Wordlessly, Bancroft walked toward them. On some level, he knew Harriman—or rather, Han Zuiweng—had kept the workers secure lest they run away or tell someone they had been forced into an outrageous forgery scheme. He just hadn’t let his imagination conjure what keeping them secure might mean. Caged. Forced to slavery. Killed. Welcome to the Empire.
A coldness took root in Bancroft’s belly, spreading like frost through every vein. Despite his years of supping with villains, he shuddered. Then he hated himself for the weakness. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”
“There is one final detail.” Harriman crossed the floor to stand beside him. “We have taken care of the workers, but there is still Han.”
Bancroft remembered the conversation they’d had at Hilliard House. I wondered why you insisted that I come in person, and now I’m about to find out. “What do you want me to do?”
“Han is more dangerous than the rest put together.”
“So kill him.” But Bancroft knew that was more easily said than done. He had only met the foreman once before, but wouldn’t soon forget the encounter. Big Han, Han Zuiweng, Drunken Han, Han the Devil—whatever one called him—was a huge creature who stood a head taller than Bancroft and was at least twice his weight in solid muscle.
Harriman paled. “If you help me, I’ll make good what was stolen from your girl. I’ll share my cut of the gold.”
Despite himself, Bancroft’s pulse skipped. He stood a bit straighter, but was careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Harriman was the underling, the one who should be taking orders instead of giving them—but this was clearly the kind of detail he couldn’t manage. If Bancroft wanted Han silenced, he would have to get his hands dirty. “Do you have a plan?”
Harriman gave a reptilian smile, but it faded quickly. Sweat dewed his temples. “Yes. I drugged his wine. It made him compliant enough that I could lead him into a cage before he passed out. But he’s been sleeping for hours, and I don’t think the drug will last much longer.”
He waved a hand toward the last cage in the row. It was deep in shadow, but when Bancroft squinted he could just make out a shape slumped against the rough stone wall. “What do you want me to do? Shoot him?”
Harriman made a helpless gesture. “Someone has to. Hiring another killer to take care of it would merely complicate matters.”
“Why not you? You could have done it the moment he fell asleep.”
Harriman’s helplessness turned to steel. “I’ve done enough.”
“And if I do the shooting, then I’m implicated further. Another reason my silence is guaranteed and you are protected.” Bancroft nearly laughed. “Oh, don’t look so abashed. These moves are as predictable as a cotillion. I’ve been at this far longer than you. And none of this is more than my word against yours if you don’t have witnesses.”
Harriman’s eyes flickered. “Well, I wonder if you predicted that I put your share of the final payment of gold in the cell with Han. If you want it, you need to deal with him. I told you to bring a pistol tonight. I hope you did.”
A spike of fury blanked Bancroft’s vision for an instant—an anger so acute that he sucked in a hiss of breath. Bancroft considered shooting Harriman instead, and gold be damned. Unfortunately, he didn’t want Keating to get curious when his cousin turned up missing. “You have no idea who you’re playing with.”
“Oh, I do. And I’m taking no chances, milord.” Harriman’s voice was icy. “And you’re quite correct. I shall make sure that you keep your part of our bargain.”
Bancroft stopped before the cage. The bars were old, rusted iron woven in an ornate pattern that made him think of an antique menagerie. But what he’d thought was a sleeping man was just a pile of old clothes. “Harriman, what is this?”
The man had gone pale as a mushroom. “Dear God, he’s loose.” He grabbed the cage door and swung it open. “He broke the lock clean off.”
Bancroft swore under his breath. “Suggestions?”
The shadows seemed suddenly thicker, as if they were congealing into smoke. Harriman wheeled around, as if trying to look in every direction at once. “Bancroft, listen to me. Han has a pet.”
“A pet?”
“A creature to call. It guards this place, but somehow he controls it.”
Bancroft was growing irritated. The cavern seemed to be growing darker. “A dog?”
“No, it’s a thing. A foreign thing. He spelled it into the warehouse to keep out thieves.”
“You’re making no sense,” Bancroft snapped.
“Harriman,” a voice growled behind them. “You broke honor.”
They spun, and there was Big Han. He had moved as silently as the shadows that wreathed him. His only garment was loose-fitting trousers, leaving his massive chest bare. Heavy leather bracelets studded with brass clasped his wrists. He was bald as a rock, but thick black mustaches drooped past his chin. His eyes were dark and cold as a December night. Bancroft had no trouble believing Han had torn a dozen men to pieces and tossed them into the Stygian waters of the hidden river. I should never have let Harriman handle the hiring.
Everyone froze, as if unwilling to see what would happen the moment after the tableau dissolved. Tension screamed up Bancroft’s neck. He longed to reach for the Enfield, but he forced himself to wait. Timing was all.
The darkness began to crackle, as if something burned. All around them, the smoke roiled, starting to solidify, and it became clear what Harriman had meant about Han’s pet—it was some sort of conjured beast. A clawed foot raked the air, a hairbreadth from Bancroft’s head. Bancroft swore, barely getting out a single pungent syllable before terror clogged his throat. Violence and blood he could bear, but not sorcery. Every man had a private fear, and magic was his. He felt himself begin to shake.
Without warning, Harriman shoved Bancroft toward Han and bolted for the stairs. Bancroft stumbled, losing his hat and falling to one knee with a painful crack against the stone. Han lunged for Harriman, catching the man’s shoulder in one huge hand. Harriman spun, limbs flailing like a doll tossed by a child.
Harriman dangled in the air as Han stomped a foot into Bancroft’s face. Bancroft toppled backward, trying to draw the pistol but flopping helplessly from another brutal kick before he could reach it. Harriman landed in a heap beside him, his lungs emptying in a wheeze.
Han made a growl like a Rottweiler. The congealing smoke twined up his legs, a slow, sensual caress. The huge man stepped forward, as graceful as he was massive, and reached for Bancroft. An image of the bloodstained floor upstairs flashed through Bancroft’s brain.
Bancroft groped for the Enfield, slapped and fumbled for the butt beneath his coat, got tangled in his watch chain, and finally discovered it under his hip. He rolled as Han’s paw clutched the back of his coat, pinning him for a second, but Bancroft kicked out, twisting hard enough to rip the seams that held the fabric together. The motion brought him directly under the man’s ugly face. Bancroft drew the Enfield, cocked it, and fired. The sound blared against the stone walls, echoing as if a dozen charges fired. A small, round hole appeared on Han’s forehead. Brains and skull spewed into the air behind him. Bancroft squirmed out of the way just in time to avoid the crushing fall of Han’s body.
Something screamed, long and fierce. Bancroft staggered to his feet with a grunt, feeling every bone and muscle in searing detail. He clutched his weapon and swept the muzzle in an arc, aiming toward one corner, then another, but the shadows were fading, seeping back into the stone and fetid air. He realized he was breathing too fast, and forced himself to slow. He was shivering, his gut cramping with fear, but the crisis was past. I lived.
A quick look down told him Han wouldn’t be getting up again—not without the back of his head. For good or ill, Harriman would fight another day. After pawing the ground a moment, the man hauled himself to his knees with a moan. “Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
Bancroft grimaced as he
felt his shoulder protest. He picked up his hat, which had rolled into a puddle of shadow. “It doesn’t take long to die from a bullet to the face. Your detail is taken care of, is seems.”
Harriman didn’t answer at once, but licked his lips. “The shadow beast will be back. Han set it to guard the warehouse.”
“Han is dead.”
“But it is not. It will still guard what it believes belonged to its master.”
Bancroft’s skin crawled and he took an involuntary step back from Harriman. “You’re a fool to dabble in magic. Sooner or later, it turns on you.”
Harriman let his head drop forward. “How is that different from the rest of our existence?”
Bancroft snorted. “Courage, man. So far you have made everyone else do your murdering for you. That’s a sign of talent even your cousin could be proud of.”
Harriman straightened, annoyance on his face. Then he took one look at the ruin of Han Zuiweng and heaved out his guts. Determined not to leave without the gold, Bancroft left him to it and set about finding his gold in the broken cell. He turned everything over, using his boot to topple the heap of stinking rags and cursing as fleas jumped in every direction. By the time he emerged empty-handed, Harriman was upright and bracing himself against the wall.
“Where is my gold?” he demanded.
“If it’s not there, Han took it. If he took it, he put it with the rest of his things.” Harriman’s voice was weary.
“And where are they?”
The man turned to look at the endless shadows that stretched under the streets. “He was a secretive bastard. He kept his lair somewhere out there, which means it’s as good as lost. There are miles of tunnels, and very few of them are empty, if you take my meaning.”
Fury burned like acid. Bancroft launched himself at Harriman, smashing his fist into the man’s jaw. Harriman reeled, the back of his head smacking the wall. He slid down until his sat on the floor, knees crooked awkwardly before him.
Pain shot up Bancroft’s arm, sharp as a sword, but it cleared his head. He pulled the Enfield, pressing it to Harriman’s forehead. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
The man shook. “I’ll pay you everything. I swear.”
“How? You’ve killed all your workmen.”
Tears flooded Harriman’s eyes, snot glistening on his upper lip. “But Jasper doesn’t know. I’ve fooled him once. I can do it again.”
“You’ve seen what I can do if you fail me. I need money. I need it fast.”
Harriman nodded frantically.
Bancroft weighed his decision. He’d killed one man already tonight, and he had no taste for killing another—but that was the least of his considerations. Letting Harriman go was a risk. The man was weak and treacherous. But if he killed him now, there would be no chance of recouping one shilling of his loss. And there was some appeal to having a pet viper so close to the Gold King. I’m so far on the edge now, what is one more throw of the dice?
Bancroft put the gun away. “I’m leaving.”
Perhaps it was the look on his face, but this time Harriman didn’t argue.
Bancroft left the way he had come, turning back onto Bond Street and toward home. The rain had stopped, but mist was creeping between the buildings, reminding him uncomfortably of the shadow beast. As he had left, Harriman had been weeping at the prospect of cutting up the body and dragging it to the underground river, but Bancroft had been unmoved. If Harriman was going to cheat his cousin, he was going to have to develop a backbone. That was the way of secret wars. Every player had to learn the lesson of consequences, and tonight was Harriman’s turn.
As Bancroft walked, he fingered the empty space in his pocket. There should have been gold there. Some would have gone to repairing his personal fortunes, but most had been earmarked for his private projects—the many irons in the fire he had organized and funded in hopes of crushing Jasper Keating and the other steam barons. The schemes that would buy him a place in the shadow government. Someday Lord Bancroft would rise, stepping on the rubble of their industrial juggernauts to accept the wealth and titles due to a savior of the Empire. Counselor to the queen, perhaps. Prime minister?
Bancroft allowed himself a dry smile, amused by his own fantasies—but no one ever made great strides by dreaming modestly. He had been born a second son—heir to nothing—and had dreamed his way into a title and lands. He had married the daughter of an earl. Was there a reason he shouldn’t be victor in the struggle against a handful of shopkeepers-turned-thugs?
The only constraint was that his fight had to be invisible—and there was his own lesson in consequences. He had been too public with the Harter’s affair, and now his whole family was paying the price, with the lights off and their future hanging by a thread. Adele and the children were right at the core of his tangled motivations, and he knew with bitter certainty that he had let them down with that mistake. Bancroft had to fix matters and see that they stayed fixed—and, among other considerations, that meant ensuring that Evelina Cooper and her detective uncle kept out of his affairs.
Bancroft’s path took him south. Ahead, he saw a crush of carriages that meant someone—Lord Hansby, by the address—was having a party. Bancroft crossed the street to avoid meeting the throng crowding the sidewalk, and took a quick glance over his person to check for unwanted pieces of Big Han. He was rumpled, but relatively clean. There was nothing he could so about the rip in his shoulder seam, though, or the fact every joint throbbed from the struggle.
His attention was caught by a figure waiting in the golden glow of a light standard just ahead. Keating. Speak of the devil and he shall come. Keating’s head turned and he straightened. It was clear the man had seen him, so Bancroft approached. There was no point in hiding.
Keating was wrapped in a cape of soft black wool. His eyes, always a peculiar shade of amber, looked yellow in the gaslight. They slid over him in a quick, dismissive glance, as if he was hardly worth looking at. “Enjoying the night air, Bancroft?”
Bancroft forced a smile to his lips, thinking again about his empty pocket. “Just out for a stroll after a quiet evening at the club.”
“Too dark and cold at home, eh?” Keating tilted his head, his expression saying that he only half listened to Bancroft’s words. “I trust I’ve made my point. I don’t like seeing you out in the cold, but it had to be done. There’s only one way the wind blows anymore, and that’s where I send it.”
Bancroft swallowed down a quip about poor digestion. Instead, he regarded Keating with studied calm, even though his heart was pounding with nervous excitement. Apparently the moment for polite fiction had ended, and Keating was prepared to speak openly about what he’d done. That was a bit nerve-racking, but if the Gold King was utterly done with him, he wouldn’t be starting up a conversation. Bancroft hated himself for feeling a twinge of hope, but he had to survive.
He forced his voice to be bland and pleasant. “Are you looking for a show of defiance or submission, sir?”
“That’s your choice. I’ll give you a second chance, but never a third.”
The gall of it was breathtaking, and Bancroft found himself momentarily robbed of words. The noise of a passing steam tram covered his lapse long enough to recover. “What does a second chance entail, Mr. Keating?”
Keating made an expansive gesture, clearly enjoying the moment. “I’ll forgive your boy his outrage over the affair at your garden party, but bring him in line, Bancroft. He does you no credit.”
Bancroft bristled. It was one thing to wish he could still smack his son’s backside at times, but no one else had that privilege. Still, he felt Keating’s eyes on him and held his peace.
The Gold King flicked a speck from his cape. “And I’ll overlook your bad judgment with Harter’s Engines. The lights at Hilliard House go back on this one time, but it stops there. We’re friends, or you’re finished. Am I clear?”
“As crystal.” He’s right. As long as I have no money, he has power over me.
/> Bancroft had hoped to leave Harriman’s workshop with more gold tonight, but his luck had run out. Big Han had stowed it somewhere in the maze of underground tunnels that made up the territory of the Black Kingdom. Bancroft could search for it, but it was a poor gamble that he would come out alive.
That left Keating in control. Anything more Bancroft could do—at least until he had a new fortune to pour into his plans and projects—would be no better than a suicide. And Keating was no fool. He would watch Bancroft like the proverbial hawk and ensure he never got his hands on fresh resources.
The realization crept through his veins like venom, the agony of it so acute that his breath hissed through his teeth. He was trapped as surely as if he were locked in Harriman’s underground cages. He had fought so hard and so long for his career, and this money-grubbing boilermaker had taken everything. It’s not possible. Surely I have cards left to play.
But he didn’t. Not right now, at any rate.
Keating smiled affably, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think we understand each other perfectly, Lord Bancroft. Ah, here comes my carriage at last.”
Bancroft watched the steam baron climb into the vehicle, noting the arrogant set of Keating’s shoulders. Clearly, the man thought he owned the Empire. If he could get rid of the other barons, he would be right. The driver snapped his whip and the carriage drove away.
Bancroft watched it go, waves of fury pounding through his body until he went numb. Sickness welled up, driven by pure hate. He turned and heaved his guts into the gutter.
Gods above, thought Bancroft, saliva dangling from his lips. I need a drink.
Chapter Twenty
London, April 9, 1888
A Study in Silks tba-1 Page 25
