The 7th of Victorica

by Beau Schemery

  “Are we t’assume Jameson wasn’t compromised after all?” Michelle asked.

  “It appears not,” Silas said. “And his existence still offers me some freedom. Though we may need to be more careful. Watch our backs.”

  Rat wandered over. “Oy, fellas.” He tapped his pipe out, repacked it, and lit it up. “All right, Benty?”

  “Fine, Ratty. You?” Silas continued devouring the delicious meal.

  “Been better. I tried t’get the room next t’Tab, but Michelle made sure I was on the opposite side o’the space.”

  “That’s cause I know young men, Rat.” Michelle walked up behind him, placing a hand on his neck. There was affection in the gesture but apprehension in the girl’s expression.

  “She knows ya fancy Tab, Ratty,” Teddy added, with a playful punch to Rat’s arm.

  “Hold on,” Sev interrupted. “Why do ye call me and Silas mister all the time, even though we told ye ye didn’t have to? But ye call Rat Rat?”

  “It’s just respect, Mistuh Sev. Not that we don’t respect Rat, but he’s more like one of us. Mistuh Silas speaks real proper, and we can tell he’s educated, and you, you’re the Seventh o’London,” Teddy explained.

  Sev chuckled, but it sounded sad. “What we’re doin’ here? We’re tryin’ t’make everyone equal. Callin’ us by our names without the mister isn’t disrespectful. We’re all friends here. We’re all in this together.”

  “Sev’s right,” Silas agreed. “He’s Sev. I’m Silas. That’s it. When we’re undercover that’s different, but here, in our home, we’re all the same.”

  “All right, Sev, Silas,” Teddy answered. “We’ll try. Right, sis?” Michelle nodded with a shy smile.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think gettin’ you and yer people t’think o’themselves as equals is part o’the solution t’this problem. Ye’ve been so used t’thinkin’ o’yerselves as second-class citizens fer so long, ye’re just used to it.”

  “It was one of the things we had to do in Blackside,” Silas interjected. “We had to convince our allies they were just as good as the Fairsiders.”

  “That makes a great deal of sense,” Michelle said. “It ain’t easy to change a person’s way of thinkin’, but we’ll try. Thank you.”

  Silas finished his meal but refused to let Michelle wash his dishes and made the whole group some evening tea. They all relaxed before turning in for the night, the Bushpigs and Rat in their newly built quarters, while Sev and Silas retired to the office suite.

  THE NEXT few days were filled with refining and outfitting their accommodations while Silas traveled about the city attempting to make connections and recruit allies. Each night he came home with stories of how even the freed men and women of color were kept low by the angry white men, who considered themselves superior in every way. There were boys on corners throughout the city selling newspapers, not unlike their own home. One evening Silas told them he’d witnessed a young black boy being harassed and pushed about by a group of white newsboys. He was just about to step in when a police officer rounded the corner. Much to Silas’s shock, the officer took the white boys’ side and chased the poor black child off with his nightstick. Silas said it had been all he could do to stay his hand.

  Sev stole as many moments as he could in the basement with Fairgate’s Grimoire. For the most part, he found it disturbing, imagining he heard Fairgate’s voice needling him from the shadows. The excursions left Sev frustrated, unable to figure out any more of Fairgate’s spells.

  Silas had as little luck with his endeavors as Sev had with the journal, and it made for very strained living arrangements. Sev and Silas were both quick to snap at their flatmates and each other. The Bushpig siblings and Rat tried to more or less avoid the two, and Silas spent less and less time in the lab. It appeared as if all their efforts had stalled.

  The only people making any progress were Rat and Tab with her combat training. It had only taken Teddy a few hours to decide to join in the training, and both siblings were excellent students. After a few days, they easily held their own in sparring matches against each other and then against Rat. Rat asked Sev a couple of times to test them, but he was too preoccupied with the grimoire, and in truth he didn’t want to lose control and hurt the poor kids.

  Watching them fight gave him an idea to blow off some steam, and he made sure his gearcycle was wound tight, grabbed his coat, hat, and one of the fake mustaches from Silas’s disguise kit.

  “Where ye goin’?” Rat asked, breathing heavily from his practice.

  “Out.” Sev bit the word off.

  “Ye want some company?”

  “No.” He threw his leg over the cycle and engaged the engine. He pulled one of the chains he installed with weights that opened the big bay doors automatically before he tore out through them.

  SEV DIDN’T have far to go to find a properly rough pub near the docks. He pulled the gearcycle up in front and propped it on its stand, leaning his elbows on the handlebars as he watched all manner of thugs stumble in and out. Some of them looked a lot like the crooks and blackguards Fervis had enlisted for his gang of Footmen back home while others were obviously sailors and longshoremen wiling away their shore leave. This’ll do, Sev thought. He hopped off the gearcycle and fiddled with the false facial hair in his pocket. What’s the point? They’ve already seen me on the gearcycle. A disguise won’t help now, and they’re probably too drunk to remember me anyhow.

  He smirked as he strode into the pub like he owned the place despite being almost a foot shorter than most of the other patrons. Inside the air hung thick with smoke, obscuring his vision. He took a deep breath, savoring the heavy miasma like the blanket of smoke and soot that enveloped Blackside. It felt like home. Sev sidled through the crowd of filthy ruffians and elbowed up to the bar. He rapped his knuckles to get the barkeep’s attention. “Whiskey,” Sev said, tossing some coin on the bar. The man, bald and scarred, dropped a shot glass in front of Sev, then pulled out a bottle of bourbon whiskey and tipped it. Sev’s hand shot out and covered the glass. He shook his head slowly. “Nah, mate. I want proper whiskey. Irish.”

  The grizzled barkeep scowled, but he traded the bourbon for Irish whiskey and poured Sev a shot. Sev downed it and knocked on the bar for another. The barkeep poured a second, and Sev dropped some more coin next to his glass. He held up a five-pound note. “Leave the bottle.” Almost too quick for him to see, the man behind the bar set the bottle down and swiped the money from Sev’s hand and off the bar.

  Sev sucked back the second shot. “Ah, now that’s bloody delicious. Not like that watered-down colony-swill,” he said to no one in particular.

  “I hate these goddamn micks comin’ int’ this country and actin’ like they own the place,” a liquor-burned voice said from just behind Sev. “Dirty potato-eaters.”

  Sev smiled before finishing his drink. There’s always one, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered. “Ye got a problem with potatoes, ye beef-witted bugger?” Sev exaggerated his accent for effect.

  “You got yerself a smart mouth fer such a little fella.” The man’s friends joined him in a good laugh at Sev’s stature.

  “I think it’s time fer ye t’learn a little somethin’ about books and covers,” Sev said, turning. “Though I’d be bloody surprised if ye can actually read a word.” When Sev saw the behemoth of a man grimacing at him, he felt shocked but did his damnedest not to show it. Instead he let a smile pull up the corner of his mouth. The big beggar returned the grin, and Sev was pleased to see a row of twisted metal teeth. He reminded Sev of McGinty, one of Fervis’s former henchmen, one whose arm Sev had taken with a shovel that was later replaced with a crude metal appendage.

  “You little shit. I’m goin’ t’pound ya int’paste.” The bigger man cracked his knuckles.

  “Oh, aye? This is goin’ t’be a treat.” Sev shrugged out of his jacket.

  The metal-toothed miscreant balled his cannonball-sized hands into fists and drew back to s
trike. Sev held up a hand, poured himself another shot, and tossed it back.

  “All right, Chuckles. Gi’ me yer best shot.” Sev widened his stance, bracing for the man’s attack. He didn’t have to wait long. The brute swung with devastating force, but Sev saw it coming a mile away and easily sidestepped. The man’s fist bounced off the bar, and Sev caught him by the wrist and twisted. Surprisingly, Metal-Tooth rolled with it and swept his leg around, forcing Sev to jump to avoid the attack. He released the man’s wrist, flipping up onto his back. Sev walloped the man on the back of his head.

  “Graaah!” Metal-Tooth bellowed and swiped at Sev, knocking him to the floor. Before he could get up or prepare for it, the man attacked, punching Sev in the face. Light bloomed in Sev’s vision, but he managed to roll away from the second attack and regain his footing. He shook his head to clear it, just as his attacker aimed a kick at his chest. Sev jumped back just in time and caught the man by his boot, throwing him off-balance. Sev took advantage of Metal-Tooth’s awkward stance and aimed a kick at his tender bits. Sev’s foot connected with a sickening crunch that made even him wince. Metal-Tooth yodeled in pain and doubled over.

  The monster dropped to his knees, cradling his injured crotch. Sev growled happily as he kneed the man in the forehead and then brought his elbow down on the back of his head. The giant goon collapsed on the filthy, ale-soaked floor. Sev had only just broken a sweat when two of the man’s companions growled, announcing their attack, and Sev spun, ready and glad it wasn’t over so quickly.

  The two men were smaller than Metal-Tooth, and Sev thought them quite foolish for thinking they could beat him where their comrade couldn’t, but he welcomed the distraction. They traded punches, and Sev couldn’t block them all. One of the men had an eyepatch, and he managed to catch Sev with a right hook across the jaw, sending Sev stumbling back a few steps. He recovered soon enough with a kick to the man’s middle-section and winding him. His bearded friend leapt at Sev and wrapped him in a bear hug. Sev whipped his head back, cracking the man on the nose. He cried out and released Sev to cup his hands around his broken nose.

  All three of his attackers curled on the floor, nursing their wounds. Sev looked around the pub at a crowd of stunned faces. “Any other takers?” he asked. No one spoke, though a couple of the more sober patrons shook their heads. “Too bad.” Sev leaned against the bar and poured himself another drink. When he tipped it back, the strong liquor burned his split lip. He sucked a breath between his teeth but savored the sting.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and Sev immediately grabbed it and spun, ready for another fight. Instead he stared into a set of familiar goggles beneath a familiar stovepipe hat and above a familiar beard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kettlebent roared.

  “I’m blowin’ off some steam,” Sev answered, releasing his dear friend’s hand. “Relax.”

  Sev could tell Silas wanted to yell at him, wanted to chastise him for possibly compromising their cover, for being reckless, but he couldn’t say anything in front of all these people. He just stood there huffing and puffing.

  “Sit down. Have a drink. Barkeep, another glass.” Sev motioned to Silas. The barkeep obeyed, and Sev poured whiskey into their glasses.

  Kettlebent reluctantly sat and accepted the shot. They drank together in silence. “I understand your frustration, Sev. But we have to remain levelheaded.”

  Sev wasn’t surprised that Silas didn’t use his alias. “Nobody in here is sober enough t’put two and two t’gether. We don’t have t’worry.”

  “Perhaps,” Kettlebent responded and pointed to his empty glass. Sev filled it and his own. Once again they drank.

  “Are ye still doubtin’ our chances over here?”

  Kettlebent rubbed his temple. “It’s not looking good thus far.”

  “How are we expected t’solve this?” Sev asked, putting the cork back in the bottle. “I need somethin’ t’punch. I need a bunch o’thugs t’beat the bloody bollocks off of. I’m not a diplomat. All this political nonsense is out o’my realm o’expertise.”

  “We beat an evil wizard with designs on world domination. We destroyed a being that may have been older than the world. Why is this so difficult?”

  “Bloody hell, we’re a couple o’maudlin old birds,” Sev said with a sneer. “Mayhaps we ought t’get our arses in the game and quit feelin’ sorry fer ourselves.” Sev considered telling Silas about the grimoire. Maybe it would be the thing that bolstered his resolve. On the other hand, maybe Sev’s dishonesty would be the thing that broke him.

  “Sound advice,” Kettlebent stated, interrupting Sev’s inner turmoil. “Come along. I think we need to regroup. Don’t forget that bottle.”

  Sev nodded and snatched the whiskey from the bar before he followed Silas out onto the street. He slipped the bottle into the saddlebag on the back of his cycle. “Where’s yers?” Sev asked.

  “Just round the corner,” Silas said, pointing. Sev fired up his cycle and eased it through the street, keeping pace with Silas. When they reached his gearcycle, he threw his leg over and pulled his hat lower on his head. Silas engaged his motor and tore into the street in front of Sev. They were home in no time to finish off the whiskey and retire to their office bedroom.

  SEV AND Silas hadn’t been asleep for long when frantic pounding and shouting forced them awake. “What in the bloody hell?” Sev said, pulling on his trousers. Silas did the same. Sev slipped his undershirt on as well, still conscious of his scar. They ran down to meet their bleary-eyed housemates in various states of undress and nightclothes.

  “Lordy, what’s all the commotion?” Michelle asked. Silas strode to the front of the pack and waved the others back as he approached the big doors.

  Sev trotted up behind him, positioning himself between them. “Wait there,” he instructed. They obeyed, but Sev could tell by their expressions they weren’t happy about it.

  Silas slid open the peephole. “Shit,” he spat. He grabbed the door and swept it open. Nicholas stood in the doorway, cradling a bleeding Philson. “What the blazes happened?” Silas asked.

  “We were betrayed,” Nicholas huffed. “Cole’s been stabbed.” Michelle and her siblings rushed forward to help. They carried Philson to a table.

  “Betrayed how?” Sev asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nicholas answered, his voice shaky. He dragged his hands through his ginger hair. “We talked to a lot of people from dockworkers to factory foremen, black and white alike. We must have been overheard.”

  “Were you followed?” Silas asked as the siblings tended to Philson.

  “No.” Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?” Silas snapped. “You have to be certain! Were you followed?”

  “No. I’m quite sure. We were not followed.”

  “That had better be true, or you’ve doomed the mission.” Silas paced back and forth.

  “I’m certain we weren’t followed, sir,” Nicholas whimpered.

  Sev sidled up and put his hand on Silas’s shoulder. “Rein it in, Silas. They did all they could.”

  “This mission has been one cock-up after another since th’ beginnin’,” Rat said. He’d lit his pipe at some point and exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “Maybe it’s time we tried a different tactic.”

  “What do you mean by that, Ratty?” Silas asked, still pacing.

  “Well, we been tryin’ t’stick t’the high road and play by the rules, and that ain’t really workin’ out fer us.”

  Silas scowled but said nothing.

  “I know ye aren’t goin’ t’want t’hear this, Si, but I think Ratty’s right. Perhaps it’s time we explored our options with the criminal element. We may want t’have a word with Midnight’s men.”

  “This is what we’ve been reduced to?” Silas stopped pacing and faced them, his arms, real and mechanical, crossed before his bare chest. His dark hair, disheveled from sleep, shuddered as he shook his head.

  “We�
��re runnin’ low on options.” Sev swept a hand through his own burgundy locks. If Silas was this opposed to connecting with Midnight’s men, how would he react to Fairgate’s Grimoire?

  “Pardon me, sirs,” Michelle said with a little clearing of her throat. They all looked at her expectantly. “I ain’t sure if I ought to chime in but….” She paused, waiting for their consent.

  “Ye’re welcome t’chime in any time, Michelle,” Sev answered. “Ye have as much right as any o’us t’offer up yer view.”

  “Thank you, Sev. It’s your friend. He needs a proper doctor. We’ve done all we can, but he ain’t goin’ t’make it if he don’t get some real medicine help.”

  “We can’t just walk into a hospital, can we?” Nicholas asked.

  Teddy shook his head. “Nossir. I don’t think that’d be wise. But we know a fella. He was a slave in the employ of the Southern Militia. He’s got some doctorin’ experience, and he knows how t’keep quiet, if ya take my meanin’.”

  “Aye. That sounds like a sound decision. Why don’t you and Rat take the carriage and fetch him back here?” Sev motioned over his shoulder at the horses and the hansom.

  They agreed before dashing off to finish dressing. Sev and Silas readied the carriage, and moments later Rat and Teddy were swallowed by the night beyond the warehouse on their grave mission to save Philson’s life.

  Sev rubbed at his eyes as he gazed after his friends. “That’s all we can do now, but for prayer.” He turned back to Silas and Michelle. “What of Rat’s suggestion? This is your mission, Si.”

  “I don’t honestly know.”

  Michelle cleared her throat again. “If we can’t trust what appear t’be honest folk, how can we ever trust men who freely admit t’being criminals?”

  “Michelle makes a fair point.” Silas gestured with his mechanical hand. “How indeed?”