No wonder Nimble’s hands were so bloodied. He’d obviously split a couple of his knuckles punching the iron.
“We might be able to make a raft from these boards.” Nimble nodded at the plank near his boot. Woodworm burrows pocked the pale timbers, like craters pitting the surface of the moon. “You didn’t happen to pack a jug of tar for waterproofing, did you, my bantling?” Nimble asked with a smile.
“I didn’t. But I hope what I have brought will stand us in better stead.” Archie reached into his jacket and drew out the oilcloth pouch. He revealed the contents and felt relieved to see the matchsticks and stubby scarlet candles had remained mostly dry.
He glanced at Nimble, who stared at the assortment as if caught between sorrow and horror. Archie’s heart sank. What could he possibly have forgotten? He’d brought everything Nimble had ever used to cast his spells, and added in extra that he’d gleaned from his recent reading.
He snatched up three small metal tins. “These are the holy oil, camphor oil, and mandrake dust. The other two are relic powder and sulfur,” Archie assured him. “Between those, the silver nails, the hellwire, and my soul, you should be able to work some conjury, shouldn’t you?”
Nimble seemed almost frozen. He didn’t lift his stare from the candles, matchsticks, and nickel tins. He clenched his bloody hands into fists and then slowly shook his head.
“What did I forget?” Archie asked. “Is it something wrong with my soul—”
“No. No, it’s nothing wrong with you. It’s me….” Nimble shook his bowed head. “I can’t work magic.”
“What’s happened?” Archie looked again to Nimble’s bloody hands. How badly had he hurt himself? Or was this an effect of the drugs he’d been injected with?
Nimble gave a dry laugh. “Nothing’s happened, my bantling. Except that I can’t keep lying to you.” Nimble looked up at him then. His yellow eyes were as bright as flames. “I’m not a conjurer. I never was. I’m a fraud.”
Archie couldn’t have understood Nimble correctly. He shook his head. “Your power lets me pass for Archibald. Your spells made you invincible against the Nornian cannons! I saw you charging through the smoke and fire…. You weren’t afraid of anything. Bullets hit you, horses kicked you, but you never fell. Never.”
Archie didn’t even possess the words to express how he and all the troops behind Nimble had felt the presence of his power. He hadn’t been a mortal boy like the rest of them, but their salvation. He’d been victory, embodied and laughing at the enemy lines.
Their undefeatable devil.
“That was bravado and luck.” Nimble closed his eyes. “And as for you passing for Archibald, well, that was just you believing that you could—”
“No. You conjured his discharge papers for me. Major Corbry shook my hand and addressed me as Lord Granville….” Archie couldn’t believe all of that had been mere chance, but at the same time, why would Nimble tell him this? He felt confused, almost sick. Was he having some kind of strange joke?
“When Archibald died, I took his tags and his ring to give to you.” Nimble spoke as slowly, exactly, as if breaking news of a beloved pet’s demise to a young child. “But then when you were wounded I realized that those snobs behind the hill wouldn’t admit common rabble into the surgical wards. Nobles came first. So I put Archibald’s tags and ring on you. And they saved your life.”
Archie hardly remembered anything of those fevered days, except that Nimble had always seemed to be at his bedside. He’d looked almost harrowed, but then, so had everyone.
“We’d lost so many at Sollum,” Nimble went on. “There was no one left to judge one Archie Granville from another. Captains Jersey and Walter dead. Lieutenant Hain blinded. Masson’s mind so bent that he wouldn’t say his own name. And Major Corbry hadn’t been able to tell the two of you apart from the start, so… it was already done before you even regained consciousness.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Archie stared at Nimble.
“I….” Nimble shook his head.
“Why?” Archie asked. “Why wouldn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I was going to—”
“When?” Archie demanded. “Because seven years is one hell of a delay!”
“I meant to tell you the first moment we had alone, but then you were so angry—”
“I scared you?” Archie rolled his eyes, because he knew damn well that cavalry charges and cannon balls didn’t actually scare Nimble.
“You terrified me.” Nimble’s words came out in a raw whisper. “You were so desperate to punish your uncle and avenge Archibald. And you were saying mad things, like you’d give anything, you’d sell your immortal soul. There are plenty of real conjurers who would have taken you up on that, Archie. It shook me to the core to imagine one of them laying a hand on you. But I couldn’t think how to stop you going to them except to take you up on the offer, myself.”
Archie couldn’t think of what to say in response to that. He knew for a fact that Nimble was right; he’d been incandescent with fury—not just because of Archibald’s death, but also because three years of agony, horror, and pain still burned within him. Yes, to quench that rage, he might have sold himself to the Butcher Street Crone, Bastard Jack, or anyone. Still, to lie to him for seven years!
“Why keep me coming back? Why not tell me the truth after I’d cooled down?”
Archie couldn’t remember ever seeing Nimble look ashamed of himself, but he did now. He hardly seemed able to meet Archie’s gaze. When he spoke, his voice was a faint whisper.
“I couldn’t bear losing you.” He closed his eyes and hung his head. “You were all set up to leave me and Hells Below behind forever. You were going to have a grand life as Lord Fallmont—and you damn well deserved that life, I knew that. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but… I couldn’t bear the thought of never being with you again. Never so much as seeing you smile at me, or hearing you tromp up my stairs in your ratty old boots.”
For a few moments, Archie simply sat there absorbing Nimble’s words. The storm lamp flickered, and absently Archie noted that the river waters had nearly reached the top of the jetty.
“I didn’t stay with you on Sollum Hill because I was strong or brave. Certainly not invincible. I was as terrified of dying as anyone else,” Nimble said. “But I’d fallen for you so hard, Archie. And even as young and stupid as I was then, I already knew that I wouldn’t want to go on living if it was without you.”
“So you invented that entire ceremony….”
Even in the greenish cast of the storm lantern, the flush that colored Nimble’s face showed. “What did I know about conjury?” Nimble replied. “Just what I’d read in penny blood novels and what I heard in dirty jokes. But I tried to make it nice for you….”
“Thanks for the consideration.” Archie couldn’t help the comment, though it was difficult to feel any real anger at Nimble for knowing how much he’d wanted to be sucked and fucked, or for giving him exactly what he longed for.
Archie glanced down at the small red candles and almost laughed. Who was he to smirk at the faithful for their belief in relics and prayers, when he’d actually believed some oil and a couple of candles would knock down a fortress door?
“I know that wasn’t fair to you, and I know I should have owned up to the truth. It’s not like I didn’t intend to every damn time I saw you, but then….” Nimble sighed. “I was like a damn addict swearing he’d give up his ophorium after just one last shot.”
“Except you did give me up this last time.” Archie didn’t feel any real rancor over that now. He was too stunned by the realization that all this time Nimble had cared for him—that this entire mess had stemmed from him caring.
“You had Silas on the ropes, and that would have completed our contract,” Nimble said. “I couldn’t let you think you’d lost your soul. So I figured if I could find a way to sell it back to you, maybe then…. Maybe if we were on equal ground, then somehow we could find a way to stay i
n touch.”
“You know you nearly broke my damn heart?” Archie said it lightly.
Nimble looked genuinely startled. “But you had all those others,” he objected. “Those two sculptors, that actress from the Blue Dove, the twin contortionists, that singer—”
It chagrined Archie a little, realizing that Nimble had been so aware of all the meaningless affairs in which Archie had indulged—all while he, himself, had been longing for Nimble’s company.
“And I’d trade every one of them for you, old boot,” Archie said.
“Yeah?” That sure quality returned to Nimble’s smile, and it filled Archie with delight.
“Yes,” Archie admitted. His sincerity embarrassed him, and he had to look away from Nimble’s all-too-knowing gaze. Archie gestured to the contents of the oilcloth. “Though if I was making any deal just now, it would be to have brought my pistol instead of all this worthless junk.”
“It might not all be worthless.” Nimble pointed to the silver nails and the coils of wire. “You ever made lock picks from bible nails?”
All at once Nimble’s words seemed to transform bits of trash into torsion wrenches and an assortment of picks and rakes perfect for turning the pins and tumblers of any number of locks. That was a kind of magic all of its own.
“I have not yet had the pleasure,” Archie admitted. “But I’m a quick study.”
“Oh, you’re that and more, my bantling,” Nimble replied. “So, let’s get to it, then.”
Chapter Eight: Decent People
THE LOCK on the iron door proved easy enough to pick. Though Nimble’s knuckles were so swollen that he’d had to turn his boot knife and the bible nails over to Archie. Once they were out, the dark corridor ahead of them loomed like a cavernous mouth. In the flickering green light the pale stonework reminded Archie of long rows of teeth. According to the floor plan, their only way out lay on the opposite end of the club’s private dock and then up through the infirmary to another flight of stairs that led to the arena level of the building.
“Or if there’s a boat at the dock, we might take that and row ashore.” Archie made the suggestion but didn’t feel good about it. His new awareness of Nimble’s mortality made him even more wary of taking him out into rough deep water.
“If there’s a boat, we take it,” Nimble said. “Either way, you have to go to the Inquisition and make a charge against the Dee Club.”
“But I thought—”
“If your uncle takes over the club, then we both know what he’ll do with it. He won’t hesitate to exploit desperate Proddies for all their cash and then drown them in the river.” Nimble shook his head. “We can’t let that happen. If you summon Inquisitors immediately, they’ll come, see the fights and shut the whole place down before Silas can take control of the club.”
There would be a scandal, but reputations weren’t as important as lives. Archie nodded.
“While you’re with the Inquisitors, I’ll send a runner to warn Pugg and Burns to clear their people out,” Nimble decided. “I don’t know that it’ll keep them all out of prison but it’s better than nothing.”
“If that’s the plan, then we’d better be on our way.” Archie considered the storm lamp and decided not to risk its light alerting anyone to their presence. He snuffed the flame and clamped his hand onto the back of Nimble’s damp coat. “Lead on.”
They walked in near silence for what seemed to Archie like miles of blackness. The smell of mildew and wood rot pervaded the air. Now and then Nimble whispered a warning concerning the uneven boards beneath their feet, or a low-hanging beam overhead. Archie could hear the river and ships’ bells as though they were only feet away from him.
Though slowly, the faint green glow of a distant storm lamp filtered in to the clammy corridor. Muted shouts and cheers added their noise to the constant slap and hiss of the river beating against wooden piles, boat hulls, and the rocky banks.
They were nearly under the club now, Archie realized.
As they followed the corridor around a bend, the air turned sharp and wet with cold spray from the river. A cool wind washed over Archie. Hardly a yard ahead of them, the corridor ended at a low black gate. A weathered wooden dock stood beyond that. The Dee Club jutted over the dock, and three storm lanterns flickered from the large wooden beams rising up from the water to support the building. Through the swaying shadows cast by the rocking lanterns, Archie picked out a wooden staircase at the far end of the dock. It led up into the club.
No boats were moored to the narrow dock, which meant they would have to take the stairs and navigate through the club to get back out onto the city streets. Archie released Nimble’s coat and touched the hilt of Nimble’s boot knife, which he’d tucked into his pocket.
Nimble went suddenly very still, and for an instant, Archie feared he’d frozen at the sight of so much water roiling against the narrow expanse of planks. But then Nimble flattened himself against the corridor wall and pulled Archie back with him. Voices sounded closer to them. They both crouched down, making what cover they could from the decorative wrought iron bars of the little gate.
Agatha Wedmoor descended the stairs with a shuttered signal lamp hanging from her right hand. Nurse Fuggas walked just behind her, and Nate Smith followed them. He didn’t bother to hide the pistol he aimed at their backs.
“There’s no point in me signaling to the boat if Phebe isn’t here to board it,” Agatha said.
“Ain’t no point in me keeping the both of you alive when Silas only needs the one of you, but here I am letting your nurse keep on breathing.” Nate lifted his pistol to the back of Nurse Fuggas’s head. Both women went rigidly still. Archie thought he saw tears gleam in Agatha’s eyes. Nurse Fuggas looked furious, but she didn’t move an inch.
Silence stretched several moments, and Nate grinned. “Now, see, that’s what I like.” Nate lowered the pistol. “Women who don’t mouth off when they know fuck all.”
Nimble rolled his shoulders, and Archie knew he was calculating his chances of reaching Nate before the man could open fire on Agatha or Nurse Fuggas. Archie placed his hand against Nimble’s side. They needed to wait for a better opening, hopefully one that wouldn’t put Nimble in danger of being knocked into the river with a single shove. Archie hefted the dark storm lantern in his hand. The thing weighed enough to knock a man’s head in, but there was still the trouble of Agatha and Nurse Fuggas standing between him and Nate.
The three walked closer in silence. Halfway down the narrow dock, they stopped and Agatha lifted the signal lamp. She flicked the shutter, exposing flashes of intense red limelight. Far down the river, a tiny red light blinked in response.
Agatha gave a reply, then lowered and shuttered the signal lamp. She and Nurse Fuggas stood like statues while Nate tapped his foot.
“Well?” Nate demanded after several moments. “What did he say?”
“She will be here within the hour,” Agatha replied. “The river’s rough tonight, so it might take a little longer to safely come alongside us.”
“All that in those few winks?” Nate eyed Agatha with suspicion, and she gazed back at him with utter disdain.
“Yes,” Agatha replied. “Brevity being the soul of wit, I suppose it would confound you.”
“You oughtn’t get too hoity-toity with me.” Nate made a show of flourishing the pistol again, this time in Agatha’s direction. She seemed almost pleased to have drawn Nate’s gun from Nurse Fuggas’s direction.
“Now, now, Nate. One mustn’t lose sight of the final prize.” Silas’s voice carried down the wooden stairs, but it was Mike Smith who first appeared. He pulled a miserable-looking Phebe along with his left hand while he gripped a pistol much like Nate’s in his right. To Archie’s surprise, Charles Wedmoor followed them, cradling the side of his face where an ugly bruise already darkened his right eye. His lower lip was split. The front of his shirt hung, torn open, and his black hair dangled around his face like a storm-tossed nest. His attention darted b
riefly to Agatha, but then he returned to staring at Phebe with an expression of utter anguish.
Silas descended last, looking composed and handsome. He’d bought himself a new cream and gold suit, and the buttons of his large cuffs matched the pearl-handled pistol that he gripped. Archie remembered the gun had belonged to his grandfather and tended to fire left of center.
“It’s a bloody parade down here tonight,” Nimble whispered.
When Silas reached the bottom of the stairs, he drew a large sheet of paper from his coat pocket and, handing his pistol over to Mike, produced one of the new fountain pens from his other pocket.
A terrible thought occurred to Archie. It wasn’t a parade that Silas was orchestrating here on the dock….
“It’s a wedding.” Archie hardly breathed the words, but Nimble nodded in response.
Knowing Silas, funerals would soon follow.
“So, I have an hour before I introduce myself to my new business partners,” Silas said lightly. “Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
Nate eyed Phebe with a lewd grin, while Mike appeared more inclined to knock Charles around a bit more.
“I suppose now would be a fine time to legalize the union of our families.” Silas turned to Charles and held out the paper and pen. “As luck would have it, I’ve acquired a special license. And as my beloved’s guardian, I do hope you’d do the honor of signing your permission.”
Charles looked around himself as if seeking a hole to hide inside. He took a small step back but could retreat no farther without going over the dock and into the river. “I—I can’t… I need a surface to sign on…. Couldn’t we do this at a table like decent people?”
“Decent people?” Silas raised a pale brow. “Decent people don’t smuggle filthy Prodigals into godless Nornian territories, where they can conspire against our nation and our Queen. You aren’t decent. You are traitors! And you’re lucky that I am so moved by love as to spare you all from being justly hanged.”
Devil Take Me Page 31
