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

by Celine Jeanjean

  Rory gave Cruikshank a newly impressed glance. She knew Cruikshank’s modesty well enough to realise that she would have had a much larger role in the creation of the docks than she admitted to.

  “So tell me, lovey,” said Cruikshank. “Since you’re not here to take me up on my offer to stay with me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu visit?”

  “I came to ask you a favour. I got something of value, right, and I ain’t got nowhere to keep it.”

  “If you think I’m going to help you with whatever you stole with Jake —”

  “It ain’t like that, I got me a new sword preceptor.”

  Cruikshank looked at her dubiously. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He’s a bit, um, different. Eccentric. Doesn’t get out much. He gave me this.” Rory pulled out the rapier.

  “You expect me to believe that he just gave you a sword?”

  “I saved his life. He got attacked and, um, I got him out of it.”

  Rory didn’t want to give Cruikshank any more details than strictly necessary. The best lies were always the simplest.

  “Aren’t you the little saviour, lovey. You gonna hang it over his head for the next five years, too?”

  “Eh, you can’t put a price on being alive,” said Rory with a grin.

  “I would have lived,” replied Cruikshank.

  “Course you would, but Charlie Little Fingers would have kicked the living crap out of you.”

  “True. And as thanks, you should let me put you up in my workshop,” said Cruikshank. “The roofs are no place for a girl to live.”

  “You taught me to read. That’s plenty.”

  Cruikshank lit a cigar, the matches incongruously small in her thick jointed hands, and blew a plume of blue smoke. She examined Rory through the smoke as though debating whether to press the issue. Rory hoped she wouldn’t.

  “So what is it you want me to do with this rapier?” Cruikshank said at last.

  “Well I can’t hold onto it —”

  “Why not?”

  “You know how it is. I walk around with something like that and it’ll get taken from me before you can blink. I don’t got Jake to protect me no more.”

  “You know I can tell when you’re lying,” said Cruikshank.

  “I ain’t lying, why you gotta be so suspicious of me?”

  “Hmm.”

  Cruikshank took a long drag of her cigar, and gestured for the rapier. Rory handed it to her with more than a little trepidation. Cruikshank examined it with a critical eye, cigar clamped between her teeth.

  “So what you’re telling me is that my workshop is good enough for your sword to sleep in, but not for you?”

  “Come on, you know it ain’t like that.”

  Cruikshank took another drag of her cigar.

  “Tell you what, lovey, I’ll keep your sword for you. I find out there’s anything dodgy going on, and that’s the last you’ll see of it. If everything is above board, though, you can come and take it as you please. Deal?”

  Rory swallowed. This was not how she had planned the conversation going, but backing out now would be admitting that she was lying.

  “Sure. Whatever you say. You’re a right cynical one, Cruikshank. Sometimes a girl does something nice and is rewarded.”

  “With a rapier that’s worth more than most people make in a year?”

  “Must be my charm.”

  Cruikshank gave a short laugh full of smoke.

  “And you’re sure you won’t sleep here tonight, lovey?” she said. “Summer storm’s brewing, it won’t be nice up on the roofs.”

  “I’ll be fine. Anyway, I need to get back to my sword preceptor.”

  Rory left Cruikshank’s workshop unsure if she had made a good move in leaving the rapier, or a big mistake. She cursed softly under her breath. Damn honesty, it was always so complicated.

  Chapter 12

  The storm broke just as she reached the street the Viper lived on, the skies opening with the suddenness of a bucket of water being tipped from up high. Within seconds Rory was drenched to the bone, squinting through rivulets of water than ran down her face and into her eyes. She sought shelter under one of the trees that lined the street, wiping her face and wringing out her hair. Around her the rain hissed against the cobblestones, making it hard to see, but it barely penetrated the thick foliage overhead.

  She peered at the Viper’s house. It was dark and quiet, like all the others on the street. In fact, there was nothing to distinguish it from the rest, but Rory wouldn’t be taken in by a veneer of respectability. This was the lair of an assassin — who knew what would be waiting for her inside. She’d have to be insane or utterly stupid to breeze through the back door come morning, as they had agreed before she’d left.

  On the way over, she had decided that she would climb to the roof and find a way to break into the house. Catching the Viper unawares in the middle of the night would be the best way to keep the upper hand, allowing her to see what he had planned and whether he intended to keep his promise. She would begin as soon as the storm had passed — climbing in the pouring rain could be tricky, but thankfully summer storms were almost always short-lived.

  Soon enough the rain reduced to a light patter and Rory set off. She reached the house and slipped down the narrow space that separated it from its neighbour, unwinding her silk line and grappling hook from around her waist. A few swings of the hook to gather momentum, and she loosed it towards the roof, where it found purchase. Rory grinned. Few could match her with a grappling hook and line. A few tugs of the silk line confirmed that the hook was secure, and she began to climb.

  The wall was slick with rainwater, and she moved slowly, checking each hand and foothold carefully to make sure it wasn’t too slippery for use. When she reached the roof, she was pleasantly surprised to find a skylight. As expected it was locked, but a look through the glass revealed that the room below contained discarded furniture covered with white sheets. Rory smiled at her luck: beneath the window was something in the shape of a chaise longue which should be soft enough to absorb the noise of falling glass.

  A quick kick with her heel broke a hole large enough for her to stick her hand through, and she opened the window. She stuck her head in and checked the room over to make sure there wasn’t anything or anyone waiting for her. The air was stale and dusty — no one had breathed in there for a long time. Once she was satisfied that the room was safe, she secured her grappling hook and lowered herself down. She returned the grappling hook back to her waist and made for the door, letting herself into the house.

  She found herself at one end of a long, carpeted corridor. The house was dark and silent, save for the ticking of a clock somewhere. At the other end of the corridor, a sliver of light filtered out beneath a door. The room occupied by the Viper?

  Rory crept towards it slowly.

  About halfway down the hallway, she came across a door with a deadbolt across it. She paused, glancing towards the light at the end of the passage. Once she had made herself known to the Viper she would no longer be free to look around, and a room with a deadbolt could mean something of interest. Something she could use.

  She hesitated only a fraction longer before her fingers found the deadbolt. It was rusty. She inched it backwards as slowly as she could, making a faint scraping noise.

  The door swung open silently. Rory stepped across the threshold, peering into the gloom. She frowned.

  It was a child’s room. Did the Viper have a child? And why would he have the room dead-bolted?

  The curtains were open, but very little light made it through the window. Rory could just make out a small bed and what must have been a canopy over it at one end of the room. There a little desk, there a chest of drawers, and that shadow in the corner had to be a rocking horse.

  The clouds parted at that moment, and the room was briefly illuminated with moonlight. The rocking horse was old, its paint chipped, its leather saddle cracked and eaten in places by time and moth
s. Atop the chest of drawers was a collection of dolls that looked at her with beady black eyes, their clothing greyed and full of holes. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

  The floor was covered in an intricately patterned rug — Kushanian design and no doubt expensive — and in the middle of the rug was a large, dark stain. The stain was a little bigger than a child, and it made Rory shudder. She had seen enough corpses in the night to know when she was looking at dried blood. The rug and stain were covered with as much dust as the rest of the room.

  She looked up again to find the dolls’ eyes still on her. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable. Her skin crawled, and it was all she could do not to slam the door shut on the dolls, the dust, the bloodstain. She maintained composure, closing the door carefully and drawing the bolt back across it. Then she hurried down the passage, only glancing back once at the locked room.

  Once she reached the door with the light, she pressed her ear against it, but she heard nothing. A little beyond the door were a set of stairs, leading down to the ground floor. No sound there, either.

  She grasped the doorknob, and turned it back as far as it would go. Then, taking a deep breath, she burst forth into the room.

  It was empty.

  Opposite the doorway was a four-poster bed, still made, and to the left a set of double doors had been thrown open, leading to a vast wardrobe full of brightly coloured, expensive-looking clothes. To the right was a desk on which papers were perfectly stacked, and above it was a painting that depicted a very beautiful and proud-looking woman. Clutching her legs was a small boy, looking fearfully back over his shoulder at the painter. The resemblance to the Viper was unmistakable. Next to him, the rest of the painting had been cut out, all the way to the frame. The only sign that there had once been a person in that gap was a bit of fabric painted to overlap one of the boy’s arms. It looked like the hem of a girl’s skirt.

  Rory thought of the room with the stain.

  A sibling then, perhaps? She briefly considered looking through the Viper’s papers and wardrobe, but the thought made her feel ill at ease. Except for the cut-out painting, the room was so ordinary, so harmless. This wasn’t the dark lair she had expected of an assassin, and she felt like she had trespassed into something very personal.

  A faint sound came to her from the stairway and Rory spun on her heels, drawing her dagger, heart hammering. The ticking of the clock marked the passing seconds.

  Nothing stirred.

  She closed the door, and slowly headed down the stairs. She took each step carefully, hugging the wall and testing each one with her toes to ensure it wouldn’t creak beneath her weight. She kept her dagger at the ready.

  When she reached the bottom, she found another door under which filtered a little light. Again, she pressed her ear to the wood and this time, she heard something: a rustling sound, and a deep sigh.

  “Got you,” she mouthed.

  Once she had turned back the doorknob, she opened the door abruptly, intending to startle the Viper.

  He was not startled.

  In fact, he didn’t even stir, sound asleep as he was, sat in a blue velvet chair. His head was in one of those awkward angles heads always find when you sleep sitting up, and a little drool oozed out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto his waistcoat.

  Rory let out a low, incredulous laugh. Weren’t assassins supposed to be cunning? Careful? Masters of survival? She had always imagined that they slept with an eye open and a dagger at the ready. Obviously not this one. Then again, she reminded herself, most assassins weren’t afraid of blood. All her concerns for safety melted away like butter in the sun. It was hard to feel threatened by a man who drooled in his sleep.

  She crept closer, until her face was inches from his, but still he didn’t wake. Rory gave herself a satisfied nod. She would definitely be able to stay in control of him. She felt a little sorry for him: the man was obviously pretty useless as an assassin, but that wasn’t her problem. Her focus was only on learning to sword fight. Having seen him in action, she felt confident he’d be able to teach her that — or at least enough that she would be worthy of the Scarred Woman’s respect when they next met.

  She remembered how odd his face had seemed earlier, and again something about it niggled at her. It was a weird face, to be sure. Too long, his cheekbones too prominent, his lips too curved. The overall impression that emanated from him was one of neatness: his brown skin was smooth and devoid of scars, his chin clean-shaven — although in Rory’s opinion that ridiculous little moustache should have been shaved off with the rest — and his shoulder-length hair was neatly combed. But there was something else… Rory shook her head. It would come to her.

  Behind him was an array of bottles arranged over floor-to-ceiling shelves. Some of the bottles were of clear glass, filled with liquids so brightly coloured they gleamed like gems. There were little vials full of smoke, dark glass bottles with long elegant necks and ornate stoppers, enamel jars topped with iron handles, and copper flasks, some simple and utilitarian, some engraved with complicated swirling patterns. She had to admit that as a collection, they looked rather impressive. She assumed they were the poisons the Viper worked with.

  The other side of the room was taken up by a wide alchemy bench, in the middle of which was a small furnace with a few embers still smouldering inside. The bench was so clean, it looked like nobody had ever worked on it. Glass bottles and beakers were lined up in perfect rows and metal tools she didn’t recognise were painstakingly laid out so that the distance between each was the same. All of it rested on a pristine white table runner.

  But what really caught Rory’s attention were a set of glass cabinets containing an astonishing collection of weapons, from elegant stiletto knives and curved scimitars to leather-wrapped garrottes, no doubt to prevent the skin from breaking. Some bordered on the bizarre, like a dagger with a tiny clock in its hilt, and a fan with needles protruding from its top.

  And then there were the rapiers. Set out in their own cabinet, each one had an ornate basket similar to that of the one Rory had taken. She was surprised to feel a weight lift, and she realised she had been feeling a little guilty over taking the Viper’s sword. Well, now there was no need, since he had so many of them.

  She sidled over and put her hands up against the glass, like a child peering into a toy shop. The blades shone like mirrors, sharp and deadly. Rory sighed. One day she would own a collection of swords, too. One day girls would dream of being her like she dreamt of being the Scarred Woman.

  When she removed her hands, she was dismayed to find she had left a grubby mark on the glass. She tried to wipe it off with her sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing more filth. For the first time in a long time she became aware of how dirty she was, and she felt a little ashamed.

  She was about to turn away when she spotted something that gave her pause. It was a brass box, odd and out of place amongst the weapons. It was delicately engraved with the initials LP in one corner. She took out her picks and set to work on the cabinet lock; it gave way easily. She picked up the box and lifted the lid. Inside were tubes and parts, some that looked like they telescoped into something longer. It reminded her of a machine taken apart.

  A slurping noise startled her, and she spun around, the box still in her hands.

  Chapter 13

  Longinus awoke with a start and a slurp, horrified to find he had been dribbling on himself. He blinked a few times and wiped his chin with a handkerchief. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Light tinged with pink filtered through the window, announcing dawn. Longinus stretched, his neck aching. It was unusual for him to fall asleep in a chair like this. He should go rouse his tailor and get the clothing ordered before the blasted urchin girl arrived. What colour had he decided on in the end? Was it green?

  He was about to get up, when a voice interrupted him.

  “Don’t get up on my account.”

  Longinus cried out in surprise, tumbling back in
to his chair.

  The urchin was skulking by his cabinets, and she had left a visible smear of filth on the glass. Her left eye was like a study in purple and swollen to a slit. Surprisingly, the other eye was bright blue, making a startling contrast with her dark brown skin. There were also unusual hints of red about her weird rope-like hair that he hadn’t noticed in the dark.

  “What in all hells are you doing here?” asked Longinus, gathering himself and standing. “And why have you got my crossbow out of the cabinet?”

  “Crossbow?”

  “Yes.” He marched over and snatched it from her, returning it to its rightful place after checking that she hadn’t removed any parts. “It’s a folding crossbow and it — good lord, what is that smell?”

  He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose. Now that there wasn’t the stench of blood and vomit to cover it, the stink of her was so thick he could practically taste it. The girl’s face crumpled for a second before she composed herself, her good eye flashing at him haughtily from beneath her mass of hair.

  “Yeah, well, you try living on the streets and then we’ll see how good you smell.”

  Longinus almost came back with a cutting remark of his own, but he had to concede the girl had a point. Instead he glared at her. “How did you get in, anyway?”

  “Ah, well.” The girl had the decency to look a little sheepish. “You know…”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Well I broke in, didn’t I?”

  “What? Unacceptable.”

  “That ain’t gonna change the fact that it’s true.”

  “Listen here. I gave you my word to train you in the art of killing —”

  “Of sword fighting.”

  “Excuse me?”