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

by Celine Jeanjean

  Keeping a vicelike grip on the rung, she sought the little ledge at the bottom of the coach with her feet, digging her heels into it. Before she could try to turn, Crazy Willy’s monkey appeared at her shoulder. It wore a red jacket with a little fez that was secured by a piece of string under his chin. It extended a small, hairy hand, holding onto the coach with its feet and tail. Rory knew better than to try and bat it away — that battle could only end with her rolling on the road and breaking several limbs, if she was lucky. She extended her neck, showing the monkey the piece of coin between her teeth. It snatched it from her.

  “Eight!” she shouted over the noise. She had no idea how Crazy Willy had taught the monkey numbers, but damn if that creature didn’t know every number from one to twelve. Never thirteen, though. Crazy Willy didn’t stop for the dead. The monkey ran back to the driver, leaving her dangling on the side of the coach. Now that she had paid, it didn’t matter whether she could hold on until her destination.

  She swung herself around with her right hand and grabbed a rung with her left, moving her feet so that the tips of her boots were on the ledge, rather than her heels. She climbed up slowly until she reached the flat roof. Two other people were there already, and neither gave her so much as a glance. She sat down with her knees against her chest, and grabbed a rung on either side of her. The speed made her eyes water some more and she closed them, letting the wind stream through her hair.

  The Scarred Woman wouldn’t have missed that rung.

  When they reached Eight, Crazy Willy pulled the coach to such an abrupt stop that if she hadn’t been holding on, Rory would have flown straight over his head.

  “Eight!” he shouted.

  Rory scrambled down as quickly as she could. She had barely touched the ground when the coach sped forward once more, swallowed by the night in a shower of sparks.

  Chapter 9

  Now that he was as clean as he could get without visiting the baths, Longinus was beginning to feel like himself again. He had burned that night’s silks and was now wearing a burgundy brocade waistcoat inwrought with thread of gold, over matching trousers and with a fine silk smoking jacket. He didn’t smoke, but no assassin should be caught dead at home without a smoking jacket.

  He leaned back in his chair, allowing his eyes to drift across the bottles of poison that lined his shelves. The soft glow from the vapour lamp glanced off the curve of the bottles, and they almost looked like a hundred benevolent eyes, watching over him. The thought comforted him, gave him strength. He was going to need it to deal with that devil child. Blackmailing him like that. No shame, no shame at all. He clenched his fists at the thought. His anger was a comfort too, and infinitely preferable to the paralysing and all-too-familiar shame.

  He went over a number of plans, however no matter which way he turned, he was confronted with two problems. The first was that she knew who he was, and she knew his secret. The second was that he had sworn not to kill her, at least while she was his apprentice, so in good faith that meant he could do nothing for a few months.

  He got up and paced the room, stopping only to pour himself two fingers of port in a crystal tumbler. It was infernal to find himself in this position, but there was nothing for it: he was going to have to keep the girl close. He took a deep draught. He must be crafty, calculating.

  Crafty as a viper. Maybe a nice image in that? The Viper… Something something like a snake… He wrote it down, then crossed it out. Too obvious.

  He returned to the problem at hand. He would have to keep the girl happy. Make her feel as though they had some sort of teacher-pupil bond. And then when the time came and her apprenticeship finished… He would have to find the friend, too.

  Longinus didn’t like the idea of killing a young girl — there were rules after all, but some things (such as his reputation) were more important than morals. Until then she would be a chore, one he would have to contend with as well as he could. Probably starting with a bath, because he didn’t know how long he’d be able to put up with the stench of her.

  Another idea came to him then. The Viper, as a generous benefactor. A picture painted itself in his mind. The girl looking up at him admiringly, as he (wearing the most divine emerald silk shirt with a lace cravat, like a froth of foam at his throat) taught her the mysteries of poisoning. None of his secret formulae, of course, but the basics. The girl, trying (and failing) to replicate the complicated manipulations. He again, demonstrating the importance of long, slender fingers when handling rare and dangerous compounds.

  He spread his hands to admire them. Artist’s hands, with long, elegant fingers. He should maybe wear a ring when he was teaching. Maybe the sapphire to contrast with the shirt? No, too many different colours. Change the shirt, then? Maybe even order a new one? Yes, a new shirt, some trousers too, and a waistcoat to match. He would do that in the morning, before the girl arrived.

  Chapter 10

  Rory made her way down Eight, skirting Spirepass, the area wedged between Seven and Eight. Further on, towards the sea edge, was Machinist Crescent. It hugged the shore from the enclosed docks up to the end of Nine.

  Spirepass was an area of domes and spires, of gold leaf and mosaic, and Rory could see its many curves in the distance, gleaming in the moonlight.

  Along Eight, porticoes kept the now-shuttered jewellery shops in the shadows. The thoroughfare was deserted, save for the street sweeps. They swayed their long-handled brooms side to side in a semicircle, keeping to a slow rhythm, pushing the day’s rubbish to the street’s edge. Later they’d sift through it and keep anything that could be sold or made into something else, leaving the rest for the rubbish collectors.

  The sweeps had rods down the backs of their shirts from which dangled a blue vapour lamp, just above their heads. The light was pale and sickly and it cast long shadows over their wrinkled faces. In the distance they looked almost like ghosts, the rhythm of their broom bristles and the tinkle of their lamp chains taking on an otherworldly quality in the silent night. They reminded Rory of the game she and Jake had played as children, hopping over the broom handles to see who would miss first. Rory had always won. Her melancholy deepened as she replayed the awful surprise when Jake had struck her.

  Rory turned off Eight, plunging into Spirepass proper. She wound her way through a procession of smaller streets and courtyards, until she came out into the wide plaza that hosted the Spirepass baths, a great domelike structure cornered with four tall spires. She trotted past the baths, knowing full well what kind of transactions took place within their walls at this time of night. As she reached the end of the plaza, she went to turn into a lane and crashed into something.

  A hand stopped her from falling back.

  “You alright, girl? I didn’t see you there.”

  The man she had crashed into was middle-aged and balding, and an odd smell emanated from him. He shook a vapour lamp to light and caught sight of her face.

  “What happened to you?”

  Rory shrugged and stepped back into the shadows. “Not your business.”

  “Here.” He searched his pockets and produced a small glass jar. “I always keep some of this handy — I bruise easily. Here.” He thrust it at her. “It will help with the pain.”

  Rory hesitated, and the man pushed the jar into her hand. She took it and retreated, still feeling too raw after her encounter with Jake to face the stranger properly.

  “Put it on your eye,” said the man.

  She nodded, and the man regarded her for a moment. There was sadness to him, to the slump of his shoulders.

  “Alright then,” he said, and he continued the way he had been walking, towards the baths. Rory heard him mutter, “Not entirely useless” to himself. He entered the baths and disappeared from sight.

  Rory remained where she was, wishing she had at least thanked him. She opened the jar and sniffed its content. It had a medical smell, eucalyptus maybe, or camphor. She smeared a little of the paste on her eye. At first it burned, making h
er draw in a startled breath, but then the sensation cooled and it soothed the hot throbbing under her skin to a tingle.

  She squirrelled the jar away and headed off, committing the man’s face to memory. If she saw him again, she would be sure to do something to pay him back for the jar.

  Soon enough she reached Machinist Crescent, a maze of warehouses and stark, functional buildings without any kind of street system to give it order. The buildings had been erected as and where required, leaving only gaps to allow people and machines to pass through. Warehouses loomed on either side of Rory as she walked, the moonlight not quite able to penetrate the narrow gaps between the buildings, so that it was like navigating through the depths of a canyon.

  The warehouse she was after was right in the centre of Machinist Crescent. It was older than the rest, rusty in parts, the red bricks of its walls chipped and dull. As she got close, the smell of smoke and tar and hot metal filled her nostrils.

  Just as she reached the door, she heard voices within, and a metallic clunk indicated that the door was being unlocked. Rory melted back into the shadows. Two women and a man, all tall and sinewy and wearing fighting leathers, stepped out. They wore the burnished helmets of the Varanguards, with their distinctive long black ponytails. Rory could see glimmers of silver from the hidden knives. She was so busy admiring the Varanguards that she didn’t immediately notice the smaller, older woman who followed them out.

  Rory’s stomach tied itself into knots of excitement when she recognised the Marchioness of Damsport. She had never seen the Old Girl so close before. Her brown skin was heavily lined, her hair was grey and pulled back in intricate braids, and she wore simple leathers. There was an air of power and iron-like strength to her, and yet she was completely dwarfed when Cruikshank appeared in the doorway. Although short, Cruikshank’s musculature was impressive, silhouetted as it was by the orange light of the furnace within.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Eleanore,” said the Old Girl. “I know I seem paranoid, but I can’t be too careful around the anniversary of the Three Day Battle.”

  “No need to explain, Elspeth,” replied Cruikshank, and Rory gaped at the familiar use of the Old Girl’s first name. “I’m always there to help.”

  The two women shook hands, and Rory half expected to hear the cracking of bones.

  At a nod from the Old Girl, her bodyguards formed an escort around her, and the party walked away. Rory slunk back to a crouch as they passed, not wanting to risk the Varanguards mistaking her for a threat. She knew they would be particularly jumpy this time of year: it was widely whispered that the Airnian Emperor had never forgiven the Marchioness for the humiliation of the Three Day Battle, and that he plotted her death so he could take Damsport back.

  He had let Damsport go willingly enough when it was little more than a rotting pustule clinging to his empire like an unwanted barnacle. Without the Empire’s support the city would wither and die, he predicted. The Marchioness, at twenty-five, was too young to know what she was doing, he told her when she asked for Damsport's independence.

  She had pushed on nonetheless, and he had granted her request.

  The Marchioness had then negotiated defence alliances with neighbouring kingdoms, to the amusement of the world, who laughed at the young girl trying to play at politics. One older, kindly king took her aside to explain that nobody in their right mind would ever care enough about Damsport to want it as part of their territory, let alone engage funds, resources, and soldiers to take it by force. Rumour had it that she had smiled and batted her eyelashes, and asked him to indulge a young girl’s fancy. The old king had agreed.

  Rory liked to think that everyone had laughed at the Old Girl back then just like the sword preceptors laughed at her own ambitions now. Well, the Old Girl had shown them.

  Damsport's independence and alliance treaties in place, the Old Girl had poured what remained of her family’s fortune into creating the first enclosed dock — Tinsbury Dock. Only a narrow stretch of Damsport's coast south of the city could be approached by sea — the rest was all cliffs and jagged rocks. Before the enclosed docks, there had been space enough for a couple of small fishing boats to berth, at most. Although a peninsula, Damsport had never been a real port.

  The enclosed docks finished, the Old Girl abolished all trade taxes, and this permanently. It didn’t take long for merchants to come take advantage of the tax break, bringing money and produce to trade with them. Within a few years, Damsport rose from the cesspit of its previous self like a phoenix from its ashes, transforming into a thriving city.

  The Airnian Emperor was furious, claiming he had been tricked and demanding that Damsport be returned to him. The Old Girl — to the joy and pride of her people— sent his envoys packing. The Emperor retaliated by sending his army to the Bottleneck Wall, forcing the Marchioness’ allies to send their own troops. They were no doubt more interested in preventing the Emperor from controlling what was fast becoming an important centre of trade than in displaying loyalty to the Marchioness, but the result was the same.

  The allied forces took three days to arrive — three days during which the men and women of Damsport, led by the Old Girl, held back the world’s largest and best appointed army. Thousands died, but they fought tooth and nail for each and every inch of the Bottleneck Wall, and when the allied armies arrived, it still hadn’t been breached.

  It had been a resounding victory for the Old Girl, and a humiliating defeat for the Emperor — one he had yet to forget or forgive.

  As Rory watched the Varanguards and the Old Girl walk away, she felt ashamed of her earlier despondency. The Old Girl had faced mocking from the entire world; she had faced an attack from the Airnian army, and there was Rory moping because Jake had struck her. Rory made a promise to herself there and then never to mope again. Whatever the future brought, she would face each obstacle like the Old Girl had.

  Would the Scarred Woman have let the betrayal of a friend get to her? Of course not. And neither would the Old Girl have. Heroes and warriors never felt low or dejected — they didn’t know the meaning of those words.

  Rory stood up as tall as she could manage, and placed a hand on the rapier’s hilt. Full of newfound confidence, she approached Cruikshank’s door with a kind of swagger. It felt a bit awkward — she would have to practice.

  The door wasn’t locked, and she let herself in.

  Chapter 11

  “You know the Old Girl?” Rory said from the entrance.

  Cruikshank started and turned around, lifting the goggles from her face. They left owl-like circles around her eyes where the skin had been protected from the soot, smoke, and metal shavings. The rest of her face was caked with dirt, which accentuated every line, making her look older than she was. She wore a leather vest and leggings covered with more cuts and lashes than a whipped back. Her curly russet hair was piled high atop her head, making an odd contrast with her dark brown skin.

  “Rory! You startled me, lovey. What are you doing here? Come in, come in.”

  Cruikshank ushered her into her workshop. It was a single large room dotted throughout with pillars to support the roof. Hooks were welded to them, supporting heavy chains and large cogs, some as big as cart wheels. A metal walkway hung overhead along the walls, housing Cruikshank’s office at one end. Beneath the walkway the walls were covered with a scaffolding of shelves full of small pieces of clockwork, bits of unfinished machinery, tools, sketches, and notebooks. The whole room was covered in a film of soot and bathed by the molten orange glow of the furnace.

  “Why are you here?” asked Cruikshank. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, lovey, of course I am, but I thought you’d be on a steam galley by now, off to begin your adventures with Master Xian.”

  As she spoke, Cruikshank picked up an enormous sledgehammer, the muscles on her bare arms rippling beneath the skin. Her right arm was covered with an intricate cog tattoo that came to life as she moved.

  “That ain’t happening no more,” said
Rory.

  “Why not?”

  “Had a disagreement with Jake. He thought my money could be used for his gambling debts. I didn’t agree.”

  “Oh, lovey, I can guess how that went. Is that what happened to your face?”

  Rory didn’t answer. That was between her and Jake and she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Will you please sleep here tonight,” said Cruikshank. “It’s not charity —”

  “It is charity, alright? I’m just fine sleeping on the roofs, and I make my own way, thanking you very much.”

  As she spoke, Rory felt the weight of the jar the man had given her, and she made another promise to herself to find him and pay him back for it. Heroes didn’t accept charity from anyone, even well-meaning strangers.

  “You’re a difficult one, lovey, you know that?”

  Rory grinned, and then winced from the pain in her swollen eye. She would need to apply more of that paste. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “Why was the Old Girl here, by the way?”

  “She came to inspect the machine I’ll be unveiling at the Revels.” Cruikshank gestured at the huge shape that skulked in a corner beneath a tarp. “Her Varanguards are visiting every act that will be performing at the Revels to check for weapons or anything that could be used to attack the Marchioness.”

  “Yeah, but why did she come to see you personally?”

  “She did it as a courtesy to me since I’m her Head Machinist.”

  “What? You are? I had no idea. Why don’t you —”

  “Put on airs and wear some ridiculous chain or brooch to proclaim my status? You know me better than that. Anyway, the only reason I‘m her Head Machinist is because I was the only one who knew her arse from her elbow back when we started work on the enclosed docks. We go way back, me and the Marchioness. I knew her when she was too young to be called ‘Old Girl.’”