Dark Stars (The Thief Taker Book 3)

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘I don’t care about your brother,’ said Lily sharply, ‘I only care about . . .’ She stopped climbing suddenly. ‘I can hear voices,’ she whispered.

  Charlie pulled himself level with Lily and listened carefully. Then his face opened in recognition.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ he said. ‘We’ve come to the right place.’

  Chapter 69

  Filtering down the old well was the undoubted shouting and bargaining of Custom House.

  ‘Docking sailors,’ said Charlie, ‘arguing their taxes.’

  Carefully he raised his head a few inches over the precipice and looked out.

  The well shaft was tucked towards one side of Custom House, attracting no interest from anyone. Further beyond were tax collectors sat at long tables, with sacks of money and jewels ranged near their feet. Captains and sailors jostled in untidy queues, waiting to state their case.

  A number of guards stood on duty, but they were either watching the queuing men or policing the doors, where the shouts of angry sailors’ wives could be heard from outside.

  ‘It’s safe,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Come on.’

  He pushed up and climbed out. Lily came behind him, dusting down her skirts.

  Inside, Custom House was organised chaos. The half-built structure was filled with long tables and disorderly lines of seamen. It was now mid-afternoon, and the atmosphere had turned desperate. Everyone wanted business settled before the ill-fated All Hallows’ Eve fell. Suntanned colonial traders haggled for tax breaks on bundles of tobacco and sacks of spices. Fat merchants from the Baltic and Sweden imported lumber and iron, their thick woollen clothes white with sea salt. Wealthy British captains in thick frock coats shipped wool and copper from England’s North. Outlandishly dressed adventurers wore bright feathers and spoils of the New World.

  Above them the old crest of London, with its proud lion, looked down on the assembled sailors, its jewels and gilding twinkling in the morning sun.

  Charlie and Lily slipped quietly away from the well and mingled in with the queuing crowd.

  A man barred their way.

  ‘Good morrow!’ he announced, opening his coat to display an array of navigational wares. ‘Might I interest you in the latest seafaring equipment?’ He removed a complicated-looking device. ‘Chart your place at sea,’ he enticed. ‘Find new lands. This quadrant was used by the captain who discovered Barbados.’

  Charlie tried not to let his troubled mind overwhelm him. Conning new sailors into buying miraculous tools was exactly the insalubrious kind of activity Rowan would be engaged in. He was about to issue a friendly decline when the salesman’s face switched in recognition.

  ‘Charlie Tuesday!’ he said. ‘You helped my brother-in-law recover his carpentry tools.’ His eyes shifted to Lily and widened. ‘You!’ the salesman accused.

  Lily eyed him distractedly; then her eyes narrowed. The man was backing away now, pulling his wares closer to his body and crossing himself.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Charlie asked as the salesman vanished into the crowd.

  ‘He put his hand where he shouldn’t,’ said Lily distractedly, looking around Custom House. ‘Why is everyone shouting?’ she added.

  ‘Custom House is all about negotiation,’ said Charlie. ‘The captains take the worst of their stock and pretend it accounts for the whole. The customs men know it and make their calculations of tax accordingly.’

  ‘If this place has been here since Roman times,’ said Lily, glancing towards the well, ‘I don’t see any evidence of a temple.’

  ‘Perhaps it was an old entrance to the city,’ suggested Charlie. ‘Diana is the Moon Goddess. The moon rules the tides, water. Arrivals by river all come this way.’

  ‘We just need to work out where the goddess would be,’ said Lily. She glanced around. ‘There’s nothing Roman left,’ she concluded.

  ‘The goddess could also be symbolised by a bear,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘Maybe carved into some old stonework.’

  ‘The only animal I see is the lion in the crest,’ said Lily.

  Charlie looked up to the Custom House crest. Something about it had nagged at him since they’d entered the building. Suddenly the answer came to him.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ he said.

  Lily followed his gaze. ‘The English crest?’ she said. ‘The lion?’

  ‘Look more closely,’ said Charlie. ‘Does the snout not look rather snub? The mane has been added later,’ he decided, ‘but the form is still there. It was once a bear.’

  ‘The sign of Diana,’ said Lily wonderingly.

  ‘The London Goddess,’ agreed Charlie. ‘If her temple was once the entrance to the city, it would fit.’

  ‘It would explain all the streets and lanes dedicated to bears,’ agreed Lily. ‘And all the St Ursula’s Churches.’

  They both stared at the large Custom House crest. It was of ancient carved wood, decorated with jewels and gold leaf that had been added over the years.

  ‘That crest is old,’ said Charlie. ‘Perhaps it was even Roman. Rather than make a new one, they just adapted it.’

  ‘I see the bear now,’ said Lily. ‘But I don’t see the ring.’

  ‘Look at the mouth,’ said Charlie.

  Lily looked. And there, glistening red between the bear’s grinning teeth, was a shining ruby.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said excitedly. ‘I can see gold at the edges where the band begins.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘How do we get to it?’ she said. ‘It’s high on the wall.’

  ‘We can’t come back at night,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s no time. Halloween is less than twelve hours away.’

  Lily chewed a fingernail.

  The great crest stared down at them, tantalisingly close. With the guard presence at Custom House, Charlie judged they’d be dead or arrested within ten seconds of attempting to rob the crest.

  His mind roamed possible routes to the ring. There was a pile of thick ship’s netting on one of the customs tables. Charlie calculated it could be thrown to hook the crest, making a kind of ladder to climb up to the ring.

  ‘What if I create a disturbance?’ suggested Lily. ‘These men are already halfway pitched for a riot. I need only distract them for a few moments.’

  ‘There are too many guards expecting it,’ said Charlie. ‘The last robbery at Custom House was over ten years ago. They’ve heavily guarded it since. Each official has a gun and a sword.’

  He moved thoughtfully to the window. ‘They’re well protected against an internal attack,’ he said slowly, ‘but they won’t be expecting one from outside.’ He pointed to the band of furious sailors’ wives, shrieking and hurling rocks at the windows.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Lily, eyeing the medley of women. ‘We let those harpies inside?’

  ‘Exactly that.’

  Chapter 70

  The sailors’ wives were clustered thickly around Charlie, shouting and jabbing their fingers at Custom House.

  They’d lost more time than Charlie realised getting inside Custom’s House. By the angle of the sun it was now late afternoon, and he tried to dismiss the thought of Rowan and time slipping away.

  He looked anxiously to the doorway, hoping Lily would accomplish her part of the plan. Charlie had managed to persuade the women to draw back from the entrance to make Lily’s plan more likely to succeed. But the atmosphere was quickly turning ugly.

  ‘He tricks us!’ accused one woman with meaty forearms and a broken pitchfork. ‘He only wants to draw us away from Custom House.’

  ‘I support your cause,’ reassured Charlie. ‘You must only wait a few moments. Then you might make your case inside.’

  A few younger women looked mollified, but the older stalwarts were spoiling for a fight.

  ‘We go back!’ shrieked a snaggle-toothed woman with a broken nose. ‘Demand our rights!’

  ‘A moment.’ Charlie kept his voice soothing, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. He glanced again at t
he huge door.

  Where was Lily? Distracting men was one of her greatest abilities.

  Suddenly the entrance opened a crack. The guards outside turned in surprise, a few words were muttered, then they vanished into Custom House.

  ‘There,’ said Charlie, not bothering to hide his relief. ‘The guards are gone. You have a few minutes to get inside.’

  The woman with the thick forearms raised her pitchfork. ‘We will have our men’s wages!’ she roared.

  The women took up the cry, and the mob moved as one thundering force towards Custom House.

  Charlie saw the scarred and weathered faces glare at the semi-open doorway. The women meant business. He ducked amongst their midst as they flocked towards Custom House in one deafening movement.

  The heavy door was thrown back. The protestors poured through, screaming for justice. On the other side, Charlie caught a glimpse of Lily talking animatedly, with a seductive expression, to a group of guards. He sensed her alarm wasn’t forced as she turned to see the mob tunnelling through the now open doorway.

  The guards were taken completely by surprise. Many were resting on their guns, waiting for the day to end. The sudden pack of furious women was so unexpected that a few men dropped their weapons in shock.

  Now inside, the sailors’ wives had no problem matching their political agenda to physical action.

  ‘Justice!’ bellowed the pitchfork woman. ‘We mean to take what our husbands are owed!’

  They fell on the merchant sailors, pulling at stock samples, looting any valuables they could see. Their leader quickly found the stash of confiscated contraband, stacked untidily behind the end table. She shouted to her colleagues, and they rushed as one to seize the goods.

  An unfortunate customs man stood and tried to bar their way. When the leader pushed him aside, he grabbed at her thin dress. There was an audible rip, and the woman screamed in outrage.

  ‘This is our dues!’ she screamed, kicking him square in the groin. ‘Move aside!’

  The customs man doubled over in pain. A guard moved quickly to his side, punching randomly into the pack of women. He caught the leader square on the jaw and she twisted, spitting blood.

  An outraged howl echoed up from the women, and the guard’s face turned from grim duty to surprised terror. Charlie saw his wig flying aside as he went down, and twenty women landed on him, tearing fistfuls of hair and clothing.

  Charlie’s attention turned to Lily, but she’d already managed to slip away from the male guard. She caught his eye and beckoned to the back of Custom House, where the crest hung.

  Charlie raced towards the netting he’d seen earlier and scooped it up. But as his fingers grasped the tough rope, he felt someone fall on him from behind, clutching at the net.

  ‘The property is ours!’ shouted a sailor’s wife, brandishing a kitchen knife.

  Charlie reached back to hold her scrawny wrists, but the woman let out a banshee shriek, and several heads turned towards the tussling pair. Women raced to help their friend, teeth bared, rudimentary weapons waving.

  Suddenly a flash of red silk stood between them.

  ‘Get away from him!’ shouted Lily, knives held out. She twisted to Charlie, who had worked the net free from the woman and managed to extricate himself from her grip. ‘Go!’ Lily shouted.

  Charlie hesitated, seeing her outnumbered.

  ‘Quickly,’ she added, her eyes desperately taking in the odds.

  He stepped towards the wall and flung the net, trying to drown out the hissed insults of ‘gypsy’ and ‘whore’ sounding behind him.

  The netting fell awkwardly, only half catching on the crest. But he didn’t have time for a more secure hit. Charlie dug his foot into the net, feeling it jerk downwards, then hold. He put one hand over the other, climbing carefully to avoid dislodging the makeshift ladder, then risked a glance at Lily. She was backed against the wall, a growing mob of women surrounding her. He moved faster, scaling the rigging, ignoring the uncertain footholds as he climbed higher.

  His hand landed on the lion’s snub snout, but his position was too precarious to get a firm hold. He managed to snag his fingertips on the mouth, where the ring was lodged. Then inch by painful inch he got a grip on the ring. It was wedged too tight to pull free.

  ‘Charlie!’

  He heard Lily’s cry of terror. He looked down to see one of the sailors’ wives lunge at her throat with a broken poker. Forgetting the ring, Charlie moved higher on to the crest, securing his footing. He unhitched the netting and threw it downwards. The heavy rope landed on the women nearest to Lily, dropping them to the ground in a tangle of shouts and screams. The surrounding sailors’ wives fell on to the netting, trying to free their colleagues. In the confusion their attack on Lily was temporarily forgotten.

  With his extra weight now completely on the wooden crest, Charlie heard the shriek of ancient nails pulling free from the wall. The lion jerked back a few inches, and Charlie strained to hold on as the wooden mount began to lever free from the wall.

  Lily looked up gratefully. Then she saw Charlie was trapped high above the hard ground. The split in the wall showered plaster dust, and the crest creaked free another inch. Charlie dropped downwards with it, desperately hanging on.

  ‘The wool sacks!’ Charlie was looking towards a consignment of yarn, shipped down from sheep farmers in Newcastle.

  Lily understood immediately and ran to the cargo. She dodged a guard who grabbed at her and shouldered aside a sailor’s wife headed for the same booty. Then she grasped the wool sacks and began hurling them beneath the crest. She’d landed three when Charlie felt his hold give way completely. The wooden decoration levered free and plummeted to the ground, taking him with it. Charlie felt himself fall heavily on the wool sacking and rolled quickly to avoid the crest. It smashed apart next to him, causing every head in Custom House to turn in his direction.

  Lily was at his side, pulling him up. Her eyes lighted on a flash of shining red, buried in the shattered remains of the crest.

  ‘The ring!’ She scooped it up and pocketed it. ‘This way!’

  ‘Halt!’ shouted a guard. ‘That woman steals a jewel from the crest!’

  ‘The well!’ said Lily, pulling a dazed Charlie behind her.

  He heard the crack of a gunshot and saw a haze of burning powder. Then the entrance to the old well was in front of them. They swung inside as more gunshots rained over their heads and were climbing back down towards Little Bear Steps, leaving the mayhem of Custom House behind.

  Chapter 71

  Amesbury approached the dark double doors. He risked his life coming here. The Queen Mother had tried to bring about his death for twenty years.

  The footman outside moved forward to bar his way. ‘It is the time of Her Royal Highness’s ceremonies,’ he said. ‘She cannot be disturbed.’

  Amesbury dropped a warning hand to his sword. The footman sized up the general’s expression and stepped back.

  Inside the room the Queen Mother was on her feet, her hard wooden throne sitting behind her. Her old-fashioned black dress did little to bulk out her bird-like frame, and Amesbury thought she looked like a mean little crow, peering agitatedly in his direction.

  Pictures of the old King in all his autocratic delusion glared down at Amesbury. The general almost felt sorry for the Queen Mother. She’d made her own giant mausoleum to her tyrant husband and was living inside it.

  At her feet was a wardrobe of the old King’s black clothes and white collars, laid out carefully as though a person were still inside them. Towards the edge of the clothing display was a range of disparate artefacts, some bloodstained. There were coins bearing the dead King’s head, a locket with his portrait and a scrap of curling brown blood-soaked hair.

  A footman had been in the act of laying more objects neatly in the array. But he’d stopped as the unexpected guest entered the Queen’s chambers.

  Amesbury made the briefest possible of bows. ‘I see you kept the astronomical cl
ock,’ he observed, nodding to outside, where the distant tick of the mighty clock could be faintly heard. ‘I might have thought it brought bad memories.’ He hesitated. ‘Greenwich,’ he said pointedly, ‘seems a strange choice for the mother of our King. Just downriver of Deptford dockyards. Particularly when this is where you and your husband were residing when he lost his kingdom.’

  The Queen Mother’s lips drew even thinner. ‘Leave us,’ she said, gesturing to the footman, who’d come in after Amesbury. ‘The turncoat won’t stay long.’ She regarded Amesbury icily. ‘You’re still alive,’ Henrietta said. ‘My husband should have had you killed when he had the chance.’

  Amesbury smiled slightly. ‘The old King certainly took every opportunity. Perhaps the chance was not so opportune as you imagine.’

  ‘Yes.’ Henrietta’s black beady eyes were fixed on Amesbury. ‘Men like you are difficult to kill.’

  ‘Quite so,’ agreed Amesbury. ‘But I come on another matter.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you, turncoat,’ spat Queen Henrietta. ‘Nor do you have any power to induce me to talk. When I tell my son, the King, you were here . . .’

  Amesbury reached in his leather purse and pulled out a bloody handkerchief.

  Henrietta’s eyes fell on it greedily. Her thin lips parted.

  ‘His?’ she said quietly.

  Amesbury nodded. ‘I can bring you many such things,’ he said, tossing it into the array. ‘Hundreds of loyal subjects dipped their handkerchiefs in your dead husband’s blood or kept his likeness as tribute.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she said after a moment.

  ‘I want you to tell me,’ he said, ‘about Thorne’s apprentice.’

  She blinked her little hard eyes fast. ‘You don’t know?’ she said finally. ‘Yet it was you . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Amesbury, ‘it was I who last saw Thorne.’

  Amesbury wondered how much Henrietta knew. She was sharp in a blinkered way. Did she know what he’d done all those years ago? He remembered it all too well.

  Amesbury was taking in the high brick walls, the piles of books and papers.