by Tom Becker
As Xavier made for the mansion, one of his bodyguards tripped up on the pathway and stumbled into him. The silk merchant gave the unfortunate man a withering look and then, without warning, struck him across the back of the head with his cane. The bodyguard fell to the floor, poleaxed. Xavier was over him with surprising speed, landing blow after blow on the prone body as the rest of his retinue looked on impassively. Eventually satisfied with the beating, he straightened up and tossed the bloodied cane to another bodyguard, catching sight of Jonathan and Carnegie as he did so. Xavier gave them both a long, cold stare that seemed to penetrate his dark glasses before the gate swung shut, once again cutting off his fortress from the outside world.
“Jesus,” Jonathan whistled, as they hurried away, “that was horrible. Did you see how quickly he moved?”
“Pretty nimble for a pensioner,” Carnegie agreed. “Something’s not right about this. I don’t like it one bit.”
He cleared his throat and spat a dirty gob of phlegm into the gutter. “So let’s recap what we’ve learnt. Strong perimeter security. Cameras everywhere. Armed guards. And that’s just outside. Inside, you’ve got that psychopath wandering around – who I doubt is going to take too kindly to us trying to walk off with his prize valuable. It’s a suicide mission.”
Despite the peerlessly blue sky and the sun warming his back, Jonathan felt cold.
“But we’ll think of a way to get round that, won’t we?” he asked hopefully.
Carnegie fixed Jonathan with a long stare. “Boy, I know we’ve been through some scrapes together, but you’ve got to realize there’s no way you and I can get in and out of that mansion alive.”
“But then Vendetta will kill Mrs Elwood! Whatever it takes, we’ve got to get the Stone!”
“I know,” the wereman replied slowly. “I just don’t think we’re going to be able to do this on our own. We’re going to need help. Professional help.”
“What, you mean thieves?”
Carnegie’s eyes narrowed. “No, boy, chefs. We’ll bake our way inside. Of course I mean thieves.”
“But . . . how? Where will we find them?”
The wereman grimaced. “If you want to find jewel thieves, boy, there’s only one place to go. And it ain’t round here.”
Later, under the cover of night, three figures stole through the cobbled streets of Wapping towards the riverfront. Even though the sky was dark, the air was still warm. Muffled up in a thick black cloak, Jonathan wondered for the umpteenth time why on earth Carnegie had insisted that they all wear these garments.
They had returned to the house just long enough to pick up Raquella and receive an absent-minded farewell from Alain Starling. In his quest for information on Cornelius Xavier, Jonathan’s dad had re-immersed himself in his study, and was poring over musty books by candlelight. It was a reminder of the bad old days before Jonathan had learnt about Darkside, and as he left the house he felt a twinge of worry.
Judging by the determined set to Raquella’s jaw, she had recovered from Vendetta abandoning her at the zoo. She walked briskly by Jonathan’s side, the pair of them fighting to keep pace with Carnegie. The maid hadn’t said a word throughout the journey, and Jonathan had the distinct impression that somehow she was blaming him for the situation. Suddenly desperate to break the silence, he scrambled around for something to say.
“I can’t believe there’s another crossing point round here,” he said eventually. “How many of them are there?”
“Too many,” Raquella replied coldly, without breaking stride.
“Just, it’s not easy crossing, especially if you’re pure Darksider. It seems odd there’s so many ways you can do it.”
“Most Darksiders don’t know any – and don’t want to know. It’s usually only the desperate who learn the location of a crossing point, and the powerful who learn more than one.”
“And you, of course,” Jonathan said lightly. “You must be an expert on crossing now.”
Raquella shot him an icy glare. “Yes, well, if I had been given a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t know a single one either. I would be better off without the pain that such journeys cause me. But then some people don’t have a choice, Jonathan, do they?”
“Aw, hey, Raq—”
Before he had a chance to finish, Carnegie gestured for silence. The wereman had stopped outside a pub called The Redblood. It was past closing time, and the last patrons had long since staggered off into the night. Now the windows were dark, and the curtains drawn. After a couple of shifty glances up and down the street, Carnegie went prowling along a narrow alleyway that ran alongside the pub, coming to a halt in front of a door set into the side of the building. He knocked softly three times.
There were the sound of footsteps from within, and then a small boy in a tattered shirt and pair of shorts answered the door. He was holding a lamp in one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice thick with sleep. “What d’you want?”
“Good evening, Philip,” Carnegie said ominously.
The urchin lifted up his lamp. His eyes bulged when he caught side of the wereman’s grizzled face.
“Ripper have mercy! Mr Carnegie! This is a surprise, sir! Been a long time since I saw you.”
“Not nearly long enough. I trust you and your brother are keeping your noses clean these days?”
“As good as gold these days, sir. On my honour.”
The wereman raised an eyebrow. “Whatever that’s worth,” he replied wryly. “Look, we need passage back to Darkside. Is there a boat free?”
“Always a boat for you, Mr Carnegie. Why don’t you come inside?”
The boy pushed the door open, and the wereman strode inside. Raquella gave Jonathan another cold glance.
“After you,” he said.
She swept imperiously past him, lifting up the edges of her cloak as if it were a queen’s robe. Following her into the gloom, Jonathan felt a shiver of anticipation run down his spine. They were going home.
7
The small Darkside boy led the group along a cramped corridor running along the back of The Redblood, his lantern bobbing like a will o’ the wisp. It wasn’t long before they came out at the top of a spiralling stone staircase, where the boy came to a halt. Philip raised his lamp, and gave the party a meaningful look.
“All sorts can happen down here. Don’t dawdle now, eh?”
Jonathan’s pulse quickened. This was what he had been waiting for, what he had been missing so keenly for the past month. His Darkside blood – his mother’s blood – stirred from its slumbers at the threat of danger, churning in his veins, urging him onward. The rotten borough was so close he felt he could almost touch it.
They began to descend the staircase, every now and again passing by a door in the outer wall. The steps were treacherously steep, and soon Jonathan’s knees were aching. At the head of the party, Philip bounded down like a gazelle, leaving the others so far behind that at times his light threatened to disappear entirely. In the darkness, Jonathan heard a variety of strange noises emanating from behind the doors: a spittle-flecked chorus of a bawdy sea shanty; a woman half-cackling, half-screaming with laughter; and, on the other side of one heavily bolted door, a snuffling and scrabbling noise that made him veer to the opposite side of the staircase.
After what felt like an age, the steps ended and they came out into a low vaulted chamber. Several paces into the room, the floor dropped away, succeeded by a vast expanse of black water that swept on through arch after arch. Peering out over the water, Jonathan could see that large numbers had been daubed in red paint over the arches nearest to them. Down at the water’s edge, two long, narrow boats gambolled on the current, pulling at their mooring ropes like dogs on a leash. This far underneath the ground, the air was crisp and cold.
Jonathan let out a low whistle. “This is some
cellar,” he said. “Do the people who own the pub know about this?”
Philip gave him a scornful look. “I should think so. They built it, after all. They’ve been ferrying people over for fifty years. Any Darksider who finds himself on this side of town ends up in The Redblood sooner or later.” He turned back to the wereman. “So which part of Darkside are you headed for, Mr Carnegie?”
“Slattern Gardens.”
“Really, sir?” There was a note of surprise in Philip’s voice. “Been a few years since you’ve been there, hasn’t it? You sure it’s a wise idea?”
“Not really,” Carnegie replied, vigorously scratching the back of his neck, “but I haven’t got much choice.”
“If you say so. It’s through arch seven, sir.”
The wereman gave him a pointed look. “Well, obviously. It’s not been that long.”
Philip went over to the edge of the quay and hopped lightly down into one of the boats, his feet adjusting automatically to the rocking motion. He carried out a quick check underneath the seating before leaping back on to the quay.
“That one there should do you. Worth a shilling of anyone’s money, I reckon.”
“We’ll see.”
The wereman flipped him a coin and jumped into the boat, landing with such ease that Jonathan suspected he had spent more time down here than he was letting on. Carnegie turned back and helped Raquella step gracefully down, before extending a hand to Jonathan. Trying to imitate Philip, Jonathan ignored the offer and leapt from the quay. Although he managed to land on two feet, the violent swaying of the boat immediately knocked him off balance. Only Carnegie’s outstretched hand saved him from toppling over the side of the craft and into the murky waters beyond.
“Easy does it, boy. You nearly had us all in there.”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Trying to hide his embarrassment, Jonathan looked up to see Philip reaching out to hand him the lantern.
“Here, you’d better take the lamp as well. Just in case anything tries to jump out at you.”
Jonathan looked nervously at the black water. “Is there anything in there?”
“What . . . like monsters? Nah.” Philip looked reflective for a second. “Well, probably not. But better safe than sorry, I always says.”
Carnegie looked up from the back of the boat. “Where are the blasted oars? All I can find is this.” He held up a long pole.
“That’s how you propel this boat, sir. It’s a gondola.”
“A what?” Carnegie’s voice was low with menace. “Get me oars, boy.”
Philip began to hurriedly untie the mooring rope.
“Don’t blame me, Mr Carnegie, sir,” he called out. “We’re out of rowboats, and we’re out of oars. Gondolas and poles is all I’ve got.”
“Don’t untie that rope!”
It was too late. Philip unhitched the rope and tossed it to Carnegie as the gondola began to drift away from the quay.
“Arch seven! That way! You’ll be through in no time!”
With that, the boy scampered out of the chamber and back up the staircase. Growling with anger, Carnegie clambered to the back of the gondola and jabbed the pole down into the water, bringing the boat to a shuddering standstill.
“How I am meant to steer this dratted thing?” he asked.
“Push the pole off the bottom, and then trail it out in the water behind you,” Raquella replied. “Use it like a rudder.”
After a couple of minutes of circular splashing, the wereman managed to direct the gondola towards arch number seven. This small success failed to improve his mood.
“When I get my hands on that kid,” he muttered, “I’m going to invent new ways to hurt him.”
Raquella giggled. “Oh, don’t be so gruff. I think you look very dashing.”
“Aren’t you going to sing us a song while you’re up there?” Jonathan added slyly.
“I’d be very careful if I were you,” the wereman warned. “If I can’t hurt Philip, I may have to settle for you two.”
Jonathan laughed and settled back into the gondola. He was coming to the conclusion that this might not be such a bad journey after all when, passing underneath arch seven, he looked up and saw that the number had been painted in thick globules and splatters of a red substance that looked horribly like blood.
The gondola glided on past the arch, and down a long channel. The walls crowded in around them, and when Jonathan held up the lamp, he could see patches of dank mould growing where water lapped up against the brickwork. Beyond the outer reaches of the lamp’s orange glow, the darkness was total and unanswerable. The only sounds were the sighing of the current, the splashing of the pole, and Carnegie’s grunts of exertion as he propelled the boat forward.
Jonathan’s unease was complicated by the fact that they were nearing the Darkside boundary. His stomach was trampolining, and a vein in his forehead was throbbing painfully. It wouldn’t be long now before they crossed. Searching for a distraction, he looked across at Raquella.
“Where did Carnegie say we were going again? Some sort of garden?”
“Slattern Gardens,” she replied. “It’s where all the jewel traders work. If you want to buy or sell a gem in Darkside, it’s the only place to go.”
“But we want jewel thieves, not jewellers!”
“And where do you think the jewellers get their wares from?” Carnegie’s voice cut through the darkness from the gondola’s stern. “Do you think their customers find diamonds in the street? You’ve been on Lightside for too long. Believe me, boy, if anyone can lead us to a jewel thief, it’s the ladies of Slattern Gardens.”
“Ladies?”
Raquella sighed as Jonathan gave her a quizzical look. “Honestly, I wish there was some sort of guide to Darkside we could give you. Only women are allowed into Slattern Gardens. They sell the jewels, they buy the jewels. The Gardens are ruled by the Queenpin, whose job it is to ensure that no men enter.”
“So how are we going to get in?”
“Why do you think we’re wearing these ridiculous cloaks?” answered Carnegie.
Jonathan held up his lamp and eyed the tall wereman. “You make one odd-looking woman. Are you trying to tell me you’ve got into this place dressed like this before?”
The wereman coughed uncomfortably. “Once or twice. Believe me when I say, boy, there are odder-looking women out there. You’ll learn that when you’re older. Now hush, and put your hood up. We’re nearly there. And for pity’s sake, let Raquella do the talking.”
Bright lights were burning up ahead, and the sound of chattering voices carried along the widening channel. The gondola emerged from the darkness into a brightly lit cavern. Seams of ores and minerals glittered in the rocks like constellations. On one side of the cavern, a flotilla of boats was tied up beside a wooden jetty. Carnegie carefully navigated the gondola through the river traffic and tethered it up against a small rowing boat.
A figure was standing guard at the edge of the jetty, dressed in a flowing maroon robe. As Jonathan climbed out of the gondola, he was surprised to see that it was a young girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. Even more eye-catching was the wickedly curved knife tucked into her belt.
“What is your business here?” she asked curtly.
“Why, to trade gems,” Raquella replied meekly. “Just like everyone else.”
The girl looked them up and down suspiciously. “Why the matching outfits?”
“My sisters and I are in mourning,” Raquella replied. “Our beloved father passed away several days ago, leaving us a meagre number of gems with which to secure our future. We have come to the Gardens to see what money we can raise by selling them.”
“Really?” The girl drew her knife, and tapped the flat of her blade against the maid’s cheek. “I’m not sure I believe you. Why don’t you show me these meagre gems?”<
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Raquella took down her hood, sending her flaming hair tumbling down her back. The girl stepped back in shock.
“You recognize me?” Raquella hissed, through clenched teeth. “You know of my master?”
The girl nodded frantically.
“Then you know I do not joke when I say this: let me pass or your death will be sudden and violent.”
“F-forgive me . . . how could I know?”
“You know now,” Raquella said icily. “You would do well to remember my voice.”
Pushing past the girl, she led them off the jetty.
“Not bad,” Carnegie whispered approvingly.
“I had a very good teacher.”
Slattern Gardens was in fact a single, wide promenade flanked by the water’s edge and a row of scrupulously tended townhouses. Elegantly orbed streetlamps warded off the permanent night of underground. Above the street, signs hanging from the townhouses jostled for position in the air, each one boasting of the priceless stones within. Jonathan looked in through a couple of windows, but all the shops appeared to be empty. The real business was taking place on the street outside.
The promenade was packed with women sashaying down the Gardens in their finest dresses and gowns, their clothes and skin drenched in waterfalls of gems and diamonds. The light from the streetlamps reflected and refracted off the jewels, setting off a firework display of gold and silver that lit up the Gardens. At every turn women were talking excitedly to one another, but there was a sly undercurrent to the celebratory atmosphere. Some greeted old acquaintances with forced jollity, before turning away and whispering in the ears of their friends; some rebuffed friendly approaches with cool stares; others floated along in haughty solitude.
“OK. Where now?” said Raquella, under her breath, as they slipped through the stream of women.
“If memory serves, there’s a shop called The Hearthstone three doors down. They know me. We should be safe there.”
