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

by Celine Jeanjean

  “I must announce you!”

  “Brandt?” called a voice from within. “What in the gods’ hair are you doing out there? If Cruikshank is here, let her in, dammit.”

  Brandt flushed beet red. “Now look what you’ve done,” he hissed.

  He fumbled with the latch and pushed open both doors dramatically. “Eleanore Cruik —”

  “Marchioness,” said Cruikshank, marching past him. The Old Girl sat at a large desk heaped with papers. Behind her was a huge world map, bristling with pins and little flags. The room was panelled with lacquered wood and simply furnished with a couple of chairs in front of the desk, bookshelves in one corner, and a reading armchair.

  “Cruikshank, good to see you.” The Marchioness stood up and the two women shook hands. She radiated even more power than when Rory had spied her from the shadows outside Cruikshank’s workshop. Rory felt like a child, entirely out of her depth.

  “Who’s this?” asked the Old Girl.

  “That’s Rory, she has some important information for you.”

  The Marchioness nodded. “Sit.”

  Brandt hovered behind them.

  “That will be all, Brandt.”

  “Ma’am.” He took a deep bow and scuttled out.

  The Marchioness’ gaze rested on Rory, waiting for her to begin. Rory felt her saliva traitorously disappear from her mouth and her vocal cords seemed to forget how to function. She sat with her mouth open, as though she was trying to catch flies. Cruikshank came to the rescue.

  “We have reason to believe that someone is planning to make an attempt on your life during the Revels.”

  “I see. And who is that person?”

  Rory galvanised herself into action. She’d be damned if she would make a fool of herself in front of the Old Girl.

  “A woman called Myran,” she said. “She killed Dr Corian, and your servant, and now she has her uniform. I reckon she means to pass herself off as a servant during the Revels, right, and kill you with the poison she used on Dr Corian, and then she’s gonna frame another assassin called the Viper for the assassination, and then she’s going to hand Damsport back to the Emperor.”

  Rory took a deep breath to slow her speech down.

  “I see,” said the Marchioness.

  Rory was surprised by how calm the Old Girl was, as though it was no more than a problem with the steam trolleys.

  “And how do you know all this?”

  “Well, I was at the baths when Dr Corian fell out, right, and I heard about your servant, but then I overheard men who work for Myran talking about what the Emperor would do after you were dead. And then Myran kidnapped me and she mentioned about working for the Emperor, and how the whole world would see her kill you. So I thought to myself that it had to be the Revels, right, and with your servant’s uniform, well, she could get real close to you — close enough to put some of that poison on your skin.”

  Rory took another deep breath. What was it about the Old Girl’s eyes that made her babble like that?

  “Is this Myran the Viper?” asked the Marchioness.

  “No, she ain’t. She’s planning to pin it all on him, though.”

  “Ah. And you work for the Viper.”

  Before Rory could answer, the Old Girl interrupted.

  “Don’t lie to me, Rory, you don’t rule a city like Damsport without knowing a few things. That and my alchemist, Dr Howshinger, told me a peculiar tale about a girl with hair like rope and a black eye stealing a sample of the poison from Dr Corian’s corpse.”

  Both the Old Girl and Cruikshank stared at Rory. She felt herself shrink beneath their gaze.

  “Ain’t no law against stealing moisture,” she muttered.

  “There isn’t, no. But to me that says you are involved in this and have been for some time. Which leads me to the conclusion that you are working for this Viper, whoever he is.”

  “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but while I been involved, I ain’t working for the Viper. I’m blackmailing him.”

  An amused look crossed the Old Girl’s face.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not much of a guarantee,” she replied. “How do I know Myran is even real? The Viper could be the one planning the coup, and you have been sent as a way to distract me from the truth.”

  “Well, that don’t make no sense. If the Viper’s behind all this, why bother sending me in the first place to tell you about the assassination?”

  “Because we already knew about it. The Viper, or whoever is behind all this, has killed two of my servants, a cook, several guards, and — worse — he got to one of my Varanguards in his home. All of them stripped of their uniforms. Which means that anyone could dress up as a member of my staff to try and get to me.” The Old Girl leaned forward. “You might be here to misdirect me, even if you aren’t aware of it.”

  “The Viper is working on a solution right now,” said Rory with defiance. “He’s trying to help stop Myran.”

  “So there is an antidote? Howshinger told me it was impossible.”

  “Not an antidote,” said Cruikshank. “Something that can prevent the poison from affecting your skin. Like a buffer. I do think the girl is telling the truth, Marchioness.”

  “Tell me, Eleanore, what is your role in all this?” The Old Girl trained her iron-grey eyes on Cruikshank and, to her surprise, Rory saw her squirm. “If I was to raid your workshop now, would I find a man called the Viper within?”

  “He is at my workshop, yes, but —”

  “Eleanore, really. Are you associating with assassins in your old age?”

  Cruikshank cleared her throat. “Marchioness, wouldn’t it be best to cancel the Revels?”

  “But then Myran might try and get to the Marchioness another time that we don’t know of, and have no control over,” pointed out Rory.

  “The girl is right,” said the Old Girl. “In any case, I will not have my actions dictated by that coward in Airnia. I have another solution.”

  She leaned back and pulled on a braided cord. Rory heard the double doors open behind her. Boots and spurs rang out on the parquet floor.

  “Marchioness,” said a voice, which to her dismay was very familiar.

  She turned to find Rafe behind them, just coming up from a bow. Rory was shocked to find that he wore the purple uniform of the Varanguards. Their eyes met for a second and the tiniest flicker of surprise crossed his face.

  “You two know each other?” asked the Old Girl.

  Damn if that woman didn’t miss anything.

  “Not really. We had a conversation about property once,” replied Rafe.

  “Good. Fetch me the Persuader and send a platoon of guards to surround Cruikshank’s workshop.”

  Rory opened her mouth to protest, but Cruikshank squeezed her arm, motioning for her to be quiet.

  Rafe bowed again. “Marchioness.” He walked out without another look in Rory’s direction.

  “Assuming you are telling the truth,” said the Old Girl to Rory, “I shall want Howshinger to work with this Viper to create a solution before the Revels in two days. I won’t trust anything Howshinger hasn’t worked on and approved. We will move you all to Cruikshank’s old workshop down by the docks, which is smaller and easier to guard. It goes without saying that guards will be keeping an eye on the place at all times.”

  Rafe returned bearing a tray on which was a bottle and two glasses. The bottle was filled with a clear liquid.

  “Now, as to the assumption that you are telling the truth, Rory. This is the Persuader — a poison that your master will no doubt be familiar with. It is odourless, tasteless, and utterly untraceable. It is also very slow acting. This is what I propose. You drink the poison voluntarily. If I survive the Revels, you receive the antidote and survive with me. If I don’t, then neither do you. Your friend the Viper will also get a dose.”

  For the second time that day, Rory found herself unable to speak. Cruikshank began to protest, but the Marchioness held up her hand.

  “This
is not for debate, Eleanore. You and I go back far enough that I trust you — but this one and the Viper? I can’t afford to take chances. This way our fates are intertwined, and there’s no stronger will than the will to survive. There’s no other way I can make sure they will both work towards my survival.”

  “But I’m the one who came voluntarily to warn you of Myran’s plan!” Rory found her voice at last.

  “As I said, I have no guarantee that isn’t misdirection.”

  “Well, what if I’m telling the truth but Myran gets to you anyway?”

  “You’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  The Marchioness fixed her with her steel gaze, holding out one of the glasses, and Rory felt herself grow angry. She wasn’t going to be forced into doing anything. She had come here to help from a sense of duty and respect for the Old Girl. Both were rapidly fading, as were any aspirations of becoming a hero.

  “And what if I refuse?”

  The Old Girl’s eyes went cold. “Then I arrest you for treason.”

  Chapter 39

  Longinus wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. He glared at the little man standing in front of him, blinking through his thick optics. Dr Howshinger licked his lips, eyes darting between the goblet Longinus was holding in one hand and the alchemy formulae he held in the other.

  “Hurry up about it,” said a guard behind him, “or we’ll make you drink it.”

  Longinus downed the contents of the goblet and slammed it on the bench.

  “My dear colleague,” said Dr Howshinger, “I really do think that between us —”

  “Do not trespass on the territory of familiarity, sir,” replied Longinus. “I am not your colleague. I am here under duress. I have been coerced in the basest of ways. Colleagues,” he spat the word, sending a spray of spittle on Howshinger’s optics, “do not poison one another. Colleagues,” he spat again, “do not try to steal one another’s secrets. There is an understanding, sir, amongst alchemists, and you have grossly violated this most sacred agreement.”

  Dr Howshinger wiped his optics on a plain handkerchief, which wasn’t trimmed with lace or even monogrammed.

  Amateur.

  “I was not aware,” said Howshinger, “that there is any kind of understanding —”

  “It is the same kind of understanding that exists between gentlemen, a class of individuals to which it is clear from your handkerchief you do not belong, and therefore cannot comprehend. Any gentleman alchemist, such as I am, would understand that to use poison against a fellow alchemist is a most ignoble, unscrupulous, and contemptible act.”

  Longinus grabbed his notes, turned, and swept away, but of course he couldn’t go far since they were all trapped within that dastardly warehouse. Poisoned and trapped, that was his lot now.

  They had moved from Cruikshank’s normal workshop to an older, smaller, in short inferior one, as though this would be preferable conditions to work under. Guards patrolled both outside and inside the workshop, so there was no privacy to be had.

  “You and Howshinger are getting along well,” said Rory, walking up to him.

  “I cannot work like this,” Longinus said to her in a low whisper. “I cannot be in proximity to such incompetence. He blinks at me every time I open my mouth and cannot finish a sentence to save his life.”

  “Hey, look, I ain’t a fan of Howshinger any more than you, but if you stop interrupting him, maybe he’ll finish his sentences.”

  “You are not helping. Go and tell the Marchioness to remove this aspiring alchemist of hers so I can get on with my art.”

  “Do you really think the Marchioness will listen to me? She poisoned me, same as you, so she don’t trust me neither, and she was pretty clear that Howshinger had to be here. We ain’t got a say in this, Longinus.”

  “Yes, and about that: what exactly made you think that going to her was going to end well for us?”

  “I was trying to do the right thing,” said Rory bitterly. “I thought we could be heroes and all. Clearly that was the loss of blood talking. Believe you me, I ain’t doing the right thing ever again. This is the problem with honest people, so damned unpredictable, can’t trust them with nothing. But we gotta stop Myran, Longinus. I ain’t dying because of her.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Mr Pendergast?” called Howshinger from the alchemy bench.

  Longinus took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “That’s got to be the first time you done that and not because of me, right?” said Rory.

  “Yes, and what a surprise it is. By the way I, ah, never thanked you for rescuing my journals.”

  “Don’t mention it. But if you could come up with a miracle and save both our arses, that’ll be all the thanks I need. Otherwise we might as well have jumped into that abyss.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Longinus took a deep breath, and returned to Dr Howshinger.

  “Ah, Mr Pendergast,” said Dr Howshinger, looking up. “I came across this very interesting phenomenon. If you would look over here.”

  Not letting go of his notes in case that devious excuse for an alchemist tried to look through them, Longinus cast his professional gaze on Dr Howshinger’s findings.

  * * *

  Indecently early on the morning of the Revels, a commotion at the workshop’s door startled everyone. Longinus and Howshinger were still hard at work, bleary-eyed and haggard. Rory, Cruikshank, and a couple of the guards not on watch were asleep on whatever approximately comfortable, horizontal surfaces were available.

  Two male Varanguards entered, wearing plain clothes. Behind them followed the Marchioness. She wore loose trousers and a simple long-sleeved tunic with a high collar, all made of the mineral mesh Longinus used when he handled his writing poison.

  “So how are we doing?” she asked Howshinger and Longinus.

  In his befuddled state, Longinus felt the full force of that steel gaze and he momentarily stumbled on his words.

  “We have something —” began Howshinger.

  “The poison is incredibly fast acting and virulent, as you know,” Longinus hastened to interrupt. Nobody was going to discuss his own poison in front of him, least of all that ridiculous little man. “But we have created a paste that can be applied to the skin. It acts as a buffer, and neutralises the poison on contact.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Howshinger produced the pot containing the paste. It was pale blue, the same colour that the poison turned the eyes of its victims. “There is but one —”

  “There is but one flaw,” interrupted Longinus again, glaring at Howshinger. “It is affected by water.”

  “A pretty big flaw,” observed the Marchioness, “considering a storm is brewing. I’m assuming it will stop working if in contact with water?”

  “Yes. We cannot get around this problem. The very compound that neutralises the poison on contact is the element that is sensitive to water. But we are making enough for you and Lady Martha to continuously reapply it throughout the day, should it rain.”

  The Marchioness nodded. “It better work, I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake here. Might I also suggest, Master Viper, that in future you refrain from creating poisons for which you do not possess antidotes. That would save us all a lot of trouble.”

  One of the Varanguards stepped forward. “Ma’am, it might be wise to cancel the visit to the performers.”

  “I have visited the performers before every Revels since Damsport became independent. I will not change my actions for anyone — not for the Emperor of Airnia, nor for this Myran.”

  “I don’t get my behaviour dictated by anyone neither,” piped up Rory, “but getting poisoned has that effect on people. Makes you reconsider things.”

  Cruikshank cuffed her on the back of the head and Longinus repressed a laugh. Norman, who stood next to them, snickered and earned himself a cuff on the head from Cruikshank, too.

  “What? If I’m gonna die tomorrow, who cares if
I’m being insolent,” muttered Rory.

  “There’ll be no more talk of cancelling or changing the Revels,” said the Old Girl. “The day I start to cower and hide, the Emperor has won. My bodyguards will come to fetch you in three hours,” she added to Longinus and Rory, “so make sure you are both ready.”

  Chapter 40

  Rory and Longinus made their last preparations. Longinus’ rapier, the one Rory had taken from him the night of their meeting, was back at his hip. Rory glanced at it with a pinch of regret, but she couldn’t deny that it looked better on him than it ever had on her. A guard had furnished the two of them with weapons of their choosing, and she had been given a rapier of her own. It was too long for her, but she wasn’t about to complain and make a fool of herself by drawing attention to her diminutive frame.

  Longinus had also selected a dagger, and he had concocted himself a poison to take along. He tucked the vial with its atomiser into a pocket and began fiddling with his baldric.

  “This rapier is all wrong with this baldric,” he announced. “The balance is off — look, look at how it moves when I walk. It’s making me all lopsided. This is just unacceptable. I can’t work like this, I am inadequately prepared, I am…”

  Rory could see his hands shake as he fussed with the rapier.

  “You alright?” she whispered.

  He swallowed and didn’t meet her eye.

  “I don’t think I can face her again,” he replied in a voice so low she almost didn’t hear.

  He cleared his throat and looked away.

  “It’s this baldric,” he said louder. “Someone fetch me another, something in black for starters, not this brown monstrosity. Am I the only one who notices how badly it clashes with my silks?”

  Rory could see a couple of guards by the door laughing at Longinus. She turned away with some difficulty, resisting the urge to draw her rapier and wipe the smirk off their faces. Attacking a guard at this point would do little to improve their situation.