Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  No wonder there was always talk of strike.

  However, I had no need to visit the docks, nor the sky ferry that I had once been standard fare upon. I did not know what happened to Captain Abercott and his Scarlet Philosopher, nor did I have fond memories of the so-called captain and his wandering hands, but a pang nevertheless struck my heart as I turned my attention away from the familiar roads I’d once traveled.

  There was no longer any reason for me to climb that divisive height.

  At the juncture of Commercial and the West India Dock Road, carts stood nearly end to end, loaded down with barrels and bushels, wares, and occasionally working men between duties, shifts, or otherwise unemployed.

  Women minded stalls, wandered from shop to shop. Some carried baskets and sacks of clothing to be washed by the laundresses or at the communal washrooms that the inhabitants of this teeming quarter seemed to favor.

  Many of the rowhouses on the lane hid smoky dens, and my fingers twitched.

  I’d come with no coin.

  I’d leave without smoke.

  It seemed something of a victory, for all it felt like a terrible taunt. On the other hand, it was like as not the first I’d ever left the infamous district without partaking of its delights. There was a certain pride in that. Hungry though it left me.

  Among the dark hair and shorter stature that so characterized the people of Limehouse, them what displayed neither seemed all the more out of place. They might as well have held signs above their heads, read clearly by the rest who stepped quickly from their paths.

  Patrol.

  One could always tell, if one had the sense to see the signs. But what bothered me about the Englishmen invading the primarily Chinese district was that they strolled as though they were confident of their welcome in the Veil’s terrain.

  My nose twitched as I pressed against the corner brick facing of a general goods store. The fog shifted like a river, streaming by me without the breeze that seemed should accompany it, and I was forced more than once to blot at my stinging eyes.

  The men I watched bore no such concerns.

  Among the gangs what peppered the London streets saturated in yellow and black—the Brick Street Bakers, the Black Fish Ferrymen, the Hackney Horribles and more still—there was something of a code. I’d never understood it. Nor had I pried, out of courtesy for Communion.

  Because the Bakers bordered Limehouse—their turf stretching from Blackwall at the east to the Isle of Dogs thrust into the Thames—they had always walked with care for the Karakash Veil. Their immediate rivals, the Ferrymen, occupied Shadwell to the west of Limehouse—although in retrospect, I recalled that the far nastier Ferrymen had moved into Ratcliff.

  And, so it seemed, Limehouse proper.

  That was the crux of the strangeness I sensed. The Veil was meant to be neutral in all such matters, powerful enough to keep the gangs from spilling over into their turf. I’d witnessed some kind of fracture in the spokesman’s presence, but did that account for the Ferrymen’s presence here? Had this only added to the Veil’s apparent temper?

  Or had the Veil bonded with the meanest of the gangs in some sort of street treaty?

  Months ago, when Maddie Ruth came to play nursemaid to my invalid, she warned me that the Bakers and the Ferrymen had already set to loggerheads. Those few scuffles I’d seen before were as nothing to the course of the turf war they waged now.

  If the Ferrymen had come to patrol Limehouse at the Veil’s behest, this rivaled the Baker turf for size, and undoubtedly for men.

  I worried for Ishmael, and for his crew.

  For some minutes I watched the men walk, side by side or in groups of three and four. They seemed prepared, ready for any threat, and that alone kept me rooted to the spot, huddling in the shadows lent by the corner. If I dared show my face, would they know to chase me?

  I did not like not knowing the lay of things, but months away had carved new rules for the streets below the drift, and I needed time to acclimate.

  It was the familiar visage of one man that forced my hand.

  Three men stepped out of one of the shops, laughing aloud at some jest or jibe. Each wore a coat and cap, with overalls that might have matched were it not for patches sewn in various color and seam. One was tall, lean like a blade, with dark eyes glassy and small. The memory that surfaced bore with it a name: Dicker.

  I’d come across the malicious prat at least twice, and each time given as good as I got.

  He was not the sort one bandied words with, and thought himself lord and master over any bit of skirt passed his way. He sported a bruise about his eye, blackened dark enough that I suspected it a day old or so. Baker scuffle, I’d wager.

  Still, that cinched it. I was in no shape to handle the Ferrymen on my own.

  That left one route, and one alone.

  I retreated back into the lane, surveyed my options with care. Between a pile of crates stacked as a lopsided ladder and the pipes too stuffed full of muck to drain properly, I’d have an easy enough go of it.

  As long as the wood did not give way.

  I rubbed my chilled hands together, breathed into my palms to warm the flesh. I took the opportunity to tie off my filthy skirts, creating an awkward bustle that would not hamper my movements. I spent only a moment stretching my legs, twisting my back, and the flow of muscle newly conditioned did not ache so badly as it once had. An auspicious relief.

  I took a deep breath, affixed my gaze upon the pipe, and darted into a short, bouncy sprint. Just before I leapt, as was my habit, I said to myself that charm that I’d learned at the knee of aerialists I could no longer remember. “Allez, hop!”

  My feet left the broken lane, my fingers closed over the rusted pipe and I pulled my legs up hard. Just as the soles of my boots connected with the wall, I launched myself again like a cat seeking a higher perch.

  Fitting enough a metaphor for the path I intended to take.

  My toes landed precariously atop a staggered collection of crates, and the stacked boxes shuddered. Wood splintered, and as my heart leapt higher than I did, I muttered a harsh uncivility and pushed off the crate with all my might.

  The whole cracked, toppled like a tower torn to the ground, and left me only half where I needed to be.

  Had it lasted even a moment longer, I’d have reached the landing of the shop roof, and the treacherous by-ways it opened into.

  Instead, my fingers barely caught the rim of the choked gutters, and the whole groaned.

  I was no novice to the dangers of Cat’s Crossing.

  Perhaps it was my lost weight the determination that filled me. It seemed that I was lighter to my own strength—or that my arms and shoulders did not complain quite so much as I pulled myself up by grit and fingers.

  Fortunately, the roof I labored to find footing upon was empty, its peak slick with damp.

  Grunting with the effort, I forced my arms straight, feet dangling over a wicked expanse of nothing, and drew my legs inward. They found purchase between my hands, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Red and brown streaks of mud and rust clung to my hands, and my fingers ached with the strain I’d placed upon them, but this was not the worst I’d ever managed.

  Achieving purchase upon the paths of the Crossing was rather easy compared to navigating the rest.

  Named for the thoroughfares utilized primarily by cats and children—each small and light enough to traverse them, though not without its hazards—Cat’s Crossing was not for the faint of heart, or for the unskilled. Comprised of the rooftops, makeshift bridges, railing sliders and widow walks that twisted along London low, the whole had been responsible for more than one twisted body fallen to the cobbles below.

  In gang territory, the Crossing tended to be manned by carriers—children hired by the much bigger and clumsier men below to run messages. The occasional angler set up traps, utilizing string and hook to steal the hats of those below, and more than one kinchin had used the thoroughfare to spy on thi
ngs he oughtn’t.

  That the Crossing haunts were children was no reason to relax one’s guard. Them what were born and raised on the streets—beggars’ brats or simply clever and agile—were not to be underestimated. A Crossing child would shiv a body for a coin as for intrusion, and while I had none of the former, I was guilty of the latter.

  Old cloth—sails, usually pinched from the ports dotting the river, and the occasional sheet stolen from heaven only knows where—and rope bridges strung between rooftops provided something of a marker, but the catch came in the veracity of the offering. More than a few wayward ramps and easy paths were little more than traps designed to dump them too trusting. Running the Crossing was as much instinct as it was knowhow.

  I was a mite rusty in both, but I didn’t need to get far.

  I traveled the rooftop to the ridge at the top, fitted with a wrought-iron fence to keep the roosting pigeons at bay. A quick glance provided a direct enough route—one that I’d have to leap over narrow divides to achieve, but that didn’t seem inclined to kill me on the way.

  What I found most curious was the utter lack of signs of use.

  There were other ciphers, broken boards and shattered glass with no windows about to mark where it came. Occasionally a bit of paint scrawled a haphazard emblem that was new enough I did not recognize it, but as I made my way from rooftop to rooftop, it suddenly made itself clear.

  A single bit of pilfered sheet, left like a sodden banner, hung in the doorway of an attic with no door. The interior was black, no lantern lit for the bantlings that might come—not that I expected any now.

  I grabbed the edge of the wet fabric, moldering with disuse and constant damp, and twitched it open to verify the message.

  A single black circle, filled in with what looked like grease or oil. Something that stained as it ran.

  The black spot, reserved for tales of piracy and plague, but meant this time by way of warning: do not traverse.

  The Limehouse Crossing had been deemed too dangerous by them what feared nothing.

  That was a feat in itself, and must be tied with the Ferrymen who prowled below. Whatever forced the children to flee like rats from the rooftops, it was dire enough to leave the black spot as warning.

  That worried me. That worried me greatly, and my resolve to wait before approaching Communion wavered. What authority, what might, had the Ferrymen brought to Limehouse?

  I let go of the cloth. It slapped back into place, shedding stained droplets to the shingles below.

  I could not linger here, not with such a sign. I had to leave as quickly as I dared.

  I was cold, wet, filthy beyond measure, and no doubt, my absence had been reported by Maddie Ruth the instant I’d left.

  If I came down with some ague, Ashmore would never forgive me.

  Or perhaps he’d teach me a bit of alchemical curative.

  That thought had merit, and did much to cheer me as I slipped and slid my way down a particular steep slope and steadied myself on a ledge that yawned out over a particularly yellow patch of roiling fog.

  The sound of a pistol discharging was as thunder in the deafening silence that followed.

  Only long practice and refined instinct saved me from startling like a manged cat and skidding right off the rooftops I navigated.

  Fortune might favor the bold, but it certainly did not favor me. What I thought might be a clever method to escape became instead a simple truth—the Ferrymen were far more organized than I had thought.

  The source of the Crossing’s black spot opted to join me upon my jaunt. Bloody Ferrymen.

  “There she is!” came a shout, so cracking close that it could only come from one direction. My gaze slid down beyond the ledge my feet balanced upon to find a glowering face looking up from a window below.

  A bit of smoke cleared the casing, to meld seamlessly with the fog.

  Since when did the Ferrymen use pistols? They were cosh men, or shankers, preferring the quiet of an accost over the attention brought by a pistol’s report.

  I leapt over the divide, crouched low and barely avoided another discharge as it winged past my head. The sensation, so close but for the grace of gravity, sent shivers down my spine.

  “Flank ‘er,” called the same voice, and a clatter warned me that they’d drawn ladders.

  For shame. Was no place sacred?

  Turning away from the farther rim where wooden rails had come to rest, I jimmied my way farther up another slope, leapt across the rail and walked awkwardly at a slant along its length. The building nestled close to the one I occupied towered much higher, and just beyond it loomed one of the massive lifters installed by a German baron and his son. If one could climb the girders, one might reach those districts where the wealthy strolled free of fog or misfortune.

  I’d only ever known one chap who’d attempted it, and it cost him more limbs than he could afford to spare.

  I was not inclined to mirror the feat. However, if I could reach the sturdy girders, I might climb down whilst they searched the rooftops for me.

  The roof thudded beneath my feet, and I glanced behind me to see two somewhat lankier Ferrymen on my trail. They wouldn’t risk the bulkier men, for the rooftops were dangerous enough when one was slight of weight and figure. Bulk worked against one up here.

  Another pistol shot discharged, this one in the hand of the lead footpad, and I half ducked; I had no cover. All I could do was hope that he was a poor shot.

  That he spent as much time wobbling as he did running and aiming proved my good fortune—what little I could claim.

  Abandoning my path, I turned sharply right and half slid down the roof. Something like a burn slid up my leg, and I knew I’d regret this later, but adrenaline fueled me where bliss might have soothed the pain. I welcomed the relief.

  “Don’t let ’er jump!” yelled a man.

  The one in the lead called, “‘Ere, now, missy, no call fer that!”

  As if I’d listen.

  The edge of the roof came quickly, but the divide between the two buildings was little more than the length of my arms across.

  Easy enough for myself to fit. Less so for them.

  I sucked in my belly, girded my courage as much as I could, and allowed gravity to handle the rest.

  I slipped between worn wood facings and mottled brick as though I were water.

  Unlike water, the landing jarred me from knees to waist to my thudding heart, and only the confines of the space kept me from pitching over in brutal agony.

  Had I more room, I might have landed better. Then again, more room would make this less of an escape and more a hemming.

  I fled through the crevasse afforded me.

  “Cherry!”

  Whatever gods, charms, logic or luck guided Maddie Ruth, I would bless them every day, for, to my surprise, it was her voice that called my name across the busy thoroughfare I all but fell into.

  I spun, but saw no Ferrymen in my wake—they would be forced to go long side around, and that meant navigating four buildings wide.

  “Over here!” came her voice again, and I stared hard, blinking furiously in the sparklers popping bloody red in my vision. A gesture to my left and higher than I’d expected caught my eye.

  Maddie Ruth hung like an awkward doll from the door of a carriage I did not recognize, waving furiously until the brown curls framing her face bounced. Fog split from the flailing force of her movements, creating a yellowed slipstream around her like a hazy corona.

  She looked little more than a manic monkey, such as those impish creatures found in Oriental markets, causing mischief wherever she went. Even the footman atop the carriage seat seemed to support this ridiculous tableau, clad in simple grays and cloaked for the weather. A bit of gear-turned music from a tin box might make this less surreal than it felt.

  And to think that I was sober.

  I had no time nor interest to question her as to the origins of the carriage. I ignored the curious stares of my fellow ped
estrians; ignored, too, the hue and cry bellowed behind us.

  Another shot went astray—or perhaps it did not, as a woman screamed and others joined her.

  Relieved—to say nothing of the anger I nurtured at the Ferrymen and the Veil—I all but flew into the open door Maddie Ruth left behind her, and slammed it shut with a kick.

  The interior was dim, a gentle whirring indicator of a proper fog-filtering device. Muck left by my filthy boot turned the pale blue fabric decorating the interior nearly black, and the beaming face of Maddie Ruth looked as out of sorts as the old one-shot pistol she held trained upon a third party.

  Long legs clad in fine black trousers stretched out into the space between the seats. I sank to the floor beside those polished shoes, my aching knees finally giving way.

  Eyes like foggy jade fixed upon me. “I confess,” drawled the newly minted Earl Compton, “that I begin to understand my brother’s disastrous fascination.”

  Chapter Eight

  For the whole of the short journey, not a one of us said anything at all. What was there to talk of? At a glance, it seemed as if Maddie Ruth had followed me to Limehouse. While I had wasted an hour’s time with Osoba and the Veil, she had seized an opportunity when she stumbled across the earl. And then she’d promptly seized his carriage.

  This act placed her solidly between grudging respect and utter bemusement in my esteem.

  The man within the borrowed carriage did not appear angry so much as red-rimmed about the eye and less sober than one might expect of a late morning. By deduction, I presumed that he had spent all of an evening in the gaming hells, or perhaps returned to the Menagerie after summarily rejecting my plea.

  He did not smell as though he’d spent time in the smoky dens I understood that he enjoyed; the fragrance of Chinese smoke tended towards a hint of floral buried beneath a certain richness of flavor that defies ready description. Had I smelled it, I would have no doubt at all.