampson is aware of your leaving?”

“By now, certainly.” Little Beth’s gloved fingers twisted together, though her expression stayed pleasant and interested. In this light her resemblance to her mother was striking—it was in the eyes, large, dark, and very fine, but the previous Lady Greywood’s gaze had never been this watchful. “I admit I deceived him, Uncle, and told him I had written to you so he need not, being so occupied with funeral arrangements. I stayed only long enough afterward to make certain there would be no trouble with his amnesty, though he would have kept the ring.”

Of course he would have. The only creature Bayard—now called Sampson, a perhaps-joke of his own choosing—had ever truly obeyed was Henrietta Guilfoile, née Nossorton, and his iron indenture ring was a fiction meant to ensure their safety across the Channel. He was, after all, a criminal paying off a murder debt. The fact that it had been justified would not have saved him from the gallows or the Priory, but the once-Baron of Helthings cared for his own.

So much as he could, at least. He’d been put out to pasture in a crumbling temple instead of facing a full Priory Inquisition only because of his rank—and because once he was trammeled in the Bull’s stone pile, he ceased to be a threat. Or so the Seven thought, and he had given them every reason to continue in that assessment, especially once his sister and her precious burden were safely across the Channel’s watery wall.

Alec’s throat was full. He cleared it with a half-cough, blinking several times while his mind raced furiously. How much did little Beth know? “How is he?”

“Devastated, Uncle. Or should I call you Greatfather?”

As if it mattered. “Either will do, child.”

“Greatfather it shall be, then, in deference to your station. I shall perform penance for deception and mourn Aunt Hay once I have achieved my aim.” She settled, straight-backed and stiff, upon the chair he indicated. The Abbot’s seat was hard, carved wood; hers held a threadbare but well-stuffed cushion, and was the only accommodation without an occupying stack of paper and other printed matter. “I am not here as myself, of course, but as Miss Gemma Dove, lately a governess on the Continent and seeking employment. It will give me time to . . .” She glanced at Jacob yet again, and decided to proceed. “Time to complete an orphan’s vengeance. That is my design.”

“Gemma . . . Dove. I see.” Alec’s heart threatened to crack at the same moment relief swamped him, and he hoped his expression was steady. How had she found out this much? Hay had promised to keep every secret for as long as possible. Yet children grew; nothing stopped the steady march of Time consuming all in its path. Maybe he should have chosen retirement to a temple of that very principle; Kronos might have been a better choice than the Bull. “Ah. You know it all, then.” I hope you do not. I hope you never learn the full extent.

“I’ve known about my parents and the Greywood affair since I was twelve, Uncle.” Oddly, a shadow eased from her wan, pale face, a burden from her slim shoulders. “But Aunt Hay begged me to be reasonable.”

“Shall I beg you, too?” It would round out his evening, already one of long suffering and diminished returns. He should not feel so about a poor orphan needing care and guidance, but Father Alec was . . . weary.

It had all seemed so exciting upon the long-ago evenings he and the heir to Greywood attended dinner parties together, both selected for induction into the Priory and bursting with self-important passwords, secret grips, and initiations. Lucius had just been engaged then, too, a marriage eagerly endorsed and engineered by the Priory itself.

Centuries of careful work, lineages melded and bloodlines pruned or encouraged, had reached culmination. And then. . . .

“Beg me for what, Greatfather?” One dark eyebrow raised, an echo of his sister’s habitual mind yourself, sir expression.

A sharp, thin, invisible spear pierced Alec’s chest. “Not to attempt this. Henrietta would wish for you to live, my dear, not to risk yourself chasing revenge.”

“I’m well aware.” The orphan folded her gloved hands very prettily, regarding him with a familiar, quiet self-possession; oh, Hay had never given birth, but this was the child she poured all her care into. Of course little Beth would be just as stubborn, and just as prim, as his beloved sister. I told you not to marry that Gaulish git, Alec had said once, and received this very expression. “This is merely my first pass at finding shelter within New Rome. Should you turn me out or seek to send me home, I shall merely find another way. Would you not prefer to have me at least temporarily under Mithras’s care while I embark upon what I should accomplish as a dutiful daughter?”

The Greatfather of Taurrock, his head down, merely sighed. Then, quick as a striking snake, his hand closed about a letter opener upon his cluttered desk. In one swift flicking movement he half-turned, his hip lending force to the motion, and the missile whistled as it clove air.

Brother Jacob let out an inarticulate blurt, but the girl did not flinch. The opener’s trajectory, in any case, would have narrowly avoided her. However, a small gloved hand flashed up, nipping at the blunted blade, and in a trice the letter opener was flung back, spinning once—

—and driven, with a solid tchuk, into the back of the Abbot’s empty chair. The ivory handle quivered, a low musical vibration threading through charged air.

Jacob had gone the colour of Brickneedle cheese. He stuffed his large hands hastily back into his sleeve pockets, for the girl had glanced at him, and though she did not rise to face either man the calculation in those wide dark eyes was at once foreign and completely familiar.

Oh, Mithras. Of course she’d known the words; the old soldier would have armed her with at least that in case she had to flee St Courcy ahead of the Priory’s dogs.

It also appeared he had given her somewhat more, as well.

“Sampson,” Father Alec said, softly. A fine defence for a widow alone, a comfortable retirement for a soldier who had given himself both to the Path and to service of the only woman he had ever loved—yet what did such men do in their later days but teach?

And what teacher could resist, with such a student before him? Still, it appeared Hay and Sampson had kept the largest secret entirely from the girl, and Alec was devoutly grateful for that grace. He had to write to St Courcy at once.

“I am aware of the name he had in his youth, sir. Can you think of a better instructor?” Little Beth knew very well her ‘uncle’ could not, yet her tension did not ease. “Aunt Hay gave her blessing to my training, albeit with much reluctance. She thought the pain of the Path would deter me.” Imagine that, her tone said, such naiveté, and in a gentlewoman her age.

The Path held agony and promise in equal measure; it was not so much an organisation as a collection of techniques. Even if the Priory sneered at those who held it to contain philosophical as well as merely physical benefits, the Path was everywhere they were by default.

Its practices were far too useful to be set aside. And it had, after all, shown the way for their survival, not to mention their greatest goal.

Which had now achieved breathing life, and stood before him.

“There is much of your father in you.” Even more of your mother, did you but know it. Another sigh, this one deep and genuine, shook the Abbot’s tall, slightly stoop-shouldered frame. He gazed toward the bookcase; it was an attitude of profound thought, but Brother Jacob would know it meant only that the ruler of Taurrock Abbey had reached a decision and was about to make some manner of order out of chaos. “Very well. You do not have quarters for the evening.” It was not a question.

“I can find them, if necessary.” Little Beth did not sound afraid of the prospect, merely resigned; she was not the average well-bred young lady, indeed. A child trained by Sampson would not be daunted by so simple a matter as brutally quick travel, or disappearing into a teeming metropolis. “I will simply leave my trunk here, if you—”

“No.” Alec’s immediate refusal even had the honour of being completely unforced. At least he could keep her from mischief overnight, and try to think of some way to send her packing back to St Courcy. But quietly, and hopefully before she discovered her parents’ misfortune was not solely due to a powerful man’s shocking, unmentionable lust. “Brother Jacob, take our guest to the visitor’s cells upon the east side. Fetch some water and a pallet; I shall undertake her dinner myself. Then return to the gate until you are relieved for the Septimus. I shall prepare a letter to Director Breakbridge tonight, as well.” The solution he had in mind might even convince her where Hay and Sampson had failed to. “There is an opening for a teacher at Imanuel across the street, you see.”

He could perhaps arrange to keep somewhat of a watch upon her movements if she took the post. He could also buy time; Sampson could not cross the Channel without risking the gallows, but something had to be done.

“A teacher?” Gemma’s eyebrows rose. Her shoulders relaxed a trifle, and were she not so pale and pinched from travel, she might have been held attractive in a rather quiet way. Of course she was determinedly playing the part of genteel poverty, and would most likely be successful—the uninitiated see what they wish, the Path repeated, and like many aphorisms it had the advantage of being true. “How fortunate. I thought it would take more time to find a position.”

“Imanuel is a parish poor-school, and an orphanage. Run by subscription, though the Abbey sometimes offers a bit of help. Quite a charitable concern.” The Abbot returned to his private desk, sorting through papers with quick spider-flicks of callused fingers which had not yet forgotten the Path’s regimen of stretching, flickering movement, and internal attention. His glance fell upon the very sheaf he wanted, and he tossed it upon his blotter. Everything else could wait. “Full of restless ragamuffins and foundlings, eager for the milk of knowledge to be drip-dropped into their seashell ears.” Each word held an edge, and Brother Jacob winced slightly.

“You’re angry, Uncle.” Now little Beth sounded much closer to her true age, and the note of wistfulness was Hay’s as well. His sister had never learned to shrug aside a loved one’s ire—no, Henrietta must have all smoothed over, and quickly too, lest her nerves shatter.

The bastard she’d married had used that ruthlessly, until he was stopped. Or more precisely, until Sampson—then bearing another, much more famous name—had stopped him.

And nearly been sent to the gallows for it.

You must save him, Alec. Hay’s words, distorted through the mass of bruising upon her face; oh, Alec might have killed that Gaulish git himself.

Just not so publicly. Yet what else could one expect from a man of Bayard’s stripe? “Not quite, my child.” A sigh shook Alec, quite by surprise. “I merely wish you would listen to me, or to Henrietta, or even to Sampson, since I know he must have tried to dissuade you as well.”

She rose, brushing at her skirts, and cast Jacob another wary glance, visibly calculating his likelihood of moving to attack. “He did. Repeatedly.”

“And?” The Abbot wrenched the letter opener from the back of the chair, and clicked his tongue at the fresh pale scar in old dark wood. If he hadn’t suspected her at least somewhat trained, flinging an item at a young lady would have been an exercise in cruelty, not to mention futility.

Neither appealed to him. Which was why he was here, instead of in an opulent West End mansion enjoying a postprandial cigar while his fellows in the Priory made conversation and agreements, steering the great ship of Empire, naming various acts necessary for such work ‘service’ to the tortured, blasphemous thing masquerading as a divinity.

“I think I shall enjoy being a schoolmistress for a short while. It sounds quite diverting.” The stubborn orphan bobbed a graceful and somewhat old-fashioned courtesy, smiling at the man she called ‘uncle’ though no blood mingled between them.

It caused him the same pang as Hay’s joy while his sister cradled a tiny squalling bundle, staring rapt at its tiny, infuriated face. Oh, Alec, look. Isn’t she beautiful? This is a gift indeed.

“Diverting for all concerned,” the Abbot muttered, skirting the desk once more and taking little Beth’s hands. “Go, and rest. In the morning you shall have an introduction to the Director. I will aid you all I can.” Until I can send you back. He squeezed in farewell, perhaps a trifle desperately, and returned to his seat as the soft music of her skirts retreated down the hallway, once more treading in the perplexed but obedient Jacob’s wake.

She was not ghost-silent now. He hadn’t heard her approaching with the younger priest, which was precisely why he’d tested her reflexes.

When a trainer of Sampson’s calibre set a child upon the Path it was to arm them against time itself, for he knew his own body would wither in its turn. And of course she would make a fine instrument.

She was, after all, bred to it.

A once-proud baron tented his fingers before his nose and stared at a single gaslamp flame as his lips moved in silent prayer for Mithras to hold poor beautiful Henrietta in everlasting grace. Even if one did not precisely believe, divinities and their ilk took heed of proper behaviour.

Godglows showed as much, after all.

He also prayed for the Unconquered Sun to watch over a girl he had sent to Gaul in a nurse’s arms nigh on twenty years ago, consigning the orphaned—indeed, the presumed deceased—Lady Greywood to the care of a widow who had all her life wanted nothing more than a child.

An infant the Seven thought dead as well, which had robbed the Priory of a prize sought for centuries. Alec had thought the lands across the Channel would shelter such an infant, and added yet another prayer for the wisdom and luck to steer this young lady back to the other side of a watery wall.

He hoped his lack of belief would not make the Bull turn a stoppered ear, but sadly, Alec Nossorton knew such optimism was in vain. The age of miracles was long past, if it had ever truly existed at all. Even believers could not bestir the divine to world-shaking violations of the natural order, despite the occasional minor fortuitous accident inside a temple’s environs and the steady lamps of faith prayed into life by a chosen, fanatic few clergy of each generation.

In modern days, it was left to believers and faithless alike to negotiate peril all but alone. Which meant that he must write to Sampson tonight. And also to a certain northern gentleman.

Morton had to be told of this.

Simple Problems

A ROTTING ALMOST-full moon leered over New Rome’s rooftops, smokefog thickened, and Avery Black stabbed a man twice in the kidneys, wrenching the blade free with a vicious twist each time. When he let go, the corpse—though the poor fellow probably didn’t know he was one for a few moments yet—tumbled loose-jointed down the rooftop, buckles and boots clang-clattering until it tipped off the edge and plummeted, landing in the Vasht Brothers Tannery Yard with a crack and a forlorn splash.

Must’ve hit the drinking trough. Ave was already running lightly parallel to the roof’s ridgeline, Ned Popper beside him silent and grinning rictus-fierce. Ned might have made a good Hellion, but for the fact that he did not truly hate anyone.

Oh, the Popper had a dislike or two—who didn’t? But the real thing which made a Hellion was a bright spear of contempt buried in your guts, and Ned had plucked his free a long time ago. Consequently, he rarely hurried. Even the vengeance Avery had promised—and delivered—had been accomplished with the measured efficiency of a counting-house clerk totting up a column of figures, checking the total thrice to make certain before leaving his pen, paper, and clockwork adding machine for the day.

For all that, the man was fast and vicious when a fight was truly engaged upon. It was Ned who took the last intruder before Ave could reach, fading almost out of sight in his peculiar way; Popper had a disturbing facility for shadows. There was a grunt, a surprised exhalation, the flicker of a darkened blade, and another Huq’s End Boy sent to test Rook defences rolled like a string-cut puppet as well, landing in Throtton Alley with a thud which probably gave one or two of the nightbirds plying their trade in its depths a turn.

Not to mention their clients, if they weren’t too blind with drink or shagging to notice.

“Should’ve sent more,” Ned said softly, reappearing at his captain’s side.

Roof-running in boots took a certain lightness of step; he’d already taught those with most promise the relevant skill. It was just a Path secret, not a Hellion one.

Those were all kept safe. “Then we’d never get to the publick.” Ave scrubbed at his forehead under a shelf of dark hair, and the other man’s amusement was sun-warm against his shoulder.

A piercing whistle lifted from the crumble-jumble of Rostand End; just after, the all-clear sounded from above Gatescrook. If this kept up, the Rooks might even be able to nap at night instead of spending the dark hours defending their territory from the older, well-established associations and ‘fellowships’ ruling certain neighbouring parts of New Rome.

Any war of conquest had a moment when the balance shifted, and Avery was sensing the fulcrum of his own personal campaign. The Acre—a rich territory indeed—had once been held in part by at least three different associations; a simple enough affair, to set the two largest at each other while he took control of the third and christened it anew as a bird of ill omen.

The work was even pleasant, in its own way.

Avery settled his hood, dark eyes gleaming as its shade swallowed him whole. It cut some of his peripheral vision but sharpened other senses, and a Hellion without one was no better than a common thug—or worse, a politician. To work anonymously was the vow one took, and if it made one’s eyes sting when daylight threatened, more the better.

A man should remember what he was.

Herrin’s distinctive trilling whistle rose from the heart of their territory, a reminder to square up and count off, lads. A pleasant nocturne, all things considered; those under the pitched roofs and gables would know the Rooks were out tonight, and to sleep easy.

Or to mind themselves, for divided allegiances could be fatal in Hell’s Acre.

Avery was already running double to keep from granting any onlooker an easy target, an armoured fish in black waters. Ned followed—the man was quixotically determined not to let the Rook out of his sight.

If he’d known what a nursemaid the scarred, laconic Popper would turn out to be, Avery might not have saved the man from the gallows.

There was no more time for thinking, merely the gift of unconscious grace and speed, flinging himself into empty, smoke-choked air with a rattle of loose shingles, landing and rolling, up again with no loss of velocity, cresting another slippery roofslope and plunging over, landing amid the deadly silent battle on the island of Rostand End’s central tenement. Tapree Corner was a dark well to the west, a patchwork of slum-buildings leaning dispirited against each other; Avery would have bet more than a tuppence that the real fight would be on End’s island instead of the Corner’s craze-crack of dead ends and sullen crumbling brick, but his boys had learned not to wager against him in such a fashion.

They were coming along nicely.

These particular invaders were a muffler-wrapped quartet of Marauders, the garish plaid of their leggings visible even in this gloom. Their leader, red-bearded McNeiss, was already dead—he just didn’t know it yet.

McNeiss wouldn’t sell any more foundlings to the Priory workhouses. Not after Ave finished with him.

The Rook took a moment to glance over the situation. Four Marauders back-to-back, stranded on a high bit of roof; as he watched, a whizzing blur smashed into the head of the tallest and the trespasser folded like yet another cut puppet, a spray of blood, bone, and brain-matter breaking over his compatriots. One Marauder let out a miserable, shocked little howl, more like a kitten than a man, and Ave wondered if they’d even sent women to do their dirty work.

It wouldn’t surprise him, but it would be unlike McNeiss to let a bint wear colours.

He could have let his Rooks finish the business without him. But an association leader who wasn’t in the front ranks risked losing a little of his mogg, and that made for problems downstream. So Avery waded in, ducking under a blow from a hefty, desperate Marauder, taking the man’s legs out from under him and stabbing once, twice, the blade a damp flickering hummingbird tongue. The hilt of his left-hand knife slammed down again; Avery popped up jack-in-the-box and hammered his right-hand blade through the softness under a stubbled jawbone. A vicious twist, a shower of hot salt blood over his half-gloved hand, but he was already whirling, left knife burying itself in the whiner’s guts. Not enough softness there to be a woman’s belly; Avery took no chances, bending away from a strike sensed more than seen and ripping the blade sideways. Gutsplit stench rose. He shook the fellow off his right hand with a contemptuous flick, kicking him for good measure to keep the body moving in the proper direction.

Just that quickly, it was over. The all-clear lifted from his lips, a nice even whistle. He wasn’t even winded.

“Damn it all, Ave.” Ned Popper materialized, kicking the flopping mess of an eviscerated Marauder even farther along its loose-rolling course. “Should’ve waited for me.”

“Then we’d really never make it to the pub tonight,” Avery murmured, but not very loudly. Popper had his own pride. He took a deep breath, flicked his knives clean, and straightened. “Rooks? Sound off.”

They did one by one, just as he’d taught them, a catechism of the doomed.

“Bright here, sir.”

“Flanders here.” The most dangerous of his protégées next to the Popper straightened slightly, watching the easy approach—a ladder set against the End’s crumbling brick wall. If there was another wave of attackers, it would come from that direction.

“Kane here.” The big man sounded a bit gaspy; someone his size shouldn’t be on the hilltops but good luck telling him that. Kane wouldn’t think of staying aground when there was a chance of impressing the Rook Himself.

“Jackson here, sir.”

It took all of you to hunt down four of these idiots? But that wasn’t productive, and in any case, none of them were Hellions. Morton’s brutal training had turned Avery Black into something both more and less than human, and it wasn’t fair to expect the same from a collection of gin-soaked alley-bred bravos.

Even ones who were faithful to his own particular cause—or whatever they thought his cause was. “Good work, lads.”

“Good work, he says.” Even Popper’s whisper was sardonic; he crouched easily, one hand tented against fog-damp, gritty tile. “I’d say it’s lucky we came to help.”

“Bite your own arse, Ned.” Kane couldn’t even whisper very quietly; his words were a basso rumble. “Let’s geddown and have a pint, eh?”

“After returning this post to its sender, Kane.” Avery straightened, his skin alive with the consciousness of one more fight survived. He scanned the peaks and valleys around them, straining to sense any further movement, even an onlooker’s breathing. Another short all-clear rose to the south, Herrin doing just what he should. The bulk of the boys were in the capable hands of Avery’s second, and probably had endured a bit of streetside fun as well as topside dancing.

“Can we put their nobs on sticks, then?” Flanders rose too, but slowly. His peculiar slump-shouldered stance looked too slouchish to be of any real use, but he was deadly quick when need called.

“If you wish to spend the time to do so, be my guest.” It would make a fine stir, and Ave wasn’t averse to sending a message or two. “Kane’s with me, the rest of ye sorry lot with Ned and finish the knitting. Nothing fancy, mind, just a sliverpence-post.”

A chorus of good-natured but very soft groans rose; Popper was grinning almost ear to ear despite the prospect of temporarily letting the Rook wander. Avery turned away, waiting for a missile—or another cry in the night denoting further incursion.

New Rome merely muttered dozily, the river’s pulse lapping softly in the distance and wheels rumbling along lanes paved, cobble, or dirt. The commerce of Empire never slept.

At least not comfortably, or deep.

This entire city stank, but he’d lay odds the belly-stabbed corpse at his feet was the most aromatic spot right now. All the Rooks, even Nash and Bleecker watching the north end under Wurth’s sharp eye, would clean up at the Helleny livery’s troughs before showing their faces at Lucky’s near dawn.

A beautiful night, even if a trifle boring.

“Get on with ye, then, lads.” He made certain his hood was proper settled and took off, Kane lumbering behind him. He’d have to take the easy way down for the giant, unless the ladder disintegrated.

It was good to have simple problems to solve, for once.

High Hopes

GREETING A CHILL misty dawn in a stone temple cell was a new experience, of the type crowding fast and thick upon Beth of late. She was thankful for the support of a corset’s stays and tight lacings reminding her to keep her back straight and her step light since the day she had been first laced into one. While the present occasion did not admit of merriment or ease, at least Beth—no, now she was Gemma, and best to remember it—had been too busy with steady movement and solving minor travel quandaries to care.

Waking upon a straw mattress was much less unpleasant than other accommodations she could have secured. At least with a mirror and a washbasin she could be neat and presentable as the former governess she was impersonating, and she had a change of linen as well. It was a far cry indeed from her toilette at St Courcy, but avenging her birth parents required leaving comfort behind.

The persistent suspicion that she had not quite thought this matter out thoroughly, despite brooding upon it since she was twelve years old, was extremely unwelcome. Travel without Aunt Hay’s chaperonage and Sampson’s smooth handling of details was both disagreeable and nerve-wracking.

Still, Aunt Hay’s much-mentioned brother—he of the exquisite, well-chosen presents every name-day, birthday, solstice, and equinox—was efficient as Sampson said he would be, though he visibly wished to send her packing back to Gaul. Even Brother Jacob, though bovine in appearance—perhaps that was why he had joined the Bull’s brethren—was reasonably capable, and had ushered her out an overgrown Abbey side entrance as a dawn chorus of religious peals and thunders echoed from New Rome’s various holy buildings, with none others inside Taurrock Abbey aware of her temporary presence within its walls.

At least the temple had more than one annex; otherwise, she might have had to sleep in a stable. Even the fashionably irreligious might not dare flout the Bull’s prohibition on female creatures passing a night inside one of his homes, though there were lay sisters who served Mithras in one fashion or another all over Europa.

His temples in the East or North Afrique did not allow even that.

Gemma had only to cross the wide cobbled confluence of several roads in order to reach Imanuel; it was a strange field indeed, deserted last night but now full of carts and carriages answering every description, hurrying folk performing morning errands, and a few intrepid costermongers at its northeastron end under strengthening winter sunshine. It had rained the entire way across the Channel and last night had been thick with vapour, but of course now the weather cleared.

Not for long, she suspected. New Rome winters were rumored to be dreary indeed, very far from St Courcy’s temperate hills breathed upon by the Mare Nostrum.

Homesickness might have been a normal, quite feminine feeling, but she did her best to quash it as she navigated the streaming bustle. Fortunately the Path made one light upon one’s feet; the dance was not even particularly difficult. Gemma merely had to remember to keep to a decorous pace instead of leaping or spinning as she might during a training exercise. Once she secured quasi-permanent lodgings she could study a street atlas—they were readily available for a few pence, and Sampson always said knowing the terrain was crucial for any battle.

Thinking of him led to thinking of Aunt Hay, and Gemma was not quite ready for that yet. A stone sat in her throat; she swallowed hard, dodged a fish cart, lifted her skirt’s edge to hop over a foul dark stream coursing between cobbles, and once more told the hard, smooth egg of grief it would have to wait its turn for attention.

Imanuel Orphanage and Poor-School was a long frowning building of dark-grey stone, its mien depressing as any other of its type she had been unfortunate enough to pass; before she reached it, though, there was a crowd of young bounders lingering at a scrolled-iron side gate who shouted and jostled each other as Gemma swept past. She was gliding somewhat too quickly for them to take much notice, though one or two let out sharp whistles. They looked a slouching set of young ruffians indeed, but she was well prepared to deal with such annoyances.

Or so she hoped. Gemma bore a neatly folded letter of introduction to the head of Imanuel in her reticule. Her uncle—oh, there was no blood between them, but aside from Sampson, Aunt Hay’s brother was all the kin she had left in the world—had written in a clear flowing script showing his own very proper education, familiar from his letters to both his sister and her ward, often read aloud in the parlour.

A fine hand often meant a fine mind, or so Sampson had been wont to say when a child objected to an accomplishment not active enough to suit her restlessness. You wish your mind to be first-rate, do you not, little Beth?

There were only two people alive who could address her thus, the third laid in cold earth, and Gemma—for so she was now, in every way that counted—mounted a flight of stone steps proceeding up the side of the school. She tapped briskly, as instructed, at the Imanuel side door marked with a painted 3. The wooden slab’s upper opened with a creak, and a skinny blear-eyed man in stovepipe black peered at her, his shining pate crossed with several strands matching his coat, their hue probably helped along by a liberal application of dye or shoe polish. He had the wide face some lean people are incongruously blessed with, and looked for all the world like a small turtle amazed by the fact of a realm outside its shell.

“Good day,” Gemma said, crisply. “I have come from Taurrock Abbey, to speak with Mr Breakbridge.”

“You doan look like no Mithras brother,” the turtle-man said, pulling his head back while his shoulders rose protectively.

“That is because I am not one, sir.” Gemma did not mean to sound quite so sharp, but the rock—smooth as a cobblestone, though much drier than those she had lately crossed—was still in her throat, and required dislodging with a little more force. “Please show me to Mr Breakbridge; I have business with him.”

“Oh, aye, keep yer skirt brushed.” The man grumbled through unbarring the lower half of the barrier and swept it wide with a mockery of a bow. A draught of cabbage, wet wool, and the ever-present tinge of coalsmoke whispered past Gemma, who suppressed the desire to pinch her nose against its advent and thought longingly of St Courcy’s roses.

If she began by missing the gardens, she would soon fall to missing the house with its quiet library and bright wood-floored salle, and if she continued in that vein her nerve might well fail. As terrifying as it was to leave a gentlewoman’s station and particular pursuits, it would be frankly mortifying to return to Sampson empty-handed, proved a coward instead of merely suspecting all the Path’s training had been wasted upon her.

The turtle-man led her through a warren of passages saturated with cabbage fumes, up two long turning flights of sturdy but not particularly clean wood-and-stone stairs, then into a bustling hallway where ragged boys grouped by age lined up and trooped along, each with one hand upon the shoulder of the child before them, chanting in cadence. Doors slammed, marching feet pounded, and the lines of small orphan bodies shuffled into rooms which seemed only indifferently lit. An out-of-tune piano began a thready, reedy version of ‘Good Morning, River’ as high sweet voices lifted with more gusto than skill.

Still, it was pleasant to hear a choir so early in the day, and Uncle Alec said this school had a position to fill. It was a glimmer of rare good luck. She had not seen a single magister yet, but presumably they were all in their respective domains, beginning the difficult business of dunning literacy—or what passed for it—and basic figuring into small, recalcitrant heads.

At the end of the hall, two dark wooden benches polished by hard use flanked a stern, heavy door with a brass plaque announcing IMANUEL SCHOOL, as if a passerby would be at risk of forgetting his locale.

At least Gemma was not forced to wait outside like one of the director’s errant charges. She was ushered immediately into a cluttered but ruthlessly clean room, and at the great desk before a wide round window looking over a play yard of packed earth far below was a round benevolent-looking man with a pince-nez whose waistcoat was a rather startling shade of bottle-green. His jacket hung upon the back of a straight, very hard chair, his whiskers were magnificently salt-and peppered, and he peered through half-lens spectacles at Gemma and her shoe-polished psychopomp while shrugging into said jacket with extreme haste once it became clear his visitor was a young lady.

In short order introductions and pleasantries were dispensed with, the turtle-man retreated to his post, and Gemma was left with Director Breakbridge of the Imanuel School and Orphanage, the extended ceremonial phrase ‘for the Education of Foundlings and Young Poor’ implied rather than explicit.

“Most irregular,” he said, peering at Uncle Alec’s letter of introduction and the written character Gemma had shamelessly forged—any enquiry upon the latter would arrive at a solicitor’s office in Lutetia Parisii, where it would be handled according to discreet, well-paid instructions. “But the good Abbot is one of our greatest champions, and I trust his judgment.” His pale, watery eyes swam over the top of the pince-nez lenses, and he examined the woman he would only know as Miss Gemma Dove.

Her cloth was of good quality, though the cloud-grey dress was dowdy in the extreme and her hat a sober affair with only one small feather. Gloves in good repair, her boots well-brushed, and her reticule, while not overly capacious, was undoubtedly not used for fripperies. She knew she was too pale for beauty—the accepted shades for that grace ran from copper to the darkest of ebony—but she was neat, clean despite her travels, and attempted to appear forthright.

At least the smell of cabbage was somewhat less in this exalted room, so her nose did not wish to wrinkle quite so much.

“It says you are able to teach proper Ænglish in grammar and recitation, Gallic, Latin, Teutonica Majora, piano, watercolour, the history of Empire, basic mathematics, accounts and figuring, and . . . how interesting, that newfangled Turri impression machine. Are you a New Woman, Miss Dove?”

At least he did not address her with vexing informality, as some had since she left home. “I am not certain, Mr Breakbridge.” She took care to make her tone a good deal warmer than its usual wont, though if he meant to examine her stockings for blue she would take exception indeed. “I was raised by a very traditional aunt.”

Her subtle appeal to his vanity did not quite thaw his reserve, but he nodded, whiskers scratching at his collar like a collection of tiny wires. The hubbub outside had died down, replaced by a thrumming hush. “Are you easily shocked?”

“I hope not.” She had, after all, read many a sliverpence-dreadful considered unsuitable for young ladies, finding nothing in them to match even the mildest of the Path’s intended effects—knowing one was able to collapse a man’s throat with a single strike, should he harass you, qualified as more comforting than shocking. Aunt Hay had been full of dire tales about any modern city’s less-savoury corners, though Gemma suspected such stories partly a strategy to keep her young charge from any thought of unbecoming adventure. “If I were, teaching a collection of young ruffians would be a strange position to put myself in.”

“They are not ruffians, Miss Dove.” The whiskers upon Breakbridge’s upper lip twitched; curiously, he seemed a shade affronted. “They are only children.”

Perhaps he possessed a tender heart behind the crusty exterior. It would be the first time Gemma had ever heard of an orphanage master possessing such an appliance outside a popular but not quite proper novel. She changed tack, softening her tone still further. “I am heartened to hear as much, Mr Breakbridge.”

His mouth turned down slightly behind its fence of facial hair before one corner relaxed, almost as if against his will. “When was the last time you screamed, or fainted? I do not ask from prurient interest, I assure you.”

“I do not think you would, and I am happy to report I have never fainted.” Not even the last time I sparred with Sampson, and he was not holding back then. For once. There had been the incident of brief unconsciousness after falling from a provokingly high branch of an oak tree near one of St Courcy’s hayfields when she was seven or thereabouts, but Gemma had no intention of explaining that event. “I am uncertain when my last bout of screaming was; I am told I was a happy child, though somewhat exacting.”

Which was a kind way of saying ‘rather spoiled’; Aunt Hay was—no, had been a distressingly tender soul. She would not hear of Sampson disciplining a young Livia-Beth, holding that kindness would tame where the application of a rod might only provoke stubbornness.

Or so Hay had devoutly believed, and fortunately it was precisely the right treatment for her young charge’s temperament.

Mr Breakbridge thawed slightly. “Well, that is heartening, and you were sent by the good Abbot, who does not give references lightly. I should warn you the particular form you would be engaged to teach is somewhat troublesome. The last in this position was a former centurion—a fine man, indeed, Mr Force—and they reduced him to tears within a day. He left without seeking either written character or further engagement.”

“Did he.” A centurion was not quite an officer, yet held to be somewhat braver than a regular soldier. Well, Gemma hoped she was of sterner stuff. She had not crossed the Channel and begun the game to be sent packing by a collection of children—of course, Sampson would sniff that she was not much older than her prospective charges. To him, everyone without a bit of grey to their hair was an infant. “I shall hope to do better, Mr Breakbridge. That is, if you think I will suit.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone would suit those little savages, but we must try.” He sighed, a gusty sound speaking of much practice. “I would be remiss if I did not warn you, Miss Dove. The boys are somewhat energetic, and since Miss Phelan left they have been quite hard upon her replacements. I gather she was much beloved, though you would not think so from their behaviour while she was still employed here.”

“Miss Phelan was their magistrix, then?” So far this man seemed less a petty tyrant of the schoolmaster genus and more a kindly old gentleman somewhat bemused by the situation he found himself entangled with.

There was also a deep, amused twinkle in his dark gaze that boded well.

“Yes. Well, four teachers ago.” Breakbridge tapped a finger against his cheek. Behind him, the window glowed with pearly sunshine struggling to break through a pall of cloud and smoke; the sun had drawn a coverlet over its face like a child reluctant to leave his bed. “She married a foreign widower in Brighton before moving to the Continent, and her last letter was quite full of admonishment to her favoured students as well as instruction for any unfortunate enough to follow in her footsteps. If it suits you, Miss Dove, we may repair to Records Room, and there you may peruse the materials she left to smooth her successor’s path. The position includes board and a small room—”

“I shall arrange for my own lodgings, sir.” If she took a room here her movements might be scrutinized to an intolerable degree, and she would never scrub the stink of stewed cabbage from her person. “I have a small independence and am prepared to overlook some slight discomfort in order to retain my privacy.” She was possessed of far more funds than a mere independence, true, but shabby gentility was the part she was playing, and she hoped she would not have much need to call upon any aid at all.

At least, not until her purpose was achieved.

“Yes, well.” Mr Breakbridge seemed either impressed by her efficiency or taken aback by her presumption; she hoped it was the former. “I have high hopes, Miss Dove. Indeed, hope is the only thing keeping me in my own position; Imanuel is rather a place for the troubled.”

“I am singularly untroubled, Mr Breakbridge.” It was not quite a lie. Gemma Dove had no quandaries beyond securing some employment to keep herself from half-starving idleness; Beth-Anne Guilfoile had none beyond grieving a beloved aunt and taking over a small estate in Gaul Narbonensis before hopefully making a good conventional marriage and settling into a life of sunlit ease.

Livia-Beth Gemiara Grant-Roissy, Lady Greywood, was quite another matter. How many names could a single woman possess? Finding out her own had been quite a shock, and now she had added to their stock.

“Hrmph. Well, then.” The director’s cheeks held an edge of flush, and he rose from his desk chair with ponderous grace. “Let us proceed.”

A Girl in Grey

AFTERWARD, AVERY could say he knew the moment he saw her—not that anyone ever asked, including the girl herself. That morning started like any other, standing in the door of Lucky’s with a tankard of bitter black ale—the only thing other than juniper blood available on the premises, at least if you wanted to stand straight without griping that afternoon—and Herrin laughing at something Fair Jane said while Little Linna cooed in Kane’s ear. The frails quite liked the big fellow; he was gentle and generous, and his sheer size had oft made it clear to more than one drunken client that payment for the services of Hell’s Acre girls was indeed required.

No few of the frails might have liked to wear a bonnet bought by the Rook, but Ave kept all such feminine transactions quick and strictly professional, indulging only often enough to keep his own reputation comfortably conventional. Certain things were expected from a man of consequence, especially in New Rome and most especially in the lower strata; the ton and Respectability were not half so harsh as the expectations the poor placed upon each other.

Avery glanced over the swelling crowd, most hurrying along businesslike, a few fine gents with walking sticks and the fair likelihood of empty pockets before they reached Seventy Street, some morning frails either blear-eyed from the night’s business or bright as a new, whole penny and looking for late-morning custom among drovers and passersby, children scrambling after dropped costers’ rubbish or other discards—if he saw any Imanuel boys, he’d have to make a note—and all the varied dress of Empire’s dregs swirling through a street-vein. Nothing out of the ordinary, until a slight, somehow utterly familiar figure he’d never seen before crossed in front of a ragpicker’s shop and joined the flow of pedestrians, halting only to hand over a sliverpence for an apple from good dame Billingsworth’s cart.

A flash of grey skirt, a glimpse of brown hair ruthlessly braided into submission, a determined, pointed chin and a grim set to her soft lips; she might have been a well-paid fancy but for her expression and the sober cut of high-quality cloth. Both her dress and pelisse were high-necked and long-sleeved; she displayed not even the merest hint of petticoat as she lifted her skirts to avoid a pile of steaming slop. Her costume could have been a respectable housemaid’s Solis-day wear, except that lot would never wear something so free of ornamentation. No ribbons in her hair, either, but a small tasteful also-grey hat perched upon the somewhat old-fashioned braids. Her hatpin was too large, and probably antique; the hat itself bore only a single dispirited feather.

The girl had high cheekbones, chestnut curls limned with honeygold, and wide pretty eyes dark-deep enough to drown in. She thanked scowling, stripe-skirted Ma Illingworth with a slight smile and was upon her way once more, tugging at the left sleeve of her pelisse to settle the cloth properly. She gazed straight ahead, and she didn’t so much stride or hurry as glide swift and sure, a swan upon calm water, avoiding both a tangle of two stray dogs having a fight likely to turn amorous soon and a basket of seconds by the applecart with no alteration of her steady movement.

One of the ragged pickpocket boys—looked like Folger, with his mop of coal-filthy curls—sidled across the young miss’s path, cutting his gaze at Ave swiftly to see if the Rook was prepared to dissuade. Avery took another mouthful of bitter black, letting it burn all the way down, and almost didn’t see when Folger made his move, a nondescript urchin of the kind New Rome’s streets teemed with performing his task with skill born of desperation.

The grey-gowned miss did not seem to notice, yet Folger snatched his fingers back, an almost comical look of surprise upon his round, dirt-smudged face. The girl sailed along upon her sturdy, well-brushed, but not terribly fashionable boots. The apple, blushing bright as a fairy-fruit, slipped into her reticule, and Avery almost missed the quick flicker of her feet as a cart rumbled far too close for comfort; she dodged its bulk neatly as an Acre-bred lass.

Trained. But a woman? Avery handed his tankard to Kane, who blinked at him while Little Linna kept whispering whatever confidence had just crossed her mind into his hairy, not entirely sober ear, and caught Herrin’s eye. A glance, a head-tip—I’ll be back, don’t follow—and he was in the street, prowling after the girl in grey.

She stopped once to consult with a news-crying urchin at a corner crying the morning edition; she even tipped the youngster another sliverpence for his trouble despite the way his snub nose wrinkled at the interruption. After receiving a barrage of directions and a grubby finger indicating upstreet, she nodded and set off afresh.

Avery caught the lad’s eye, and the crier paled. He was just a little ’un, anywhere between six and eight—or older, malnutrition gave even swaddled babes old-man faces. It was one of the Gapton boys, and so not of Imanuel. He should be in school, but the family needed every bit of coin it could lay hands upon, what with eight mouths to feed and the father . . . well, what he was.

The temptation to do something about that situation was constant, but not within Avery’s remit. If he started righting every ill in the Acre he’d have no time for anything else. It was a job too big for a single man.

Even a Hellion.

“Easy, shouter.” Avery pitched his tone well under the rumbling of a passing dray. “Lady ask you for summat?”

“’Muh stacka billy to cry.” The child thrust his chin out. In other words, he had a job to do, and would thank everyone to stop jabbering and let him get on with it. “Do it right fair-like, and paid m’piece for the privilege too.”

“Dinna doubt it.” Avery’s hand flicked, a shilling showing bright for a moment. He walked it over scarred knuckles, and the little fellow’s interest was assured. It did no harm to be munificent upon occasion; it was expected of a Rook, and doubly of the Rook. “The lady?”

“Asking for Rudrill’s, guv.” The boy accepted the coin and looked amazed to be actually given the promised payment; the shilling disappeared into his oddments. “What else?”

“Not a nod, just a soft night.” Avery, in other words, expected him to keep all further commentary upon the grey-clad girl to himself unless the Rook came calling again. “Savvy?”

“Savvy, Mr Rook sir.” A cheeky grin and a tug at an imaginary hat’s brim, then the boy half-turned and began to cry his wares once more.

A flicker of a smile lit Avery’s face. Widow Rudrill didn’t take lodgers without recommendations; she was utterly Respectable. So the girl in grey wasn’t a fancy or a frail—but she would be living in the Acre, which made her his business if he cared to take a closer look.

He ambled along, letting the distance between him and grey skirts lengthen now that he knew her destination. It wasn’t far to the widow’s brownstone, and the grey lady went up the three freshly sluiced steps to the front door as if she belonged, with that same gliding grace.

It was child’s play to slip into the alley across from the widow’s, and even easier to scale the bricks of Fennigan’s dosshouse on one side, hopping across the crooked canyon to the roof of Hiram Genmartin’s cloth warehouse upon the other. Above the warehouse were offices let by the week or month; Avery had even used one or two when the situation demanded.

He didn’t pull his hood up, but he did set aside his hat to keep his silhouette from breaking the roofline more than necessary. Rarely did a citizen of New Rome think to look up, however, unless a traditional slops-cry sounded. He could have been at Lucky’s enjoying yet more bitter, but predictability in habit was how they nicked you.

And besides, skirts with Path training under them could be a danger to the Acre. One or two of the Priory gullcatchers trapping targets for blackmail possessed some of the initial milestones along the road of murderous mayhem, but it wasn’t like the old men to teach such poor creatures more than the very basics. If she was sent by the Priory to investigate rumors in Hell’s Acre, he’d have to make a decision or two.

Well, bother. Thought I had more time. Coincidence was also faintly possible, but always best to assume the worst, or so Morton always held.

Thinking about his teacher this early in the day was a bad sign. Avery ran callused fingertips over the knuckles of his opposite hand, watching the front of the brownstone. He rarely blinked, falling into the peculiar state Hellion training called Adder’s Silence; waiting was the most difficult part of any game.

If you did enough of it, though, along would come the chance to strike snake-quick. The trick was in knowing when to be still.

And when not to.

The clouds thickened; a chill wind blew from the Thamis. The winter had been enough to kill a few shamblers under bridges and wasn’t likely to get better even as the days lengthened after Solstice; still, Avery hadn’t done too badly since arriving three years ago. And spring would eventually appear.

Even all the gods of Empire—or other, foreign lands—couldn’t halt that.

A half-hour after disappearing, the grey lady emerged, accompanied by Widow Rudrill, whose mourning was as unrelieved as ever. It was anyone’s guess whether her husband had been lost at sea or simply hied himself off like any unreliable man; Rudrill never spoke of him. Avery was half convinced she’d never been married at all but simply decided men largely left a widow alone and she would, by the gods, like that very much.

For one thing, the wedding ring Rudrill wore was entirely too thin, albeit of real enough metal. The lodging house was hers not only in name but in deed, and just where she’d acquired the purchase price was murky in the extreme. If the lump sum was a husband’s bequest, even from some manner of insurance, the man could have afforded a better cinch for his doll’s finger.

Looked like the widow was giving her customary speech to new lodgers, too. So the girl had passed the Respectability Tests and had a written character, either from a former good tenant or some worthy of the Acre. Interesting indeed, and a sign that she was possibly no gullcatcher—or a very, very good one.

Avery found himself leaning forward slightly, watching for any hint of the lady in grey’s feelings.

None showed. She simply listened to Rudrill’s lecture with patent attention, her dark head cocked and mornlight bringing out gold in her braided curls. For all that, there was a certain tension in her stance—the lady didn’t like her back to the street.

Interesting. He wouldn’t either.

Farewells were said, the widow offered her hand, and in short order the grey-clad girl was gliding the way she’d come. Questioning Rudrill was a fool’s game, so he’d have to follow the new skirt a little while longer.

It wasn’t a bad way to spend a morning, all told.

Behaviour and Rules

“I ONLY TAKE Respectable lodgers,” the widow repeated, and Gemma was hard pressed not to administer a cutting remark or two. The cup of weak tea she’d been offered was perhaps the best this woman had, though unpleasant indeed to sip. Still, her uncle’s letter to Director Breakbridge had also included a polite request for that worthy to suggest lodgings to Miss Dove, and this brownstone was conveniently close to both Imanuel and the Abbey.

Mrs Rudrill’s parlour was crowded, overstuffed, and well-dusted, though the sheer amount of chintz and trinket, graceless squat furniture, and keepsakes cluttering the mantel over the coal fire could keep an army of housemaids busy for days. The widow did not admit women of easy virtue or men of a certain type to her hallowed halls, she could offer but a small garret to a lowly schoolmistress, and rent was due promptly each week or month. Liquor, smoking, and bad company were not allowed, and Mrs Rudrill reserved the right to increase said rent as she saw fit should there be any disturbance.

This is a proper house, the widow oft repeated, and Gemma had a longing thought or two of breaking every knickknack in the parlour, setting fire to the furniture, and shouting whatever nasty ill-bred words she could think of while she did so.

It was only little Beth’s contrariness, a quality Aunt Hay bemoaned but Sampson occasionally remarked upon the usefulness of. True breeding showed itself by restraint in the face of such petty annoyances—or so Hay would intimate, with a graceful turn of phrase.

Consequently Gemma smiled, nodded, agreed, complimented, and did her best to reflect the widow’s trivial proprieties. The garret in question had a reasonably sized window, and a glance out its bubble-wavy glass boasted two very acceptable slopes of tiled rooftop. Mrs Rudrill remarked that at least there was some small quantity of healthful sunlight, and no bad air since the window did not look into an alley; Gemma had examined the aperture and decided it would, after all, open.

Which made this spot well-suited to her needs, indeed. It also came ‘furnished,’ after a fashion, and a fresh mattress for the small, ancient brass bedstead could be procured with very little trouble. Gemma paid her first month’s rent and the expected price of said mattress, informed the widow her trunk and traveling cloak would be arriving that afternoon, then departed with one problem, at least, handily solved.

A hurried return to Imanuel was called for. Of course, hailing some manner of conveyance would have been better, but Miss Dove would not do so, knowing the value of a sliverpence or two kept in her reticule. Walking was good enough for the genteel poverty she was impersonating.

Of course she could go about her task in other ways, including announcing her arrival to New Rome society by taking lodging in the West End at significantly higher price while waiting for the news to reach the ears it should. A few years ago, she might have even thought it the more efficient course.

But Aunt Hay was gone, and Sampson deserved a peaceful retirement. The more quietly she went about this dreadful business, the less reason he would have to worry.

Not to mention the greater chance she could retire to St. Courcy and . . . do what, precisely, for the rest of her life?

No need to trouble myself about that now, she told herself firmly, and plunged back into the sea of humanity that was New Rome. Breakbridge told her this part of the city was christened Hell’s Acre, probably for the many drinking establishments, gambling or fighting holes, cheap lodgings, and other places catering to those who found Vice easier and much more profitable than the straight-and-narrow.

In short, she was in the thick of what sliverpence-dreadfuls called dangerous territory, yet it seemed no different than the quays of Calaisse or some parts of Lutetia Parisii she’d glimpsed when Aunt Hay had business in the Gaulish capital and allowed her ward to travel along. Even provincial aristocrats were subject to a few expectations of Fashion and Society, and preparing little Beth to enter the great glittering husband-hunting whirl was Hay’s ultimate goal.

But you must be cautious, Aunt Hay said more than once, a fingertip resting against the cameo habitually pinned to her high collar. She had several carved sardonyxes, all exquisite and lovingly cared for. A woman must protect herself, even in marriage.

Gemma gathered Hay’s long-dead, lordly husband had been the sort one required protection from, and Sampson looked grave indeed whenever the man was mentioned. She couldn’t quite remember when she had realised Aunt Hay’s steward and indentured protector slept in her aunt’s bedroom, or when she first discovered her aunt not only returned Sampson’s feelings but allowed him a great deal upon her very person. It should have scandalised a properly brought-up young lady . . . but it did not.

Instead, she had been oddly comforted, and still was. Many a time she had wished Aunt Hay was her mother in truth, and Sampson was the closest to a father she would ever know. Between the two, childhood was a safe cradle. Yet she had always known her birth parents had suffered some dreadful misfortune, the knowledge hazy and incomplete, a dark cloud upon the horizon.

The shock of finding out precisely what the misfortune consisted of was still vivid, just as the thunderbolt of Aunt Hay’s passing. Distinguishing between the two, though they were years apart, was not entirely possible at the moment.

She was not certain it would ever be.

It was not quite well-bred to eat an apple while strolling, but she had been traveling for days, her breakfast at the Abbey hurried and incomplete, she was due to meet the group of young ruffians tamed by Miss Phelan who had reduced an old soldier to weeping within a day, and she rather needed some ballast. So Gemma hurried along, consuming the fruit down to the pips.

Her nape itched. It was quite possible she was being watched, no doubt by some disagreeable persons who intended her harm.

Good, she thought, and slightly quickened her pace.

GEMMA REACHED Imanuel at the proper time, though with not a moment to spare upon either side. The sense of being followed faded as she rid herself of the apple core and once more knocked upon the side door painted with a 3. The same shoe-polished turtle—introduced by Director Breakbridge as Mr Humbolten, separate from Josef the doorman at the front entrance—appeared, but now he bobbed a sour little bow and motioned her inside. “The stove’s been lit and the boys all know they’ve a new magistrix, mum.” It was quite possible the man didn’t expect her to last the remainder of the day. “The Director is with ’em, sort of warming them up, like.”

“Very kind of him, I’m sure.” Gemma touched her hat with gloved fingertips, the only show of nervousness she would permit. “Mr Breakbridge showed me the classroom; I shall proceed directly.”

“I’ll accompany—”

“I would not wish to distract you from your duty, sir.” Gemma stepped past him; the halls did not reek solely of cooked cabbage now. Instead, they were brimful of sulfurous boiled vegetable, dust, smoke, and wet wool, with a persistent yeasty ferment of children kept close-trammeled and fidgeting.

In short, it was exactly what she would have expected of an orphanage poor-school. She wondered if the afternoon’s board would feature yet more cabbage, and decided if it did she could sally forth in search of better fare.

Genteel poverty or not, some things could not be borne upon her first full day in New Rome.

“Oh, aye,” Humbolten muttered, drawing the door to and shuffling after her. “But it’s the rules, miss. Just let me bolt up.”

She did, though not out of any charity or good feeling. The moment’s worth of rest settled a chewed apple firmly in her stomach, but also made her very aware of the graininess in her eyes and the pressing stays of her corset. At least the latter kept her from wilting, and would stop a knife if she twisted in the correct fashion.

Not that she thought any of the orphans would engage in casual stabbing, but Mr Breakbridge’s many cautions and the voluminous letter left by Miss Phelan were both thought-provoking in the extreme. Gemma was indeed hardly older than some of her prospective charges, and her lack of physical size might induce them to think her . . . weak.

Letting your opponent underestimate you is a great weapon, little one. Sampson stood straight and tall in her memory, the polished wooden practice blade gleaming as he held it in second-guard, his hair only lightly touched with grey. Use it.

Oh, she intended to. And her heart hurt, thinking of him reading her letter, not to mention discovering her deception. Of course he had trained her in deploying particular kinds of deceit as a matter of course—part of the Rosy Path, just as stretching and certain movements repeated daily to prepare the body for combat. Yet using those measures upon such a faithful almost-father was not quite the thing, as Hay would say.

Gemma told her chest to halt its nonsense, for she did not have time for pain or distraction. Both feelings retreated quietly, though their intensity promised a return at some other unfortunate hour.

Humbolten led her through passageways and halls, the humming hush broken by mnemonic chanting from classrooms with their doors propped slightly open. Some were learning the ancient language of Empire, another group forcing its way through multiplication tables; there was even a trio of young voices reciting from Finne’s History of Albion, lisping over the great scholar’s muscular prose. It was the chapter on the Vandali; she could well remember reading with mutinous attention because Aunt Hay said it was important to know.

. . . for Rome was mighty, and did not fall despite barbarian fury or blasphemous mutterings. East and West the Empire stood firm.

Plague had done what barbarians or the Nailed God could not, and laid the old city low. Eastron Rome—Bysantia, or Stamboula if one was modern—was under the control of the Kaabites, Old Rome heart-hollowed and merely a collection of half-inhabited ruins bypassed by trade routes, but Albion had risen and New Rome assumed the mantle of Empire. Her ships sailed the seas, her trade colonies were upon every continent, and the favour of the many gods had lighted irrevocably upon her. The future was assured.

Sampson had often remarked that a study of history, however, might lead one to the conclusion that all empires thought so before their eventual, inevitable demise.

The door Humbolten and she sought was not ajar but firmly closed. Behind its dam bubbled a hubbub of excited voices, and the good Director, his muttonchops quivering, was finishing a thundering sermon as the shoe-polish turtle swept it open.

“—or I shall be sorely disappointed in the lot of you!”

Gemma peered into what had been a sober, empty schoolroom just after dawn, barely glimpsed as Mr Breakbridge shepherded her past with the requisite written introduction to Mrs Rudrill tucked in her reticule and an admonishment to be careful walking in that direction upon his lips. Now, the space was stuffed with boys fidgeting upon long benches, slapping the tables, hooting at the Director, or performing what Sampson might have called cutting up.

A few noticed Humbolten’s advent and her own, then a few more. A hush spread in overlapping rings, rather like the waves from a rock dropped into a tranquil St Courcy fishpond.

Gemma’s shoulders ached with tension. She pushed them back, leveled her chin, and swept into the room, ignoring the tide of whispers. Really, it was no different than a provincial ballroom, though slightly less well-organised. “Good afternoon, Director Breakbridge. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” She cast a glance over the boys—a full score of them, ranging from six years old to around twelve, or so she guessed. Each wore the orphanage’s broadcloth trousers and plain-woven shirt, some fitting well enough, though most lacked small weskits and their jackets were a motley affair indeed. Still, every lad had at least washed up that morn, and they stared owlishly at her, comical surprise written plainly upon young faces.

What would Sampson do? Her aunt’s man had an air of quiet authority well capable of bringing order to any unruliness, but he was also quite tall.

Gemma did not have his broad shoulders, seamed face, or menacing glance, yet how difficult could this be? “Gentlemen.” She addressed the class with Aunt Hay’s brisk it is time for tea, and no arguments tone. “I am Miss Dove; it is quite pleasant to meet you. Allow me a moment to confer with the good Director, and we shall begin work straightaway.”

“Cor,” a well-made older lad with an indifferently trimmed blond mop breathed. “She sound just like Miss Phee.”

An encouraging sign. Of course the now-married Miss Phelan had noted that above all else ‘her boys’ wanted to feel useful, and longed to be addressed as competent personages. Gemma’s memory, well-trained, had swallowed the redoubtable lady’s suggestions wholesale, and her brisk walk had allowed them to settle like a hastily eaten apple.

“They’re a bit high-spirited today.” Breakbridge’s cheeks were pink, and he appeared faintly bemused at being reduced to shouting. “I, er, Miss Dove, are you certain you wish to . . . ?”

I have just paid a most disagreeable prude for a mattress and a month’s rent, and furthermore been followed through Hell’s Acre, sir. I will not falter now. It was a most promising start to her career in New Rome. “Well, we will find out, shall we not?” She pitched her voice loudly enough to carry well past the first rows of gaping boys. “Thank you, Director. I believe these young gentlemen are eager to prove their Miss Phelan’s many compliments true.”

“Well, I’ve had them call the roll, so . . .” The Director indicated the teacher’s desk, a sturdy piece of polished wood with a few distressing scars upon its façade and a stack of books—Ænglish grammar, History of Empire, mathematics, geography, a Mithraic hymnary—upon one corner. The board set in the wall behind was well-washed, and a fine hand had written Miss Dove, Behaviour, and RULES.

Gemma decided she would spend as little time as possible in the chair behind said desk, for she had read no few tales of schoolboy pranks. The tricks she had longed to play upon her own governesses and tutors seemed positively polite by comparison. “Very well. I believe it is the hour Miss Phelan customarily set aside for writing; gentlemen, please take your seats and produce your slates.” Her heart beat thinly, and she hoped there was no betraying quaver in her voice. Of course she was capable of striking a miscreant, but it was hardly well-bred. Not to mention they had a rather marked advantage in numbers to swarm her with, and she had to retain this post.

At least, for the moment.

A flutter of sidelong glances and whispers swelled through the room. Gemma bid the director farewell, thanked Humbolten for his very chivalrous assistance, and swept both men out the door while unbuttoning her pelisse.

Once it shut, she had a single moment’s worth of hush as warning before the missile flew.

Gemma stepped sideways, smartly, her skirts giving a soft definite snap, and turned upon her bootheel. Her gloved hand flashed up, her pelisse’s sleeve and unbuttoned side fluttering most unbecomingly; she plucked the flying article from the air as if it were one of the pebbles Sampson used to fling to test her reflexes as well as what the Path called circle-knowing, the awareness of one’s surroundings.

It was a speckled brown egg, filched from gods-only-knew-where and still warm from whichever child’s palm had cradled it. A susurration went through the boys again as Gemma stalked to the desk, placed the egg precisely in the centre of the shoddy, tattered leather blotter, and finished unbuttoning. “Good heavens,” she remarked into the deep, shocked quiet. “What a waste of a perfectly good egg. Still, it might do for tea.” A wrought-iron rack next to the board accepted her pelisse; she worked her gloves off and tucked them in the proper pocket, then attended to her hat as well.

No other object came hurtling in her direction, and she turned to find every eye in the classroom upon her. It was no worse than entering a packed salon, and certainly less boring than afternoon calls in St Courcy’s neighbourhood.

She took her time freeing the grammar from the stack upon the desk, opening it to the marked page. One of the boys had inserted a nettle leaf as a bookmark; Gemma sighed and tilted the book, letting it flutter to the floor. Not a very well-bred motion either, but she didn’t wish to touch the thing. “I will assume this is where your last instructor left off,” she continued. “Which of you is Henry Dawes?”

One of the older lads, coal-dark hair slicked back and his jacket of tattered green brocade which had probably once been a curtain of some description, popped to his feet with alacrity. “That’d be me, Miss.”

“Really?” Gemma measured him from brogans to scalp, one eyebrow raised. “Miss Phelan’s letter said he had rather reddish hair.”

The imposter dropped back into his seat, and a slightly younger redheaded boy unfolded from the aisle end of a bench. “He’s just joking, mum. Henry Dawes, at your service.” The boy even bowed slightly, mischief winking in his muddy eyes, and Gemma was hard-pressed not to smile in return.

“Mr Dawes, Miss Phelan wrote you are the best in the class at recitation. Do come forward, and read the next lesson for everyone. Then we shall proceed.”

And if another one of you flings something at me, it shall be returned with great force. It was twice in the last two days she’d been assailed by a flying object; a third would try her temper indeed.

Dawes, his narrow chest expanding, took his time strolling for the front of the class. “Miss Phelan generally let me read at my desk, mum.”

“I think it best I do not tempt your companions to any further display.” Gemma glanced over the lesson, all her skin tingling. Aunt Hay had taken her to Lutetia Parisii’s zoo once or twice as a treat; this was, Gemma surmised, very much what the lion keepers must feel. “I understand you mourn the loss of Miss Phelan, gentlemen, but we both have our tasks to accomplish. She was quite concerned for your futures, and I should not like to disappoint her when I write that I have taken her students in hand.” She hoped this inducement would prove enough to at least ameliorate whatever mischief these younglings were prone to.

“You’ll really do that?” A tiny blond ragamuffin seated between two well-grown older lads piped up, scrubbing his hands together under the long, well-polished desk. “Write to Miss Phee, I mean?”

“Her name is Mrs Rochestre now. And unless the address she left is no longer viable, I shall write to her indeed.” Had any of her predecessors even bothered to read Phelan’s materials? “Every week, if you do well, I shall report your progress.”

It was little enough to promise, but the boys exchanged several more significant glances. Dawes had reached the desk, and held out his hands for the book.

His palms were distressingly smudged, and Gemma took her time examining them. When she glanced at the boy’s face, he was not grinning like a young shark. Instead, his mouth quivered slightly, and he quickly rubbed his fingers against his trousers, an attempt more likely to smear his cloth than clean any skin.

Gemma sighed, and reached into her pocket. Producing a snowy handkerchief was not quite a trick, but she flicked it the way Sampson had taught her, causing a small snap as well as a flutter like dove’s wings; the display wrung an admiring sound from a few of the urchins.

Dawes held himself breathlessly immobile while she attended to his palms, and she made one of Aunt Hay’s not-quite-disappointed exhales at the state of his fingernails. “Good enough,” she murmured, doing her best impression of the most effective and beloved of her childhood governesses. Making the now-smudged handkerchief vanish produced a thick silence from the entire room. It was not quite an admirable use for the Path’s misdirection of the eye so the hand may work, but use the weapons you have was one of Sampson’s cardinal sayings. “We shall begin at the top of the lesson. Mr Dawes, proceed.”

Around and About

SINCE HE WAS at this end of the Acre, Avery threaded his way across the crowded, cobbled expanse alive with pedestrians, carriages, carts, and other such beasts; he nodded to slim, dark-haired Brother Franik, who sourly granted him admittance through Taurrock’s postern. The Abbey’s great gates were daily sealed until the Unconquerable Sun was at his highest point—yet another case of custom adhered to at the front while traffic and commerce passed through a side door.

The Rook wasn’t quite a frequent visitor—safer for them both that way—but he was a known quantity, and as welcome as a flash fellow in a bullyboy’s tattered finery with a few quid in his pocket and a group of friends ready for battle could be at a respectable address. From top hat to wine-red secondhand waistcoat, from his jacket to his scarred but well-brushed boots, Avery was the very picture of what the rich disdained and the middling genteel feared.

The feelings of the poor upon his kind were more complex, and of course Avery was only impersonating. But every Hellion knew a mask had to become truth on some level, or the camouflage would fail.

He set his course for the annex, passing a file of brown-clad brothers plainchanting as they trod to temple, voices rising and falling in counterpoint to the rumble of cart-and-carriage outside the walls. Good works, plain hearty meals, daily offices, and rough cloth . . . it sounded incredibly boring, though any bullyboy—even the Rook Himself—might long for a little boredom sometimes.

Not today.

Avery was greeted at the annex’s main entrance and allowed past several successive posts manned by incrementally higher-ranked followers of the Great Bull until he reached the most formal of daily offices. He was not required to cool his heels; the head secretary Brother Timothée Sun’s Grace knew his Abbot, while necessarily deploring the irreligious, did not consider them barred from Mithras’s grace. Furthermore, the good brother also knew the Greatfather of Taurrock perhaps enjoyed Avery’s company more than the usual run of solicitations or petitioners.

Besides, no peer of the realm, even put to pasture in brown robes and a stone box, would lose his interest in the games played outside.

This was New Rome, after all. Such diversions were deadly serious, and knowing a few of the Rook’s kind happened to be prerequisite for survival during them.

So Brother Timothée rose from his scriptorus outside the Abbot’s daytime office, motioning Avery past a half-dozen other supplicants, either with appointments or waiting for a miracle. None had quality cloth—three women in search of poor relief, a drover looking for work, a man clutching a leather portfolio which might hold drawings or a religious screed, and a fellow whose boots were just as hard-used as the Rook’s own, his waistcoat as colourful yet not nearly as fine.

The Abbot wouldn’t just treat with one figure of importance in the underworld, after all. But the Rook was Taurrock’s closest neighbour, and they saw eye to eye on a number of subjects—not least the eradication of childcatchers in Hell’s Acre.

Well, if not their removal from the land of the living, at least their exclusion from the Abbey’s environs.

“Thank ye, sir. Thank ye kindly.” A man in a dark coat with traces of blood upon his boots—a butcher, by the heft of his arms and the shape of his moustache—bobbed as he backed from the office, almost colliding with Brother Timothée. The secretary, well used to receivers of temple largesse expressing their gratitude in such terms, dodged without breaking stride; Avery didn’t have to, for the fellow blundered past without so much as noticing the Rook.

“Personage to see you, Greatfather,” the good brother said, stepping through the space just vacated. “Shall I bring tea?”

“By the Bull, yes.” Greatfather Alec glanced up, his patrician nose suspiciously close to wrinkling. The shadows of sleeplessness around his dark eyes were no deeper than usual, but as he rose to greet the Rook—a sign of high esteem, indeed—a slight hitch in the motion betrayed some stiffness. “I could rather use a cuppa.”

For all the rings about his eyes and the marks of age upon his person, the Abbot was properly trained—he could perhaps even give a Hellion some trouble, and that was partly why Ave was here. “Mornin’, guv.” He even removed his hat, and performed the half-uneasy bow of a workman in the presence of a social superior.

More camouflage, and the glint in the Greatfather’s eye said he knew it. “Good morning indeed, Mr Black, and may the Bull bless you. How may I be of service?”

Traditional words, true, but Alec Nossorton meant them. At least, he gave a good impression of doing so, and a man of his stature would never have left the Priory if he did not have some manner of conscience—most likely in the direction of more traditional worship.

Or he had done something so foul even that collection of privileged bastards and their Nailed God found it repugnant. It was an open question.

Avery waited until the door was closed to continue. “Just dropping by social-like, guv. How fares the business?”

“Oh, around and about, as usual.” The Abbot offered his hand, but for nothing other than a hearty shake. Were he one of Ysys’s devotees—or Kybele’s—he might have been forced to offer a traditional embrace to each visitor; fortunately, one only had to kiss a Bull-roarer’s ring if the man in question was a snob. “Have you been to Imanuel? Each time you visit, the boys are well-behaved for a week, or so Breakbridge tells me.”

“Not my fault.” Avery cast a glance over the room—leatherbound books upon heavy wooden shelves, the mullioned window full of dull grey and greenish late-winter day, the large ornate desk with the Bull and the sliced-pie representation of hourly offices carved upon its front, the two comfortable chairs near the fireplace stacked with paper instead of guests, an empty but very penitential wooden seat before the desk itself. A new-fashioned Turri impression machine crouched upon an old-fashioned secretary’s pedestal, uncomfortable in this sanctum of history and prestige but well-oiled and used almost daily, from the looks of it. “They tell each other stories, is all.”

The grey-clad lady had gone into Imanuel, of course. Breakbridge had advertised for a new magister in one of the schoolrooms, or so Avery had heard; this made her even more of a puzzle. It wasn’t unusual for the Greatfather to enquire if Ave had been across the street, though.

He did so every visit.

The Abbot’s laugh was pleasant, full of genuine amusement. “You are rather quietly notorious in your own way. I heard there was some activity last night. Are your fellows all right?”

“No need to worry, guv.” Avery prowled to the bookshelf, wishing he could look out the window; he didn’t like the thought of the wooden penitent’s chair or its back to the door. “Tiptop and shipshape, that’s the Rooks. I’ve a mind to ask after our mutual friend, rather.”

“Ah.” Alec settled himself in his own straight-backed, high-carved desk chair, examining an invoice or petition upon the blotter and frowning slightly. “In that case, I’m glad you stopped by. Removing Lord Pellesly from the board had the intended effect.”

The Abbey had a few fine gardens. One sat, green and tranquil, outside the window behind the Greatfather. Every bush and returning plant was winter-trimmed, half the beds were mulched in preparation for spring, and many of the fruit tree branches bore preparatory buds, tight-closed yet evident. It was a wonder anything grew here, since when New Rome wasn’t under a pall of thin grey rain it was fogged with coalsmoke and heavy stink.

Such was the price of Empire.

Pellesly, for all his adroitness maneuvering inside the Priory’s ranks, had allowed what little Path training he had to lapse. Many of their number did, assuming invulnerability. They were, after all, gods among men—or so wealth, privilege, blasphemy, and secret handshakes led them to believe.

It was immensely satisfying, Avery had to admit, to gut even a lazy Priory bastard. To hear the man beg for his stupid, parasitic life was also intensely pleasing. While Pellesly wasn’t the final target—and neither was McNeiss, the next on the Rook’s list—there was a great deal of satisfaction to be had in arranging matters so he could wreak a smaller vengeance or two.

And each time, perhaps his mother sensed it in whatever afterlife had accepted her poor soul. He could feel, for a few moments, like a loyal son instead of what he was.

“Rexton.” Avery’s reflection was a ghost upon the glass. His expression probably was not very comforting, but it hardly mattered. He was just another petty criminal among the teeming crowd, a tiny fish in an ocean-deep school—albeit one with teeth the surrounding herring lacked. “How soon, do you think?”

“He’ll have to consolidate some business matters. Election’s an expensive business, and the rest of the Seven will be expecting gifts to enhance their support. The Grey Eminence could mount a challenge, too.”

“Still no word on that fellow.” If the shadow responsible for the Priory’s unofficial business moved to take control of its daylight half, Avery’s plans would have to be altered. Of course daylight was a relative word, since no legal functionary of Empire—let alone newspaper or respectable businessman—would publicly admit the existence of those who gave obeisance to the Nailed God. “Bloody annoyance, that.”

Nossorton was just as annoyed, though it barely showed. “It’s his function to be a bit more careful. If I knew, I might have . . .”

Avery turned to find the former Baron’s mouth compressed, his dark gaze blazing, and his hands tented together. An observer from a slightly greater distance might think Taurrock’s Greatfather merely thoughtful in repose, but this close, his fingertips were clearly bloodless from the pressure.

“As soon as Rexton’s dealt with, we’ll likely have a chance at that fellow.” The cant of Hell’s Acre slipped from Avery’s tongue, but the older man knew he was simply impersonating an alley-bred bravo. Successfully, Ave hoped.

And if the Rook found out precisely who was the shadow-head of the Priory before Rexton’s fall, the information would be valuable indeed. He might even pass it along to this religious man out of charity—a virtue endorsed by almost every god, certainly every temple, and no few businessmen so long as the money flowed uninterrupted along the proper channel.

And the lion’s share ended in their own pockets, of course.

“Whoever it is, they’ve been in office for a good long while. It’s not a young man.” Alec’s posture shifted a fraction—he, like his guest, heard Timothée’s footsteps approaching the door, with the slight swaying care which meant tea tray.

Ordinarily Ave would stay for a leisurely cuppa, possibly fortified from the leatherbound flask in his pocket. Today, though, was not routine.

There was a polite knock, tea was announced, and Timothée retreated to keep the peace among those waiting outside, probably cursing Ave’s guts for disturbing an orderly queue. “No thanks, milord Greatfather.” He waved aside Alec’s raised eyebrows, the implicit offer of a spot of liquid strength. “You really hate them. I’ve wondered, but . . . you do.”

“Not as an institution. That would be a waste of time.” Alec took no sugar or cream, and the tea was often a harsh black brew more fit for trade-colony soldiers than one of Albion’s aristocrats who could, even in present circumstance, afford much better. “But there are a few I personally dislike very much, my friend Rook, and Rexton is one of them.”

It was always good to know what a man despised. Avery grinned, sketched a soldier’s salute at the Abbot to see if the man flinched—he did not, his career had likely not involved service upon far shores—and took his leave. The waiting group was the same except for the flash with boots like the Rook’s own, safely vanished now. Yet Avery had recognised the handkerchief peeking out of his jacket pocket as Marauder colours, stowed safely while upon the edge of enemy territory.

What business would a Marauder have here?

It looked like Avery was about to have a busy day. The grey-clad lady at Imanuel could wait; if she were a Priory gullcatcher, Nossorton would have said something. Unless he was double or triple turncoat, but for once, Avery didn’t think the worst likely.

A quick trip into the Acre to collect a few of his boyos, and he would not only find out why a member of a rival association had been in the Abbot’s waiting room, but also set the next part of the plan in motion to bring Felix Larridby, Lord Rexton, to his financial knees.

Then the real fun could begin.

Revenge, Catechism

THE ROSY PATH granted endurance, flexibility, a measure of more-than-mortal strength. It could not erase grief, escaping one’s childhood home with heart thunder-galloping inside its cage of ribs, days’ worth of travel, sleeping upon a straw mattress, and a further day spent not only securing lodging but also hours of leading a roomful of restive, mildly resentful young ruffians through something approximating the gaining of knowledge.

If not for Miss Phelan’s scrupulous notes, Gemma would have failed quite ingloriously. Who knew dealing with children could be so . . . so taxing?

At least the boys had not flung any more eggs. But St Courcy was so isolated little Beth had not been wont to play much with other youngsters save the gardener’s and housekeeper’s daughters; once she was older, Noelle and Livia had their own work and Hay’s ward had lessons, afternoon calls, and the like.

A round of social calls was deadly boring, yet not this bloody exhausting. Had she ever reduced Aunt Hay to limp prostration? Now Livia-Beth—no, Gemma—could never ask.

Rudrill’s lodging house was certainly not St Courcy. For one thing, the garret Gemma presently inhabited smelled faintly of dust and disrepair, despite the obvious scrubbing endured to ready itself for a new occupant. The fresh mattress upon the brass bedstead was all very well; she perched at its edge, staring fixedly at her trunk. Unlocking and unstrapping the container had taken most of her remaining strength.

Her boots pinched, her corset—though supportive—was a dreadful annoyance, her eyes were grainy, and every inch of her was host to unremitting aches. At least there was fresh water in the washbasin, and the good widow had a standing arrangement with a laundress to take care of lodgers’ linens. All in all, Gemma was doing quite well.

Yet now that the day’s steady motion was finished, she was faced with the enormity of what she had accomplished as well as how pitiful the progress seemed next to the overarching goal.

She should have been unpacking, arranging the next day’s schedule and tasks inside her head, changing into the close-fitting indigo garb painstakingly sewn from guesswork, old illustrations in a mildewed tome, and Sampson’s remarks upon proper clothing for some of the Path’s more strenuous movements before slipping out the window to learn the rooftop hills and valleys about her new home. Instead, she sat bolt-upright with hands in her lap, staring dully at the rickety stand bearing a chipped washbasin painted with dainty roses, breathing in dust and the ghost of someone else’s dinner.

Even her own self-promised prize—a relatively tasty and reasonably hearty meal in a secluded corner of some establishment capable of producing something other than cabbage or boiled mutton—seemed too complex a matter to embark upon at the moment, especially past dusk. New Rome’s night pressed against her window like a cat brushing a beloved owner’s skirts, and she did not quite feel up to sallying forth into those inky waters at the moment, no matter how bright the new imperial gaslamps along well-traveled avenues or how disciplined she was upon the Path. Yet her faculties, overstrained as her nerves, refused to take any form of proper rest.

In other words, her mind was racing like a runaway carriage.

Sampson was no doubt . . . upset. A letter telling him in essence not to worry, that she had business to attend elsewhere and would return as soon as she was able, was a poor repayment for many years of care and devotion. He could not visit Albion—not comfortably, not without risking the gallows if caught and his identity established beyond doubt. Besides, he was aging, though still iron-strong; let him stay in St Courcy’s beauty and ease.

It had not occurred to her until now that he might be lonely, despite the estate’s many needs occupying almost every waking moment. After all, Aunt Hay was . . . gone.

Without the steady motion of yet another daily task to be accomplished as quickly and neatly as possible, Gemma was very nearly unstrung.

She closed her eyes. Her stays were most uncomfortable, her neck tense as a stretched hawser, and she had to be awake before dawn tomorrow. She should rise, engage upon her nightly toilette—such as Miss Dove’s was likely to be, much less complex than Aunt Hay’s or Beth-Anne Guilfoile’s—and take what rest she could.

Aunt Hay would have Cook prepare some warm milk for her; Sampson would give the faintest of smiles. Everything follows the breath, petite. Unlike Hay, he spoke Ænglene with a decided accent; still, every Albion noblewoman had to learn Gaulish as a matter of course or be not just uneducated but that great sin, unfashionable.

The thought of teaching any of the Imanuel boys—they blurred together in her head at the moment, a sea of bright avaricious eyes and stained, mischievous fingers—the language of Nerecíne and Hay’s blessed Stendjhal was enough to wring a tired, pale laugh from Gemma’s lips. The sound fell forlorn onto bare floorboards. She would wake cold and cramped instead of nestled in snug warmth; the grate held a paltry pile of burning coal developing a layer of thick ash, quite unable to take the edge from a New Rome evening already thick with fog.

Her eyes opened reluctantly. The room assaulted her again, drab and dreary—but there was safety in its very ugliness. She could leave at any moment, bolting back across the Channel like a swift grey gull.

Except to do so was admitting defeat.

“Very well.” She was muttering to herself like a wandering, god-haunted Bedlamite; that particular nursery tale still sent a shiver down her back. “Get up, Gemma. That is who you are now, and that young lady would not sit about when there was work to be done.”

While she opened her trunk, the deep circular breathing of the Path’s very first step filled her with temporary strength. Everything was in its place, properly stowed and scented with sachet—she would have to air any dress well before wearing, since the slight expensive smell might give her away. Or perhaps not; a governess might be given a few small gifts above her station, if the family she served was not of the crueler sort.

“Noelle and Livia were my students,” she decided. Best to hew close to what she knew. “Daughters of a fine lady in provincial Gaul. Sweet girls, docile for the most part. Except for when a frog could be caught.” It was what Sampson would call dressing to suit, an almost-military operation where every tiny detail must be accounted for.

When a soldier slips into the enemy’s land he must dress to suit, little Beth. You must, so far as you can, become what you appear to be. Even inside your own head. Tapping two fingers lightly upon a young girl’s curls, a somber shadow crossing his expression—oh, he would be worrying, though he wouldn’t show it. He never did. At least, not where Aunt Hay could see.

Hay’s nerves were fragile enough.

“The girls entered Society, and I was no longer necessary,” Gemma continued in an undertone. Plain sober cloth and even plainer linen—Sampson would see her better dresses left behind, and perhaps would guess at her aim. There was the indigo of her night-time hunting outfit in its proper place, of much finer quality and bearing sturdy stitchery.

The rapier was at the bottom of the trunk, and even were she to slip out the window tonight it would be left behind. Instead, she drew forth the knives in their supple leather harness—oh, Aunt Hay had been quite upset over that birthday present, though she took Sampson to task for it at a distance she imagined was outside her ward’s Path-sharpened hearing.

She’s merely a child, Robert!

And Sampson’s reply. We live in a world which does not respect innocence, lady mine. You know that as well as I do.

Checking each blade was a comforting routine. Hay never knew how often little Beth slipped from bed, moving silent as a ghost to one hiding place or another, drawing dappled steel partly free and gazing upon its comforting gleam. Each time Beth—no, Gemma—did, her lips moved silently in the catechism, like a follower of Ysys lost in midnight devotions.

I am Livia-Beth Gemiara Grant-Roissy, daughter of Lucius and Alice. One day, upon this blade or another, the man who killed my parents will die.

Naturally, at twelve years old she had little idea what such an oath might entail. Sampson had been pleasantly surprised at her sudden redoubling of effort in the training salle, and Hay pleased at little Beth’s about-face when it came to matters of dress, decorum, and genteel study as well. That year had also seen a maiden’s dedication at the Great Temple in Lutetia Parisii, a must for any young lady of good breeding on either side of the Channel—but Hay had been a little put out at her ward’s insistence upon the Dirae receiving the traditional gift.

Why on earth would you want to do that, little Beth?

Heria Graeca or Juno the Plentiful were far more acceptable, Athene or Demona if a maiden were the active sort. Some girls dedicated themselves to Epona; Ysys was a likewise conventional choice. Melusine had been quite fashionable among the dedications that year, as well as Mariamne the Bountiful, patroness of Free Gaul.

In fact, even the single priest who studied and cared for the small needs of almost-neglected gods had attempted to argue a headstrong rich brat out of such a dedication, waxing nearly rhapsodic about how the choice of patron goddess could affect the rest of a girl’s life. It is a commitment, he had intoned, and looked somewhat disgruntled at young Mademoizelle Guilfoile’s—for she bore her ‘aunt’s’ name on that side of the Channel—immediate and enthusiastic agreement.

Even now, Gemma was hard-pressed not to smile wearily at the memory. In the end, she had poured out the wine and oil, watched the ritual sacrifice—wax images of three spotless white doves—and accepted the morsel of salt upon her tongue while said priest intoned an invocation no doubt rescued from some dusty book buried in a forgotten part of the temple library.

She could not decide whether her plea for divine aid stood a better or worse chance of being answered. On one hand, the ancient bearers of vengeance could very well be watching with great interest, having little else to do since they were so nearly forgotten.

On the other, revenge could hardly be said to have gone out of style. Novels, songs, plays, and poems were rather disturbingly full of requital meted out sooner or later, Virtue triumphing over Vice in decided and sometimes shockingly violent fashion.

Finding a loose floorboard was no great trick; the boarding house was solid but certainly not what Hay would call in the finest of repair. The Widow Rudrill’s newest lodger hid a few crucial items here and there about her room—in case her landlady was of a curious nature—then set about a nightly toilette and unlacing.

It was easier to keep moving once she had begun.

She did not pray to any god before sinking into the small bed. The new mattress was of acceptable quality, and she had to thank her landlady for it upon the morrow. It was, after all, what young Gemma Dove would do, a punctiliously polite maneuver.

One day, she repeated silently, staring at the indistinct smear of the window and smelling the faint good whiff of a snuffed candle. One day, the man who killed my parents will die.

The details of the affair were shocking: a duel which had taken her father’s life, her heavily pregnant mother’s disappearance until found by a newly widowed Aunt Hay in some miraculous manner. Further persistence upon young Beth’s part had even attached a name to the author of the Greywood misfortune.

Rexton.

It was as good a place to start as any. She expected to be awake some short while at least, brooding upon one thing or another, but the exhaustion of travel and grief swamped her, and Gemma Dove slept.

Imanuel’s Flock

ALL IMANUEL BOYS were destitute, and the majority orphans besides. There was no shortage of foundlings or castaways upon the cobbled, paved, or dirt lanes of New Rome, and to be accepted into a parish or private orphanage could be a fate worse than being kidnaped by childcatchers, who harvested tiny unwanted or unguarded souls for ‘gainful work’ in foundries, textile mills, or other unwholesome places full of the throb and din of Progress.

Among the schools, though, Imanuel had a reputation as a rather soft patch. The Director was known as a good ’un—even if a dearth of subscribers meant the entire concern largely scraped along by dint of largesse from Taurrock Abbey, and the cloth for pants and shirts was scratchy, iron-wearing dun. There was a continual want of proper shoes, and the building reeked of cabbage soup more often than not.

No matter if the soup was odorous, at least it was hot, and relatively plentiful besides. The teachers were not allowed to treat their charges too roughly. There was a distinct paucity of the birch at Imanuel, and one or two subscribers might have taken their support elsewhere in light of that fact.

Yet the school always managed to muddle through somehow, and the Director’s good relations with the Abbey were perhaps why. Though nowadays Mithras did not want foundlings dedicated before the age of consent, he was gracious enough to lend a hand in charity nonetheless.

Then again, many a god helped those who helped themselves, so to speak, and no few of Imanuel’s graduates turned their hands to a spot of less-than-legal business, remembering their old school along the way in what scanty measure or haphazard manner they could.

That late-winter morning, all of Imanuel’s stone block was buzzing with news. For there was a new teacher of a particularly troublesome room, a miss who dressed in grey and was, the boys agreed, a witch.

Or at least, so some of the younger ones averred. Their elders sneered at such a superstitious notion, and Henry Dawes—very popular among his coevals, not least because he could spit a great distance with more than usual accuracy—took the point among them, insisting Miss Dove was no witch but a poor girl from the Acre itself.

“Think on’t,” young Master Dawes had told the others in the dormitory the night before, his words laced with the jealously guarded cant of Hell’s Acre. “She banna a rose-pickin’, an’ all. Light as a featha, an’ mun sharpish.”

Every poor district of New Rome gave rise to its own language, divisions of Ænglish the Respectable tittered upon hearing and the Mr Peale’s blue-jacketed enforcers of Law and Order punctiliously catalogued in their perpetual war upon Vice or, more precisely, upon anyone who sought escape from grinding poverty. An Acre ‘natural’—one born and bred between the Thrash, Dial Lane, Huq’s End, and Fallow Junction—or a blue bobbie-on-the-pavers could have translated Mr Dawes’s words thus: Think about it. She was obviously a pickpocket. A good one, and smart, too.

There was, the elder boys agreed, no way she could have caught Joe Duff’s egg so neatly otherwise. And the trick-flickers with her handkerchief, not to mention how she always seemed to know when someone was about to misbehave—of course she had been an orphan herself, and risen with great industry to the exalted position of magistrix. Her stint upon the Continent was attributed to a bad love affair, or something likewise tragical. For all she talked real educated-like, and for all she had a slight Gaulish accent, it was simply incomprehensible that she had not been born among them.

No genteel young miss could have dodged that egg, for Duff was a fair hand with any missile. Not only that, but she walked like a rover, or at the very least a girl who had grown up around thieves.

As a result, excitement was at a high pitch in the early hour appointed for teachers who did not bed at the school to arrive. Many of Imanuel’s inhabitants were gathered upon the front steps; those not brave enough to violate the rules upon this occasion clustered in any schoolroom with windows giving view to the wide cobbled expanse with the Abbey glowering across. Masters Pennick and Appleton—greying grammarians in almost unrelieved dark, sober frock coats and identical hats—were only told apart by one’s girth and the other’s leanness, but both scolded those of their own class they found lingering before hurrying and chivvying boys into the building.

Very soon Cook or Humbolten would appear, and every lad would have to nip through the door in a twinkling or be caught by the ear. Still, the boys waited, and their expectancy was now somber instead of larksome.

When a slight figure in grey wool and a dark pelisse, with a small, almost unfashionable hat, melded out of the likewise grey-dawning fog between wan flickering gaslamps, several of Miss Dove’s class elbowed their neighbours.

Wot? That her?

Looks too small. But if she were a witch . . .

I didn’t know girls could do that.

Told ya! She makes animals out of pocket handkerchiefs!

Too young to be a witch.

Miss Dove glided for the school, ignoring the half-seen bulks of conveyances plodding along, drovers or drivers taking advantage of even the smallest light to squeeze a few more sliverpence from the day. Several boys agreed with Hiram Chatsonworth when he noted, in tones of great authority, that she had the wrong sort of reticule for a witch. Her gloves were much admired, being finely made, if a little worn; as the subject of their interest approached, the boys’ solemnity broke upon a reef of excitement, and a proper Babel arose.

Any young lady might have been forgiven a faltering step or other visible qualm when faced with a set of shallow stone steps festooned with Imanuel lads. The swarm moved restlessly, boys whispering loudly, fidgeting, elbowing each other, thrusting their hands in their pockets, or merely gaping.

Miss Dove looked neither right nor left. She sailed up the steps along a clear path in the middle, her skirts gathered precisely enough to achieve the climb and boots tapping with quiet authority.

Upon the very top step she halted, but only to drop her skirts and brush her gloved hands together briskly once, twice. The steady metronome of her passage restarted, and no few boys fell silent in awe.

She vanished through Imanuel’s front door, which would soon shut fast; after it did, every student not in his classroom would have at the very least a lecture from ol’ Breakbridge to endure. The penalty for repeated infractions was being bound over from Imanuel to a different, perhaps not-so-nice school.

In other words, a fate to be avoided.

“Cor me,” Henry Dawes was heard to say. “She’ll beat us to the room!”

Every single fellow inhabitant of said classroom decided at once this was another fate to be avoided at all costs, for if you were not in the classroom when the absent but sainted Miss Phelan entered, you would receive not a scolding but a slight, pained look of disappointment no gods-respecting man could stand.

It done took the heart right’n’outta ye, as those of the Acre would say.

With so many small bodies set in motion toward a common goal, the remainder of the boy-flock scattered and swirled as well, a mass seeking to pelt into Imanuel upon a tide of clattering, uncomfortable, and much-mended brogans. For a few minutes the entire rectangular stone building rocked and echoed as if battered by Channel surf.

Josef the doorman—a distant cousin of Mr Humbolten—was used to such sudden mass movements; he had been a shepherd in his youth. He merely glanced outside when the Abbey’s truedawn bell tolled to take note of any malingerers—for once, there wasn’t even a single dawdler. Crowded such a short time before, Imanuel’s steps were now deserted, and a coachman cracked his whip in the brightening fog.

School was in.

Word of Honour

DRAGGING HERSELF stiffly from bed before dawn was not quite a new occurrence, but Gemma was still glad of the Path. The morning practice for when one was trapped in cramped spaces warmed and loosened every limb nicely, and she certainly felt more clear-headed than yesterday.

It was a boon sorely needed, for instead of outright and active mischief, the entire class had undergone some unpredictable shift in mood. Perhaps they were hungry, though the entire edifice was full of cabbage-water stench again. They certainly watched her as famished beasts might, observing a quite uncharacteristic quiet as she wrote the day’s Thinking Words upon the chalkboard.

Miss Phelan’s instructions were most precise. Every day, words representing one or two qualities a gentleman must possess would be chalked upon the board, and ‘her boys’ invited to think about how to best model those particular merits.

Gemma, her back alive with tiny prickles, listened hard for any betraying movement or inhale. Her charges would no doubt torment her mercilessly if she showed the least weakness. Running the gauntlet upon the front steps was not exactly the danger she’d had in mind when contemplating revenge in St Courcy’s quiet, luxurious safety.

“There,” she finished, whirling to find every boy motionless and seemingly rapt. “Constancy, charity, and cleanliness. I’m sure Miss Phelan had her own definitions for each; whoever wishes may write out a sentence upon their slate concerning any of the three while the roll is called.” The roster was upon the desk, and seemed untouched. Still, she was extremely careful in handling it. “Gideon, if you will begin the roll.”

The urchin—Gideon Aberfarthing—jumped to his feet to announce his presence, whacked both knees rather hard on the underside of the tilted desk-table because nobody on his bench shifted to allow the movement, and let out a strangled cry which bore no relation whatsoever to his name, dropping back onto said bench with a fresh jolt.

Oh, dear gods, do not laugh. Gemma couldn’t wince either; those on the Path knew how to suppress even such small movements when necessary. As in, when one was uncertain which flinch or twitch might provoke a roomful of feral children to complete anarchy.

“Good heavens,” Gemma managed. “Are you quite well, Mr Aberfarthing?” I hope I pronounced that correctly.

The boy, his sleek wheat-coloured hair plastered down during morning’s hurried ablutions and his eyes full of glittering water before he screwed them tightly shut, whooped in a deep breath. His cheeks were scarlet. “Y-y-yesmum,” he finally whimpered. “Banged m’knee, mum.”

“Yes, I saw as much.” What on earth do I do now? Round, glowering Cook—he apparently needed no other name, and had been introduced to Gemma at the end of yesterday’s school sessions—did double duty as surgeon here, though the Director had mentioned a proper physician, temple-or academy-trained, could be found upon short notice. “Would you like to go to the infirmary?” She found herself skirting the desk, breaching the bare-floor territory between that comforting edifice and the first row of tables. A restless ripple went through the boys; Aberfarthing’s seat was in the third row upon the left. To approach the wounded youth, she would actually have to walk among them.

If one of the little things reached for her skirts . . . well, she had dissuaded more than one pickpocket since arriving in New Rome, most of them yesterday upon the walk to Rudrill’s. A few more would be no trouble, though she did wonder about the sense of being followed she had endured walking from the widow’s house to Imanuel.

She could always find another situation, if she pleased. But—and here Sampson would have interjected an oath Aunt Hay would disapprove of—now Gemma had begun this, she rather wished to see it through.

Her stubbornness all but demanded it.

“N-n-no mum,” the poor boy stuttered. He rubbed ruefully at his knees before rising with a bit less speed and far more care. “Just a bit of a bump, mum.”

“I think we may safely mark you present, then.” Gemma’s well-trained memory supplied the next name upon the list without having to glance at the ledger. “John Allen?”

“Mum?” another blond urchin in the fourth row squeaked, staring at her round-eyed as if he expected some manner of attack. “I mean, er, yesmum.” He slithered from his seat with far more adroitness and cooperation from his bench-mates, stood like a soldier enduring a centurion’s scrutiny, and barked, “JOHN-ALLEN-PRESENT-MUM.”

Aberfarthing sheepishly took his seat again, and the boy to his right elbowed him.

Oh, dear heavens. Gemma had to suppress another smile. The roll continued, and she did her best to fix the boys’ faces in memory as well. They could try switching names again, she supposed, but they seemed oddly subdued. Perhaps they were chastened by their fellow student’s misfortune, or perhaps Director Breakbridge had administered a morning sermon like a priest of thundering Zeus Graeca.

The last name upon the roll was Juremiah Yoster, whose very round cheeks quivered slightly as he slowly unfolded a small but somewhat gangly frame and piped his presence in clear sweet tremolo.

With that done, the morning recitation loomed, but Gemma paused, her hands clasped in imitation of one of her own childhood governesses. “Mr Aberfarthing? Your knees, are they . . . do they still hurt?”

The child turned a rather startling shade of brick-red, and he rose with alacrity. This time his bench-mates were ready, and all cooperated splendidly. “No m-mum,” he managed, with only a slight quaver.

“Good. If that changes, I shall send you to Cook with a note for some arnica. Has anyone written upon their slate?”

Not a single boy had thought to do so, and a few sucked in their cheeks, casting guilty glances at their neighbours.

Gemma had hours of this to endure. It was more exacting than a day of tedious social calls, but Miss Dove might even be glad to have found a position with so little trouble—she was now ‘in camouflage,’ as a sharpshooter would say, and the military manuals all agreed that position required more patience than energy. Even so, she had to reserve some strength for learning the rooftops around her garret tonight.

“It is only the first day,” she said, attempting for Sampson’s firm but kindly tone while addressing stable lads. At least elocution training made certain her words would reach the very back rows—but there was a touch of dampness at the small of her back, not to mention under her arms. Waiting for the next missile, prank, or outright disaster quite wore upon the nerves. “We shall have time to get used to each other, I suppose.”

Now she was faced with retreating to the desk for the heavy, leatherbound Recitations of Grace, considered—so Miss Phelan had written—very respectable for the education of the young poor. If they meant to pelt her with more missiles, it was a golden opportunity, and her skirts rustled in the unnatural silence.

Good gods. Her nerves would be as strained as Aunt Hay’s before long. I almost preferred them noisy.

“Begging your pardon, mum.” It was Henry Dawes, his red hair neatly slicked and his brogans making a racket as he scrambled to his feet.

Gemma whirled, telling her heart sternly to settle into its proper spot instead of leaping into her throat. “Mr Dawes.”

The boy thrust his hands behind his back and stood as tall as possible, his pointed chin lifted high. “We was—I mean, the fellows and I, well, we was wondering . . .”

“You have a question?” I hope it’s not a disagreeable one.

“Well, we wondered, mum, you see, Miss Phee was from Devonshire.”

I fail to see how that affects recitation. Gemma waited, her head cocked, very glad this required her to face the restive masses, so to speak.

Seeing your opponent was always better than the alternative. Maybe she should include the realisation in her planned letter home—the one she still had not written, dreading Sampson’s reply. Of course her uncle at Taurrock had probably already sent a missive; it might even be upon a packet ship now.

Please do not risk Albion, Sampson. Please.

“Well,” young Master Dawes continued, in the absolute silence, “we wondered where you come from.”

An adult male asking such a question upon a bare day’s acquaintance would have been what Hay called taking a dreadful liberty, but children were naturally curious, or so the books all agreed. “I am an orphan, Mr Dawes. I have recently arrived from the Continent; I was a governess in Gaul.” It was hardly a situation requiring wit, but she could not help continuing. “Mr Breakbridge found my character and references sufficient for the post. I hope you and your fellow students concur in time.”

Young Henry glanced nervously at his bench; every single boy upon that board fidgeted, clearly wishing him to proceed. “Will you teach us, then?”

“I had rather thought that was what this position entailed.” Arch amusement was probably not the worst way to handle a group of restive urchins. Gemma kept her hands clasped, and her knuckles did not yet whiten with irritation or strain.

It was a small blessing, but enough.

“No, I mean,”—Dawes’s chin mounted upward another few increments—“the snappa with the spinny.”

Was he even speaking Ænglish? “I beg your pardon?”

“Your handkerchief, Miss Dove.” Her student rather sounded like a tutor coaxing a reluctant girl at the pianoforte; all he lacked was a black coat and a pocket watch to keep time. “How you make it snap so.”

“I hardly think . . .” Gemma halted. Had she ever looked or sounded so transparently hopeful, wheedling a new lesson from Sampson? The dry rock of grief threatened to lodge afresh in her throat, and she blinked several times against a suspicious heaviness in her eyes. “Mr Dawes, if you and your fellow students promise to apply yourselves—and refrain from any unbecoming displays or pranks—I think I might find the time to teach you all one or two small things to do with a pocket handkerchief. I do not quite know if Miss Phelan would approve, though.”

“Well . . .” Dawes glanced at his bench-mates again, and took fresh heart from their nods. The entire class was a sea of rapt faces now; Gemma had their complete attention. “We can leave that out of the letters, savvy?”

“Hm.” She considered the notion. The silence was otherwise total, except for a faint ghost of recitation from other classes through the closed door. “If you can restrain yourselves from ungentlemanly behaviour, sirs, I believe I may indeed teach you a snap of the spinny or two.” I shall be learning yet another language soon. And she would have to buy a dictionary of cant, if one could be found, along with a New Rome street atlas. She had not seen a single bookseller yet, but then again, she had only just arrived. “I would ask every young man present to shake upon it, but such an operation would take all morning. Instead, may I have your word of honour—each and every one of you?”

“Yes, Miss Dove,” they chorused.

Yes, I do believe this is exactly how lion-tamers feel. “Very well. Now, to the morning recitation.”

The volumes she had read upon Proper Education of the Young had said nothing about bargaining with a cabbage-smelling roomful of orphans in dun cloth and pinching brogans, but then again, she was rapidly becoming of the opinion that none of the fine gentlemen penning them had spent even a quarter-hour among the children they professed to be experts upon. Miss Phelan’s instructions were far more useful, and had the benefit of being cogent besides.

COME MIDMORNING, Director Breakbridge approached the door to a certain room with a fair amount of trepidation, peering through an aperture accessed by a sliding wooden slat. The sight which greeted him was not one of utter chaos and destruction.

In fact, the new teacher was pacing before her desk while young Jack Henske stood to conjugate the verb orare. Miss Dove’s step was measured, her head high, and her grey skirts moving softly. The room was quiet, and once Henske was finished, he sat down and was complimented. At the board, three of the older students were working sums written in a clear though slightly ornate hand.

The good Director later remarked to Cook that while he was quite certain it was young Mr Henske who had slipped Miss Phelan’s second replacement’s pipe into the classroom stove and was also responsible for acquiring rotten vegetables to pepper the unfortunate Mr Force with, he was also almost certain Miss Dove would last the day.

Cook blew across a ladleful of hot soup prior to tasting—he had found some manner of meat to grace the potion with, so supper at Imanuel would be a jolly occasion for once—and observed that it was a bloody miracle sent across the street from Mithras, and that he would see if he could make a pudding to celebrate as well.

Marauders’ Morning

A ROOK WAS A man of consequence in the Acre, and safe wherever he chose to roam. Outside, one would do well to have a few good fellows at one’s back, not to mention a sharp eye peeled.

Consequently, anyone who knew the Acre’s underworld gentry would hardly believe the sight of Avery Black strolling Highburn Close alone in a fine stovepipe and yellow-green waistcoat instead of his usual red one, halting to gaze into shop windows and occasionally lifting his hat to a fancy, frail, hurrying maid, or other variety of passing female. There was something to be said for sheer outrageousness as camouflage; go where you’re not expected was not only good tactics but safer for one’s health.

To a passing toff, goff, pigeon, or partridge, this particular slice of New Rome no doubt looked very much the same as the Acre, though the Thrash’s low hum was of an unfamiliar timbre, breathing through a different tangle of street-throats.

Upstream, a quick glance at the corner of Mittles Way and Highburn showed two lounging bully-toughs in Marauder colours—Tal and Parrack, the first lean and dangerous with a squinting eye and the second possessed of a bit more heft to his shoulders, both with well-brushed bowlers perched atop mops of oil-shining hair. They were on watch duty, but Tal was more interested in a golden-haired frail with a tattered tartan shawl—Caitlin the Fair, Kane’s blonde sometimes-yes, not averse to earning a few shillings in a less-usual way this morning. It would be bloody difficult to keep watch with her patter ringing in their ears; she was missing her left canine and her smile was all the more engaging for it.

Caitlin had dreams of opening her own brothel stocked with no fewer than six she-wolves, and was known as a rigorous businesswoman indeed.

The Marauders took their name from a house with a bearded pirate painted upon its sign, the fellow giving a salacious though rather faded wink at passers-by. The door was wide open and Avery swung in with no alteration of stride, doffing his hat to the proprietorix—wide-hipped Ma Gunnell in a much-bleached bonnet, who did not mind McNeiss’s fellows using her place as a daytime hole so long as they didn’t gamble with anything other than dice or bring the wrong sort of attention to her own various dealings.

She wouldn’t like what was about to happen, but it was the natural cost of giving the Rook’s enemies shelter. Not even that—he’d be perfectly willing to let the Marauders do as they pleased outside the Acre, if they hadn’t been dabbling in childcatching over his borders.

Not to mention trading their muscle for Priory money. Rexton knew the value of a few underworld bravos at his beck, and McNeiss had dreams of scrabbling a few steps above his station in the world’s great pecking order. The two saw eye to eye on a number of matters, not least in desiring a bit of profit from the Acre’s direction.

And that, so far as the Rook was concerned, simply would not do. Especially if McNeiss was sending boyos to Taurrock, possibly asking for some charity which could be better spent closer to home.

The pub’s sudden gloom, despite its small street windows of ancient ripple-streaked and bubbled glass, was an indication of antiquity as well as a certain exclusivity—this was neither a gin shop nor strictly a publick, for it did not serve all and sundry. The species in cant was hole, with various prefaces giving the genus—gamblin’ hole, dossin’ hole, or a place where frails and fancies informally congregated, bearing its own fairly impolite moniker.

A stranger might well be forgiven for backing out with alacrity after enduring hard stares from various quarters. The not-so-publick was jammed with no few underworld bullyboys in flash waisties, their slick-combed hair showing the impression of various odd hats. Most gave the doorway a good exam, like the Imanuel boys might say, as a matter of course.

Local labourers fortifying themselves with bitter—word had it as surprisingly drinkable, though nothing like Chapper’s downstreet or Haldane’s Corner on the edge of Marauder territory—before leaving to earn a few more daytime pence gave merely a curious glance or two, while the harried slatterns pouring and fetching, not to mention potboys scurrying, graced Avery with a single relatively cheeky and very short going-over apiece, sussing the likely amount of metal in his pockets and their chances of subtracting more of it than a regular visitor would allow.

Avery took all this in with a single swift glance, a regular Thors-day midmorning not so different than the main room of Lucky’s in the Acre where Herrin was holding court this morning, dispensing such aid as the Rooks could scrape together to those likely to need it.

And, not so incidentally, keeping any unfriendly eyes riveted to the place, since the Rook Himself was expected to be upstairs discussing matters with a few trusted compatriots, the leader of an association being far too lordly a creature to show himself to the hoi polloi.

He’d even given orders for the Marauder spies to be left unmolested this morning. Let them think him oblivious, for however long they could continue in that misapprehension.

And what, pray any god to tell, should appear at the long, splintered counter along the other end of the room but a broad back in a long tan coat hovering amid a fug of foul vapour from two guttering lamps, burning tabac from across the sea, and at least one pipe with skunk-smelling hemp mixed into its smouldering dregs? A very familiar back, a mop of ginger atop, and below trousers patterned with the yellow-and-green of Marauder colours, not to mention the likewise-patterned rag tied around one hairy wrist as the fellow lifted a foaming tankard of what was no doubt this establishment’s very finest?

Why, none other than Harlow McNeiss of Gundinger Alley, of course.

Just the man I wanted to see. Ave could barely believe it was this easy.

Sauntering into a den was one thing, leaving after one had accomplished a bit of mischief altogether different. Especially as Stoute the Walker was blinking blearily from a nearby bench, clearly upon door duty. Avery would have the man dragged from his post and demoted to running messages, for he was already, visibly, and irredeemably drunk.

On the other hand, it was fortunate indeed that Stoute was soused, for a warning shout while Ave was still in the doorway would have been most inconvenient. As McNeiss turned from the bar in leisurely fashion to eye the new arrival, Avery saw other familiar faces. There was bright-eyed, perpetually stubbled Dunkle and the lean-shouldered, moderately dangerous Veece the Quick—new arrivals in the area, and they should have gone to the Rooks instead. They’d chosen poorly, and the next few moments would show by how much.

There was also Black Mary in her bedraggled velvet skirts, right next to her sometimes-yes Harold Boynton, McNeiss’s lieutenant. The Marauders’ heavyman Bill Floss, his ill-tempered bread-coloured dog already lifting its lip in Ave’s direction, lounged on a bench with his tree-trunk legs well into the aisle. Bill’s girl Nancy cowered next to him, sporting a fresh, ugly black eye.

Floss also had a silver-headed malacca cane leaning against his knee, and his meaty fingertips strayed over its crowning gleam.

Him first, then. Avery’s cheeks felt strange, for he was smiling. He tossed his hat aside, aiming for an ale-spotted table left uninhabited because it was piled with dirty crockery the potboys hadn’t had a chance to clear yet. Though he didn’t need the hood for this, his vision narrowed as if he had settled draping material over his head with the usual quick, habitual flick.

He could have just sidled by at nighttime, safe behind some disguise or another, and sank a blade into his target’s kidneys, certainly.

But where was the fun in that?

THE TRICK WAS to keep moving. Gaining the high ground with a single leap, landing upon yet another table with his knees loose in case it decided to give under him—no, it held steady, and that was a gift from whatever god of chance was looking after Hellions today. Avery’s boot flickered out, catching Veece under the chin; the lean fellow was one to watch, indeed. The malacca cane snatched from Floss’s spasming-open hand before catching that big brute across the face with its silver knob a few moments ago was delightfully heavy as it whistle-clove the air, passing a hairsbreadth from Veece’s shoulder in case the man didn’t fall the way Ave wanted him to.

The dark-eyed knife-fighter was disposed to be helpful, though, and dropped to Avery’s right with a thud far heavier than his stature seemed capable of producing. That meant Ave had to bring the cane back, which he did smartly, cracking the approaching Dunkle upon his close-cropped pate. While Stoute the Walker—one of the few McNeiss trusted enough to handle a shilling or two, gossip said, perhaps because he wasn’t possessed of enough canniness to shave it, others added—didn’t scrape his cheeks, he did trim his hair close as a Mithraic or Ysys priest’s.

What a man did with his fur wasn’t any of Avery Black’s concern, nor did he think a god truly cared. The rules were simply there to separate sheep from dogs—and, if he were being honest, the wolves.

Not to mention the occasional lion.

So Ave rapped Dunkle right on the noggin for good measure, faintly surprised when the fellow didn’t go down. Must have an iron skull. The thought was there and gone in less than a twinkle, and delivered in the exact half-sarcastic tone Morton used when truly amazed.

Since luck never came wholly good or wholly bad, merely in great gouts of both, Avery’s true target—while he was not a quick man in any sense, McNeiss nevertheless had a finely developed sense of self-preservation—had collected enough wherewithal to yell and attempt to dive over the bar into some kind of malodorous, slop-damp safety.

Dunkle roared, swallowing the sound of McNeiss’s cry, and Avery decided relocation was a wonderful idea. It was easy to spring to another nearby table, nimble as a cat.

Except as soon as his leading foot touched beer-stained and indifferently wiped wood, unforgiving Hellion training flung his body sideways in midair with a wringing, fishlike effort because he sensed the flimsy thing’s breaking into matchwood under even the light brushing impact of what tradition named drumfoot and Morton called don’t ever trust any surface, my boy, for all are treacherous or may become so.

It also saved Avery from the piece of lead whizzing past—the Walker, with some presence of mind, had produced an ancient pistol from beneath his capacious though somewhat threadbare greatcoat, and the gout of smoke it produced along with the noise added wonderfully to the general confusion as the piece bucked wildly in his beefy hand.

Bloody idiot. Still, Avery was grimly amused, though Ma Gunnell was embarking upon a fishwife’s yell amid the chaos. He landed with a jolt, putting down Boynton with a crack to the ribs and another to the face as the man bent, and plunged forward, barely avoiding raven-haired Black Mary, whose mouth was open in a silent scream. Rabbit-like, she had frozen—it took training to knock the urge to cower out of one’s flesh, and while a frail could disappear in half a footstep if one of the bluecoats or a predatory ponce hove into sight, a morning bar-brawl when she was still weary from the last night’s work and seeking a quiet tipple before sleeping through daylight was another thing entirely.

So he did the kindest thing, letting his momentum knock them both to the grime-slimy floor. “Keep yer chin down, darlin’!” he cawed in her ear, the caution breaking upon a grinding laugh. Then he was up again, aiming for the end of the bar where a potboy—a nipper no older than ten though malnutrition and no doubt one or two heavy clouts from alcohol-soaked patrons had given him a wizened face much like a news crier’s—crouched, far wiser than Mary and possessed of enough animal sense to stay still even as Ave uncoiled over him, leaping from his own crouch in the way Morton called like a hotfoot toad, my boy, and now!

The bar itself was much more solid footing, and he danced along it, Floss’s cane whistling as Avery tapped one hopeful in arm-tied Marauder colours upon the jaw, mincingly avoiding a spray of blood and broken teeth, and spun to kick another—a boy with the sense to reach for a knife but not enough speed to apply it. The blade—a half-broken clasp-knife not worth a farthing, its gleam was sharp if nothing else—popped out of the youth’s grasp, turning over and over in midair, and if Avery wished to he grab the handle as he whirled past.

He didn’t, because he wanted another. And it looked as if Veece, the only halfway dangerous man in the entire room, was about to deliver it straight to him. Adding a bit of fun to the proceedings, Bill Floss, tapped in the face with his own walking stick, now had what passed for his wits about him and was intent upon recovering his property.

The lieutenant’s dog, veteran of many a scrap and scramble, had taken the judicious step of crouching next to Nancy, who sat sheep-still and staring—that black eye of hers hurt to look at, and Avery decided he would give Floss one to match.

It was only fair, and Ave didn’t hold with beating women, respectable or frail. Even a gullcatcher was only to be outfoxed, not brutalized.

Veece hopped lithely atop the bar with the help of a handy stool, his hobnob boots sending tankards aside with clattering splashes. For all that, he was fast and even somewhat graceful, one knife blade-out and the other reversed along his forearm. The latter was the true danger—while the man wasn’t Hellion-trained, he did have experience and luck, almost a substitute.

Almost.

Ave’s back knee loosened. The malacca’s heavy silver head blurred as he shifted it to his left hand and swung wide, catching the approaching Bill Floss just under the chin at the proper moment with a solid crack. The Rook spun, no time for gooseflesh or fear because he had to get inside Veece’s strike, and sharpish too. The edge of Veece’s right-hand blade kissed his sleeve—good thing the coat wasn’t his, a ragpicker would get it this afternoon—quick as a serpent’s tongue, and Avery didn’t try to bring the malacca back into play.

Because that would be what his opponent was expecting.

Instead, he almost collided with the knifeman and his right elbow flicked out, knocking Veece’s left forearm off its path by a few critical degrees. Which left Avery’s right hand free for a flat strike to the fellow’s solar plexus, with enough force behind it to rob his opponent of breath.

Then the gleaming malacca-head could come back, but it was again a distraction. The second strike was Avery’s right hand thrusting upward, the heel hitting just under Veece’s very fine nose. There wasn’t enough force behind the strike to kill . . . but it was close, and a Hellion didn’t simply fight with his top half. Hooking a foot behind Veece’s ankle and tugging to make the man fall once more in the proper direction was simple, though the fight had now taken a spot longer than he liked.

Get it done, Avery.

He also wanted his right hand free to subtract Veece’s reversed knife, which was flung free in a high arc, turning point-over-pommel like a street conjurer’s trick. Snatching it from the air with speed any of the Acre’s pickpockets—even Artful Rodger, that slippery fellow—might envy, Avery turned on his heel and leapt down behind the bar as the brawl took a deep breath, exploding through the pub. Ma Gunnell had waded into the fray and was attempting to restore some semblance of order, yet again only added to the swelling hubbub.

No few of the bleary-eyed morning visitors were deeply confused, for the fight was spreading like a splash of flung beer. It took very little to induce a roomful of bullyboys to violent movement, especially if they were merely criminals instead of Rooks. Stoute’s pistol had managed to shock no few of them into ill-considered reflexive action.

Against each other, of course.

His boys would not have reacted this sloppily, or so Avery hoped. His boots landed with a splash, and it had suddenly become fairly crowded upon this side of the splintered, shipwrecked edifice drinks and viands were passed over. Between casks and shelves, not to mention bottles and fresh crockery, there was hardly room to walk, let alone waltz—and there was McNeiss, cowering like a cur while his collection of toughs, bravos, and loungers were either lambasting each other or sprawling in confusion.

This part of the affair had to be settled quickly. Avery’s smile was bright, thoughtful, and unsettling as he gazed down at the man, ignoring the chaos; Veece’s knife was easy and warm in his right hand. The malacca in his left, while not ideal for close quarters, would nevertheless be very helpful on his way through the crowd and out the door.

“Hullo, McNeiss.” He snapped a glance at wide, soft Archimbault Thibodeaux who did the Marauders’ pouring, very wisely crouching between two casks with his hands over his balding head. Ma Gunnell didn’t pay him enough to go wading into this weather, though he would handily defend the ale from cask thieves. “I told you, no childcatching in the Acre.”

McNeiss, just a few moments ago the lord of a reasonably well-ordered domain, spat an obscenity.

How very rude. Avery’s smile widened.

A FEW MOMENTS later a dark-haired man strolled out of the Marauders’ pub, swinging a silver-headed malacca and giving a piercing whistle. “Cait!” he barked; Fair Caitlin picked up her skirts and hastened in his direction, leaving her erstwhile suitors gaping.

The bullyboy in the flash waistie and dark coat took her arm, whisking them both into a river of hurrying pedestrians—thickening smartly, the second morning wave of carter traffic through this part of New Rome once a hurried gulp of bitter, stout, or the like had been had. The Marauder lookouts Cait had been pattering might not have sensed anything wrong but for Bill Floss’s dog reaching the threshold and barking loudly, dimly aware aid was required for his bleeding—indeed, battered, for Avery had paused on his way out to apply a few more salutary whacks to Floss’s skull—master.

It wasn’t a bad morning’s work for a Rook. Or a Hellion.

Good Neighbours

WITHIN A WEEK Miss Dove was confirmed in her post, and while her class still contained a few troublesome ’uns, in Mr Humbolten’s phrase, they seemed to have been tamed by a girl in grey. It was the longest peace had reigned in that quarter since Miss Phelan’s departure, and Henry Breakbridge, Director of Imanuel, was almost beginning to believe the quiet might hold long enough for some other disaster to take primacy among his worries.

Consequently, when Humbolten bobbed a bow and announced a guest at the Director’s office door upon a grey Mercury-day midmorn Henry almost flinched, reaching for his pocket handkerchief and swabbing at his forehead—an operation entirely habitual, for the room was chilly indeed. Breakbridge’s stove was more often than not left unlit so the coal could be used for a classroom instead, but it was not quite the penance it could be. Some heat rose from rooms below in the winter and besides, his duties often required a brisk turn about Imanuel’s passages.

This morning, however, he was attempting to find some room in the accounts for a cobbler’s fee. Soles, not to mention other shoe parts, were a galling and perpetual expense.

“Enter,” he grumbled in an uncharacteristically waspish tone, and rose from his plain wooden desk chair as soon as the visitor, bowed past by Humbolten, came into view.

The man in a flash reddish waistie and black frock coat was lean, relatively young—though he could look older, or surprisingly boyish, if either pleased him—and dark-haired, his similarly dark eyes passing over the cramped office in a swift sweep, taking particular note of the window. “Mornin’, guv.” He carried his hat like any tradesman uneasy at being called into a presumed intellectual’s office; it would take a second and much more penetrating glance to note the breadth of his shoulders, how well-brushed his scarred, thin-soled boots were, and to see the gleam of amusement well-banked in his coal-fire gaze. Not to mention his catlike, restless grace. “Yer potbelly’s gone out.”

His greeting rarely varied; the Rook of Hell’s Acre knew the value of tradition.

“Ah, Mr Black.” Genuine pleasure took the place of worry inside the Director’s chest, and Breakbridge nodded to Humbolten. “Excellent, so happy to see you. George, go along to ask if Cook will send us up some tea? Three cups, don’t think you’re escaping.” Considering that Imanuel’s dutiful man-about owed his position to Avery Black’s quiet recommendation, it was only polite.

“Yes, Director, thank-ye-sir.” Humbolten’s mien lightened considerably, and he scampered off like the boy he had once been. Cook would no doubt send up more than a bit of weak tea; there was a distinct chance of bread with drippings as well.

Imanuel knew what it owed this man, and would pay so much of the debt as possible. At least, it would while Henry Breakbridge was the captain of the floundering but never-quite-sinking ship.

“I ent stayin,” the Rook said, condescending nevertheless to prowl into the room and sweep the door shut. “Just came to see how yer gettin’ on, guv.”

So, today he was playing the back-alley bullyboy; the man had as many faces as the version of Proteus worshipped in Makkedonia. Breakbridge was blessed with a phlegmatic disposition—or so he hoped—so it was no trouble to keep his expression distracted and harmless. “Oh quite well, gods willing. Quite well. And you, Mr Rook sir?”

“Quite well? That’s why yer stove’s empty?” One corner of Avery’s mouth lifted, an unwilling smile. “See if I can’t arrange something about that, by the by.”

By which he meant stolen coal, but if a cartload turned up in Imanuel’s cellar, well, a director of a poor parish school was not in any position to protest. Before taking this post, he would not have thought it possible his morals would admit such behaviour, but burying pneumonia-slain, malnourished orphans in hard winters changed a man.

Or at least, Henry thought it should. “Kind of you, my good fellow. But if you expect us to accept, you shall have to stay for at least a cuppa.” Breakbridge indicated the settee, a sprung-stuffing affair with a sadly battered hassock. Both pieces of furniture were at least clean, and neither were hard as the penitential wooden bench near the door for boys who needed a bit of Jovian thunder-sermon to return them to the strait path of proper behaviour. “Please do sit. I’d feel dreadfully rude otherwise.”

“Pfft.” But the leader of the most recent association to take power in the Acre’s underside gingerly folded himself down, watchful feline grace in every movement. “S’pose as we might well be proper,” he allowed, cant-rhythm receding from his speech like the tide at Bornesmouth. “Thought you’d like to know there’s no more catchers in the Acre. Beyond that I can’t guarantee, Director.”

“Blest good news.” Of course, other poor-schools might hold it acceptable for a few of their charges to be abducted and ‘taught’ the value of dirty, dangerous work even a starving adult might turn down. Freeing a few mouths from a school’s rolls could give the remainder a little more at porridge-time, and some school directors—or headmasters, as those of Breakbridge’s kind with a smattering of education liked to be called—even culled those they deemed incorrigible from the herd in order to grant others a greater chance of success.

Or to line their own pockets with the overage, Breakbridge thought, but that was a dismal idea to fill one’s head with at any hour of the day. He preferred not to brood. At least, not about that; there was plenty more to concern a man printed in any newspaper, let alone witnessed during a stroll along any of New Rome’s street-arteries, veins, or walking paths.

“Not for the fellows wot was catching.” The Rook’s smile broadened, and he finished settling upon the settee, his hat—flash and neatly brushed, but not very expensive—upon his knee. A light rubbing of cant returned to his words. “Any of the sprouts givin’ ye trouble?”

“Oh, the boys are full of high spirits. Solstice isn’t so far past, and a new year gives them all quite a bit of energy. We do have rather a rash of thievery at the moment; they keep stealing each other’s pocket handkerchiefs. No bit of rag is safe.” Breakbridge could only shrug, mystified at the fancies of schoolboys. He had been one once, of course, but very little of that time seemed to remain in his organ of Memory. The young had somehow become a mystery, despite his solemn inward compact to never forget what it was to be small, hungry, and terribly frightened. “I don’t suppose you could have a word with . . .”

“Now why would I do that?” Avery’s amusement intensified, and appeared genuine indeed. “Boy who can snap a spinny’s a boy wot won’t go hungry, and he may even bring his old master a spot of something nice in thanks.”

Of course Henry Breakbridge could not argue with one of Imanuel’s most devout supporters, but on the other hand, he was a Director, and those were supposed to be somewhat moral creatures. “You may have a point,” he agreed cheerfully, and lowered himself cautiously onto the other side of the settee. His knees did not ache too abominably today, so he managed the maneuver in tolerably graceful fashion. “By this time next month they’ll find some other mischief, I’m sure. Oh, and the chosen lads have been watching during their sport time, as you requested.”

“And?” The Rook didn’t tense, but his gaze flickered to the door. Humbolten wouldn’t return for some short while, but the man who had appeared from nowhere three years ago to take over the Acre’s half-world of Vice and survival unfailingly displayed a quite appropriate caution.

“Twice weekly, like clockwork.” Breakbridge was fairly certain Imanuel’s subscribers would frown upon the boys manning pickets for a collection of petty criminals, but nobody was likely to tell them, least of all Avery or the students who received a pence or two from the Rooks in consideration for a week’s worth of careful vigilance out the window of a particularly dusty room high upon the school’s eastron side. The job was for only the most serious and trustworthy of their number, and far outstripping the prospect of remuneration was the pride of being useful to the Rook Himself.

No Imanuel boy would turn down such a chance.

“No change?” the Rook persisted.

“None.” The Director had little idea of why Avery Black wished for such a close watch kept upon a particular livery’s service to a particular customer, but his was not to question.

Henry Breakbridge’s concerns were far more immediate. Like feeding hungry orphans, finding less-threadbare recitation and grammar texts, politely pestering subscribers for their promised sums, sending boys to help the Taurrock brothers with their gardening from spring to autumn, acquiring teachers and staff who could endure Imanuel’s many peculiarities, and a thousand other considerations.

He often dreamed of his school as a giant stone ship sinking inch by inch into grasping mire and woke without a nightmare jolt or sweat, merely the crushing realisation that his days and nights were spent attempting to save a giant creature and its attendant flock of small dependent birds from their own weight and worst impulses.

“That’s all right then.” Avery’s attention settled fully on him. “Hear you’ve a new teacher, too. Word in the Acre says it’s a witch.”

“I beg your pardon?” He shouldn’t be surprised; the poor were unremittingly superstitious. Even the semidivine rulers of Old Empire knew as much, and had bemoaned it only during the few circumstances the habit did not serve their purposes.

“Witch, guv.” Avery Black’s accent dropped into a broad Midlands rhythm. “Sours the milk, steals the cheese, talks to the wee folk, offends the gods, stops the sun in its tracks, you know the sort.”

“I rather doubt such a creature would need the pittance we are capable of paying.” Breakbridge did not quite engage in what the boys would call a ‘huff’—after all, Imanuel needed this man’s goodwill.

But he was tempted to.

“Unless s’not a very effective witch,” the Rook agreed, and the twinkle in his dark eyes was at once uncharacteristic and a relief. For all his smiles and easy patter, the fellow rarely seemed truly amused.

“Besides, Miss Dove came recommended, and she has managed to induce her students to near-gentlemanly behaviour.” Breakbridge quelled the urge to pin the Rook with a somber look more suitable for his charges than for a visitor. But, damn it all, despite Miss Dove’s initial impression of a prim New Woman with stockings suspiciously close to cerulean, she was proving quite capable—and even startlingly refined in her personal habits, which was a pleasant surprise.

And never let it be said Mother Breakbridge’s boy Henry was incapable of changing his mind when proven wrong. It was a mark of character to admit of new information, as the gods of Science said. Even Hygiea and Apollo Graeca, though traditionally jealous of medical prerogatives, might agree.

These were modern times, and he was a modern man.

“Now I know she’s a witch,” Avery Black muttered, and his expression was wholly a schoolboy’s for a brief moment. It could have irked the Director—where did the fellow come from, for gods’ sake?

But New Rome was host to every manner of creature, and so far the Rook had behaved quite well, if not very morally.

So Henry’s own laugh, while catching him by surprise, was also genuine, and his hard, small middle-aged belly shook. “I confess I might half suspect so myself, especially if she turns any of the boys into pigs. Or dogs. Do you think that qualifies as childcatching?”

“Depends on what she’d be doing with the pig.” And the Rook actually winked, which dredged another laugh from his host.

The conversation turned to Acre news and gossip—the butcher Haney’s perpetual courtship-masquerading-as-feud with Ma Billingsworth, the rash of ague and other sicknesses carrying off young and old at the end of a hard winter, where Mr Peele’s bluejackets were patrolling, and the like. Gulliver Townsend was doing poorly, which meant some shift had to be made for his younger children—his eldest daughter Tansy was a lady’s maid on Shrever Street while the two boys born right after did odd jobs, all three contributing to the care of their siblings but sorely missing Townsend’s pay. If the father went down Imanuel could take a remaining boy, but that left two more daughters and the mother, poor Eustacia, was in her grave for two long years now.

Some slices of New Rome did not care for their own, but in the Acre you might need a neighbour’s help one day, and even the most predatory landlord realised there was a point past which one should not squeeze hapless doss-heads. Henry thought it quite likely that was why the Rook had chosen this particular patch to call home, and he wondered how long the fellow would stay.

It seemed a rather small ambition for one of his undoubted talent.

Humbolten returned bearing a tray loaded with the best Imanuel had to offer just as bells tinkled near every classroom door and the rhythmic stamping of boys shuffling in single file rang down the halls. Each would have hand to the shoulder of the one in front, every long string preceded followed by an eagle-eyed teacher, all bound for noontime chorus in the small chapel. For festivals and other observances, not to mention the weekly Solis-day sermon, they trooped across the cobbled expanse to the temple.

Normally the director would give the midday prayer, but Humbolten had informed Master Appleton there was a guest in Breakbridge’s office, so the grammarian would be called upon to give a few words concerning the beneficence of gods who brought orphans to the loving embrace of Imanuel. It was a duty that particular teacher would no doubt enjoy to the hilt, and shortly thereafter Avery Black took his leave. The remains of the tray—the Rook did not consume much, though he did take a quantity of harsh black tea—would be quite welcome later in the afternoon, and all in all, Breakbridge allowed, he was a very mannerly sort.

Had he known the Rook’s true intent in visiting Imanuel, he might have been intrigued. For the leader of the association was indeed curious about a certain lady in grey, though she was safely in chapel with her class while he followed Humbolten to the door.

And Miss Dove’s boys—for so they regarded themselves now, much as they had called themselves Phelan’s Lot during that worthy lady’s tenure—were hardly mischievous at all during the affair, though Dawes tossed a piece of filched chalk at his bosom enemy Hal Ustermann from Appleton’s class and Gideon Aberfarthing made sotto voce arrangements to fight a youth from Mr Filbin’s room who had impugned the new teacher’s honour with a scurrilous rhyme.

All in all, it was quite a sedate morning at Imanuel, and by the end of the first afternoon session a cart of coal arrived, driven by Kane the mostly gentle giant of the Acre, with the Rook’s lieutenant Herrin lounging upon the seat next to him.

Yes, Henry Breakbridge thought when he heard of the delivery from Humbolten, Mr Black was a fine fellow, and perhaps that night he would not dream of the school sinking slowly into a swamp.

Anticlimactic, Battle

AFTER ALL THE thinking, planning, and preparing, it was almost anticlimactic to prop her garret window open, test a section of damp roof tile with glove-booted toes, and slip into a drizzle-damp New Rome evening, the slick uncertain footing almost like St Courcy’s steep pitches.

Almost, yet not quite. Gemma’s pulse beat thinly with anticipation, and her breath came quick and high.

The roofs of Hell’s Acre were not in so good a repair as the estate’s, or even of the ville near Gemma’s childhood home. It took very little time to discern the local street atlas she had acquired was woefully imprecise; additionally, it felt positively indecent to be wandering after dark in close-fitting trousers and the tunic she had sewn according to Sampson’s painstaking descriptions. Thin indigo cloth wrapped around her head, muffling the lower part of her face as well as confining her braided hair, was indeed an irritant—but one she was glad of as the rain intensified.

There was some difficulty in keeping her pulse controlled. After all the study and waiting, she was finally doing. The relief of movement mixed with high anticipation, and both stoked her with anxiety much as a steam engine with coal.

Gemma’s memory, trained by both genteel education and Sampson’s careful tutelage in observation, recall, and deduction, was hardly less exercised than the rest of her as she moved in extremely discreet, widening circles from Widow Rudrill’s boarding house. Oddly, it was not St Courcy she remembered while working along shingled or tiled rooflines, careful to keep below the crest of any hill, stopping to consider and plan alternate routes when she reached a street or alley too wide to leap without more speed.

Care and caution were tonight’s watchwords.

She did her best not to think of Hay’s final days, the closest thing to a mother she would ever have sinking under a weight of influenza, ruby-cheeked and feverish despite all the physicians’ efforts. Even an Aesclepian priest had been summoned from nearby Bayziers, to no avail.

She also tried not to think of Sampson’s face, pale beneath the remains of a soldier’s weathering—for he had been under many a broiling sun during his career, and still preferred outdoors to in—when he softly said, My lady is gone.

Instead, Gemma’s thoughts lingered upon the classroom while she ran lightly, leapt, and landed soundless as an owl. She now knew every inch of the benches, tables, age-polished wooden floor, balky round-bellied iron stove—thank goodness someone else attended to that, the thing was filthy—and the desk’s many crannies and nooks which constituted her private realm within Imanuel’s slouching grey pile. Even Miss Phelan had left little trace inside the desk’s beached hull, and Gemma could not decide whether it was a comfort that her own career would vanish just as thoroughly in a few weeks—or at worst, months.

Of course, she doubted she would ever forget the reek of cabbage, the bright eyes of underfed boys, and the eerie docility with which they took to performing tiny tricks—not very dangerous, Sampson would have said, but they train both eye and hand—with a variety of pocket handkerchiefs. For all the boys were dressed in dun and holland, and for all the state of their shoes, they certainly seemed to have quite a few ‘rags.’

Gemma’s body knew before she did, freezing in a crouch amid the deeper shadow of a massive brick chimney. A faint shimmer of heat at its mouth lifted heavy coalsmoke, granting another layer to the pall lying over New Rome; a sharp nose might even untangle some silt-laden scent of river through the fine drizzling rain.

What was that?

The Path held a particular type of stillness, muscles quivering in turn to keep the blood from retreating into stiffness. Gemma’s breathing deepened, the stove inside her belly well-stoked with a heavy pasty consumed at leisure in her tiny garret just an hour ago. It was a labourer’s dinner, but she would need the extra fuel; Sampson was quite clear upon the risks of constraining a healthy appetite, no matter how delicate a well-bred girl was supposed to appear.

Gemma’s eyes half-lidded, and her well-wrapped head tilted slightly. Thin linen doubled or tripled over her ears still irritated, but it would take much more to deaden Path-sensitive hearing.

Another high, trilling whistle lifted into the uncertain dusk. The rain strengthened, brushing across rooftop peaks and valleys, and she heard other soft noises too.

I begin to think I am not alone.

Gemma drew further into the chimney’s lee, listening intently. Now she understood much more of Sampson’s training, especially the games of don’t-move in St Courcy’s rose gardens, motionless as a lizard upon a sunny stone wall. The stillness was more often than not broken by tiny pebbles flung from one direction or another, or the whistle of a padded rod as her trainer appeared, almost out of thin air, and proceeded to test her vigilance.

Not to mention her reflexes.

One group . . . no, three. Circling, like hawks. Gemma was an adder coiled under a rock, rain soaking through dark fabric to touch her shoulders, tiny icy caresses. She could hope anyone else upon the rooftops tonight would be far more interested in their own business than hers.

One of her hands, strips of dark cloth wrapped between her fingers and over her knuckles to provide padding against harsh roof tiles as well as protection for unarmed strikes, twitched slightly as her crouch deepened; Sampson would have scolded her for the movement. More whistles ribboned through the rain, call-and-response like Breakbridge’s delivery of traditional well-wishes for the continuation of Empress and Empire, the boys mumble-singing replies in sweet soprano.

They were not bad children, Gemma supposed. After the one flung egg, they had settled remarkably well—but when she ran out of handkerchief tricks, how would she make them behave?

Her unease crested. Gemma did not stop to think but moved, rolling away from the strike and gaining her feet again with a convulsive lunge. Her soles slipped—but the glove-like boots showed their practicality now, letting her toes spread and arresting her motion as she spun, dodging a second strike as well.

The attacking shadow was tall, and disconcertingly broad-shouldered. Training showed in its catlike movements, and for a moment Gemma was in St Courcy’s wood-floored salle again, Sampson barking harsh encouragement and advice as she ducked and dodged, absorbing her opponent’s rhythm and eluding a flat hand aimed to jab at the hollow of her shoulder, meaning to strike a nerve-bundle and thus remove her arm from the fight.

Oh, no you don’t. She gave yet more ground, evading a volley of light slaps meant to confuse her, if such a thing could be done, and also to gauge her speed, no doubt for her attacker’s comfort. She would only be an indistinct shape to this man—and it had to be male, the size alone shouted as much.

He had quite a bit of training in the Path, she discovered, his strikes bearing a brutal direct efficiency very like her teacher’s. He also had the high ground, herding her diagonally down the rooftop of a long low building, but in any case it was the direction Gemma wished to go for a few moments, so she saw little need to do more than keep his clumsy fingers from hooking upon any of her clothing. The shadow moved in, obviously attempting to overwhelm easy prey, but her right hand flashed in a complicated pattern, an openhand blow to his wrist before following to lock the joint and pulling, her lower centre of gravity suddenly a boon as her left foot flicked out too, landing just above the knee and disrupting his balance for a critical moment.

He staggered downslope and Gemma burst up, climbing quickly as her feet could land. There was a certain tension below the knee making every step springy-elastic; those untrained might mistake it for flight. Like a fledgling out of the nest, Sampson called it, don’t think, little Beth, just dance. The body knows; let it work.

A missile whizzed through rainy air as she crested the roof’s slope and plunged over the other side, her feet barely touching tiles long enough to propel her along, and speed was crucial. If she could hop the alley on the building’s southron flank, she would be in a patch of silence—though if there were other trained opponents, that might be where they were hiding.

The bloody roofs are full of traffic at night, she thought, and a laugh threatened to jolt from her throat. There was no time for it, for she went down hard and rolled, harsh close-fitting cloth scraping wet slate as the large shadow sailed overhead, having caught his balance before the roof’s lip and bolted in pursuit.

Bother, Gemma thought. He had clearly meant to collide with her and take them both down in a heap, but she had been trained well and was skidding for another, much closer edge in a twinkling.

Dance now, dance now! Her pupils swelled as she gathered herself, the hot smooth knowledge of a good leap bursting in her middle like a swallow of fine cognac, and she landed on the far side of a crooked, malodorous alley with a harsh exhale and a rattle, rolling again because something else whistled past.

There was no explosion of gunpowder, and it did not cleave the air like an arrow. Stones, then, either flung overhand or with a sling.

Well, if they wished to give her weapons like this she had no use for her knives, did she? Yet Gemma drew her left-hand blade as she altered her course a few degrees, patches of shadow confusing her outline and more frantic whistles rising in every direction. Another unseen mass whizzed by her head—a cobble, perhaps, it sounded large as a fist. She could have caught and returned it, but would have to slow down.

Oh, bother indeed.

They were between her and her garret, and she did not know the ground well enough. Still, Gemma wasn’t doing badly so far, and the streets in this part of New Rome were thread-thin, buildings jammed on every side in confusing hotchpotch.

In other words, she could lead them a merry chase, and perhaps whittle them down. She’d only intended to learn the territory around her home tonight, but as Sampson said, the battle did not wait for your readiness. She had given a good accounting of herself in more ways than one recently.

Gemma could only hope she would continue to do so.

A Perplexing Evening

THE INTRUDER WAS short, skinny, and unholy quick; the only thing keeping him in range was Avery’s own training and slick rain-damp tiles underneath forcing caution over speed. Plus, the fellow was in dark, close-fitting clothing, not true black but a few shades off to render him practically invisible on a cloudy night, and it took all a Hellion’s acuity of vision as well as hearing to stay just within range of this quarry.

A sodden gleam flickered as Ave’s fingers skated over a thin shoulder; he had to throw himself back with a fishlike twitch of his abdominal muscles as the blade—not blackened, if this fellow was an assassin he was an arrogant one—clove damp night air with a soft sweet sound. The intruder spun, barely a sound coming from well-wrapped feet, and the whistling in every direction told Ave that his boys were chasing shadows.

Perhaps this was a feint, and the true attack lay elsewhere. But the Rook didn’t think so, and one of his own blades was pulled free with serpent-tongue swiftness. The slight sound must have alerted the skinny little bastard, for he kept spinning, using the momentum for a retreat to patch of deep gloom in the lee of a roof annex atop Cheery Mardesen’s rotting tenement, the one stuffed with dosses like a gutter-cake crawling with ants. Some rooms in the pile were rented by the hour when the luckier frails or businessmen of the underworld needed a place out of the rain for a meeting or two, though none of the inhabitants would ever guess at the battles fought above their heads.

Be careful, Ave. He’s a quick ’un.

Fast or slow, the intruder had to be dealt with. Avery was half thinking of simply taking a finger or two, then dragging the sorry fellow down to Lucky’s—or Helleny’s livery—for some questioning.

He lunged into the dark, relying on every sense save sight. A faint whisper was the intruder’s blade passing a hairsbreadth from his throat; he struck in the direction his opponent had to be in and was rewarded by his own knife tip touching cloth at full extension, tearing threads with a slight sound.

The knifeman took the only escape possible, bending like a river reed. A kick smashed into Avery’s knee, but he was already moving to rob the blow of force, turning and lashing out with his left hand, a lick of fire across his knuckles for his trouble as the intruder struck again. The slash had no real force, being merely meant to gain some time for the bastard slipped past the Rook again, a harsh exhalation of effort the only sound and a faint breath of something strangely fragrant reaching Avery’s nose through a cold metallic tinge of coalsmoke freighting steadily increasing drizzle.

Oh, no you don’t, he thought, and flung himself after the irritating will-o’-the-wisp. Diabolically quick, the intruder flew across Prosser’s Edge, a leap far too wide for the untrained; Avery followed, a high trilling whistle bursting from his lips. If he could get some of the boys up from near Huq’s End—

But it was not to be. The intruder took a hard right, the faint gleam of a knife disappearing—why put it away at this stage of the dance, Avery wondered, and suppressed the urge to curse aloud—as he cut upslope. He wasn’t attempting to flee the Acre, he was working deeper into its environs, and that was troubling as well.

All-clears rose from every corner, one of the whistles with Herrin’s peculiar trill upon its end. The Rooks were coming together like a pack of hounds sensing scraps, and if this was a mere diversion, the real attack would hit any moment.

A tile turned under Avery’s left foot, throwing off his stride for a crucial half-moment; the intruder leapt again as if granted Hermes Graeca’s wingèd sandals and landed upon the rotting gallery roof of Sancta Britannia’s Chapel. It stood cold and deserted except during the summer solstice, and there was some arcane, hoary legal issue which kept the small, abandoned temple from being plowed under and remade.

Even in the Acre some things were allowed to rest, going quietly to seed. Then again, unless one was absolutely certain a divinity had no further use for a holy place, ’twas often best to leave it be.

A small groaning crack was the only warning before the intruder vanished, and Avery’s own leap to the gallery roof was considerably more cautious. Yes, there was a hole; the skinny lad had fallen straight through.

His hunting-blood was up; Avery pulled his arms and legs close, plunging into the gap and hoping he wasn’t about to be punished for his own arrogance. A Hellion’s luck was with him, though—he did not break arm, leg, or his own foolish head as he fell past clutching roof timbers, and he landed with a little more force than he liked in a creaking, sighing, rotting wooden choir loft.

Fast light breathing, a glimmer of eyes in the dark. No rich copper tang of blood, though Avery’s left hand smarted and stung. Do I have you cornered yet? Tell me I do, and I might even offer you a place in the Rooks. I could use a light step like this.

He straightened slowly, aware that a faint glow from outside was filtering through the broken roof, glinting off floating drizzle to outline him. If this fellow had a pistol or something similar the Rook presented a fine target, and Avery’s focus narrowed. If he had to dodge a missile. . . .

They regarded each other for a few moments, Avery’s eyes half-lidded and his ears straining for the slightest whisper of motion. Combat had a rhythm all its own; an opponent who wouldn’t cooperate destroyed the pattern, like dancing with an unwilling frail in a gin palace.

Come on, you bastard. I don’t have all night. But forcing the issue would gain him nothing. Avery held very still, ready to twitch away from a bullet, a bolt, a flung blade. Make up your mind. I’d love to hear who sent you, my friend.

And what they paid for your services.

The intruder’s breathing settled far more quickly than it should have. Definitely trained—was this a Priory footsoldier, or perhaps another Hellion? No way to tell just yet; prickles of readiness ran over Avery’s skin. Whistles dropped through the hole in the ceiling—they were looking for him, his boys.

He inhaled sharply, either to speak or to dodge, but did not have the chance to do either. Another sharp sound was the rot groaning underfoot, a slight shifting, and though he lunged into the pool of shadow, Avery’s fingers closed upon exactly nothing. He had to throw himself aside, hoping for solid footing elsewhere as more flooring broke, wood falling to spatter on stone temple-blocks far below. An ancient, moldering shutter was wrenched aside, his quarry’s shadow showing slim and graceful for a bare moment against faint dusk fading into a dull, wet night, and all chance of catching the fellow was gone.

Which left Avery Black clinging to a splintering roofbeam, nothing but empty space under his night-running boots, and the slice across his left knuckles stinging afresh as he took a firmer grip, glancing around to gather his options.

There weren’t many.

This is going to require some thought. His breathing quieted, and he ignored the burning in his shoulders. He could hang for a long while; any Hellion could, even with an irate teacher birch-warming him the entire time.

He jackknifed up, his right leg worming over the top of the spar. Monkey-climbing like a Jack Tar aboard one of Her Majesty’s gunships could have been enjoyable, if he wasn’t occupied with hoping the entire roof wouldn’t cave and bury him in a forgotten chapel. It would be an ignominious end, especially for one who had sworn vengeance upon mortal enemies no matter which god protected them.

Closer to the wall, the shattered floor was more stable. He worked his way along by instinct, thinking furiously. The night was alive with Rooks sharing information and patrolling the rooftops, but none of the whistles were the high trills of prey sighted or attackers found.

And the wrapped-up fellow, assassin or spy, was running into the Acre. The night had given Avery quite a puzzle, and he didn’t like the thought that his true prey might have sent a treacherous slip of a lad to find out if the Rook was more than just a petty annoyance.

It was a singularly indelicate time for such a discovery. Avery swore once, looking at the shutter the intruder had escaped through. The damn hole was barely big enough for a piglet to squirm past, though the skinny shadow had evinced no trouble.

A perplexing evening, indeed.

Pleasures

UPON THE SECOND floor of a very fashionable—though somewhat horizontally squeezed—Maifaire mansion bearing the fusty patina of breeding no parvenu could hope to afford or display, Felix Larridby glanced at the mirror while his man Sevring finished settling a very fine jacket upon lordly shoulders. In the depths of the house, an oaken longcase clock chimed the quarter-hour, but very softly indeed.

He would arrive fashionably late, of course, but that was never a reason to be slovenly. A fine silk-figured waistcoat was among life’s little pleasures, especially when one had a good Gallic tailor—for day wear, an Albion cut the cloth, but evenings belonged to refinement. Felix relaxed slightly, tipping his chin up as Sevring’s quick, leathery fingers tucked a bit here, tweaked a bit there, and generally arranged all to his master’s comfort.

Normally the valet—for Sevring performed such a creature’s duties to perfection, despite his true avocation lying in another direction entirely—would be murmuring the day’s news and whatever messages had arrived from certain quarters as he dressed Lord Rexton for dinner, but on opera nights Felix disliked chatter, saving his ears for the performance though very few deserved the attention he brought to bear.

In any case, this afternoon’s news was so unpleasant he wished for quiet to contemplate it, and mournful-faced Sevring—having held his position for a good decade—knew that as well. A profound hush spread through 3 Brook’s Altar, an ancient address indeed. The Duke of Westminist held no leases in the small court every narrow but exceedingly comfortable house sharing its exalted age opened their front doors upon, so very little had been ‘updated by Nashe,’ at least not externally.

It would have been, in Maifaire cant, a Very Bad Show to do so.

The internals of each house, however, had undergone some work in the direction of comfort and modern luxury. Most renovations were handled by night in order to save neighbours the ugly sight and sound of workmen during fashionable hours; the prevailing joke was that a Maifaire gent would sleep through everything but the butler’s cough.

Said butler was no doubt finding duties in another corner of the house. Felix’s dark brows were pulled together, and the mouth under his fine moustache was a thin line. His staff knew when to walk in crêpe soles, as the saying went; confirmed bachelors, especially with a title and a certain amount per annum, often required such measures. Any group of domestics learned their master’s moods swiftly and in self-defence; Rexton’s were paid generously for their discretion and sensitivity.

Even the charwoman.

Some of his peers might think him needlessly progressive. As far as Felix could see, the concept of treating your dependents reasonably well while making judicious examples of stringent severity when that charity was misused had an honourable pedigree stretching well into the mists of imperial antiquity, and history had proven its efficacy.

Of course, it never did to be too lenient.

“Simply walked in,” Lord Rexton murmured, his patrician nose wrinkling. Sevring glanced at him but did not halt the finishing touches. Next came the brush for the jacket’s shoulders, then the final inspection. “I thought the whole point of running a stable of back-alley cutthroats was so they could stab you instead of a stranger from the street.”

A pity, his tone implied, the poor fellow had it all wrong.

Sevring finished the brushing and moved aside. Even though clean-shaven, his face was normally difficult to read; then again, he had been uninvolved in this entire affair and could well afford some extra equanimity.

The man who had recommended McNeiss, however, was now a suspicious character.

He had been promised competence, Felix mused, and been disappointed once again. He took the two habitual steps to approach the oval mirror with its cherubic carved figure at the top and proceeded to inspect his reflection. Everything of requisite quality and nothing ostentatious; he could have been a banker except for the signature knot of his cravat, and his shoes were not the sort a shipping magnate would wear. Upon such subtle distinctions entire worlds rested, though the opera boxes would be full of similarly dressed men and tomorrow at his club he would be indistinguishable from the other members, even eccentrics only daring to deviate from the standard in certain acceptable ways.

It gave him a pleasant internal glow each time he thought of where, amid that sea of apparent sameness, true power rested.

“Two shipments,” Sevring said quietly. A proper valet had an uncanny understanding of the man he served; a bodyguard’s comprehension could not be far behind. “No doubt they can be made good with little trouble.”

“Well, yes, but most of the gleanings are winter-savaged.” Felix turned sideways, and was pleasantly surprised. Every crease in its the proper place; the new linens-maid was so far proving satisfactory in all ways and shifting to the less-fashionable but more dependable laundress at Chiltyre Street would not quite scandalise the neighbours, since at least two of them had already done so as well. “The parishes should sell them in lots like they used to, and let us bid. But of course the public would deplore that.”

“Might cause a bit of a fuss, sir.” As usual, Sevring’s tone could be doleful or ironic; how the man managed to balance so upon so honed an edge with every utterance was beyond his master.

It might be a trick worth knowing, but only for a servant.

“Yet they don’t give a fig for hundreds of them starving upon street corners. It’s quite baffling.” Another military-sharp turn, though Felix had not chosen the martial arts to make his mark. A commission might have been pleasant unless he was sent to the trade colonies, and he preferred to be closer to the fulcrum. Of course all served Empress and Empire as needed, but Lord Rexton would be wasted upon silly savages who didn’t see the benefits of pax Romana even as they clutched at its luxuries with filthy grubbing paws. “What are they planning in order to make good the requirements?”

“Daylight raid, sir.”

Ah. Rexton now knew why his valet had bothered to speak despite the danger of receiving a curt reprimand. “Risky.” And a step which required his approval. “We can’t use that other fellow near the Thrash?” It was vanishingly unlikely, but always best to check.

“He remains recalcitrant.”

It was a bother indeed. Those were prime hunting grounds, well within his personal sphere of city influence and prerogative due a member of the Priory’s ruling Seven, and there was even an ex-member settled in a temple there as an object lesson upon the dangers of going against the established order.

That the deeper sting of Nossorton’s banishment was hidden did not, Felix hoped, make it any less painful. To go from the helm of Third Empire itself to a dingy priest’s cell, mouthing prayers made blasphemy by virtue of your Priory oaths—it was a shame Alec hadn’t done the decent thing by now and shot himself.

It must also irk the man to be settled so well within Felix’s holdings, too. “Offer a bounty per head all through my territory, then. They’ll naturally gravitate toward our recalcitrant friend’s locale, and just as naturally go armed. Solving two problems at once.”

Sevring nodded thoughtfully, which meant he did not disagree with the plan; he held up the caped coat chosen for tonight’s chill, with some small surprises sewn into the lining. Hat, gloves, and stick would be downstairs upon the customary rosewood occasional-table. If there was any other quiet business to be handled, now would be the time.

“Tomorrow’s the grand meeting, sir. You asked me to remind you.”

“So I did.” No use in getting irritated, especially as the coat did not spoil his silhouette one whit. “I shall expect breakfast early and dine at the club, then; have my bags sent over.” It was a relief to know he would not have to repeat the directions in the morning as some men complained of; in this house, everyone was well-trained. “Well, I am off. Tonight it is Mentevardi, so someone will be scandalised.”

His valet’s faint grimace was a cheerful habit, just as the rest of this ritual. “Bunch of caterwauling, sir.”

“You have no culture, Sevring.”

“You’re very right.” The valet, his oiled hair gleaming, bobbed a bow as Felix passed. “Milk or brandy tonight, sir?”

In other words, did he expect to return accompanied? “Milk, my good man. It is, sadly, not a night for pleasure.” As soon as he left the dressing room he heard the faint tinkle of the bell, warning Mr Chilsbonning that his master was on the move and required the traditional presentation of hat and gloves. Though somewhat liverspotted, Chils was a funny old fellow, and one Felix quite liked.

Besides, the butler knew how to forget anything injudicious, and that was a capacity worth its weight in solid sterling.

Lord Rexton donned his gloves, accepted his hat and stick, and stepped into New Rome’s nightly fog-drizzle. The coach was waiting, as always, and a matched coal-black pair was trotting to the opera at precisely the most civilized moment. It took a great deal of care, foresight, and effort to accomplish all things in their proper time.

A life of leisure was hectic enough, but add any vestige of actual power and it became well-nigh unmanageable.

He did some of his best thinking in the carriage, and spent the ride considering the recalcitrant fellow in Hell’s Acre. It might do some good to set a trap. But a simple one, just to see if the man—who apparently frightened many of his contemporaries enough for them to remain remarkably closemouthed about his person and habits—had any real brains. It would be a shame to waste anything more complex at the moment with the disturbing rumors swirling about certain financial affairs, and it might save Felix the trouble and expense of making an example.

When younger, he might have wanted to strike anyway, and as flamboyantly as possible. But age brought maturity, did it not? He had put away childish things.

At least, most of them. As for his one great indiscretion, at least it had been conventional. A decent interval of quietly faked repentance had been necessary to satisfy respectable opinion—the loss of the toy, he admitted, grieved him far more. With time the sharp emotion had faded, but at certain moments a pang went through him when he realised, yet again, that Alice was dead.

The sudden, razor-piercing sensation did not bode well for an enjoyable evening, but it simply would not do to turn about and go home. So Lord Rexton settled against his seat, his hazel eyes—many women of what used to be called the ton and was now named Society agreed they were quite fine—slightly unfocused, and thought about how to catch a particular petty thug.

By the time his carriage joined the line of other fashionably late arrivals, he had more than a glimmer of an idea.

An Afternoon Call

THE PRIME afternoon amusement most weekdays at Imanuel was called sport hour, but in reality was somewhat less than a proper hour. The dervish of fists, feet, mops of hair long since freed from the morning’s slick-scrubbing, and pent-up youthful exuberance crammed into Imanuel’s dreary walled bailey called ‘the play yard’ looked more like a scrimmage than anything organised, as well as a danger to life and even Path-trained limb. There were a few mended hoops, some arthritic balls to be kicked, and a great many sticks and loose cobbles—yet, of such things were made complex games adults could not possibly hope to comprehend.

Fortunately, her particular group of young miscreants were about to spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the next day performing honest and not terribly onerous labour in Taurrock Abbey—or so the boys told her, excitedly—preparing the temple gardens for spring and cleaning various cellars. Since the Abbey would also feed them, she thought it quite likely they were looking forward to fare containing a little less cabbage, and wished them both luck and full stomachs.

“Afternoon, mum.” Josef the doorman, his drooping left eye giving him a rather disagreeable cast, did not wink at her; the side of his face merely twitched at times with palsy. Director Breakbridge had been most anxious to make this clear. “I’ve a cab waiting, as requested.”

“Good afternoon, Josef, and thank you.” Gemma summoned Aunt Hay’s most beneficent smile, reserved for those betrayed by Fate who nevertheless did quite well bearing up under the burden. “I shan’t see you until tomorrow.”

“Oh, aye, sir told me so.” Josef did not tug at his forelock, but he did hunch his hard narrow shoulders and glance nervously at the cobbled expanse before the orphanage, thronged with pedestrians and rattling conveyances as well as a lone waiting hansom, its driver half-somnolent and wrapped in a vast, long knitted muffler. “Mind you be careful, mum. New Rome’s a busy place.”

How chivalrous. Gemma could not hide a smile. “I have promised to send Mr Breakbridge a sliverpence-post if I am hauled before a magistrate or press-ganged.” It was the sort of thing she would have said to Sampson, not to a virtual stranger; poor Josef gaped, and she felt a distinct pinch behind her breastbone. “Not that I expect either, my good fellow. I shall take every care, and return safe and sound come morning.”

After all, she would not be slipping out of her garret window tonight, playing a set of entirely different games with rooftop dancers she had not yet discerned the provenance of. It was fine training even if she was bruised and shaken as a matter of course, more than once returning to her window in the deepest part of night with ears straining and every fine hair quivering, hoping she had not been run to her hole like a hunted rabbit.

The amount of sleep she was losing, even accompanied by the Path’s deeper arts to call upon the body’s inner wisdom for healing and endurance, could not be sustained. Which meant Gemma must either cease her midnight rambles or embark upon the next stage of her plan a little more swiftly, and today’s expedition pertained to the latter.

“See that you do,” Josef said, mock-darkly; and his drooping eyelid twitched furiously with amusement. “Sir will be mun distracted if he has to engage another teacher for that room.”

“Quite.” Gemma was surprised into a laugh, one she attempted to trap behind gloved fingertips. “Good day, Josef.”

He mumbled a farewell, scarlet rising to his leathery cheeks behind salt-and-pepper muttonchops, and Gemma sailed away; the hansom’s driver hurried to open the door. A dark-haired man in a red waistcoat and well-brushed but ill-fitting hat detached from the flow of traffic and climbed the Imanuel stairs with the air of a frequent visitor; he gave Gemma a single curious glance from under said hat’s mannerly tip as he passed.

Her hand was up, ostensibly to adjust her own headgear’s brim but more particularly to shield her profile. It was a maneuver performed almost without thought, avoiding any importunate fellow’s gaze, and she barely marked the fellow’s boots—brushed as his hat, but considerably better fitting.

Her thoughts were quite naturally occupied with her afternoon call, and in any case, a genteel schoolmistress would have no traffic with any male stranger if she could help it.

THE WEST END of New Rome was far more to Gemma’s liking than the Acre. The crowd was not nearly so bad, the houses and estates quite beautiful, and only the persistent grey lowering of a drizzling Janus-month day spoiled the effect. Even the faint rain smelled evil, mixed with coalsmoke; she longed for St Courcy’s brilliant sky and luxuriant gardens.

This might be the heart and brain-centre of Empire, but it was also depressing, colourless, filthy, and held odours best left undescribed. She was also achingly aware her dress was dowdy in the extreme, even if she had taken great care with her toilette and was utterly Respectable to the last sliver-inch.

She had even taken the trouble to engage a hansom—Gemma Dove, while poor enough to walk to Imanuel daily, would also know it did not do to be too parsimonious when moving about town. Whereas Beth-Anne Guilfoile, albeit under a different name, was called upon to make an eccentric but still reasonably decent impression upon a woman she had never seen in person save once, when she was barely three years old in St Courcy.

This particular house, in the style of the Graeca Revival, was possessed of a pillared portico and cobalt-painted front doors with a heavy iron knocker; the steps were freshly washed and its chimneys busy with coalsmoke. All in all, it was the picture of a grand town residence, though Aunt Hay would have found the neighbours situated a trifle too closely.

Then she would laugh and say St Courcy had spoiled her, for what could compare with its rose-blooming seclusion, its refined ease and elegance? Even provincial Gaul held itself far more tasteful than any other spot upon the globe, and Hay had agreed as only a transplanted Ænglish gentlewoman could.

Gemma’s heart hurt, a swift squeezing pang, but she paid the driver and added a small gratuity since he had taken a very direct route and furthermore not rattled her half to death. Her boots made small authoritative sounds upon the steps, and she performed her usual mental trick before a social call, closing nervousness away in an invisible box and settling her expression agreeably.

After enduring days in a chill and paradoxically stuffy room packed brimful of schoolboys, she was looking forward to some actual conversation.

The graying, ramrod-stiff butler, though looking rather askance at her demure garb, nevertheless also took in the quality of the cloth and its needlework, not to mention the heaviness of the folded note handed over with her visiting card. The name upon the card was irrelevant, being only a signal agreed upon in their letters, but its stock was of the requisite quality and its engraving very fine indeed; the note bore a completely conventional compliment which was yet another signal in case the first miscarried, though the butler would not know it.

Gemma’s pelisse was consequently taken and she was shown into a small parlour upon the first floor instead of cooling her heels in the hall like a tradesman or supplicant.

It was a pleasant room, gaslamps adding strength to weak wintry daylight through broad, fine windows—she would not have to wrench those open to go gallivanting at night, they were in quite impeccable repair—and she took her time examining a painting of a rather florid-faced gentleman in colonial hunting garb upon one wall, his uniform spotless and the leopard he had supposedly just shot reclining rather shamefacedly under a shining boot. Other touches of the Indus were scattered about, from peacock fans to ivory curios and a rather startling curved dagger in a filigree sheath, the one item she longed to draw from its glass case in order to examine more closely. A small fire burned in the grate, keeping the damp at bay.

A rustle, a bustle, and a cloud of rosewater heralded the advent of her hostess. “Little Be—” She caught herself with admirable grace, continuing without a hitch. “Ah, Gemma, is that you? I would have sent the carriage, my dear. When did you arrive in old Albion?”

Antoinette de Langlois, Lady Cassel—née Fairhaven, if one wished to be exceedingly precise—was a handsome woman indeed, fine-figured in a turquoise afternoon dress with a very small bustle. A bracelet of imported Qin nephrite clasped one well-turned wrist, and her dark ringlets showed no touch of age though her smile was deployed often and readily, carving small lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

She was, in short, exactly as Aunt Hay had described, and she did not stand upon ceremony, instead sweeping Gemma into a very definite embrace.

“Hello, madame. It is quite enjoyable to see you at last.” Gemma aimed for a light, polite, affectionate tone; the perfume, softness, and press of skirts against her own raised a lump in her throat. “I have only just reached the white shores a few days ago; I hurried to visit as soon as possible. Are you well?”

“Let us dispense with formalities; I am Antoinette and you are Gemma. It will take some time getting used to the latter, chérie, but I shall do my best.” She held her visitor at arm’s length, examining her critically from toe to top, and her large dark eyes held no judgment or irritation, merely relief and welcome. “We shall have tea in the solarium. I regret I never had a chance to show dear old Hay the greenery.”

“You’re very kind.” It was all Gemma could say. “She would have adored your house.”

“Oh, you fetching little liar.” Lady Cassel’s laugh was a bright silver bell. “She would have found New Rome desperately grey and cheerless, and invited me to Gaul Narbonensis as soon as possible to show me a proper garden or two. Was it . . . ?” She halted near the door, sobering quick as the blur of a hummingbird’s wings. “Oh, forgive me, I was about to ask if was very bad, but—”

“She sank quickly. It was exceedingly quiet.” Except for the coughing. Gemma’s shoulders ached, and no few of the rapidly shrinking bruises from the night’s games gave a twinge. “And I am quite a bad niece, not to mention an ill guest, bringing you trouble and skulduggery.”

“Nonsense.” A peremptory motion put paid to any well-bred guilt, and Lady Cassel offered her arm. “I shall aid you in whatever way possible, if not for dear Henrietta’s sake then for your mother’s. And you needn’t worry; so far as the servants know you are merely a poor but respectable relation seeking some manner of aid. Victor would not even notice me taking on a regiment of dependents enough to scold me. Marriage, my dear, means one will be quite ignored, but only if one is very lucky.”

Lady Cassel’s husband was an unknown quantity despite his evident wealth, but Hay had hinted her friend and confidential correspondent knew very well how to keep a secret or two. She helped when I needed it, Gemma’s aunt had often said, touching the day’s cameo brooch at her throat. Should you ever find yourself in New Rome and dire circumstances, she will do all she can. Though I hope you never go there, Beth. ’Tis a drear place indeed.

“Aunt Hay mentioned as much a few times. I confess I have no plans in that direction just yet; a comfortable independence is a wonderful thing.” She was perilously close to spinsterhood, Gemma knew; she took her hostess’s arm. “All the same, I shall trouble you as little as possible.”

“That will not do; I must be of some use and I insist you allow as much. After all, I did not cross the Channel to visit but once, and now I regret not attempting more.” Lady Cassel drew her visitor along, a warship with a small yacht in tow, and her soft chin had a very decided tilt. “I do rather wonder what Hay would think of this; it is not a pretty tale, what . . . what happened.” Of course a married matron would shrink at alluding to such a thing before a gently reared maiden, but every letter sent to Hay for nigh upon fourteen years had also arrived with an accompanying missive for Gemma, and they had ranged over quite a few shocking topics since she had come of age. The afternoon’s work would be listening not only to what her hostess said of the Greywood affair but also to what she did not, as well as soaking up everything which could be gleaned of Society tittle-tattle, especially concerning a certain gentleman.

“The world is full of unpretty tales,” Gemma murmured. “Aunt Hay and I both read sliverpence-dreadfuls, though of course never where anyone could catch us.”

“Dear old Hay had her own ideas. You’ve turned out quite well, chérie, but we must find you a dress or two.”

“Not while I am en mufti, my dear almost-aunt. It would quite ruin the effect.” The thought of teaching Imanuel boys while wearing a proper tea gown wrung a laugh from Gemma’s throat, and for a few precious moments the weight of what she was attempting slid from her shoulders.

It promised to be an enjoyable visit.

A Manner or Two

THE MORNING’S visit to Imanuel had gleaned a cup of the best tea Breakbridge could offer but merely a glimpse of the new teacher in her sober grey, gliding down the steps for a hansom Josef had no doubt whistled into being for her—and the news that Avery’s patience had been rewarded.

The livery upon the borders of the Acre making twice-weekly deliveries to one of Rexton’s very profitable concerns had, with McNeiss’s death, been interrupted. He could expect a response soon, just as a short strike to your opponent’s face would provoke a fortuitous mistake.

“Eh, boss. Not yourself today.” Herrin’s grin, rising behind his well-wrapped hands, was only faintly marred by the blood griming his teeth. A cut lip wouldn’t slow a Rook down, but it did anger a few among them; Avery took a half-step sideways, keeping himself out of range as they circled.

The basement of Lucky’s held a proper boxing circle as well as a few smaller rings, and on most evenings a man could bet on local celebrities and challengers. During daylight, though, the clientele was more select—and it was a good way to test newcomers as well as keep his boys sharp.

“I’m never quite meself, Herrin. No profit in it, and no fun either.” Avery kept his pace even, cool puffs of cellar air touching sweat-slick skin. Moving helped a man think, and he had plenty to consider. “Why, on a given day, might even be you.”

“Not sure you’d like it.” Herrin moved in with fast light strikes, gauging Avery’s readiness; Ave slapped each aside almost reflexively. A few of the assembled Rooks were commenting upon technique and form while smoking cheroot or pipe; others did the same between pulls of bitter or mouthfuls of meat pasty. Kane was in a smaller circle putting an applicant through his initial paces—many a man thought the giant was the greatest danger their association possessed.

In any case, Kane liked the exercise.

“Bother and blast it.” Avery tested Herrin’s vigilance with a short snapping kick, one his second avoided only at the very last moment. “He’s not here.”

“Our midnight guest better show soon.” Herrin didn’t need to be led by the nose most days, which was why he was second-in-command. He’d never make a Hellion—like Ned Popper, he didn’t truly hate enough. Unlike Popper, he disliked killing, yet he didn’t delay overmuch when it was necessary.

Growing up in the Acre, hesitation meant losing your own, whether life or property.

“Beginning to think that’s not in his plan.” Avery decided they’d had enough talking and moved in, fending off heavy jabs and flickering footwork. He landed a half-strength shot in Herrin’s gut and retreated, waiting until the second caught his breath.

Herrin wheezed a bit, finally straightening and eyeing Avery balefully. “Why grab for cards if ye don’t want a seat at table, then?” The thought plainly unnerved him, almost as much as it bothered his boss.

The skinny bastard came out to play almost every night, appearing and disappearing like coalsmoke in a heavy wind. A witch at Imanuel, a ghost on the rooftops, childcatchers sniffing around the edges and more than one stranger attempting to suss out the Rooks—the Acre was passing crowded with conundrums lately, and Ave didn’t like it. The girl in grey and the rambler were both potential spies, whether Priory or otherwise; taken together, they had to be in collusion. Or maybe not; the girleen did nothing but walk to school every morning and retreat to the Widow Rudrill’s every night.

She had to be hiding, which made her not entirely unwelcome. Half the Rooks were wanted by Mr Peele’s blues or a magistrate’s pleasure in one capacity or another, and the other half simply hadn’t been caught under the name they were now wearing—not to mention that most of them were probably under some manner of ban elsewhere in Albion. Where else did you take shelter but in teeming sinks where people largely minded their own business?

Still, the woman was a mystery, and so were the nightly incursions. Of the two, the latter worried the Rook more, though perhaps the lady in grey could be turned to catch gulls for his folk.

Double-wear coats needed careful watch and washing, though.

Maybe the Marauders had possessed a fellow with some sense, and he was attempting mischief to repay Avery’s recent attentions. “P’raps a Marauder? Though Billy Stacke’s gon’ take the piece he can o’ their plot.” The Acre’s cant had almost worn grooves in his tongue, he was using it so often nowadays. Sometimes he even caught himself thinking in it.

“At least McNeiss is safe in Heaven, or t’other.” Herrin spat lightly to the side; his opinion on the late, unlamented lord of a neighbouring group had never been lukewarm. “Looks like one or two of his’n want to walk our fence.” His gaze flicked over Avery’s shoulder.

The Rook took the bait, half-turning and glancing. He caught a glimpse of a dark eyes, a tan coat, and quick lithe movement before Herrin attacked.

It was child’s play to catch his lieutenant’s wrist, twisting and yanking Herrin past him. In a trice he had the man’s arm locked and a nudge behind the knees to put him on the sawdust, but Ave didn’t give the wrench that would dislocate the ball-joint or the quick sideways jerk fit to snap a bone. “Sneaky, sneaky,” he said, softly, the words brushing Herrin’s oil-shining dark hair. “Well done.” He let go with a shove; Herrin gained his feet with a lunge and went to work in earnest.

The man had a temper. For all that, he kept a tight leash on the Rooks when Avery had business elsewhere, and he thought far enough ahead he could direct Popper, keep Wurth and Flanders corralled, and did not give Kane any lee to get into good-natured mischief. He was the best choice for a second, even if regrettably easy to provoke.

If only the Rook could find a single person containing Popper’s efficiency, Kane’s good humor, and the foresight Herrin possessed, he’d have the perfect second. Of course, such a paragon might well take his association away from him.

Eventually that would be a relief, but not yet.

Avery gave a bit of ground, dodging or pushing aside Herrin’s strikes as their boots dug in scattered sawdust, and didn’t miss the ugly plummy flush rising on the other man’s face.

Once the lad got to this point, it was best to let the pot boil until it was dry. Around and about the ring Avery led him, mostly just out of reach but taking enough strikes that Herrin could feel better once he came out of red rage. One or two of the blows even stung, but that was the price of commanding a half-sober collection of miscreants, thieves, and outright killers.

A Hellion worked with what was available, and blackened himself so much as necessary in the process.

Dodgy as his boys might be, Ave thought, sidestepping and shoving aside a strike meant to reduce his face to paste, taking it glancingly on the shoulder and knowing the resultant bruise would ache until he had a chance to sit and breathe, they had a certain rough charm. And what they did to survive was far cleaner than what Rexton did for pleasure.

If you could call it that. A few of the fancy houses in New Rome whispered about that particular lordling’s tastes, and what they said wasn’t half as interesting as what they wouldn’t, though both were wholly repugnant.

Finally, sweat-drenched and battered, Herrin paused, his hands up in classic guard and his ribs heaving. “Curse you,” he said, cheerfully enough. The wrapping on his paws was stained with sweat old and new, plus a bright tinge of crimson. “Not even winded.”

“Now, that ent true.” Ave gave him a bright-penny smile; baring your teeth didn’t have to mean amusement, but in this case, it was close enough. “I just hides it better, me boyo.”

“A strolling player you are, milord.” Herrin caught a rag thrown from the ring’s side and mopped his face; Ned Popper was watching the festivities, either waiting for his own turn or with a bit of news to give.

Avery took a moment to breathe, stretching his arms, muscles twinging and joints aching. A good meal and a pint would do wonders, but even better would be settling in a quiet corner for a nap, his boots on a chair and a hat pulled down over his eyes while he breathed deeply, triggering the body’s inner wisdom to heal and renew.

The tan coat came into sight again, working through assembled Rooks, seemingly oblivious to their sideways glances and elbowing. The gauntlet was a time-honoured tradition, and it started when a lad presented himself at Lucky’s during exercise hour.

It was indeed quick-knifing Veece, lately of McNeiss’s Marauders. He caught Avery’s eye and halted, turning to rest his elbows on the raw-lumber demarcation between fighting space and spectator’s jostling area, and if he looked sour it was probably because his face still bore the marks of Ave’s visit to a certain drinking hole under a painted pirate.

He would have been noticed the moment he crossed into the Acre, thoroughly searched in Lucky’s above, and probably given a good-natured clout or two on the way down the stairs. For all that, he looked remarkably unruffled, and if he meant to assassinate the man who had done for his leader, he’d either have to hide his weapon like a Hellion or attempt the murder with his bare hands.

Both would make him even more interesting.

“Funny egg,” rangy, curly-haired Ned Popper said by way of greeting when Ave ambled into range. He had another rag, tossed smartly at his boss, and his expression was half amused, half sour. “Just comes walking in, says he wants to talk to the Rook Himself. Carryin’ naught but a pair o’ sharps and his own native wit.”

“Bit of brass, that fellow has.” Avery scrubbed at his face; Herrin rubbed down his own bare arms and dark-furred chest, studying the new arrival. It did show a certain amount of bravery, bringing only two knives into enemy territory.

It was the kind of thing the Rook Himself might do.

“Man who switches once’ll switch twice,” Herrin pointed out, albeit in a mutter. It was his duty as second, as well as the truth.

“And rats desert sinking ships,” Popper agreed, amiably. “We want a certain quality o’ rat, though.”

Avery made a short sound of agreement. “Hard for a ship to sink any further than McNeiss’s.” The harsh, torn scrapcloth stung, chafing away sawdust, salt water, and the dirt of living; it was far nicer than a dip in a frozen Dun Eideann horse trough with Morton’s hand at his nape. “Well, Herrin, go see what he wants. And you, Popper, into the ring. Y’almost nicked our rambler last night; a few more rounds and we’ll have ’im bagged.”

“Oh, Jove save me.” But Popper was already slipping out of his jacket. “Very well, milord, since Herrin’s softened you up. P’raps I’ll teach you a manner or two.”

“Keep ’em in the country, they ent needed here.” Herrin nodded to Avery and was gone, heading for the piece of lumber serving as the gate to the ring.

They were good boys, and he would miss them when his duty was done. For now, though, Avery hung the rag on the side of the ring, and Ned, stripping his shirt as well, didn’t bother with the gate. He hopped the side light as a cat, landing braced and ready, and it was almost work to keep ahead of him.

Almost.

IF HELL’S ACRE was a living thing—a great dozing beast, full of juniper-blood gin and dreaming of a warm place to spend a few weary hours—one of its many nerve-centres would be this room on the second floor of a listing wooden building crammed between two others, a faded clover daubed on the sign over the door and a few glowering Rooks standing guard, pacing almost as precisely as the Yeoman Wards before an Empress’s palace. The ferocious glares of those fellows could be attributed to their unwilling sobriety, for any Rook found drunk during this duty was summarily drummed out.

The room was relatively large, its corners indifferently cleaned and a small high window giving a forlorn gleam aided by lamp and cheap smoky candles. Winter’s raw cold didn’t quite penetrate, only a certain coolness like cheese brought from a cellar. It was never comfortable in summer, either, being stifling. A low table along one wall held odds and ends, sometimes of the comestible variety but often of quite another—at the moment, a collection of knives and other weapons lay under mounds of stolen cloth ready for the ragpicker. Four or five rude seats in a rough circle gathered despite the lack of a flame in the grate, and Avery propped a hip upon a shaky stool, bracing himself and breathing deeply, his eyes half-lidded.

One of Veece’s dark eyes was slightly swollen, his lip was still cut, and bruises crawled up the side of his dusky face. His gaze moved over the room, and if he was offended at its lack of comfort he was at least polite enough not to show as much. Herrin settled against the closed door, his arms folded over his chest, and copied his leader’s seeming almost-somnolence.

Tiny sounds crept stealthily through the walls, little crackles and squeaks. Downstairs, Lucky’s was shoulder-to-shoulder, humming with ale and no few drops of gin sliding down midday throats. On either side, tenanted rooms crowded cheek by jowl, dosses full of snoring or small running feet, drunks or the injured taking what rest they could, women sewing to repair or bring in a few pence, frails tucking their heads under shawls and dozing to ready themselves for dusk. In a courtyard behind the public house singing rose in fits and starts, the communal pump giving gouts of brackish water to wet cloth scrubbed across washboards.

There might also have been a few mice creeping about, but they were citizens of the Acre like anyone else, and made what shift they could. In lean years their numbers plunged precipitously, but even in good ones the meat pies might bear a whisker or two.

Avery waited. Veece’s lean capable hands dangled, callused fingertips bearing a light coat of grime. For all that, he had taken the time to wrap a cloth around his neck and brush his coat. His boots were scraped clean, too; his wooly hair was neatly parted and cropped middling-close.

Finally, the newcomer spoke. “So’m I in or not, Rook? I’m no lord with daylight to waste.”

Ave took his time, letting his gaze wander from the fellow’s toes to his crown. “Nor am I,” he said, finally. “But I’ve some wonderings, Mr Veece.”

“Give ’em air, then.” The knife-fighter was quick with the words as he was with his blades, his voice surprisingly resonant despite his leanness. If he had a sense of rhythm to match he’d make a fine singer.

Ave barely noticed the slight effort of suppressing a smile. Bullyboys had touchy tempers, and Veece had been prodded all morning as well as run ’round the ring.

He’d made short work of Kane, and gone three rounds with Popper. Of course Ned won, but it was, the Rook suspected, a very near thing. “Oh, I’m sure you can guess at a few. Billy Stacke might take a dim view of your visit here.”

“Stacke.” Veece’s shrug was a masterpiece of disdain. If his back prickled at being turned to Herrin, it didn’t show. The traces of his Bill Floss’s fine malacca meeting his flesh at high speed were only healing naturally; he hadn’t even taken the first stumbling steps along the Path.

It was a pity. The spark in his velvety dark eyes said he knew how to hate at least a little.

“Well,” Herrin said, softly, “if y’ent here for vengeance, sirrah, what’s yer savvy?”

“’Tis m’own business, that.” Veece didn’t turn, but new tension invaded his shoulders under the tan coat. “I said I wanted to talk t’the Rook, not you.”

“And so you are.” Avery forestalled a pert reply from his second, settling his hip more firmly. He could move in heartbeat if this fellow had mischief planned, but so far he seemed to be after something other than revenge upon the Rook. “But, my fine fellow, I’m curious as to why. Fellow switches sides, it naturally causes a bit of wonder.”

“Does it?” Veece’s cheek twitched. “I’ll put it plain, then.”

“Please do,” Herrin muttered. It was his job to attempt provocation, and he was doing admirably.

The newcomer ignored him. “I wasn’t McNeiss’s man. He was a sot and a jackass, but he had something I wanted. Now he’s gone, and I’m here.”

“Which means the Rook might have something you want.” Avery’s interest sharpened. “What would that be, may I inquire?” The Acre’s cant gave the words a certain rhythm, but he almost bit off their ends. Any bullyboy could give an impression of educated speech; the trick was to add just enough to make it seem an affectation, not the rule.

“McNeiss had a lord.” Veece’s fingers twitched, as if he longed to feel a throat under them. “Did some dirty things for ’im, and was paid well enough.”

“Did he, now.” This wasn’t news—not to Avery. “But this is the Acre, and we’re free gentlemen bowing only to our good Empress.”

“Faith, and I’ve heard that.” A trace of Eire was rubbing through Veece’s words; his right hand twitched and began to curl. “But it occurs to me that lord might take offense to McNeiss’s recent tragical state, Mr Black, and besides, everyone knows you don’t allow his childcatchers nowhere near the Acre. So it says to me, Veece, if you go to the Rooks, sooner or later you’ll get a chance to singe that git’s fingers. I was not McNeiss’s man,” he repeated. “What he had was a way to this rich barstid, and that interested yours truly indeed.”

“You didn’t like a man’s patron?” Avery let his eyebrows lift a little, expressing polite disbelief. “So you joined his association and fought for him?”

“Not for him.” Now Veece glowered, and the change was startling. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and the air of easy cat-supple gracefulness vanished into tense, wary, well-banked fury. “For a chance. If I can sink a knife into that barstid without getting nicked, I’ll do it. But I ent a soft-head, by faith. I’ll wait and I’ll watch for my moment.”

“Not quite an inducement to take you on, man.” Herrin coughed slightly as Avery’s gaze lifted to his.

“Oldgate won’t get me a chance at him,” Veece continued, as if Ave’s second hadn’t spoken. “But a man who can walk in, pull Bill Floss down like a bit o’unclipped washing, and dance out? That’s a man what can help me gets what I wants.”

How very interesting indeed. The thought that this fellow might be one of Rexton’s agents crossed Avery’s mind, until he took a closer look.

Under Veece’s bruises and dusk a hot flush surged, and his dark eyes glittered. All his attention rested upon the Rook, and if Herrin was of a mind to slip a blade into the fellow, now was the time. It wasn’t usual for a man like this to drop his guard, and there was a lesson in the occasion.

Hate was useful, especially to a Hellion. But it could also blind you. “Easy, my good man.” Avery uncoiled to stand fully upright, indicating a pair of chairs set a little closer to each other than the rest. “Come over and have a seat. Herrin, call down for something to wet our throats. Doesn’t do to be impolite.”

“Oh, manners again.” Herrin’s amusement was no less sharp than Veece’s knives, or Avery’s own. “Tea or something stronger?”

“Seems to me this fellow might want a spot o’ ale.” The Rook had decided, in other words—Veece was, provisionally, accepted into the fold. His knives, as well as anything else subtracted from his person below, would be brought hence; he would be watched, and tested, and if he turned his coat again there would be consequences.

Hellion training hadn’t taught Avery Black when to take a man at his shown cloth, and when not to. The lesson had been learned well before, and Morton’s instruction only added a fillip or two; the decision was instant in some cases, taking slightly longer in others. At the moment, Veece’s words had the ring of truth.

It remained to be seen if that would hold.

Herrin opened the door, letting in a rumblemutter of voices and clinking from the pub below. A few swift words were exchanged with whoever was on runner duty outside—probably Finch, recovering from the attentions of a few of Peele’s best two nights ago, when the bluecoats had attempted to squeeze a few frails near Huq’s End for a cut of their nightly earnings.

Ave took a dim view of that, and so did Finch, especially since one of the girls was his sometimes-yes Fanny, with her coppery hair and pansy eyes.

Veece approached the chairs with only token reluctance, clearing his throat slightly, the angry flush fading. “I’m a bad sort,” he said, halting just at the edge of easy striking distance. Clearly he respected Avery’s ability, even if he showed some small disdain for a few of the other Rooks’. “But I ent a childcatcher, nor a fool. If you’ll help me get this rich barstid, Rook, I’ll be your man. See if I won’t.”

“I ent going to war with no toff,” Avery replied. It was only half a lie; the war was everywhere, and he was just engaged in a particular battle. That it held personal stakes was only incidental, or so he’d told Morton.

But he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself, thankfully. Not yet, and hopefully not ever, because once a Hellion did that he was dead even if his heart kept beating.

“But I’ve no love for rich barstids either, Mr Veece Morrison,” he continued, and was pleased to see the other man nod at the elementary precaution, not to mention the compliment, of the Rook Himself knowing a bullyboy’s full name card. “So long as you do your duty, you’ll have a home in the Acre. We might even sting this fellow’s fingers, if you hate him so much.”

“He did for someone I cared for,” Veece said darkly. “And I’ll do for him, too.”

In that, my fine knife-wielding friend, you and I are in accord. If you’re telling the truth. “Sit down.” He sounded weary, Avery realised, though savage anticipation beat just under his heart. “And tell me everything.”

Catchers in the Acre

RETURNING TO THE Widow Rudrill’s after visiting the West End wasn’t quite a shock, but rather a distinct letdown. Gemma’s tiny garret, though now holding a rickety painted screen to keep the bed decently hidden, was bare and dreary compared to Lady Cassel’s Crosse Street house.

A blustery Lunes-day—sacred to several Moon-deities and therefore causing much traffic upon temple steps all over New Rome—dawned grey and dripping; Gemma’s usual route to Imanuel was a sloppy, sodden crush of cursing carters, uneasy horses, and hurrying pedestrians. She stopped near the malodorous publick house with an indifferently daubed clover upon its hanging sign, leather hinges creaking as the wood swung gently under an unpleasantly chilly breeze; the ruddy-cheeked woman with a pushcart full of apples gave her a baleful glare, wrapping a tired plaid shawl more firmly about her meaty shoulders.

“Good morning, Mrs Billingsworth.” There was no reason to be impolite. However, Gemma did not add a smile to the greeting. Such appurtenances seemed wasteful and unwelcome, especially in this particular quarter.

“What’s so good about it, I’d like to know.” The good dame with the striped skirts selected an apple with care, burnishing it with a rag caught in her gnarled left hand for exactly this maneuver. “Can’t even find my dog.”

“That sounds distressing.” Gemma glanced at the street, her nose wrinkling as a passing horse’s dungcatcher slopped a pile of steaming ordure into the street. The wire-haired grey cur always crouching near Billingsworth’s basket of seconds was indeed missing today. “If I see him, I shall do my best to convince him to return home.”

“Good luck.” Mrs Billingsworth snorted, a mixture of worry, unwilling amusement, and disdain flashing over her wrinkled features. But she extended a fine hothouse apple, plumper than the otherwise winter-wizened wares and now polished to a fare-thee-well, its bright blush upon a yellow cheek almost the same as the matron’s. “Yer at Imanuel, then, Miss?”

“Indeed I am.” It was nasty weather for pleasantries, but also the first sign of a thaw in this beldame’s icy manner. So Gemma nodded, her sliverpence ready in gloved fingers. “If my boys do well, I shall perhaps one morning take a whole bag of your apples to them.”

Mrs Billingsworth scowled at the prospect. “Spoil ’em, more like; ye’d do better with a birch, savvy?” Her dark eyes, piercing and quite fine, flickered to either side, looking for custom or simply unable to keep still.

“I shall leave any application of the rod to Director Breakbridge.” Many books on the Education of the Poor said children were largely insensate, like dogs or horses; Gemma thought it likely all three felt some degree of pain when struck. Miss Phelan’s letter had been quite specific about her refusal to even apply a ruler to a boy’s knuckles. Perhaps it was why her memory was beloved among her students—and faintly deplored among the male teachers, who were a sniffish lot indeed. “Thank you kindly, Mrs Billingsworth. Good day.”

“Ent found much good in it.” But the beldam accepted the sliverpence, bending to rummage behind her cart. “Here, take another. Chill wind today.”

The second apple was half-dried leather, but it was offered with what passed for a charitable expression. Gemma slipped it with the hothouse beauty into her reticule, and took her leave.

Had she not paused, she would not have been crossing a narrow, deeply fragrant alley-mouth at the exact time a small pickpocket—hardly older than her students—darted from the stream of traffic, almost blundering into her. It wasn’t an attempt to separate her from any item; they had largely ceased such drollery, realising she was not to be preyed upon in that fashion.

Gemma’s gloved hand flashed down, closing around a small, thin shoulder and righting the little fellow with a quick push. “Mind yourself,” she said, mildly, as if he were an Imanuel boy.

The child gave an eye-rolling glance like a terrified horse’s, whites wide and wild, before plunging past her into the alley. Gemma stared after him, curious and wary lest this was some manner of distraction meant to prepare for another attempt upon her reticule, but the slap of his bare feet—and in this weather, too, she suppressed a wince—merely retreated into the distance, swallowed by the confusion of rolling wheels, hoofbeats, and conversation laced with cheerful morning epithets.

Now, however, she could hear something else. A distant cry, perhaps? It was not usual, though she had not sampled enough of the Acre’s usual cacophony to be certain.

How very odd. She set out again, tiny prickles running over her skin, under clean linen and familiar grey wool.

It did not take long to reach the wide cobbled expanse between Imanuel and the temple. Gemma was about to attempt crossing the usual stream of traffic coming from the quarter known as the Thrash when she spotted something familiar indeed.

It seemed a half-dozen of her students had come to meet her. Young redheaded Master Dawes was, as usual, in the lead—he seemed to be the one much of the class looked to for guidance, along with raven-headed Henry Scupping and gaptooth, wool-haired Samuel Haynesworth—and he brightened when he saw her, waving furiously and calling to his fellows.

Gemma was too far away to caution them, and besides, shouting was quite ill-bred. She lifted a hand, her reticule dangling, and was nonetheless about to hail them when a heavy cart clattered from the Thrash’s mouth, two chestnut horses snorting and eye-rolling as they heaved it along at quite dangerous speed. Upon either side two men clung, their hobnail boots resting upon iron runners, and one of them had held a long shape she recognised, after a fraction of a moment, as a gun much like Sampson’s hunting rifle.

What on earth . . . She halted, her head cocked with puzzlement and her reticule still hanging like the apples it contained. Had any other pickpockets been in the vicinity, they might have been tempted, for Gemma was temporarily too astonished to move.

The cart rattled, horses snorting and a high hard whipcrack echoing sharply. Small shapes peered over its sides, and both men hanging upon its carapace seemed to be fully occupied both keeping their grip and laying about the top of restraining boards with short black truncheons.

“Whoa there, damn you!” the driver howled, and the cart creak-shuddered to a sudden stop, its left front wheel grinding on a loose cobble. A third rather beefy man in an exceedingly ill-brushed bowler, rather like an illustration of an ourang-outang she had seen in a Lutetia Parisii broadsheet, clung to the back as well, and he hopped down with a grunt.

Then he proceeded to seize little blond Gideon Aberfarthing, tossing him into the cart like firewood.

Gemma realised Dawes and John Allen were attempting to push little Juremiah Yoster away, and Dawes, his coppery head dark with morning slickdown and the intensifying drizzle, let out a high piping cry. “Gideon!” he howled, and flung himself at the kidnaper.

For that was what she was seeing, Gemma Dove realised. Why, by Jove the Thunderer and all his progeny, these men should do such a thing to an Imanuel boy quite escaped her at the moment, but Gideon clearly did not wish to be taken, for he attempted to scramble out of the cart and was met with a hail of truncheon blows. The bowler-clad man gave Dawes a clout, too, and Gemma forgot about shouting being ill-bred.

“Stop that!” she shrilled, and her hands flashed down to gather her skirts. She bolted into traffic, whistles and curses rising in her wake, and ran for the cart.

Dawes and John Allen were bundled in, the whip cracked, and the bowler-clad reprobate made a final attempt to catch little Yoster, who evaded him with a shriek of blind terror. The rest of the Imanuel boys gathered him up, running pell-mell in the direction of the school. Shrugging, the man leapt back upon the cart’s backboard, and the horses took off again, their hooves all but striking sparks even in this damp.

Gemma was, alas, too late.

ARRIVING AT Imanuel breathless, clutching a child’s hand with two more young lads nearly clinging to her skirts, and sorely tempted to swear under her breath was not how Gemma had wished to start the day, but there was no help for it.

The front steps were crowded with boys, their excited babble trailing away as she sailed up the stony hill with her boots clicking, Juremiah’s sobs achieving a fevered pitch. “Take him to Cook,” she snapped, breathless and with the disconcerting idea that her hair was disarranged despite her hat, braids, and hairpin, thrusting the child toward the doorman with uncharacteristic force. “The rest of you, inside, by Olympus. Now!”

Her students did not demur, nipping through the doors with alacrity. Loiterers from other classes gaped at this new drama; young Ustermann from Appleton’s room thrust his hands behind his back as if he were holding some manner of schoolboy contraband.

“What in Hades—” Josef’s face twitched madly.

“C-C-C-Catchers,” Juremiah sobbed. Mucus slicked his top lip and tears stained his cheeks; he was rather the worse for wear. “Catchers in the Acre!” His tone reached a pitch of pure terror, and every Imanuel boy bolted for the front door.

Gemma and Josef were borne along, flotsam upon the tide. “Take him to Cook,” Gemma repeated, all but screaming to make herself understood, and aimed for the stairs to the right.

Pelting up, her skirts held high, she reached the top and took a hard turn. Every inch of Path-trained speed called upon, her heart lodged in her throat, she flashed down the hall and arrived in short order at Director Breakbridge’s office; uncaring of etiquette or decorum, she was fully prepared to kick the door in should it be locked.

The good Director was in the process of rising from his desk, no doubt warned by her approaching drum-tap steps. “Why, Miss Dove, whatever is the—”

“Stolen,” she gasped, hanging onto the doorknob as if it were a life-raft. Her knees, having performed quite splendidly so far, were nonetheless a trifle unsteady. “Kidnaped—they came from the Thrash, a cart—they took Dawes and Gideon and John, Director, three men and a driver, truncheons and a gun—”

The portly Director swore with astonishing foulness, nearly bounding across the room and snatching at the peg where his coat and muffler rested. “Which direction did they go?” he barked, and Gemma’s relief at speedy action was married to a deep sinking feeling that, despite her training, she had not done well at all this morning.

“Away from the Thrash, toward the street with the chandler’s upon the corner.” Her ribs heaved, her corset pinching intolerably. “Director, I could not stop them, I was too far away—I am sorry—”

“No time for that.” This Breakbridge was a different man; his eyes blazed and high colour shone above his whiskers. He shrugged into his frock coat. “He’ll be at Lucky’s this morning, unless he’s got business near Huq’s End. You may go much more swiftly than the other teachers; do you know the publick house with the clover upon its sign between here and Rudrill’s? Good.” The director snatched his hat, settling it upon his greying head. “I shall have the other teachers count all our boys and send Cook to the chandler’s. You, my dear, shall go to Lucky’s—that’s the pub with the clover, Miss Dove—and ask for a man named Avery Black. They’ll not trouble a Respectable lass; you will gain audience quickly indeed. When you meet with Mr Black, tell him you are from Imanuel and childcatchers are in the Acre.”

“Childcatchers?” Her knees were decidedly weak now. “But those are merely stories to—” To make children behave, and besides, they had no bottle-green spectacles nor leathery wings.

“They are very real indeed. Now go, young lady, as if your feet have wings. Avery Black, mind you, and if he’s not there return straightaway, no matter what.”

“Yes, I shall.” More words crowded her throat—I am sorry, they were too far away, I should have done something—but the Director pushed past her almost rudely, the door giving a groan as she steadied herself with the knob. “Director, I could not stop them.”

“For every god’s sake,” he cast sharply over his shoulder, “go, Miss Dove. I should not like to lose any of our boys today.”

He sounded very much like Sampson, and the thought applied a salutary sting to Gemma’s nerves. She turned loose of the door, gathered her skirts, whirled upon one heel, and ran.

Now’s the Time

FRESH SAWDUST was a sweet smell, especially scattered inside a fighting ring. Avery shrugged out of his jacket, stretching his neck to either side. His boots were damp and so was his hair; the skinny bastard hadn’t come out to play last night either, but that didn’t mean the Rooks received any rest. “Collections today,” he said, and Herrin was too well-disciplined to groan.

Popper’s lip curled slightly. “Lovely work in this weather.”

“No good waiting for sunshine,” Herrin muttered. He had a new pair of houndstooth trousers, very flash indeed. “Send Kane, they never argue with him.”

Avery was about to observe that Kane’s size might be a deterrent but his genial good nature sometimes made for more trouble in the gathering of payments, but his ears caught a clatter overhead. He halted, turning toward the stairs, and a half-moment later there was a commotion at their shadowed head.

“Oi, easy now,” someone said—it sounded like Peter Schill, who would be out in the rain collecting payments with whichever high-ranking Rook would leave midmorning upon that errand.

“Take your hand off me,” a woman said, calm and crisp, education clipping the end of every syllable, “or I shall break your arm.”

Now isn’t that interesting. Ave barely had time to pull his jacket back up, settling the sleeves with quick hard yanks, before the sharp sound of a blow echoed, followed by a series of thumps as someone fell down the stairs.

Popper was already halfway across the basement, skidding to a stop as Schill fetched to a halt at the bottom of the staircase, arms and legs asprawl. For all that, he looked little worse for the tumble, and sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box. “You bloody bint,” he started, and light footsteps beat a quicktime drum-tattoo against bare wooden steps.

“Avery Black.” The woman gave short shrift to Schill’s disarray. “I am looking for Mr Black, and it is quite urgent.”

An edge of skirt appeared, and Imanuel’s new grey-clad witch reached the foot of the staircase. She hopped over young Peter’s legs like a cat leaping between tables, landing soft as a whisper and coming to a halt as her dark gaze roved, taking in the long dim room, the chest-high wooden barriers, the scattered sawdust, cheerfully mismatched benches in various stages of disrepair, and quite a few Rooks. Every eye in the place fixed upon her.

She was not so tall as Caitlin nor so pleasingly round as Fiona Craytell, but every inch of her was clearly quality. Now, with a flush of running on her cheeks and her dark eyes glowing with something very much like anger, the lady in grey straightened, and her chin lifted.

“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I want Avery Black,” she repeated. “Is he here? It is quite pressing.”

There were any number of things he could have said. So you want the Rook, girleen? caught in Ave’s throat, right next to, Present and willing, my lady, and would you care to dance? Both died where they stood when her gaze found his, a spark like Mr Edyson’s wondrous electricity passing down the entirety of his spine.

“And what do you want him for, then?” Herrin took two steps forward, but Popper was closer, bearing down upon her in his peculiar drifting way.

She did not stiffen, nor did she look at Ned. But something in her stance did indeed change, and Avery knew she was not only aware of Popper’s approach, but prepared to do something about it should he pass some invisible boundary.

So the gullcatcher had come to visit. Interesting, and until now he hadn’t realised just how deep his curiosity about this particular schoolmistress was.

“I do not have time to bandy words,” she snapped. “I have been sent from Director Breakbridge of Imanuel, and I must speak to Avery Black. I was told I could find him here; is he in residence or shall I go elsewhere?”

“Bloody little bint.” Schill was unhappy, brushing at sawdust on his sleeves. “I’ve half a mind to—”

“I told you I would break your arm,” she said, without turning her head. Her back was to the stairs, but Ave thought it quite likely she was ready for an attack from any direction. And the posture was naggingly familiar. “I shall carry out that promise, sir, should you lay a hand upon me again. For the last time, sirs, is Avery Black here?”

Oh, what the hell. “He’s here,” Ave said, and the Rooks were now all moving for the stairs. “Breakbridge sent you, aye?”

“Yes.” For all her self-possession, she suddenly looked very young. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and the blush in her cheeks faded rapidly, leaving her quite pale indeed. A stray dark curl had escaped both braids and her small tasteful hat with its scraggled feather, resting against her temple. “There are . . . he said . . . sir, are you Mr Black?”

There was no reason to deny it, so Avery swept her a half-mocking bow. He had no hat at the moment, but it would have to do. “At your service, Miss . . . ?”

“Dove. Miss Dove, I teach at Imanuel—I saw you there before the . . . oh, never mind.” Another woman might have made a short irritated motion, but she watched Ned Popper, who had not ceased his slow steady movement in her direction. “Director Breakbridge sent me, sir. There are childcatchers in the Acre. They have made off with three of my students, and—”

Schill cursed. So did Popper, finally halting, and a jolt ran through the assembled Rooks.

“Mind your language,” the girl snapped, sharpish, and finally she looked to Avery again. The same strange sensation went down his back—danger or something else, he couldn’t quite tell. “They came to greet me, I think—the boys did. The men were in a cart, coming from what they call the Thrash, and they made for the chandler’s shop across, to the north of the temple. Cook is going there now, I do not know why, and—”

“Herrin,” Avery barked. “Door to door, take everyone you need, I want to know who’s missing. Kane, you get the frails organised for the usual; Schill, run up to Ma Helleny’s and tell her what’s happening, then quick like a bolt to Huq’s and get Harry the Yudic’s people informed. Herrin, you take the rest—every man jack of them, every Rook and every bloke what has a mind to—and run the Acre. You see any of those bas—ah, the catchers, drop them hard. Popper, keep one or two for the broadsheets if possible. Go.”

The girl stood very still as Popper darted past, aiming for the stairs; Herrin and Schill both glared at her as they headed the same direction but she did not move. It was a trained response—she had her ground, and would hold it. In short order the basement was all but empty save for the sawdust boys, both of whom looked a little greenish.

They probably wouldn’t venture upstairs until the all-clear was announced. It could be a trap; Avery’s pulse dropped and his skin was alive with prickles.

It was sheer idiocy, of course, but the way she stood reminded him of their midnight guest, dancing upon the rooftops just out of reach. But a woman wouldn’t do that, would she?

Finally, the girl in grey eyed the Rook; he had used the sudden burst of movement to halve the distance between them.

“Which boys did they take?” If you’re going to try it, girleen, now’s the time.

Her skirts—dabbed with rain and splattered near the hem, she’d indeed run to reach Lucky’s, though it could be part of the game—moved slightly, as if she’d swayed. “Dawes,” she said, softly. Her gloved hands knotted into fists, and her reticule’s straps were tangled. “He has red hair. And John Allen, and little Aberfarthing, poor thing. I thought childcatchers were stories to . . .” The words trailed off, and those large dark eyes were very fine indeed. They were also very bright, and she swallowed convulsively, again. “Please,” she continued, and there was no hint of that sharp mind your business, I’m a lady in her tone now. “Will they . . . will you . . . ?”

“Don’t worry, girleen.” Avery indicated the stairs. “We’ll do all we can. Upstairs with you, now; I’ll have one of the lads take you back to Imanuel.”

“That is not necessary, sir.” A little starch returned to the words and she took a nervous sideways step. “I am quite capable of returning to Imanuel under my own power.”

Avery realised he had wandered much too closely to this grey-clad witch—well into range, if she decided to lash out like the midnight guest. If she were indeed a gullcatcher with pretensions to dangerous play, now she would try something foolish.

“You’re new in the Acre,” he shot back. And I can’t quite suss out what you are, girleen. So I’ll be keeping you under watch. Not to mention sometimes the catchers brought back a sweetener or two for later sale, and she was surprisingly small. “The Rook says wot’s necessary here, and that’s me own sweet self.” Cant slipped under his words; he was in danger of dropping his verbal mask. “Come along, Miss . . . Dove, is it? Upstairs, and lively now. Sooner ye do, sooner li’l lambs are back t’the fold.”

She visibly decided argument was useless, turned pertly upon her heel, and set off up the stairs, light as a cloud-sprite and with her skirts swinging most fetching-like. He followed, ready for anything now that she’d neatly gotten rid of his Rooks—a sudden turn when she had him bottlenecked, a pistol produced from a skirt-pocket, or the like.

Instead, and much more prosaically, she reached the top of the staircase, moved swiftly down the short, malodorous hall, and plunged into the brimming hive Lucky’s had become. Shouts and oaths rang from every corner, the frails’ excited babble bright silver coins over a deeper well of male anger.

“Flanders!” Avery bellowed. The girl flinched, half-turning, her stance achingly familiar.

“Aye, sir!” The Rook so summoned pushed past her, blue eyes ablaze and his pomade-stiffened hair disarranged.

“Take this girleen back to Imanuel, and keep your paws clean. Sharp eye for catchers, then once the bird’s landed hop to the godhouse and let dear uncle know th’afoot.” Taurrock’s Greatfather could not do much, being bound inside his Abbey’s walls—but he could send others, and make a room or two ready for any Rook forced to extreme measures who might need to lay low for a fortnight or so.

“Aye-yes-sir” Flanders bobbed a bow, and cast about in patent, uncharacteristic confusion. “Where did she—”

Oh, for the love of the gods. “Door,” Avery barked, catching the lad’s shoulder and shoving him in that direction. There was a flutter of grey, a bit of rainy daylight, and the girleen was gone, having done her duty.

If this was a trap, it was a complex one. Perhaps she was a much better gullcatcher than any Avery had ever met or heard tell of—or, if she was hiding, it was from something intensely interesting.

He couldn’t tell which prospect intrigued him more.

Flanders scrambled off and Avery dove into the sea of his Rooks, snapping orders while accepting his hat from Herrin, who was out the door like a shot right afterward. Lucky’s began to empty.

The Rooks were on the hunt.

IMANUEL’S COOK was indeed at Roxborough the chandler’s; the stout dæmon of Imanuel’s kitchen had an arthritic hat rather hastily crammed onto his balding head and almost vibrated with rage to boot. “I told and told them—” he said, as Avery swung through the door. “Oh, thank Hermes, there you are. Mr Black, ’tis dreadful; they’re all through the Acre. Seen four carts so far, and they’re carrying bloody boomsticks.”

“Remmingtones,” portly brown Roxborough supplied, leaning against the counter. Candles hung in pairs and pendulous fruit-bunches, the faint rancid smell of tallow coating the inside of Avery’s nose. Rox did a brisk trade in lamps as well, and various oils stored neatly in casks. “Heading Sliverton Street way, Mr Rook. And that’s not all.”

Of course it’s not. A Hellion never had it easy. “Let me guess, Peele’s boys.” The bastards in their blue serge coats were not averse to making a few quid looking the other way, or even more from a certain amount of aiding and abetting.

“That one redheaded gent with his damn whistle.” Roxborough did not spit—he was proud of his shop—but it looked a near thing indeed.

Portius? Interesting. Avery disliked the redhead, and longed to bar him from the Acre. Unfortunately, that would lead to a pitched battle with the Metropolitans, and he had no time for that particular losing wager.

Not yet. Not to mention that if Portius was part of this affair, it meant there indeed was a trap. “Keep a sharp eye,” he said, turning for the door, then halted for a breath. “How many Imanuel boys did they take?”

“Not sure.” Cook’s colour was ghastly; the poor fellow had a tender heart well-hidden under a large measure of bluster. “We’ve told them not to leave the school. Told and told them.”

“They go wandering like sheep.” Rox cleared his throat. “Oi, Rook. Shall we stop the ones going past?”

“No need, just keep count. Once my own lads clear the Acre they’ll come this way.” The bell over the door, trapped upon a coil of springy metal, gave a disconsolate jangle as Avery nipped through, and his stride lengthened.

Another cart of children—a few having the presence of mind to sob or scream while armed men glowered from both sides and the backboard—was squeak-rumbling past, one of its axles needing an application of grease or old-fashioned bullytalk to smooth its rotation. Pedestrians, hurrying for the Thrash or with business in the Acre, Roundsel, or the Abbey, averted their gazes; other carts and carriages moved aside, shunning the laden vehicle.

The respectable could look away. It was a Hellion’s duty not to.

He turned hard right at the corner of Rox’s shop, finding a narrow, stinking alley wandering crookedly toward a small cobbled court. It was not quite child’s play to go up the wall, and the roofs of New Rome were just as treacherous in the daytime as during long winter nights.

Avery Black’s vision narrowed as if he were wearing his hood again. His pulse thundered almost enough to deafen him, but through the sound of his own heart’s heaving work he heard the particular squeak-thump of a nearby cart and the high piping sobs of children, following both unerringly over the hills and valleys above the jumbled buildings.

Unladylike Behaviour

FOR HER FIRST visit to a publick house of somewhat low character, Gemma did not feel she had done too badly. Of course she had barely noted Lucky’s interior or its inhabitants and the man she had been sent to find was a disreputable character indeed, but at least there was a gratifying burst of activity once she had delivered her message. She promptly put Avery Black, not to mention the fellow who had tried to bar her passage downstairs, out of her mind as she plunged through the low doorway onto the damp, listing boardwalk attempting to keep some of New Rome’s mud from invading the building.

The street was in a ferment, which led her to reason perhaps the childcatchers had not only been practicing their depredations around Imanuel but also in other corners of Hell’s Acre. Ma Billingsworth, next to her pushcart of winter-wizened apples, was deep in conference with another dame whose own cart was piled with rags and a few sad, dispirited nosegays. Excited shouts ran alongside the cobbled thoroughfare.

Catchers! Catchers in the Acre, savvy yo’ lambs!

There was an art to moving through a heavy crowd, which Sampson taught her but Gemma had thought unlikely she would ever have to use. Such was the nature of the Path, she supposed—the bits one thought would prove the most useful turned out to be hardly appropriate, while others assumed quite outlandish importance.

Fortunately she was not jostled overmuch, nor did the pickpockets essay any attempts upon her person. Gemma reached the end of the street and turned toward Imanuel just as yet another cart, this one only half full of crying, stunned children, rumbled past at high speed. The driver plied his whip mercilessly, urging the nags on, and the cargo was almost outnumbered by the armed men hanging upon the sides and back of the conveyance.

The childcatchers did not have wings or spectacles of bottle-glass, nor did they possess long yellowed claws. In fact, they looked deeply prosaic, save for the guns. Apparently one could carry a rifle openly in New Rome—or, if that were not the case, where were the Metropolitans she had heard so much about, Sir Peele’s vaunted innovation in Publick Safety?

Beth, what are you doing? Hay would have given a horrified cry, for Gemma picked up her skirts and threw all well-bred modesty to the wind. Her boots slapped damp cobbles, her firmly pinned hat was askew, and her stays squeezed abominably. Weighed down by her skirts, she simply wasn’t fast enough.

The cart pulled away, its lead lengthening. She could attempt to engage a hansom, perhaps, or show her Path training openly—something Sampson cautioned against in the strongest possible terms.

Fortunately, another option occurred to her. Up. Go up.

She had not been in the Acre long enough to learn its entirety, but there were plenty of tiny, crooked lanes and alleys branching from this street. Gemma dodged another costermonger’s cart piled with winter vegetables, its striped awning sagging under fine misting drizzle, and bolted into a dim reeking space with refuse piled along either side. Once out of sight, she left the ground in a leap worthy of the sliverpence-dreadful Springhill Jack. Her unwrapped hands burned against brick and clapboard as she bounced from one alleyside to the other, gaining height each time, and she achieved the rooftop with a lunge, a quite unfeminine grunt, and a moment’s wincing for her poor dress.

Go back to Imanuel, indeed. Well, they were her students, and it stood to reason this cart would be attempting to rendezvous with the others. If she were swift enough, not to mention reasonably cautious, she might be able to salvage something from this dreadful turn of events.

Her boots were certainly not meant for rooftop running on a fog-wet New Rome morning, but the Path held techniques for when one was forced to move with little regard for one’s footwear. Gemma drew in what air she could, her stays becoming more an impediment with each passing moment, and hurled herself onward.

KEEPING THE CART in sight as it rattled at high speed over the cobbled expanse between Taurrock Abbey and Imanuel’s frowning grey front was the most difficult part of that slipping, sliding, tumbling chase. Gemma’s skirts were spattered, rain dotted her hat and hair, sweat soaked her underlinen, and one of her bootheels was loose a quarter-hour later when the cart slowed, lathered horses unhappy with their treatment but unable to protest.

Other carts of the same type were busily arriving and departing a ramshackle warehouse which stood a little apart from its fellows, accorded elbow room even amid New Rome’s crowding. A grim, yellowed field studded with broken bricks, shattered glass, and other durable refuse was in the process of being subsumed by shanties and tenements behind the warehouse’s squat leering back, and a dilapidated series of drizzle-damp palings attempted to impersonate a fence some short distance from its front, giving the carts a beaten-earth courtyard in which to disgorge their shaking, sobbing cargo.

Menaced by armed men, the children did as they were told, crowding like milling cattle before a great rectangular opening in the warehouse’s front. It looked a distinctly unhealthy place, and as Gemma peered down from a neighbouring tenement’s roof, her sides heaving and her bruised hands busily attempting to repin one of her braids, another lumbering cart appeared, its wheels squeaking as if it resented being used for this disgraceful purpose.

One lad of about seven—or so Gemma thought, it was difficult to be certain at this distance—attempted escape, was collared and roughly flung back into the mass of trembling, frightened youth. Gemma’s jaw firmed and her dark eyes flashed.

A well-bred girl must not become angry, of course. Rage was not acceptable to feel or display, yet a bright, hot coal was lit in her chest. How dare these brutes behave in such a fashion?

Besides, the Path was for succor of the weak, or so Sampson said over and over. This is a great responsibility, little Beth; you must use it wisely and well.

All the same, leaping from her perch and attempting open combat with a considerable number of armed men, especially while wearing Gemma Dove’s sensible grey dress, was not quite the Thing, as both Hay and Lady Cassel would intone. Gemma’s larger plan depended upon subterfuge, passing unnoticed while she made her preparations.

But d—m it all, this could not be borne. Perhaps it was her quite natural maternal instincts achieving a brief flowering under extreme duress, or perhaps she was simply selfish. In any case, three of her students were somewhere about, either in the crowd at the doors or drawn into the building’s depths. She had to think of a way to free them, not to mention return them to Imanuel—and why stop there? It could surely be no great matter to liberate the other kidnaped children as well. But how?

She needed a distraction. And, while she racked her sorely overstrained nerves and brain, one thankfully occurred.

Or at least, there was a commotion along the opposite side of the warehouse’s packed-dirt yard. A sharp booming crackle was the discharge of a firearm, and Gemma’s heart was in her throat. Surely they were not shooting children?

She was already moving, the way down from her perch involving a series of bone-rattling jumps from crumbling brick protrusions meant for attaching laundry lines to. She gained the bottom and her legs almost failed from the force of her landing, the Path blooming in her arms and legs with its warm clear certainty.

Shouting. More terrible booming noises, and Gemma could not now see the far end of the yard.

But as she rounded the tenement’s corner, she had a clear view of the children through empty-socket gaps in the palings. They were being herded inside, and from there, only the gods knew where.

Gemma’s lips peeled back from her teeth as she fought for breath. She found a likely spot in the palings and wriggled through, ignoring a small ripping sound as her skirt caught upon a splinter.

Whoever these fellows were, she would gainsay them with every means in her power. Even Sampson might be proud of such an act, though he and Hay would both scold her for unladylike behaviour.

Fortunately, the hubbub at the other end meant no eye was turned in her direction.

Gemma took a deep breath, ignoring her corset’s squeezing, and bolted for the warehouse.

Hunted and Hunter

EVEN A HELLION had to be cautious with rifles about, but in close combat the things were little better than clubs once their ammunition was expended. Cover was easily found—the bastards weren’t good shots except for one, and Avery decided the portly bewhiskered fellow who sent two slugs almost dead-bang through the neatly parked carts the Rook sheltered behind, both missiles placed to do his tender person some harm, was the one who needed taking care of sharpish.

Horses loudly expressed their displeasure at sudden noise, burning stink, and mayhem; men cursed with astonished volubility. Two of the childcatchers were now corpses, and their sprawled bodies not only provided some cover from stray shots bouncing under the carts granting Avery their lee, but also meant he was perfectly placed to take their rifles for his own use if he had a mind to.

Which the Rook did, especially as one gun was a Remmingtone-Lee bolt-action, well-made and in fine condition. Morton would have been eager to get his hands on the thing; Lee was a bloody genius.

More to the point, the rifle was within easy reach, and the bastard childcatchers had shot the Rook’s hat right off his head. Avery scooped up the gun, checking for any loose box magazines at the same time. Take your time, take your shot was good advice, but this collection point was too close to the Acre for the catchers to linger overlong. They had to have heavy prison coaches in the warehouse, ready to transport counted lots of children sorted by age and features to buyers in different areas of New Rome. Foundries, textile mills, and all manner of factories had tight, dangerous spaces littles could clean or perform some maintenance in, and if they were lucky the children might even survive such treatment with merely a crippling injury haunting the rest of their days.

Other fates for the stolen were not nearly so nice. Avery knew them all, and though his own work required murder, theft, and worse, he still felt a shiver of loathing at the sight of a cart packed with kidnaped littles.

He half-closed his eyes as a fusillade peppered the line of ramshackle conveyances. A horse screamed in pain. A lucky shot here would mark an ignoble end to Avery’s own career; he hunched, listening intently, his murdered hat lying a short distance away. The nearest corpse—a childcatcher in faded plaid overcoat, also hatless, his blue eyes glazed and staring thoughtfully into Death’s far country—twitched as a slug careened under the cart, chipped a wheel, and sank into insensate meat.

Sorry about that, guv. It was an inconsequential thought, and a lie besides. Avery was sorry for none of it, except the crying children and possibly the poor nags whose only crime was to do their jobs.

They said littles felt nothing until they reached a certain age, like brute beasts, and any tears were simply reflex. The Rook was of the opinion that was a load of bollocks, because he could very well remember his own childhood.

And how much it had hurt.

The childcatchers were not soldiers; they did not stagger their fire. Consequently, the explosions trailed off while Avery crouched, relatively safe and simply waiting. The metallic clicks and half-whispered swearing of men fumbling to reload was his signal and he took it with a vengeance, springing up and sighting, squeezing off a single shot to force some of them down, then working the bolt and choosing his next target with far more care.

Their best shot, the whiskered fellow in a greyish Ynverness coat, was sighting as well, but Avery was just slightly quicker off the mark. The rifle bucked in his hands once more, stock slamming his shoulder like an angry horse’s flung hoof, almost as bad as ball-or bullet-impact.

But not quite. Their best shot staggered, dropped his rifle with a clatter, and folded, a bullet lodged in his chest.

The box magazine held five shots, and the previous holder of the rifle had wasted one before Avery dropped him. Which left two, and the Rook meant to put them where they did the most good, into the pair of childcatchers who looked most likely to finish their reloading in good order.

It was one thing to kidnap helpless littles. It was quite another to become hunted instead of hunter, and the Rook suspected this rabble would break in short order if he could simply unnerve them enough. The rifle’s muzzle swept left, a hungry viper looking for prey, and it spoke the first time before Avery was quite ready, training and intuition squeezing the trigger. Another hard impact against his shoulder, another man dropping with a howl—not his best shot, but at least his target wouldn’t be causing more mischief and his cries might dissuade the rest.

His last shot, however, was almost perfect, and a hulking brute possessed of drooping moustache and a half-busted stovepipe atop his greasy head staggered backward, the hat falling free to bounce upon packed earth, a largish hole drilled right over his right eye.

Avery dropped as if stunned, too, tugging at the buckled pouch on the nearest corpse’s belt. It held only one box magazine—of course, the rifles were meant merely to menace, not for actual use, and the only thing bothering him was where the bloody redheaded git Portius was.

It wasn’t like the Metropolitan to miss this kind of scrap.

Five shots, Avery. Make them count.

If he could not make the remainder flee with a handful of bullets—or if one misfired, or the rifle jammed—he would have to close the distance somehow. Perhaps the horses could be used.

Avery crouched next to dead men while a few desultory shots peppered the line of carts. They should have been shooting more or shouting abuse at him; instead, a curious hush fell, broken only by some muffled thumping . . .

. . . and a shattering sound as something rather large was flung through splintering wood, and no few of his opponents cursed.

Portius had been found.

Far Better Than Sorry

IT WAS UNLIKELY a child was giving these beastly fellows such trouble, which was all to the good—she needed all the confusion and reinforcement she could gather. The noise was incredible; Gemma bolted from the rickety fence, passing well behind the line of men firing at carts drawn up neatly on the other side of the beaten-earth warehouse yard. Wholly intent upon their work, they paid no attention to her, and she was glad of it as she nipped into the warehouse’s sagging, surprised door-mouth.

Sudden stygian dark wrapped her in blindness, but the Path’s sensitivity burning in bones and breath made her drop nearly flat under a cudgel swung with whistling force at the vicinity of her head. Her teeth clicked painfully together, though thankfully no part of her tongue or cheek was caught between them, and she rolled upon packed earth, fighting the weight of her skirts as well as the constriction of her stays. Her attacker had the benefit of dark-adapted eyes, but Gemma kept rolling, her hat knocked free and her hand striking packed earth with a sharp crack, which propelled her to her feet in short order.

Don’t waste your time thinking, Beth. Move! Sampson’s voice, gruff and deep and utterly beloved, flashed through her and away. Gemma darted forward, the flat of her left hand blurring up to knock the cudgel-wielder’s wrist aside. There was a nerve-bundle there, and she found she had hit it when the heavy oaken club fell free; her stinging right hand, throbbing with the force of the stand-blow forcing her upright, closed around its handle, neatly as if it were a flung egg in her classroom.

She barely even saw the man, just a large looming shape with his own hat-shadow seriously awry. There was a faint breath of expensive hair-tonic over the odour of sharp rot peculiar to an abandoned building, and the renewed din from outside was muted by the walls but in any case could not match the high, terrified cries of children.

Gemma could not discern the voices of her students, but in any case she was far too busy at the moment. She dodged again, only the faintest puff of moving air against her cheek warning of her opponent’s next strike, and the reflex trained into her during long afternoons in St Courcy’s sun-drenched salle brought her own weapon smartly around. Her effort was good, a clean hard hit she felt all the way up to her shoulder and through her ribcage; she was rewarded with a male voice blaring an oath having to do with a certain virgin goddess’s private parts and a metallic click.

Her body once again knew before she did, driving her into a crouch just in time. A lightning flash filled the warehouse’s interior, scouring her eyes; something whizzed over her head.

Pistol shot. Quick now, Gemma, quick and hard, move!

She surged upward, her bare fingers smarting upon oiled wood, and her next strike hit his wrist, sending the pistol away with a clatter. The brief illumination of ignition had given her a confused impression of blue cloth, a coppery glint of slicked-down hair, and the sheer size of the man might have made her freeze in fear had she not been trained near-ruthlessly by a soldier who understood very well that to pause is to die.

The maxim did not hold true for all combat, but Sampson treated it as if it did upon the principle that one never knew and safe was far better than sorry. Consequently, the cudgel leapt high and descended in a short brutal arc, and the sensation of a jaw-or cheekbone breaking under it was altogether different than striking a hanging bag of sand or a bundle of straw.

That was not enough, though. Gemma’s head was oddly empty as she drove the fellow sideways with a flurry of blows, each thudding with a sound like a butcher’s heaviest cleaver hacking a side of beef. The last in the series was a short leap, her legs burning as they bent before she was briefly airborne, bringing the stick down double-handed to smash upon her attacker’s pate with the thump of a melon flung to the cobbles upon a hot day. Landing, one boot almost slipping upon the dirty floor, springing again to kick—the strike was only slightly restrained by her skirts, and the impact sent the man through the plank wall just to the left of the warehouse’s door.

You’re not done yet. She landed, again almost staggering as her boots reminded her they were, while sturdy as a matter of course, certainly not meant for this manner of exercise, and whirled.

The warehouse’s interior, cluttered along one side with piles of refuse and a quintet of heavy prison coaches, was a cavern only indifferently lit with shafts of rainy light where the roof had succumbed to the elements. A series of horse stalls marched along the opposite side, and each held a group of children, some sobbing, others finishing a round of wailing, and a significant number simply staring in Gemma’s direction with every evidence of numb shock.

The short hush ended; another volley of fire boomed outside. Whoever was holding the attention of the childcatchers was doing so most admirably, and was perhaps the reason she only had the one opponent to deal with. And maybe the man she had flung through the wall was seriously hurt.

Of course he is, you did not hand him a nosegay and a kiss. The thought caused a definite pang in the region of Gemma’s chest, but it was quickly buried by a far deeper one as one of the children—a waif of about six, with tumbled coal-black curls and bare, chilblain-raw feet—gave a piteous cry.

“Stop that,” Gemma snapped. It was not proper for a young lady to speak so, but at any moment more of the catchers might burst through the door, seeking to discern what on earth had happened to their coeval. What to do now?

The children fell silent, even the youngest. Tiny gleams in the shadows were their eyes, wide with shock, and Gemma realised she had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Oh, dear Hera, grant me some inspiration. The shooting outside stopped, and Gemma had to move quickly. But where?

“Aberfarthing!” she called. “Allen! Dawes! Where are you?”

Bang. Bang. Bang. Three shots in quick succession, then a horse’s scream, terribly like a human’s.

“Miss Dove?” A tiny, disbelieving voice. “Miss Dove, is tha’ you?”

It was young redheaded Dawes, peering at her from the third stall down, and a giant swelling of relief filled Gemma’s much-abused ribcage. Her breath was coming in great gasps, and she still clutched the cudgel.

“Yes,” she said, and drew herself up. They are depending upon you. Think, and quickly. “Is there another way out of this building?”

Small forms crept from the stalls, gathering around her as two more shots sounded outside. Easily twoscore children, and there was more movement in the shadows near the unharnessed coaches—some had thought to hide among the rubbish, which showed a certain presence of mind.

Little Aberfarthing darted close. The child flung his arms about her filthy skirts so far as they would go, and squeezed. “Ohmum,” he choked, and Gemma had the quite ridiculous idea they would all start to weep soon.

That could not be borne, for she might as well. “Stand up, Aberfarthing. The rest of you, dry your eyes. Now tell me, any one of you, is there another exit?”

“Mum?” A black-haired girl of about ten in a linsey frock much too thin for the weather, clutching a small bundle to her sunken chest—perhaps something she had been sent to fetch, perhaps a doll—spoke from the fourth stall. “I b’leeve there is.”

“Very good.” Gemma’s breathing refused to return to normal. Running feet, shouts—perhaps the catchers had done for whoever had been troubling them, and they would be coming to sort her next. “Quickly, the lot of you. Everyone hold someone’s hand. You, what is your name?”

“Livbeth, mum.” The girl dropped a tolerable curtsey, now partly visible since Gemma’s eyes had accustomed themselves to the gloom. “My da used to work inna place li’ this, an’—”

It was terribly rude to interrupt, but the noise was approaching the warehouse’s front—male voices, calling back and forth, and the tramp of boots. “Good,” Gemma pitched the word to carry. “Everyone, follow Miss Livbeth. Hold someone’s hand. Go. Go now.”

And she turned, gripping the cudgel, attempting to push Gideon Aberfarthing away with her free hand as gently as possible.

Gemma Dove set herself to at least delay whoever would enter through the warehouse’s front.

Ease a Gentleman’s Mind

IT WAS INDEED Portius the redheaded Metropolitan, and he was in sorry shape. Tossed right through the wall, in fact, and his skull was definitely misshapen. His shillelagh was not attached to his wrist with its rawhide strap, his pistol was missing as well, and this would cause a fair bit of trouble indeed. Avery, his sides heaving and his back against the wall next to Portius’s limp form, shook his head and lowered the rifle

“I won’t apologise,” Kane rumbled. The big man’s chest heaved and his knuckles were bloody. “Get the frails organised, you said. Well, I did, then I thought to follow that last cart. Thought you might need a spot of help.”

“Well enough,” the Rook gasped. Considering the large man had arrived just in time to fall upon the already-rattled childcatchers with a roar, including a fresh cart of unfortunates bearing three armed men and a load of sobbing, dirty children now hieing themselves home as fast as their small legs could carry them, Avery was not of a mind to demand a penance. “There might be more inside.” But why would they throw one of their own through the bloody wall? Perhaps they suspected Peele’s boy of double-crossing.

Which would be grimly amusing, were there any time for levity.

“Aye.” The giant’s mild brown gaze gleamed with something uncomfortably close to bloodlust. Arriving hard upon his heels were a few more Rooks—Strapley with his colours knotted high upon one beefy upper arm, laze-eyed Yakob Presztich, and the new man Veece, who surveyed the battlefield with an expression suggesting he found it very acceptable indeed. They took their places to his right, a line of fellows ready to do battle.

“Rooks running the Acre,” Strapley said by way of greeting. “Herrin set us t’follow Kane.”

“Not that I need it,” the big man grumbled. “What next?”

“Inside, and be careful,” Avery snapped. He took a deep breath, stepping over the redhead.

It looked suspiciously like Portius was a corpse, and that would cause a great deal of bother. He would handle the matter in due time; this could still be a trap.

He closed his eyes just before plunging through the warehouse’s open loading door, every other sense alert and alive. Cool air, stealthy pitter-patters, muffled sobs—and frantic whispers.

But no attack, not even the skin-tingling sense of danger.

“Turn loose, Gideon, and go.” A soft, low female voice broke the hush. “I shall handle this.”

How in the seven hells . . . ? Avery’s eyes snapped open, adapting quickly to the dimness. The cavernous space was piled with rubbish along the right side, almost subsuming the prison coaches meant to transport sobbing children to their new hells, and the stalls on the left—ideal for sorting stolen chattel into lots and batches—were empty.

The darkness past the last coach was full of small darting flickers . . . and Imanuel’s witch in grey, grasping Portius’s well-oiled shillelagh in both small hands, stood in a natural bottleneck between said coach and the stalls, her chin lifted, her hair and dress sadly draggled, and a small child in Imanuel holland cloth clinging to her skirts.

“What in blazes are you doing here, girleen?” Avery’s voice nearly echoed from the rafters, surprising even himself. He stepped sideways to block Kane as the giant threatened to surge past, perhaps mistaking her for a childcatcher.

“Rescuing my students, sir.” A pert little reply, fast as a whipcrack, but she did not lower her weapon. “Mr Black, is it? I presume you were the one distracting the fellows outside.”

“Gahs’save us,” the Imanuel boy holding onto her skirts sobbed. “’Tis the Rook Himself.”

“Boss?” Kane was having a spot of trouble catching up.

Avery lowered the rifle. It was a fine piece of workmanship, and he had more than half a mind to keep it. “Easy, Kane.”

“Stop!” Another small voice, and another, larger boy in Imanuel holland darted to place himself before the girl, his thin arms spread and his coppery hair wildly disarranged. “She’s rescuing us, Mr Rook sir! Everyone’s out the back, there’s a door there.”

That was good news, but Avery had other questions. “How did you get here?”

“I ran,” Miss Dove informed him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Thank you for your aid, sir. I shall be returning my students to Imanuel directly.”

Oh, for the love of . . .“Kane, go with her. Strapley, keep an eye out that door for more catchers; sing out if they show hide or hair.”

“That’s a Metropolitan,” Veece said in an undertone, fastening upon the most concerning aspect of the current situation. “I know him, he visited McNeiss.”

“Well, he’s dead now.” Strapley moved to the door, tucking himself into deep shade upon one side to keep watch.

“Do not come near me,” Miss Dove informed Kane, and such was her tone that the big man stopped halfway between her and Avery, his massive shoulders hunching. “Dead? He’s . . . the childcatcher, he is dead?”

“If he isn’t, he will be soon.” A disbelieving laugh caught in Avery’s throat, but even in this gloom he could see the girl’s obvious shock. No gullcatcher, this—unless she was an actress beyond compare, and if so she belonged with Master Irvyng or the Teuton goddess Burnheart upon the boards. It would certainly pay her more than teaching Imanuel’s foundlings to lisp their grammarie. “Not that it’s any of your concern, girleen. Go along with Kane, now.”

“There are other children—” she began. Even the most junior of his Rooks wouldn’t dare lingering after he’d told them to scarper.

“No doubt ’alfway to their dosses by now,” Kane growled. “Come along, miss. The Rook says ’tis back to Imanuel for you.”

“Approach, sir, and I shall grant you a drubbing.” Imanuel’s witch was ready to carry out her threat, by the way she raised Portius’s stick. “I am quite capable of returning with my students, thank you.”

“Of course.” Avery decided to change tactics, and he slipped out of cant. “But it would ease a gentleman’s mind to have you and your students escorted, Miss Dove, especially since there are likely a few more childcatchers about.” Every syllable nice and crisp, and if he had been wearing hat or hood he would have doffed the former or touched the edge of the latter to drive the courtesy home. “Please allow Mr Kane to do so, especially since I’ve asked him.”

“And are you a gentleman, Mr Black?” But she lowered the shillelagh, and the copper-haired boy turned to her.

“It’s the Rook,” he repeated, and the other boy holding her skirts vigorously nodded his agreement. “And Mr Kane’s a good ’un, mum.”

“Very well.” Did she sound relieved? In any case, the shillelagh dropped further. “Then you may accompany us, Mr Kane. Come along.”

“Just a moment, Miss Dove.” Avery couldn’t believe it was this easy; he’d half thought the girl would require bundling into a handy cart. “It’s best you give me that stick.”

“Oh. Yes.” She held it out, the rawhide thong at its bottom snapped and swaying gently. He had to dress his rifle and step past Kane to take it; this close her disrepair was more evident, as well as the quality of her cloth. Her dark eyes gleamed, pupils swollen in the dimness. “If there are more of those fellows about, you’ll rather need it.”

The sound of scurrying, hurrying children had faded. A third boy in Imanuel cloth lingered close by, watching solemnly; no doubt if Avery attempted any rudeness in the grey lady’s direction, the trio of sprouts would attempt a valiant defence in turn. She had a way of charming half-feral littles, it seemed.

A witch indeed.

Avery’s fingers brushed hers as he subtracted the shillelagh; her skin was cold even after all this activity. She regarded him almost sidelong, keeping Kane well in sight too should either man attempt anything untoward. A very proper miss, as well.

He didn’t really need the damn club, but Portius’s body and his effects both had to vanish completely. A missing Metropolitan was one thing; a murdered Peele-boy quite another.

“You’re a brave one,” Avery found himself saying. “Go back to Imanuel, Miss Dove.”

She inclined her head slightly. A single curl fell in her face, bobbing gently. “Good day, then, sir.” She stepped nervously away, the child clinging to her skirts appearing most unwilling to relinquish his grip. “Gideon, turn loose. I cannot walk if you behave so. Mr Allen, Mr Dawes, come along. Mr Kane, the back door is this way. I hope you shall fit through it.”

Kane, not quite certain if he was being mocked, glanced at Avery.

The Rook nodded, stepping smartly away. “Back to Imanuel, then, boyo. Mind you keep your paws clean, then hop sharpish to the Acre and stay with the frails, savvy?” Cant felt odd against his tongue for a moment.

“Yes, boss.” Kane lumbered after the retreating Miss Dove, who of course was not waiting for her escort.

“Uh, boss?” Strapley said, softly, from the door. A rumbling of heavy wheels underscored the words—probably more locked prison coaches, the four in here were simply a precaution and temporary holding pens. “Trouble.”

Of course. Avery turned on his heel, consigning this fresh and deepening mystery to the realm of things to be handled in due time.

He was very curious indeed about Miss Dove, now.

Some Small Damage

DIRECTOR BREAKBRIDGE was not at Imanuel, and the school was roiling like a poked anthill. Mr Humbolten was in the antechamber to the director’s office, attempting to answer questions from breathless boys dispatched to carry messages from their teachers. The great front doors were tightly closed, Josef was manning the smaller second entrance and Cook now stood guard at the kitchen door, glowering fiercely. Inside, the students were at chapel, and the return of their three rescued chums was greeted with a hubbub so unrestrained the worthy magisters—including Appleton and the martinet Roycebury—could barely keep some semblance of peace.

Master Filbin, the teacher of yet another room, tall and spare in his dark suit more fitting for an undertaker than a professor, eyed Gemma as he quite unconsciously wrung his hands. “I say, what happened to you, Miss Dove?”

I killed a man. The knowledge trembled in her arms and legs. She could still feel the final crunching impact of the cudgel against the childcatcher’s skull—and one of the ruffians following Mr Black had said a Metropolitan. “There was an incident,” she answered, hoping her tone would discourage any familiarity. Aberfarthing, Allen, and Dawes had agreed most grudgingly to keep their teacher’s part in the entire affair quiet as possible, their obedience impelled by the large ruffian Kane, with his ox-mild brown gaze and tumbled brown curls, and his deep basso growl of A lady don’t want her name in the papers, boyos, and that’s that.

She almost felt charitable toward the mountainous, curly-headed fellow, and his ‘boss’ as well. “’Tis over now,” Gemma continued, “and the children safely returned. Are any others missing?”

“No, indeed.” Filbin’s bulbous nose, round as the rest of him was not, twitched rather like a rabbit’s. “But . . . pardon me, Miss Dove, you look rather in a state.”

I suppose I do. “Then you will tell Director Breakbridge when he returns that I have gone to repair some small damage to my effects?” She had managed to tug her gloves over her bruised, torn hands, and they throbbed like the rest of her. The horrid thought—I killed a man—returned, circling her brain-case rather as they said sharks in the deepest oceans did.

“Oh . . . I . . . certainly, Miss, but . . .”

That was enough for Gemma, who sailed away at a brisk clip despite her shaking legs.

SINCE HER DISHEVELED state would cause no end of comment, Gemma took the quite advisable step of entering her rented garret through the window, an operation made slightly more difficult by strengthening rain, her aching hands, and the encumbrance of her skirts, not to mention the fact that there seemed to be quite a bit of traffic on the Acre’s rooftops at any hour. But at long last, dripping and trembling, she gained that small safety and closed the aperture with a decided click, then sank to her knees, fevered forehead resting upon the heavily painted sill.

“Oh, dearest Hay,” she found herself murmuring. “You would be so disappointed.”

Even Sampson might well glower disapprovingly in her direction, for all he had taught Gemma the Path. She had killed someone.

Yet what else could she have done? The large red-haired childcatcher with his knotted stick, menacing poor defenceless children, would have served her in like manner or worse, had she let him.

Knowing that did not stop the horror, or the nasty sensation jolting up her arms over and over again. Or the nausea quivering in her midsection, or the quaking of her legs. It did not halt the smell of the rotting warehouse from filling her nose afresh, or the muffled sobbing of hopeless children.

I killed a man. I took a life.

No truly well-bred girl would do such a thing, would she? Gemma was a cuckoo, a false orphan, a creature most unwomanly, an actual murderess. Of course, her plan naturally required death meted out to a villain, but . . . not like this.

Even swearing herself to the Dirae, a step taken with what she had thought at the time was much soul-searching and justification, now seemed . . . well, rather blackened by her actions. What, in the gods’ names, had she expected? Her so-large, so-noble lex talionis was a child’s vow, a muddleheaded thing at best.

Worst of all, she could not return to St Courcy. Sampson would take one look at her and know the shameful truth. She carried an indelible brand now, marked upon her very soul, and she was required to visit a temple soon. Perhaps a sacrifice to the Dirae would alter this terrible feeling.

Except the prospect of confessing her shame to a priestess, either of her divine patronesses or of Ysys—held to be very forgiving and intercessory indeed—made Gemma tremble, knocking her head softly against the sill.

You have committed murder, and it will not be the last time. What, indeed, did you think the end of your plan was? At first she had thought some manner of public outcry and judicial proceeding might be sufficient to provide rest to her parents’ shades, but her target was a man of great wealth and power, and those were not shamed like ordinary folk.

It was one thing to swear vengeance upon the murderer of your parents, the author of your orphaning. It was quite another to feel a man’s skull break when you brought a length of wood down smartly upon it.

Her dress smelled of fresh air, of rain shredding noxious, coal-breath morning fog, and bore a ghost of her own sour sweat. Her stays were abominably tight, her skirt was torn, her underlinen sopping. Her hat, rescued from the warehouse floor, still clung to her head, because the pin—it could double as a weapon with very little effort—was heavy, and thrust savagely home. One of her bootheels was disconcertingly loose as well.

But little Gideon, Jack Dawes, and John Allen were safely returned to Imanuel, not to mention cautioned in the strongest possible terms not to breathe a word of Miss Dove’s actions. Broad-shouldered, deceptively heavy Mr Kane—the man could move very quietly when he wished, Gemma thought—had even added all the force his bulk, and the apparent worshipful wonder Imanuel children held him in, to the prohibition. We’ve to keep a lady’s Reputation safe, my lads, he had intoned more than once, in dreadfully cant-laced rhythm. I’d best not hear a whisper of this in the Acre.

So far, the miscreants of Hell’s Acre were proving to be quite gentlemanly. Were they the fellows roaming upon the rooftops at night? The tall, dark-haired one who commanded them had a disconcerting habit of examining her closely, as if he suspected a thing or two about Imanuel’s newest teacher. He was well-trained, no doubt upon the Rosy Path to a great degree, moving with a swift economy reminding her of Sampson.

The thought of her almost-father, lips tight with disapproval, was a needle to her throbbing, aching heart, only beginning to sort itself after all the demands placed upon it this morning.

And blast it all, her reticule was gone, either in the mad dash over slick rooftops and through crooked alleys, or during the battle. Two apples, a key to her garret, a few pence, a tiny street atlas of the Acre and its environs, and some small sewing supplies were irretrievably lost. It was this final discovery which broke the iron dam inside her breast, and Gemma crumpled against the wall, sobbing silently—if any sound escaped into the hall, she might be called upon for some manner of explanation.

No, she absolutely could not return to St Courcy just yet, or perhaps ever. For good or for ill, she was thoroughly bound to her vengeance. Perhaps that was why the priest had warned her so stringently when she made her maiden offering, but Beth hadn’t listened.

Well, ‘little Beth’ was gone now. Gemma Dove was a new creature, and sadly in need of repair. Once the storm of tears was done, she would set about that work.

The weeping did not cease for a long while. Huddled under a garret window, she cried as she had not when Hay died.

It did not change a single thing, and yet she was helpless to stop.

Plans and Suspicions

ANY FOOL COULD heave a body into the Thamis. The trick was to make certain it would be unrecognizable when it surfaced, for though the watery mother of New Rome could swallow many of her children, she also had a distressing habit of disgorging them at inopportune moments.

Consequently, Mr Eustache Portius, lately of Peele’s Metropolitan Police, would be carried in a cart to Shingle’s Point at dusk, then tipped naked into the river once his skull had been rendered into paste by repeated applications of his own shillelagh—which would be turned to ash in any bonfire or incinerator Ned Popper could find. Before that, in a shed on the edge of the Acre, some few marks peculiar to the rest of Portius’s person would be excised as well; his clothes, including a blue serge Metropolitan’s coat, were already unseamed by a few frails in Lucky’s, everything down to the skivvies turned into cleaning rags. It was a bit of a shame—that much fabric, covering a stout frame, was worth a shilling or two.

But it was a childcatcher’s cloth, and those creatures were viewed with deep repugnance even in the worst parts of the Acre.

Every bit of cash and small sellable items were cleaned from the other bodies in short order, the best among the rifles taken, the horses led away to Ma Helleny’s livery by ones and twos—the creatures probably happy to escape a din of gunfire and looking forward to some mash.

Avery wouldn’t have minded a spot of something solid himself. The aftermath of a pitched battle throbbed in his arms and legs, and he very much wished for a pint and a quiet corner to think things over, do some very deep breathing, and let his body attend to its bruises, strains, and scrapes.

But he was the Rook. With the childcatchers dead and their prey scrambling home quick as little legs could carry them, he was due elsewhere. At least none of the littles lingered; the last to disappear for home was six-year-old Mary Chestnutt, holding her little brother Thomas’s hand and vanishing into a thickening, driving drizzle.

Taurrock Abbey stood proud and unbowed under a grey veil of rain, and though the good brothers inside were all engaged upon their daily work or contemplation, a certain tension could be sensed under the plainchant throbbing through ancient stone halls. The Rook was once again admitted to the temple’s environs and hastened to the Greatfather’s office with a determined step, familiar fire flashing in his dark eyes.

Avery still hadn’t decided whether to demand Breakbridge give a few answers as to the provenance of his witch in grey. At least Kane reported Miss Dove delivered safely to Imanuel’s kitchen, along with her three small charges. Setting out in pursuit of her students said something about the girleen.

The Rook simply couldn’t suss out what.

He was bowed into the office and found Breakbridge pacing, a fine porcelain cup of very strong black tea in his hand chattering against its saucer. The Greatfather had settled thoughtfully in his high-peaked chair, fingers tented before him and again pressed so hard as to appear bloodless.

Nossorton was not an easy man to unnerve. He remained seated, but his shoulders tensed under the brown robe. “Ah, Mr Black,” he said, calmly enough. “How goes it?”

“It goes.” Avery tipped him a lazy salute and turned to Breakbridge. “Y’can stop wearing the floor, guv. All your boys are accounted for, and your witch in grey too.”

“A witch? Whatever are you—ah.” Breakbridge shook his head. “So Miss Dove found you after all. Splendid.”

“That she did, at Lucky’s.” Avery weighed the amusement of telling the good Director that his new schoolteacher had also hied herself off to hunt childcatchers, but decided the fewer who knew, the better. Miss Dove would find herself the subject of speculation even if his lads kept their mouths shut, for the children certainly would not even if Kane had sworn them to silence and in any case, a respectable girl walking into Lucky’s was bound to cause comment. “Quite the lady, that one.”

“I do hate to interrupt.” The Greatfather’s tone was only casually interested, but his tension did not ease. In fact, it seemed to intensify—and to a perceptible degree. “But speaking of witchcraft in the Bull’s temple is a bit rude, my friends.”

“Oh, it’s just the new teacher, the one you recommended.” Breakbridge sank into the hard wooden penitent’s chair, rather as if his legs would not hold him upright for a moment longer. “She tamed the entire room of Miss Phelan’s miscreants upon her very first day, and was the one to raise the alarum about the catchers.”

Nossorton made no reply, his gaze settling thoughtfully upon his newest visitor.

“A right good job she did, too.” Avery poured himself a cuppa, considered the sugar-lumps, and let them be. His throat was full of the taste of bloodshed, and that would take no sweetening. He also watched Nossorton’s expression change by a few critical fractions; Miss Dove became even more intensely interesting, if that were possible. “But the name’s just a lark, the boyos don’t mean no harm, Greatfather.” He retreated with two fast, light steps, all his senses quivering-alert. Of course they would see the marks of a hurried scrub on his face and hands, his hair slicked down and his coat damp, yet violence hung a colourless fume upon a man and both of them no doubt knew he’d washed away a bit of blood.

Among other things.

“I’m sure they don’t.” Nossorton unbent enough to pick up his own untouched cup. “I presume those so ill-bred as to break the peace of the Acre and steal children are now explaining themselves to the gods.”

Avery made a short noise, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. No more was needed.

Breakbridge took a huge swallow of tea, rather as if rinsing a similarly terrible taste from his palate. If the liquid scorched his throat, he made no sign. “We do warn the boys to stay inside. But why now, why the Acre?”

“It’s a message,” Nossorton said quietly. “Don’t you think, Mr Black?”

“Right that, squire.” Avery tested his own tea—too hot; Breakbridge had been here a while, and the pot had needed refreshing just before the Rook’s arrival. “Nice little sliverpence-post; I’ve half a mind to send one in return.”

“Well.” Breakbridge took another gulp, fortifying himself. “Shall I take my leave, gentlemen? The less I know of certain matters, the better.”

“All your lambs safe inna fold.” Avery didn’t bother to hide his amusement now, sharp as a razor. “And none of them worse for wear. Go on home, Breakers, and tend to your flock.”

The good Director hastened away after a bow on his part and a short movement granting absolution and release from the Abbot. If one of his waifs was returned in less-than-ideal condition—or if other children had been marred instead of simply held—he would have supervised moving the poor things to the Imanuel infirmary, and the Greatfather would send brothers skilled in medical arts to tend them.

They had escaped lightly indeed, and largely, Avery expected, due to Miss Dove’s remarkable presence of mind. He waited for his tea to cool, settling himself in an easily defensible corner near a bookcase and gazing at the garden window behind the Greatfather’s chair. The fire in the grate was welcome on such a raw day, though the temple’s hush wore at the Rook’s nerves.

Finally, the Greatfather spoke. “I think you’ve gained the attention you sought.”

It’s no fun if he isn’t aware of death’s approach. “That was the plan.”

“Was endangering innocents part of the plan?”

“I didn’t tell Rexton to snatch Imanuel’s boys, Greatfather.” Each word crisp and polished, Avery straightened and eyed his brown-robed host. “You can rest easy, though. He’ll face his gods soon enough.” After I’m done with him. For a moment, he toyed with what he’d do if it turned out Nossorton and Rexton were in league and playing an even more complicated game.

Imanuel’s witch could even be part of it. The thought was unexpectedly irritating.

“I rather believe he will.” The Greatfather did not touch his own tea, though his cup was only half full. “Are any of your fellows in need of shelter?”

“Not unless the Metropolitans come knocking.” He hoped they wouldn’t. “The gate’s still unlocked?”

“And it will be, for so long as I am Greatfather here.” Nossorton had the trick of saying such things quietly, but with near-uncanny force. “You needn’t worry about that, Avery. Though I suspect you are. After a while, a man in your position begins to see treachery everywhere.”

“Keeps one alive, guv.” He could sense no adulteration in the tea—not that Breakbridge would likely lend himself to such a thing, or that Nossorton would risk it with a Hellion.

A Priory man would suspect what one of Ave’s kind was capable of. But what about that bloody gullcatcher, with her fine manners and provokingly fast reflexes? Was it worth asking the Greatfather about a girleen he had apparently bestirred himself on behalf of?

“That it does.” Now Nossorton sounded thoughtful, and instead of pressing his fingers together, he stared into his own tea, in a much sturdier cup meant for leisurely afternoon sipping. A rattle of rain dashed against the large window behind him, the smear of an Imanuel garden leached of colour and any warmth. “I’ve even suspected you at times, Avery. If the feeling weren’t resoundingly mutual, I should think one or the both of us far less intelligent than I hope we prove to be.”

“A high compliment.”

“Quite selfish, really. Should Rexton find out the extent of my actions, temple walls won’t hold the Priory back.” To his credit, the Abbot did not sound overly disturbed at the notion.

No, Alec Nossorton’s lips thinned, stretching into a smile Avery had seen more than once upon a weary fighter in one of the sawdust-scattered rings below Lucky’s, a man who cared little what he would have to sacrifice so long as his opponent was laid out. A spark had kindled in the once-Baron’s brown eyes, and his back was ramrod-straight.

“Don’t worry.” It was ridiculous to reassure one of the Bull’s own—but the age of miracles was past, and the fellow in the highly carved chair, whose word was law within Taurrock’s walls, was just as mortal as Avery Black. “You do right by me, guv, and I’ll return the favour.”

And to prove it, he took down half his tea in a single gulp, exhaling sharply afterward. It hurt, but only for a few moments; Hellion training, calling upon the body’s hidden reserves, soothed the burn almost immediately.

Nossorton smiled. “If I were a more religious man, my good son, I would pray more often to Mithras for your success. As it is, I don’t want my hypocrisy to affect your chances—but tonight, Mr Black, I shall recite more than one kyrie in your honour.”

The idea of a former Priory man praying to a god he had specifically abjured, and on a Hellion’s behalf no less, was entirely, deeply, and satisfyingly ironic. Avery saluted the Abbot with his own delicate porcelain teacup. “I’ve no time for prayer, Greatfather. But should I come across any, I’ll return that favour too.”

AFTER A MORNING squall, relative calm returned to a certain slice of New Rome. Children reappeared, some whispering of their adventure to their elder siblings or exhausted parents. The Rook, he saved us, they said, and the payments extracted for protection from more than one Acre inhabitant and business were collected with more ease than usual that afternoon.

Another rumor raced from one end of the Acre to the other—a wandering demigoddess, it was averred, had happened by to aid the Rooks in their rescue efforts. Of course many children were scolded for telling such ridiculous tales, but they were also embraced, fiercely petted, and drawn closer to whatever fire could be found, for the poor things had returned soaked clear through. Nevertheless, short thin blessing candles were lit at two wayside shrines, the publick side-chapel at Taurrock, and the small parish temple on Thropton Street. The last did a brisk business as early dusk fell, afternoon strangled by lowering cloud and a pall of coalsmoke attempting to wrap New Rome in deep rancid fog despite the rain.

The girl in grey was no longer in grey. Instead, in sober brown—when had she time for that, he wondered—she left Imanuel at the usual time, setting off through the gathering gloom with a determined step. The two male teachers who did not board at the school were long gone; no doubt Miss Dove gave short shrift to any suggestion that she might require escort to her home.

Avery detached himself from the shadow along Imanuel’s wall and glided after her. Miss Dove walked with her usual decided air, her old-fashioned but quite serviceable pelisse drawn close. Her wardrobe was almost aggressively dowdy, probably to save her from importunate gentlemen, and her air of cool, sharp self-possession was that of a woman many years her senior.

He wasn’t quite sure when she noticed pursuit. Her slim shoulders stiffened by degrees, though her pace and direction did not alter. She moved through the Acre’s hurrying, sodden crush as if negotiating a heavily crowded ballroom, and even the better pickpockets let her pass unmolested.

A labourer’s slouched cap and a dark overcoat made Avery far less flash than usual, and if noticed, he was studiously and courteously ignored. Drifting in Miss Dove’s wake, he watched the jostling of an Acre evening for any sign that someone else was taking notice of the girleen.

Nothing. Oh, Ma Billingsworth studied Miss Dove as the teacher passed, then the beldame’s gaze settled upon Avery with perhaps a faint sparkle of steely amusement—the costermongers saw everything, and caught with alacrity every rumor fluttering through the city.

But they were also fiercely loyal to their patches and Billingsworth a doughty dame, her rent upon the spot outside Lucky’s abated since she performed quite a few services for the association running the Acre’s less-than-legal concerns.

The Rooks were about their usual business too, Herrin directing the evening’s events while Ave satisfied his curiosity, or tried to. So far, Miss Dove was proving entirely, and provokingly—

Just as he was contemplating leaving her to her own devices for an evening, the girleen vanished into a dark, malodorous alley between Crufton’s rag-shop and Tudor Brinthley’s dosshouse. Ave knew the tiny, brick-paved crevice had no exit, and no doors along the blank walls on either side either save a single narrow, bricked-shut one possibly as old as the Acre itself.

So, she was aware. Was she luring him?

Don’t mind that, do we. A flash of unexpected pleasure curled through him. The Rook waited for a short while, passing back and forth among streams of pedestrians wrapped in their own thoughts or conversing with their fellows, before following.

A Gentleman Asked Twice

SHE WAS EXHAUSTED, grainy-eyed, and every part of her ached. The short period of deep breathing and unleashing inner warmth while she attended to her disrepair that morning was not nearly enough. She needed heavy, hearty fuel—a meat pasty or two, a roast and vegetables, perhaps a pint or two of ale though she disliked its yeasty taste—and a good night’s sleep.

But, as Gemma was learning, the world cared little for what one wanted or could stand. It whirled upon its axis at its own pace, never minding that the motion might crush all beneath it. And she was being watched.

While she lingered in the deepest shadow the small, reeking alley could provide, she inhaled quickly several times, the deep fire of the Path lighting in her midriff. Her corset, exceedingly loosely laced, was much less of an impediment now, and her second pair of boots had much lower heels.

Her shoes would need repair, and visiting a cobbler was yet another task she had no strength for today. Keeping her outer shell calm and unruffled while engaging upon the afternoon’s lessons in an airless room full of nervous, uncharacteristically somber young boys had taken nearly all her remaining powers of concentration, not to mention patience, and she was wretchedly aware she might present little deterrence to a resurgence of childcatchers, or indeed anyone else with ill designs upon her person.

Her pursuer, however, made little attempt to conceal himself. He strolled right up the middle of the alley’s narrow brick rivulet, whistling a plaintive air currently popular in the Acre about an apple tree and faithless girl while avoiding noisome puddles upon either side. Not only that, but he halted a respectful distance away, looking directly at her hiding place, and she realised who it was a half-moment before he spoke.

“Ye’ve naught to fear, girleen.” The Acre’s cant lay heavy upon the words, turning them into singsong. “I’m just here to return summat.”

Really. Gemma didn’t move, studying him closely.

Avery Black appeared a changeable beast, rather like herself. The grinning, flashy soldier of that very morning was gone, and in his place was one of New Rome’s many odd-job fellows, albeit a specimen with a touch more success than most. His hair was rain-wet and slicked back, containing its stubborn curl and barely showing under a soft cap. He wore a labourer’s dark, rough coat, and his eyes were mere gleams under his hat’s brim. Despite that, the line of his jaw bristled with black stubble, his mouth set with distaste or perhaps merely resignation. The tip of his nose showed too, and his hands spread, clearly wishing to convey pacific intent.

At least his striped trousers were the same, and the heavy graceless boots. If he ran the rooftops in such footwear, he was skilled enough to give her a great degree of trouble.

His hands flickered, and she almost missed the trick. It was of a different style than the Path’s misdirection of the eye, though clearly related. When it finished, a familiar, though sadly dispirited, item hung from his curled left fingers.

Her reticule. No doubt he had pawed through it.

“Come out,” he said, rather coaxingly. “Ent gonna drop ye, girleen. Done the Acre a good turn, y’have, and I’d be a fool t’deny it.”

The situation was unexpectedly irritating. He clearly could speak in proper fashion, and chose not to—well, she was flying false colours as well, Gemma thought, and it was hardly fair to expect anything other than mendacity from anyone else while she did.

Vengeance was proving a lonely business indeed.

Thin threads of soot-darkened rain branched down the brick wall across the alley. The entire city was damp-dirty as a charwoman’s rag. Gemma was cold, exhausted, and—truth be told—somewhat out of sorts.

“Miss Dove.” Abruptly, he dropped the cant again. “You’ll catch cold, lingering here. I am returning your property, and will accompany you to Rudrill’s.” A slight pause—perhaps he could see her, as she had little difficulty discerning his stance and readiness. “You handed those fellows a stinging reproof today, and it would be ungentlemanly to let you suffer any ill because of it.”

Gemma took a single step, halting at the edge of deep shadow. “And am I to believe you are a gentleman, Mr Black?” Her voice barely pierced the rumble of wheels and slap of rain from the street.

“That makes twice you’ve asked me.” A flash of teeth as his mouth relaxed—like Sampson, he wore no whiskers. “A Rook can’t be too proper, miss. But for you, I’ll be downright mannerly.”

She had read of the ‘associations’ and cabals common in New Rome, and of the shady characters populating their particular demimonde. Sometimes in those stories they displayed a rough variety of chivalry—when they were not engaged upon deeply criminal behaviour, that was.

In any case, she had just killed a man this morning. This fellow would be difficult to handle in the same manner, she thought, noting the way his weight shifted by increments as she approached.

Difficult, but not quite impossible. Or so she hoped. Gemma halted just out of reach, balanced and ready. His posture was naggingly familiar. “Is it considered mannerly to follow young ladies into alleyways?”

“Nearly as polite as chasing down childcatchers.” He extended his arm, one slow inch at a time, very much as one might move when facing a wild animal. “How are your students, then?”

“Very little worse for wear.” Her hand shot out; she retreated lightly and quickly as possible, her reticule now swinging from gloved fingers and ready to be used as a distraction should he strike. “You have my gratitude for that, sir.” She delivered the thanks in Aunt Hay’s beneficent though slightly forbidding tone, mostly used upon men who sought to engage her young ward in overly familiar conversation.

The Rook—what a name, the boys of Imanuel were full of breathless stories of his exploits—touched his hat with an impeccable nod, dropped his arm back to his side. “Call it a victory, then.”

“Yes, I hope so.” Questions crowded her throat. Who are you really? What do you want? What do you suspect?

He knew she had committed murder. Nothing in all Gemma’s reading, training, or near-obsessive planning for every imaginable contingency had prepared her for this.

“Well.” And, quite prosaically, he offered his arm. “I’ll see you to Widow Rudrill’s, Miss Dove.”

Gemma had no wish to be seen walking with a man of this sort. “My landlady will think that quite improper, sir.”

“I can explain you’re under my protection, then.”

“You shall do no such thing.” Gemma slipped past him sideways, wishing she had not given up the Metropolitan’s cudgel and likewise cursing herself for not pausing to take the pistol as well. She had some facility with firing the things—Sampson insisted—and they were useful.

If she was to become a highly unfeminine creature dealing death to evildoers, she might as well add theft to her list of crimes.

“Miss Dove.” He turned his head, that was all. “As long as you mean the Rooks no ill, you’re safe in the Acre. We look after our own.”

“I can see that.” At least, you rescue children from catchers, which is very noble indeed. “I keep to my own affairs, Mr Rook, and I shall leave you to yours.”

Once she was well out of danger she hurried for the street, alert for any whisper of moving air presaging an attack. None came, and she reached Rudrill’s lodging house with no further incident, clutching her reticule in gloved, aching fingers.

THAT NIGHT, and for a week or so afterward, the rooftops of Hell’s Acre were quiet indeed.

Three Graces

IT WAS A FINE thing to settle at a dainty desk of fragrant heartwood in one’s own tiny, exquisite sitting room, dip one’s pen, and begin a duty one rather liked. But it was a pity to be writing upon such a terrible subject, even at the remove of several years.

The priests of certain Eastron gods held that all things were trapped in a vast circle, and those serving the regular, prosaic gods of Albion said unfinished matters inevitably returned to haunt even the fully Respectable. Lady Cassel, fashionably irreligious as most of her peers, could not suppress a small shiver as her pen’s nib hovered over heavy, cream-coloured paper.

There was a quite unwonted tremor in her long, tapering fingers, freshly washed and dabbed with rosewater. Her loose morning corset reminded her back of its duty to remain straight and graceful; her sprigged muslin was light, fresh, and comfortable.

For the rest of her, there was little comfort to be found.

She had already sealed a missive to Beth—no, to Gemma, she reminded herself; the fiction was far more important than the girl knew—and set it aside in the small brass tray for outgoing post. Preparations for the next charity ball were well underway, and it was scarcely any trouble to add Imanuel to the list of Good Causes every lady of reasonable stature and a rich husband was expected to patronise.

Now she was faced with writing quite a different letter.

The first problem was the salutation, not to mention the address. Chevallier Bayard was quite out of the question, and Mr Sampson—why on earth had he chosen that name, she wondered—was simply a step too far. Dear Sir was bland, and might not endear her to such a man.

He must know. He had to know, but why would he have allowed this?

Once, Lady Cassel had been simply Antoinette Fairhaven, and it was no false pride to say she had been considered quite a beauty. Her first season out had been called the Reign of the Three Graces, for Henrietta Nossorton and Alice, poor Alice, had debuted as well. And hadn’t that been a magical time—young and lovely, though terribly worried at their prospects for marriage, each girl knowing so much depended upon finishing the hunt in satisfactory fashion.

The balls, the soirees, the teas, the great whirl of calls and races and champagne, deadly serious but at the same time full of laughter, for Alice could make anything into an adventure and Hay’s sweetness was far more than skin deep. . . .

It was a shame girls were raised for marriage, since the institution did them no good at all. Just look what that Gaulish bastard—and yes, inside the safety of her own skull Antoinette could call him what he was—had done to poor dear Hay. Shattering such a delicate, kindly creature’s nerves with abuse was bad enough, but then having the nerve to accept a soldier’s challenge even if that soldier was Bayard, a name of quite resounding and respectable lineage, was a step too far. Guilfoile could have let her abscond, or even simply refrained from being a piggish, brutal git.

All authorities, moral and otherwise, held that aristocracy and good breeding gave one natural refinement. Antoinette de Langlois had her doubts.

Then there was Alice Saunière. Albeit arranged, the First Grace’s marriage had been a happy one, yet all too brief and brought to a shocking end by a man’s greedy lust. Rumors were bad enough, but what Rexton had actually done was far worse. Antoinette was still expected to greet him at social functions, smile at his sallies, and pretend she did not know.

And Alice, dear laughing, generous Alice in her cold, narrow grave amid the stench of the Boneyard. A brief season of glory before harsh endless winter—that was, according to poets classical, romantic, and modern, the lot of Woman.

Now Alice’s daughter was in the bloom of youth, and in New Rome as well, the one place she should not be. Almost two decades of strict silence, secrecy, and smiling blandly whenever Hay was referred to in pitying tones was at risk of being utterly undone.

If Victor ever suspected his wife had known or colluded in a certain escape from Albion. . . .

Antoinette tilted her head, dark curls piled high in a style which took every pain to seem artless. Of the Three Graces, she had done the best, it seemed—though Victor was neglectful he was not plainly awful, and if he spent so much time at his club and attending to shadowy, blasphemous business at least he never caviled at her housekeeping or the need to spend a few pounds as an aristocrat’s wife was expected to. He never made a single peep when she lost money at whist, either, and his own gambling debts were respectable but not overwhelming. His visits to ballet girls or the most expensive, cleanly wolf-houses in New Rome’s flesh-sinks were right and proper, so far as that went, and his attentions upon her own person only perfunctory since they both suspected she would not produce an heir after two stillbirths and two more infants taken by fever before their second birthdays.

In any case, he had his young cousin Bertram to give the title to, and if that were not enough, at least neither husband nor wife railed at each other or to gossip-prone confidants. She fulfilled every other duty a wife should, he every husband’s, and that, as the moralists said, was that.

A drop of ink trembled heavy-pregnant upon the pen’s nib. She dipped again, carefully, thankful she had not blotched a perfectly good piece of paper. Bayard could not visit Albion without risking some unpleasantness, and Gemma parried every hint that she should return to St Courcy’s safety with a grace and thoroughness Hay must have trained her well in. Manners and airs were womanly weapons, and the girl deployed all with aplomb.

Dear Sir, Antoinette wrote, and paused again. Cold and unfeeling, it was the best of a set of bad options. She paused again, at a loss for words as she almost never was, especially with a pen in hand.

What she wanted to do, she realised, was scream. It was quite an uncharacteristic urge for a lady born and bred to graceful reticence.

How could you let her go? Are you mad? I cannot keep her safe, that was your charge. By all the gods, you should have kept Hay alive for much longer, too; what use is that sword arm of yours and all your vaunted chivalry if it ends here? Did you know what that girl is planning? Do you have any idea how dangerous Felix is?

Unfortunately, Hay’s protector—oh, it was scandalous, the fiction of his employment when he was a husband in all but name—had, for some mad reason, not locked little Beth in a tower or performed some other fairytale feat to keep her from New Rome and its attendant dangers.

The fashionable Crosse Street mansion was full of well-ordered bustle, and a whisper of skirts in the hall reached her ears. Maids busy at cleaning and pressing, the butler and footmen likewise with their own tasks, Cook preparing luncheon in the kitchen and deliveries arriving according to strict schedule, all running like clockwork and intruding upon Antoinette’s thoughts with their soft motion until she longed to cry aloud, to throw something breakable, to act as an aristocratic woman never should.

She shook her head and leaned forward, setting nib to paper again as her bracelet—silver-sheathed onyx today, a gift from Alice so many years ago and selected that morning as a penance—touched the desk’s surface with a tiny, bony sound.

News has just reached me of my dear friend Henrietta Guilfoile’s passing. Please accept my condolences during this difficult time; it is but faint comfort to know she is with the gods and free of our earthly travails.

So far, so good. Exceedingly conventional, the kind of semantic pablum at which young Hay would have hid a smile behind gloved hand or painted fan. And now Antoinette could almost hear Alice’s merry laughter at one of Hay’s sallies; her own lips twitched, a pained smile any woman of a certain age would recognise.

She wrote for some short while, pausing only to dip the pen afresh. A reminisce or two of Hay’s early years, the news that Antoinette would be engaging plainchant oratories at the de Langlois family chapel to speed Hay’s journey to whatever Elysium awaited one so good and kind, an offer of aid financial or otherwise extended to Hay’s young ward, carefully left unnamed.

Nobody would have thought to look for the dead child of a scandal-murdered woman at St Courcy. Antoinette herself had—with Alec Nossorton’s help—arranged the baby’s passage with a suitably phlegmatic wet nurse, lo these many years ago, upon a ship bearing a heavily veiled Henrietta Guilfoile as well. By the time the craft docked in Gaul, the child for all intents and purposes belonged to Hay, and Alec had taken care to provide documentation sealed and stamped, helped along by a generous amount of Antoinette’s pin-money and her contact with a certain aged priestess of Ysys, the very one who had attended the birth and furthermore averred the child of poor Alice Grant-Roissy, née Saunière, stillborn.

Just afterward, Alec had made certain the Priory was too occupied with his betrayal to spend much time questioning that avowal. If a widow adopted an orphaned babe of unclear parentage, granting the Guilfoile name to a fresh generation, who could gainsay her? It was a time-honoured tradition, assuring a rich woman of some little care in her declining, elderly years.

Livia-Beth Gemiara Grant-Roissy, Lady Greywood, little Beth-Anne Guilfoile, Gemma Dove . . . how many more names would the child acquire before she joined Alice and Hay? And how long would it be before Antoinette could finally go and see her friends, if she lived her remaining life blamelessly as possible? Perhaps upon those green hills starred with asphodel the Three Graces would be merry again, without the interference of men and their grasping nastiness, their rapacious appetites, their lordly, selfish unconcern.

Lady Cassel dipped her pen yet again.

I had often thought to visit St Courcy; Hay always told me the roses are quite fine. This winter has been harsh, but there seems a freshness to the promise of spring, and many a flower blooms in New Rome too.

There. Bayard would guess what she hinted at. The only trouble was, anyone who intercepted this letter might do so as well; she did not know how close a watch the Priory kept upon the wives of its members.

A good wife should not even know of her husband’s involvement in such affairs, of course. Sometimes Antoinette even longed, bitterly and uselessly, for a return of blithe ignorance.

Oh, Netta, Hay had whispered, clutching her hand. Can I trust you?

What other answer could she have given? To death, my dearest Hay. What has happened?

It’s Alice. Some things . . . oh, my brother told me, such shocking things . . . please, Netta, we must trust each other. I need your help quite desperately.

Antoinette closed with more conventional commonplaces, signed with her usual flourish, and waited for the ink to dry. There was a plaintive echo of the girl she had once been in Lady Cassel’s features as she blew gently across the page, blotting paper pressed gently as a lover’s fingertips against words holding double or triple meanings and a heavy cargo of worry besides.

Yet in her youth Antoinette Fairhaven had never looked so severe. Folding the letter puzzle-fashion, the way she and Hay had always done, was a bitter familiarity, and addressing its blank outside to St Courcy was another. There were other missives to write, and waiting for her usual day set aside for such things had been a torment all its own.

Had she a Bayard of her own, she could enjoin him to bundle the girl back over the Channel posthaste. Antoinette could not visit Alec Nossorton at Taurrock, nor could she write to him—he was quite out of Society, even as a priest, and Victor would not like such contact at all. It could even cause a great deal of trouble for her husband, and she knew better than to tempt his temper, let alone any watching Fate . . . or the Priory.

This would have to do. At least she had the girl’s address and a quiet enquiry had proven it respectable, even though situated in a highly unfashionable part of New Rome adjacent to the Thrash. Antoinette could even pass off her interest in the young lady’s whereabouts as simple prudence, since charity was not to be bestowed on the unworthy; Imanuel was thankfully also quite decent, though Victor might sniff that the poor were rather above themselves these days, wanting foundlings to be educated.

She attended to the rest of her letters methodically, but the greater half of her mind was occupied with teasing at the problem little Beth represented. Of course she had promised to do all in her power to aid Hay’s young ward, and if Lady Cassel were to be strictly honest she hoped Bayard would risk Albion’s heavy hand of justice and come to drag the child home.

Tangling with Felix Larridby was a fool’s game, but little Gemma brushed aside all objections. She had some plan, and the steely glint to her eye did not match her youth and softness. In fact, it bore a startling resemblance to Alec Nossorton’s expression during their final meeting upon the docks while the packet ship made ready to bear away a bruised, heavily veiled Hay, a baby, and a wet nurse to Gaul. Or to certain descriptions Hay gave of Bayard’s mien after the famous duel.

Alice, gentle adventurous Alice had never been severe, though her large dark eyes were set in Gemma’s face and a certain tilt of the child’s head recalled the First Grace. Perhaps Antoinette could somehow prevail upon the girl to return to safety without betraying the secret, without disturbing the dangers lurking beneath the glittering surface of New Rome’s social whirl.

If she did not, the Third Grace—for she had made her courtesy to the young Empress after Alice and Hay, the three of them in a line of other girls, all of good birth and in flowing white—would be called upon to do some disagreeable things indeed.

I’d rather die than endure him any longer, Hay had said of Guilfoile, and Antoinette had known beyond a doubt that she meant it.

Marriage was dreadful, indeed. Now the only survivor of a trio which had considered itself quite immortal—as all young creatures do—was wondering, as she sealed and addressed her correspondence, if perhaps she should have risked genteel poverty in order to stay free of it.

Part Two:
The Dance

Breakbridge’s Misgivings

“THANK YOU, young Master Scupping.” Gemma tilted her head, alert to the sound of tramping brogans in the hallway. The black-haired boy preened, setting the chalk down and dusting his hands; he had quite a facility for mathematics—certainly more than she ever possessed, even with her governesses’ patient help. “Put your slates away, gentlemen; let us make the classroom tidy before noon chapel, shall we?”

They obeyed with good grace and a mere modicum of larking, for they were after all very young. And they lined up in order at the door, each boy’s hand upon the shoulder of the one before; when Gemma swept the door open, she could proceed at the head of a mannerly queue of Imanuel boys, their faces shining with solemn pride and their steps in near-martial unison. The tramp of their shoes sounded like the First Empire’s marching legionnaires, as her fellow teacher Mr Roycebury was prone to exclaim, ignoring the pained look crossing the Director’s face each time he did so.

Gemma had quite a newfound respect for her old governesses, even if they only had to deal with one child instead of a roomful. The work was exhausting, yet not without some small bits of recompense, like the disbelieving grin on Ged Kardesty when his halting attempt to read a line from Miss Phelan’s much-used Hevvington Primer met with some judiciously expressed approval, or the gift of a bright bluejay feather wrapped in much-used foolscap upon her desk, tied with twine salvaged or filched from the kitchen.

Her fine mood could not even be spoiled by the constant watch kept upon her once she left the Widow Rudrill’s each morning, and upon her return each eve. Indeed, she could hardly stir a step within the Acre without some flashily clad ruffian drifting in her wake, ostensibly taking a constitutional but always managing to keep her in sight.

She intended to bore them until they tired of the game, or until her plans reached a certain point. Either would do.

Much harder to bear was the thought of the Imanuel boys’ disappointment once she vanished like one of Artemis Greaca’s moonbeams. Perhaps the next teacher engaged by Director Breakbridge would heed Miss Phelan’s excellent advice; if not, the young ones seemed more than adequate to teaching her successor the folly of their course.

Miss Dove would not be thinking of such things, of course. Her attention would be upon her pace, stately instead of brisk, her step soundless as she led the boys down the west staircase toward the chapel’s draughty, ill-lit ranks of wooden benches. Mr Appleton nodded as his queue fell into step beside hers, and Gemma returned the small salute. If it pleased her to be accepted into the small band of Imanuel’s teachers, she gave little sign, but neither did she avoid their remarks on the infrequent occasions she appeared at table in the refectory.

Despite the ever-present cabbage, Miss Dove would understand the value of a meal requiring no pence produced to pay for.

In fact, the only sour note in the entire operation was Director Breakbridge’s frown. The worthy gentleman was at the chapel door, as usual, overseeing the clockwork entry of orphans and foundlings into the hour of plainchant and oratory insisted upon by those who dribbled support to the school’s coffers, both operations meant to teach the young poor how to be deserving and accept their place in the great congress of Empire.

He beckoned and Gemma stepped aside, gesturing her boys through the high, age-darkened wooden doorway with a meaningful raising of her eyebrows. Hopefully they would not feel called upon to take her absence as an invitation to wreak mischief upon other students. A state of simmering warfare could be said to exist between each group, only held in abeyance by arcane, ever-shifting childhood treaties and the presence of adult discipline; it was, Gemma rather thought, the history of Empire writ large.

When every form had passed through, even Mr Blakely’s class of littles barely able to lisp their alpha-beta, Breakbridge indicated the hallway. Apparently someone else would be giving the oration today. “Miss Dove.”

“Director.” Gemma clasped her hands and fell into step beside him, a thin thread of unease beginning in her middle. The bewhiskered head of Imanuel had not mentioned her retrieval of students subjected to childcatchers’ attentions, confining himself to mere commonplaces and inquiring after her class’s progress.

He also did not force her to climb the stairs to his office, merely halted a short distance from the chapel doors, under a draught-struggling gaslight. The tip of his nose twitched once and his gaze was bright, not to mention uncomfortably keen. He tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, regarding her over the ever-present pince-nez. “The post came this morning.”

It does most mornings, sir. She kept the observation to herself, though, gazing slightly upward with every evidence of rapt attention. Hay would have smiled, recognizing her ward’s mischievous mood and willingness to let an unwitting interlocutor think her quite taken in.

A sharp pain stabbed in the region of Gemma’s heart. Was Hay watching in one of Elysium’s fog-wreathed, magical mirrors or small ponds used by the beloved dead to see—and quite possibly bemoan—their descendants’ behaviour?

She had been wondering quite a lot of silly things like that lately, especially while upon her narrow bed in her garret, her eyes half-closed and the cold darkness pressing upon the covers as she breathed deeply, the Path’s approximation of slumber erasing some weariness.

Actual sleep was not restful at all, for the dreams plaguing her were unpleasant at best.

At least Breakbridge did not let her linger in suspense. “A certain Lady Cassel has decided to grace us with her beneficence. She is throwing a Charity Ball, and has requested your presence to take subscriptions for Imanuel as well as dance with gentlemen and, in short, put a winning face upon our endeavours.”

A swell of plainchant cascaded through the chapel doors, high sweet boy-voices singing a hymn to Mithras since it was an ordination day in Taurrock’s calendar and the Abbey one of Imanuel’s largest supporters. The children were not overly musical but most approached the intonation with gusto, since shouting was frowned upon in the school’s halls. Allowing the students some lee to scream perhaps functioned much as lifting the lid of a pot, allowing steam to escape.

“I can be singularly winning, sir.” It was not arrogance to aver so, Gemma thought. After all, just this morning she had kept a score of young miscreants from outright mutiny—and forced them to learn some multiplication as well. “And I do not disappoint upon a ballroom’s parquet.”

“You are a young lady of many talents, indeed.” There was no distracted air about the director of Imanuel now, and his bushy, greying eyebrows drew together in quite unwontedly ferocious fashion. “I have not asked any questions, for you were recommended by the Greatfather in glowing terms and he is not a man to give praise lightly. But I have misgivings, Miss Dove.”

Which of the teachers would you send in my place? Gemma’s pulse attempted to throb in her wrists and throat despite the iron grip of training. Aunt Hay’s old bosom friend had indeed done as she said she would; vengeance was one small step closer. “Misgivings, sir?”

“I shall be perfectly frank.” Peering over his pince-nez, he fixed her with a glare which might have been quite quelling indeed, had she not endured much weightier ones from Sampson. “You are a young woman, albeit well recommended and quite obviously of some sense. Yet I do not like the thought that you consider Imanuel simply a convenient resting spot before other endeavours.”

Good heavens, sir, are you asking if I mean to be a schoolmistress forever? “I find very little about Imanuel convenient, sir.” Of course, he would suspect a young woman more interested in husband-hunting than in bloody revenge or a life spent educating foundlings until a poverty-stricken death, probably brought before her natural time by worry and labour. “But such is the nature of honest work, is it not?”

The shabbily genteel girl she was impersonating might not have dared such a tart reply, but if Breakbridge was being direct, certainly his newest magistrix could return the favour.

She had, after all, chased down childcatchers and returned some of his precious charges, even if he would not refer to the event. Perhaps he considered it rather ill-bred for a woman to behave so. Still, he had confined himself to politely greeting Miss Dove upon her return to Imanuel later that afternoon, neat and presentable in drab brown instead of grey.

“Quite so, quite so.” Breakbridge’s rather watery gaze had lost none of its piercing quality, and his eyes were somewhat bloodshot. Perhaps he found sleep a near-impossibility for his own reasons. “The boys in your room have had much disturbance and disruption of late, Miss Dove. I should hate to see them subjected to more.”

Do you suspect me of husband-hunting, or merely of unfeminine behaviour? “I should as well, sir.”

“Then I may give my hearty approval to Lady Cassel’s suggestion, and trust that you will return to Imanuel in good order after her ball? I must also admit that I would hate to lose you, Miss Dove. You have proven thoroughly capable in your short time.”

“It is pleasant to be thought so, Mr Breakbridge.” Gemma forced her hands to stillness, and the rest of her. He was pompous, yes, but Breakbridge also cared quite a bit for his foundlings and orphans. Not to mention some of the other magisters here were, she surmised, seeking refuge themselves. Like Appleton, with his wound from the Peninsular War, or Shropley with his constant ‘nerve-tonic’ bearing a suspicious resemblance to plain laudanum. Or Filbin, who had the reputation of being quite a poet though not of the sort which could interest any publisher in his verse, and whose past contained some manner of scandal the other teachers studiously avoided referring to, especially in her presence. “Have no fear, I intend to return directly after Lady Cassel’s ball, and present myself to my students in the usual manner.”

It was not a lie, she told her pinching, prodding conscience. Gemma Dove would, indeed, intend to return to Imanuel in good order, not only post-ball but also for some time afterward. She might even manage the trick, if no opportunity for a swift strike presented itself. In any event Miss Dove would simply disappear only after Livia-Beth Grant-Roissy’s work was done, unmourned and largely unremarked. Young ladies of certain poverty could meet with many a mischance in New Rome’s deeper sinks. And none—except for perhaps Taurrock’s Greatfather—would be the wiser.

Beth-Anne Guilfoile might even return to St Courcy, though the prospect of facing Sampson again caused a very strange pain in Gemma’s chest, one of a collection she was fast accumulating. He might observe a strict, disapproving quiet, and that would be hardest of all to bear—he was capable of a very stinging silence when she had behaved in less-than-pleasant fashion.

The hymn to Mithras ended, and there was a great shuffling and coughing. Appleton would be settling his reading spectacles upon his nose, preparing to deliver a speech in his reedy tenor; some of the boys might even be paying attention to the man penned in the carved, age-blackened orator’s box.

“Hrm.” Breakbridge adjusted his own pince-nez again. His scrutiny of her expression was quite forward, and she might have taken exception to it in another setting. But here, she suffered it as Aunt Hay’s ward never would. “I have half a mind to ask one of the local worthies to accompany you, Miss Dove. New Rome is a very large metropolis, and a young lady may find some corners quite . . . well, I am being rather shockingly direct, you must forgive me. But you are a sensible young woman, and I think we understand each other.”

At least, I am fairly sure I understand you. “I hope so, sir.” If she was saddled with one of the teachers at the ball, it might even prove amusing. “I shall observe a great deal of caution, never fear.”

Certainly Lady Cassel’s ball sounded far more diverting than listening to Appleton stammer his way through a homily on the lessons of Hephaestus’s Patience, and an afternoon of managing a group of restless youths while the cabbage-stench of approaching dinner filled Imanuel’s halls.

She thought Breakbridge’s qualms the extent of surprises the day would hold, especially since the weather was uniformly dull, grey, and damp—at least the rain washed ever-present coalsmoke fog into the gutter—but she was wrong.

Dinner, and Surprises

HE COULDN’T CHASE his quarry every day. For one thing, he had much business elsewhere, and for another, his Rooks were unmerciful when they suspected one another of fancy in a frail’s direction.

They were even worse when it was suspected toward a girl of the Respectable variety, and Miss Dove was eminently and thoroughly in that category. Herrin had already twice broached the subject of the suspected gullcatcher and just what she was doing applying a shillelagh to the skull of a Metropolitan. Help in the last instance had arrived from a somewhat unexpected quarter, with Ned Popper’s wheezing laugh and merry observation, in sharp cant, that the bloody fool had been pointing a pistol at a maternal lioness he’d mistaken for a common housecat and thus richly deserved whatever he received. One less of Peele’s boys was all to the good, and no awkward questions were being asked in Acre or Thrash about the disappearance.

Which was thought-provoking indeed.

The persistent rain didn’t help. The boys were grumbling about patrolling rooftops in this weather, except for Veece—and that was another worry, the fellow was too good to be true. Quick, quiet, and effective, he took to the highroads as if he’d been born there. No shade of Hellion, Priory, or other training hung upon the man; he was quite simply a natural, and Avery had many a use for such a creature.

If, that was, he could trust its loyalty. Avery pulled his hat low over his eyes, wishing it were a hood, and joined the stream of pedestrians at the corner where the Thrash met the open space between Imanuel and Taurrock, a dark fish in cold waters. A Hellion thought best while moving, or at least he did and Morton had never disagreed. Most of the Rooks not engaged in watching over the Acre’s corners according to strict schedule were holed up in Lucky’s where the coalfire and the ale would warm every inch, raucous jokes covering the coming and going of runners bringing news from every corner of Avery’s tiny country.

It wasn’t an empire, but then again, he needed very little. A pebble could start an avalanche, a single lost shoe-nail fell a rider upon whom an army was depending for news. Rain soaked Avery’s shoulders, dripped in silver strings from his hat’s brim, and he was wet to the knee by the time a familiar brown pelisse appeared, gliding at a good clip across the cobbled lane.

She occasionally varied her route home, but today she stayed upon the shortest way and her slim shoulders were not quite so ruler-straight as usual. Of course, a roomful of Imanuel boys would wear out the patience of Juno herself; did lady schoolteachers have a patron goddess? Perhaps Athene Graeca or her other face Minerva, though both were exceedingly warlike.

Perhaps this girl was a kind of avatar, dropped into New Rome’s filth to start a fresh age of miracles.

Annoyed at his own imagination, Avery followed one particular slight form amid a crowd of others in damp-dark clothing, a reek of wet wool and cold water filling the street, horses clopping by and wheels turning, a rhythm like a giant pulse. New Rome was a body and the streets veins and arteries, carrying commerce, gin, and desperation in equal measures.

A third of the way to Rudrill’s the brown pelisse made a sharp turn, stepping through the low doorway of the Red Pot. Of course she’d stop at that publick house; Lucky’s was full of Rooks and she avoided his fellows like the plague, Sandringham’s was awash with frails at this hour and no respectable girl could be seen there without some risk, and the Chipper nearer Rudrill’s was the haunt of labourers who might take a liberty or two in the direction of an unaccompanied lady.

No, the Pot was her best choice, and Avery found himself almost impelled to the threshold, pausing for only a moment before stepping into a hum of conversation, rattling dishware, hurrying slatterboys, and cheerful pub-girls clattering in wooden shoes, their skirts ankle-hiked above the damp sawdust floor. The fug of wet cloth, roasting meat, and sweat was broken by a thread of smoke from the narrow tabac room along one side of the pub, for the Pot had pretensions at gentility almost out of keeping with its location. For all that, it did a brisk business winter and summer, and the food wasn’t half bad either.

Miss Dove was not completely unknown here. Sandy the plump blonde pub-girl motioned her to the end of a long table, the corner reserved for those with proper manners fortunately empty. The lady’s wet coat was hung upon the peg behind, and the raw blush on her nose and cheeks was almost painful to look at.

She did not belong here, especially with her Continental method of handling the horn-handled cutlery produced from her reticule against this eventuality. Of course he’d peeked in the small bag before returning it; such bad manners were merely prudent. The important thing was neither sliverpence nor needle missing when he gave it back, though he doubted she saw it that way.

A half-pint of dark was thumped down before her, and Sandy leaned close to hear Miss Dove’s cultured tones, replying with a pert wink and sashaying off to bring a weary wanderer some manner of repast. Avery nabbed the bit of bench right across the table, gesturing to massive, bewhiskered Hilary at the polished oaken counter.

Hilary did not pale—the Pot was current on its payments and a visit from the Rook wasn’t highly unusual, especially on a blustery end-of-Februs-month day.

Miss Dove barely granted her new tablemate a glance. If she were surprised or perturbed at his sudden appearance, it did not show. She set about preparing her personal environs for dinner in quite the usual fashion, though with a grace which spoke of actual instead of merely attempted gentility. The man to her left—a hefty drover with a much-mended waistcoat of cheerful plaid—gave Avery a curious glance, but found neither bullyboy nor lady worth bothering and bent to his own something-and-kidney pie with alacrity, effectively ignoring the entire world with the air of a fellow who had much practice with the endeavour.

Avery and his quarry were just in time, for the Pot soon filled to near-boiling, everyone wanting dinner at once. Judging by the expostulations at the door, the rain had intensified as winter dusk failed, and judging by the pasty thumped down before Imanuel’s witch, teaching gave one a hearty appetite. She set to with a will, quite probably stoking internal fires as a Hellion was wont to do, and Sandy eyed Avery with some trepidation.

He made the accepted motion of I’ll have another of what that one’s got, and in short order a full pint and his own repast arrived. Miss Dove’s dark gaze swung past him, passing over the pub in swift, smooth arcs, and he didn’t know whether to be charmed or irritated that she was obviously keeping a watch upon his back as a fellow Rook would, not that he needed it.

Or perhaps she was merely sussing an escape route, like any good pickpocket.

A shout went up from a more roisterous corner, where a group of bricklayers were engaged in drinking the day’s pay. The walls almost breathed steam, the heat of bodies helping along the coal in the ancient hearth; the rattle of tableware was like the sound of the sea.

A woman could make a man feel ignored in a hundred little ways, and Miss Dove no doubt had a hundred more saved up against the Emperor’s visit, as the proverb went. He didn’t mind, much. The lack of speech was almost companionable, especially when she ordered a second round of dark ale after the fellow next to her finished and left. The pub-girls sang as they dashed between tables, the bricklayers gave another rollicking yell, and the tabac-room was doing brisk business, giving a puff of burning every time the door swung open upon squeaking hinges.

The standing eaters hurried out into the damp, leaving the serious drinkers and those who could only afford ale instead of something more solid. Another flood of diners would arrive soon, yet a curious calm fell over the Pot’s long tables and faintly unsteady benches. Avery settled his elbows upon the much-wiped wood before him, took a pull from his fresh pint, and didn’t miss the gullcatcher’s faint grimace.

So the lady wasn’t pleased by his lack of manners. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Avery decided they had enough lee to speak, especially since their table was emptying and Sandy’s faithful pair of slatterboys were busy clearing other crockery.

The only problem was what to say. “How are your students then, Miss Dove?”

Those deep, dark eyes widened a bit, almost in disbelief. The flush from ale, hot food, and the close warmth of the room suited her a great deal; so did the few curls worked loose of her braids, clinging to her damp temples. A mannerly miss, sipping instead of gulping, nibbling instead of tearing into—she might have been at a Gaulish banquet instead of a New Rome pub amid the hoi polloi. “I’m sure Director Breakbridge may furnish you a full report.” The faintest of pauses. “Sir.”

It almost stung. Avery let his smile widen, leaning forward. “Thought we might put each other’s minds at ease, Miss Dove.”

“In what fashion, sir?” Her tone could best be described as frosty, but that was oddly charming, too. He hadn’t realised just how young she was. No doubt that icy self-possession helped her hold one or two importunate fellows at a distance.

Which was, he thought, all to the good.

“Is that any way to speak to a gentleman, miss?” The cant had slipped from his tongue, and he didn’t mind that, either. “Especially one who’s done you a good turn or two?”

“You aver yourself a gentleman with startling regularity, Mr Black.” She set her cutlery down, at precise angles. “One might think you uncertain of any claim to the title.”

“Or attempting to convince a stubborn girleen with more salt than sense.” He pushed his bitter fractionally aside with one elbow. “You needn’t worry about Mr Peele’s boys coming to your door. It’s been tucked away.”

If her air of puzzlement wasn’t entirely genuine, it was an imitation more real than the article itself. “I am not acquainted with a Mr Peele, sir. And I am certainly not formally acquainted with you.” Her chin set, and those eyes flashed.

A girleen could stop a man’s heart with a look like that, and it could make the fortune of a gullcatcher in far more congenial climes than the Acre. What, in the name of every god from Jove the Thunderer to the jealous Eastron sword-eater, was she doing here? “Pity. I could help you a great deal, if I’d a mind to.”

Imanuel’s witch studied him as if she’d found a bit of rat in her pasty, which wasn’t out of the question in many an Acre dinner hole; the Pot, thankfully, was not quite a cut but definitely a wrinkle above. Her silence went past chilly into downright frigid, then her gaze swung away, finding Sandy and passing a secret, subtle feminine signal akin to invisible telegrams chatter-singing through wires.

All science, my boy, Morton said. Just like the healing breath and fooling the eye. If they call it magic, more’s the better.

His interview with the lady was evidently done, for she set about preparing to rise, producing payment from her reticule and handing it to Sandy with a small nod accompanied by a gracious smile—someone of less genteel appearance would be required to pay first, naturally. The pub-girl cast Avery a nervous glance, but he wasn’t to be outdone by a witch in grey.

Not tonight, at least. He walked his own coin over his knuckles before palming it to the table, wishing Miss Dove was watching like the pub-girl, Sandy’s lips parted and an unwilling smile tugging at the corners of her generous mouth. She knew the Rook was a handy fellow to have about, at least.

But the lady in grey—the dress well repaired from her brush with childcatchers—rose, took her still-wet pelisse from its peg, and quit the Pot with alacrity, tugging on her gloves, leaving nothing but crumbs upon a long pub table and a half-finished glass of dark ale. When Avery reached the street moments later, she was nowhere to be seen amid the tired crowd of Hell’s Acre citizens hurrying under a lash of cold rain.

And Avery Black found himself quite uncharacteristically nettled, indeed.

LATER THAT EVENING, snug in the room above Lucky’s, he listened to the roar of the commons room below as he studied his wet boot-toes.

“It’s a good plan,” Herrin said, somewhat defensively, and stuck his thumbs in his braces.

“Not arguing, am I?” Veece regarded the rickety table and the hand-drawn map, large as a broadsheet, just as a banker in the City might a list of returns. The rhythm of Eire rubbed through his words. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Too curious,” Herrin grumbled, but subsided as Avery glanced in his direction.

McNeiss’s erstwhile quick-knife made no move to return to old haunts or smuggle messages to former companions. Perhaps he was indeed that rarity—a fellow exactly what he claimed to be.

Herrin, of course, had to suspect. It was his function. Ned Popper watched Veece too, but whether with suspicion or in an attempt to absorb a few of the fellow’s better moves in the sawdust ring was an open question. Kane was supremely unconcerned, settled near the grate and toasting a bit of cheese upon a long fork, leaving the whole affair to wiser heads than his.

Bless the man.

“I don’t like the bolted door here.” Popper leaned over the table, brushing the inked map with a single callused fingertip.

“You don’t like anything.” Hal Wurth ran a hand over slicked-back hair; his shoulders and boots were damp too. He’d spent the day collecting near Huq’s End, and was consequently in a sour mood no amount of tea, ale, or even gin could lighten. “Suppose we could have one or two of our lads bang it, though. A little nitrou-glysserine, and Hal’s yer uncle.”

“Is that always your solution?” Veece sounded only mildly interested. “That’s a blind alley, besides. Anyone going in there can be bottled.” He indicated an unshaded portion of the map. “And probably will be. This lordly fellow’s sharp, and likes to make sure of his investments.”

“He’ll be expecting a shipment, won’t he?” Popper glanced at Herrin. “Fresh meat. Which means guards.”

Avery didn’t fidget, though the urge ran just under his skin. Listening to them argue when he’d already decided on a job was as necessary as warming the teapot, and sometimes even brought up a deficiency in his own planning. His eyes half-lidded, and he tried not to think about the disdain on a certain grey-clad girl’s face.

I am not acquainted with a Mr Peele. How was a gullcatcher, trained as she obviously was, innocent of the Metropolitans? Or did she think him so stupid he would believe her unaware?

There was no satisfactory answer to the question and it wouldn’t do to be so distracted, especially during this meeting. His boys would hold Rexton’s eye while another blade jabbed elsewhere—but if they found out as much, he wouldn’t escape their attempts to ‘help’ in one or two highly inadvisable ways.

“We’re not there for rescue,” Herrin pointed out. “They ent Acre littles. They can shift for themselves.”

It wasn’t commendable, or very moral, but it was exceedingly practical. Which was all that should concern a Hellion.

Still, he shifted slightly, and every gaze in the room fastened upon him. “Does nowt harm, leavin’ a hole for them to scurry free.”

It was silly, of course. The entire point was winning the battle, not fighting with one hand tied to your belt by considerations of fair play. In the sawdust ring, some rules could be observed. Outside, the men like Rexton had the game so rigged adding even another feather to their end of the scale was a fool’s blunder.

And yet . . . he was a Hellion, not a Priory blasphemer. Sometimes it did a man good to remember what he fought, and to weigh whether or not he wanted to become a like monster.

Or a worse one.

“Once it starts burning,” Kane rumbled from his perch, his jacket steaming as he examined the cheese-fork’s bubbling, molten cargo, “the rats’ll take any hole they can.”

“That’s another thing. Suppose it takes out the buildings to either side.” Popper laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. It was an awful habit, but there was no breaking him of it. And at least he never practised it upon the rooftops at night.

“Suppose it does.” Veece glanced at Avery. “Can’t see as how that’s our knot.”

“Cor.” Kane hunched his massive shoulders. “Yer a right bloodthirsty one, entcha.” He blew upon the cheese before consuming it with dainty bites, quite at odd with his size.

“Easy, lads.” Avery focused on his toes again. The bloody girleen with her nose stuck so high—it would do her good to come down a peg or so. Which wasn’t his task—he had far more important things to worry about, like just how to destroy a foundry or two without roasting himself or his Rooks in the flames. “We look at everything so nothing surprises us.” One of Morton’s little maxims, that. It was far better to think of his teacher than of a priggish magistrix. She wasn’t even pretty; how the frails would laugh at her drab grey and brown, her old-fashioned cloak.

But she was trained, light on her feet, and had handled Portius like a she-bear defending her cubs. If she suffered any pangs for the Metropolitan’s fate, they didn’t show.

And that, Avery realised, was almost as interesting as her connexion to the Greatfather. There was no more skinny bastard dancing on the Acre’s roofs at night either, though why he should think of that Avery didn’t quite—

“Surprises happen anyway,” Veece observed, rather like a schoolteacher himself. The man wasn’t quite a pedant, but certainly had tendencies in that direction. He grew more and more interesting over time too, just not so intensely as Miss Dove.

The only important thing was that neither of them seemed to be Rexton’s creature, or at least, in Veece’s case, not wholly. Just whose they were was a mystery for a later date. His business now was striking the Priory bastard where it hurt, where all the Priory bastards could be hit.

Right in the jewel-bags known as property.

He stretched, catlike, deciding this group of lieutenants had squabbled enough. There were other matters he wanted Herrin and Popper for tonight; Flanders and Tinchley had to be sent ’round Harry Jenkins’s way, Kane and Fletcher were needed at Tinny McGill’s she-wolf lair because some of the girls there were having trouble collecting fair payment for their services.

Operating an association gave a Hellion several advantages, but it was depressingly like overseeing a regular business concern. At least, if one expected any return on the investment of one’s time and effort. “Don’t worry, Veece; I like a surprise every now’n again. Keeps the claret moving in the corpse, it does. To dinner with all of you except Kane, but send up Tinch and Fletch’s boys, if you please. Herrin, you take the map.”

They trooped out as he rose from the chair; Ave taking care to make every move languid, controlled. Herrin even saluted before he left—a bit of humor, gaining a tight, bright smile in return. If Avery’s unease and distraction had shown, Herrin would want to stay and Veece would certainly notice. But the knife-fighter was busy arguing sotto voce with Popper, and Wurth was listening with a rueful expression.

His Rooks were simple creatures, and very few suspected their leader’s true aim. Which was as it should be . . . and yet, it caused a twinge.

Wearing a mask wasn’t uncomfortable all the time. Why, after a while, it felt like a man’s real face.

“Summat on yer mind, boss?” Kane speared another hunk of cheese and extended it toward the fire. “Or are y’gon tell me not to thump a certain head at Tinny’s?”

“Neither,” Avery approached the fire, wishing he could get the damn girleen’s voice out of his head. You aver yourself a gentleman with startling regularity, Mr Black. “I hope that bit o’cheese is for me, more like.”

“Tear off a bit of the bread, then.” Kane bent back to his work, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

Avery examined his hands, extended toward the heat, half-moons of grime under every nail and his left cuff bearing a grease-spot from a heavy dinner at the Pot. He should have been thinking of the Jessamyn Foundry, owned by a certain Priory lord, and his secondary plans for an evening of mayhem in the not-too-distant future.

But all he could hear was a quiet, cultured voice, precisely accented with just a touch of Gaul.

One might think you uncertain of any claim to the title.

Nothing Disrespectable

TAKING A TURN along the edge of Imanuel’s dispiriting, stony ‘play yard’ was not the most uncomfortable walk Gemma had ever endured, but with ice in the heart of every raindrop and a whistling wind blustering along New Rome’s crowded chimneys, tearing rents in rising coalsmoke, it was not the most idyllic either. Most of her faculties were concerned what, exactly, she would witness at Lady Cassel’s upcoming charity ball.

It had become rather a delicate matter; bad enough that she was newly at her Imanuel post and a lady teacher to boot, but she was leaving her class to stay with a benefactress and politely plead subscribers to loosen their purse strings, albeit only for a few days.

Imanuel’s other teachers, all male, did not know quite what to think, despite Breakbridge’s bruiting about the fact of her recommendation from the Greatfather of Taurrock—she only hoped it would not bring trouble to her uncle’s door. She was Miss Phelan’s replacement, well and good—but she was also a hairsbreadth from being considered slightly scandalous, which was definitely not in her plan. Explaining her absence to Widow Rudrill would be necessary too, though Gemma’s soul bridled at the prospect of being questioned by such a prude.

At least her presence kept somewhat of a lid upon the bubbling stew of the yard, so to speak. After three turns along the bailey’s long side, her pace a measured glide and her gaze roving the crowd, she decided she was not imagining things.

Her boys—for such they were, for the moment—were behaving most peculiarly.

They prowled the edges of the space not occupied by teachers much as she did, almost in lockstep unison as if in the hallways. No few of them wore caps filched from somewhere, mostly pulled down over their eyes. Wooden soles clattered—even if ill-fitting, at least every Imanuel boy was shod—and when some play looked likely to become rough or unmannerly, a group of Gemma’s boys would detach from the main body and descend upon the spat.

No few seemed amicably resolved by this operation, but there were one or two exceptions. Gemma watched, somewhat bemused, as a scrap threatened to develop between Jack Dawes and a tall, gangly youth from Roycebury’s room. A glance at the far end of the yard showed Mr Appleton distracted by a rowdy and quite damp game of quoits the boys had scrounged the materials for somewhere-or-another.

Oh, dear. Gemma hurried for the altercation, which had quickly reached a pitch likely to catch the attention of the entire bailey. If that happened, she would be hard pressed to move among them without using some of the Path’s tricks, and she had already showed far too much of skill meant to be secret.

“Gentlemen,” she snapped as she came into hearing distance, dodging young Haynesworth, who looked fair to throwing himself upon the back of Dawes’s opponent. “Stop this immediately, the pair of you.”

She did not expect to be obeyed so promptly. Dawes broke away from the other boy, both of them breathing heavily, and now Gemma was the centre of a ring of solemn boys, all watching as if they expected another handkerchief trick.

“Mr Dawes,” she said, and fixed the other boy with what she hoped was an imperious look. “And you, sir?”

“M-M-Mason, mum.” The bobbin in his throat moved as he swallowed, and his freckles stood out, for he had paled rather abruptly. “Abney Mason, mum. Mr Roycebury’s class.”

“Yes.” She could ask for an explanation, but Gemma suspected that would only gain her a confused babble of claims, counterclaims, and hot dispute. “Be about your business, sir, and the rest of you as well. Mr Dawes, Mr Haynesworth, Mr Millbride, come with me.”

She returned to her place at the edge of the yard, the boys trailing her in good order. When she turned, regarding the three of them, her hands tucked deep into her pelisse’s sleeves for warmth and her nose threatening to drip, they actually looked a trifle chagrined.

“Well, Mr Dawes?” she prompted.

But it was Millbride, with his cheerful snub nose and hazel eyes, who spoke. “He was at little Barry again, mum.” The words burst out, much louder and more precise than his halting with the primer or announcing his name during morning and evening roll. “It ent fair, so we does summat ’bout it.”

“Barry . . .” Gemma glanced over their heads. A young boy, rather small, who had been upon the periphery of the scrap was watching her group anxiously; he had found a slouched cap like some of the others and his hands were fists. “I see. Well, Mr Barry must learn to stand on his own, too.”

“But . . .” Millbride half-turned, appealing to his companions. “But it ent right, Miss Dove, and we’re an association.”

“Doves, see?” Dawes burst out, shifting from foot to foot. A high flush bloomed on both his young cheeks, and his nose was pink-raw. “Like the Rooks.”

“I hardly think . . .” Gemma had to swallow the last half of the sentence, for had not those ‘rooks’—and their leader, a man much gossiped of in the Acre—hurried pell-mell to rescue not only her students but also other children?

And that man, Avery Black, knew what she had done. Or, more precisely, what Gemma Dove, who could disappear tomorrow, had done.

Was he about to attempt blackmail? Was that why he had disturbed a dinner at the publick house she could not help but frequent? It was upon the shortest route to her lodgings, after all, and the only one she would not be accosted in, let alone gossiped about should she brave the door.

Even her visit to Lucky’s, while under emergency circumstances, could have caused some breath of scandal. And she had bowled a man over there, too. All in all, she had not thought things through nearly well enough.

“They ent Respectable, we knows that,” Millbride supplied. “Ol’ Breaks has tea with the Rook hisself on the regular, though. And there ent clapper nor chapper wot lives i’the Acre but wot has cause to be grateful, they say.”

I despair of ever learning your language. There seemed no proper grammar guides available at either of the Acre’s two book-stalls, and she had no time to sally elsewhere in search. “You will do me the honour of speaking clearly in proper Ænglish, young master Millbride.”

“Master Millbride.” Haynesworth snort-chuckled, but straightened when her gaze fell upon him, and tugged at his collar. “Sorry, mum. He said even the Director has tea with the Rook, and there’s nobody who lives in the Acre but what hasn’t had help from his fellows. They knows their debts, even Cook says as much.” Clearly he considered Cook’s authority upon this point unassailable.

“Yesmum.” Millbride nodded. “That’s what I said, sorry mum.”

“Be that as it may.” Had Hay ever felt this at sea, when facing one of young Beth’s caprices? Gemma didn’t know whether to laugh or free a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose like Sampson did when their housekeeper Madame Boudice’s fury reached a certain level. “The play yard does not need a gang of ‘bullyboys’ patrolling it, gentlemen. Perhaps your association could find some other way to be of use.”

“But . . .” Dawes’s brow was much furrowed. All three children looked as miserably cold as she felt. “But, mum . . .”

Inspiration, as if a passing demigod had taken pity upon her, struck. “If my students begin menacing others in the play yard, Mr Breakbridge might think me quite incapable as a magistrix.”

The look of deep horror spreading over their faces might have been gratifying, save for the pinch it gave her much-abused heart. Perhaps she was becoming sentimental, as they said young ladies often were. All the frailties of femininity were much discussed by men in print, though there were some quite martial goddesses—Minerva, for example.

Or the Dirae themselves, possibly taking notice of a girl who had, after all, called upon them. It was rank superstition, unbecoming in a modern, educated woman.

And yet there was a temple directly across from Imanuel, and the gods were consulted by sacrifice and omen even nowadays. Certainly the sacrifices were waxen images, incense, or joints dedicated before being carved for feast or banquet, and yet. . . .

“So,” Gemma continued, spacing her words evenly and slowly, “since I rather like my current position, I should discourage you most strongly from forming an association of this type, should I not?”

The boys now stared as if she had begun speaking in cant. Millbride elbowed Haynesworth, whose eyes widened. He grinned, a charming gaptooth smile, and elbowed Dawes, who was also grinning foolishly.

Gemma meant to add a few suggestions—perhaps their ‘association’ could help Mr Humbolten with coal-fetching, or Cook with some of the less-cherished kitchen tasks—but before she could, they boys went into what she might have referred to, were she telling the story in a drawing room, a positive gale of laughter.

The fit ran its course, and just as she was about to inquire what on earth they found so risible, the three chorused “Yesmum,” as if she had given an assignment, each gave a cheeky tug at his forelock, and they proceeded to scamper away, leaving Gemma deeply mystified, not to mention somewhat uneasy.

And cold, for the wind was up, and she spent the rest of the session considering what to take to Lady Cassel’s—not gowns, certainly, for she had none fit for the task upon this side of the Channel.

But she had to consider very closely indeed the question of weapons.

IMANUEL’S TEATIMES were rather scanty, but at least today’s had featured bread and dripping so Gemma did not have to halt upon her way to Rudrill’s. It took rather less time to explain the matter to the widow than she had feared, for Lady Cassel had taken it upon herself to have the invitation, a card, and a personal note sent to the lodging house, and such evidence—except for the note, which Mrs Rudrill quite rightly did not cast her gawking gaze upon—convinced the worthy dame that there was nothing disrespectable about her unmarried lodger’s absence for a few days.

Another ride to the West End, in the care of a driver who did not lengthen the route but did rattle her most provokingly, scraped Gemma’s temper down to a bare patch in a rug, one furniture must be fetchingly arranged over. Still, she arrived in good order, and was greeted with as much enthusiasm as the servants could muster for a poor relation.

Lady Cassel had given strict instructions, so Gemma was whisked upstairs to a quite serviceable room done in cream and chintz. It was far nicer than her garret, but she missed her familiar suite at St Courcy with unsettling intensity, from the ebonwood writing desk she knew every inch of to the bed hung with blue damask, the wide windows looking over the south garden to the worn spots on the square of cabbage-rose carpet before the washstand.

Her single bag looked quite out of place, though of high-enough quality to avoid outright shabbiness, and she had nothing to change into for dinner save a dark grey silk bearing some distinct wrinkles from travel. A cheerful maid in a starched cap whisked the gown away to make it presentable, and Gemma was left to her own devices for perhaps a quarter-hour, tick-tocked away by the ormolu clock upon the mantel. The fire in the grate was welcome on such an evening, and she spent the time stretching, attending to her toilette, and breathing deeply, the Path burning in her bones and veins.

She was grateful for the respite by the time her dress reappeared, and the maid—Lucy—proved both smart and practised, not to mention blissfully free of the tiny airs a servant could use to make their feelings upon charity cases known.

“Missus is dressing for dinner as well, mum, so His Lordship inquired if you would care to visit the drawing room beforehand?” Lucy’s snub nose did not wrinkle, and her clear grey eyes held no disdain. She patted Gemma’s now tidily arranged curls one last time, eyeing the result of her attentions in the mirror over the cream-painted vanity, and her handling of Gemma’s brush and comb had been swift but not ungentle.

Livia-Beth Guilfoile would wait for Lady Cassel to be present for any introductions, but Gemma Dove would know better than to disregard a summons from the master of the house, even couched in such inviting terms. Lady Cassel was showering largesse, well and good—but the lord no doubt wished to make certain the worthiness of its recipient.

So she put on her most agreeable smile, tested the stability of her piled, looped, and braided curls with a familiar shake of her head, and decided the small peridot earrings she had brought from St Courcy—one of the few pieces of jewelry little Beth-Anne owned which could conceivably be a gift from a pleased family to a governess, or an heirloom too small to be sold save in the direst of straits, and accepted the invitation in dulcet tones.

Accordingly, Gemma was led to a drawing room adjacent the dining room, and took care to move at a very sedate pace indeed.

Quality Material

IT HAD BEEN A most unsatisfactory day, and Victor de Langlois was now called upon to be, of all things, mannerly to one of his wife’s little charities. The fact that Netta was expected to inflict such things upon him and the rest of Society was almost beside the point; he should have returned to the bloody club for dinner.

But if he did that, Victor admitted, resting his elbow upon the mantel and fixing his gaze upon a fan of peacock feathers arching gracefully from a giant brass vase—he disliked the staring eyes from the feathers’ end, but interior decoration was not his purview and Netta loved the damn things—then he would have to listen to Larridby moaning about a missed shipment, as well as the business troubles of one or two other Priory members.

His old chum Felix was getting nervous, and he was not normally an anxious fellow. The rest of the Seven, not to mention no few of the upper echelon, were cats in a dog kennel at the moment. It quite wore upon Victor’s nerves. For a collection of old-blood senators steering the ship of Empire, many of the Priory’s ranks, both upper and lower, were startlingly shortsighted. It wasn’t precisely their fault, he had to admit—there was much to be concerned about in the current situation.

He took another sip of sherry, allowing his gaze to sweep across the settees arranged just so, the well-polished tables with their shining cases or decorations standing ready for every whim or conversational necessity, the pianoforte and lyre case, the heavy draperies drawn to shut out a raw blustery evening. The idea of becoming disgracefully drunk before dinner was unusually attractive, but he had to be gracious.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t take a fraction of gum-laudanum in the smoking room afterward, though. At least the burden of proper behaviour allowed room underneath for certain efficiencies, as a woman’s skirts hid certain pleasures.

“Sir, my lord, sir?” An anxious, bobbing fair-haired maid, one of Netta’s new crop since two had been taken by consumption last winter, was at the drawing-room door. “It’s Miss Dove, sir.”

Oh, for the love of Mars. Victor gave a charming, though distinctly remote smile; one did not grin at servants like a cat playing with a still-warm bit of unlucky fur. “Do show her in then, Lucy.”

The maid made another nervous curtsey; usually Netta did not engage hysterics, knowing her husband’s preference for domestics of a stolid temper. Victor took another prophylactic swallow of sherry. It was just as fine as the club’s, thank the gods.

An economy here would have been unbearable. At least he had married a thoroughgoing aristocrat, even if he had lost a certain coin toss afterward.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he’d won.

The newest recipient of his wife’s charitable attentions entered with a measured, gliding step; her footfall was light as a sylph’s. Dark grey silk, almost the colour of a winter sky just before loosing a downpour, was quite Respectable though the cut was clearly not the latest fashion; her glossy brunette curls were braided simply and arranged in Continental mode. Her dark eyes were large, thickly lashed, and very still.

He had only seen a gaze of matching, quiet intensity once, and for a moment he was almost too unnerved to move.

It can’t be. And of course it wasn’t; it stood to reason there was more than one woman with very fine eyes in the world.

The schoolmistress—some orphanage near the Thrash had secured his wife’s momentary interest, since a range of concerns at the next ball would make for a success if not a coup—sank into her own curtsey, which showed a great deal of polish and quite Gaulish grace. Slight and short, she did not smile though her expression was pleasing enough, and the decided set of her mouth as well as her shoulders said she was perhaps one of the New Women who thought shortening their skirts, pecking at a letter-machine, or agitating for votes gave their sex some claim to be taken seriously instead of merely cherished.

“Ah.” Victor realised he was being quite alarmingly rude. “Miss Dove, is it? Forgive my distraction; Victor de Langlois, at your service.” His bow lacked nothing in refinement, though it was somewhat hurried, and he was suddenly glad he was not at the club. “My dear wife said you’d be arriving, so I have placed myself here to greet and waylay.”

The sally called forth a small, iron-clad smile. “How do you do, sir.” The girl halted near an occasional-table with a mirrorlike surface reflecting the small collection of gilt boxes arranged in a pleasing circle, like an old-fashioned stone circle springing mushroom-like before the inevitable temple accreted to mark a holy place. “I apologise for arriving at such an impolite hour, but—”

“Oh, nonsense.” He studied her, an operation quite allowable for any fellow whose wife had brought an interesting creature home. Neat, presentable, and quite obviously from a well-bred family fallen upon very hard times indeed—oh, Netta had chosen well in this case. He was almost tempted to compliment his wife upon the matter, but she might become faintly alarmed, thinking he meant to behave boorishly as some of his Priory brethren. “My dearest Antoinette is very taken with you, Miss Dove, and I can see why. Would you care for some sherry before she arrives?”

“Perhaps a small glass?” At least her voice, while quite soft and cultured, was not high and bell-sweet. It was a distinct relief. “It is a very chilly evening.”

“You are but recently arrived to New Rome, then?” He almost wished Netta was here to provide proper introductions, and hurried to perform his duty to pour. “I hear a whisper of Gaul in your accent.”

“You have fine ears, sir. I was raised in Gaul Narbonensis.”

It was fitting, Victor thought. That country of indolent sunshine and well-trimmed vineyards was held to produce great, languorous beauties even in First Empire days. In a different dress, with her hair properly attended to, this particular specimen could fetch a fine price. It was a shame she hadn’t been spotted earlier; the Priory could always use another gullcatcher.

They had rather short use-lives, those gutterflowers. Some might possess a certain air of refinement despite their trade. Then again, setting this particular bit to that work would have destroyed a piece of quality material.

Victor was no dressmaker, but he knew fine fabric when he saw it. “And how are you finding New Rome so far, then, Miss Dove?”

“Rather cold and grey, sir.” A slight smile touched rather pale lips; she wore no rouge or other accoutrement, nor had she pinched her cheeks to raise a becoming flush. “But very exciting. Upon my first day at Imanuel I was almost brained with an egg.”

Imanuel. Now where had he heard that name before? It sounded vaguely Eastron, or perhaps Yudic. “A very poor omen indeed.”

“Fortunately, I am light upon my feet, and dodged ill luck.” She accepted a small crystal glass of sherry, and Victor was almost startled to realise how young she was. Her mannerly self-possession was perhaps shield and weapon, though a penniless governess did not need a gladiator’s armour.

Perhaps she would, though, especially in Gaul. An attractive but impecunious young lady could be led astray—or forcibly dragged. Such creatures often needed a protector; across the Channel it was difficult to distinguish between a praetorian and a simple bandit wearing a pretty chestplate, as the old proverb went. Something about wolves and sheep’s raiment might be applicable there as well.

“Fortunate indeed.” Victor retreated to a mannerly distance. “I hope you made an offering to thank whatever passing divinity saved you.” Was she a religious creature?

“The school has a chapel for just such occasions.” The girl might have said more, but a soft rustling filled the doorway and Antoinette appeared in a blue gown he’d never seen before. His wife’s hair was piled high, her earrings sparkled fetchingly, and he was surprised, as he often was, that one of the Graces had accepted his hand. Of course, their bloodlines were compatible according to the Seven, who had given blessing with alacrity, but Victor had been almost certain she would refuse.

With Alice dead and the Nossorton girl—except she was no longer a girl, any more than Netta was—fled over the Channel with her cavalier, his wife was the only ornament remaining from that frenetic, gilded time of promise, and she was safely in his possession. Time had shown who was more capable, and it was neither Felix Larridby nor that Guilfoile bastard.

The Gaulish weakness and corruption in the latter’s blood had indeed shown, despite certain other necessary lines which would have provided some insurance mixed with the sturdy Nossorton heritage. Though both Alec and his sister had displayed regrettable sentimentality, at least their Ænglish breeding held true.

“Am I late?” Antoinette sailed across the room, offering her hands to the schoolteacher. As a show of welcome it was a trifle overdone, but perhaps she truly liked this girl. “Ah, my dear, you’ve arrived. We should have just enough time to alter the dress for you.”

“Madame.” The girl curtsied again, and clasped Antoinette’s hands with every evidence of goodwill. “You’re quite spoiling me.”

“Did you expect a garret, a tin cup, and a crust?” Netta’s smile was just as warm and lovely as when she was a girl, and Victor was slightly taken aback once more by the realisation that she had accepted, of all her many suitors, him. Of course de Langlois was an old family, though embarrassingly insolvent before the marriage brought Fairhaven property to its care—his ancestors had been upon the wrong side of the Rose War, and chosen other wrong sides almost unerringly since.

He had redeemed all that, thankfully.

“It would hardly be a change.” Their guest, pinkening prettily, might have said more, but there was a slight cough from the door.

It was Meadows; the butler held a salver bearing a folded piece of paper, his first finger lying along the outside edge in slightly uncharacteristic fashion—a signal that the message was not quite from a polite source. He glided to his master, who took the paper and glanced at it, cursing inwardly.

Only a few words, but enough. “Ah. I must apologise, ladies; this requires my attention. Meadows, begin dinner. The roast belongs to Mars Invictus tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler, his graying hair arranged with the help of some genteel pomade, had the great advantage of being trained in a few of the combat preliminaries. The rest of the domestics no doubt feared his habit of walking as if crêpe-soled. He bowed, correct as usual, in Antoinette’s direction. “M’um, dinner awaits your pleasure.”

“Is it very pressing, my dear?” Netta left off petting her new charity, and there was a trace of anxiety in her tone. “I had so looked forward to you being home.”

Perhaps it was an untruth, but if so, it was a kind one. “So was I, my dearest.” He clasped her hand, raising it to his lips as if they were courting again, not solidly married. One always had to soothe female creatures; it was the burden of paterfamilias. “I regret you and the charming Miss Dove shall have to do without my presence. Forgive me.”

“Of course.” To her credit, she did not look relieved at his absence, as some wives might. Antoinette knew her place and responsibilities. “We shall carry on as best we can. Mind you have some dinner, even if only at the club.”

“She worries,” Victor said in the girl’s direction, and was rewarded by their guest’s very polite, very fetching smile as well. “Enjoy dinner, Miss Dove, and I look forward to your presence at the ball.”

With that he could leave the women behind, and in short order his valet had brought coat and stick, the carriage was ready—others had to put off their evening meal as well, but that was a servant’s lot—and he was safely enclosed in its jolting sway, vanishing into thickening fog.

Victor promptly shelved the matter of a girl in grey silk, consigning her to the realm of domestic fripperies and social niceties best left safely locked up while there was business to be conducted.

His spy inside a certain ‘association’ of the poor and criminal of New Rome had news for him, and wished to deliver it personally.

Filth and Profit

IT WAS A FINE thing, for a man like him to whistle and a lord to come trotting. He couldn’t get away too often—the boss was a bit of a bastard, and no few Rooks swore he had eyes in the back of his head. But even the Many-Handed God of pickpockets couldn’t keep his fingers in every corner, as the saying went, and any Rook might well have business outside the Acre.

Mr Black’s writ did not extend past his country’s borders, so to speak.

It was no great trick to stay hidden in the usual spot near the entrance to Parsyle Park, waiting for a certain carriage to come trotting along. He could even be grateful to the sodding Rook Himself for teaching all his fellows methods to make such operations easier. Trip-trotting down Syle Lane came fine matched bays with a liveried box behind them, and the bullyboy melded out of the shadows, crossing the laneway with two neat leaps and springing light as you please to the running board. A twist, a wrench, and he was inside the carriage, grinning at Lord Cassel.

“And a fine good evening to you, sir.” A touch of his hat’s brim; the fellow in a flash waistie and neatly brushed boots settled himself with an eel-like wriggle upon the seat opposite the carriage’s occupant.

“One day you’ll be shot, doing that.” The lord, his long supercilious nose a-twitch, put his pistol away. He even managed to make the motion look planned instead of sheepish, though his eyes were a trifle wide. “You have two turns around the Park to convince me I did not waste time on an otherwise enjoyable evening answering your little billet-doux. Proceed.”

For a moment the Acre bullyboy considered remarking that the lordling sounded just like the Rook Himself when the ruler of the Acre’s demimonde suspected a pigeon or partridge of wasting his time. It would have been satisfying, but hardly efficient. “Big doins’ in the Acre lately, milord.” Labouriously erasing cant from his tongue was on ongoing practice, one he heartily disliked. “Thought you’d want to know about them, as well as an upcoming dance.”

“I am aware of your leader’s efforts to bar certain profiteers from that slice of New Rome.” Lord Cassel settled himself, reaching for a walking stick tucked neatly to his side. He folded his hands over the silver top, his eyes half-lidding, and in the carriage’s dancing shadows—the small space illuminated only by a single well-shielded spirit-flame trapped in a swinging, baffled cage—he looked positively saturnine. “He seems rather successful, too. Almost as if he was warned.”

“Bad luck, guv. A teacher at Imanuel saw the catchers at their work, raised the alarm.” That was old news, and not important; the bullyboy raced on. “Portius of the Metropolitans took a dive; he won’t pound the leather no more.”

“An acceptable outcome; I never liked that man.” The lord shifted slightly. “Imanuel, you say? A school hard by the Thrash and Acre both, I think?”

“Aye. But the planning now is all for a raid upon a certain gentleman’s business concerns, come Saturn’s-day while that gentleman’s at a ball.”

Lord Cassel absorbed this news, and his eyes narrowed a trifle. That was all. “Really.”

“The Jessamyn, sir.” If there was any twinge of conscience at giving the game away, the Acre lad did not feel it. Everyone had to catch as they could in this life, and only the gods had time to worry for the next. “It’ll be hit that night, and burned to the ground if the Rook has his way.”

“Is that so.” Cassel tapped one gloved fingertip upon the stick’s bright-polished head. “And the good Sir Rook will grace the foundry with his presence that evening, too?”

“Far as I know.” The bullyboy’s hands itched to divest this toff of a few valuables. It wouldn’t be that hard—riches made a man soft, and this fellow, while he paid well, didn’t bother with a bodyguard like some of his compatriots. Fools were everywhere, and fleecing them a gods-given duty to anyone with a bit of real meat ’twixt his ears. “That’s valuable information, especially for your friend wot owns the place.”

“Indeed—if it can be trusted.” Lord Cassel still appeared unconvinced, or perhaps he simply wished to appear so. “I seem to recall not too long ago there was another . . . opportunity, which turned out not so opportunely.”

The man who wore Rook colours—at least while he was in the Acre—gave a fluid, indifferent shrug. The carriage creaked, taking the first turn of the loop around Parsyle Park. Once it had been a hunting chase for an old king’s favourite, but nowadays it was full of roisterers and she-wolves at night, just as likely to roll a man as relieve his aching groin. “He was there, like I said he’d be. Not my fault it went badly for your mates.”

Cornering a wolf got you bit, after all. Even the youngest Acre sprat knew not to crowd a mad or desperate dog, and a rat only so far as you had a long enough stick.

“I suppose that’s true.” Lord Cassel reached languidly into a pocket, drawing forth a small, heavy bag. He weighed it in his manicured hand. “What else can you tell me, my friend?”

“Don’t know.” So they were friends now? The bullyboy didn’t think it bloody likely. “Haven’t been paid yet, guv.”

“Very well.” The lord’s nose wrinkled afresh, but he tossed the bag over.

The bullyboy’s hand flashed out, a neat catch. He weighed the sack, testing the clink inside—real coin had a specific sound, and anyone who hunted it should know. “Thank ye kindly, guv.” He even touched his hat brim again, with no mocking fillip to the motion. The carriage took another turn, now parallel to the dried-up watercourse which had once made the park cool and green in broiling New Rome summers. The stream had slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely in recent years, with predictable results.

Either the rich had diverted the flow or some factory had fouled it to the point it dove underground. If there was a nymph in its silver depth, as some of the country folk believed of every creek and rill, she was probably working the Park as a frail right now, and the bullyboy wished her luck in the strangling of any gentlemen callers.

Progress made for filth, but also for profit.

The lord raised one dark eyebrow, as if he expected a pound more for his pence. But the junior Rook had given all he’d a mind to part with, and reached for the doorlatch. He wondered briefly if you could trap one of the rich by simply refusing to open a door for them; many a fine lady would probably starve in her wheeled, gilded box if nobody was around to crack it.

But Lord Cassel wasn’t finished yet. “Do you think he suspects you, this Rook Himself?”

“He ent too trusting,” the bullyboy said, and ignored the sudden jump in his chest, like a startled rabbit. “But then, neither are you.” A twist of his wrist, a convulsive movement, and he was out of the carriage, plunging into a bath of woollen, rancid New Rome fog wreathing dispirited shrubbery and what leafless shivering trees remained within the Park’s shrinking borders.

At least any of his kind hanging about, not to mention ponces lurking in the bushes or their frails plying the night trade in miserable, dripping copses, would do him the honour of attacking directly. They wouldn’t keep one perfumed hand shaking a spinny while the other rummaged in his pockets—no, from his own kind it was the blackened knife or the bright one, a hissed imprecation or a clout to an unsuspecting head before the plucking of a pigeon too stupid to keep a sharp watch.

Does he suspect you? What a silly-arse question. Avery Black suspected everyone, and any trust in the Acre was only provisional at best. Why, look what had happened to Pete Gillings, whose only crime was keeping back a bit of the protection funds for his ailing mum. Of course, old Mrs Gillings was still in the Acre, and her doss paid for as long as she clung to rheumy, croup-coughing life.

But her son was a different matter entirely. What the Rook Himself would do if he caught wind of this particular bullyboy’s work didn’t bear thinking about.

There was no way around it, though. A man cared for his own in the Acre, and he had his sister to think of. Soon enough she’d perhaps be able to find work as a lady’s maid instead of a shopgirl, or maybe even as one of those bluestockings working in offices. Her chances were better there than slattering around between the Thrash and Huq’s End, at least.

The bullyboy slipped through deep gloom, listening to the lord’s coach creak-stamping into the distance. No doubt Cassel thought he had bought every inch of a Rook’s soul, instead of merely a sliverpence’s worth.

Well, it wasn’t a fraction he was using, so the lord was welcome to it, much good may it do him. The young man vanished into the fog, avoiding a clot of deeper darkness hosting a whisker-sense of breathing life. Whether it was a frail gauging a man’s willingness for a bit of fun or otherwise, it didn’t matter. He had other business tonight.

Wolves prowled New Rome, just as they had probably slunk through the Old. The spy showed his teeth in a brief, canine grin, and his pace quickened.

He was due back in the Acre before midnight. It wouldn’t do to be late.

Discretion, Tainted

TO WAKE IN A proper bed, the window’s drapes whisked aside and a tray of morning choclat brought with a cheerful good morning, mum—oh, it was almost like being home in St Courcy, except the light was pearly instead of a golden flood, and the fire in the grate was coal instead of wood. The gaslamps were turned up, Lucy bobbing a quick curtsey before she left the room, and Gemma yawned with rare contentment, all her fingers and toes wonderfully warm for the first time since arrival upon Albion’s winter-damp shores.

The thought of letting a house in the fashionable part of town and hunting her quarry with that method was recurring more and more often. Gemma settled at the small table near the window, sipping piping-hot choclat and eyeing the toast—what would the boys of Imanuel think of this before-breakfast treat, she wondered?

Her conscience pinched then, surprisingly hard. The urchins in their ill-fitting shoes and harsh dun cloth would probably fall upon the triangles of hot, well-buttered bread like wolves, and who could blame them? Cabbage might stave off the worst of hunger but it did not otherwise satisfy, and their chilblains would have welcomed a fraction of the warmth she now luxuriated in.

At least she could wring a few pounds from the gentry to pour into Imanuel’s coffers, an operation which qualified as laudable even though she was engaging upon it for reasons of vengeance. Perhaps the Dirae would be pleased, since they were held to be responsible for the very deepest justice of all.

If this continues, I shall become quite religious. Her nose wrinkled at the thought, and for no discernible reason, Gemma’s thoughts turned to the man who had accosted her twice now—or was it thrice? Did accomplishing a rescue of her students as well as a mass of other shivering, crying children count as accosting, or should she simply categorise it as a chance meeting?

One involving murder, at that. Her small smile faded; she considered her dainty porcelain cup, decorated with a nosegay of painted violets. Her expression was familiar, quite serious, and—she could tell—almost unbecoming. Hay would have inquired what on earth was the matter, and Sampson might have muttered that a round in the salle would ease her mind if not her conscience, and was there something little Beth wished to confess?

Not so much confess as untangle, I think. Mr Black of Hell’s Acre could become quite the nuisance, given the chance. She was somewhat surprised his ruffians hadn’t followed her to Crosse Street, but perhaps they, like certain minor spirits of Old Rome’s pantheons, could not leave their bit of native earth.

It occurred to her now that Mr Black might have been attempting to tell her the . . . the corpse of her victim was safely disposed of. No doubt he had methods readily to hand on that account, and it could even be considered charitable of him.

Her well-trained memory supplied the name: Peele. She had killed a man named Peele.

That her victim—if he could honestly be called thus, for he had been aiding childcatchers and had also tried to separate Gemma from her own life—now had a name was disturbing in its own right. Or was it comforting? Either way, she had committed a crime, and would do so again when her plans came to fruition.

If not at Lady Cassel’s ball, then later. And now Gemma was acutely aware she should plan for the latter—plunging a knife into her quarry’s throat during a quadrille or waltz would make a great deal of trouble for her patroness, and perhaps rob Imanuel of whatever funds could be extracted during the event.

Vengeance was proving to be ever so much more complex than she had initially thought. Gemma set her cup down, toying with an edge of her plain muslin wrapper. It was the dowdiest and oldest she possessed, slightly too good for an impecunious governess but perhaps the outgrown leavings of one of her former students, a charity she would wear with some perhaps-resentful gratitude.

Sitting and staring would accomplish nothing. Her ballgown—yet another charity, this time Lady Cassel’s—was to be fitted this morning, and she had to spend the day charming and amusing her hostess, who was going to a great deal of trouble and had to be somewhat worried her ‘distant cousin’ was about to do something ill-advised instead of suitably discreet.

In short order her choclat was finished and Gemma herself was warmed and loosened, taking the well-mannered morning pause granted to maidens of leisure to stretch and perform the short form of her daily Path exercises. When Lucy returned for the tray, bearing an invitation to a proper breakfast ‘with Her Ladyship in the solarium,’ she found the receiver of polite largesse already laced into her stays and buttoning her grey wool dress, with a cheerful smile making it very clear the ‘cousin’ understood her place and would not make any trouble for a poor hardworking servant.

“Let’s set your hair to rights, then,” the maid said, quite relieved, and gestured at the bench before the vanity.

Gemma complied with good grace.

THE CASSEL HOUSE was a hive of bustling preparation, the ballroom opened for the first time since Winter Solstice and much airing, decorating, and cleaning required. Still, between the various consultations for the lady of the house’s preferences and requests for her permission, a great deal of sotto voce planning could be done.

“That is a relief,” Lady Cassel said softly, pausing to view the drapes being hung before one of the ballroom’s narrowish windows. Despite their scant girth, said windows stretched from parquet floor to rococo-plastered ceiling, and the wine-red velvet curtains must be folded just so. The gaslamps were being busily cleaned and otherwise attended by a trio of lads utilizing two sturdy stepladders, and maids hurried to and fro with armfuls of other cloth, not to mention various trays, implements, and cleaning supplies. “But I would still ask you to reconsider, my dear. Rexton is a beast, and the safest thing for you is a return to Gaul.”

“No doubt.” Gemma pretended fascination with the weather outside said sparkling windows as one of the gaslamp men dropped a metal implement and stifled a somewhat impolite oath, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see if the ladies had heard. Lady Cassel seemed oblivious, but Gemma’s ears were Path-sharp; she kept her expression neutral. “But you must agree I have a right to at least see the man, madame. If only to know the author of my misfortune.”

“Was it so terrible, being raised by Hay?” Her Ladyship might have said more, but the butler Meadows hurried up with several questions of most pressing nature; Gemma waited patiently, listening with only half an ear.

Meadows was sent away to gather a fresh cargo of decisions needing the lady’s attention; the housekeeper Mrs Benton—widowed, naturally, small and round to match Meadows’s somewhat taller stoutness—hurried up with a separate catalogue of disasters requiring Her Ladyship’s solutions. Sampson would not have brooked Hay being badgered thus, but apparently New Rome ladies were exacting, and wished many small aspects of household management to receive personal attention. Or perhaps Lady Cassel simply desired the ball to be a success.

Or perhaps the point being expressed was that an entire household of dependents, not to mention other charitable concerns who had earned a fraction of Lady Cassel’s largesse, could be utterly disturbed and indeed tainted if Gemma were too overt.

“You needn’t worry,” she murmured, once they were left in a small bubble of relative peace. “I would do nothing to endanger you, madame. It would be a poor way to thank Aunt Hay’s most trusted friend.”

Lady Cassel studied her for a moment, then nodded, her earrings—peridot today, and cheerfully matching her filigree-and-peridot necklace—swinging gently. “I did not mean to imply otherwise.” She glanced over Gemma’s shoulder; having finished with the gaslamps in the ballroom, the trio of workmen were now intent upon checking the rest of the household lighting. A footman trailed in their wake, anxiously watching the carried stepladders’ ends; his worried attention would shift to their hands the moment they were near any portable valuable.

Quite wisely, Gemma realised. How very odd.

“It is not that I fear such a thing,” Lady Cassel said darkly. “It isn’t that I don’t adore having you here, chérie. Even the skulduggery is most exciting. It’s simply that . . . there is so much, you see, that you do not—”

“Mum?” A lady’s maid, her sharp chin and wide eyes giving her a kittenish air, dropped into a hurried curtsey. “Seamstress says she’s ready for young miss now, if it pleases young miss?”

Wonderful. Standing still while being poked with needles was a minor curse, but one inflicted on ladies of any quality at regular intervals. “I am quite ready, if it pleases madame.”

“Go, go.” Lady Cassel’s smile was untroubled and serene, but only upon its surface. “Let me know when Agatha is ready for me; my own gown should not take so long.”

“Mum.” The maid bobbed again, and Gemma made her own curtsey; her Path-sharp hearing flinched from the hubbub around them, but she sternly overrode it.

“Madame,” she said, quite correctly, and let the young woman lead her away. In a long, well-windowed hallway outside the ballroom they passed the gaslamp workmen again, and she wondered what on earth the fellow with the reddish, slicked-down hair and cheeky wink was about.

He was, unless she missed her guess, from Hell’s Acre; he had followed her to Rudrill’s once or twice before. Which meant he was somehow connected to Mr Black, and that was unwelcome news indeed; had she not thought earlier this morning that she would be free of such annoyances?

And what was the fellow doing here, of all places, if not to watch her?

Nerves and Steam

THE BIG WHITE marble bathhouse at the end of Dial Lane served not only the Acre but surrounding territories as well, and the strict pax observed inside its walls held even during the worst of the Association Wars a few years ago. Not only did every man need a place to scrape the filth of daily living away and perhaps soak in a bit of steam to clear the lungs, but women and littles used the place too, and anyone who molested either inside a bathhouse’s walls received short, violent shrift from any man within range, whether attendant or bather.

A billow of scented steam poured upward as a skinny, bare-armed bathboy ladled a heavy helping of herb-laced water over hot stones. Ned Popper gave a deep, bronchial sigh; with the much-bleached cloth wrapped about his waist he looked rather like a kilted northerner, though those big ginger-furred bastards would regard his reedy, whip-lean frame with a little more disdain than they would eye Avery’s own. Kane would garner their approval in physical terms, but his gentleness would cause no few northern Gaels to roll their eyes in the peculiar fashion meaning tha’ one’s soft, and probably from doon’sooth.

Though the holy stone of the ancient Kaledonians had been brought under Albion’s foot, the giants of the north still viewed works of Empire with suspicion, and ‘southroners’ in like fashion. Tea was all very well, but it came from outside, as the proverb said.

The black-haired bathboy hopped over the low stone threshold, his rope sandals slapping. He was responsible for an entire hallway of steam-rooms, and if quick and deft could earn sliverpence tips from attendees as well.

Avery shifted on the varnished wooden bench, rubbing his shoulder against coarse, sweating stone. “You can stop worrying,” he murmured. His small group had this room entirely to themselves; the Rook had tossed a shilling to the bathboy upon arrival, a little higher than the going rate for nearly an hour’s rental of a private room. A hum of conversation from other cubicles up and down the hall—similarly paid for or jammed with strangers who had no business to discuss and merely wanted oil, heat, and scraping before a plunge in the tepidarium—passed distorted through veils of hot vapour and echoed from every edge, producing a hopeless confusion even to Hellion-sharp ears.

“Oh, can I?” Popper shook his head, strings of dark hair plastered to his forehead. He was sallow in the flickering light, gleaming like a marble First Empire statue scrubbed free of paint. Except for the faint ring around his neck and its matching bracelets, of course—it took more than a single steaming to wash away the filth of the Acre. “Nice of you to say so, but ’tis a fool’s game, this, and you’re no fool. So I says to myself, what’s the answer, and along it comes. You’re about to do something even worse.”

If I wanted a nursemaid, I’d hire one. But it was impolite to sneer at a man who only had your best interests—or what he knew of them—at heart. “Haven’t I come through every time, Popper? You simply do your part, and all will be well.”

“Leave the boss be,” Kane rumbled. “Let ’im ’avvis soak in peace, Ned.”

The two of them had been at it for a good quarter-hour, Kane attempting to soothe Popper’s nerves, Popper pressing to be told of Avery’s ‘other plans.’ It was a good thing Herrin wasn’t here to ask questions as well—Avery’s second would get his own soak after the ball, along with Wurth, Veece, and the rest celebrating a job well done while washing the reek of smoke from their persons.

Avery wouldn’t see his boys for a few days; he had at least pair of scrapes and a good scrub of his claws to accomplish yet, as well as letting a fine room in Tingley to finish his preparations.

The Rook was called upon to make a gentlemanly showing, after all, and he couldn’t do it with a dirt collar or grime under his fingernails. The suit he would wear on enemy territory was at the tailor’s, and a fine piece of material it was, too.

He almost wanted to waylay the grey witch of Imanuel in it, just to see those dark eyes widen.

A shadow filled the door. Ned tensed, but it was only Flanders, a bloom of heat across his stooped shoulders and his reddish hair slicked down with moisture. “’Ello, gents,” he greeted, and Ned made room on his bench for a fellow Rook. “I tell you, I itch all over. Rich nobs never satisfied with an honest man’s work, and nearly got run over by a bloody hansom on my way here as well.”

“If you were an honest man, you’d have more luck,” Ned sniffed, and clouted him on the shoulder—but relatively gently, and Popper wore a half-smile like a cat’s.

Kane’s laugh was a throb of train wheels rumbling over a bridge. “Got you there, Flanders. How’s your day’s wages?”

“Safely in me pocket, boyo, and that’s where they’ll stay. At least until I reach Lucky’s.” Flanders blinked, stretching his legs out; their coating of wiry copper hairs glinted with moisture. His toes were blunt indeed—it was a wonder he could move so deftly, with such stubby appendages.

“You’re buying rounds tonight, then.” Avery didn’t move, letting the heat soak through his own skin. It had been a long while since he felt so content, but the consciousness of what he was about to do loomed behind the comfort, a deep-sea fish with sharp teeth sensing nervous prey. “And you’ll have to drink mine as well.”

“Aye to that.” But Flanders still regarded him apprehensively. “I’ve got summat.”

“I hope you do.” Avery almost sighed, but that was unfair. It wasn’t like the man to have nerves, which obviously meant he was bearing more than a layout map of a certain house on Crosse Street. “Well?”

“Uh . . .” Flanders glanced at Kane, then at Popper. “Now don’t be hasty, boss. Just . . . hear me out.”

If Flanders was going to perform the same you shouldn’t do your part alone, sir song, it would mean a good steaming spoiled and a quick plunge in the tepidarium to cool Avery’s temper. He’d be sorely pressed not to hold their heads under for a few moments too, just to keep their mouths from flapping. “Better out than in,” he half-chanted, lazily. “Spit, me bully boyo, and quickly.”

“She’s there,” Flanders said. A high blush had started on his throat, working up to his cheeks—just as rufous as his hair, really, though his whiskers were more orange than crimson. “Ladylike as you please, talking to the gentrywoman.”

“Who’s there?” Avery pressed, but he had a sinking feeling he knew.

“Imanuel’s new teacher, boss.” Flanders looked miserable, his nose pinkish-raw from the chill outside and the consciousness of bearing ill news pressing his shoulders down. “Word is she’s a poor relation of the great lady, attending the ball to gather script for the school.”

Damn the woman. She’s everywhere; is she a bloody gullcatcher? Either that or she has the worst luck in New Rome. “Well,” he said, mildly enough. “Imanuel could do with a few more pounds in its collection box, surely.”

“I don’t like it.” Popper was having none of this. “She’s a thin neck indeed. I say we snap it.”

“Now, then,” Kane rumbled. “None of that. She’s a lady, and rescued the littles.”

Braver than most, indeed. And trained. Avery had to squash an entirely inappropriate desire to start cackling like a Bedlamite, more out of disbelief than amusement. And what was the girleen’s connexion to the Greatfather of Taurrock? Was it worth asking directly?

It was just barely possible that all this was sheer coincidence, and the girl hiding from some manner of trouble elsewhere. And then there was the skinny intruder on the Acre’s roofs every night for how long, before a sudden cessation of the incursions?

Small, and slight, barely reaching Avery’s shoulder, but unholy quick.

What was he thinking? It was ridiculous—no woman could be Hellion-trained, or Priory-trained either. Still, she’d not only survived a brush with childcatchers but also handed Portius a skull-cracking—and had not made a single move upon Avery’s person despite having more than one opportunity.

There were rumors of shadowy female killers in the East—maidens of death, sworn to protect their charges. Such things had been hinted at in the history of Empire as well, but never directly stated. Morton had never mentioned the idea, save to caution his student against the Priory’s poisoned honey-jars. Even those frails were only meant to garner damaging information or dispense a drop of venom, and being expendable, had notoriously short lives.

Miss Dove—and what a name, she was more like a lioness—became more and more interesting with each passing day. Avery’s chuckle, unable to be suppressed after all, caught him by surprise; Kane’s startled, round-eyed stare and Popper’s uneasy shifting said his boys felt much the same.

“Perhaps I’ll dance a turn with Imanuel’s witch, then.” He exhaled sharply at the end of the sentence. It wasn’t an unpleasant prospect at all, and wouldn’t the lady be surprised to see him in a gentleman’s togs? If her pretty nose wrinkled then, at least he could enjoy the joke.

And perhaps surprising her at a ball would grant him an advantage. She was not the sort to let anything slip, but startled prey often bolted for safety.

So did predators, when a larger beast came along.

“I don’t like it,” Popper repeated. “She shows up at Imanuel, she chases childcatchers, and now this?”

“Perhaps it’s the gods.” Kane shrugged when both Flanders and Ned eyed him askance, his mountainous, dark-furred shoulders lifting and dropping. “What? Minerva wears grey, and so does Juno sometimes. Mayhap she’s one of those.”

“Bite your cheek, lad.” Popper had gone pale. “We’ve enough problems without bloody gods mixing in.”

Avery hadn’t suspected religious feeling from any of his boys, but it was hardly a surprise. One needed every bit of hope one could grasp in the Acre’s seethe. He stretched, each muscle on his frame now loose and tingling with anticipation. “Perhaps I’ll ask her a riddle and see if she’s Minerva. Or Haestia Graeca.” Another laugh boiled in his throat, but he denied it. “Since she seems so interested in the littles of Imanuel and has tamed half the lot besides. Don’t worry about the girleen, Popper. All’s said and done, she’s a skirt, and surely we have enough bullyboys to handle one of those.”

“Trouble,” Popper said softly. “Like all her kind. I still say a quick snap, and the problem’s done.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The words bounced off stone; Avery cursed himself for saying it so sharply. “She did the Acre a good turn, and is about to do Imanuel another. ’Tis a poor showing to kill her for it, Popper. Let the girleen be, and if she needs snapping I’ll provide it, savvy?”

All three stared at him like round-eyed Imanuel boys. He would have to move lightly to avoid unmerciful teasing, now.

“Savvy,” Kane said, and gave his coevals a significant glance from under his fiercely tangled eyebrows.

“Savvy,” Popper and Flanders chorused, the former grudgingly and the latter with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Blast the little grey witch. Even absent, she was troubling him. Avery settled against the stone wall again, letting the steam-heat soak in a little further. “I trust you left the requirements, Flanders.” Best to get them back upon business, instead of discussing Miss Dove.

“Oh, aye.” The light in Flanders’s gaze did not dim, though he otherwise composed himself for a good long steam-soak. “It’s all on the map, and I’ll add details over a pint as soon as it pleases you, guv.”

“Still think you should take one of us as a footman,” Popper muttered.

“I’ll not be arriving in a coach, Ned.” Avery’s grasp on his temper firmed. They were good lads, and he would miss them when his time here was done. “Croak me the house now, my Rook. It will do for a start.”

Thankfully, the man didn’t take the opportunity to jest at the Rook’s expense. “Big enough for its own ballroom,” Flanders began, “and there’s a door on the south side that’ll suit for an exit. You’ll want to mind the kennel, though . . .”

Avery Black settled himself to listen, both to what the red-haired man said and what he didn’t. Flanders had a good eye for burglary, and Avery would need every edge he could gain tomorrow night.

It promised to be a lively affair.

Before the Ball

THE MORNING OF Lady Cassel’s Charity Ball dawned bright and clear, with a fresh, steady spring-like breeze from the Thamis instead of chill grey rain. The Crosse Street mansion had some very fine gardens—or they would be quite lovely once leaf and bud unfurled instead of hiding in shy nubbins. Still, an amble in her serviceable pelisse and a sable muff pressed upon Gemma by her hostess was quite bracing, and also gave them the chance to confer without the risk of eavesdropping servants.

“I shall do no such thing,” she promised yet again. “All I wish is to see the man, madame.” Once she had, other plans could be put into motion.

“And then you will return to Gaul?” Antoinette’s eyebrows drew together. “I do not believe it.”

It was just as well, for Gemma had never given that promise, nor even implied it. “Making any sort of a scene would be a shoddy way to repay your kindness. Hay raised me better than that, I assure you.”

Antoinette halted, the hem of her thick brown woolen walking coat swirling. “You are planning something else,” she said, quietly. “Don’t bother to deny it. You are wearing that look, I well remember Hay doing the same when she had a mind to make mischief.”

It is not mischief I mean to make. “I shall do nothing that may be connected to—”

“I lost your mother,” her almost-aunt said, stern and soft. “I have now lost Hay as well, and both were very dear to me indeed. I should not like to lose you too. I will aid you all I can—I promised Hay as much, and mean to make good upon my word—and much as I would like to I cannot bundle you back over the Channel and to safety in Gaul. But you are not safe here, chérie. If he finds out who you are . . .”

“How can he?” Gemma had not yet decided whether she wished her quarry to know from whence his destruction issued. Certainly it would be dramatic, and perhaps necessary as she was operating under a vow to the Dirae. And yet things in New Rome appeared far more complex than she had imagined. “I am an almost penniless governess leaning upon the charity of a distant relation, not a—”

“You do not resemble your father much, it’s true.” Antoinette’s expression had hardened. “But your mother? Quite a bit, about the eyes especially. The longer one spends in your company, the more marked the likeness. I begin to think this is quite a bad idea, one which will only lead to grief.”

A hard lump had formed in Gemma’s throat, and she had to swallow twice. “How very odd,” she managed. “Hay told me I bore no likeness to my mother at all.”

“Perhaps she could not bear to see it.” Lady Cassel shook her head, ringlets bobbing; her bonnet was simple but quite fetching, bearing waxen cherries which matched the bloom of exercise and chill in her cheeks. The breeze fell off, and a great calm descended upon the garden. “You are only safe so long as Lord Rexton, not to mention my husband, think Alice’s daughter stillborn. I beg of you to be careful and discreet tonight, and to avoid the fellow once I have pointed him out.”

“I will.” That was a promise she could give, and with good grace. “I have been extremely discreet so far, have I not?” If one disregards the small matter of murdering a childcatcher, that is.

“I can only hope you continue so. For if you do not, my dear, I shall suffer no less than you.” A brisk shake of her head, as if tossing the subject aside, and Lady Cassel’s usual slight, polite smile returned, closing over her face like the visor of a Middle Empire’s knight-helmet. “We have walked long enough. Mrs Benton is probably quite beside herself with arrangements, and you must have a spot of tea while finishing the subscription cards. Meadows assured me the engraver would have them sent over by midmorning.”

“Yes, madame.” Gemma restrained the urge to curtsey; her eyes prickled hotly.

Hay had always said you do not resemble your parents, and ’tis a good thing, child, for it leaves you free. Finding out the opposite was quite. . . .

There was no word which applied, she decided, and hastened to follow her benefactress’s stately progress.

THE HAELFYR CLUB was ancient, comfortable, and admitted only the higher echelons of Priory members, with a slight salting of prospective members or legacies allowed into its rambling brownstone. Not only that, but its location was prime—the Sanctus Jemes district, at the heart of New Rome’s Westron End. The reading room was quiet at this hour, though the dining hall was alive with murmurs of breakfast—not least from a few rakes who had not yet been abed, many greeting the dawn in a gaming hell somewhere along Pickadill or the Thrash, or even the Chimera, and unwilling to go home just yet.

Young men had their pleasures. A faint hint of good cigar smoke came from the tabac-room, and the door to the library proper opened and closed at irregular intervals, a familiar comforting squeak-thump.

Victor de Langlois lowered a fresh morning broadsheet as the broad leather chair set companionably close to his own was taken, and if he was disturbed by the new arrival his expression did not show it. “Good morning, Felix.”

“Victor.” Felix Larridby eyed the stack of broadsheets upon the small table between them; he looked well-rested, at least. Fresh and natty in a morning suit, his dark hair innocent of any pomade, he rested slim-fingered hands upon the chair arms and beamed in quite self-satisfied fashion. “I met Gil on the stairs; he sends his greetings.”

“Hm.” Lord Cassel did not quite care for Guillaume de Clerc, but the merchant was still a Priory member in good standing. And an effective one at that, despite the unpleasant nature of his business. “Is he having any luck with that obstinate fellow in your territory?”

“Three gullcatchers gone, nothing to show for it. The rat has a dæmon’s own luck.” At least Rexton’s sudden sour expression showed he was perfectly aware it was a nasty subject for a bright morning, even if the sudden spring calm meant a good old-fashioned New Rome ‘smoker’ was about to descend. “Everything is in place for tonight. I didn’t mean to disturb your morning meditation, my good fellow; I simply thought to thank you for your trouble.”

Passing along his spy’s latest tit-bits was his duty, but Victor could be forgiven for wishing it unnecessary. “Are you attending Netta’s ball, then?”

“She is never happy to see me, but she covers it well.” Now Rexton was back to smiling urbanity, all sourness swept briskly away. He rather seemed to mimic human expressions instead of truly suffering the feelings responsible for them, but such facility was no doubt to his advantage. “Should I refrain? I did think it best to perform my usual social duties today, so as not to alert any . . . onlooker, as it were.”

“Hm.” Victor’s slight sound was neither agreement nor its opposite. “I rather think you should attend, in that case.” Though he didn’t fancy Rexton catching sight of Netta’s new protégée.

The man simply could not be trusted, and Victor felt the same slight nausea he had for years in his fellow Priory member’s presence.

Rexton blinked, a quick lizard-like flicker. “I shall be glad to, in that case.”

“Then we shall expect you. The dancing will be pleasant, at least.” Victor folded the broadsheet, setting it upon the heartwood occasional table at his other side. “This fellow in the Acre. Are you quite sure you have the resources to handle him before he causes more damage?”

“If your man inside his organisation is trustworthy, of course.” Rexton arranged himself as if he expected a bit of a chat. His waistcoat was of solid Albion cut, as usual, but somewhat old-fashioned now. When younger, neither of them would have worn anything but the latest—but there was, as the Yudics often intoned, a time and season for everything under the sun.

“He is not my ‘man’.” Victor’s mouth almost pulled down on either corner at the thought. One would think someone with Rexton’s undoubted pedigree would be less . . . oh, less common. But sometimes bloodlines were attenuated instead of strengthened by time, especially if the chastity of the female side proved suspect. “Merely a useful tool, and one I have no illusions about the reliability of.”

“You’re quite suspicious these days, old chum.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” The Priory’s upper registers, with their labyrinthine etiquette and constant jostling for primacy, did not forgive naïveté or ineffectual blundering. Still, most of them thought him merely their equal in status, instead of guessing his true power. Normally, this pleased Lord Cassel greatly. “Still, we’ve all got to hang together, as He said on the Tau.”

In any other building, Rexton might have glanced swiftly about to make certain they would not be overheard. The blasphemy of the Nailed God—and his adherents’ abjuring of state and customary religion—was dangerous to espouse openly no matter how highly placed a Priory member was ‘outside’—especially with the current Empress becoming more traditionalist by the day. A refurbishment of state temples was well underway for the next Jubilee, and just last week Oldgate’s execution hill had seen two crucifixions for sacrilege along with the usual crop of criminals upon the cleaner gibbet.

One day the Nailed God might triumph, but in the meantime the Priory kept to the shadows. And really, the older gods were useful for keeping other layers of society in their proper place. There was no use in disturbing that equanimity; why, look at the Gauls and their nasty little revolutions once they ceased worshipping their proper king, not to mention that Corsican harlot’s get and the scars of his wars all over Europa.

Change was dangerous, even if scientific innovation proved profitable.

“Ah-mee-en,” Rexton intoned, and the light in his dark eyes was uncomfortably close to a fanatic’s. Of course anything which might cover his iniquities with a veneer of decency, however flimsy, would appeal to the man. “I’m actually looking forward to tonight quite a bit. And with that I’ll leave you be, my friend. I simply wished to pass along Gil’s message and express my gratitude.”

“No need.” Victor waved the thanks aside. Really, it was quite embarrassing. “Tonight, then.”

“Indeed.” And with that, Rexton levered himself up and glided away, no doubt to inflict himself upon some other poor sod merely seeking a bit of quiet in the Club’s depths.

To think that he had won the coin toss nigh-on twenty years ago. Chance—or the Nailed God—had some reason for favouring the fellow back then, but damned if Lord Cassel could perceive quite what it was. And Felix had committed the grand sin of failure as well. If he’d succeeded it would have been a case of forgiveness after the fact, always better than seeking permission.

Victor exhaled slightly, but did not allow his distaste to show. The servants here were loyal, of course. They were also watchful, and his position, however lofty, demanded circumspection.

He pressed his fingertips together and settled more firmly in the comfortable leather chair, gazing across the reading room without truly seeing heavy, polished wood, the fireplaces and new gaslamp fittings, the tables, the broadsheet-rack and the fresh flowers—Netta’s arrangements were far more pleasing, of course. A few manservants bustled here and there, tidying and ready to be called upon; very soon, the fencing salle in the back of the brownstone would be alive with shouts and clatter.

A few turns with a rapier would do him good, but Victor sat for a long while, thinking.

He did not like the feeling of impending storm; indeed, he was at a loss to discern from whence it sprang. And that was an event far more dangerous than Lord Rexton.

THE CLAREMONT Hotel on Tingley was a respectable place, far above the likes of a regular bullyboy no matter how successful. Securing a room there was child’s play, even with Avery’s dark woolen suit bearing a whiff of camphor from storage and his hat not quite the latest model.

Quite a few soaks-and-scrubs had removed the Acre’s grime, but left him feeling somewhat like a boiled lobster. Settling next to a good fire in a quiet, somewhat overdecorated room with his feet up, breathing deeply as his body’s inner reserves were called upon, took care of that. He spent another few hours practicing his cadence as coalfog thickened over New Rome. It wouldn’t do to have cant lingering behind his words tonight; no, he needed the accent of a parvenu businessman hailing from near the Strand.

His costume for the evening was hung upon a clothes stand, relaxing a bit. The colour was sober and the cut not too flashy, though the material was just a shade below the quality of a lord’s. He would be playing a successful upstart tonight, all the way up to the patent-medicine hair oil worked into his dark curls. Even his gloves were correct, with the very faintest of ink stains bleached near the cuff of the right one; he would make a point of hiding it as if self-conscious.

When he was finished slipping into this new skin a casual ballroom glance would slide right over him, and many were the inhabitants of New Rome who would swear he bore no relation to the Rook of Hell’s Acre.

“Sebastian Price,” he murmured more than once, testing the name. “Of Price and Hall, at your service.” Clipping the consonants just so, letting the vowels turn slightly pale at the edges—Mr Price had started as a clerk, and was highly conscious of the fact.

Helios’s chariot reached apogee and sank for the westron horizon, dipping itself in blood—red sunset, a sailor’s delight presaging good weather. There was no hope for wind tonight, which was a pity; fire did better with a bit of breath.

There would nonetheless be flame enough, and to spare.

Just as a ruby glow gilded the Claremont’s façade, filling the windows with carmine light, he unfolded from the chair and stretched, performing a few brisk parries and feints to get his blood moving again.

There was no need for a valet, even if a businessman of his supposed status would have one. Learn how to do it yourself was one of Morton’s maxims, along with know when you don’t have to. Avery even whistled softly while fixing his collar, and eyed the shirt buttons critically before deciding once more they would do. A quick pass of the comb, a shake of the formal coat—he could pay a sliverpence or two for a final touch-up of his shoes before hailing a hansom—and he was almost ready.

Bill Floss’s malacca with its heavy silver head was a risk to carry, but he liked it. And what was a parvenu without a showy piece? He twirled the cane once, twice before shrugging into his coat and giving the linen bow at his throat a final tweak. Finally, he eyed himself in the half-mirror set next to a bed he wouldn’t sleep in, though he had paid for two nights’ worth of its use.

“Sebastian Price,” he murmured again. “Of Price and Hall, and a handsome dæmon too, I fancy.”

He strode for the door but stopped just before reaching for the knob, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

Are you watching, Mother? Perhaps she was, and perhaps she was even proud, sitting upon a green Tartarus lawn with pale asphodel blooming all about. He couldn’t remember her face at the moment, unless it was the blackened, swollen visage he’d seen last. The one small portrait of her was safe with Morton, and her deathmask in a temple.

Perhaps he should pray more, but what shrine would take a Hellion without a sniff of distaste? Better to do this work in the dark. To serve the truth with lies, to serve the light with shadow, to serve life with death—those were the vows. He intended to fulfill every single one of them.

And tonight he might even see a certain girl in grey. Contemplating the event was a distraction he could ill afford, so he hurriedly shelved the thought. Much better to focus upon the work, and the work alone.

Still, he tapped the doorway’s good honest wood with two fingers, then kissed them. An old custom for luck, invoking the double-faced gods of both threshold and hearth. Each a manifestation of the others, philosophers said, but a Rook—or a man in trade—had no time for such niceties. Choose one god to blame or praise, then move on with a decided step, that was the way to get a few things accomplished, and many were the philosophers who agreed with that particular sentiment, too.

They argued with each other almost as much as priests did, or newspaper men.

“The work begins,” he said, in Sebastian Price’s voice, before he left the hotel room with a decided step and Bill Floss’s glittering, thoroughly polished malacca tapping time.

Present Reality

KEEPING HER PULSE at a steady, stately rate was all but impossible before a ball; Sampson had told her such control would arrive with time, when great glittering dances became commonplace affairs. Hay, on the other hand, maintained they were never commonplace and it was not merely pleasant to feel the anticipation but also quite natural, and expected in any woman young or old.

Gemma held her head at precisely the correct angle; Lucy bit her lip slightly while sliding the long pin into a nest of dark curls. The spray of small crystals affixed to its head glittered most fetchingly. “There,” the maid said, and stepped back, critically eyeing the result of her efforts. “It’ll hold, mum. You could dance all night with that.”

I just might. Gemma regarded herself in the vanity mirror. A flush filled her cheeks, just the barest touch of carmine was acceptable upon her lips and in any case would fade quickly, and Lady Cassel’s choice of a black velvet riband at her young ‘cousin’s’ throat dangling a single glittering, borrowed sapphire teardrop was more than fine enough.

The dress itself was also pleasing, deep blue with a reddish undertone instead of yellow, which suited Gemma’s complexion and would not turn her sallow. She rose from the bench, giving a slight shake of her head to test the piled a la Greacquea style, and Lady Cassel had even provided a matching silken fillet to hold it securely. “Quite,” she murmured, and bent slightly, arranging her skirts.

It would be apparent that the dress was reworked and simplified from last season’s, of course, and the hair ornament as well as the choker, not to mention the sapphire earrings with seed pearls ringing the tiny gems, were borrowed finery. But the gloves were new, and fit very well when she tried them on earlier that afternoon, as did the slippers her hostess had taken the trouble of arranging, peeping from beneath the skirt like timid mice with shyly glittering diamanté noses. Her arms were mostly bare—she would tear the shoulder bands free if required to engage in strenuous activity—and the neckline daringly low. Thank the gods bustles were currently shrinking to a mere shadow of those a decade ago; Gemma hated the thought of perching upon the things when sitting was necessary, and they were distracting while dancing.

Hay had told many an amusing story about the dresses of her youth, and had considered overly large bustles almost indecent. If the gods wanted us to have rumps that size, Venus would have granted them to all, she had muttered once or twice, and each time Gemma had been hard pressed not to burst into veritable peals of laughter.

The full-length mirror in its rosewood frame a few steps away held a very presentable Gemma Dove indeed. She regarded the girl in its depths critically, decided the knife strapped to her thigh under the petticoats could be reached with some manner of tearing though it hurt her to think of ruining such a pretty thing, and sank into a dancer’s courtesy, spreading her arms just slightly and letting the skirt fold in the approved manner against the floor. Her stays were not overly tight, and when she straightened she caught sight of Lucy hovering just behind her, the girl wearing a shocked expression, quickly smoothed.

“Cor,” the maid said, in a soft, wondering tone. “You look just as a lady, mum.”

I should, at least for a short while tonight. But Gemma smiled. “I hope I do not disappoint. Lady Cassel is very kind, and I wish to show my gratitude—and her beneficence—to every advantage.”

“No worries, Miss.” Lucy’s expression suggested she was of a more practical bent. “You’ll find a husband for sure.”

Good heavens. That would put rather a crimp in my plans. But the girl meant well, so Gemma’s smile widened. “Juno will bless me at her leisure. My gloves, please, and my fan. They will be finished soon.”

She was not attending the exceedingly light meal, taken upright instead of traditionally reclining, before the ball—such things were only for the most honoured and intimate of guests, not a poor relation come begging. It was just as well, for if she had to attempt nourishment at the same table as her quarry, she might well become too nauseated to speak or dance.

Knowing the author of her parents’ misfortune was nearby also wrought havoc upon her pulse. So many years of dreaming, planning, and hard work were about to reach a summit—not the final or the highest, but still an important peak in and of itself.

Smoothing her gloves, touching her earrings one last time, ensuring her fan hung correctly from its silken loop, tucking the dance card—she would only take a turn or two tonight, but that was enough—into the small satin bag matching her dress . . . it was all familiar, and oh, how she wished this were one of the infrequent country balls in Gaul Narbonensis, for that would mean Hay was still alive and little Beth-Anne’s vengeance a distant future prospect instead of pressing present reality.

One last glance in the mirror, and she caught sight of Lucy’s puzzled look over her shoulder. “What? Is my skirt awry?”

“No, Miss, not that,” the girl hastened to assure her. “I simply . . . you look quite different, ’tis all. Her Ladyship might be a bit surprised.”

No doubt she means well. “Pleasantly, I hope.” Gemma tilted her head, listening—a muffled bell rang in the depths of the house. “I think the ladies are retiring now, Lucy. I must be at my post when they enter the ballroom.”

“Yesmum. I’ll show you, mum.”

She was quite capable of making her own way there, but Gemma merely nodded. Perhaps Lucy wanted a glimpse of the gentlemen in their severe black-and-white, the ladies in their bright finery, and the ball decorations. Lady Cassel had chosen the theme of Seasons, each quadrant of the ballroom holding a colour and some fancies corresponding to the demigod ruling the wind of that direction; the subscription tables followed suit. Imanuel, of course, was part of Spring, and thus was indirectly one of the causes the hostess felt most worthy.

Everyone in New Rome longed for the advent of warmer weather.

Before leaving her rooms, Gemma took a deep breath. This was not merely a ball but a manner of combat, and a moment to brace herself was quite welcome.

She exhaled sharply and glided after Lucy, armoured and armed, ready to do battle.

Inverse Theft

FLANDERS WAS looking to prove himself indeed. Not only was he bearing a heavy charge for tonight but had been most thorough yesterday, and his map of the Cassels’ residence was clear and easily memorised. It was a moment’s work to hop the wall surrounding the mansion, its neighbours with their slices of green garden held close like a woman’s skirts while negotiating a train-carriage aisle. Nevertheless, a denizen of the Acre would be uneasy at all the empty space around and inside each building; it even made Avery’s nape itch for a moment before he quelled the sensation.

A Hellion had to be at ease in any environment, but a few moments’ worth of adaptation was sometimes advisable and necessary. The important thing was to keep his clothing pristine, so he moved with due care. Flanders could have nicked a blank invitation with some brazenness and luck, or Avery could have visited Lady Cassel’s engraver—but why bother, when he could simply avoid the trouble? There was no need to stroll through the front door. He required only a corner to stow coat, hat, and his malacca cane, and that would be easy.

The ballroom’s windows glowed golden, and shadows moved inside—last-minute preparations or early, eager dancers. A thin echo of music brushed the cold; at least it wasn’t raining. The breeze had fallen off near midday and haze settled over the city, the Thamis not glass-smooth but close as a river could get. Traces of coalsmoke clotted busily in every corner. New Rome’s fog would be cream-thick by midnight, utterly impenetrable by morning—a regular smoker.

He couldn’t have asked for better weather, except for maybe a light breeze near the foundries. And by now Herrin, Kane, and Ned Popper would all three be executing their private sets of orders. Each thought their own lads the real attack and the others diversions, and he’d have some standing fur to smooth when they returned to the Acre if things went badly. He’d nevertheless given the separate groups every chance of success, and every meeting involving all three of those lieutenants had treated the Jessamyn as the true target since all three buildings were similar in layout, if not location.

He did not intend to merely burn one concern of Rexton’s to the ground tonight. Incidentally, if Veece was a turncoat sent by his chief enemy—or another of the Priory’s members—he could not do much damage to the night’s affairs, and Flanders could drop the quick-knife with some help from Jackson and Sibley if it seemed anyone at the Potskill Lane location had been forewarned of the Rooks’ visit.

He did not think any of his boys had been suborned, but it paid to be thorough.

The side door Flanders had quietly attended to yesterday was unlocked, its latch expertly gummed to keep it that way until the boss’s arrival, and Avery Black slipped into the house like a good thin knife between ribs. His boys were fine burglars indeed, and he had even learned a trick or two under their tutelage, but he was not here to steal. He might even leave a few accoutrements, an inverse theft, and the prospect delighted him.

The neglected side hall was free of dust, solidly floored, well-plastered, smelling of beeswax polish, and lit with gaslamps. One flickered near the end, hissing lightly as it struggled against a crimped valve—Flanders’s little joke, you’re in the right spot, boss, and from here you need to mind yourself.

It was a far cry from reeking overstuffed tenements, packed publicks, even more crowded gin holes, and dosshouses slop-full of coughing, wheezing, shuffling, cries, and the stares of big-eyed, malnourished children. Many a rich man claimed to believe poverty was somehow ennobling, or that the vast sea of the dispossessed actually enjoyed chilblains, hunger, and filth. Others said it was a necessary evil, decreed by the gods themselves.

Either way, a Hellion existed to balance the scales in whatever way possible. Never entirely, of course, and never enough—but what else was life for, if not to attempt?

If he fell in a particular battle, the war would go on. His contribution would remain unnoticed or be attributed to simple luck, good or bad. There were no plaudits waiting if Avery proved victorious, merely a similar blood-drenched field in another place. Even the Fates would take little notice, and those divine she-wolves saw everything—or so it was said.

Avery paused only to slip out of his coat and hat; between the lamps and the coal grates it was almost stifling on this floor, though the servants might shiver in unheated garrets tonight. There was a closet in an adjoining hall he could use to store his effects, and then it was a simple matter of making it to the ballroom without being seen.

All things should be so easy, yet his heart beat a little faster than it should. Avoiding notice in a sea of rich toffs was good practice—but he wondered what Imanuel’s grey-clad witch would do upon catching sight of him. The risk was a pleasant one, or so he told himself. Maybe she wasn’t even allowed to attend the ball proper, for all the servant gossip had told Flanders otherwise.

He simply had to wait and see. Avery ducked into a handy arch leading to a smaller hallway as a pair of footmen hurried past, so intent upon their work and muttered conversation they never noticed him in the shadows.

Grand fun, this. If all went well his quarry would be properly flushed, and while Rexton was hurrying to view the damage to his foundry—at least, the one whose news of conflagration reached him first—the rest of Avery’s plan for the evening could proceed.

A hum of conversation ahead was the smoking room; he was just in time. Avery’s step lengthened, his expression smoothing into Sebastian Price’s bland, perpetually though only slightly worried mask, and he forced himself to move as if he belonged in this part of a Crosse Street palazzo.

He was rather looking forward to the dance.

Arm’s Reach

THE LIGHTS BLAZED, the musicians were fully tuned, and the stentorian, leather-lunged footman announcing new arrivals was kept very busy indeed. Chilly when Gemma entered, Lady Cassel’s ballroom quickly gained near-tropical heat, and she was glad of both bare shoulders and the simplicity of her skirt.

She had attended to a subscription table no few times before, though never in a borrowed dress. Hay believed a lady should be as charitable as possible, not just with spare écus but also hours spent smiling while politely pressing Respectable folk to part with a few of their own coins. A lending library for the neighbourhood gentry was easy enough to fund, but a home for reformed luparia—one of Aunt Hay’s pet concerns, feeling as she did that most men were merely lying in wait to ravish and cast away girls made defenceless by poverty or mischance—was quite another matter.

The fact that most ‘homes’ of that sort were dour in the extreme and their inhabitants eager to abscond at the slightest opportunity did not seem to matter to Hay, and was not, to Gemma’s mind, quite the conundrum most reputable people claimed. Even the constant noise and various smells of the Acre were certainly preferable to a dingy grey block of a building full of bad drains, uncomfortable shapeless gowns, and oakum to be picked.

In any case, Imanuel’s table saw a fair bit of traffic once a certain number of ladies had entered upon the arms of their particular gentlemen, and Gemma was bombarded with questions.

Most were well-meaning. What was her connexion to Lady Cassel? A distant cousinship, no more, but Her Ladyship has been most kind. Where on earth did Gemma come from? Gaul Narbonensis, she was but newly arrived in Albion. How had she become engaged at Imanuel? The director found her ‘character’ quite adequate, and she had been there for two months.

The last was a bit of a stretch, but not by far. Once a few matrons—chief among them a stout worthy in black silk with a long string of irregular pearls looped twice about her throat and hanging almost to the waist, her gown saved from being widow’s weeds by a few tricks of construction and bright red ribands upon the sleeves—decided Gemma was Respectable enough and certainly very well-spoken, the engraved cards began to be written upon with small pledges. Each one represented a victory, or at least a meal with a moiety more meat and a shade less cabbage, so Gemma thanked every charitable lady with good grace and hoped Director Breakbridge would not have too dismal a time seeing the promises honoured.

Once she received the imprimatur of the matrons, many young ladies and a few gentlemen approached. Eventually Lady Cassel drifted close in her stunning abssinthea-green ballgown, halting to laugh lightly at one of Gemma’s sallies and touch her protégée’s gloved arm lightly with her fan, a slight stroke denoting approval, not to mention confidence.

“You are doing quite well.” The soft words hardly travelled to Gemma’s ears, let alone the watching crowd. Antoinette’s husband stood aside, deep in conversation with a knot of gentlemen and two married ladies, both with ostrich plumes upon their headbands. Such things were fashionable at the moment in New Rome. “I wish I had not chosen the blue, though.”

“Does it make me look sallow?” Gemma kept her expression open and pleasant. The musicians had begun a light quadrille and two dance managers were busily attending to introductions, the red rosettes tucked into their lapels anxiously eyed by every wallflower.

“No,” Antoinette said, and a flicker of something very much like fear crossed her beautiful oval face. Her earrings sparkled, and the bracelet against her gloved wrist gleamed too, both smugly confident in rich golden light. There really was nothing like the glow of a ballroom. “Over my left shoulder, the tallish brunet kissing Lady Gower’s hand at the moment. That is he.”

Gemma restrained the urge to immediately glance in that direction. “Lady Gower—she is in yellow silk?”

“The very same.” Lady Cassel had grown pale. “You seem to have accumulated quite a few pledges.”

“I intend to gather a surfeit tonight, to raise the chances of a few reaching Imanuel intact.” Now Gemma could let her gaze swing toward her prey, as if tempted by the bright plumage of her betters. Her heart beat thinly, hummingbird wings in her throat and wrists, and though no observer would think her paying attention to anything other than her benefactress’s words—and perhaps admiring a particularly splendid gown with slight envy—she took in every possible detail.

The man leaning over Lady Gowers’s gloved paw had a long nose, a thin mouth, a moustache, a touch of grey at his temples, and a pair of hazel eyes which might have been accounted quite fine save for their unblinking quality. He was not quite so soft about the middle as so many others of his age and station, though he was not nearly so lean as Sampson.

His gaze fastened upon her in return, and she took great care to look slowly away as she nodded, pretending Lady Cassel had the lion’s share of her attention.

“Well, Lady Hendricks said you charmed the Duchess tonight—she is in the purple, over there—and Mrs Mordenne has not yet been heard to give a cutting remark upon your manners, which is the best that could be hoped for.” Gemma’s patroness still smiled, but a certain tight worry lingered about her eyes. “I really should not have chosen blue. What was I thinking?”

Her quarry’s shoulders were not quite so broad as one could wish but his carriage was very correct, and his posture as he straightened bespoke some training. Of course, Sampson had said as much, and Lady Cassel called him dangerous as well.

“Do I disappoint?” Gemma murmured, returning her gaze to her hostess. “I was hoping to do this dress justice. Lucy said I looked proper indeed.”

“It’s not that.” There was an edge to Lady Cassel’s tone which had been quite absent that morning. “This was a mistake, chérie. I can only hope nobody will—”

“And who is this?” A pleasant light baritone, well-modulated, lingered upon the last syllable of the question, then answered it smoothly. “Your cousin, Victor tells me. My very gracious hostess, I must ask for an introduction; I am familiar with the Imanuel School, but not this young miss.”

Seen at close quarters, the man who had kissed Lady Gower’s hand looked well-preserved, though a trifle dissolute. His study of Gemma was frank and only missed insouciance by a hairsbreadth, an inspection he obviously felt was warranted and not impolite at all. It was, of course, Felix Larridby, Lord Rexton.

In other words, her prey, and he was within arm’s reach.

ANTOINETTE’S HEART beat thinly inside a double cage of ribs and stays. Her gloved hands were cold, and so were her toes inside their pretty green dancing slippers. She was entirely to blame for this—and by every god, why had she chosen the blue? It was not the only dress which could be altered upon such short notice; she had merely thought it would suit a girl of Gemma’s colouring, not even considering that it might provoke . . . recollections.

In her usual dowdy, almost old-fashioned grey, Alice’s daughter was only wistfully passable at best, an impression no doubt helped along by the girl’s carriage and determination to eschew any frippery, even the usual pinching of cheeks to bring a becoming flush. Straight-backed and thin-lipped in her daily frock, Miss Gemma Dove was the very picture of faded but utter respectability. Even while standing in Antoinette’s boudoir while the seamstress pinned and bustled, Gemma had looked very much a gawky chick in borrowed feathers.

Now, though, in a gown just the shade Alice wore at her first ball after marriage—though of decidedly different cut and construction—the girl was quite altered indeed. She was neither copper nor ebon, those shades of true sun-kissed beauty, despite Gaul Narbonensis being bright enough to grant a becoming shade or two. Yet the tilt of her head, the slight smile, her well-bred posture, the fall of dark curls fetchingly piled and threaded with a silken fillet, her slim bared shoulders, and a hundred other little details produced a far different impression than that of a wan, determined little schoolmistress.

Worst of all, Gemma’s large dark eyes, thickly lashed, held the intensity much remarked upon in her mother. Indeed, the First Grace had possessed the habit of regarding any item which truly interested her in a rather direct and unmaidenly fashion likely to scorch a hole through its material; her daughter did not quite look at Rexton so, yet the similarity was unmistakable.

“Oh, hello, Felix.” Lady Cassel’s mind raced as she took refuge in icy politeness; Rexton might otherwise assume she had dressed her young cousin to catch his attention—or as a comment upon a long-ago scandal best forgotten. “Miss Dove, my dear cousin, this gentleman is Sir Felix Larridby, Lord Rexton.” Please, do not do anything rash.

“Sir.” Gemma gave the short, melting curtsey used by young well-bred girls in Gaul when accepting introduction, polite yet unwilling to countenance familiarity. It was a delightfully Continental touch, and Antoinette cursed herself roundly again for choosing the blue.

It suited the girl to the last degree, but this was far too dangerous.

“Ma’moizelle.” Rexton did not look chagrined to be denied the opportunity to kiss a gloved hand, but he did study the young lady closely. “Where on earth has Lady Cassel been hiding you?”

“She takes me out of the wardrobe only for special occasions.” Gemma’s expression was quite proper, but the hint of a smile lingering about her lips was gone. The solemnity made her even prettier, and dissolved the ancestral likeness somewhat, since Alice had always been of the merry sort.

All things considered, she was bearing up admirably under the shock of seeing the author of her parents’ misfortune. The girl had all the First Grace’s stubbornness, a fair measure of Hay’s as well, and none of her father’s easy temper. Then again, Lucius had been shockingly weak for a man.

Otherwise, his young family might not have come to such grief.

“Charming.” Rexton’s chuckle was nothing short of indulgent, and Antoinette did not like that look upon the blasted fellow’s face, having seen it before. At least he would assume Gemma had Victor’s protection, which would deter him from seeking any familiarity—or so Antoinette hoped. “So, you are collecting for Imanuel. I have some slight acquaintance with Mr Breakbridge, the director.”

“Indeed?” Gemma’s eyebrows rose slightly, producing a very creditable air of mild surprise. Her entire mien suggested she had not heard of the event. “I shall in that case take him your greetings when I return.” In other words, Rexton was now expected to make at least a token pledge, since he claimed to know her employer.

“Please do.” If it irked Felix to be so neatly boxed into parting with a few pounds, he did not show it. “The school is quite near a Mithraic temple, is it not?”

“I believe so.” Gemma’s calm was admirable. Her gloved hands were gracefully loose, and she regarded Rexton levelly. “The boys do a great deal of work there, especially in the gardens.”

A touch of dampness clung to Antoinette’s chemise, though she had only danced once so far and exerted herself not at all otherwise. The longer this went on, the greater the chance of Gemma making a slip; she was, after all, so very young.

Though she was almost too old for marriage, treading the edge of spinsterhood. Why had Hay not made a good match for her?

The music came to a temporary close, a smattering of polite applause put a similarly short halt to any conversation, and just afterward a peculiar silence of the type which sometimes occurs in large gatherings filled the ballroom.

“Mercury is among us,” Gemma murmured, modestly as any religious maiden. Antoinette had the lunatic urge to smile, or worse, laugh nervously.

The hum of well-bred conversation began again; Lord Rexton’s attention had not wavered. In fact, he was regarding the girl with uncharacteristic gravity. “Good works done for a temple are to be encouraged at any age. I wonder—”

Whatever Felix wondered was interrupted, for one of the dance managers approached, coughing slightly as he bowed. “Miss?” The portly fellow with the red flower pinned to his breast was trailed by a much younger man, dark-haired and more striking than handsome. Antoinette’s memory, normally quite adequate for any occasion, could not match his face with a name, but the manager solved the mystery almost immediately. “May I present to you a Mr Sebastian Price, who requests the honour of this dance?”

Price? Antoinette cast through memory for details to match both the name and the dark-haired young man who bowed, quite correctly. He had a rather pronounced nose, a mischievous smile lurking in the vicinity of his mouth, and a well-tailored but slightly underdone suit.

Perhaps he was one of her husband’s acquaintances; the pomade he used shouted I am in trade, and so did his shoes. Nevertheless, he was presentable, and Antoinette could not stop a young protégée from accepting at least one turn about the ballroom. Many of the matrons present would assume Gemma was here to catch a husband, and would be weighing her chances against their own progeny.

The musicians gave a note, about to commence their night’s work, and a flush bloomed upon Gemma’s cheeks. It was strange to see her almost flustered, but she gave a quite correct smile, curtsied to her patroness, murmured a banality in Rexton’s direction, and took the fellow’s arm.

He led her onto the highly polished floor amid a flock of other dancers, brightly clad or in quite proper black-and-white—for it was ever the prerogative of the female to wear the best plumage—and Antoinette had to suppress a sigh of relief. A conquest might even deter the girl from any mischief.

Though marriage had not saved poor Alice. Not at all, and sometimes Netta thought quite the opposite.

“Bother,” Felix said, mildly. He now regarded Antoinette rather narrowly; at least he was not making a point of staring after her so-called cousin. “I was hoping to claim a dance from the young lady, but I can wait. Who is that fellow?”

“I don’t know; he must be one of Victor’s.” Lady Cassel wished her stays were not quite so tight. Her knees felt decidedly soft, as well. “I believe Lady Saffney must have a dance from you before anyone else, though.” Perhaps she could keep Gemma away from Rexton for the remainder of the ball.

I merely wish to see the man, Gemma had said more than once, but Antoinette found she did not believe it. She hoped Sampson had received her letter and was making arrangements to bundle the girl back over the Channel.

This was much more dangerous than she had feared, and little Beth—for all she called herself Gemma now—was not quite as her letters had shown. Under Hay’s guardianship she had been headstrong, certainly, but thoroughly conventional; this young lady seemed far more of the former and decidedly less of the latter.

“This Miss Dove is your . . . cousin?” Felix nodded quite thoughtfully, and the quality of his attention shifted, now akin to cold wind moving up the Thamis’s estuary to run a secret chill into the city’s veins. In fact, it made Antoinette’s skin crawl, and not for the first time. “I am surprised you did not bring her to New Rome earlier.”

“The connexion is distant, and tenuous at best.” Antoinette adjusted her fan’s loop upon her wrist and wished she were a man capable of challenging this beast to yet another duel, not to mention ramming steel through whatever diseased thing passed for his heart. It was unfeminine and ungenteel to think such a thing; still, she could not help it. “But she was raised quite well, and I think will eventually be a credit.”

“Let us hope so.” Felix might have said more, but thankfully Lady Saffney, in billowing orange, was approaching—ostensibly to chatter at the evening’s hostess, but more likely to give Rexton a chance to add another of the flattering attentions he was in the habit of pressing upon her. “Oh, drat. I am in danger.”

Whether he paid court to Gaffney’s vanity or her inheritance—wholly hers since she had buried two husbands so far, though she did not seem truly in want of a third—was an open question. Antoinette was hard put not to laugh with relief.

And, it must be said, fresh unease, for she really did not recognise the man dancing with Gemma, and her protégée was still blushing.

Combat’s Cousin

HIS GIRLEEN WAS a vision in blue, quite different than her usual staid, monochrome camouflage. Her gloved hand rested lightly in his, and under his other palm her dress was warm. A hint of rosewater lingered from her toilette, her high-piled curls swayed most fetchingly, and she even danced well—soft as a cloud upon her slippers. Only the lightest of pressures was needed to change her course.

It was a novel experience to direct a willing Miss Dove; Avery found he rather liked it. For a few moments she appeared too stunned to speak, and that was highly amusing as well.

“This is quite dangerous, sir.” Her faint smile didn’t alter, but her eyes had widened. “What on earth are you doing here?” An onlooker would only think her uttering pleasantries—unless they noticed the high colour rising to her cheeks.

This close, her skin looked very soft indeed and the flush was quite becoming. He had not noticed the honey threading through her dark curls before, and the gown’s deep blue suited her as well; it might be a borrowed dress, but she wore it as her due. The small gems in her earrings sparkled, and she moved as naturally upon the parquet as a cat in an utterly familiar garden.

Yes, Imanuel’s witch was quite the lady indeed. This was where she belonged, not in the stone block of a poor-school with its reek of cabbage or amid Rudrill’s dusty, fusty knickknacks. If his Rooks saw her now, they might well be awed into silence at the vision.

What, in every god’s name, was she doing in the Acre? Hiding, of course—but what was this?

“Why, good evening, Miss Dove.” Avery could barely restrain the urge to give her a cheeky wink; the Rook Himself might do so, but Price wouldn’t. A merchant would be entirely too stiff with this lovely creature, conscious of his station. “As you can plainly see, I’m dancing.” Morton was right, you never forgot such an operation; it was combat’s cousin, though far more pleasant. He turned her into the heart of the throng and for once she obeyed without demur or tart reproof. “Isn’t that usual, at these affairs?”

“You interrupted a conversation.” She took a deep breath, probably seeking to restrain the blush scorching her cheeks and having little luck. It was another first—she was always so icily contained—and he quite liked that as well.

Provoking her was almost as pleasant as smoothing the ruffled plumage, though he hadn’t a chance to do the latter much. “Perhaps I couldn’t bear the prospect of that fellow asking you to take a turn.” Avery’s own smile suddenly had far too much gritting of teeth to be cheerful. “I’d like to cut his throat for looking at you the way he did.”

He was already planning the event for other reasons, but this added a fillip indeed. She was entirely too winsome to be left unguarded anywhere near Rexton. In fact, she had already been too close to things she should have no part of, from the Acre’s filth to childcatchers. Not to mention the murder of a certain Metropolitan.

Portius richly deserved his fate, but that was not the point. This girl should not have had to mete it out; for a friendless orphan, she was doing surprisingly well.

It was not enough. Miss Dove wanted some looking after, and Avery was well and truly upon the road to deciding it was his personal task to perform. Sooner or later every man found one.

Even a Hellion.

“Dear gods.” Miss Dove regarded him with something akin to open shock instead of her usual guarded, dismissive air, and it was a good thing this waltz had many a measure yet to go or she might decide to attempt breaking free of his admittedly very politely loose hold. A gentleman did not clutch a lady during a dance. “Must you be a barbarian, especially here?”

“There’s a knife under your skirts, girleen. You think I can’t tell?” Yes, he was enjoying himself, and far more than he’d thought possible when contemplating the many ways this evening could turn. “You are a most interesting lass, and I like puzzles. Besides, I told you, the Acre looks after its own.” If she thought he was here keep a watch after her, all the better—but he suspected she was far too perspicacious.

The question of her own purposes was much more intriguing.

“You aren’t slurring your cant, sir.” She tilted her head slightly, and followed him through the step-change as he now aimed for the musicians, keeping them well away from Rexton’s part of the ballroom. “You may cause a small scandal. I cannot think you were invited to this dance, for I saw the list and there was no Sebastian Price upon it. You will seem quite the boor should you stay under these circumstances, no matter how well-bred you sound.”

“I think everyone here is charmed by my obvious admiration of the ball’s belle, not to mention my bravery in claiming your first dance. As well as wondering just who in blazes I am.” Avery had to keep an eye to the footmen and managers as well; if either of the Cassels realised the other had not invited him, he would have to vanish in magnificently short order. He was not behaving prudently—but who could, when faced with a fascinating conundrum of this sort? “Lady Cassel will have a fine time explaining.”

“You are insane,” she said, pleasantly enough, though no doubt she longed to hiss. Imanuel’s witch was recovering a bit of her starch. “You are also interfering.”

Which meant she did indeed have a deeper purpose beyond filling Imanuel’s coffers. “I am dancing. With the most beautiful lass in New Rome, no less. Let me enjoy the event.” Avery pushed and she swung free, her skirt moving most fetchingly—then he drew her back, with a little more force than absolutely necessary. A showy move, rendered artful by her grace, and the flush faded from her cheeks. “Every man in the room wants to be me right now.”

“Your arrogance is most unseemly.” Even paling with rage, she was a fine sight.

“I know.” And more dangerous than you can guess, girleen. He merely had to keep her away from Rexton for long enough. Soon the bastard would be too busy to care about a pretty face and a blue dress, and she would be safe in the Acre anyway. “Fortunately, your continual reminders of my plebeian status will keep me humble.”

“I should begin by kicking your shin.”

“Imagine what such a maneuver will do to your dress.” It was far too easy to banter with her; Avery was at risk of completely losing his head, in more ways than one. The night was young and a fire at his largest concern should bring Rexton out of a ballroom in a hurry rather soonish, especially if he’d been warned by a turncoat inside the Rooks. “Now listen, Miss Dove. Tonight I’m Sebastian Price, and I’m in trade. I’ll make a contribution to the Imanuel fund if I have a moment on my way out, and no doubt that will shame a few of the others into signing away a pound or two. Look how helpful I’m being.”

Her mouth pursed primly, but her dark eyes glittered with well-banked anger. “I can’t help but think you have some ulterior motive.”

“If that motive is keeping you out of trouble, you’re right.” Just what did I interrupt, my fine girleen? Once they were both back in the Acre he could pursue that line of enquiry much more easily; it seemed he had to do so almost immediately rather than at leisure. “Any moment now that Rexton fellow’s going to be called away. And a good thing, too.”

“You . . .” Her lips parted a little, and she almost faltered. If it was a hit, it was a palpable one. “You know who he is?”

“Indeed I do, and he’s not the sort you want to tangle with.” He set her right with a quick movement—in time with the music, even, though he doubted she was grateful. “He’s a bad ’un, Miss Dove, and if he takes an interest in your direction you’ll be glad to have my help in avoiding it.”

“I know he is of a bad sort, sir.” She brushed aside any trouble from Rexton’s quarter with toss of her pretty head. Her curls bounced, glossy and perfect as the rest of her; his chest gave a swift pang at the memory of her disheveled and clutching a shillelagh, determined to protect a clutch of littles. “He will be called away? What precisely is your connexion to—”

“Now’s not the time, girleen.” Avery rather wanted to enjoy the dance without explaining. Rexton was badly overextended; a few more weeks would see his credit stagger. He would be looking for liquidity to save his skin. There would certainly be some safety to be found in a few of his other business concerns—or so he would think, until it was too late. And with the Priory’s Seven due for elections amid the approaching annual celebration of the Nailed God’s failed resurrection, always held during the more conventional spring festivals, Lord Rexton would be quite distracted.

Patience, planning, and Avery’s perseverance had brought everything just to the edge of an abyss. There the situation rested, trembling.

As she was. Miss Dove glanced aside, and when he turned them both upon the axis of the music he saw a liveried servant—not of the Cassels—muttering at Rexton’s ear, while the lord’s gaze crawled over the ballroom, following the sway of blue skirts.

Plunging a knife into those hazel eyes, one-two like a serpent’s flickering tongue, would be highly satisfying. Avery didn’t like the thought of what might have happened had he not needed to witness Rexton’s reaction to news of misfortune personally, and make utterly certain his prey would bolt the way the hunter wished.

Or to discern, by Rexton’s staying at the event, that the man felt confident Avery’s Rooks had indeed been infiltrated. Besides, there was the thrill of flaunting himself just before his enemy, visible and yet entirely overlooked. A terrible risk, but one a Hellion would run—if necessary, if desired.

Should this gambit fail and ruining Rexton financially was no longer feasible, Avery would be forced to something much more . . . direct.

Rexton nodded, and for a moment something other than a slight well-bred smile flickered across the older man’s face. In fact, the bastard’s age was showing—bright light gilded the grey at his temples, and the fans of wrinkles bracketing his eyes were not merely from his dissolute habits but also Time’s brush dabbing at all in its path.

If Avery’s mother were still alive, she might be wearing the same fine lines. He couldn’t imagine; then again, his memory of her was only a sense of distant warmth. Except for that last terrible vision, and the creaking of a rope as she dangled.

“He looks a trifle upset,” Imanuel’s witch observed, very softly. The sudden speculation in her tone was not that of a schoolmistress, nor of an innocent genteel. Nor was it a gullcatcher’s honeyed artlessness.

In fact, his girleen sounded somewhat like Morton—thoughtful, calm, and deceptively mild. Which made her even more interesting, if that were possible.

“Does that please you, Miss Dove?” Who, by Hades, are you really? Avery was abruptly conscious of the waltz winding to a close.

“No. Rather, it fills me with concern.” She turned her head, following the dictates of the dance, and they whirled behind a screen of other couples. “It’s not like such a man to show that feeling in public.”

She was right. Yet she had paled further, all that lovely colour gone, and her eyes turned even darker than usual. Somber and suspicious, she regarded him as she might a suspected childcatcher, and kept her distance so much as the dance would permit.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Avery said lightly, but for some reason, that only earned him another searching, mistrustful look. “Stay away from the fellow, Gemma. We’ll have a talk when I return to the Acre.”

“Is that a threat?” Her tension did not interfere with her grace at all, but he sensed she was a hairsbreadth away from deciding to cause a scene, which would do neither of them any good.

“Not at all.” His fingers clamped upon hers, though his hand at her waist did not press any harder. “You’ve done the Acre a good turn or two, Miss Dove, and Imanuel even more. I’ve no time to tell you about that man tonight, but I will at leisure later. You can trust me that far, can you not?”

“Trust you, Mr Price?” Her eyebrows rose. “Or shall I trust Mr Black, who for all his rough edges does seem to be rather a good sort?”

She had decided he was a good sort. Avery was hard-pressed not to laugh like a Bedlamite. “Whichever name you like, girleen.” He realised he was wearing a very foolish grin, in fact, and his gaze followed Rexton as the man quit the ballroom with a great deal of hurried politeness. Lady Cassel stood near the Imanuel table, the green of her gown very springlike indeed, but she was watching her protégée in Avery’s arms, and her eyes had narrowed.

Time to leave, Rook. The music ended amid a smattering of applause. He took a moment to bow to Gemma, very correctly indeed, and spotted a likely exit.

“I shall expect a very full explanation, sir,” she said quietly, accepting his obeisance with queenly grace. “You’d best hurry, I think our fair hostess suspects something.”

Oh, how he would like to stay. “We’ll have another dance, miss. Just not tonight.”

She turned smartly away, and it actually pinched for a moment before he realised they were at the edge of the floor and she was drawing notice in her wake—Lady Cassel’s, as well as anyone else’s. To an observer, it would seem that she had been polite but not overly intrigued by a man in trade, and was now returning to her post.

She did not look back, but in any case it did not matter.

For Avery took the chance she so obligingly offered, and vanished.

Wanted Attending

“HOW BAD IS IT?” Felix settled in the embossed leather seat, throttling the urge to add an ill-tempered epithet to the question. His carriage gained speed as it clattered from Crosse Street, dragging him from an evening which had turned from deadly boring to potentially pleasant in an eyeblink, and now this.

It was enough to put anyone in a temper, and it took far too much effort to throttle the quite natural urge to bludgeon a messenger. He needed this man, especially if the Jessamyn was damaged beyond repair.

“Bad enough, sir.” Sleek saturnine Sevring did not look quite ill at ease on the seat opposite, but his mouth was much thinner than usual. It could have been the carriage’s jolting, since backward motion disagreed with even the most excellent digestion; tonight’s rising fog also smelled of the Thamis, a mix of salt and rotting fish fit to turn any stomach. “Preparations were made, but somehow—”

“Somehow?” Felix moderated his tone to an arch murmur. It was exceedingly bad form to shout, but this was most irritating. “May all the gods save us from somehow. Be a little more precise, Sevring.”

“The Jessamyn was most closely guarded, and all quiet until a half-hour past sunset.” The valet’s ungloved, very capable hands were folded in his lap, and he eyed his employer closely. This was clearly no ordinary ill news; the footman who had hurried in to fetch Lord Rexton had been outright sweating. “Then they received word the McLane was afire.”

“Really.” Rexton tweezed a short green velvet curtain aside, studying what he could see through the carriage window. There was no use in wondering if Victor had been misled or simply did not bother to pass along the whole of the message from his spy; at this point it was immaterial and only time would prove the point anyway. “So it wasn’t the Jessamyn after all. How interesting.”

“Well . . .” Sevring’s usually well-pomaded hair was slightly disarranged too; he must have hurried from Maifaire. The carriage jolted and he moved with the motion, akin to balancing on a rough-gaited horse. “It wasn’t just the McLane, sir.”

Felix’s heart sank. “Oh?”

“It appears the Thrushcrowne is ablaze too, sir.” Now his valet looked faintly and quite uncharacteristically pale. Sevring’s boots held traces of ash; smudges showed at his trouser-hems. Had the light been better, Felix would have noticed both immediately. “The news came by runner just before I left home.”

“Half a moment.” Felix could hardly believe his ears. They all but tingled at receiving such ill news. “You mean two of my three foundries are on fire?”

“I haven’t heard again from the Jessamyn past them receiving news of the first fire, sir. But I cannot think it safe, especially with half the guards gone to fight the blaze at the McLane.” Sevring’s brow furrowed, another singular event. Tonight was proving full of them. “This seems rather beyond the work of a petty association leader and a band of drunken bullyboys.”

“It does indeed.” Felix’s mind raced, though he took care to settle the curtain with a precise motion. The interior lamp quivered, its glow casting dæmon-shadows over his bodyguard’s face—and quite probably his own, too.

Pounding upon the roof and demanding old Bernard the coachman drive faster would solve nothing. Felix’s payments to both insurance and the Metropolitan fire brigades were ample and his sacrifices to Zeus Infernis regularly performed, but even if the damage was contained there was still the bother of repairs. Things were rather chancy at the moment, and he distinctly preferred them otherwise.

Especially with elections approaching.

He had expended much time and effort—not to mention a sizable chunk of his waning patrimony—maneuvering for the Broken Chair. Once a fellow sat in the Priory’s highest seat he was assured of a place at the Nailed God’s right hand, not to mention quite a few perquisites during the remainder of his mortal years. Such an august creature could do as he liked, and additionally steered the ship of Empire in a manner the Empress herself could not dream of.

Balked at greatness one way—for Alice was dead, after all, and subsidiary bloodlines being carefully tended would not bear fruit for a few decades more at the earliest—he was determined to reach it by another. What else made life worth enduring? Besides, he was Felix Larridby, by the Nailed God, and he deserved to occupy the Priory’s highest seat.

Anything less was unthinkable, and simply not to be borne.

Victor perhaps wanted the Chair as well—who wouldn’t? A certain amount of skulduggery in outdoing your rivals for any position, Priory or political, was necessary and even applauded in a gentleman. Still, Lord Cassel was entirely too indolent to bestir himself in this manner, possibly thinking his own aristocratic bloodline or Antoinette’s dowry would be the telling factor instead.

Felix stared at his white-gloved hands folded upon the cane’s head. He had been looking forward to enduring a bit of boredom at yet another staid, stuffy ball before receiving another message entirely—that there had been the expected attempt upon the Jessamyn, followed by the news that the bothersome fellow from the Acre had been either trapped or pleasingly rendered bereft of breath in the attempt to disturb what his betters had constructed, and that the entire gods-forsaken stretch of New Rome the bullyboy held with such provoking skill could be taught the same lesson at more leisure.

Now he could not even contemplate the prospect of Antoinette’s little ‘cousin,’ quite the unexpected ornament. Where had Mrs de Langlois been hiding the girl?

Indeed, the girl’s gaze was very like . . . but that was ridiculous. There were fine eyes upon any number of young ladies; New Rome was a veritable orchard of fruits much easier to pluck.

Thinking in that direction led him to the Imanuel School, a dismal concern barely worth the trouble of collecting subscriptions for. Yet it was hard by the Acre, very near to a certain temple where a Priory traitor was immured. How likely was it that some of his current difficulties stemmed from that quarter, and Victor was helping a traitor along with a judicious tit-bit or two from his very convenient ‘spy’?

But was it like Lord Cassel to risk the disapprobation of his Priory peers by treating with the once-Baron of Helthings, now Greatfather of Taurrock? Not very, if Felix knew either of them.

Therein lay the rub. How well did, or could, one man know another? The entire world was a masquerade, and the players sporting layers of disguise just as Felix himself wore daily.

His carriage clattered and bumped between dirt, cobbles, and paving; rising fog strangled the clamour of its wheels and swallowed the echoes bouncing from buildings to either side. A lamplighter’s cry, weirdly modulated by night-vapour, pierced the noise for a moment before subsiding into the hum of other traffic.

Sevring stayed quiet, either because he did not wish his lord’s notice at the moment or because there was, after all, very little to add.

All three foundries were indeed heavily insured—but extracting the monies for repair or more would take far too much time to cover recent losses. If the damage exceeded a certain amount the vaunted Lord Rexton might be very near ruin. A man was supposed to display ignorance of business if he had any pretension to good breeding, but every member of the Council would take notice if he began liquidating.

“Bother,” he hissed, and tapped his cane’s foot upon the carriage floor. Sevring did not flinch, but a muscle in his thin, lightly stubbled cheek flickered; his collar was the one he had worn all day and slightly askew, as were his cuffs. He had not retired early, confident in their plans.

On the one hand, his readiness was to be commended. On the other, it could mean some foreknowledge. True loyalty was a figment of theater, political and otherwise, a gaily embroidered altar cloth covering the real shape of affairs.

Rexton’s carriage slowed. They had barely reached the edge of Sanctus Jemes, and would not even cross the river in anything approaching reasonable time. Bernard would no doubt take the Strand, crowded even at this hour though it was the quickest way to reach Southwerke and thus his master’s poor burning foundries.

Felix could not go home; he must see the damage personally. Not only was it expected, but if the fire brigades were laggards he would have to do something about it—perhaps in an ungentlemanly manner, too.

There was precisely nothing to be done at the moment, so Sevring held his tongue as Felix sat and seethed. Schemes ticked through Lord Rexton’s agile brain, plans discarded as soon as they formed. One thing was certain, though. The reprobate in Hell’s Acre wanted further attending.

Felix intended to oblige him.

A SHADOW IN evening wear flitted lightly along rooftops, watching as a certain overdecorated box on wheels—pulled by a fine set of black horses no doubt missing their warm stalls and mash—turned northward to catch the Strand.

Excellent. Rexton wasn’t going home.

Avery followed long enough to be absolutely certain of the fact, then turned south and sped like Mercury himself. Roof tiles made tiny gritty sounds under each step; his footwear would be ruined by dawn. It wasn’t the first time he’d run this particular highroad, but he’d never come this way in white shirt and linen tie, let alone a gentleman’s evening cape-coat and stovepipe.

The hat was an annoyance, a hood would have been far better. But the malacca performed wonderfully as he tap-hooked the edge of a shingled roof with its knobbed head. He was up and over in a trice, rolling—it would damage the coat, which snapped like a flag in a high hard breeze above Dun Eideann’s firth, and he was thinking of Morton as he ran.

Morton might like Miss Dove, though she would no doubt give him short shrift indeed. Avery’s teacher was an abrupt man, singularly dour even among plaid-draped Gaels; yet his students nearly always survived to become full-fledged Hellions, and that said something for him.

Just what might not be exactly complimentary, though. Avery leapt, the edge of a tile breaking free as his weight shifted, plummeting to vanish into the fogbound street. A New Rome smoker—also known as a pea-souper—swathed lanes both wide and narrow, a heavy cloud full of riverbreath and a faint tang of fish, a cover and a danger. No passerby would see the Rook until far too late, but he was also half-blind as he ran.

Landing with a jolt, his entire body singing with effort, he cut across the slope of a slate roof and for a few moments was too busy to think of his teacher, his private war, or even his mother’s wan, glowing-pale deathmask in Dun Eideann’s temple to Victrix Boudicea. He didn’t even have to think about a certain girleen in grey wool or blue silk, though it might have been pleasant enough.

No time for pleasure now. Rexton could still decide there was nothing to be done for it, and turn for home.

Some while later Avery crouched easily just below the crest of a high-peaked roof in Maifaire, eyeing a row of very fine, fashionable doors. The address next to Rexton’s produced a muffled banging from its depths—there was renovation underway, but in this neighbourhood they never did so during the daytime. Gods forbid a neighbour might witness workmen carrying lumber into your parlour, or the cesspit out back being attended to.

A small, cold grin lifted Avery’s lips. He hadn’t had to touch the cobbles once; only an owl or a fellow Hellion could have tracked his progress tonight.

Idly, he wondered who Miss Dove was dancing with now. Blast the woman, creeping into his head at odd moments, distracting him, and of course it was ridiculous but the skinny bastard upon the roofs of Hell’s Acre was just her height, wasn’t he?

A fine joke for the gods to play on a Hellion. At least he knew precisely where she was this evening as well. Imanuel’s witch wouldn’t come waltzing across his path here.

Though he wouldn’t put it past her, sprite or sylph as she appeared upon the parquet.

Rexton’s house was neither dark nor shuttered; messages would be streaming to his door as the Rooks wrought their well-planned havoc. Inside the foundries there was fuel aplenty, and Rexton’s habit of pinching every sliverpence into screaming meant the hellish places were in nothing like shipshape order. It should be relatively easy to set each ablaze. The workers—caught children and indentureds—were housed in rookeries to the side of each foundry proper, and more than one of his bullyboys held responsible for bursting those doors and freeing the poor scarecrows, not to mention dealing with their well-fed, sadistic guards in true Rook fashion.

It would be a wild night in Southwerke. Avery could only hope each of his own boyos were safe enow, as the Acre said, and all would be accounted for at Lucky’s come morning.

They had their various tasks tonight, and he had his.

Not too long ago he had paid this particular house another nocturnal visit, and carefully worked at an attic shutter upon its back side. The garden below was pitch-black now and not much brighter during the day, holding a bit of winter-leafless greenery and nothing resembling flowers even in spring.

A bachelor of Felix Larridby’s age and temperament did not require much in the way of nosegays.

Avery crouched upon the slim edge of a wooden windowsill, his shoulder pressing hard against brick. The workmen next door were setting up a perfect clamour; hardly anyone in the row would sleep tonight unless aided by cottonwool or laudanum. Rexton’s house thrummed softly with hurrying feet and whispered asides—even though their master was gone, the domestics knew better than to drop an inadvisable word at any appreciable volume. Still, their excitement would keep them from settling just as the noise would cover a Hellion’s creeping.

Yet the Rook lingered a few moments longer, eyes closed and ears untangling every thread of noise.

The rooftop-ramble had scraped the soles of his evening shoes to crêpe-thinness, and nobody noticed the faint squeal as he gave the shutter a tug. He did not wish to break it completely, just loosened enough to slip through. Weathered wood dangled on protesting hinges; he slithered into the home of his enemy, dust and the sharp smell of rot wrinkling his nose.

Nobody would see Sebastian Price in him now, or even the dirty-fingered bullyboy who ruled the Rooks with strap, tap, and shepherd’s crook. Now Avery Black was a cat, stealthy-slipping between shrouded furniture-shapes, darkness like a tepid bath closing over his head. His pupils swelled, Hellion training turning black Channel-night into a navigable strait, every nerve alive to any brush of air or faint whisper rising from below. His pulse, savagely controlled, kept to a slow, waltz-steady beat.

Oh, if Miss Dove could see him now—but she wasn’t meant for things like this, nor for men like him. Still, Avery spared another grim smile at the thought, and his toes found a raised lip in the flooring. He crouched, easily, and stripped his now much-abused gloves to feel about.

It was a square attic entry, large enough for a ladder. He could ease the lid up and look, probably to find a dim hall running between servant-closet doors. None of the household would be abed yet, even if they had worked a full day keeping their master’s nest up to standard.

Once he’d looked, he could judge whether or not to drop through and begin the most dangerous part of his prowl. Much here must be left exactly as he found it; he could carry away only a single small item plus a large cargo of memory.

Gods knew that Muse’s invention was heavy enough. He found a heavy iron ring in the centre of the square, and eased the trapdoor up.

A dark, forgotten passageway showed underneath. Not bad, but not quite what he wanted. His goal was Rexton’s study upon the second floor; with the lord and his valet-bodyguard gone, it held every chance of being deserted.

He would be undisturbed there unless said lord returned. There was plenty of time, so long as he was quiet. If the papers he wanted were in a safe, the small bag of tools Flanders had left in a closet-corner at the Cassel’s, now safely strapped under the Rook’s coat, would aid its careful plundering.

The only trouble would lie in replacing every scrap of paper in its original position.

It was very likely Rexton was arrogant enough to keep everything Avery wished for in his study, and perhaps even in a drawer instead of a heavy iron box. And after examining all he could find, leaving without a trace was the last quandary of the evening—unless his Rooks ran across exceeding back luck.

Either way, there was nothing to be done but get on with his work.

Avery eased the trapdoor down again, and moved, slowly and quietly, to find a better one.

A Good Fellow

GREY DRIPPING dawn stole through thick fog, the light seeming to rise from cobbles instead of descending from a pearlcloth sky. In the heart of Hell’s Acre, the door to Lucky’s squeaked upon its hinges with some regularity, open and close, as the Rooks drifted home.

More than one bullyboy wearing Rook colours knotted at armband or neck also bore a tinge of soot, and said colours were hastily tied as they crossed from some other part of New Rome into the Acre. Those left on guard, perhaps annoyed at being left out of the previous night’s fun, were more than happy to pelt any who forgot to do so with dirt clods, cobbles—or worse.

Inside, the publick was full of heavy murmuring. Pints were drawn, weary smiles and clouts upon muscled shoulders exchanged, and when Veece and Jackson appeared—after stamping cinder-tinged mud from heavy boots in almost-unison outside—a ragged cheer went up.

Jackson grabbed Veece Morrison’s left wrist, and the knife-fighter might have twitched free—not to mention given the bastard a box upon the ear, a warning to keep his paws to himself—if he hadn’t been so bloody tired. A close fug of wet wool, ale, and the hot breath of tired men enfolded him; Veece found his trapped arm pulled high like a victorious gladiator’s.

“Rooks! We’re home,” Jackson cried, and a surf-roar went through the room.

“Our hero,” Flanders yelled in reply, appearing from a knot of bullyboys in varying stages of singed dress. The lieutenant’s rufous hair was wildly disarranged, still remembering the crimp of a hat but otherwise free to wave as it willed, and he wore a feral grin likely to unsettle any respectable pigeon. “Hip-hip!”

“Hurrah,” the pub roared, and Veece fought the urge to hunch, seeking safety in anonymity.

The frails were just as tired as the bullyboys, but they took up the cheer thrice for good luck as well. One, a wide-hipped coal-haired beauty, swanned toward him and Jackson with a pint in each hand, and thank the gods the fellow let go of Veece’s arm upon the second cheer.

Not much went down easily as good ale after a hard night’s work, and the frail grinned as Veece took half of his before coming up for air. “Want another?” She had to lean close to be heard though the hubbub, and he could only nod.

“I thought we were fair roasted,” Flanders grinned and gave him a fresh clout to the shoulder, a good solid wallop holding no ill feeling. “Then up I look, and what should come out of the smoke but this lad, an’ out he drags me. You’re a good ’un, you are.”

What was I supposed to do, let you burn to death? Veece shrugged, finishing the other half of the ale. Temporary discomfort crested and he gave a resounding belch, provoking another cascade of yells. Jackson pounded upon his back, and between that and Flanders shaking his free hand heartily enough to wrench it loose, he was beginning to feel a little like a carriage rattling over rocky ground.

The raven-haired frail came back with another round, slopping-tall tankards full of foam and nut-brown liquor as good as breakfast. She even gave Veece a cheeky wink before whirling away with a flick of her tattered green plaid skirts.

“Take it upstairs, and this one too,” Flanders said, pressing yet another brimming pint into Veece’s free hand when the cheering died down a bit. A few more of the boys who had been at the Jessamyn lifted their glasses in his direction, and Veece began to feel a bit faint. “Boss wants a word, then we’re off to the baths, savvy?”

“Savvy.” Naturally the Rook Himself would want a report from everyone involved in the night’s games, and if Veece was heading that way he might as well take the lord a cuppa. “Oy, all the chickens roosted?”

That was what worried him. He could shake off the crisped hairs and too-tight feeling lingering upon his skin, as well as the roasting of his clothes. But if someone had been left in the flames, he was going to have a hard time sleeping tonight.

It was all very well to knife a man, or apply a bullet to him. To oven him like a spitted joint was quite another thing. And not like he ever slept well, what with Katy. . . .

But he didn’t want to think about his sister. Not now.

“Herrin’s still out, and Kane, too. Don’t worry for them.” Flanders eyed him, not unkindly. “Go on up, now. Boss is waiting.”

Just for me? Veece shook his head and trooped faithfully across the crowded room, taking care not to spill more than a pittance of amber-brown ale. He was greeted with nods and chin-tips, along with a few frails flicking their skirts much as the other girl had. It was their peculiarly feminine way of welcoming a good fellow, and a man would have to be dead not to enjoy it.

The Marauders had never been this welcoming. Plenty of that lot thought an Eire boy just one short step above an indentured servant, and showed it.

Lucky’s dark rickety stairwell reminded him of the night’s games far too much, but the hall above held only the lad Pickwick dozing on a stool near the boss’s door, his ears tuned for the big man’s call. One eyelid lifted, showing a gleam of blue underneath. “Eh,” the boy greeted him, reached to give the iron knob a hearty twist, and promptly went back to his nap once he’d freed the heavy oaken slab.

It was a trick to get through with both his hands full, but Veece managed without cursing. Inside, two lamps were lit, and Avery Black was at a small table serving as a desk. His dark head was bent and he wore an evening suit fit for a rich man, though considerable rumpled. Bill Floss’s malacca was propped next to his hard wooden chair, and Veece remembered the man laying about with the cane’s heavy silver head.

It was a miracle Veece’s own skull hadn’t been cracked, and by now he suspected the Rook had deliberately refrained.

“’Alf moment.” The boss was writing at a fair clip, a black fountain pen’s nib digging furiously into the paper. “And one of those pints better be mine.”

Blast the man, he hadn’t even glanced in Veece’s direction. It was uncanny. “’Tis.” He approached cautiously; the floorboards were sticky, and squeaked under each step.

The Rook probably didn’t want the place cleaned for just that very reason. Traces of moss and roofdirt clung to his shoes, their soles worn paper-thin; a gentleman’s cape-coat and top hat were tossed carelessly over one of the chairs pushed against the wall. It appeared Avery was writing a list, and his hand was surprisingly neat. His lips moved slightly as he dipped into a bottle of gall ink, and his eyes were half-closed.

Not that Veece was attempting to read the boss’s scribbles. Instead, he stood stolid, studiously averting his gaze. The grate in the far wall held an anemic pile of burning coal, hardly enough to cup one’s hands over, but the Rook didn’t seem to feel the chill.

“You can come closer,” Avery said, suddenly. “And set the pint down.”

Was it a trap? Veece did as he was bid. “Flanders said you’d be wanting a report.”

“I hear you kicked down a door and bathed in the inferno.” All trace of cant had vanished from the Rook’s tongue. Each word was clipped and precise, almost a gentleman’s accent. “Well done, Veece. We’d be short one or two Rooks if not for your wit. Now be quiet a moment, there’s a good fellow.”

It was indeed a list of names upon the paper. He couldn’t help but see a few; Veece’s curiosity was well and truly pricked, but he didn’t dare do more than glance.

At last the Rook set the pen aside, capped the ink bottle with a savage twist, and reached for the earthenware pint. He drained half its cargo in a series of long and gave a sharp, satisfied exhale afterward. “Now that’s a relief. Have ye a good noggeril, boyo?” The cant was back, slip-slurring between each syllable.

A changeful man, indeed. There was even a trace of pomade lingering on his dark, wavy hair.

“Sometimes,” the knife-fighter allowed. “Kept the map in my head, din’t I?”

“Well enow. A man wot aims at revenge needs a bit of fold betwixt his ears to catch things, don’t he? Take these, for example.” The Rook tapped the quickly drying list with a single blunt, callused finger. “Rexton’s, each and every one.”

“His friends?” Veece didn’t lean over to look at the paper, but his gaze wandered. Yes, the Rooks’ head bullyboy had a surprisingly fine hand, each letter clear and distinct. He was educated, and nicely too.

What in blazes was he doing here?

“You think a bastard like that has friends, me boyo?” A thin, unamused smile touched Avery’s lips. He looked, all things considered, rather catlike, and there was a disturbing gleam in his dark eyes. Rough black stubble added to the creases in his suit—the ragpickers would have a fine time with that garment, indeed—turned him into a weary roué out well past dawn.

Yet another face among the many he had displayed so far. He was almost Proteus Graeca, Veece thought, and a shiver touched his spine. “So . . . just his business mates, then?”

“That, and more.” A half-shrug, supple as a snake’s, and Avery spread a few more sheets upon the table, all covered with neat double columns of names, some bearing notations or addresses underneath. He had apparently been writing for some time. “I’ll be taking the lot for a bargain, my friend, though many are too small for a busy man’s net. But should you see any you care t’clip, why, ’tis a good deed, almost temple-worthy.”

Ah. It warmed Veece far more than the cheers downstairs; this was a sure sign he had been not just tested but found acceptable. For once. “I can go down the list, sir.”

“No need. Just put your gollies on ’em, and mind you tell me if any look familiar.” In other words, the Rook Himself had plans for no few of these unfortunates, and working through in alphabetical order was discouraged since some were mere acquaintances of their mutual foe. But if Veece found himself in a position to do those named a bit of harm, it would likely be a favour to this man.

By now the knife-fighter had some idea of how Avery Black repaid any favour, or slight. “Yes, sir.” He wasn’t even tempted to coat the words with sarcasm.

“Good.” Avery gathered the pages, shook the top one to make sure the gall ink was dry past the point of smearing, and handed them over. Then he took the last of his ale down in several long swallows, tapped his chest with his fist to force the bubbles into suing for escape, made a face when they did, and unscrewed the ink bottle again. He had more blank paper to hand—middling-quality, sturdier than foolscap but not meant for genteel missives—and bent to his work, now sketching rapidly, at other times making notes in that fine copperplate hand.

It wasn’t quite the oddest behaviour Veece had ever seen a leader of back-alley bravos, burglars, and bullyboys display, but it was close. In fact, one of the sheets looked a facsimile of a bill of lading, and another peeking from underneath seemed a tracing of a bank-book page. Was the man a forger?

It wasn’t Veece’s business. He set himself to reading the names carefully, hoping he wouldn’t forget a single one.

His new boss had been busy last night, just as his Rooks had. Both Avery Black and Hell’s Acre grew more interesting all the time—and even better, vengeance against Lord Rexton, once an impossible dream, was surely much more achievable with a man like this at the helm.

It was a cheersome thought.

Hard Work

GEMMA’S RETURN from a leisurely Solis-day spent at Crosse Street to Widow Rudrill’s garret was not quite a happy occasion, though it was somewhat bracing to rise before dawn, scrub with frigid water instead of a luxurious warm bath, and don her grey wool once more.

She was greatly comforted by the fact that due to Lady Cassel’s beneficence she now had a spirit-flame lamp to heat tea water instead of going downstairs-kitchenward to borrow the kettle. And her garret had remained undisturbed during her stay at Crosse Street, every small measure Sampson taught her for discerning whether or not a room had suffered invasion returning satisfactory results.

The thick fog smelled even more strongly of fish and coalsmoke, and the former day’s broadsheets had carried a rather large item about fires in Southwerke. Gemma’s last act before leaving her garret was to consult yet another street atlas—newly purchased, more expensive and hence more accurate, not to mention detailed enough to warrant close ongoing study—to gather some idea of the actual location. Three foundries had gone up in flames; the news criers said there was no loss of life, which fact was presented as miraculous and possibly due to the intercession of a wandering deity, or more prosaically the efforts of the Metropolitan Fire and insurers responsible for battling blazes in that area.

The system of ‘insurance’ subscribed to by property owners was held to be most generally efficacious, but had not helped much in this particular instance. Gemma had a thought or two about its failure, mostly centring upon the person of Avery Black—who had, indeed, looked very much like a gentleman in trade at Lady Cassel’s ball.

She had hardly recognised him, save for his burning dark gaze, the stubborn curl to his hair, and the general, provokingly amused air of the man. He was a fine dancer; she had taken a turn or two with others that night, but none of them were half so interesting or so smoothly graceful.

Which bothered her a great deal, but at least Lady Cassel had not mentioned him. Furthermore, Gemma’s benefactress seemed rather more relieved than worried by Lord Rexton’s abrupt departure, which had been gossiped about in whispers Gemma had only caught the tails of.

Rexton was not well-liked, and Sebastian Price not mentioned at all. The entire affair gave her much food for thought, but she was, in Acre parlance, ‘d—d if she could figure it.’

Mrs Rudrill even wished her young lodger a pleasant day as Gemma passed through the hall to the front door, and received a cheerful—though restrained—return of the sentiment.

She had much to ponder as she walked, yet Gemma didn’t miss the young wool-haired man who slipped out of a nearby alley, drifting in her wake. He was undoubtedly a Rook, though she had not seen him before—for one thing, the kerchief knotted about his right upper arm was in their ‘colours,’ and for another, that particular alley was where Avery Black’s ‘Rooks’ always waited before lumbering after her as she traveled to Imanuel.

Ma Billingsworth was at her applecart, faded eyes glinting under bonnet-brim as she glared at passersby. For all that, she produced a fine hothouse fruit from a basket almost hidden under her striped skirts when Gemma stopped, and the wire-haired dog sat ear-pricked next to the stall, his tongue lolling.

“Good morning,” Gemma hazarded, and for once the dame did not inquire just what was good about it. Instead, she grunted, and handed over a winter-wizened fruit as well as the plump, shining specimen, all in return for a sliverpence.

“And where have you been?” Billingsworth’s eyebrows curled rather ferociously; she studied her customer with hardly less interest than her canine companion displayed.

“Attempting to gain a few more subscribers for Imanuel. It was only moderately pleasant work.” Gemma slipped both apples into her reticule. “And you, madame? I see your dog has returned.”

“Right here, Fates take me.” The older woman made an irritated brushing motion, her lumpy—but no doubt exceedingly warm—plaid shawl swaying. “Where else would he go? Run along, or you’ll be late.”

She was undoubtedly correct, so Gemma went upon her way. The man following her pressed closer; he was not Path-trained, for she had little trouble discerning his footsteps amid the welter of similar noise. The pickpockets continued to leave her in peace, and she was surprised at the comfort of discerning as much.

Hell’s Acre had accepted her with very little trouble. None of them seemed to know—or care—she was a pretender.

Or a murderess. A chill went down her back.

The following Rook even halted next to her at the corner where the Thrash emptied, streamlike, into the lake of cobbles between Imanuel and Taurrock Abbey. Traffic swirled like ocean currents in its vastness; fording the inlets took a quite nautical sense of direction, speed, and collision-chance.

The urge to dart into the flow, dancing through carriages and carts like a nymph leaving mortal pursuit far behind, was overwhelming. Gemma stubbornly set her heels and glanced to her left—yes, the young man was still there, and regarding her quite brazenly to boot.

A man could turn and inquire just what in Zeus’s name a fellow was looking at, possibly following the enquiry with a blow or the threat of one. Gemma did not have that luxury. Still, her quick look no doubt warned him, for when she found a likely space in the cart traffic and darted across the way, he did not leap to follow.

When she reached Imanuel’s vast but shallow grey stone steps, she mounted halfway before turning to gaze at the clattering welter. Taurrock glowered across the way, its lower half indistinct in the fog so the temple’s dome seemed to float above a cloudbank. The sun, just cresting the eastron horizon, lent a ruddy tint in that quarter, and the dome flashed once, its gilding filled with watered blood for a moment.

A bad omen. But not only was Josef hailing her with every evidence of pleasure, but a half-dozen of her class boiled through Imanuel’s front door with a babble of greeting—quite startling Mr Appleton, who having come from the Thrash itself was hard upon her heels.

“Good heavens, boys,” he said severely, “this hubbub is not how one greets a lady. Inside, the lot of you.”

Gemma gave him a grateful smile, and sailed into Imanuel with a quiet word for Josef, whose broad grin provoked a great deal of twitching from the injured side of his face. Even that was cheersome in its own way, and she found herself wishing for a few moments she was simply a penniless governess from the Continent who had gained this situation by dint of hard work and an agreeable temperament.

But she had gained sight of her enemy, and—thanks to ballroom gossip—also knew his abode.

Imanuel was only a stop along the way. Her vengeance, for a murdered father and a mother dead of shock and shame, called.

“Yes, yes,” she told the boys—Henry Dawes was actually hopping upon one foot, like a maddened stork—as she set off for the stairs. “I expect you all at your seats when Taurrock’s bell rings, gentlemen. Let us be swift.”

VEECE COULD have shadowed Imanuel’s witch almost to the very threshold, and might have even if she was at pains to let him know she was aware of escort. Straight-backed and slim, she moved like a swan through the crowd, and the ragamuffins and pocket-slicers left her alone.

It was no use wondering what the boss saw in a grey-clad girl. He wanted an eye kept, and last night during ongoing celebrations he’d pulled Veece aside once more, another signal sign of acceptance. Here’s a task for you, my lad. There’s a girl wot needs minding—but soft, paws to yourself and gollies peeled. Will you?

As if any Rook would turn him down, especially with the ale flowing at Lucky’s and drunken song resounding from the rafters. The boss only drank a bit to be polite and was out running the rooftops the rest of the night, a task Veece had no love for.

Keeping your feet decently upon the ground was the best way, in his humble opinion. Not that it mattered—if Avery Black wished him to yell from a gable like a rooster at dawn, why, he’d do it.

The girl wasn’t likely to leave Imanuel for the nonce, so Veece turned back for Lucky’s. He’d even found a doss somewhat near, for a reasonable price too since he was a full Rook now, colours and all.

It was . . . pleasant, to believe he belonged to something.

Halfway back, just as he passed Grissingen’s rag-shop, an alley to his right gave vent to a familiar form—Herrin, in his new houndstooth trousers and a well-brushed bowler. The Rook’s second smoothed an incipient moustache with a fingertip as he strolled, and under the ghost of whiskers his grin was just as toothy as a shark’s.

“Welladay.” There was no hint of smudge or smoke remaining upon Herrin as he fell into step beside Veece; the bathhouses near and laundries within the Acre had been busy indeed. “So Boss has thee hanging a’ the witch’s hem. Sunny lot, that.”

“No grumble here.” Veece took care to make the words neutral. Trailing a prim little magistrix wasn’t the worst job in the Acre, though it wasn’t sitting in Lucky’s with your feet up nursing a pint either. The rattle-squeak of carts bounced between frowning buildings, and the fog took on a liverish cast as the sun rose—it would thicken again come noon, and the gaslamps would need lighting well before teatime.

An organ grinder swore in an undertone as the box slung to his chest gave a dispirited wheeze, and the little dog who would dance upon hindlegs to earn a few slivers cocked its head, regarding its owner with some trepidation. Two sunken-chested adolescent pocket-slicers in faded jackets leaning against the front of Grissingen’s gnawed upon almost-certainly stolen cheese rinds of roughly equal size, their shoulders hunched and their gazes roving restless to gauge the likelihood of a fat pigeon wandering by.

“It worries me.” Herrin dug in a pocket, producing a brazen snuffbox; Veece waved the offer aside.

But politely. The Rook called the tune, but ’twas the second who followed with a cane, ready to stripe a laggard. “So the boss watches a skirt. Many a man does.”

“That’s no ordinary witch, boyo. Why, just night before last she was dancing with the quality.” Herrin said it as a long-nosed Parliament or Parish Censor might, ready to issue a stern sumptuary warning. “What does that tell you?”

“She’s Respectable.” Veece had the sense that Avery Black would frown upon this conversation. But the Rook’s second had some aim in mind, and a man in that condition was prone to make trouble for fellows just doing their duty. “Not my place to ask. Maybe the Rook has plans.”

“I’m sure he does.” Herrin frowned, and he did not take a bit of snuff, merely tucked the box back in his pocket. “Well, keep your peeps polished. She’s cagey.”

Which meant Veece had to turn around and spend the entire, miserably chilly morning watching Imanuel in case the witch decided to invoke Hekate and fly off seated on a laurel branch. He swore, but softly, and rounded back the way he had come.

“Eh.” Herrin caught at his elbow. Veece suppressed a twitch—what was it with this lot, they were handsy as Gyges. “I can spell ye. Go back to Lucky’s and get a plate.”

He almost took the man up on the offer. A warm pub and a meal already paid for were powerful inducements, and besides, he cared not a whit if another man shivered in the fog watching a poor-school for hours. The brats inside were probably just as cold.

And yet . . . Veece shook his head. “Boss said. ’Sides, I’m a tadpole.” In other words, the second was too important a man for a task like this, and well a newly minted Rook knew it, full colours or no.

Herrin paused just a shade too long before grinning with agreement and promising to send a runner out with a pint and a pasty to reward a dutiful bullyboy. The Rook’s chief lieutenant took his leave and ambled upstreet, his bowler bobbing; Veece cast about for a place to spend the next few hours watching Imanuel’s chill grey bulk.

He found one, and in short order a coal-eyed, messy-haired stripling with Rook colours tucked into his too-big frock coat’s buttonhole found him to deliver said breakfast—better than a cold bit of tea gulped with a spot of dry bread before dawn, certainly. The pasty was still warm, and the meat in it bore no resemblance to rat. Veece gave the boy a sliverpence, since being a Rook meant having a spot of jingle in one’s pockets, and settled down to watch and wait.

While he did, he thought long and hard about why Herrin would be so interested in a slip of a girl their boss was sweet on.

He’d never be bored as a Hell’s Acre bullyboy. That was a surety.

Lessons

MISS DOVE’S CLASS had behaved in her absence—at least, under Director Breakbridge’s magisterial gaze they had not ‘cut up’ more than any other group of restless Imanuel lads. They had done so well, in fact, that Henry Scupping and George Wilcox were allowed to wheel Imanuel’s one large globe upon its rickety stand into the classroom, settling the item in the space between Gemma’s desk and the first row.

The globe was rather shockingly inaccurate, being a half-century old, and made a sound like a faint scream when rotated the first few times every day. Nevertheless, it was one of the Director’s particular prides and used for geography lessons every week, trundling between rooms like a weary man looking for work.

Gemma heaved a purely internal sigh. The boys were curious about the world; well they should be, for all the Third Empire in theory belonged to them as freeborn citizens, just as it did to Augusta Victoria. “Enough, gentlemen—taller lads to the back, there is room for all. Now, who can point out Old Rome? Mr Siesfree, if you please.”

Little Arthur, his curly hair cropped close, spun the globe very gently, and stabbed a finger at the boot of Italia. “There, Miss.”

“Well done. Now, who can point out Second Rome? Anyone?”

“Bysantia?” Henry Dawes’s brow was furrowed. “But I don’t know where. Somewhere in Afrike?”

“Not quite, though Karthago might have given it rather a good go had she not been plowed under and salted.” Gemma caught herself; it was almost something Sampson would say. She pushed at the globe, and touched the proper locale. “Here, between the Mare Nostrum and the Black Sea. Nowadays Second Rome is named Stamboul; the last Emperor fled westward in the first year of the Third Age. He died at Avenio in Year Three of our current age. By then Britannia was already a commercial power beyond Gaul’s dreams and Iberia’s hopes, Henricus Quintus claimed descent from an old senatorial family and was fighting Charlen Septen—but today is geography, not history. Here is New Rome, the seat of the Third Empire.” The globe gave another faint wheeze as it turned.

She was glad she had consulted Miss Phelan’s excellent notes, and knew exactly where the other woman had left off. “You are familiar with Europa including Far Rus, and with the trade colonies of North Afrike. South Afrike has always resisted Rome, and indeed there is more to be gained from commerce than war no matter what some of the Legions might say. Here is the Near East and here Indus, which has welcomed the Pax Romana in modern times.” Especially since it came carrying artillery, Sampson might dryly note; she shook the thought away. “Even in the days of First Empire, though, Rome received tribute and trade from as far away as Great Qing and Nippon—though the last came overland instead of following modern shipping routes. Then there is the Indus Ocean, and fabled Oz where all plants are poison and all animals full of venom.”

“That’s why they transport bad ’uns there,” John Allen offered eagerly. “Mum said I had an uncle sent down under, before she died.”

“The colonists there are of varying quality, yes.” It was rather amusing to spin the heavy creaking roundness and think of other lands, picaresque costumes, strange foods. Sampson had traveled a bit, but Hay regarded such activity as chancy at best. Of course St Courcy was lovely and every inch hers, but Albion was home and its traditions adhered to by the genteel even when local custom and convenience might suggest otherwise. “The world is wide indeed, gentlemen. There are islands in the Pacifica and in Asia we have not mapped yet, and of course many are the places who do not wish Science and Trade to tread their shores. Nevertheless, let us continue.” The globe was warming to its work, and only whispered as she spun it further. “So we come to the Red Continent. Inca-Land and Patagonia upon the southron half, Mexica and the several Red Territorial Leagues upon the northern. There is the Northern Dominion here, Kanata, and from it and the eastron shores of the Territorials trade enriches our Empire. Kuba, the Caribs . . . the West is just as exotic as the East, certainly. Here is the North Pole, where magnetism makes its home upon an icy waste, and here the South. Britannia has always sailed; our trade colonies are in every clime, and upon every continent save the Antarctic.”

She was aware, suddenly, of rapt silence. The boys stared at the gently moving globe, and perhaps they were thinking of becoming explorers themselves. Lads scarcely older often stowed away on ships, learning the dangers and discomforts of a sailor’s life too late—it was a time-honoured tradition. Some childcatchers even sold their prey to the merchant navy, dooming them to a life of rum, preserved limes, lashings, and backbreaking work.

At least she had spared her charges that fate. If she had to carry the stain of murder, it was in a good cause. Possibly many an Empire legionnaire felt the same way.

While her sojourn at Imanuel was pleasant indeed, she must not lose sight of her goal. She had performed the deeper Path stretches and practice this morning; tonight, she would test her reflexes upon the rooftops of Hell’s Acre once more. The practice was critical to her goal; already she had learned much past what Sampson’s best efforts could teach.

There was nothing like real experience, after all.

“And with our trade colonies go our gods, meeting others of their kind upon every shore,” she finished, briskly. “Miss Phelan’s notes said you are adequately familiar with Europa, so we shall cross the Mare Nostrum and refresh your memory of Afrike both North and South. We shall further study the relevant sea routes today. Mr Aberfarthing, please find Ethiop upon the globe . . . good, quite correct. Mr Maffree, can you find the Sahara?”

She had her plans, and steady motion upon them was the best course. The only matter Gemma could not decide upon was Avery Black.

She rather suspected they would meet again soon, and despite mulling the prospect during the remainder of a ball, a restless night, a day spent soothing Lady Cassel’s nerves while writing a list of Imanuel subscribers from the cards, and another toss-and-turn attempt at slumber, Gemma had no idea what she would say to the man.

THE FOG WAS thick enough that even the sound of the Thrash was muffled and either end of the play yard faintly misty when one stood in the middle. Gemma was not on duty there, being otherwise engaged in Director Breakbridge’s office. The subscription cards returned a quite handsome yield, though collecting the bounty was far different than earning the promise.

“I say, Miss Dove, we should send you to more dances.” The worthy director peered through his pince-nez, and made another sound of approbation. “Hrm!”

“They are rather laborious,” Gemma said, shaking out her fingers. They would be ink-stained by the end of the day; all the same, this was a duty she rather liked. “Yet remunerative, it seems.” Each small note had to bear some personal touch, not only to flatter the pledge-giver but also to somewhat shame them into living up to a given guarantee. The larger amounts required the director’s hand upon a sheet of good paper, and he would also benefit from her careful memory of details about whoever had promised such largesse.

“I must admit I did not like the idea, but if even a third of these are made good we shall be able to afford more shoes.” The good Director was even sounding cheerful before his tea, which was rather a pleasant change.

Lord Rexton had not written upon a pledge card. He had been called away rather suddenly, after all, and Gemma was now heartily glad of the event. He had not been greying at the temples when he met her mother, she fancied, and found she could well imagine what he must have looked like as a youth. The gleam to his rather startling hazel eyes might not have been so . . . predatory, then.

Yet he had clearly not improved in the intervening years. Gossip about him, caught at the edges of strangers’ conversations and hinted at by Lady Cassel as she sought to dissuade her protégée from making anything even resembling a scene, was quite firm upon that count.

Gemma signed yet another politely begging letter and wished her imagination would cease serving up gruesome images. The descriptions of what Rexton had done to each of her parents had been couched in euphemism, alluded to in old letters and newspaper clippings.

Nowadays, those genteel obfuscations—or rather, the events they described—kept intruding upon her daily work, phantasms child-Beth had no means of imagining but adult-Gemma could compass all too well. And meeting the author of the catastrophe, hearing his voice, filled her with revulsion.

Not to mention fresh determination.

A commotion in the hallway brought Director Breakbridge’s head up, and he heaved a deep, weary sigh. He rose and settled his sleeves with swift tugging motions, and by the time Mr Appleton knocked upon the door, the good director was in what Gemma realised was his regular attitude for receiving ill news—standing near the desk, one hand tucked into his jacket rather in the manner of a certain now-dead Corsican general, his gaze fixed firmly and benevolently through steel-rimmed pince-nez.

“Sir?” Appleton did not stutter if he spoke slowly enough; his class were used to long pauses and viewed them rather as a mark of genius than of verbal halting. “Bit of a to-do, sir. Miss D-Dove, good you’re here.”

He was followed by ten or eleven boys, and Gemma recognised three of them as her own. It appeared there had been somewhat of a scrap in the mist-bound play yard, and a hot babble of accusation and counter-assertion ensued while she watched curiously. Dawes, Scupping, and Siesfree had been among the combatants, and after a short while she realised they were studiously not looking in her direction at all. Her heart sank.

“A sneak attack, you say?” Director Breakbridge intoned. “Good heavens, gentlemen.”

“It weren’t proper at all,” a lad by the name of Haygreves said, nodding vigorously. “We was just minding our own business, and—”

“Lies!” Siesfree burst out, his dusky cheeks vivid with anger. He was all but quivering, a far cry from the rather gentle boy who had so diffidently asked to be given the honour of cleaning the chalkboard just that morning. “They mobs up on the littles, him and his ilk, and we mean to stop it.”

“That’s a r-rather large assertion,” Appleton remarked. “Have you any proof?”

“We never,” tall, lanky Jurgens said. “Why, they has their association, and we have ours. It’s all fair and aboveboard.”

“’Cept when it’s three on one half your size,” Dawes snapped back, smartly. “And you keep your mouth off Miss Dove’s boys, you Hollander-git.”

Gemma rose, laying her pen aside. None of the male creatures in the room paid any attention.

“I have told you before, there will be no such thing as associations within Imanuel.” Director Breakbridge was sounding very Jovian indeed; the words almost rattled unevenly sized windowpanes in their strip-cages of iron lattice. “You are all in the same boat, and will not behave like barbarians for a legion to set against each other.”

It was a fine sentiment, but Gemma studied each boy in turn. “Who were they abusing?” She took care to pitch the words softly, though very clear.

Appleton gave a violent start, almost as if he had forgotten her presence. “I b-beg your pardon?”

“Surely we must hear from the lad who was being battered by three of his fellows at once.” It seemed rather elementary. “Who was so unlucky?”

“Young Timmons was sent to Cook; he had a r-rather nasty black eye.” Appleton’s face fell. “He is a small f-fellow, yes.”

“Be that as it may.” Director Breakbridge gave Gemma a warning glance, his pince-nez glistening. “You are Imanuel boys, and you shall not act in this manner. Anyone attempting to organise an ‘association’ of any sort will be sent to another school. I will not have this behaviour in our halls.”

“What about the Rooks?” Dawes burst out. “Why, just last week they brought us coal again, and we keep lookout for the Rook Himself of a day or two.”

A quite extraordinary silence fell. Gemma’s skin tingled as if a thunderstorm was approaching, very much like the time Sampson had found three of the footmen were colluding to burglarise St Courcy and quite possibly wreak some manner of damage upon both Aunt Hay and little Beth.

“Mr Appleton.” The director’s tone was soft and almost mild, but Gemma found herself bolt-upright, standing almost to soldier-attention as if in the salle. “Please return to the play yard and send the boys to their classrooms. Miss Dove, if you would be so kind, please ask Mr Blakely to the infirmary where he may assist Cook with young Timmons. Then you may repair to your own room; I shall finish the rest of the letters myself.”

“Y-y-yessir.” Mr Appleton beat a hasty retreat, not bothering to hold the door for Gemma, who followed much more slowly, and paused near the aperture.

“Director?” Her voice did not quiver, but it seemed rather a near thing. She had faced a childcatcher in a dark stable, but Mr Breakbridge’s quiet wrath was of another stripe altogether.

“Later, Miss Dove. I shall send your students along in about a quarter-hour.” How could such a kindly man sound so . . . well, so frightening? It was as well that he did not hold with the birch or the cane, for if he did her career at Imanuel would come to a rather abrupt end as she attempted to halt such injustice.

But a thrashing looked like the least of the boys’ worries at the moment.

Gemma caught Henry Dawes’s gaze, and hoped her own would impart some strength. Scupping was dead pale, and Siesfree looked rather as if he wished to sink into the floor. “Very well.”

The only consolation was that as glum as her boys looked, the others looked even worse. Jurgens was positively green, and his chums shrank behind Haygreves in a manner not calculated to inspire confidence. They did rather outnumber her boys, and Mr Breakbridge was perspicacious enough to take that into account—she hoped.

Gemma left, and closed the door. She lingered only long enough to hear the first few phrases of Breakbridge’s sermon, muffled by the solid oak but still perceptibly paternal, grieving, and of all things, disappointed.

It rather drove thoughts of Rexton out of her head for the rest of the day, and she was somewhat shamefully grateful.

The Duke’s Chair

A THINNING HEAD of iron-coloured hair, watery blue eyes, a finely tailored suit of exquisite though antique cut, and papery jowls against a snow-white linen neckwrap—the Duke was the very picture of a mildly eccentric, old-fashioned Albion nobleman in retirement. He sat ramrod-straight in his wheeled chair as if occupying the Priory’s highest ceremonial seat itself, with all its attendant power and discomfort. “One fellow shouldn’t be giving you so much trouble, Felix.”

Not nearly so much trouble as your gout gives you. Felix did not let his expression alter. He leaned forward at the correct angle, gloved hands resting upon his cane, and did not glance ashamedly away from the current ruler of the Nailed God’s faithful. “I begin to believe he’s not an ordinary fellow, sir.”

“Oh, come now, you can’t mean . . .” But the Duke fell silent, his gaze shifting to the window. This gracious estate just outside New Rome was comfortable indeed, though the last bit of public road to reach its drive was, Felix suspected, deliberately left untended so the shift from jarring jolts to smooth sailing was marked indeed. Most mornings, the biscuit-coloured stone manor house, with its severe Giorgus Classicus shape, floated upon a bed of mist exhaled from the excellent fish pond, and further down the watercourse was a mill which handled a great deal of grinding for the bakers of New Rome’s Westron End.

The fire in the parlour grate—wood instead of coal, for the Duke was a traditionalist—crackled uneasily. Outside, regimented and ceaselessly clipped gardens lay under a thick blanket of clammy white. The damp was relentless, as usual this time of year. Old men complained of their joints and ladies coughed delicately into lacy handkerchiefs as if they all had consumption. Even children grew fractious, and the smell of wet wool clung to every crowd.

It was not his favourite season, Lord Rexton had to admit. The impending election, with all its multiple worries and tasks, simply inflamed the irritation. By the time the Priory lots were cast and a new head enthroned warmer days would have arrived, new growth everywhere, and temples would be awash with eggs, both wooden and otherwise, not to mention wax replicas of partridges for fiery immolation. Everyone who had a sliverpence to spare would buy a sacrifice according to their means, hoping for a bit of new luck and burgeoning life.

“Well.” The Duke’s eyelids dropped to half-mast, which only a fool would think meant inattention or somnolence. This parlour, with its heavy wooden furniture and dark wainscoting, somewhat resembled a cave. Not even the gaslights—the Duke had paid a rather startling amount to gain that newfangled convenience—and the cheery red plaid lap-blanket over His Holiness’s knees could dispel the effect, but at least he wasn’t receiving Rexton in the study. That would have been rather a bad sign. “It is rather concerning, especially with the Gaelic troubles. And the Gaulish rebels in Kanata.”

“I have heard of the Kebequois and their aspirations.” It would do no good to point out they should have been swiftly crushed by Kanata’s lord consul; any mildness in a colonial administration inevitably led to restive hoi polloi. Naturally the Priory could handle such a matter, if the Empress’s agents would but cease their bungling. “But the Gaels?”

“Dun Eideann is alive with treason; it’s even worse up the hills. Our agents rather feel under siege in the North. And Eire is . . . well, it’s Eire, we cannot expect them to be reasonable. Their gods simply won’t allow it.” The Duke exhaled, a horsey sound of displeasure. “It rather makes me wish for our Lord’s return and the lake of fire. Bloody heathens. The sword-eating Kaabalites have the right idea, for all their more deplorable qualities.”

If Felix did not intervene now, the Duke would spend a half-hour lecturing like a legion’s stentorian bugle upon this very theme. That this man had achieved the Broken Chair was almost beyond belief, but behind the veneer of doddering conservatism there had once lurked a keen, ruthless mind and the will to make use of any tool the Nailed God provided his followers. Gleams of that lightning were still visible through the lowering pall of old age, like sun through New Rome’s fog, though considerably more inconstant.

“This fellow in the Acre came from Dun Eideann three years ago.” Lord Rexton did not reach for the cup of now stone-cold tea settled upon the small, superbly carved ebony table to the right of his chair; it was a pity the beautiful thing was strangled under a drift of tatted doilies. The dead Duchess had possessed a passion for making such things, and her grieving spouse refused to rid himself of a single one. “Rather odd, though, that seems all we can find out about him. Even de Clerc’s gullcatchers have had no luck.”

“The damn Gaels.” The Duke’s gaze dropped; he stared sourly at his lap as if the plaid were responsible for northerners and their intransigence. Of course he had estates even in that bit of the Isle; the Duke’s rank was matched only by his wealth. Even the young Empress had besought his opinion on many a matter before that Teutonic prince-pretender she married gave her an infusion of headstrong stubbornness.

Oh, she was very imperial, certainly, and even claimed some distant, semi-divine Augustan blood. The Priory’s genealogists disagreed, but in this particular case they did not bruit the knowledge about.

There were far more important lineages to track. And once again, as they did at least once per day, Lord Rexton’s thoughts turned to Alice Saunière—he refused to even think upon her married name.

Antoinette de Langlois’s young protégée really bore a stunning resemblance to the First Grace, especially in that particular shade of blue silk. Was it a trap? Perhaps Victor was attempting to distract him before the elections.

“He came from Dun Eideann, you say?” The Duke possibly suspected his guest’s attention was wandering, which would irritate the old man. “We’re having a bit of trouble there with a certain fellow as well. Quite a bother, and though it may be unconnected it also does no harm to be certain. I’ll grant you a half-dozen Oldgate lads to get the one in your territory sorted before the next meeting, Rexton. How does that sound?”

Better than I’d hoped. The zealots were thorough, savage, and well-nigh unstoppable. “Quite generous,” he replied, carefully, and allowed no hint of triumph to taint the words. The proper tone was thoughtful, as if he had expected no less. “Gullcatchers are cheaper, but less effective.”

“Best to leave the women at home.” There was a slight nick upon the Duke’s cheek from the morning’s shave; no doubt the servant administering the razor was painfully contemplating the benefits of a steady hand at this very moment. “But de Clerc is a colonial.” This observation was delivered with a slight sniff. “In any case, this should be handled quickly and quietly. By the by, heard there was a bit of a to-do in your bit of Southwerke. How are things there?”

“Tolerable.” It galled Felix to lie. Clearly there would be no aid forthcoming on that front; the Priory’s current head would grant a presumptive heir the means to solve a problem which was likely to gall the entire organisation, of course, but he could not be accused of partiality this close to the voting. The entire affair was looking outright bleak, though Felix was rather certain he could keep the worst of it from being known for some time. Lesser men had achieved more with nonexistent fortunes, after all. “The biggest bother is the insurance. Rather a lot of paperwork.”

The strangest part of the assault upon his three foundries—a job and a half, for the buildings housed flame and molten metal daily without catching, there was no question they had been deliberately set alight—was the care taken to free his workers, indentured and freeborn alike. Many had been reacquired, of course, and there were no bodies in the rubble.

A thorough job, and one showing a certain amount of unnecessary scruple. Whoever this Mr Black of Hell’s Acre truly was, he appeared fond of grand gestures in the direction of the peasants, and that could eventually be his undoing.

Though now, with a half-dozen of the Priory’s well-trained killers given leave from their hole under Oldgate to hunt him down and perhaps win their freedom, he would not have the luxury of waiting for Fate or Fortuna to attend matters.

“Don’t you have a secretary or two for that, man?” The Duke’s laughter was a nasal bray, as large as he was gaunt. He reached for his own teacup, lifted it to his lips, and frowned as he realised the potion was cold. “I say, ring the bell for Gupping on your way out, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” Dismissed by His Lordship, and made to ring for the butler as well. The sting was unexpectedly sharp. “Shall I carry any message to the others?”

“No need, no need.” The Duke’s faded blue eyes lit with their old fire for a moment, and he grinned rather like a death’s-head carved into an Ægyptus necropolis. “Young Victor will be out this afternoon, and by then I shall have finished writing my letters. Thank you for coming by, Larridby. Always good to see you.”

So Victor was indeed angling for the Chair as well; oh, no doubt he would say he had been summoned to the Duke’s estate, but Lord Rexton knew an apple-polisher when he saw one. De Langlois was likely laying plans to amuse himself with his wife’s little handmaiden as well. No doubt it gave the man a pleasant frisson, since he had lost that long-ago coin toss.

For a moment, Felix contemplated setting Sevring the task of gathering a few fire-happy bullyboys and burning this particular manse to the ground, with the Priory’s leader inside. The only problem was how to make certain such a feat would not be eventually attributed to its author—he would have to tidy all loose ends with stringent attention indeed, and replacing his bodyguard-valet was highly inadvisable at the moment.

If Felix knew who the Priory’s Grey Eminence was for certain instead of suspecting at least three of his friends, he might have run the risk. He was still slightly annoyed he had not been installed in that particular position himself, though it would bar him from the Chair.

Lord Rexton rose, bowed very correctly, and kissed the great black cabochon of the Rotring, the gem clasped in heavy iron around a thin, skeletal finger of a liver-spotted left hand. There was a bloody pinprick in the jewel’s depths, and it was said the entirety would wax into full, brilliant crimson when the Nailed God was near to staging his final return.

Some of the Priory implicitly believed the tale. Felix Larridby, like the god himself, was reserving judgment.

He did ring the bell on the way out, and by the time he crossed the mansion’s threshold, he was smiling. Half a dozen zealots from the depths of the worst prison on New Rome were soon to be at his disposal.

The annoyance in Hell’s Acre was already dead, and simply did not know it yet.

Oldgate’s Kennel

OLDGATE’S GREY stone walls sweated yellow drops, both inside and out, during every rancid New Rome smoker. In the old days criminals were daily dragged to Tye’s Burn to be gibbeted or nailed up; in modern times, only the very worst were hauled weekly onto a wooden platform to dangle their last at rope’s end. There were some rumblings among those of misguided liberality—like the scribbling ‘Bozz,’ Mr Deckyns himself—to shift the action behind a stone wall, hiding from publick view, but the matter had not achieved any traction yet.

Any uprising on the part of the indentured—or blasphemy, by anyone silly enough to be caught espousing such things openly—was still legally allowed to be tied with sharp cordage to the tau before the Imperial Coliseum and pelted with cobbles and worse for an entire afternoon unto dusk, finally unstrapped at sundown and carried to Bedlamis or Tye’s Burn itself to breathe their last. It had been solely blasphemers suffering that fate for a good five years or so, ever since the Foxen sisters went on what the broadsheets termed their ‘terrible spree.’

The end of those poor creatures was still sung of among children playing in the streets, and their elders mostly agreed it was a shame but what else could have been done? One couldn’t have servants running about stabbing their betters, after all. Empire depended upon all concerned knowing their place—even if it was also generally agreed the Foxens had a measure of legitimate grievance, the way they’d been treated.

Oldgate’s crowding and poor sanitation were much described in sliverpence-dreadfuls or thinly veiled moral tales penned by ‘Bozz’ and his like. Visitors could pay a small fee to witness the filth and stench of criminality, ostensibly as a deterrent, but there were parts of the warren neither daylight nor ‘touriste’ ever reached. One such was a long galleried cave well below street level, its sides alive with rows of cells and walkways, the cavern lit only by flickering torchlight and dangling lamp as currents of slightly less-foul air moved lazily through its throat. The bottom of its wide central aisle held strange wooden and stone shapes a gladiator of the First Empire would recognise; training men for the current Coliseum games required much the same appurtenances.

But no pampered, bronze-oiled fighter lived here, no half-indentured celebrity allowed his own carriage and home outside the tangle of the Fora Ludia if he were successful enough. Some few of the Priory’s other prisoners eked out a miserable existence in this dark hole as servants of the zealots—but not many, and their anticipated lifespan was short.

For those training here were both the best and worst of their type. A certain strata of hardened reprobates was offered entry to this part of Oldgate, if they were intelligent and vicious enough to understand the nature of the proposal. Their days were spent training for relatively quiet, though extremely brutal and difficult, murder; some of de Clerc’s gullcatchers trained alongside them, as well as serving their more universal masculine needs.

The shadowy Grey Eminence—kept secret even from other members of the Priory—was responsible for seeing this particular concern ran smoothly, and only the Chair could release its dogs to the hunt. These fighters listened eagerly for the small, sweetly chiming silver bell announcing a new game, for if they performed to expectation the rewards could be relatively vast: freedom upon a trade colony’s distant shore, as well as a sizable sum to begin a new life. Of course, their skills were highly valuable, so it was whispered they often served the lord consuls of said colonies in their new incarnations—or sold their services to the highest bidder in any country where a bit of murder was necessary to grease the wheels of politics or commerce.

Which was to say, very nearly anywhere on the globe.

The ones who achieved the longed-for goal must necessarily disappear from Oldgate and all their fellows, and their eventual placements were a matter of rumor and conjecture. But when it was a choice between serving the Priory—much better food even if daylight was a distant memory, daily exertions upon the drillground like a Legion soldier but the lure of a few hours with a gullcatcher-in-training if a man performed superlatively—or rotting with the common mass nearer the surface in Oldgate’s warren of cells and tunnels before being dragged to the gibbet and dancing at rope’s end. . . .

Well, in any case, very few of those approached turned down the proposition.

Despite their name, the zealots did not fight in the Nailed God’s name and indeed probably never knew who exactly they committed violent deeds for. Their name for their employers was ‘the lords,’ a faceless mass to match the way they were viewed by said rich men. Each side regarded the other with deep suspicion and disdain, but only one had the coin to pay for its dubious pleasures.

A balding, mushroom-pale man, wrapped in heavy woolen coat over a suit bearing startling resemblance to a clerk’s, strode from the ‘office.’ Despite the name, it was merely a cell with a stout oaken door which could be locked from the inside—a rarity in Oldgate. A lantern dangled from his pudgy white fist; he beckoned to the head guard, Dykes.

Dykes was a rangy rufous fellow, his uniform of blue serge bearing some kinship to a Metropolitan’s. Rumor said he had once been one of Peele’s boys, but had taken a payment from the wrong source and ended up here. Nevertheless, his word was close to law among the other guards in this hole, and under his benevolent—though perpetually bloodshot—gaze the quality and quantity of rations to both zealot and zookeeper was much improved, though they had never been so bad as the common prisoners’.

“I say, Dykes.” The clerk-suited, pink-eyed albino known only as the Under-Warden—for he ran this entire division of Oldgate’s labyrinthine concern with only token visits to the official ruler far above for discussion of such things as were necessary to keep the peace—had a reedy voice, yet at its first syllable a hush fell upon the vast tunnel-space below. Those waiting for a turn in the boxing rings or clattering at the wooden training structures elbowed each other, and many a face turned up to the gantry-galleries, a few strolling bluecoat guards also keeping watch upon this new drama. “I’ve a job for some of the fellows, and would like your thoughts.”

“Certainly, sir.” Dykes did not bow, but he did take the lantern, nod with every evidence of respect, and fall into step beside the Under-Warden. Like all his fellow lion-tamers, he was armed with truncheon, iron cuffs, and pistol; though he and his boys were outnumbered by their charges they held all paths of egress as well as keys to the many doors between this deep-buried hive and anything approaching free air. “It will be a mercy; they’re growing a bit restive.”

“Not much work for our lads lately, eh? Well, that’s changed. There’s signs of movement higher up, as they say.” The Warden ambled onto the south walk, grasping his coat’s lapels with the air of a man about to embark upon deeply important and consequential business. His chin jutted in self-satisfied manner, and his bare-domed head gleamed in the ruddy, flickering light. “Just got the letter.”

Dykes refrained from pointing out he knew as much, for one of Oldgate’s regular guards had trooped down the winding stair to the tunnel—it could not, in good conscience, be called a hallway—leading to the Warden’s door just two hours ago, and retreated not long after. “What kind of work, sir? Waterside or indoors?”

“The letter says we need men without fear of heights.” A cool draught ruffled the edges of the Warden’s coat; at the far end of the gallery the tunnel tapered to a hole only slightly taller than a man, stoppered only by a vast iron grate. The zealots called it the ‘pie-crust,’ for it bore a distinct resemblance to latticed pastry top, and it was checked twice weekly for strength and signs of tampering. The iron weave admitted only moving air, and if there had ever been anything approaching silence in this terrible place the sound of trickling water might have been heard in the distance past its bars. “Are the lads up on their training in that respect?”

“Well, of course.” Dykes did not take offense at the question, though he could have. They continued along the south gallery, the Under-Warden occasionally bestowing a cordial nod upon a guard who straightened self-consciously as he approached. “We’ve just finished balance drills for the day, sir.” There was nothing else for the poor fellows trapped down here save practice; the trainers, some of whom came from outside, also gave the guards regular sessions. It was damned useful stuff, especially the steadyfoot games and the technique of drawing upon the body’s inner reserves for quicker healing.

But Dykes the centurion—for such he was, even in these circumstances—often wondered why the prisoners didn’t turn on the guards, who were after all comparatively amateur. Keys could, after all, be snatched from corpses.

Of course the zealots were set at each other so hard they had little time for Dykes’s lads, which was a blessing. Much care was taken to foster rivalries and hatred among prisoners, just as the strategists of the Empire’s Legions were wont to set tribes or even whole other countries at each other’s throats in order to win concessions for Albion’s trade colonies.

“Good, good.” The Under-Warden never showed up at training time, but then again, he had no need to. Rumor was he had a lovely house on the westron side of New Rome, and even a wife who did not mind his . . . condition. “Well, we should begin. This is very urgent.”

Dykes also refrained from pointing out that every job was somewhat urgent. One didn’t keep a stable of cutthroats and train them in shadowy, almost sorcerous murder techniques in order to stroll them through Hiyde Park of a bright afternoon. “How many do we need, sir?”

“Half a dozen, I should say.”

“Half a dozen?” That was news, and Dykes didn’t mind showing a bit of surprise. “Well, that’ll be most of our fliers, then. Unless you want some of the ground troops, to season the pot, like.”

“I should think half and half will do. This particular prey is canny. Every one of the six will get out of the hole if he’s taken care of.”

“Every one?” Dykes reshuffled the list of lads fit for this dance inside his skull. A job this important meant the penalty for failure didn’t bear thinking about, and the half-dozen dogs let from the kennel would only get their reward if proof of the victim’s demise were furnished in some unquestionable manner.

Of course, there was always the risk that the hounds would head for the hills, taking their training and liberty with them, but any who did so ran the risk of their brethren bringing back ears and nose as well as the offending dog’s brazen necktag. The reward for such a prize was almost as vast as that for a completed ‘job.’

And that was one way, among others, the lords made certain their murderous, half-rabid instruments watched each other for treachery. An elegant solution, Dykes had to admit.

“Yes indeed.” The Under-Warden liked repeating himself. “Every man Jack who survives. This one’s a particularly dodgy customer, and not all the lions might return to the den.”

Well, Dykes could send a troublemaker or two on the job as well. It would solve some of his own problems, to be sure. “I see. Well, I shall ring the bell and select a slate as well as a few alternates. The final selection will be yours, of course, sir.”

“Very good, glad to hear it. You’re a good fellow, Dykes.”

This estimation of his character was laughable, but the centurion did not so much as smile, merely accepting the compliment with grave goodwill. “Thank you, sir.” The list assumed its final shape inside his head, and he glanced into the central well. Most of the zealots were watching avidly; any novelty was a highly prized event.

A sad day the poor sod who had caught the lords’ ire, even if the fellow was doing them all such a favour. But such considerations gained a man nothing in New Rome, and even less down here.

So Dykes walked behind the Under-Warden, who apparently intended to make the entire circuit of his domain. By the time this amble was finished everyone would be in a fine froth of impatience and excitement, waiting for the announcement and the chime of the little silver bell kept safely in a pouch at Dykes’s belt.

Let them wonder for a bit, then. It did no harm, and kept them from other mischief. These hounds could tear each other to pieces in moments if they were not reasonably united in hatred of their owners, and he almost pitied their prey.

Almost.

Fortune, Good and Ill

THE ROOK HAD more than one doss in or near the Acre; moving among them almost at random was the best way to ensure continued survival. None would think to look for him in the depths of the most ramshackle flea-infested tenement on Penthrift Street, breathing foul air as he dozed in a corner with a hood pulled almost down to his top lip, or above the butcher’s on Crosston, nearly in Huq’s End and listening to the songs of weary frails as they cooed for custom. Sometimes he slept behind the dusty front counter of the perpetually closed ragpicker sandwiched between a fading bookshop and a greengrocer’s near the Little Dial Well, hearing the shouts of children at play and the scolding or sparrow-singing of their mothers while they drew water, and other mornings—for the Rook Himself had to keep odd hours, what with most of a bullyboy’s work being done in the dark—he settled in a well-upholstered chair in otherwise bare room above the stable of the Helleny livery, equines stamping and whinnying below, Ma Helleny’s stable boys chanting or cursing as they worked.

Being a hunted animal did not have to mean always thinking like one, though, and sometimes he slept at Lucky’s, or at the address he kept at the edge of the Thrash in a semi-respectable boarding house run by a widow nearly of Rudrill’s stripe, though not nearly so fortunate. That worthy dame knew him by another name, and did not ask her lodger why he kept a room he only infrequently visited. Perhaps she believed him a sailor; in any case, she took his coin and kept her mouth buttoned, which was all Avery asked.

The week after the foundry fires in Southwerke he spent roving from one doss to the next, sometimes changing at midday or after an hour’s rest. A tingling sensation had lodged at his nape, and he knew the feeling intimately.

If Avery’s estimation of Rexton’s character was correct, the next move was His Lordship’s and it would be a ‘banger,’ as the Imanuel boys said. The Rook had waved himself like a flag before a maddened bull—but the creature, stamping and snorting, had not yet decided to charge.

He was thinking of Imanuel far more than he should. Or, more precisely, thinking of a slip of a witch in grey wool; often his arms were alive with the feel of her while dancing, and just before he dropped into slumber he might hear the particular soft brush of blue silken skirts.

Curse the girleen; she was distracting him badly. Veece and Kane were under strict orders to keep her in sight; the rest of the Rooks suspected their boss was sweet on a skirt and were barely restrained from merciless allusions to the fact by his glower whenever she was mentioned. Even the frails under the bullyboys’ protection steered clear of him except to make their business reports, and they did so without frill, furbelow, or flirt.

Soon his boyos would begin ragging, and he would have to sharpen his own verbal knives to keep them in line and at attention. It was the worst possible time for his attention to wander. The entire Acre was holding its breath, sensing a subtle shift like mudlarks when the tide came up the Thamis.

Avery longed to catch Miss Dove at dinner again, for he had promised her a conversation—but the Acre demanded all his attention, the Rooks restive after an exciting event and longing for another to break the drudgery of extracting protection money, daily practice in the rings below Lucky’s, and patrolling quiet streets or even quieter rooftops on raw, fogbound nights.

Like hounds, they wanted exercise, and he was to provide it lest their allegiance flag. Sometimes Avery wondered if Morton had ever felt this weary while training Hellions, for all that you were only supposed to have one or two apprentices at a time.

The Rook should have Imanuel’s witch put his fellows through their paces in the rings, if she had strength enough to do so after bespelling schoolboys. And there his thoughts went again, circling in her direction instead of following the track they needed to.

There had to be a spy in his ranks, perhaps more than one. And if Rexton caught wind of the weakness a certain lady might represent in his adversary, he was just the sort of fellow to strike in that direction. Still, while she was in the Acre she was cradle-safe, and Avery’s enemy no doubt preoccupied, at the moment, by scrabbling for financial survival.

Yet Gemma Dove knew of Lord Rexton as well, and her cool, level assessment of the man spoke volumes—unfortunately, though, in another language.

It would be something indeed if she, as well as Veece, had been wronged by Felix Larridby. The Acre could hold more than one vengeance, and perhaps it gave the gods a chuckle or two to toss them all in the same cauldron and see what the boil would bring.

To add to Avery’s unease, the skinny bastard was back upon the rooftops, though the nights were so wrapped in cottonwool fog he was only glimpsed and gone, never deigning to give battle but also never fleeing for the edge of the Acre. Avery was of two minds about that fellow—who might not be a fellow at all—and wasn’t that a fine conundrum?

Yes, Miss Dove needed attending. But the Rook’s neck itched, his fingers were restive, and when he was in the ring under Lucky’s his lieutenants and soldiers both found him silent and nearly absent-minded, slapping aside their strikes with almost contemptuous ease and running them ragged. Some of them no doubt felt a prick or two to their pride, but it did them good.

And if they were traitors, wrath or wroth might provoke them into a mistake.

So the Rook waited, roved between holes safe enough for napping in, slept lightly, and kept his impatience reined. The sheer inability to wait was the downfall of many a Hellion and enemy alike.

Cold rains moved in, with ice at the heart of each stinging drop. Ten days after three foundries in Southwark burned, another night rose dripping from sunset’s demise and the Acre shivered in its grasp. Avery Black left yet another of his little-used dosses—a shed to the back of a farrier’s yard, more crack than wall as the Acre proverb ran, but with a roof solid enough to keep the damp away.

Before the Rook had crossed the muddy yard he knew he was being observed, and as he pushed the gate open—for Hilljack the farrier had gone to dinner as he did at this hour every day save midweek, when he closed early to go templeward and offer Mercurias Graeca a wax figure or two, being a religious man—the consciousness of danger poured down his back as if a gutter had spouted under his collar.

The game was afoot.

FOR A SHORT while they hung back, wolves eyeing their prey. As Avery worked deeper into the Acre, ambling as if he had all the time in the world, he marked three of his pursuers—two on the ground, and a flicker of motion upon a rooftop. There were bound to be more, and that response cheered him.

He had possibly not just unnerved Rexton but his fellow Seven of the Priory. The two men following him wore the right clothes, certainly, and they walked like bullyboys. Their faces were filthy, naturally, and a casual glance might mistake them for chimneysweeps—though not the sort one would ask for a lucky handshake, indeed.

For upon drawing closer, an observant fellow would note the pallor of incarceration under a careful screen of dirt or cinders softened with suet. No healthy blush from wind-chapping or sun-roasting, and under their fingers the blackened dirt was that of a prison hole instead of honest labour.

Or not-so-honest, in Avery’s case. Living was a filthy business even at the best of times, unless you were a respectable girl in blue silk upon a patterned parquet floor.

There she was again, tiptoeing through his head as if she had every right to be there. Avery had to make a decision or two, and rather soonish.

First, though, he had to deal with this. Shadows thickened in every corner, spread inklike from the alleys as the lighters began their mournful cries shuffling from one gaslamp to the next. Bundled in wet wool, muffled and well-wrapped, those who kindled the night’s flames were accorded as much space as possible.

Jostling a lighter was bad luck, just as a sweep’s handshake and avoiding the notice of a bullyboy was good.

From one end of the Acre to the other Avery Black rambled, and the Rooks who saw him received a significant glance. A few let no intimation of their thoughts show as they faded aside into pools of deeper shadow, or set off in a different direction. Others turned pale—though not nearly so chalky as the fellows following their boss—and hurried away to spread the news.

The Rook was hunting, and letting his boys know interference was frowned upon. The Priory’s dogs were likely to be well-trained, and he didn’t need to lose any of his lieutenants.

Good lads didn’t deserve that. Even spies or turncoats could be left out of this affair; he preferred to settle with those in his own fashion and at the proper time. It even rather suited him to have a double-sider in the ranks just now, and for some short while yet.

Avery’s pace quickened as true night fell, curls of fog attempting to rise between slashing needles of rain. One last wave of himself down Highgale Street, then, just to make certain he had seined all his pursuers deep into the Acre. This was his home for the moment, and he knew every inch of it. While one or two of his pursuers might be locals—it wasn’t entirely out of the question—they had no doubt been locked up in the filthy pit the Priory secreted their kind within long enough that a few subtle changes in terrain had occurred.

That, and his awareness of their shadowing, gave him all the edge he would receive tonight. He suspected he would need every inch as the count of fishbelly ghosts upon his trail rose to four. He had done his work well, won every turn of the dice, and tonight called for a virtuoso performance to up the stakes once more.

He was just about to turn into a convenient alley leading to the backside of Crennel Hall, go straight up the brick wall on its left-hand side, and begin the dance when the crowd parted before him and a slight form in a damp, dowdy brown pelisse appeared, sylphlike despite heavy covering. A pair of dark eyes almost froze him midstride; gods bless the girl, but the intensity in her gaze was unsettling even to him.

His pulse dropped, settling into combat-rhythm. Was she part of the trap, or had she prepared it? He could acknowledge a finely played tune even if it was to his detriment, after all, and—

“Mr Black.” Imanuel’s witch greeted him calmly, as if they were not surrounded by Priory dogs and a hurrying, shuffling crowd eager to reach the comparatively drier safety of doss, publick house, or gin palace. “What good fortune. I was rather hoping to meet you today.”

Complexion Upon Conversation

FROM THE LOOK of him, the ruler of the Acre had been in the rain for quite some while. He stared at Gemma as if he could not believe her so forward as to address him upon a public street, and she retreated a half-step as she realised his stance was one Sampson often used in the salle—deceptively relaxed, balanced catlike, ready to strike.

Do you think I mean to attack you, sir? Then again, a man who ruled a collection of thieves and bravos in this slice of the city and also attended a West Side ball in disguise waiting for Lord Rexton to be called away probably survived by holding himself in her own teacher’s constant readiness.

It sounded exhausting, and paralleled the constant friction against Gemma’s own nerves lately. But the man she had been thinking of for over a week was before her this very moment, and she rather needed a few words of explanation no matter the damage to her Reputation were she seen accosting him thus.

She waited for him to return her greeting, but his gaze flickered over her shoulder instead. He did not even touch his hat, which was quite unlike him, but perhaps his disdain of quality and manners was acute tonight.

In that case, she could arrive straight at the point without a barrage of pleasantries. “I believe I diverted Lady Cassel’s attention enough that she has quite forgotten you, for which I do not expect any thanks at all.” Tucked inside her pelisse’s sleeves, her hands knotted together. “But, sir, I would ask—”

“By the gods, woman,” he said in a fierce undertone. He was wet to the knees, and his boots also bore a great deal of street mud. “Can’ye nowt see I am busy?”

“No doubt you have another ball to attend.” She should have expected rudeness, Gemma mused. He seemed in outright revolt against any manner of breeding, let alone politesse. “Are the two fellows at the corner yours? They do not seem the usual nursemaids.”

“Nursemaids?” He glanced up and aside, checking the rooftops—or what could be seen of them at this hour; it was growing dark indeed. Every woman in Respectable cloth was hurrying, hood pulled high or bonnet pulled low, and it was so damp the frails and fancies were not yet outside to ply their trade. “Turn yourself home, Miss Dove. I’ll settle you later.”

Her temper was already somewhat frayed—she had stayed through Imanuel’s dinner hour to write notes expressing gratitude to several worthies who had sent their subscription pledges in promptly, though she had not partaken of the admittedly less cabbage-laden meal itself. More worrisome was the fact that her boys had given Director Breakbridge every assurance their ‘association’ was defunct, but Gemma had her doubts and furthermore, just today in chapel a few schoolboy missiles had been flung across the aisle in either direction, though no teacher had managed to see quite from whence each came.

She suspected her careful tutelage in hand-tricks to keep the boys behaving had created a fresh set of problems. It rather boded ill, and now Gemma was faced with this. “I am not one of your Rooks, sir, and you will remember as much.” Gemma took a firm grasp upon quite deep and unfeminine irritation, giving a rather thin smile Aunt Hay would have recognised. “I have put up with being followed, and with your appearance at my benefactress’s ball, and said not a word to anyone upon either count. You do rather owe me an explanation.”

“And I shall give it.” The cant dropped from his tongue, every word now clipped and distinct. Mr Black peered into the shadow of her pelisse’s hood, settled carefully over her hat; a string of dripping silver descended from his own hat’s brim, bisecting his grim, stubbled face. “Now is not the time, girleen. I’ve business tonight, and you’re safer indoors than out.”

A reasonable, Respectable woman would no doubt heartily concur. Gemma was, however, entertaining many doubts upon her own respectability lately, and now seemed a particularly apt time to shake off at least one trammel. “I regret that I may not be available for such discussion later, sir; we might as well thrash it out now. What is your business with Lord Rexton?” Her hood dripped provokingly; she felt she would never be dry again.

“For the love of . . .” A muscle in his cheek flicked; Mr Black really did need a shave. The clean, anxious man-in-trade she had danced with bore little similarity to this ruffian, his battered top hat with Rook ‘colours’ upon its band pulled low over his eyes, his broad shoulders trapped in a dark woolen labourer’s coat with a much-mended hood lying flat, and his scarred, filthy boots. Nevertheless, where the two images overlapped she could catch a glimpse of deeper waters, and. . . .

Well, he was oddly handsome, despite his nose, the roughness of his manner, and the way he drew himself up, eyeing her in most impolite fashion. She should have felt some trepidation at confronting him at this rapidly darkening hour, especially upon the street—but nobody was paying any attention save the fellows at the corner, one of whom disappeared into the shadows with alarming ease and alacrity.

Mr Black was trained upon the Path, though perhaps not as strictly as Gemma herself. None of his Rooks seemed to follow suit, unless those so gifted had been simply kept from her view until this moment.

Now that she thought about it, she had been followed from Imanuel in much the usual way through her walk home—until the moment Avery Black appeared before her, almost dæmon-like. “Do not look over your shoulder,” she said, calmly enough. “The fellows at the corner are not yours, are they.”

“Go home,” he repeated, and took a single step forward, rather looming over her now. Perhaps he expected Gemma to give way, but she did not move, regarding him steadily. “I am rather engaged tonight, Miss Dove. I will tell you what you want to know, but for the love of every god of Empire, not now.”

Which put rather a different complexion upon this conversation, as Aunt Hay’s friend Madame Delaforgue might have said in her charmingly Gaul-accented Ænglish.

“They’re after you.” It made a great deal of sense. “Are they Rexton’s? We may deal with them in short order, if—”

“We? There is no we, ghost-girl.” The Rook shook his dark head, and his hands—ungloved, yet not bearing the rawness of chilblains since he presumably knew the Path and so, how to keep his extremities from such things—tensed.

Still, he did not seem ready to strike her. Rather, he seemed merely annoyed, which was vexing in and of itself. He was so . . . so bloody cavalier, and not in the chivalrous sense.

Ghost girl? If it was a piece of Acre cant, it was one she had not heard before. “Granted.” Still, it irked her; did he think himself above her aid? He had seen her commit murder just weeks ago, and consciousness of the fact made her cheeks burn. At least the light was so bad it might cover her shame, like a she-wolf lounging upon a bordello bench or a frail looking for male customers in a twilit park. “But I would not like you to suffer an injury at the hands of Rexton’s men, sir. If you would but—”

“Miss Dove.” He bent slightly, and made up for his lack of greeting by now touching his sodden hat brim, quite correctly indeed. “I’ll give you an explanation later, but for now, you must run along home unless you’d like to see me kill a man before your pretty eyes. I am not in the habit of offering that entertainment to everyone, mind, and would much rather you forego it.”

“So would I.” There was no humiliation in admitting as much; rather, it was perhaps the last bit of respectability she possessed. “But you saved my boys, sir, and it appears we have common cause against—”

“Hold this.” D—n the man, he simply would not let her finish a sentence. Instead, Avery Black swept his hat free, doffing it with an ironic grin, and thrust the article at her. “It’ll stand surety for an explanation. But if you do not turn around and go to Rudrill’s this instant I shall pick you up and carry you, and not halt until you’re safely in her parlour. I’d enjoy that, but I think you wish to avoid gossip.”

His tone was low and fierce; Gemma found she quite believed him.

And she was already taking the hat, her own manners suddenly, traitorously offering aid to this most infuriating man. Gemma was about to offer a stinging goodbye, but the fellow smiled, and—of all things—winked at her.

A flash of a cheeky grin like one of Imanuel’s boys and he was gone, stepping sideways to cut into the pedestrians flowing around them. An alley’s mouth swallowed his already indistinct form; he would blend with the night most admirably. Gemma was left feeling rather ridiculous, standing openmouthed and literally holding a hat.

She muttered a highly impolite, not to mention scatological, term she had learned two days ago when Henry Dawes employed it in an undertone upon the play yard, one Aunt Hay would have waxed most furious over had little Beth ever given it voice.

Oh, I shall indeed go home directly, sir. But we are not done tonight.

If those fellows were Rexton’s and also trained upon the Path, Avery Black would need aid. Gemma, her weariness forgotten, turned upon her heel and hurried for Rudrill’s.

EATING A COLD meat pasty while wrapping herself in indigo cloth was perhaps bad for the digestion, but she had performed the maneuver at least twice already this week. The most time-consuming bit was loosening her corset, since the cage of bone and strong cloth seemed to have a mind of its own.

It would give Aunt Hay palpitations to see her beloved niece licking greasy fingers and struggling into wrappings which were, Gemma could admit, highly indecent even if they allowed necessary freedom of movement.

Sometimes she thought of simply sallying forth from her room during daylight so attired, and each time she at least smiled.

At the moment, however, she wore a look of fierce determination, and was ready in short order. Gemma wrapped her hands while chewing the last bit of sodden, almost-stale crust, suppressing a quite indelicate burp. The pasty would sit heavily in her stomach, certainly, but it would also provide the necessary fuel to keep her from shivering tonight. She had not lost more weight, but inclement weather and lack of sleep meant she was not gaining it, either.

It would be pleasant to be attractively plump, Gemma thought, and bounced lightly upon her toes like a young girl excited for her first dance. The leather harness holding knives and other small items was still damp from last night’s foray onto the rooftops of Hell’s Acre, but that was to be expected.

Avery Black had left her between a quarter-and half-hour ago. She hoped he was not in too much distress just yet, and further hoped she would arrive in time to render some manner of assistance. Having taken a few moments to study the rooflines before she turned for Rudrill’s—carrying his blasted hat, no less, and bringing the item upstairs without being noticed required some ingenuity—she at least had a place to begin her hunt.

The Acre was not so large, after all. She did not think it likely the Rook would bait his pursuers very far afield. Two ruffians she had glimpsed following him, a third upon the rooftops . . . well, perhaps he could handle them without too much trouble.

But Gemma wished to be certain. The man was deeply irritating, and she had questions he must answer. She would not allow any other outcome.

She finished her head-wrapping in short order, almost unbearably clumsy with impatience, and wrenched her window open. A burst of rainy night air swallowed her; she closed the aperture with care, then straightened, her head tilted, listening intently.

A few moments later, the roof of Widow Rudrill’s boarding house stood empty under driving rain.

Caution for Speed

THE ROOK WOULD’VE liked to change clothes before this dance, but battle did not wait for a man’s readiness. War, like the god who owned it, arrived when and where it would, whether you were naked as the Fates decreed at birth or laced into Fashion’s newest furbelows.

The Priory dog stank, mostly because he was filthy but also because Avery’s left-hand blade had flickered in, opening his belly like a butcher working upon a sheep. It was a risky move, for the fellow had iron claws fitted over both hands and was damnably quick in using them.

They were fast, and they were vicious. But Avery was Hellion, and he had not been forced into training. He had chosen freely, and hopefully the fact would provide him an edge tonight. For he did not face four individuals but a half-dozen, and the extra pair turned a merely tilted game into a downright dangerous one.

Upslope, the roofline boiled with shadowy forms. They had not managed to corner him yet, mostly because he knew the ground better than any intruder could hope to. This fellow, with his cat-claws, was a little too eager to win the race, and paid for it with his life. Avery nudged the corpse’s knee with one booted toe, making the dead man fall the proper way and flicker-stabbing the throat on the way down, wrenching his right-hand blade free with a twist of his wrist.

His wet hood, protecting his head and muffling his outline, flapped as he skipped back. Roof tiles ground under his soles. Five left. Move, silly boy. Move!

He often heard Morton while running or planning, but hardly ever while fighting. Avery’s breath came harsh and high, and the world whirled under him, a globe with a fractured surface as he aimed across the roof-hill, cutting for the corner of Garney’s Yard. If he could funnel the five remaining dogs that way, he had a chance to pick another off, and that would leave him with four.

Schemes and contingencies flashed through his head; he left the edge of a hulking tenement’s top in a leap and knew, as soon as he was aloft, that he would land badly. There was no malacca cane to catch a roof’s lip now, and everything was slick-damp; besides, the edges of several overhangs were crumbling after a hard winter.

At least the fug of coalsmoke, though rent and slashed by rain, made him a blurred shadow. And he had a hood, which meant his concentration was the soundless, fierce, fixed point Morton called unmind. As in, unmind yourself, boy, you think too much.

He couldn’t help it; an unplanned step was worse than one in the wrong direction. Either, however, might prove lethal tonight.

Crunch. The landing drove his breath out in a silver-tinted cloud, an unwilling huff wrung from his throat. At least he was surefoot enough to avoid breaking or spraining anything, rolling to shed the worst of the impact and on his feet again having lost that crucial fraction of time.

So far the Priory hounds—by their odour, they were of the lot trained under Oldgate’s sweating stone bulk—had given a good accounting of themselves. He was rather beginning to think they had sent some of their best, which was a compliment he could have done without.

Instinct bloomed underfoot and he threw himself aside, a whistling sharpness jabbing right where his back had been a moment before. A thin blade fastened to a long chain or rope—it had to be, for the missile clattered as it was dragged back to its wielder.

Oh, fuck. Good thing Miss Dove was home and safe; she would frown at such language.

His girleen might never get her answers, the way tonight was wending. Avery bit back a laugh and dropped near-flat, rolling again as the chain-knife whistle-flickered once more, a hungry serpent seeking to sink a single fang.

He was glad none of his boyos were here; these bastards would whittle them with little trouble. Avery bolted for cover at the far end of the Tanson Brothers warehouse roof, sacrificing some caution for speed; wooden shingles groaned alarmingly underfoot. There was far more bounce than he liked, and he knew things were about to go very badly indeed a sliverpence-moment before rotten shingles cracked and instead of skating upon thin ice he plunged straight down.

A jolt all through him as he clipped what had to be a roofbeam on the way, then training took over and he landed catlike, a vast red cramp seizing his left ribs. He staggered aside, clutching at his left arm, snapping it back into its shoulder socket, the effort tearing a harsh half-swallowed scream from his throat. It was almost an afterthought—he needed the limb too badly to let it stay dislocated.

The Priory hounds followed him through the hole. Their blood was up, for they didn’t even stop to take a sounding. Four thumps, a pause, then a fifth landing almost as badly as the Rook had.

Avery had a moment to catch his breath and take in his surroundings—the Tanson Brothers warehouse attic, lit only by fitful grey columns where rain slipped through rents in the roof. He hadn’t thought this building was in such disrepair. Its roof had held him and several Rooks more than once during the winter’s territorial fighting, but the thankless jade was turning on him now.

Consequently, he was facing five of the Priory’s convict fighters—the Nailed God’s chosen called them zealots, stealing the term from the Yudics and their Sicarii—in a rancid wood-floored vault, dust rising in nose-tickling veils, the reek of mildew and rot nearly fragrant as the stacked hides and bales of other goods below. At least this floor seemed more solid.

Come morning the workers might discover a few casualties of this particular battle—or later, when the smell of putrefaction gave them away.

Either way, Avery might be among the bodies. He backed into deeper gloom, his gaze flickering over the terrain. Beams and open space, very little cover—he could use the wooden support pillars and draw the dogs into darkness at the other end of the warehouse, where the shadows were thickest. His shoulder throbbed and his ribs seized as he tried to breathe, and for the first time he realised he was wounded.

Badly.

The Priory dogs spread out. Something rattled—the chain-knife, for he caught a glimpse of silver as a short, thin figure with pale hands rain-rinsed of camouflaging grime shook it, assuring free play. For a moment he thought it was the skinny bastard haunting the Acre’s roofs, but the shadow moved with mere efficiency, not the ghost’s quicksilver grace.

Witches and ghosts in the Acre, and maybe his own shade would haunt it as well. Avery raised his right-hand knife, ignoring the grinding in his left side. At least one broken rib, perhaps more, he was damn lucky he didn’t have a stabbed lung.

This is going to be tricksome.

There was another flickering shadow, a falling blur. It landed, velvet-silent, and twin glitters shone like stars in a random reflection of rainlight.

Knives.

What in the—

He had no time to finish the thought, for the skinny ghost of the Acre’s rooftops, as if summoned by the Rook’s need, fell upon the backs of the Priory’s dogs.

Moves Constrained

IT WAS NOT LIKE practice. Nor was it like eluding the Rooks upon the Acre’s night-time hilltops. It was a little akin to fending off the blue-clad childcatcher, but not quite, for that fellow had been untrained, and lazy to boot.

Many of Sampson’s habitual utterances in the salle now made sense. Faster! Mind your side, mind your footing! Lift your knee. Follow through, girl, don’t give the other fellow a chance! Move!

Finding Mr Black had not presented much difficulty. Well, tracking him might have been a chancy proposition, as Sampson often said, but the Rook’s pursuers, while seemingly trained in the Path to a certain degree, were not nearly so quiet nor so lightfoot as him—or Gemma herself. The intruders left scrape-foot traces upon tile or shingle and a rancid scent upon cold rain-slashed air; Gemma’s nose and vision, both trained by Sampson’s unrelenting tutelage, discerned both with only moderate difficulty.

The most helpful tactic, she discovered, was to attempt thinking like Mr Black. Pursued by several attackers, he would naturally attempt to delay and separate them. He knew the Acre’s roofs well, and she could not hope to match that knowledge—but she could guess, and that helped her whittle the lead held by both hare and hounds.

When the entire group vanished upon a faintly visible, rain-glimmering expanse she was puzzled, but only until she landed at the edge of a sodden wooden warehouse roof and the faint flexing vibrations told her what had happened. She ran lightly across sagging shingles, and even though she was en garde, as Sampson would say, her heart still gave a terrified leap when the hole opened beneath her and she fell, twisting away from a half-sensed obstacle midway as if practicing acrobatics in St Courcy’s salle.

The landing came before she was quite ready and her teeth clicked together, hard. Rot, mildew, damp, and a reek of freshly cured leather filled her nose, overlaid with the vivid nasty scent of unwashed males and a coppery tang her body knew, though her intellect might have a difficult time placing it.

Bloodlust, and murder.

Her two largest knives, fine dappled steel with slightly curved hilts gifted by Sampson on little Beth’s fourteenth birthday, slipped free of their sheaths with well-oiled whispers. Five shadows before her, one much slighter than the others, and she only had to choose which to take first.

Instinct selected the biggest opponent, if for no other reason than she was certain it could not be Avery Black. This fellow’s shoulders were too wide and his legs too bandy; her blades pierced clothing and deep into flesh, the resistance of muscle and softer sponginess of kidney underneath both incredibly nauseating. She had no time to be sickened, for she had to wrench both blades free and use the hilt of the left to brace her hand as she applied a good knock to the back of the man’s skull for good measure. He dropped, for his knees had buckled, sensing damage before the rest of him discovered the fact. Lank greasy hair over his skull was an imperfect cushion against her attack, and her knuckles stung.

Through, Beth, you must strike through the beast. Come now, do it again!

There was no time, for these fellows were Path-trained. The one to the immediate left of her target whirled, and Gemma avoided a strike at her midsection with a supple bend, her hips sliding and her right-hand knife flickering to find the juncture between the collapsing man’s neck and shoulder—a small, moving target indeed.

She could not even feel triumphant as the strike hit home, for a whistling missile sliced past her shoulder, a stinging mosquito-kiss.

What on earth . . . ? No time to finish the thought, for the closest still-living opponent was upon her with a flurry of blows and Gemma had to give ground in the only possible direction which might shield her from whoever was throwing knives, her hands moving in a complicated swallowtail pattern.

Get closer, Sampson said coldly inside her skull and she obeyed without question, though her new adversary loomed provokingly tall. He stank as well, and there were glimmers of ghost-pale skin as he moved with flickering Path speed.

But he was not nearly so quick as her teacher, and whoever had trained him had not exercised his left side very well. Gemma’s foot flicked, tapping his knee with just enough force to stagger without risking her own footing, and her right hand darted in, blade reversed and dragging across the belly, biting deep. Her left blocked his main strike, the jolt slamming into her shoulder with numbing force, but her proximity and his buckled knee robbed it of critical strength.

Then her knives were free and she whirled, backing out of range and adding whipping force to two more lightning knife-strikes, hoping whoever had blades to fling was not moving to flank.

Her awareness dilated; the fighter who had been to the right of her original target lunged in her direction. At least they seemed to consider her a greater threat than Mr Black, who might even be retreating from this battle if he had not yet realised he had been granted reinforcement.

Good. Gemma took the only move possible—dropping like a cut-string puppet and rolling, using a hard kick against the closest opponent to propel her body along splinter-laden, dusty flooring. Grit filled her nose, the smell was atrocious, and she was almost sure the deep ugly snapping sound was a breaking knee. There were distinct advantages to being smaller than one’s attacker, unless they managed to lay hands upon you. Gaining a crouch with a straining, fishlike effort, she sucked in a breath through the annoyance of thin indigo cloth wrapped over her mouth.

The Path’s peculiar night vision was much starker and brighter than ever, perhaps because this was true combat and deadly serious. While practice could prepare, it was nothing like real battle; she was wringing-wet under her wrappings and now glad that they would soak up the perspiration.

Another fast, sharp-slicing whir with a rattle at the end—a chain? Whatever type of weapon it was, she had more immediate problems, for the man she had stabbed in the belly was not dead or incapacitated yet, and the one she had kicked was scuttling limp-wise toward her.

The next few moves were constrained by the fact of that blasted knife-thrower, whatever strange thing he was wielding. Gemma had to keep the three other fighters between herself and that menace, and she erupted from her crouch with a high-pitched scream of effort.

It was liberating to shout as a young lady never should, but she could wish the event was accompanied by a bit less terror. For she was not at all certain she could hold these fellows off if Mr Black decided to leave her in the lurch.

Too late. You started this, finish it. No wonder Sampson had trained her so harshly.

She was ever so glad he had, now. Gemma lunged to meet the nearest stinking, pale-striped shadow, her left-hand knife chiming against a very similar blade. There was another hoarse cry in the near distance, whether of triumph or injury she couldn’t tell, and a terrible stench like an open slop-jar reached her.

She had no time to wonder, for the man who engaged her now was far better trained than the first few had been, and she had to retreat as quickly as she’d advanced, ducking around a wooden support post she could not see, only sense in the thick darkness.

HIS SIDE WAS a furnace of agony, his arm throbbed like a bad tooth, and when the bastard with the chain-knife folded underneath him in a tangle of arms and legs the shock of landing wrung another harsh sound of effort from Avery’s throat. He stabbed four more times, making absolutely certain the bastard was dead, and rolled aside just in time to avoid a heavy boot descending smartly for his head. Normally he could have killed the second fellow as an afterthought, but now his leg was bleeding too and his ribs were exacting vengeance for his stupidity.

Really, he should have expected the roof would go. It was the way of things.

As it was, he had to kick at the bastard’s legs and take yet another wave of grinding, blood-coloured pain when a muscle-heavy cargo of Priory zealot fell atop him. The only saving grace was that Avery had prepared for the event, and his largest knife sank deep. A hot flood of saltcopper spurted over his hand, his fingers cramping, and he thrashed, flagrantly spending his body’s reserves. He would heal from this, it was only broken bones, but dear gods it hurt and there were still two more of them in the dark.

The body atop him twitched. The Rook’s teeth had sunk into something foul—he’d bitten the man on the cheek, worrying like a terrier with its prey. Another curlew-cry in the darkness was either one of the dogs or the skinny rooftop ghost, who he had to guess was distracting the remaining bastards.

Now why would he do that? Avery’s suspicions could not even be thought upon, for despite bleeding like a stuck pig the man atop him was still alive and the struggles ground together broken ribs so hard the Rook screamed like a woman in labour. His knife slipped, dug deeper, and with a final foul gush the weight atop him turned even heavier, going limp. A death-rattle brushed against the Rook’s sweating, blood-spattered cheek, and he hoped he had killed the one with the chain-knife.

Sometimes, even a Hellion had to pray.

He could barely breathe, and the malignant man-mountain atop him was indisputably deceased. Heaving a corpse off one’s own sorry self was an unpleasant task, even when one’s ribs were not shrieking with fresh bright pain and slick copper coated the back of one’s throat.

A heavy thudding, steel clashing. A third high, sharp cry, and Avery wasn’t the only one sounding like an angry fishwife tonight.

What. In the name of . . . He could not even finish the thought, for he was rapidly running out of air.

Silence fell deep as the darkness, only broken by the ticking and creaking of any structure late at night, speaking to itself as wood and stone breathed in response to weather. He had to get the corpse shifted somehow, but for the life of him the Rook could not tell how.

High, ragged breathing. A soft, sliding step. Avery tried to slow his own gasps, flinching each time he dragged in a lungful. If his bellows weren’t pierced it would be a miracle, one he should make an offering at the nearest temple for.

Slight sounds. Cloth moving. The footsteps drew closer, moving with infinite care—whoever it was had to be ready for a lump of clothes and meat on the floor to be shamming instead of dead. Avery’s own noise would give him away, but he could not get in enough air to care.

“Oh, bother,” a soft, cultured voice said nearby. “Mr Black? Are you still alive?”

He might have laughed, but he could not breathe. The darkness turned total, and the Rook lost consciousness.

To be continued. . .

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Acknowledgements

Thanks are due to my subscribers, who patiently funded the first serial draft of this duology; to Brenda C. and Deb D. for taking a chance on it; to Mel Sterling for ferreting out all sorts of wicked historical facts; and to my children, who listened to descriptions of rooftop battles and strange etiquette with glee and patience. And, as always, to my very dear Readers—I will be thanking you again with another story, somewhat soon.

Biography

Lilith Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her children, dogs, cat, a library for wayward texts, and assorted other strays.