Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles

by Karina Cooper

  “All right, all right,” he rasped when I tucked his wrist just a bit higher. “I’m sorry, all right?”

  I knew the fellow, though his name escaped me. One of Ishmael’s blokes, who had been present at another brawl between Bakers and Ferrymen. He’d helped distract them while I led Maddie Ruth to safety—the start of my many struggles regarding that girl.

  I let him go. “Don’t ever sneak up on me,” I said sternly.

  He rotated his wrist and arm, a wry smile further twisting the scar at his lip. “Didn’t think t’see you again.” It was not so much an apology for the lark—and lark it most certainly was to seize a collector from behind—but I accepted it as my victory. He thought to startle me; I’d startled him instead.

  Grimacing, I looked out over the lot. The beating had not abated. One of the intruders now lay prone, flat on his face, and blood looked like pitch in the dreary fog. “Ferrymen, am I right?”

  “Aye.” The scarred Baker came to stand beside me, his lantern once more firm in his relatively uninjured hand. “Where you been, missy?”

  “Elsewhere,” I replied, all the answer I intended to give. “Will your blokes beat them to death?”

  He scratched idly at his nose, smeared with a bit of dirt. “Let’s see, then. That’s Davvy and Jam in the front, there. Both lost a mate to the Ferrymen a fortnight ago. Then Locket, there, he got his jaw busted by a knot of ’em ’round Christmas.”

  I cupped my hands, breathing into them to bring a little warmth back into my chilled palms. “So,” I said slowly, “the answer is yes.”

  “Prob’ly.”

  I didn’t like it, but I had no call to put a foot in it now. This was Baker business, not mine, and if the men out there were as bent on revenge as it seemed, I’d only get hurt in the process.

  With a twinge of conscience, I turned my back on the fracas. “Where’s Communion?”

  The man looked down at me, his permanent smirk slanting higher. “Who wants to know?”

  “Collector business,” I said by rote, and added sharply, “No games, mate, I’ve a message for him.”

  “I’ll carry it.”

  “No,” I said, returning my hands once more to my pockets. “You won’t.”

  He whistled, a little sailing shanty that made me wonder if he’d once manned a ship. His overalls and woolen coat were no more distinguishable from the rest, and a thick knit undershirt hid any sailor tattoos he might have shown.

  The Bakers came from all sorts. Or pretended to, depending on the coin.

  “Well,” he finally said, “Communion ain’t here.”

  “Yes, I see that.”

  “Come on, then.” He swung the lantern to his other hand, and patted his leg as though I were a dog to bring to heel. “I’ll show you why he ain’t here.” He strode off without waiting for a word, probably content with the casual insult delivered.

  I sighed, hunching my shoulders as a man’s harsh scream ended abruptly. The sour sound of metal grating against gravel thunked in echoed refrain.

  With little other recourse, and no desire to see the remains of men caught on the wrong side of a border, I followed the scarred Baker deeper into Blackwall.

  The Fish-Eyed Lady wasn’t one of them fancy pubs, and rare was the man or woman who visited without Baker business to tend to. Run by a father of one of the members who saw easy coin and comfort in being the Bakers’ primary pub, it served as a point of operations.

  I’d spent many an hour here myself, and recognized the way to it.

  My companion wasn’t the sort to fill the time with blather, and so it was we came to the Fish-Eyed Lady in silence. Two men stood outside the door, and they gave the bloke beside me a nod.

  There was something decidedly grim about both, whether in rigid stance or severity of feature. They behaved as men waiting for a rude awakening at any moment, shifty as the wary were and tense for it.

  I earned a passing glance, a bit of surprise from one I didn’t recognize, and a queried, “What’s the cross patch for?”

  “Never you mind,” replied the Baker I followed. He waved one away from the door. “In you go, birdy. See for yourself.”

  I had forgotten what it was to be challenged at every turn.

  Squaring my shoulders, I ignored the men watching me closely and pushed my way into the worn pub.

  The smell of death is one that I found difficult to get accustomed to. It tended to overwhelm one’s senses, to carve for itself a terrible niche within the olfactory core of the brain.

  This fragrance, a malodorous combination of soiling and rot, washed over me the very moment I crossed the threshold.

  I nearly gagged but for the certainty that I was watched. I bit down upon my tongue and forced myself to still; to stand motionless and inhale, again and again until the contents of my belly settled and the internal voice screaming at me quieted.

  I did not want to see what lay beyond the corner wall that shrouded my view.

  The door opened again, disgorged the scarred Baker, and I seized my courage in both hands before he could say anything at all.

  I strode around that corner. This time, I could not bite back a startled sound of disgust as one boot came down on a fleshy surface.

  The hand in the back of my borrowed coat was all that saved me from a tumble into gruesome remains.

  The urge to gag welled up once more. “My God,” I croaked.

  The Baker, apparently already familiar with the sight, smiled grimly as he came to stand beside me. “Recognize anyone?”

  How could I?

  The pub had never been one for decoration, relying on sturdy tables and chairs and the occasional trophy collected by its clientele. Whoever or whatever had done this seemed to take offense with such limited décor.

  Oh, dear God in heaven, was that the point of this display?

  Was Ishmael among the dead?

  My breath, what little I could attain, clogged in my chest as my head spun in lightheaded dread. Everything in my sight turned to shades of vicious red and rotted brown, and I began to shake.

  A heavy hand came down upon my shoulder. “Have a good look, then,” said the scarred man, all but forcing me to remain upright—though pride paled in the face of such butchery.

  Blood painted the walls in ghastly spray, limbs were left to lie where they had been wrenched free. My gaze strayed over the carnage, straining to make sense of the jumbled remains, but there was no pattern to it.

  The twisted arm congealing upon the bar’s surface did not match the body shredded and abandoned beside it. Intestines erupted from a torso seemed to have nothing in common with the bloody remains they spilled over.

  Bits of cloth here and there, canvas and wool and more, had become nothing more than oozing red fibers, skin turned into a bloody mess, features twisted and mangled into a crimson stain.

  Blood, rot, carnage.

  I shuddered, fists closing under my chin, and took a breath that filled my lungs with putrescence and nearly took the last of my strength with it.

  “Bakers, all of ‘em,” the scarred man added, as though I had not already assumed it.

  Bakers. Men I had known, no doubt. Torn apart like things; left behind like broken toys. Was Ishmael one?

  Why couldn’t I see?

  Why couldn’t I pick out his body?

  Tears choked me, blinded me. I turned away because I had no choice.

  The Ferrymen. What did they possess that allowed them such monstrosity of ability? Why Communion?

  The questions flitted about me, but I could not seize upon any. Loss gripped me, overwhelmed me.

  How many more was I to lose?

  The Veil has marked every person...

  The sound I made through my closing throat was guttural. Suddenly, I found myself before the door, struggling to master the too-complicated latch as my vision narrowed in on a long black tunnel. Out. I needed out, I needed air.

  I needed to know.

  Who else had died for me? Who ha
d died like this?

  “Sodding—” I sobbed the curse at the resistant latch.

  The door opened without my doing, spilling me into the cold air. I collided with a wall of muscle and bone, sucked in ragged air and barely noticed when large hands closed over my shoulders. “Breathe, girl.”

  The dark, thunderous quality of that voice did for me what the rotten fish smell of Blackwall air did not.

  I shook my head hard enough to rattle my own senses about my skull, my stare wide as my vision cleared upon a face no sober soul would ever call handsome. Eyes near black in color set in whites turned yellow, as if the acrid fog he lived in had stained them forever. Fleshy lips beneath a pugnacious nose and teeth that gleamed against midnight skin as he bared them at the Baker who followed me out seemed to me the most beloved of faces. “Get back to your post,” he ordered.

  The scarred man made good his escape.

  I allowed my knees to fold, dropping me to the stairs leading up to the Fish-Eyed Lady and the carnage within. “Ish,” I breathed. I covered my face. “Ish, my God, you’re here. You’re all right.”

  He squatted down, all of his bulk a slow avalanche, and still he towered over me. A large hand came to rest atop my head. “I heard you were looking for me,” he said slowly, a rich dialect that was not gentlemanly but nevertheless precise.

  He did not ask where I’d been, or how I was. He simply accepted my presence as he always had—and called me girl for it.

  I almost burst into tears, but for the Bakers still watching my every move. The two guarding the door had not left. I lowered my hands and noted the five more that had come with Ishmael.

  I managed a watery smile, at least. “I am so glad to see you.”

  His eyes flicked to the door I’d come from, then back to me. He had always been a serious man, but the severity that weighed upon him seemed newly acquired. He let go of my head. “We changed quarters a few months back. The Lady hasn’t been full for a while.”

  Relief caused a flutter in my chest. I flattened a hand against it lest my feelings come spilling out—and with them, my desperate need to embrace him and the loss of any hope of dignity for the both of us. “What happened?”

  “War,” he said, a single word that rumbled.

  I winced. “That? In there? That’s not war, Communion.” I called him such when in the company of his Bakers—or at least when I remembered to. Enough seemed different that I was not sure anyone would care if he befriended a twist like me.

  Still, he answered to it as I answered to girl. He was usually a man who remained unruffled.

  Yet I watched the lines of his face harden and thought him deeply ruffled. “It is,” he replied, rising to his feet once more and looming over me by sheer nature of his size. He did not offer me a hand, not in front of the others. For me, I thought, as he’d always been cognizant of what it was to be a woman in a man’s collecting game. “This is Ferrymen work.”

  I stood with effort. “I suspected the assault their doing, but how could they do this?”

  He gestured at his men, and they did not so much depart as meld into the gritty fog. Much less like the rowdy Bakers I’d come to know, and more like ghosts in the night.

  Or like them what had learned the cost of failing.

  I frowned at Ishmael’s back as he turned from me and began to stride along the street. “Come with me.”

  My stride was much smaller, and Ish by habit hitched his so that I did not have to force myself to keep up. “Where are we going?”

  “Baker business.”

  I winced. “And you want me along?”

  He nodded, but did not look at me. “Isn’t the first time this happened, and it’s not to be the last.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the collections?”

  “Don’t think so.” He sounded unsurprised by the word. “This is war. Collections are a different matter.”

  I tucked my hands into my pockets, and clenched one around the rumpled notes. “Ish, have any collectors come to bother you?” He grunted, which I took as affirmation. I did not ask what happened to those collectors. No need. “What of Zylphia?”

  This time, he shot me a glower from beneath thick, ridged eyebrows. “What of her?”

  “Is she safe?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Why?” he demanded, halting in the midst of the road to stare at me—the look upon his face might have been suspicion. Or simple upset.

  I halted, too, and faced him direct. Close enough that he could encircle my throat with one hand, if he so chose. I’d do nothing to stop it. I trusted him that much, with the whole of my heart. “Ish, we’re friends,” I said softly. “Zylphia and I too.” Well, once. Perhaps. I’d done unkind things to her in the worst of my opium cravings, and I wasn’t certain she’d feel the same.

  I owed her an apology, at least.

  “I want to know that you’re both safe,” I added. “I took the notices off the wall, I’m not interested in collecting either of you.”

  His nose flared wide. “Heard it’s a good pot.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “Sweet enough for most. Not nearly enough for me.”

  “Hmph.” The sound almost seemed affectionate. The hand I told myself I wouldn’t evade lifted, but again, it settled atop my head, held firm and forced my gaze up enough that I could meet his eyes from under his arm. “You won’t listen if I tell you to stay out of the Veil’s way, so listen to this.”

  I nodded—or tried to.

  “The sweet is safer than you are, girl.” Ish squeezed my head, the whole of my skull caught in his fingers, but it was a gentle gesture. “I can handle collectors. Leave us be.”

  The words stung, but Ishmael had never been one for masking his intentions. He didn’t mean that I should leave them, or consider abandoning them, but that I could leave Zylphia and his own safety to him.

  That of all the things I had to worry about, I could mark them off.

  It was sweet, in a way. He understood me.

  I couldn’t commit to such a thing, of course, so I tugged his hand away from my head with both of mine wrapped about his wrist. “You know I’ll always do what I can for you.”

  “I know it, girl.” He disengaged from my grasp with awkward care, overly aware of his size to mine, and added with grim ruthlessness, “This is what comes of going against the Veil.” I opened my mouth to ask what he knew when he held up one hand—the skin of his palm calloused and remarkably pink, even in the darkness. “Quiet.”

  He was sterner, that much was certain. A little harsher with me too, though I saw no reason to take it personally. If I had lost what it looked as if he’d lost, I might be even harsher than he was.

  I lapsed into silence as directed.

  What I owed Ish was immeasurable, and well he knew it, but as I followed his silent guiding, I wondered what I could possibly do to help him against whatever it was that could tear a man limb from limb and walk away.

  As I huddled against the biting chill of London low’s March fog, I remembered with resignation how simple everything had seemed before I’d committed to sobriety.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The alley was one of thousands carved in London’s by-ways and boroughs—nothing remarkable about it. Thick, viscous fog roiled from its mouth as though one degree from sewage, and it was through this that we passed.

  The Bakers didn’t use lamps as a rule, for the drift reflected light badly. The only light came by way of ambient streetlamps guttering far enough away that all looked painted in shades of rotting yellow and moldering gray.

  It was enough.

  A half-dozen Bakers waited in various positions of rest, recuperation, and in the case of a dark-skinned boy perhaps fifteen, lingering shock. He sat with his head between his upraised knees, arms clenched about his bony legs as an older man with grizzled features sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared into the black.

  Communion’s arrival caused
enough of a ripple to raise one Baker to his feet.

  Said feet dragged, obviously weary.

  “Not a soul, Communion,” came the greeting, delivered in a rasp. Another cove I did not recognize, though signs of a sailor’s bearing were more obvious. Either one come off Her Majesty’s ships or pretending to. “The wounded’s off to the nimgimmer, but couldn’t do much fer Botter.”

  “Good man, Connie.” Communion jerked a broad, flat thumb behind him. “Take the boys and swap patrols with fresher eyes.”

  Connie gave me a quick once-over, but fatigue obviously dimmed what little interest he might have had. Nodding to the larger man, he whistled a sharp note and beckoned.

  The Bakers shambled off the way we’d come, and the youngest leaned against his grizzled mate. A bit of rum ought to wake him, but I knew of only one trick to soften the nightmares to come.

  Once the last of their footfalls died away, I looked up into Ishmael’s grim features. “What has happened? I’ve been gone a few months and it’s as if London turned over.”

  “It may have,” he rumbled. His sigh was a thunderous report. “I’m calling in favors owed, girl.”

  I nodded. It would do me no credit to argue, and I’d known the risk of it when I’d decided to visit Baker ground so early in my plans. “What do you need?” When his thick lips parted, paused, and then tightened, my unease grew.

  After a moment of careful thought, he said, “I don’t know. None of this suits what the street taught.”

  Because I knew him, as well as I had known the streets he spoke of, I finished, “You want me to see if there’s anything odd?” I couldn’t blame the hypothesis. Ishmael had been there when my father’s alchemical serum had almost killed me. He knew I’d at least played witness to the peculiar. Simple extrapolation might suggest I knew a fair sight more than most.

  His chuckle, strained and dark, surprised me. “It’s odd, no mistaking. See for yourself.” He gestured with a heavy hand, and the fog shifted around it. As though it beckoned.