“Barehill will kill me anyway.”
“I won’t let him. I know where he has taken your family. I’ll take you there after this is done, let you all go free. I swear it.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”
“Yet you’re still making me do this?”
“Yes,” she said, and raised her gun.
Jon stood rooted, unsure what to do. He closed his eyes. A dog howled. For a moment, he was confused, and then the omen became as clear as the road in front of him. This was not a moment to lose faith; it was time to place his trust in justice, in He-who-sits-upon-the-mountain. Daniel would laugh if he knew.
“Keep quiet,” he whispered. Then, to his surprise, his feet began to move of their own accord. Against all reason, he approached the guards and called out his name. The bill man levelled his polearm in Jon’s direction while the others hurried to load weapons. The arquebusier fumbled his ramrod, cursed as it spun from his fingers and clattered out of sight.
“Idiot,” his mate yelled and raised his crossbow.
“I’ve come to make a payment,” Jon shouted. His throat was as dry as a grain chute, but his legs carried him forwards with a confidence that belonged to a stranger. The bill man was Rollo. Recognition flashed in the tattooed foreman’s eyes and he leaned easy on his oversized weapon.
“Gods, you’ve got some balls on you. Don’t you know there’s a curfew on?”
“Which means I don’t have to worry about street pirates.”
Rollo laughed at the gall of it. “Who’s the lad?” Jon shrugged.
“Never mind.” Rollo grasped a large key from his belt. “Head on in, then. And fetch me out a pint of warm ale when you’ve done your business.”
The Bell Jar had a new door, thick oak and ironclad, painted with a feather.
“I think you ought to have a look up the street,” Jon said. “I saw someone sneaking about up there.”
“Can’t, mate. Strictest orders.” Rollo opened the door with a proud flourish.
The Bell Jar was shockingly crowded inside, brimming with soldiery and hangers-on. The air was thick with talk and candle smoke. A piper and a drummer were hammering out a rendition of ‘Over the Hills’ rough enough to scorch the ears of the deaf. Rollo’s tough young workmates were arm-wrestling at the bar. They wore breastplates, fastened around their waists with leather belts. The helmets that hung from the hooks between their shoulder blades made them look like hunchbacks. He saw the old drunks too. Maybe they hadn’t noticed that the Bell Jar was a military affair now. Maybe nobody could be bothered to turn them away.
Harriet the barmaid was spying on a game of cards. She didn’t see Jon through the crowd, for which he was grateful. The Bell Jar’s not a tavern any more, Jon told himself, more a barracks. The idea comforted him little as he took the strongbox from Laila. Her hood was pulled down and she had raised her scarf to cover her face.
“Leave out back, by the privy,” Jon said. Laila shook her head. The steely look she gave him was tinged with fear. He realised that she would not leave until she was certain that the job was done. “Wait for me here then.”
He pushed his way through the room, sweating like a pig. The men around him exchanged salvos of chatter and abuse, paid no attention as he dragged the chest between them. He listened to the little things said in the conversations going on all around him, though he normally paid no mind to other men’s business.
The censors were at Peacock’s table. Brother Josephus was plotting with Matthew over a map, discussing some stratagem. Brother Norbury stood a little aside, his left arm splinted and thick with bandages. The Sharks lounged behind them all, faces as flat as irons.
The men in blue turned to face Jon together, as if they could smell gunpowder and guilt from across a room.
“What have you got there, Miller? More stolen magic?” Norbury pointed at the strongbox accusingly with his capable hand.
Mathew turned, appraised the situation and gave Jon a broad wink. “Be at ease, Brothers, I am this man’s rentier, he comes to make payment. You’ll have to wait your turn, Jon. I am discussing matters of great importance with these gentlemen.” He ran his sleeve across his lips. “Harriet! Bring us over a round, love – and a pint for Jon. He must be parched.”
The strongbox was attracting a fair amount of attention now that Matthew had mentioned payment. Lumpishly commanding the centre of the floor, every poor man in the Bell Jar seemed to be dreaming of what was inside it.
I’m going to tell them, and soon. I just need to pick the moment, Jon thought. Laila was still watching him like He-who-sails-the-wind. He sat on top of the strongbox, imagined he could feel the candle in the bombard creeping towards ignition.
Harriet pressed an unwanted ale into his hands with a knowing smile. The censors folded the maps.
“Well, don’t stand there all shilly-shally, bring it over,” the Peacock said.
There were no clocks in the Bell Jar. It must be ten minutes to the hour at most, Jon thought, maybe less. Jon heaved the chest onto the table.
“Pretty box. Open it up,” Matthew said. Jon swung back the heavy lid. Peacock whistled. “So this is where you’ve been hiding all those coppers.”
“Do I recognise that chest?” Josephus said, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Hands off, lads,” Peacock said a little too sharply, then added, “begging your pardon, of course.” He dug out a handful of coins, let them rain back inside.
“Last week’s rent,” Jon said. “Next month’s too.”
Peacock looked confused. “You’ve paid last week’s already. My fourth captain brought it to me in a bag. That was a stroke of luck, mind; it nearly got lost in the riot.” He dug his hands deep into the pile. “This all of it? Everything you’ve got?”
“All of it.”
“And you’re giving it to me now? In advance?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s the sense in that?”
“Making the trip every week, with the curfew on. It’s dangerous. Hard.” Jon could feel sweat pouring down his face. Is Laila still watching me? He looked over his shoulder. She was. Everyone else’s attention was on the band, who had launched into a raucous but enthusiastic finale.
“You getting tired on me, Jon? Giving up?”
“Maybe I should take the money back?”
“Maybe you should. You know what they say, old son. Stay in the game.” Jon saw something in Peacock’s face then, and felt a fool. The villain didn’t care for his money, not especially, nor the mill. He just enjoyed seeing him stretched thin, on tenterhooks. Failing in front of Anna.
Norbury spoke.
“Sorry to interrupt your merriment, gents, but there’s a rebellion in Turbulence if you hadn’t noticed. We’ve business to attend to.”
“Don’t think we’ve forgotten about you, Miller,” Josephus said. “We’ll visit soon enough. Lundy evening by the latest.”
The Sharks put the strongbox under the table and Jon was dismissed. He looked for Laila and saw her signalling to him from the back of the tavern, pointing frantically at the exit. Time was up. Maybe he had left it too late, but he’d never be further from her than he was now. He looked at the Sharks, the censors. He looked into Peacock’s eyes. By the gods, the man was a prick, but that wasn’t enough.
He leaned forward and spoke clearly. “There’s a bomb,” he said.
Josephus’ head snapped around. “What?”
“A bomb. Get everyone out, now.”
“What are you talking about?” The censor jumped onto the table, scanned the room for barrels of gunpowder.
“It’s in the strongbox.” Jon turned to the tavern, shouted at the top his voice, “Everybody – get out now!” Josephus’ eyes dropped, and Jon leapt into the crowd, towards the bar.
“Everyone out!” Matthew shouted, but only a few heard him over the music, and they weren’t sure what to make of it. At the bar, Jon grabbed Harriet by the elbow. She yelped.
“Outside. Now!” Jon dragged her by the arm.
“Oi, Miller! What are you doing?” complained Raymond the landlord.
“Jonathan Miller, can’t you see that I’m serving? Are you drunk, you randy old goat?” Harriet grinned and tried to wriggle free.
Nobody’s leaving, Jon realised with horror. They should be running. He pulled her so hard she nearly fell over.
“Out,” he shouted.
“You’re hurting me,” she complained, but stopped resisting. “I always took you for a family man.”
“Freeborn! Freeborn!” Jon looked over his shoulder. A young soldier was pointing, not at him, but towards Laila. She had her pistol in her hand, at full stretch above her head. Somebody had pulled down her cloak to reveal her shock of red hair and another soldier gripped her arm, was holding it upright. Laila clawed at him, scratching his eyes. Confusion reigned as the militiamen tried to work out who was being accused, and what was to be done about the matter.
Laila grabbed a helmet from a soldier’s back and planted it square in the face of the man who held her. He reeled back, his nose spraying blood, and she sprinted past Jon and Harriet for the exit.
The crowd erupted.
Peacock and the Sharks were already halfway across the room. The censors were stooped over the strongbox, frantically emptying out coins. Jon scooped Harriet from her feet, and charged for the street.
How many seconds?
“Run for your lives!” Jon screamed, and shoulder-barged a man out of the way, made it four yards into the street, tearing past Rollo and his men.
“You! Stop!” Rollo protested.
Night turned into day. Light flashed across Laila’s fleeing back, freezing her image in mid-stride. Then came the crack of a giant’s whip and the vulgar sound of a thousand bottles breaking. An invisible pair of hands knocked Jon topsy-turvy. A ripped tankard flew past his face and embedded itself in a wall on the other side of the street.
He dived to the ground, rolled twice. Harriet slipped from his arms. All sound ended then, apart from a shrill ringing in his ears. It was like when Father had slapped his head with a fixing mallet, but on both sides. He staggered to his feet. The air was hot and sharp, his back felt wet. He put a hand to it and cut his fingertip on a piece of glass lodged next to his spine.
Jon surveyed the wreckage. Harriet had rolled only a few feet away. She was lying, face up, coughing up a storm, surrounded by blackened coins. There was a fierce graze across her shoulder.
He looked back to the Bell Jar, expecting to see ruination. The iron door of the inn was open, the orange flag of the militia hung above it. For a moment, Jon wondered if the tavern had somehow withstood the bomb, that the gods had revoked its power in some mysterious way. Then he saw that the windows were blown, their leads reaching outwards like desperate hands, and that around the door Rollo and his men lay motionless on the ground. Jon could not comprehend what he had done. It was too big for him.
Laila faced him across the sulphur haze, tears streaming from her eyes. She levelled her stub-nosed pistol at his head.
“Just do it,” Jon said.
Laila’s finger quivered over the trigger as she fought against the evil in her mind. Then she lowered her hand and ran.
From inside the tavern screams and moans built into a hideous chant. A fire was starting. Someone shouted for water. The survivors grew louder. It was terrible. Jon began to cry. He ran across the road, ducked behind some shattered brickwork, and cowered in the dark.
Why aren’t I dead? There has to be a reason.
The men who had listened to him, those who had made it closest to the door, began to stumble out, smoke venting from their tattered clothes. Peacock and his Sharks were the last of them. Big Shark bent double and coughed his stomach into the gutter. Littleshark spat furiously. Jon thanked the gods for saving every soul he saw, even them.
Harriet was sitting upright now, eyes struggling to focus. He could see her thoughts gathering in the haze. She knew what he’d done, of course, figured it out straight off. She’d always been smart.
“That girl what done it. She went that way!” Harriet screamed hoarsely, and pointed down Bell Street. Peacock and the Sharks turned to Harriet, saw where she meant, and set off at a run. Harriet staggered back towards the Bell Jar to see what good could be done.
Bless you, Jon thought, and set off after them.
Laila made a good chase of it. She was fast, but the Sharks were quicker still. Peacock followed as best he could, limping from a new wound and shouting blasphemy and bloody revenge. Tenement windows opened up above, and the streets were haunted with cheering at the sport. Jon followed them as best he could, but his boots had started to fill with the blood that was running down his hams. Soon he was a hundred yards behind. It ended somewhere near the top of Lea Lane. Laila turned and fired her pistol. Littleshark launched himself forwards, grabbed at Laila’s heels. She tripped and fell, scrambled free, but then Big Shark speared into her waist, drove her into the ground. She screamed in pain as she twisted over on a knee and they tumbled down together. Peacock arrived at the sprawled trio and kicked Laila hard in the stomach to keep her down.
“That was fun.” He heaved great breaths that sent clouds of fog into the night air, walked in a circle to recover himself. His face contorted. “You fucking bitch, what did you do?” He kicked her again.
The Sharks grabbed Laila and hauled her upright. She screamed for help and looked desperately in Jon’s direction. Jon pulled himself deeper into the shadows of a derelict doorway and watched Littleshark punch her in the jaw.
“Don’t mess up her face,” Peacock said. “Use some common sense.”
Laila cried out once more and Jon’s stomach turned spastic. “Look, love, no one wants to help you so why don’t you just keep your fucking mouth shut.”
She kicked out at him, caught him above the knee and yelled again. Big Shark clamped a meaty hand over her mouth and she bit into it. He cursed but did not flinch. Peacock laughed through the pain. “Gag her.”
“With your hat?” Big Shark said, apparently oblivious to the teeth in his fingers. Peacock shed his left boot, rolled a dirty stocking down his shin, bunched it and shoved it into Laila’s mouth.
A window frame squeaked from the tenements above. Peacock shouted skywards, “Censor business. Pass us down a light or I come back tomorrow, angry.”
There was muttering, then some scrabbling, and a rusty old lanthorn was passed down on a pole hook.
“Much appreciated,” Peacock said and raised the light to Laila’s face. “Just look at the fire in those eyes.”
The power of his slap turned her head. He stepped back to see the whole of her.
“Very nice. So why are you dressed all mannish then?”
Muffled defiance was the whole of her response. He held up a hand.
“You’re right. This is not the place for explanations, and it doesn’t look like they’ll come easy either. Two censors dead and my headquarters ruined. Come on, lads; the Bell Jar’s out of the question. It’s a shithole anyway. Let’s get her to The Kennels. Find out what the fuck is going on around here.”
Littleshark pulled Laila’s breeches down and bound her legs with them. Big Shark hoisted her over his shoulder and they headed back down Lea Lane.
Jon pressed himself hard into the corner of the doorframe as the trio trooped past with their wriggling bundle. Laila saw him in the shadows, and their eyes locked. She flailed her body and tried to scream, but the Sharks paid no attention.
When the posse’s footsteps were no more than faint echoes he allowed himself to breathe again. He could not imagine what the Peacock would do to Laila at his mansion.
Actually, he could. She was so young. Not quite enough to be his daughter, but something else maybe – a sister. A little younger than Dahlia would be, if the evil men who had taken her had let her live.
A black rage against Peacock, Barehill and all the murderous bastards of the world who had fouled him with schemes and ambitions boiled inside him. Why couldn’t men be good? Why did they always put their own lives first? What had he done to the Bell Jar? How many people had he killed?
Everything was such a mess.
He bit his raw knuckles, started at the pain. There had to be a reason for it all, if only he could see it.
Then he saw it, clear as day. Laila had been captured and she was the only one he could trust to tell him where Anna was. Laila had said she would let Anna go free and then, against reason, Laila had let him live. That meant she could be saved, and if she could be saved, maybe everyone could be saved. Even himself. A long time ago, he had let his sister be taken and the gods had cursed him. Now he’d have to risk everything to rescue Laila. The symmetry was obvious. Divine. What the gods wanted.
Jon brushed himself down and turned in the direction of Peacock’s mansion.
Home truths
Miranda had made a fortress of her papers. To her left, arranged in stacks as deep as an Evangelist’s Bible, were the pristine writings of the mechanical hand. To her right, on an ornate wooden easel, rested the key to their secrets: Gahst’s codex.
She looked again at her notes; the information she had decoded through the night. Much of it was mundane, by the standard to which she had become accustomed. The lists of amulets, potions and scrolls that the Convergence had produced were interesting only in respect of their huge volumes. There were other things though, rare and secret: flying warships. Wheeled automata armed with fire lances. Intelligent poisons. The names of the customers who had ordered them.
The demons were not in the detail, they were in the totality.
The hand offered a complete and true audit of the tower. A record of every construct structured and invested, every device created, every sacrifice made and offering deposited.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 34
