by Bec McMaster
He was a small man, standing on a stool behind the counter and peering over his half-spectacles at them. Some said there was imp blood in him. It was certainly true that he didn't quite feel human. Something about the Shadow Dimensions clung to him, or perhaps that was because he had a long-held fascination with planes of existence that nobody should dabble with. Cochrane's sorcery was as black as night.
"Mr. Cochrane," Rathbourne said smoothly. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Indeed," Magnus Cochrane replied, setting down the rag and leaning on the counter with his knuckles. "Thought you was in Bedlam."
"I was. Decided to take a turn about outside."
"Didn't think the Prime were that forgiving." Cochrane spat on the floor again, and the movement dislodged his sleeve, revealing the heavy brass manacle around his wrist with its burning, coppery charms. The manacle kept him chained within the tavern's physical limits, where he could do no more damage. Cochrane was very good at not-quite breaking the Order's Laws, but he'd come close one too many times. Certainly more than was in the public's interest. He turned his leering gaze toward Ianthe. "Ah. Here's the Prime's pet puss. Startin' to make sense now. What you hunting?"
"Mr. Cochrane," she said, trying to ignore his stare and the way it settled on her bodice. It wasn't as if there was an inch of skin to see, but she suddenly felt naked. "I—"
Rathbourne reached past her and grabbed a fistful of the little man's necktie, yanking him facedown onto the bar and pressing his nose into a faint circle of beer that someone's tankard had left behind. "I would choose your words more carefully, Cochrane. The next time you make some vulgar remark toward Miss Martin, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your days sipping your dinner off a spoon."
With a pleasant smile, he let go of the man's necktie, and Cochrane swayed back, almost falling off his stool.
Silence fell throughout the tavern. One man's chair scraped back, as if the crowd were poised to flee.
Ianthe closed her mouth slowly.
That moment in the carriage returned full force, when Rathbourne had gently patted her hair into place, then matter-of-factly smoothed the wrinkles from her gown. She hadn't known what to make of it then, and she didn't know now.
He's protecting me, that's all. But it didn't feel like this newfound interest in her reputation stemmed from his oath to her. No, she'd seen it in his face when she'd taken the words that some of the Order's sorcerers called her—behind her back, of course—and used them on herself.
It had felt like... an olive branch. And she could not quite pretend to herself that a part of her didn't ache for more of that. The way Lucien looked at her, at times... She had spent so many years alone, trying to pretend that her study of sorcery fulfilled her life, but in the deepest quiet of night, when she was alone in her bed, she sometimes wished for someone of her own. A husband to wake up to. A family. The daughter that she had watched grow up from a distance, snuggled into her lap, where she could breathe in the sweet rose scent that always lingered about Louisa's hair...
But none of that was to be.
It was dangerous, this bond between them. It made her want things she shouldn't. She'd only be left alone and heartbroken at the end of this quest. Her focus must be on her daughter, nothing else.
Magnus Cochrane gave her another appraising look, but this one didn't feel quite so slimy. "I see," he said, and from the flinty look in his eyes, he did, but didn't dare comment more on the subject.
Several of their spectators let out loose breaths, and Ianthe's shoulders relaxed. If Cochrane had thrown down upon Rathbourne, she'd have been obliged to protect him. For, despite that surge of power he'd lashed out with yesterday, she wasn't entirely certain he was up to it himself.
"So what do you want?" Cochrane demanded.
"We want passage to Balthazar's Labyrinth," she said. "We're looking for Mr. Elijah Horroway. I have some questions for him."
"Ain't here," Cochrane replied with a blank face.
"The spirit of Mr. Horroway then," she shot back. "And I know that's in the Labyrinth, no doubt trying to find some way to fully resurrect itself. Come along, Cochrane. If you dilly-dally too long, my companion here might grow impatient. Believe me, you wouldn't want that. He's barely civilized as it is."
Cochrane grunted, then hopped down off his stool and disappeared behind the counter. Rathbourne exchanged a slightly amused look with her at the threat she'd used. Ianthe shrugged.
All they could see was the top of Cochrane's bald head. Then he waddled out toward a wall of curtains and reached up to tug on a bell pull there. The red velvet curtains slid back, exposing an enormous iron wheel embedded into the wall, like the door to a bank vault, which it had once been, of course.
A panel slid open in the door, revealing an inch or two of a cold stone face. It could have been a mask or rock carving. "Yes?" Came a harsh whisper, like the breath of air slipping from a newly opened tomb.
"Themselves want entrance to the Inn." Cochrane jerked his thumb back toward them.
"They paid the price?"
"Not yet." Cochrane gestured toward the small stone altar on the side of the door.
Unease ran through Ianthe. She'd heard tales from the Colonies about curses that could be applied using a person's hair, fingernails, or skin. Still, blood was blood, and the sorcerers to be found within the Labyrinth were those belonging to the Darker disciplines.
Taking out the little athame most sorcerers carried with them, she cut the fleshy, scarred pad of her thumb, then allowed a drop to fall into the silver bowl on the altar. "Let no harm be done by my will within. I grant the sorcerers of the Labyrinth safe passage and ask for it myself."
Almost an inch of blood lingered in the bottom, and as her droplet hit the crimson liquid, small circles spread outward, a shiver of sorcery trickling cold fingers up her spine. The oath was set and would backfire upon her should she break it. Wordlessly, she handed the blade to Rathbourne, who echoed her gesture.
"Done," she told Cochrane, tucking her athame back within her reticule. "Now let us pass."
"With pleasure." His evil little leer had returned. Reaching up, he hauled hard on the iron wheel, straining to put his weight into it. The wheel turned slowly at first, then moved with well-oiled glee until the circular door popped open.
Instant noise assaulted them; foul-mouthed curses spat into the street beyond as a tall woman in a cloak argued with a hunched old man over his barrow of goods. It was like stepping into another world, one hidden from the eyes of the normal people of London. A dark echo of the Portobello Markets, well-lit by tallow candles that wept fat globules of melted wax, instead of gaslights. Dozens of occult shops, herb gardens, apothecary's, laboratories, and even a museum lurked within. Some said there were even duels to the death held for entertainment value in the courtyard of the tavern down the end of Main Alley.
"Welcome to Balthazar's Labyrinth." Cochrane gestured them inside.
The gatekeeper on the other side of the door stepped aside with slow, heavy steps, and Ianthe hopped over the rim of the door, trying to look unconcerned. This wasn't her first time in the Labyrinth, but as always, she felt a shiver of nervousness. She wasn't protected here. The Prime had no control over what went on within this slick warren of alleys that was hidden from Null eyesight. Oh, some of its denizens were still wary enough of Drake's power to be careful with her, but others here had bones of contention to pick with the Prime. Destroying his envoy would make some of them into great names amongst those who dabbled on the edges of the Order.
The creature guarding the door slowly shut it behind them and swung the wheel with ease to latch it shut. Part-construct, it resembled an enormous stone golem. A charm had been painted on its forehead in blood, and its blank eyes were pits of gray.
Locked in. If only she didn't feel so nervous. No sense in portraying it, however, as the people leering at them would sense it and be upon them like vultures.
"Come along then," she said to Rathbourn
e. "Let's go corner that rat, Horroway, and see what he knows."
* * *
"PERHAPS I'D BEST TAKE the lead," Lucien murmured, eyeing the riffraff in the alley.
A hand to his sleeve stopped him. "And do what, precisely?" Miss Martin asked, her eyes serious as she looked up at him. "I'm well tutored in wards, courtesy of Drake. There's not much here that I cannot handle. Guard my back."
Then, with a purposeful swish of her bustle, she swept in front of him, striding over the cobbles as if she owned the place.
Bloody woman. Lucien growled under his breath and strode after her. If there was one place in all of London that made him hesitant to step into, this was it. The Labyrinth was a rambling set of streets that had been here for several hundred years. It looked like something straight out of Shakespeare's times. The eaves and rooves were crooked, some almost leaning against the opposite roof. Little shop faces opened into the alley, selling an assortment of goods: bat's feet and potions, all manner of oddments, rare astrology books, grimoires, dark pendants, and jewelry to deflect curses... Each shop had its own dark wares, and curious, invisible eyes watched them as they passed by the diamond-paned windows.
Dirty glass above kept the weather off the street and curious eyes out. If parliament ever realized it was here, it would send half the cabinet into conniptions. The Order had sworn itself to the monarchy years ago, and enough of them had done their part in certain wars or Colonial expansion, helping to leash other countries to Britannia's will, for the Queen and her cabinet to consider them allies, at least. Those war heroes and adventurers were considered servants of the empire, but as far as most of the Null world knew, they were but a source of parlor tricks and games and pretty sparkling lights. Not quite respectable, but certainly entertaining, and oh-so dashing in their uniforms.
If the cabinet knew the full extent of sorcery, of blood and death and poisonings, Miss Martin's father would finally be able to push through a law against them. This was London's dark secret, or one of them, a place belonging entirely to those of an occult nature. A place ungoverned by the Prime's long hand, with rules of its own and those of a mind to enforce them.
"This way," Miss Martin called over her shoulder and led him down an offshoot of an alley, which appeared even smaller and darker.
Steam billowed out of a grate in the cobbles, dashed aside by Miss Martin's skirts. Several barrow boys watched them pass, looking almost human until one of them blinked and a translucent eyelid slid shut over its eyes then vanished. Lucien let his hand fall to the pistol at his waist and stared them down as they passed by. Hell spawn, or their offspring. Miss Martin had charmed the bullets for him that morning, carving neat little runes of strength, death, and invulnerability to magic into them. He wasn't going to be as helpless as he had been yesterday.
"Horroway's most commonly found at Grimdark & Hastings. It's a bookshop owned by his friend Marius Hastings. Don't trust either of them, and don't turn your back."
"Truly? And here I thought I'd passed my apprenticeship." Lucien guided her around a puddle of... something. Black and inky in the cobbled streets, it gave a strange gurgle as if something moved within the dark waters. "I have been here before, Miss Martin."
"You have?"
"How else do you think I bought the book containing a summoning spell for a demon? Or the focus objects for the ritual?"
"You were... different then." Stronger, she meant.
He had no time to reply, for the sign heralding Osiris Place appeared, and tucked just off it was the bookshop, Grimdark & Hastings.
Miss Martin paused on the threshold as if to make a dramatic entrance, and then speared the two occupants within with a hardened gaze. "Elijah Horroway. A word, if I may."
A man had been leaning against the counter, his battered top hat casting shade over his face and his coat collar tucked up. The coat looked dusty and there were several stab holes in it. On his hands were a motley pair of fingerless gloves. He didn't move, peering down into the book he'd been studying.
His friend, however, Mr. Hastings, backed into the wall, hands held up in surrender. "Miss M-Martin," he stuttered. Light flashed off his half-moon glasses, disguising his eyes. He was prematurely thinning on top, with a cascade of gingery curls around the side of his head. "What an unexpected delight." Wide eyes danced helplessly toward Horroway, who straightened and tucked something back within his coat.
"What d'you want?" Horroway ground out in a voice as dry as the grave. Those gloved hands rested flatly on the counter, and he tipped his head to the side.
Lucien still couldn't make out Horroway's features. He wasn't certain he wanted to. But he strode casually to the center of the room, hands resting lightly on his belt. He wouldn't put it past Horroway to break Guest Oath here. Though perhaps, considering his condition, he wasn't bound to it. There was no blood in that body, after all.
"Hastings. Out."
"Y-yes, ma'am." Marius Hastings skidded for the door and vanished.
Miss Martin took her time, tugging off her gloves one finger at a time as she surveyed the room. She had a flare for the theatrical, he suspected. "I'm after information, Horroway."
"Are you now?" Horroway gave a dry laugh, then tugged a flask from his pocket and poured some of its contents into the tumbler in front of him. His elixir, no doubt. "Brazen tart like you... What makes you think I'd be so obligin'? What you goin' to offer me? A run up cock alley?"
They both watched as he threw back his special potion, one that anchored his spirit to the flesh he inhabited, or so it was said.
"Language, Mr. Horroway," Miss Martin chided. "I suppose it's one of the first few civilized arts to leave a body, hmm?"
That earned her a slit-eyed side look. Lucien stepped closer.
Horroway turned around slowly, leaning back with both elbows resting on the counter. His face was straight out of a penny dreadful—or perhaps a grave—pockmarked and somewhat flaccid. His pallid mouth didn't quite look as though it worked properly, resembling a gasping, breeched fish. Only he wasn't gasping. He wasn't breathing at all. A brass chain was tucked inside his filthy waistcoat, and on it hung an hourglass. Once he had to flip the hourglass—every month it was rumored—he'd have to find a somewhat fresher body to claim.
"Looks like this one's growing somewhat haggard," Miss Martin said.
"You threatenin' me?" Horroway demanded. "That's the danger o' comin' in here, into me own turf. Guest Right might hold you, but it don't affect me none."
"The Guest Oath forbids me from harming you," Miss Martin replied sweetly. Power slid into her, like silk moving over sand. It brightened her complexion until she was almost vibrant. With a muttered Word, she flung one hand wide, and Horroway flew back over the counter and stuck to the wall, quivering like a dagger, with his boots almost two inches off the floor. "But it doesn't say anything about containing you. I wonder how long your grip on that foul-smelling body lasts? I wonder what would happen afterward, if you lost hold of it, or if you didn't get to your elixir in time, hmm? A containment ward causes no direct harm, does it?"
"Fuckin' Covent Garden Slut."
"That's enough," Lucien warned, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the... man. "If you speak to her like that again, I'll beat you bloody. Tell Miss Martin what she wants to know, and then we can leave, and you can go back to rotting."
That earned him a vicious glare. "What you want?"
"The truth. How long has Morgana been back in England?" Miss Martin showed not a hint of fear as she stepped closer.
Clever, how she didn't ask if the woman was here already. Horroway wouldn't quite know how much she knew.
"Don't know," Horroway said, licking his lips with a dry, cracked tongue. "Ain't seen her since the divorce."
"Oh, come now, Horroway. Presume I'm not an idiot. The two of you were bosom buddies, once upon a time... Wasn't there even talk of an engagement, before her betrothal to the Prime? You followed her around like a puppy at her heels, until she dismisse
d you for Drake, and then rumor has it you helped spirit her out of the country once Drake and the Order's Council put a price on her head. Has she contacted you?" Miss Martin asked.
"What for?" Horroway sneered.
"I don't know," Miss Martin shrugged, though there was a strange glitter to her eyes. "Perhaps she needed a place to hide? Perhaps she needed information about... certain relics."
"Ain't know nothin' about relics."
"Interesting how you answer that, but not the other question I asked."
This was the Miss Martin Lucien knew and recognized from the Grosvenor Hotel last year, when she'd arrested him. Capable, devious, fully in command of her wits, and confident of her strengths... Only in the privacy of her own rooms did she ever reveal a softer side with hints of vulnerability. It was a dangerous combination, for on one hand he admired her strength of will, whilst at the same time he found the woman who turned to him for comfort alluring. He wanted to know all of her secrets, wanted to understand what put that sadness in her eyes at times when she grew distracted and stared out of windows...
"Don't know where she is, don't know what she wants, don't know—"
"But you're not denying that she's in the country."
Horroway's mouth slammed shut. Then he bared his teeth at her. "You fuckin' bitch, you didn't know."
The faintest of smiles crossed Miss Martin's mouth. Slowly, with her skirts swishing, she paced in front of Horroway, looking for all the world like an academic contemplating a problem. "She's back in the country, back in London, but she's not come to you for help, has she? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Poor Elijah. All of that loyalty you placed behind her, hoping that she'd come back to you one day... No hope of that though, now you're like this. Morgana wouldn't want a husk of a man. No, whom else would she turn to? Hmm." Miss Martin tapped her lips. "She never did have any female allies. Always men, strangely enough. Or perhaps not allies, perhaps we should call them what they were—puppets. So who is still alive out of all those who danced to her tune? Well, of course, there's Tremayne, but then they parted on bad terms after she and Drake conspired to steal the Relics Infernal from him, and Tremayne isn't the sort to dance to her tune for long. There's Roger Maddesley, but how much influence does he have these days? Chester Hemmingfield, perhaps? He's ambitious and no friend to the Prime..." She glanced toward Horroway. "What do you think?"
