by C. S. Quinn
ALSO BY C.S. QUINN
THE THIEF TAKER SERIES
The Thief Taker
Fire Catcher
Death Magic
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 C.S. Quinn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503942110
ISBN-10: 1503942112
Cover design by Lisa Horton
Contents
London, October 1666, ONE month after the Great Fire
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Truth is stranger than fiction. One of the below events is fictional. Can you guess which?
About the Author
London, October 1666, ONE month after the Great Fire
London is a city of burned-out buildings and smoking ash. In the smouldering backstreets, astrologists predict the future and alchemists conjure wonders. Traitors’ heads line London Bridge, where witches sell potions and gamesters turn cards. The murky Thames washes ashore a daily tide of smuggler gangs and pirates.
England has traded her republic for a monarch of the blood. But London’s wealth lies in sea trade, and with Dutch ships setting their sights on England, royal blood has become a dangerous currency.
Prologue
The old sailor leaned forward, his face glowing in lantern light.
‘I tell you,’ he said. ‘It’s the same murders all over again.’ He adjusted his position slightly on the tarred plank deck. ‘Nineteen years ago,’ he continued, ‘at Deptford. A young girl washed up. Her skin was missing, and her eyes were poached like a griddled fish. I’ll never forget it,’ he concluded. ‘She’d been carved with constellations and such.’
‘But why does he strike again now?’ A young sailor leaned forward into the circle of lamplight, outsized canvas shirt gaping at his skinny chest.
‘The arrangement of the stars, Sam,’ said the old sailor, pointing to the night sky, ‘is the same. All Hallows’ Eve approaches. Halloween. The dead will rise.’ The elder man paused for effect. ‘The astrologers say there’ll be an eclipse.’
There was a general hush as they all considered this. They all knew the power of eclipses.
The old sailor rubbed his rough chin, looking at Sam’s rapt expression. ‘You were press-ganged from Deptford?’
‘Last week,’ Sam replied. ‘On my thirteenth birthday. Everyone there wonders about the murders,’ he added. ‘You seamen know more than landlubbers.’
Sam didn’t want to admit that he stayed up late with the grizzled deckhands because the sounds of the huge ship at night gave him bad dreams and he missed his mother.
The old sailor took in Sam’s boyish face and gave a slight nod of pity. He adjusted the lantern flame – the only light permitted after dark. The ship was a floating castle of tarred decks, waxed ropes and oiled sail. If the timber monolith caught aflame, the surface of the water was a long way down, and few could swim anyway.
‘Think you the murderer seeks to fulfil the prophecy?’ asked Sam. ‘To find the All-Seeing Eye?’
A little shudder went around the circle. Every sailor had heard the tale of the mythic Eye.
For a moment the only sound was of the rum tankard gulped, passed and gulped again. The old tar took his turn, sucking his teeth noisily as he tipped back the bitter spirits.
He wiped his mouth. ‘All I know is they were dark times before,’ he said. ‘Brother against brother. Civil war. When the old King knew he was beaten, he summoned a powerful sorcerer. A man who had travelled to the four corners of the earth, who had studied with the ancient scholars and learned the secrets of the gods themselves.’ The sailor paused to let this sink in. ‘The sorcerer laboured for the King in the depths of the palace. And strange things began happening on the river. Bodies washed up. Then after many months the sorcerer made the King a gift. An eye that gave the gift of Sight.’ The sailor tapped his forehead. ‘The power to predict the future.’
There was an intake of breath amongst the sailors. The rum tankard had paused in its passing now.
‘Had I not seen its power for myself,’ continued the sailor, ‘I would not have thought such a thing possible. But I was aboard when the Eye discovered an enemy ship hidden at sea.’
‘What happened to the Eye?’ asked Sam, transfixed.
The old sailor smiled. ‘The King ran mad and betrayed the sorcerer. Lost his head to Cromwell, and the Eye vanished. Though legend tells it this year it will be found, to rule or destroy the world.’
‘The power of kings is restored,’ pointed out another sailor. ‘Cromwell is dead. Charles II is back on the throne. Our own mighty ship is named after his Queen Catherine.’ He patted the deck affectionately.
Sam blinked. He wrinkled his nose. Was he imagining it, or did the air feel thicker? A waft of rank air rolled suddenly over them. Sam was sure of it now. Something was wrong.
‘Do you smell that?’ he said. ‘I swear I caught a whiff of brimstone.’ He eyed the dark deck fearfully, imagining ghosts and ghouls at sea.
Drink-addled sailors scratched their heads and sniffed the air. The smell was growing thicker. A few stood uncertainly. It was sharp, cloying. A stench to make your head hurt.
Then a cloud of smoke rolled lazily over the deck.
The sailors froze, rum tankard halfway through passing.
‘Where does the smoke come from?’ asked one, his voice tight.
Shouts rang out from below. The sailors were uncertain now. Panic rippled through them. An elaborately carved cabin door flew open. Their captain emerged, wig askew, his gold-frogged coat unbuttoned.
‘Does a candle burn uncovered?’ he demanded, peering towards the little clutch of men. ‘There is smoke!’
One of the sailors was pointing out to sea. Stretched across the inky blackness was a mass of glowing embers, making strange lines and shapes on the waves.
Sam was on his feet. The sharp stench was burning his eyes, making it hard to think.
The older sailor grabbed him by the arm. ‘It’s a hellburner,’ he said, steadying them both against the swell.
Pure fear tunnelled through the younger sailor. He’d heard of fireships. They were terrible weapons that the Dutch sent to destroy their enemy – flaming vessels that crashed into their targets and set all alight.
‘The hellburner means to hook on to our rigging!’ shouted the old sailor. ‘We must turn about.’
Sam could make out the shape of the fireship now. A flaming monster coming fast out of the dark with an enormous metal hook jutting from her prow.
The ear-splitting sound of breaking wood erupted all around. The fireship’s curved hook thrust aboard with enough force to split the wooden side of the deck.
The captain, standing nearest the water, took the full brunt to his side. The arc of metal tore through his ribcage, leaving a gaping hole. He raised his hand, drenched in scarlet blood, then staggered back and collapsed.
The fireship’s hooked prow tunnelled relentlessly forward, tangling tight in their mass of rigging. Blinding smoke billowed inwards.
Sheer terror hit the deck. Sailors were pouring out from their hammocks, sleep-slack faces trying to understand the horror on deck. Half-dressed men were screaming for water butts and vinegar to douse the fire.
‘What should we do?’ managed Sam, coughing deep to his stomach.
‘We must cut our ship free, or we’ll all burn to death.’
The old sailor guided them blindly towards the rigging. Sam could make out part of the great hook, caught deep in the mesh of webbed rope. It was thick with sailors sawing at the tough rigging.
The air crackled. Then a demonic roar sent a plume of red flames racing upwards and an explosion hit. The force threw Sam backwards. He felt a blow to his midriff and saw a dismembered torso had knocked him to the deck.
Sam felt rough hands pulling him up. Their waxed-canvas sails were aflame now. The tarred deck was spotted in green fire. Attempts to dislodge their attacker were abandoned as the crew ran for their lives.
‘She’ll burn through in moments,’ gasped the old sailor, drawing Sam to the side of the ship. ‘Do you swim?’
Sam shook his head, noticing the old man had a great bloody gash from hairline to chin. Torrents of screaming men were hurling themselves into the dark waters.
‘The Devil and the deep blue sea,’ said the old sailor, looking down.
Sam swallowed. Tears filled his eyes.
‘You’ve family back in Deptford?’ asked the old sailor.
He nodded.
‘You’ll see them on the other side,’ comforted the old man. ‘Don’t look down.’
Below them the cold water was scattered with drowning sailors.
Sam could feel the white heat of the burning ship behind him. There was a juddering beneath their feet.
‘The munitions will catch soon,’ said the old sailor. He squeezed the younger man’s arm. ‘I won’t let you go, boy.’
Flames dived down below deck, exploding barrels of gunpowder and oil, throwing the huge vessel from side to side. The body of her dead captain slid across the deck, smashing into the masthead.
Sam closed his eyes and jumped, holding tight to the old sailor. They hit the water together, just as the munitions deck blew out the side of the ship.
The Queen Catherine lurched, her anchors tearing from the seabed. Then the weight pulled her back and she began to sink fast.
As the ocean drew him down, Sam saw a shower of gold leaf fall softly around. The ship’s gilding was flaking away, raining down on to the drowning men. Sam cast around for the old sailor but could only see dying men. He fixed his gaze on the prow, with its bright bust of Queen Catherine. The ship tilted up and began to descend, the figurehead’s red mouth smiling.
Sam gulped cold water and felt himself sinking. He watched the black ocean close over the Queen’s dark hair, saw her flames circle and die. Then the current pulled the last strength from his legs and he sunk down with her.
Chapter 1
Charlie took a seat in the chophouse, the smell of grilled meat filling the air. He assessed his surroundings. Men sat at tables, talking, reading, chewing meat, swigging beer and punch. With his back to the narrow window, Charlie could almost forget he was in a debtors’ prison.
A woman in a low-cut dress bearing two large jugs arrived at his side.
‘Ale or punch?’ she demanded.
‘Ale,’ said Charlie. He’d noticed a telltale mineral tidemark on the punch jug where lead had been added to disguise rancid wine.
‘Coin or tab?’ she asked as Charlie held out his tankard to be filled. He could tell she was sizing him up. Charlie’s battered long gentleman’s coat had weathered plague and fire in the last few years. Several tiny buttons running down the expensive brown leather were missing, and the large cuffs were scuffed. He made an unlikely visitor to the aristocratic section of a debtors’ prison. Charlie looked more like a visitor to the commoners’ side, where starving debtors begged for scraps.
‘Coin,’ said Charlie firmly, pushing money into her hand. ‘I’m a thief taker. Here on business.’ He was nervous of being confused with the incarcerated debtors, who ran weekly tabs.
The woman leant back for a moment, considering him. ‘I didn’t think many thief takers still did business,’ she said, ‘since Charlie Tuesday is so famed for catching villains.’
‘I am Charlie Tuesday.’
The woman’s eyes widened. She scrutinised Charlie’s face, taking in the kink where his nose had been broken and the slight scar to his upper lip. Her eyes skimmed Charlie’s dark blond hair, then dropped to his patched breeches, hidden to the knee beneath the coat, and his toughened bare feet.
‘Always wondered what you looked like,’ she said finally, clearly expecting him to have been better dressed. ‘You are handsome I suppose, in your own way. Is it true you solve crimes for poor folk?’
‘When I can afford to,’ said Charlie gruffly. Unlike most thief takers, he undertook cases for food and favours if he felt the victims deserving. And the petty criminals he caught often mysteriously escaped the noose once property was returned.
‘Finding out villains for a profit must be a hard business,’ decided the woman. Her eyes settled on the key at his neck. ‘I heard you saved that woman from hanging. An
d your key can open any lock in the city.’
Charlie lifted the double-sided key. ‘I’ve saved many women from hanging,’ he said, ‘but this is only a trinket. Something I was orphaned with.’
His eyes settled on the astrology almanacs scattered around the room. They made predictions for the coming months based on the stars.
Charlie pointed to the printed booklets held by several prisoners. He’d been wondering about them since he arrived.
‘They follow the astrologers’ prophecies here?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ the woman nodded. ‘It’s a revelation, isn’t it? Ishmael Boney killing them poor folk what washed up at Dead Man’s Curve. His almanacs are fought over.’
‘He’s been found guilty?’ Charlie was surprised.
‘Vanished,’ said the woman with some satisfaction. ‘After the bodies were dragged from Dead Man’s Curve, all marked like constellations in the heavens. But we all know it was him, don’t we? The markings on those poor dead girls were drawn in his almanac.
‘It’s a shame,’ opined the woman. ‘Ishmael was a phenomenon before he turned dark. The Moorish astrologer seemed to know all,’ she said reverently. ‘My brother consulted him on whether to marry, and he and his wife have barely a cross word. Except for that business with the baker’s girl and the sacking,’ she reflected.
As the woman sashayed away, Charlie eyed the other customers, assuring himself his man was not yet here. Most of the men eating and drinking Charlie judged to be prisoners, though he could identify the odd lawyer or devoted wife.
There was a flash of red and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief to see Lily. She was perennially unreliable, and like Charlie, Lily had a phobia of London prisons – though hers came from experience, whilst his was born of caution. Charlie prided himself on having never been caught.
Heads turned as Lily passed the tables. Her toffee-coloured skin, dark eyes and jangle of talismans at neck and fingers marked her out as a gypsy. But this wasn’t the main reason men looked.
Charlie noticed with amusement the expressions of confusion as Lily seated herself next to him. He could see people wondering how a mere thief taker – albeit London’s best – had secured the company of a girl who looked like one of King Charles’s mistresses. Whilst Charlie had enough luck with women to know he wasn’t bad-looking, he was nothing to Lily’s captivating beauty. Unbeknown to everyone in the prison, she was a spy for King Charles. But her allegiances were mainly to herself, and Charlie doubted her loyalty went much beyond pay.
