Dark Stars (The Thief Taker Series Book 3)

by C. S. Quinn

  The women lounged enticingly on red cushions. They held out fruit seductively or proffered glasses, their soft, bare limbs draped around the King and the Duke of York.

  For a moment Amesbury thought the brothers had arranged a Roman orgy. He recognised several of the women from a bordello near Whitehall. One lay completely reclined, head tilted back on a cushion, legs parted very deliberately in the direction of the King. Another girl had manoeuvred herself to press her bare breasts against the Duke of York’s exposed chest.

  Then Amesbury realised. The King and the Duke were having a portrait painted. The King was the God of War, his brother God of the Sea. It was a statement of colonial power to decorate the King’s court.

  ‘Amesbury!’ The Duke of York waved, his chest bare, a white toga barely covering his muscled midriff. He held an elaborate trident, and his biceps and ankles were encircled with gold cuffs. A tall half-crown rested atop his long brown hair.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the Duke, gesturing to the nude women. ‘I’m having a painting for my birthday.’ The Duke tapped his nose knowingly. ‘Not my actual birthday of course. You know how that could be misused by astrologers. My official birthday. I mean to gift it to Charles, for his public rooms.’

  ‘A fine gift,’ said Amesbury. ‘And Your Royal Highness is wise to conceal the hour of his birth.’

  ‘What news?’ asked the King. He wore a red toga and shining gold breastplate with a Roman centurion’s helmet over his curling black wig.

  ‘The Dutch have been sighted off the coast,’ said Amesbury. ‘Your Majesty, it’s such a bold move. I can only think they must be in possession of some great intelligence or weapon.’

  The King righted himself, wincing as the breastplate dug in. ‘What could De Ryker have?’ he asked.

  ‘A local pilot perhaps,’ said Amesbury. ‘Something has given him more courage than seems rational. And De Ryker is not the kind of man to attack rashly.’

  Amesbury had a sudden memory of De Ryker, his skin deeply browned and thickened by years at sea. The admiral’s right eye was clouded from navigating by the sun, and he had a presence on deck that could be felt across an entire fleet.

  ‘The Eye?’ suggested the King. ‘Could Janus have located it? Brought it to him? My father thought it would win him the war.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ agreed Amesbury.

  The King was looking intently at Amesbury, and the old general wondered if Charles knew why he’d changed sides all those years ago.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Amesbury, ‘might you reconsider bringing Buckingham back? He is an excellent commander, and we’re in dire need of men.’

  ‘Buckingham is banished,’ snapped Charles.

  Amesbury was silent. The naval commander was rumoured to have been sleeping with Barbara Castlemaine, but heartbreak was a poor reason to lose a country.

  ‘I shall head the fleet,’ said the Duke of York. His eyes twisted hopefully to his brother. ‘You know I have a fine command aboard a ship.’

  Charles’s face was suddenly stricken. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You were nearly beheaded by chain shot last year. You are impetuous, James. You throw yourself to the front line with no thoughts for your safety.’

  The Duke swung around to importune Amesbury, who winced at the imminent prospect of the scanty toga dislodging. The Duke paused to better fasten it.

  ‘The sailors respect James,’ said Amesbury carefully.

  Charles shook his head.

  ‘There is another option,’ said the Duke, still adjusting his Neptune toga. ‘We wait for the longitude experiment.’

  ‘Your Majesty . . .’ began Amesbury, knowing what the Duke of York was about to suggest.

  ‘The Loyal London is due back from Tobago any day,’ continued the Duke. ‘Think how Frances Stewart will enjoy a pretty new pearl necklace.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ sighed Amesbury, ‘a wounded dog cannot keep time at sea.’

  The general was fighting to keep his annoyance in check. He’d seen hundreds of ridiculous attempts to find longitude. All had failed.

  ‘James is learned in astrology,’ said the King, warming to the idea of colonial wealth. ‘He consults on every small thing and assures me this plan will succeed.’

  ‘All England loves mapping the stars,’ said Amesbury. ‘Publishers sell more almanacs than Bibles. But predicting the future is not the same skill as charting a ship.’ He held back a deep sigh. ‘My advice is the same as it’s been for the last year,’ he said. ‘Sue for peace now. You don’t have the resources for war.’

  ‘The Thames is the greatest sea barrier in the world,’ said the King. ‘The entrance is a maze of deadly shoals and hidden sandbanks. No navy has ever got through it.’ He smiled at his brother. ‘Great kings must take risks on occasion,’ he decided. ‘Let the ship return from Tobago.’

  Chapter 35

  Charlie was leading Lily into the tangled outskirts of Whitehall. The King’s Palace was a jumble of brick buildings, bordered by clusters of outhouses. It was amongst this labyrinthine muddle of streets that the Maze was hidden.

  ‘We follow the royal crest to the entrance,’ Charlie explained. He felt beneath the underside of a windowsill. A Stuart ensign was burned into the wood.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Lily was peering at the symbol in disbelief. It was so small as to be virtually indiscernible from a knot in the wood.

  ‘I notice things,’ said Charlie. ‘When the old King was in power, his spies used this maze to bring information to him. The mark helped them find the entrance in the dark.’

  ‘Not a very subtle symbol,’ observed Lily.

  ‘The old King was notoriously bad at spy craft,’ agreed Charlie.

  ‘So the crests lead us to the maze entrance,’ said Lily. ‘But how do we get inside?’

  ‘If the stars are with us,’ said Charlie, ‘Dave the Axe won’t be at his post today. That leaves Big John, and he likes me. I got him his first bare-knuckle fight. He’ll let us past for a few pence.’

  Lily was looking ahead. ‘Dave is an executioner?’ she guessed.

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘Then the stars aren’t with you,’ said Lily. ‘Because if that’s the entrance’ – she pointed at a dark conjunction of two brick buildings – ‘there’s a big man in a dark hood outside it. And I think he’s stirring a cauldron of boiling heads.’

  Charlie followed her gaze. Lily was right. Even from this distance he could make out the giant lumpy figure of the executioner and the ominous bobbing shapes in his steaming cauldron.

  Charlie slowed. ‘It is the executioner,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘We need a name of someone we’re certain to be in the Maze,’ he decided. ‘We don’t know yet if Ishmael is there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’ll make a guess,’ said Charlie. ‘Keep behind me and be ready to run.’

  Charlie forced himself to approach the brooding executioner with a casual step. Even so, the hooded head flicked up, yellowed eyes glaring in suspicion. The executioner held a long staff, with which he prodded a cauldron bubbling with oily liquid.

  ‘Who’re you?’ he demanded.

  They drew within sight of the cauldron’s contents. Severed heads were rotating in the boil, sightless eyes turning upwards and back down again. A pungent blend of vinegar and spices designed to preserve the human remains mingled with the scent of boiled meat.

  ‘Few more for the London Bridge pikes?’ asked Charlie conversationally, addressing his remark to the pot.

  The executioner, clearly unused to such interest in his work, swirled the contents self-importantly.

  ‘I use cumin,’ he said proudly. ‘Keeps the features.’ He dunked the long pole and turned over the nearest head in demonstration. ‘Old Morris uses tar,’ he added disapprovingly. ‘You can’t even see who they were once they’re raised on pikes. Mine you see who they were. Even their last expression.’

  The sides of the hood rose to suggest a grin was manifesting beneath. Then
the executioner’s eyes darkened suddenly as they settled on Lily.

  ‘What business have you here?’ he asked. ‘Who’s the gypsy?’

  Behind him, Charlie heard the telltale rustle of Lily’s hands closing on her knives.

  ‘We’re here to see the firework maker,’ said Charlie easily.

  The executioner slid a hand under the black hood and rubbed his jaw. ‘Which one?’ he asked after a moment.

  Charlie inwardly swore. He’d not been prepared for this.

  ‘The Dutch one,’ he said, hoping the moment’s hesitation hadn’t been noticed.

  The executioner’s eyes narrowed. He spat into the cauldron. The phlegmy froth floated with the oily spices.

  Behind him, Charlie felt Lily tense to run.

  ‘Him!’ roared the executioner. ‘The Dutchie! He’s lucky I don’t turn him out myself. We don’t like foreigners here. Nor heathen gypsies,’ he added with an assessing glance at Lily. ‘You’ll not see a sensible man stir from his house this All Hallows’ Eve,’ he observed, giving the nearest boiling head a spiteful plunge with his stick. ‘Nor attempt new business. Why do you not wait until after the eclipse to find your firework maker?’

  Charlie thought quickly. ‘Your heads,’ he said, aiming for what seemed to be a point of pride for the executioner. ‘I recognise the fine work. You did Cromwell?’

  The executioner seemed to grow several inches.

  ‘Cromwell was one of mine,’ he agreed. ‘The King asked for me especially,’ he added, ‘to properly avenge his father’s killer.’

  ‘A good thing for the country,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ll be sure to take a better look on our way out of the Maze of Lost Souls.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ said the executioner happily. ‘Note how little damage the birds do.’ He raised his dripping stick and stepped back to let them pass.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lily gave a dazzling smile as they moved past. ‘And be a little careful with your gypsy heads. Or you’ll bring a curse on yourself.’

  Chapter 36

  ‘You shouldn’t have threatened him,’ said Charlie as he and Lily entered the dark alley leading inside the labyrinthine streets.

  ‘Who?’ Lily was stepping carefully into the dark. The smell of boiling heads hung low on the air.

  ‘The executioner guarding the Maze.’ Charlie was appalled at how quickly she’d forgotten. ‘He might come after us.’

  ‘I’m allowed my pride,’ said Lily. ‘You don’t know what it is to be persecuted every day in the city. Men like that shot my father and drowned my mother. I’d slit all their throats if I could,’ she added, a malevolent look to her dark eyes. ‘Every last one.’

  ‘If you hate men like that so much,’ said Charlie, ‘why stay in the city, wearing your gypsy talismans?’

  ‘London is where the money is,’ said Lily in a tone that suggested this should be perfectly obvious. ‘I only intend to stay as long as is necessary. And I can’t conceal my dark skin or hair, so I may as well wear my talismans and charms openly. They’ll know me for a gypsy whatever I wear, so why should I hide?’

  ‘I think you like the danger,’ said Charlie, who knew from experience that Lily couldn’t resist a gamble.

  Lily didn’t contradict him.

  The dark identical building fronts had closed around them. Jettied overhangs shut out most of the daylight, and the interchangeable doors and windows quickly became disorientating.

  They drew to the end of the dark alley, and it split away in two directions.

  ‘How do you know the firework maker?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Charlie. ‘It was an educated guess. I assumed there would be a firework maker hiding in here. They were wanted men after the fire. Many fell to lynch mobs,’ he added, remembering the angry crowds at some of the more spectacular explosions, ‘and the King likes fireworks enough to protect his favourites. I didn’t think there’d be more than one though,’ he added. ‘The Dutch are skilled at fireworks. It was the best I could think of at the time.’

  Charlie hesitated, considering both directions.

  ‘Which way?’ asked Lily.

  ‘It’s a maze,’ said Charlie. ‘Stay on the right and it will always lead you out. So left,’ he added, moving to press a hand to the left wall of the alley, ‘will take you in. I learned that in St Giles,’ he added. ‘In a tenement slum you need to know how to get out fast.’

  They were moving past a row of neat brick buildings now, more a narrow road than an alley.

  ‘It’s all deserted,’ said Lily, looking at the darkened windows, the closed doors.

  ‘Look at the chimneys,’ said Charlie, pointing to the smoking stacks. ‘There are people here. They just don’t want to be found.’

  ‘Then how do we find Ishmael?’

  ‘If he’s here,’ said Charlie, ‘he will be under protection of the King. Which means he’ll still be stargazing.’ He pointed to the buildings. ‘Highest ground,’ he said. ‘They’ll have put Ishmael on the highest ground. To best observe the heavens.’

  ‘So how might we find high ground?’ asked Lily. She was looking at the uneven dirt track, which gave no indication of heading consistently up or down.

  ‘Drainage,’ said Charlie. ‘Lower ground is damper.’ He pointed to the refuse channel, dug through the centre of the streets. It was loaded with filth thrown from the windows. Vegetable peelings, old bones and excrement floated in a pungent urine soup.

  ‘We follow the gutters,’ he said. ‘That way.’

  They traced the path of the sluiceway, keeping track of where the foul-smelling liquid dropped lowest. Charlie swung back a few times, accounting for where the angle of the sun would dry out sections of ground artificially. But alley by dark alley they wound higher, until they were in a dead end of eight houses.

  ‘Here,’ said Charlie. ‘The water drops no lower. This is the highest part of the Maze.’

  He looked up at the mix of thatch and slate roofs. There were no dormer windows or obvious attics.

  ‘Thatch would be easier to cut,’ he decided, ‘for a stargazer. A slate roof would be an expensive thing to make a hole in. Astrologers favour the south side, do they not?’ he added, shifting position to regard the buildings from a different angle. The roofs were shaded, and it was impossible to see from the street.

  He turned his attention to the ground. Four houses with thatch. Two belonged to military men, he decided. They had flat-headed nails hammered into the door frames to signify the number of winning battles held by the occupants.

  That left two. He stepped back and looked carefully, judging which might afford a better view to a stargazer. Then he studied the doors. They were both thick wood, with studded sections. One had a hanging bell, the other a door knocker in the shape of a goat’s head.

  Then he saw it.

  ‘This one,’ he decided, pointing to the goat’s-head knocker.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m certain it will tell us something,’ said Charlie. ‘This door knocker was hung recently. And there’s a pentagram shape in the goat’s mouth.’

  Chapter 37

  Janus was moving across the slippery mud of Dead Man’s Curve, out of sight of the deathlarks. His small boat was hidden at the bank a little further upstream. Lying at his feet was a dead body. With difficulty he dragged it away from the banks and out of sight.

  It was only then that he paused to make a proper assessment. This was his broken thing. His offering to the river.

  Janus had floated the corpse near London Bridge and marked the moon and the tides exactly. But she had not come when he expected. Were his calculations wrong?

  He felt frustration bubble up. He’d not been able to replicate his old master’s workings. What was he missing?

  Thorne was such a precise man. Was the weight of the body wrong? Had he underestimated the speed of the current?

  He tried to remember Thorne’s teachings. All he could call to mind was the astrologer’s obsession w
ith Roman civilisation and his preoccupation with giving his victims a dignified burial.

  Janus balled his fists in frustration. Time was running out. Thorne had showed him nothing meaningful. He’d never meant to give him the Eye.

  Janus knelt down in the boat and carefully removed the wool covering from the corpse. She stared back with white eyes. There was an expression of deep shock on her face.

  Janus felt the familiar blackness well up. The Bad Thing. Suddenly he was back there, helpless and alone. He tried to focus his attention as De Ryker had shown him. But his imagination twisted instead to the terrible room of cogs and broken things. Janus fought to control his mind.

  De Ryker floated back to him. He remembered the first time he’d seen the heavy boots descend into the prisoner’s quarters. The terror as the admiral had named Janus the first sacrifice.

  ‘The man of Saturn,’ De Ryker had said. ‘A cursed one. We’ll stain the seas with his blood and quicken our path.’

  Janus still didn’t know how he’d managed to speak so quickly and convincingly. But he’d impressed De Ryker with his knowledge of the stars. The admiral had reconsidered his fate.

  ‘I’m in need of a brave man,’ he’d said. ‘One gifted in death and destruction to pilot my fireships.’ He’d cast a considering eye over Janus.

  ‘Fetch a basket for the cursed one,’ De Ryker had commanded. ‘Lower him over the bow with a loaf of bread, a mug of ale and a knife. We’ll see how brave he is.’

  As they’d lowered the large fishing basket, with Janus quaking inside, De Ryker had leaned forward.

  ‘Look to the stars,’ he’d advised. ‘There’s peace there. Even for men such as we. If you survive without using the knife to cut yourself free, I may have a mission for you.’

  Janus could still remember the endless days and nights in the basket, tossed by the stormy seas, terrified. Now, as then, he forced his gaze up to the endless carpet of stars twinkling brightly in the dark sky. Calmness descended. It was time to return the woman to Saturn as Thorne had shown him.