Twenty-Eight
It probably wasn’t my best idea to expel my frustration with my rapier blade, but what were swords for?
I wended my way through the dark alleys, hand on my hilt. Itching to use it in a battle once and for all—and to redeem my pathetic attempts during Norwood’s capture eight months ago. Without color power, I’d have to be more creative in my attempts to free the Keeper prisoners.
I passed along the back side of the Strand, ducking under the lit windows and sliding through the shadows. I’d walked this path so many times, I knew the proper route of shadows to reach the Tower undetected.
Two revelers stumbled out of the Duck and Drake, masks swinging on their belts just as drunkenly as their owners. That was where I’d first seen Father and not known it. I’d thought he was reveling, but he’d actually been swearing himself into the Gunpowder Plot.
As the two men swayed down an alley, three dark shadows slunk behind them. I pulled up short. The three followers carried swords and rope. They wore their masks—all of which were Blue. They struck me as Igniters out for blood.
Or worse . . . for masks.
I couldn’t let those drunks get jumped and turned into the Tower. They made it to the docks before the three Blues revealed themselves by sending a rope around one drunk’s ankle using color speech. Igniter scum. The Keepers didn’t even scream, the ale too thick in their minds to allow them to register fear.
I stepped behind the Igniters and drew my sword. “Leave them be.” I attacked before they could turn, adrenaline sending my sword slices and parries through the air at a speed beyond my regular skill. One Igniter caught a foot over a plank and stumbled backward into the Thames. Two to go.
One drunk guffawed at the blunder . . . until a sword pierced through his left lung. He screamed and dropped to one knee. When the Igniter withdrew his sword, the wounded drunk flopped sideways, half his body over the edge of the dock, pouring his red blood into the river. Keeper.
“How dare you.” I faced off with the remaining two, bending my wrist and holding the blade a few inches lower so as to lure them closer by giving the impression of a shorter blade and shorter reach of my arm.
One took the bait. I deflected his strike easily with my guard. A quick jab into his shoulder broke his stance and sent him reeling back. That bought me some time. It wouldn’t be long before they used their color pow—
A slap of water hit my face.
The shock of cold and stench broke my footing. I swept the water from my face with my free arm in time to see the two Igniters advancing—both wearing their masks and swords aloft. I deflected their united attack, but another splash struck my face.
And another.
Another.
There was nothing for it. I reeled backward—away from where I knew the swords to be. If I couldn’t see, I couldn’t fight. But I didn’t have much of a choice as scoops of water pummeled me. I barely sucked in a fresh breath between attacks and focused on keeping my fist around my sword.
A sting at my thigh. I yelled. The jab was weak, but that meant they were close enough to send their points into my heart. I tried to outrun the water, but the attack doubled. The other Igniter must have emerged from the Thames because a dock barrel upended and rolled along the boardwalk toward my shins. I attempted a leap over it, but it caught my leading foot and I fell hard on my back.
The barrel changed directions and came for my head. I scrambled for my feet, but the constant drenching of Thames water made it hard enough to breathe, let alone regain my balance. I couldn’t find it in me to flee. Not with a sword in my hand. Not if it meant abandoning these reckless drunk Keepers to the noose.
But were they worth dying for?
I hauled myself to my feet with the help of a line of crates, blinking the water out of my eyes.
Then another figure strode onto the dock, behind the two Igniters. A cloak billowed about his body and a hood covered his face. He didn’t still his footfalls. The Igniters spun.
This new figure had no sword, but his fists held two small daggers.
Daggers of stone.
Fear devoured my bravery. This was the man—this had to be the man who had been on the bank of the Thames. The abandoned dagger on the shore matched.
The way he entered the battle left no room for doubt . . . We were all dead men.
The two remaining Igniters focused their attacks on the new man. I turned to get the remaining drunk Keeper out of there. The stabbed Keeper had bled out into the Thames. His skin was so pale and drained that, even if he were still breathing, I could offer no help.
I dragged the remaining Keeper up the stairs away from the boardwalk. “Where do you live?” I demanded.
He kept looking over his shoulder at the mystery man. Too drunk to be concerned for his comrade. If fate favored him, he might wake up and never remember the flopping bloodless body of his drinking companion.
“Where do you live, man?”
Still no answer. The sounds of fighting were distant enough that I spared a glance over my shoulder.
The cloaked man darted in with his daggers and cut each Igniter. One. Two. They barely stumbled. They barely checked their swords. His little daggers would do nothing against them except stick them like annoying bee stings. Should I help?
Blast it all.
I shoved the Keeper into the Duck and Drake. The innkeeper had his nightcap on and was carrying a candle to lock the inn door. I flicked him a twopence. “Put this man up and don’t let him leave until he’s sober.”
I didn’t stay to see if the innkeeper caught the coin.
I didn’t stay to see if the Keeper kept his feet when I released his arm.
Sword still drawn, I returned to the dock. The third Igniter had crawled from the Thames and retrieved his own sword. It was now three on one. They all bled red blood with white strings from their sword arms.
Should I really take this mysterious man’s side? One of his daggers had been used to try to cut Emma when I first met her in London.
But leaving a man to fight three-on-one made me as much a coward as he would be a hero. So I ran down the boardwalk, sword at the ready.
The sopping-wet Igniter met my advance. I dispatched his sword in a single defensive twirl, but my strike stilled at a scream.
The other two Igniters had dropped their swords and clawed at their throats. Was the man attacking them with something using his color power? They recoiled from him.
A sliver of color peeked through the mystery man’s hood—Yellow. Or was it Brown? I peered closer.
He shouted something. The brim of my hat yanked down over my face and stuck there. Something hard struck my side. I toppled and threw out my arms to catch myself, but the post of the boardwalk caught me in the temple.
I woke to pain in my ribs and scattered light in my eyes. Someone kicked me again in the side and I groaned, waving a hand. A third kick came, harder.
Now I was angry.
“Get up, beggar. This is my dock and you’re deterring customers. As if the plague wasn’t enough trouble for one morning. You’re lucky I haven’t confiscated your sword.”
My sword. I blinked my eyes open. My lashes met the press of black cloth. Beams of light slipped through the weave of my hat. I yanked the brim up and made out a man in brown fisher garb with a coil of rope over his shoulder. A few other men wandered the docks.
I could see out of only one eye. My hand flew up to the left side of my face. Not stone. Just tender and so swollen my lid couldn’t open.
“Looks like you lost.” The fisherman chuckled and headed up the boardwalk. “Learn to pick your fights, boy.”
I stumbled to my feet, my sword still in hand. I barely looked as I sheathed it, trying mainly to keep my balance. My memories slogged through my fatigue and headache, trying to catch up.
Then I saw three forms lying on a tarp. I inched closer until I saw the webbed grey plague ringing their throats, petrifying their air supply. Their masks were smashed
practically to powder and sprinkled over their chests like bread crumbs.
These were the three Igniters from last night.
All dead.
All plagued.
And I’d glimpsed the mask of the man who’d done it. The flash of Yellow repeated in my head—but it was so shadowed. It might have been Brown. Or even Red.
Blast it all!
All I knew was this was the same figure who’d lurked at the bank of the Thames. The man with the odd daggers. He’d sent my hat brim over my eyes—as if he was afraid of my knowing his identity.
Did I know any Yellows?
What was he doing every night with those daggers? And why did he leave me on the dock to wake so confused?
The Thames churned, muddy like poor man’s stew. Its spinning current promised chill and death. I watched the brown water, smelled the fish slime from the docks, and heard gulls overhead, circling for the discarded fish guts. The noise of the dockworkers beat like a drum against my skull, shoving my questions to the wayside. I was in no shape to riddle out these new questions. I barely made it back to my bed in the Whynniard house before my knees gave out.
Still, I forced myself to pull off my boots and lay them by the door. Then I removed my hat.
A folded slip of paper fell to the ground, sticking to the grime on my boot. Where did that come from? I unstuck it and opened it.
Tomorrow. In our alley. The handwriting swept across the page with long handles and sharp peaks—fierce and elegant.
Our alley?
A relieved laugh escaped me.
Emma. She had slipped it into my hat on my way out of the Monteagle house on the Strand. And “our alley” was the alley in which we first came together in London.
She wanted to meet. It wasn’t the end of us. I should have known she wouldn’t dismiss me like that—after everything.
I headed to the alley shortly before the morning’s ninth bell. I wanted to wait for Emma, not the other way around. I didn’t know what time she’d arrive, so I planned to be there all day if need be.
Caddies ran to and fro, delivering messages for their masters. I passed London Bridge and a string of nicer homes. An African girl hung out laundry on a rope stretched from one window to the neighbor’s. I stared at her as I jogged past. For the past two months, every time I passed a person with skin darker than mine, I imagined what they could be. I imagined what talents hid inside of them that they couldn’t show to others because Europe didn’t understand them yet.
What would they be like if they were all allowed to don masks, like Emma did? Or better yet, what could they be if people didn’t halt or judge or command based on skin?
My entire thinking had been flipped. It was disorienting. Overwhelming in a way that demanded change and action. What talents rested inside this girl hanging laundry? Was she an actress? Did she have a mind for science? Was she a powerful color-speaker like Emma?
The church bells chimed nine.
I ran on, careened to the right, and skidded to a halt in the alley where I first saw Emma in London. It was empty save the patches of shadows. Now, more than ever, I wanted to see her and talk.
I kept my eyes trained on the main road. Every gown that passed caught my eye. Every woman with summer gloves on or a lace ruffle at the throat. She could be Emma . . . expertly hiding her skin color.
But she’d shown herself to me. She’d trusted me and let me in. I knew what hid behind her mask and beneath her gloves, and I felt incredibly privileged.
Perhaps she wouldn’t come. Maybe she’d changed her mind, or Henry found out about her message. That thought grew a lump in my throat. He’d called her his betrothed.
An hour passed. I paced the alley.
A couple walked past with a black servant girl in a stained brown dress and apron trailing behind, balancing a basket on her hip. I shook my head and paced the other direction. My mind still jumped to the word servant when I saw someone with dark skin.
My culture had affected my thinking without my consent. How many other things had it shaped without my knowing it? It made me want to examine things—to seek the heart of matters. Of skin color, of Keepers, of Igniters, of White Light, of all my assumptions.
How many of us acted and spoke out and fought for beliefs that we held because our environment told us to? As much as I wanted to blame my England, I knew the blame sat with me. I hadn’t trained myself to discern. To examine. To seek the source.
That was about to change.
“Have you already forgotten what I look like?”
I spun and found myself face-to-face with the girl with the basket. Then I saw the curls. The constellation of freckles. The wide eyes. “Emma.”
She stood there. No emotion. No comment. But her fingers picked at the reeds of the basket. Was she . . . nervous?
I found my voice. “Not forgotten. I’ve thought of you every single day since the masquerade. I just . . . wasn’t expecting you to show up in—”
“Servant clothes?”
“—disguise.”
“Oh.” Then she grinned. And my heart turned so violently in my chest it ached with a confusing bittersweetness. I wanted the world to see Emma’s smile, but she’d had to hide it. For years.
“You’re so beautiful.” The words slipped out before I could catch them. But I didn’t want to stop them. I never wanted to stop telling her.
“And you’re so . . . bruised.” She wrinkled her face. “What happened?”
“Ah yes.” I tapped the portion of my face battered from the dock post. “I guess you still have to stare at the unsightly Thomas.”
“Your plague was never unsightly.” She adjusted the basket on her hip.
“Shall I take that for you?” I reached for it, but she pulled it out of reach.
“No. It’s already odd enough for people to see you talking to me in public. But should you carry my basket for me, word might spread through the web of servants. The less conspicuous we are, the better.”
“But . . . you’re free right now. You’re . . .” I gestured to her. “You’re not having to hide yourself. Can’t you walk and do as you please?”
“I’m sure I could, but all of London would be watching.”
“I just . . . don’t understand.” I knew black skin was uncommon—my own reaction to it was proof enough of that. Curiosity was natural. But why would it hinder her?
“You were at the masquerade, Thomas. You saw the performance.” She brushed her fingers along my bare arm. “You are pure-skinned.”
Absurd. That she would call me pure-skinned—a man who had been plagued for two full years. But that was how the Masque of Blackness presented the people of England. “It shouldn’t have anything to do with skin! Plagued or African or masked. There’s too much fear and prejudice in England right now.” I ground my teeth. “Because of King James and the war between Keepers and Igniters. If people would just—”
“You’ve had one moment of clarity and now you think you have all the answers.” She gave a grim smile. “Take a breath, Thomas. There has always been fear. There will always be fear. It’s up to us to stand tall, even when the fear demands we bow to it.”
“I’m fighting for freedom, Emma.” I couldn’t tell her any more than that, but I wanted her to know I was doing something. Once we got a Keeper on the throne, we could stop the war. The plague. The deaths. We could make a new England. We had Dee on our side now.
Igniters controlled us. Well . . . most Igniters. Not Emma.
Never Emma.
Once the Igniters—except Emma—were exiled, England would have order. Freedom. Keepers accepted others.
“Be careful, Thomas.” The way she said this sent my skin tingling. “Be careful that you’re fighting for the right cause.”
I snorted. “What, for the Igniters?”
“No. Don’t fight for the Igniters. Don’t fight for the Keepers.”
I pressed both hands against one of the house walls, taking a deep breath. “Shouldn’t
I fight for what I believe in?”
“It’s not as simple as that. Fighting for what you believe in is too subjective.”
I raised my head to meet her eyes.
“We need to fight for truth. Your beliefs can be misguided.”
“So can yours,” I ground out, defensive, though I wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t I been thinking the same thing before she entered the alley?
“Exactly. Both Igniters and Keepers and people in between fight for their own agendas . . . instead of being willing to discuss and seek what’s right.”
I tried not to sneer. “Do you really think there’s some ultimate truth out there?”
She laughed. “Of course there is! It is the foundation of morals and justice. A foundation of truth represents what life was intended to be.”
“And how do you know what was intended to be?”
Somehow I sensed the answer before she gave it. “I go back to the beginning.”
“The White Light?” I rolled my eyes. Both of them. “You’re so deceived by Igniter talk you can’t see it.”
She pointed a stiff finger to my face. “Have you ever responded to it?”
“Yes! And it gave confusing signs.”
“So ask for more. Keep seeking. Don’t you see?”
“I want to see!” My shout echoed down the alley and I sucked in a breath. Even though my eyes were finally clear, I still felt so blind. Our reunion wasn’t going at all how I’d hoped. “Emma . . . White Light wasn’t the one who got rid of my plague. John Dee did.”
Her eyes narrowed. “He abuses the color powers. Colors are meant to be coaxed, spoken to in their own language. Treated with respect—and then they obey. Dee’s ways force colors to obey. To control them without White Light’s authority is to break them and twist them to do things they shouldn’t.”
I agreed that he was knowledge-hungry, but how was that any different from Igniters? “Whatever he is or does, his way worked. How many more people could he cure if King James gave him authority to?”
“I’m sure King James has his reasons.”
I wanted her to be right, but did she know how the king called himself a god? Did she know how he exiled every Keeper? Did she know that there was a plague outbreak the day he rode into London to settle on the throne? “King James promised the Keepers freedom, but the moment he sat on the throne, he doubled the restrictions!”
Fawkes Page 22
