The Feast of Ravens

by Andrew Beasley

  Starting with the lock at the top, Mr. Sweet set to work.

  The door itself was built from iron, solid and unyielding. Its only decoration was in the moulding of the seven keyholes, each one a representation of the seven glorious vices of the Legion. The first keyhole was in the shape of a bloated face with a distended, gorging mouth; it stood for gluttony. The next twisted face showed a pair of longing eyes; the symbol of envy. Pride came next, followed by sloth, lust and avarice. Finally he selected the key which he hadn’t had to steal. This lock was forged in the shape of a face distorted with furious anger. That was his great gift to the Legion: wrath.

  When the final bolt drew back, Mr. Sweet put his hand to the door and stepped inside. He lifted his lantern and let its light fall on the treasure.

  In the middle of the chamber a simple stone plinth had been erected. On top of that sat a skull, and resting on that was the crown. It was a simple iron band, like the ancient crowns of old, and around its rim twenty-nine Roman coins had been set in place. Putting his lantern down, Sweet picked it up and examined it with reverence.

  It was an evil thing, he recognized. He could feel the dark influence radiating from it and his own black heart rejoiced.

  Claw Carter was so smug, thinking that he was the only one with any knowledge of the Legion lore. There was one prophecy which Sweet had very much taken to heart. He recited it out loud, the words echoing back to him.

  “He who claims the crown on the raven night shall reign for ever more.”

  That will do for a start, Sweet thought.

  The roof of Grosvenor House was alive with activity. Ben was with the others working flat out on the Liberator, using his knowledge as a barrel-maker to do his part. He looked up and saw his pa shouting orders left, right and centre, and his heart brimmed with pride. Ropes had been dropped down over the side of the mansion and Watchers were hauling up planks of wood, copper pipes, cables… Goodness only knew where they had managed to scrounge all of that. Everyone was focused on the task in hand; even little Molly Marbank was sitting with a group of girls getting busy with a needle and thread. She spotted him and held up her sewing for him to admire.

  Ben waved to her. But despite being proud of what they were achieving together, he couldn’t mask the sinking feeling that this was all too little too late.

  He felt Lucy’s hand on his shoulder then and he rose from his back-breaking labours. He had hardly stopped since Josiah had brought him back at the crack of dawn, and he ached from sawing and hammering. His head still throbbed from the blow that had knocked his lights out, but he wasn’t about to start complaining. He felt guilty that he had caused Jago Moon and Josiah more trouble searching for him when there was so much to do here.

  Ben had wanted to be out looking for his brother, but his work on the Liberator was vital. His skill as an apprentice cooper had come in useful and the quicker he got his part done, the quicker he could get back out and search again. In the meantime, it was Lucy who had been hunting for Nathaniel, with as many other Watchers as could be spared right across the city. All of them had been warned – Beware the laughing child.

  Lucy looked as tired as he felt. It had been as long a day as Ben could remember and every Watcher cell was stretched to the limits. Every time Ben looked up he had seen more refugees being brought onto the roof for safety. And there would be more tomorrow, Ben had no doubt.

  Ben knew from her silence that Lucy’s search had been fruitless.

  “Sorry,” she said quietly.

  A sad sigh escaped Ben’s lips before he could catch it.

  “It must feel like you’ve got the weight of the world resting on you,” said Lucy, “but we believe in you, Ben.” She turned his face towards hers so she could look him directly in the eye. “And we will find Nathaniel, I promise.”

  Ben stretched his aching arms. “Don’t you ever wish you had a normal life?” he asked. “Instead of this?”

  “No,” said Lucy without hesitation. “This is all I want – to stay here with—” She caught herself. “I mean, to stay here and help. I think, somehow, I was always meant to be a Watcher, if that makes sense.”

  It did. If Lucy had been the Hand of Heaven, Ben would have had no difficulty having faith in her. Although he wouldn’t say it to her face, there was something about Lucy that Ben really admired. Life had thrown Lucy a few punches and she’d chosen not to take them lying down. She was a fighter, like he was. And she had hair the colour of honey.

  “Right, “ said Lucy. “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it for me,” she said as she began to rummage in the backpack where she kept her supplies. “Now hold out your hands.”

  Ben obeyed.

  When he opened them he found himself holding an oddly-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper and string.

  “Open it then,” Lucy prompted.

  Ben pulled at the string and drew back the wrapping. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said softly as he looked at the contents. “I’ve never had one of these before.”

  “Yes, you have,” she said. “You always wore your billycock when we first met.”

  “No,” Ben explained. “I mean, I’ve never had a present before.”

  “Well, go on,” Lucy urged. “Try it on.”

  The billycock was even more battered and worn than the one he had lost. Ben picked it up and put it on, feeling a sudden surge of delight, as if he had just been reunited with an old friend.

  “I don’t know what to say.” He grinned.

  “There’s a first,” said Lucy, smiling. “I’m glad you like it,” she went on. “It belonged to my brother.”

  “I didn’t know…”

  “It’s not something I talk about,” said Lucy, “but I had a mother and father once, and a brother. You remind me of him sometimes.”

  “Because he was brave and strong?” suggested Ben.

  “No,” said Lucy, “because I always had to look out for him.”

  Ruby Johnson returned to the Under laden down with her takings. As always, Munro was waiting for her when she returned to the barracks. Ruby’s squire struggled to his feet as she entered the room, hindered by his lame leg and his hunchback.

  “Sit down, Miss Ruby,” said Munro, hobbling to her side. “I’ve got the kettle on for you.”

  Ruby smiled thinly, but it was enough to light up the hunchback’s face. For a few minutes no one said a word. Alexander Valentine lay asleep on his bunk, wheezing – his lungs were too weak for him to join the raids above. Buster, Munro’s three-legged bulldog, was firmly ensconced in his favourite spot before the fire. Munro bustled around Ruby, cleaning a tin mug for her on the hem of his shirt and filling it with steaming tea. One of them was filling the air with the aroma of old cabbage, but it wasn’t clear who the culprit was. Ruby had narrowed it down to two.

  She took the cup gratefully. Munro looked on with big eyes, hungry for her attention. “You’re good to me, Munro,” Ruby said, and the crippled boy grinned proudly.

  “Good day?” he asked, eyeing her bulging bag.

  “The best,” she replied, tipping out her stolen loot on the table between them. Together they counted her haul. One silver candlestick, three leather wallets, two gentlemen’s watches, a dozen or so assorted hairpins, various brooches and a rather fine gent’s silk scarf. Ruby picked the best of the wallets and gave it to Munro. Inside he found a crisp one-pound note.

  “It’s too much,” gasped Munro.

  “Nonsense,” she replied, “not for all you do for me. Now do as you’re told and put it in your stash.” She stroked his cheek with a warm hand and Munro’s skin flushed.

  “Thank you, Miss Ruby,” he said, and he shuffled over to the lockbox hidden under his pillow, where he kept all the tokens that she gave him.

  Ruby sighed and divided up the rest of her ill-gotten gains. Half of what she stole went straight to the Legion funds; everyone in the Under was expected to pay their dues. One of the wallets she set aside
for Mickelwhite; she had no time for him, but these acts of tribute kept the captain off her back. The gent’s scarf she kept for herself – she had other plans for that.

  Munro finished fiddling with his box and came to join her. “Did you see anyone today, Miss Ruby?” he asked.

  Ruby threw back her head and laughed unconvincingly. It seemed such an innocent question but she knew what was behind it. “You can’t see anyone up there,” she said, “that’s why the pickings are so easy.”

  Munro made a small noise at the back of his throat and then shuffled back to the fire. “Let me make you some soup,” he said.

  She had lied to Munro and she hated to deceive him, but what was she supposed to say? Yes, I saw Ben Kingdom again today. I followed him. I wish I had spoken to him.

  The truth was that she had seen Ben every day since he’d left the Legion, but only ever from a distance. For reasons that she couldn’t explain, she felt compelled to seek him out every time she went up onto the surface.

  “I’m glad I’ve got you, Miss Ruby,” said Munro, his twisted back to her while he chopped onions and fed them to the pot.

  “And I’m glad I’ve got you,” said Ruby, grateful that her friend couldn’t see the faraway look in her eyes.

  Events were moving quickly and Claw Carter had no intention of being left behind. Fortunately, Mr. Sweet was so busy making his play for power that he wouldn’t notice Carter’s own manoeuvrings until it was far too late.

  Mr. Sweet was so arrogant, assuming that he was the one with all the plans. Carter could out-think him and outwit him, he was certain of it. He ran his claw down his list of possible options.

  Poison? Too unreliable.

  Assassins? Too impersonal.

  A knife? Too messy.

  A deadly spider in his slippers? Too flamboyant.

  The answer was simple. A single bullet to the head at long range.

  Carter had already found the location for his shot. All he needed now was a way to lure Mr. Sweet out into the open. That was why he had decided to make a house call; the bargaining chip that he was after lay on the other side of a magnificent stained-glass door in Knightsbridge.

  Carter hooked his claw into the bell pull and set the doorbell jangling. He waited for the sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond, or the silhouette of a butler through the glass. He wasn’t surprised that no response came, however, with half of London in hiding. When the streets are running with rioters and lunatics, the last thing you do is answer the door, especially at this time of night. You never knew who might be calling…

  Carter lifted his claw again and smashed it into the stained-glass window. A thousand shards of glass landed on the doormat as Carter sawed his way through the lead fretwork and ripped it from its frame. Then he reached through the gap and opened the lock.

  Carter paused and read the single word on the mat beneath the glittering fragments: welcome.

  Why, thank you, Mr. Sweet, thought Carter as he stepped over the threshold. Thank you for leaving such a precious treasure unguarded.

  The corridor in front of him was long and dark in spite of the glow of the gas lamps. Carter stalked forward. He was never more alive than when he was on the hunt. For the joy of it, Carter dragged the tip of his claw along the oak-panelled wall, leaving a white scar in his wake.

  Furtive noises led him to the drawing room. It was a grand chamber decorated in the very latest fashion. A huge green-leafed aspidistra sat in a stately pot on an occasional table, an ornate ormolu clock ticked sedately on the mantel above the fire, and a petrified footman was hidden rather inexpertly behind the curtains. Carter could see the tips of his polished shoes sticking out beneath the hem.

  There could be no witnesses.

  Carter was across the room in two bounds. A single horizontal slash cut the curtain in two above the spot where he estimated the man’s head must be. The heavy material fell and Carter bundled the man to the ground, still wrapped in it. While the servant thrashed, Carter held the velvet fabric tight over the footman’s nose and mouth. In less than a minute, according to the ormolu clock, the struggling stopped and the footman lay still.

  Carter rose to his feet. Above his head a floorboard creaked.

  He ran to the hallway and up the stairs, his long legs taking them three at a time. He was in time to see a door closing ahead of him and hear a key turning in the lock. He approached it boldly, his lean wolfish face wearing a hungry expression. Raising his claw, he knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”

  A shot rang out and Carter flinched as a bullet punched through the door and went sailing past his cheek.

  Carter stepped back and gave the door a mighty kick with the flat of his foot. The wood splintered around the lock and Carter burst into the room, throwing himself to one side to avoid a second bullet.

  Confronting him was a matronly woman with a proud bosom, a strong face and a service revolver. She was actually quite admirable, Carter thought. He had very little time for hysterics or fainting fits, and there was none of that here. This was a woman of character. And wealth. The diamonds around her neck were clearly worth a king’s ransom. But he hadn’t come to her house for something as trivial as the contents of her jewellery box.

  She cracked off another shot, but Carter had anticipated it and flung himself out of the way, taking refuge behind the huge bed. He had spent most of his life around guns and he could spot the signs when someone was about to fire. From his vantage point he watched as the woman shifted her shoulder to balance the revolver in her outstretched hands; guns were heavier than most people imagined. Then he observed the movement in the muscles around her shoulders, then down her arm to her trigger finger…

  The fourth shot struck the wall harmlessly behind him.

  Carter reached for his own weapon, which was slung across his back, and prepared to return fire. It was a length of hollow hardwood, just over two feet long. Carter had seen these blowpipes used to great effect during his travels in South America. Careful not to touch its tip, Carter inserted the poison dart into the pipe and lifted it to his lips. He had prepared the curare himself, from plant extracts gathered on the banks of the great Orinoco river. In the right proportions, the poison would act as a muscle relaxant, knocking his victim unconscious in seconds. Of course, if the proportions were wrong it would kill her stone dead.

  He inflated his cheeks and gave a single hard puff, just as he had been taught by a Jakaltek huntsman he had lived with for a while in the foothills of the Cuchumatanes Mountains. The dart flew straight and true, hitting the woman in the exposed skin of her neck. Within moments the poison was flooding through the woman’s system. She staggered, fired again, then collapsed to the ground in an ungainly heap.

  Carter went to her side and, picking up her limp wrist, he checked her pulse. It was fluctuating wildly, as he expected, but as he continued to hold her it began to find a more steady rhythm. Carter smiled and then hoisted the woman up over his shoulder. He grunted slightly as he took her weight; she was quite sturdy for her size.

  Let’s see who’s the clever one now, Mr. Sweet, he thought as he carried the woman away.

  Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India, was running. Or, as close to running as a rather small, rather fat monarch of the realm ever got. She lifted her huge skirts in her small pink hands and scuttled after Mr. Sweet.

  “Mr. Sweet!” she called after him. “Slow down. Prime Minister!”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Sweet replied in a tone which brooked no argument. “The carriage is waiting and you must leave for the safety of Balmoral immediately!”

  “But, Prime Minister,” she persisted, “how can I leave London in her hour of need?”

  Mr. Sweet halted in his tracks, his boots squeaking on the marble floor. He turned on her, his face red. “There is madness beyond the gates of Buckingham Palace! There is
rioting in the streets! You will not be serving your subjects by putting your own life in danger.” He took her hand firmly. “Now be a good queen and get in the carriage!”

  Outside the palace, Queen Victoria was met by a wall of fog so dense that she could barely see her hand when she extended her arm. She was surrounded on all sides by her household staff, their faces showing the same mixture of fear and grim resolve.

  “This way, Ma’am,” said an officer, offering his hand, and leading her to the waiting carriage. Queen Victoria mounted the step and then hesitated.

  There was something wrong here, she sensed, more than just the strange mist and the new Prime Minister’s rude manner.

  This was not her usual carriage. Nor was it her usual carriage driver, waiting up front with whip in hand…

  “Quickly,” Sweet bellowed. “Get in the carriage now!”

  “One is not in the habit of being dictated to by one’s subjects,” the Queen retorted. She looked again at the faces of her servants and followed the line of their gaze…finding the reason for their horror in the rank of hooded figures watching over them with rifles held level.

  Sweet stormed towards the Queen and shoved her backwards with both hands.

  “Get in now, you old sow,” he growled.

  The Queen toppled backwards and, before she could scramble to her feet, she heard the bolts slamming into place on the carriage door, a steel shutter sliding down simultaneously, blocking the window and any thought of escape.

  “Release me now,” she shouted.

  Sweet didn’t reply. But Queen Victoria had her answer in the deafening volley of shots that rang out.

  She felt the coach sink on its suspension as the hooded figures took up their positions on all sides and then, with a jerk, the wheels began to turn as the horses led the carriage out of the gates of Buckingham Palace and away.