The Viper and the Urchin: A Novel of Steampunk Adventure (Bloodless Assassin Mysteries Book 1)

by Celine Jeanjean

  “There now,” he said with a grin full of broken teeth, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  The two men turned back towards Jake, the third already making his exit. Rory felt a blinding flash of hot rage, and before she could consider what she was doing, she ran after them with her dagger at the ready. The man nearest to her didn’t even flinch. He turned just as she reached him, his backhand catching her jaw, sending her flying back. She rolled once heels over head on the sloping tiles, dropping her knife, and pitched over the side.

  “Rory!” Jake rushed over.

  Rory had caught a stray banyan root and she dangled, her legs swinging beneath her, but all she could think of was her dagger. Had it fallen over the side, too? She craned her head to try and catch sight of it. Jake grabbed her arms and hauled her back up.

  “Rory, you alright?” he asked in a shaky voice.

  The thugs had gone and so had her purse, but her dagger was there, resting on the tiles. She snatched it up, weak with relief, running her finger along it. Even though it was only a simple piece of steel, it was her first blade and she couldn’t bear to be parted from it.

  “Rory?” Jake touched her shoulder and she threw a punch, knuckles cracking against his already-bruised jaw. She sucked in air between her teeth, shaking her hand against the pain.

  “Stay away from me,” she spat.

  “Look I’ll find a way —”

  “I want nothing from you.”

  “I know I messed up, I know. But I’ll make —”

  “You’ll do nothing!” she yelled.

  Jake stopped, startled.

  “You’ll do nothing,” she whispered. “We’re done.”

  She sheathed her blade and slipped it through her belt. Without another word or look at Jake, she left.

  * * *

  Rory sped through the streets, the wind streaming in her face. She wiped her cheeks angrily. Tears were pointless if there was no one to take advantage of. As she ran, her hand kept returning to the hilt of her dagger, to make sure it was still tucked into her belt. Losing it on the roof earlier, even temporarily, had been an atrocious feeling.

  She made for Six, the thoroughfare that led straight to Tinsbury Dock.

  Six was busy as always, a steady flow of bodies, horses, and carts heading from the enclosed docks to the Great Bazaar. One of those new-fangled steam trolleys rolled past, ferrying traders and merchants. A boy banged the bell at its front to signal for people to get out of the way. Rory watched the trolley glide past, eyeing its passengers.

  This wasn’t a suicidal affair like the traversal trolleys that clattered by so fast it made your teeth rattle. No, the steam trolleys on Six and Twelve moved slowly, safely, with a kind of stuck-up, stately importance. She felt an overwhelming urge to jump aboard and hold them all to knife point for their money. They would have what she needed and then some. But she knew that Six and Twelve crawled with guards, and any sort of hit here would mean a guaranteed trip to the galleys.

  Rory continued down Six. The traffic was still oozing slow as mud, and even for one as tiny as her it was slow-going weaving through the throng. Cursing, she turned off into a side street. The lanes twisted and turned back on themselves so that there was no straight way anywhere, but here at least she was free to run. And right now she needed to feel like she was moving.

  She ran faster and faster, until her legs felt like they were pumping independently from her, and her lungs burned. She almost careened straight into a cart as she reached Tinsbury Dock.

  “Watch where you’re going!” shouted the driver.

  An enormous four-masted galleon was disgorging its cargo, its crew swarming around it, crawling through the rigging like an efficient colony of ants. Next to it, hard and gleaming in the afternoon sun, a steam galley made its final preparations. The steam galley that she should be getting ready to board. Its articulated steam-powered oars hovered just above the water, bent midway so that they looked like the legs of an enormous metal insect.

  She pushed her way through the crowd on the wharf, towards the Starry Inn. It was one of the nicer inns that fronted the docks: mouth-watering smells wafted from it, rather than the piss, rancid wine, and vomit that was the norm for dockside establishments.

  She ran through the main room and bounded up the stairs at the back.

  “Hey! Where d’you think you’re going?” shouted the innkeep.

  “To see Master Xian,” she yelled back over her shoulder as she took the steps two at a time.

  She ran to his room. The door was open and he was slowly, methodically folding up a tunic.

  “No need to rush,” he said with his smooth, level voice. “We have plenty of time.”

  “I ain’t… I ain’t got the money,” she panted.

  “Ah. Then we have a problem.”

  “It weren’t my fault, my partner screwed me over and —”

  “That great lumbering idiot you were dragging around last time?”

  “Yes — Jake.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Look, I know we had an arrangement and all that. But I can earn my way, right, I can work for free for however long you need. I’ll do anything. Anything. If you take me with you.”

  Master Xian looked at her with a frown.

  “Rory, do I look like a nurse? Or like one of the good sisters of the Exalted Consciousness? Hmm?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. I’ve not been put on this earth to look after little girls. I don’t do charity. You want to come with me, fine. But you can’t get on a steam galley without paying and they’re expensive. You can’t hit the road without supplies and for supplies you need money. So, if you don’t have money, you can’t leave Damsport. It’s very straightforward. Not only that but you gave me that speech about wanting to be a warrior, about wanting to see the world. I was impressed by your ambition, and now look at what you’ve shown me. I gave you a simple task two years ago, when I was last at Damsport. I told you to beg, borrow, or steal the money to pay for your way. That’s it. That was all you had to do in exchange for my expertise and training. If you can’t even do that, then what exactly makes you think you’re ready for a life on the road, hmm? Better you find yourself a sword preceptor here in Damsport.”

  “I tried, no one else will take me on account of me being an urchin and all.”

  “Stop your whining. What are you, a child? If they won’t take you of their own will then make them! Gods, Rory, I have no time for this snivelling. I set you a challenge and you bring me excuses. You want to be a fighter, then fight! Don’t come to me crying about your problems. Now get out, I have to finish packing and then I have a galley to catch. You can look out for me when I’m next back, which should be in two or three years. Price will stay the same, but if you’re still crying over people not taking you seriously, then don’t bother.”

  He turned his back on her and went back to meticulously packing his bag.

  Rory stared at his back for a while, then without a word, she turned and walked away.

  Interlude - Ten Years Ago

  Rory sat on the edge of a flat roof, her legs dangling over the edge, cradling a bunch of unripe cherries in her hands. They were crunchy and sharp enough to make the lower corners of her mouth tingle. Up ahead, across one row of houses she could see Tinsbury Dock, and she watched as a boat that looked like a mountain of wood ploughed slowly through the water, guided by steamers at either end.

  Further down the dock, she saw a small patrol of Varanguards — the Marchioness’ bodyguards — escorting a fat man. She leaned forward in her eagerness to observe them. She had seen them plenty of times guarding the Old Girl’s mansion, but it was something else to see them in action. They moved like dancers, their burnished helmets winking in the sun. Long black horsehair ponytails sprouted from each helmet, skimming the backs of their thighs and swishing with each step. The knives concealed within the horsehair glinted here and there as they caught the sunlight.

 
; The creation of the Varanguards was her favourite story of the Three Day Battle. They were named after Varan, a dancer who was famed for her long black ponytail and what she could do with it. On the final day of the Three Day Battle, she had tied knives to strands of her long hair, and thrown herself amongst the Airnian soldiers, killing with great flicks of her ponytail and dancing in the sprays of blood. The Marchioness had created the Varanguards after the victory, calling Varan a symbol of the Damsian spirit.

  The Varanguards delivered their escort to a ship and, to Rory’s disappointment, turned as one and left the dock. Rory spat out her cherry stone, hitting the roof across the lane. She grinned and picked another cherry, the talismans given to her by the temples tinkling softly. Her right forearm still bore the scar the Two Billies had given her for fighting back when they had taken her money. It was back to stealing and begging at the temples for her until her hand was nimble enough to pick pockets again. She wiggled her fingers, feeling the stiffness in her forearm.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be too long before she was back to normal.

  The cherries finished, she climbed down from the wall into the shaded lane below. As she headed towards the mouth of the lane, she heard footsteps, and quickly dove behind a rotting crate. She peeked through the slats and saw a man in black fighting leathers turning into the lane. He wore a wide-brimmed leather hat with a blood-red feather that kept most of his face hidden. A rapier gleamed at his left hip and a long dagger at his right. He had barely entered the lane when two shadows fell into step behind him. Rory held her breath. She didn’t need to see their faces to recognise them.

  The Two Billies moved with surprising stealth, considering how oafish they were. One of them pulled out the iron blade that had torn Rory’s forearm and she winced at the sight. The other produced a thin, unusual-looking dagger that was just a single piece of steel.

  Three more lads joined the Two Billies, each pulling out their own weapon. The five of them crept up to the man as Rory looked on.

  “Careful!”

  Rory clamped both hands over her mouth, shocked that she had been stupid enough to call attention to herself. One of the Two Billies, the one with the iron blade, turned back and caught sight of her behind her crate. Before she could get far, he pounced on her, and lifted her off the ground with a malevolent smile.

  “Well, well, what have we got here?” said a raspy voice over his shoulder.

  Rory’s eyebrows shot up to her rope hair and Billy turned around in surprise. The voice belonging to the man in black was raspy but it was unmistakably a woman’s. She had drawn her rapier and dagger and faced her four attackers, her face still hidden by her hat so that only her chin was visible.

  “Five of us lads and one of you,” said the other Billy. “And you’re a woman. That’s what we got here.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m so glad you lads are here to inform me of my gender.”

  “Give us your purse and we’ll let you live. We don’t mind killing women.”

  “What a coincidence, I don’t mind killing boys.”

  There was a brief pause, like a heartbeat, and all four lads threw themselves forward in perfect unison. Rory thrashed and squirmed for all she was worth, hoping that the lad holding her would be distracted enough to fumble his grip, but he merely laughed and hit her across the face with his spare hand.

  “You think you can rat on us,” he whispered. “I’m gonna —”

  There was the grating of metal on metal, and then the wet tearing of blade meeting flesh followed by a gurgled scream. A moment later, The woman was surrounded by four bodies oozing blood so dark it was almost black.

  Billy dropped Rory.

  “Now, you stay back,” he warned the woman as she advanced on him. His voice quivered, betraying his fear.

  A brief flurry of movement, and he collapsed to the floor, his blood mingling with the rest.

  “Thanks, kid.” The woman touched the brim of her hat and walked away without a second glance.

  Rory stood dumbstruck for a moment, still processing what had happened. It wasn’t until the woman had disappeared out the other end of the lane that she galvanised herself into action. She scampered over to grab the steel dagger she had noticed in one of the Billy’s hands. The handle was shaped like a peacock’s head and it was small enough to suit her nicely. She slipped it in the string that she used as a belt as she hurried after the woman. The string fell apart, cut neatly in two.

  “Crap.”

  She kept the dagger in one hand, breaking into a run, and holding her trousers up with her other hand. She didn’t bother searching any of the bodies for money. Bad enough that she was carrying a dagger; if she attracted more attention to herself with the tinkling of coins as she ran, she was guaranteed a shakedown.

  Rory caught up with the woman quickly. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry, as though she hadn’t just killed five strong lads. Rory marvelled at the ease and confidence with which she walked, at the power in each of her movements, like a great jungle cat poised to strike. She followed, careful to stay far enough behind that she couldn’t be mistaken for a threat. Not that a girl as scrawny as she, no more than six to eight years old, could be seen as a threat by a woman like that.

  Eventually the woman found her way to Bayog, an area that Rory stayed cleared of. She knew enough stories of what could happen to girls who got caught up in the tangle of Bayog at night, even girls as young as her. A swollen belly was the least of it.

  The streets were quiet now, grey and washed out in the daylight, the air thick with stale alcohol, tobacco, and other foreign smells Rory didn’t recognise. The silence was occasionally broken when the woman ahead nudged an empty bottle with a boot.

  Nightingales peered out from darkened doorways, their faces pale, their makeup greasy and smeared, their eyes suspicious. Rory made herself as little and pathetic-looking as possible. Nightingales could be incredibly vicious if they felt their territory was being encroached on. The woman didn’t seem to notice or care about the looks she was eliciting. Then again, if Rory could despatch five armed lads as easily as the woman had, she wouldn’t be afraid of Nightingales either.

  Eventually they reached the Slaughtered Kraken, a dingy drinking house. The woman pushed the door and disappeared inside. The door swung slowly back on stiff hinges, allowing a tentacle of smoke to unfurl towards Rory as though trying to lure her in. She gulped, gripping the handle of her newfound dagger tighter for reassurance and, after a brief hesitation, she pushed the door back. She wasn’t sure why she was following the woman, but the impulse was so strong that she couldn’t ignore it.

  Inside, the smoke was so heavy it made her eyes water. Old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered from sconces, their smoke leaving a thick, tar-like substance on the walls. Tables were strewn about the room, some upright, some on their sides, as though they had been scattered by a giant hand. A few dark forms stared into steins as they hunched over the upright tables, elbows leaning on the rotting wood. At the back of the room, Rory could just make out the shadowy contours of a bar counter. Nobody paid her any attention.

  The woman had reached a man sat at a table to the far right. He was dark and skinny, with a hooked nose. They nodded to each other silently and the woman sat down, carelessly throwing her hat on the table. Rory saw her face clearly for the first time. An old scar fanned from her temple and over her left eye, partially hooding it, extending all the way down to her jaw.

  Rory sidled over, hugging the wall, still clinging to her dagger. When she reached the corner she stopped, realising that she had no idea what to do now.

  “So rumour has it you’re leaving?” said the man.

  The Scarred Woman nodded, gesturing imperiously for a drink. Rory wondered how the barkeep could see through the smoke, but sure enough a little man with yellow skin and yellower teeth appeared at the woman’s elbow with a stein. He peered at Rory briefly, licked his obscenely red lips, and returned to his counter. Rory shuddered.

  �
��You coming, Raynard?” The Scarred Woman took a sip of her stein.

  The man shook his head. “Nah, not for me.”

  “Coward.”

  “Maybe.”

  They drank in silence. Rory felt a lightning bolt of certainty: she wanted to go with the Scarred Woman. This was what she wanted to be when she grew up. Powerful, in control. A warrior. A real hero. She gathered her courage and prepared herself to step forward, when the door slammed open.

  An enormous man stooped through the doorway, bristling with steel and leather. His face, neck, and hands were patterned with scars. He stared balefully at the thin crowd.

  “You.” He pointed at the Scarred Woman. “You killed my brother.”

  “Not now, Traeon,” said the Scarred Woman with an irritated sigh. “Unless you want to join him, I suggest you leave.”

  Traeon pulled out a mean-looking broadsword. “Oh you’ll be the one leaving alright, but not by the door.”

  “You really want to do this now? Fine, it’s your funeral.”

  The Scarred Woman stood up and pulled out her matched rapier and dagger.

  Rory pressed herself into the wall, wishing she could disappear into it. Being in the drinking house suddenly seemed incredibly stupid — and incredibly dangerous.

  The barkeep made some strangled plea for them to fight outside, but he was interrupted when, with a grunt, Traeon swung his massive sword and brought it crashing down on the Scarred Woman. She dodged nimbly, rolling forward and springing up to the man’s right. His sword buried itself into a mouldy table. He wrenched it out and swung for her again. She deflected the blow with her dagger and retaliated with a jab of her rapier that cut a gash in his forearm.

  The few patrons cleared the room or retreated behind the bar counter to watch. A few went as far as moving tables out of the way. Woman and giant circled each other, thrusting and parrying, the Scarred Woman jumping this way and that, the man’s hands and arms soon covered with a myriad of small cuts, as though he was being attacked by an insect with razor-sharp claws. Traeon was visibly losing his patience, his thrusts growing in intensity but lacking the deadly precision of the Scarred Woman.