Mickelwhite circled him warily. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Is that why you’re here? On some errand for the Witch Queen of Spies?”
Ben made a darting jab with his sword, narrowly missing Mickelwhite’s shoulder. “Say that again,” he warned through clenched teeth.
“What name would you prefer me to use, I wonder?” mused Mickelwhite. “Hag?”
“Her name is Mother Shepherd,” said Ben, “and if you insult her again, I swear—”
“How about Harpy?”
Ben appeared to be battling with his emotions. “I’m a Watcher,” he said, “I don’t want to hurt you…”
“Crone.”
“Tell me where my brother is and I’ll let you walk away…”
“Harridan.”
“I’m telling you, don’t push me…”
“WITCH!”
Ben’s face contorted as he succumbed to his rage. Mickelwhite rammed his advantage home, his sabre slicing the air. Ben flicked out a scissor kick as he dodged the slashing blade, but his anger had thrown his timing. Mickelwhite was able to evade it easily, moving in with a quick savage elbow that caught Ben across the throat and dropped him to the ground. Ben was still clutching the sword in his hand, but Mickelwhite brought a stop to that with a sharp stamp across his fingers. Ben relinquished his grip and Mickelwhite kicked the blade away. Then he stood over Ben in triumph, the tip of his blade resting against the other boy’s neck.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said.
Without warning, something hit Mickelwhite hard in the pit of his stomach, bending him double. Grimacing through the pain, Mickelwhite raised his eyes to see the Mute smiling at him over his levelled crossbow pistol. The bolt that was aimed at him had a padded head rather than an arrow tip, the same as the one that had just hit him, Mickelwhite noted gratefully, but he still had to be careful.
He looked around for the rest of his brigade.
He found Jimmy Dips flat on his back. Scarface was standing with one foot on his chest, smiling alarmingly. Bedlam was rolling on the ground, holding his nose, and Schulman was missing, presumably being pursued by Jago Moon.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” the captain conceded. “Jimmy, Bedlam,” he called out, “it’s time to stop playing and say goodbye.” He placed his own weapon on the ground and raised his hands in the air. “You Watchers wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
Ghost lowered his bow, and Scarface stepped away from Dips as Ben stood up.
“That is precisely why you will lose this war,” Mickelwhite sneered, as Dips and Bedlam limped over to his side. “Your precious morals make you weak.”
“Tell me where Nathaniel is!” Ben demanded.
“Or what?” said Mickelwhite. “You’ll shoot me again with one of your padded arrows? Please.”
Mickelwhite was vaguely aware that Ben was fiddling with something in his pocket. As he watched, Ben’s lips twisted into a snarl of frustration and rage. Then, before Mickelwhite could react, Ben lunged for him and he fell back beneath the hammering of Ben’s fists.
“Tell! Me! Where! My! Brother! Is!” spat Ben, each word punctuated by a punch.
Mickelwhite felt a heavy smack to the side of his head; a forceful uppercut that caught him hard under the ribs. He struggled beneath Ben, but the full force of the boy’s weight, and his sudden fury, pinned Mickelwhite to the ground. It was all that he could do to shield his head from the rain of relentless blows.
In the end it was Moon who dragged Ben away, still snarling.
Mickelwhite struggled to his feet, aching and dazed from the assault. He tried to regain his composure by brushing himself down but his fingers were trembling too much to pull off the act. He turned and led his brigade away at a run.
“I will find Nathaniel!” Ben shouted at their retreating backs. “And when I do, I won’t need those Watcher rules any more. Then I’ll be back to finish you!”
Claw Carter left the Under and retired to his sanctum, his suite of rooms beneath the British Museum. He clicked shut the iron maiden which acted as a hidden door and looked around. He was greeted by treasures collected from the four corners of the globe and skeletons in glass cabinets. But not by anything living.
Wearily he shrugged off his leather coat and hung it on its stand. He turned up the gas lamps and went to sit at his desk in the welcoming arms of his chair. Inevitably his eyes were pulled to the desk drawer. It was locked and he firmly intended to keep it that way. Not tonight, James, he told himself and he rose from his chair in a deliberate effort to distance himself from the temptation of looking inside. By means of a distraction, he walked around and examined some of the artefacts he had amassed, all the while fighting back the urge to take the key from his watch chain and slip it into the beckoning lock.
A skull stared back at him from its plinth. It was a beautiful object, in Carter’s opinion. It had been dipped in gold by its previous owner and it shone luxuriously. Two fat rubies sat in the eye sockets and seemed to wink at him. It was an authentic temple skull from the Pyramid of the Moon at Teotihuacan, with original red crusting around the teeth. It would have been a crime against archaeology to wash an Aztec blood cup too thoroughly, he thought.
Claw Carter smiled at the memory. Notwithstanding the arduous trek, the treacherous guides and the Goliath bird-eating spiders that invaded the camp, it had been a happy time. Before the Legion.
Before the locked drawer.
A muffled moan from the other side of his room snapped Carter out of his reminiscences. The sound was coming from the sarcophagus that stood in the corner. Carter turned and walked over to it, unperturbed; his guest had been bound to wake up at some point.
“Mrs. Sweet, oh Mrs. Sweet,” he sing-songed. Inside the Egyptian casket, Honoraria Sweet began to make muffled threats through her gag. Carter banged his fist down hard on the cabinet. “Shut up and sit tight,” he ordered, “I’m trying to plot your son’s murder out here.”
The woman began to bellow and Carter walked away; he found it a very annoying noise.
It really had been so easy to capture Sweet’s mother; no challenge at all for a man of his talents.
A man of his talents… He rolled the phrase around in his mind. Such a man needed to inspire the next generation if he was to have any legacy at all. But who in the world could he give the benefit of his wisdom to? None of the guttersnipes in the Legion seemed even remotely worthy.
Where was the son for him to shape in his own image?
The question was left hanging and unanswered in the air.
Night had fallen with a vengeance, the darkness only lifted by the light of burning buildings in the East End. Mr. Sweet raised his voice to address the troops, the Coldstream Regiment of Foot Guards, stationed at their barracks in Windsor. They were his to command, he realized with satisfaction. He admired the ranks as they stood proudly to attention, resplendent in their red tunics and bearskins. Fiercely loyal to Queen and country, Mr. Sweet was well aware that these men would be appalled if they knew that they were being used to further his own ambitions. However, Mr. Sweet stood before them as the Prime Minister of Her Majesty’s Government. They would obey his commands without question. And if any found themselves troubled by their conscience? Well, soon he would have the Crown of Corruption and he would make them yield.
“London has fallen into the hands of looters and thugs,” said Sweet, “and in order to restore calm to the city I have declared a curfew which you shall be enforcing. Anyone found on the streets before oh-six hundred hours and after twenty-one hundred hours can be presumed to be a threat to the peace and as such are to be forcibly detained. A body of men is setting up an enclosed camp in St. James’s Park where these villains can be imprisoned.
“If you are met with any resistance, you are authorized to fire at will. I expect the whole of London to be firmly under military control within the next forty-eight hours.” In time for the Feast of Ravens. In time for my moment of triumph.
“Furtherm
ore, I have been made aware that there is a group of anarchists who are using this blasted fog and the current breakdown in law and order to further their despicable ends. This rebellious organization calls itself ‘The Watchers’. You can recognize a Watcher by the uniform they wear.”
Beside Mr. Sweet was a large easel covered in a black cloth. He now drew the covering aside to reveal an artist’s sketch. “Observe the long leather coat, sometimes criss-crossed with belts and packs. Notice the brass goggles they use to hide their identities, and the scarf covering the mouth. See, too, the sturdy boots.” Sweet pointed all these features out with his swagger stick.
“The Watchers are dangerous individuals. They are enemies of the state. If you see any individual wearing a uniform such as this…” He smoothed his moustache with deep satisfaction. “You are to shoot on sight!”
The fog was winning.
The Legion were winning, Ben realized as he woke from a troubled sleep.
Ben felt ashamed of himself. Something inside had snapped when Mickelwhite mocked the Watchers. Part of Ben’s fury had been born out of the need to find Nathaniel, part of it had been fuelled by the Coin’s insidious influence, Ben knew full well. But the worst part was the one that had agreed with Mickelwhite.
Ben loved the Watchers, but sometimes they were like toothless lions. For a boy who had grown up with the rough and tumble of Old Gravel Lane, Ben struggled with the moral code that Mickelwhite had ridiculed. It might be alright for “Cowpat” Cowper, his old Sunday school teacher, but it wasn’t much use to Ben.
Pushing those thoughts down, Ben looked out across the city with bleary eyes. Huge clouds of fog had turned black and glowed red from within. At Mother Shepherd’s command, the Watchers had made camp on the roof of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, and the wounded and scared had been joining them in droves. The fires kept burning and the refugees kept coming. The Watchers were pushed to their very limits. They continued now through sheer determination and willpower alone. There were too many people to help. Not enough blankets. Not enough food. Not enough time. Tempers were growing frayed. Nerves stretched taut. And still the fog grew.
The whole of the roof was a mass of huddled bodies, every man jack of them as drained as Ben was. Scattered across the city, he could make out a dozen other islands like theirs emerging through the fog, where the Watchers had set up makeshift shelters for the refugees, using canvas tents, tarpaulins, rope and whatever meagre supplies came to hand. He knew that this was what the Watchers had been doing in secret for years; picking up the pieces of a broken world.
The one small consolation for the Watchers was that because no one on the ground could even see their own front door any more, let alone what was happening above their heads, it allowed the Watchers to fix in place temporarily the ladders, planks and zip wires which they were usually so careful to pull up from prying eyes. Ben and some of the other lads had spent hours yesterday setting up a network of sorts and opening up a handful of the main runs across the rooftops.
His pa had still been working on the Liberator when Ben’s eyes had finally shut some time between two and three in the morning. However, this morning he had vanished and Ben guessed that he had set off before dawn to siphon gas from the giant gasometers at King’s Cross – another vital component of the machine. It was certainly looking impressive, Ben thought, although it was still some way from being ready. The hull was finished and the decking, silk work and rigging were nearly complete. But the most technical elements – those involving the stolen gas and the steam engine – could not be rushed. It was dangerous work and the last thing they needed was an explosion. In Ben’s mind, the Liberator could still play a vital role in defeating the Legion, or hindering them at least. If only the Feast of Ravens wasn’t two short days away.
Ben massaged his neck in an effort to make himself feel more human. He experimented with his new hat, setting it slightly further back on his head and tilted to the left; a black boat on his sea of red hair. He spotted Lucy at the far end of the roof, handing out steaming mugs of tea. He waved to her and their eyes met. Lucy looked exhausted but she gave a brave smile and Ben imagined that it was just for him.
Ben sluiced his face in half a cup of water, made an effort to clean his teeth by chewing on some liquorice root, then turned up the collar on his long Watcher coat so it looked suitably stylish. He found Ghost sitting by one of the breakfast fires, making some toast from stale bread and sharing it out.
“’Allo, mate,” said Ben. “Any idea where I’ll find Mother this morning?”
Ghost pointed over the fog to the dome of St Paul’s.
“You have to admire her,” said Ben, as he set off to speak to her. “The old girl’s got some style.”
The planks and ladders which spanned the gaps between the buildings gave Ben the feeling that he was running through the clouds. He found Mother Shepherd easily enough, standing serenely on the Stone Gallery which ran round the base of Sir Christopher Wren’s great dome.
“Come over here,” she called to him, when she saw him clamber up onto the rail. “It’s chilly this morning; give an old woman a hug.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ben put his arms around Mother Shepherd’s shoulders. He stood there stiffly for a second, and then he began to melt. She may have been small, but there was a strength inside Mother Shepherd that Ben would have pitched against a bare-knuckle boxer any day of the week. He needed this, Ben realized: the acceptance, the love. That was what the Legion could never offer him and would never understand.
It was Mother Shepherd who broke off first. “Benjamin,” she said kindly. “I know that you have been struggling, Brother Moon told me how you…went too far when you met that Legionnaire…” Ben felt his face flush red, both with embarrassment and the stirrings of anger. “But,” she continued, “I think I understand why.”
“Because I’m not good enough to be a Watcher,” Ben replied bluntly.
“No, Benjamin,” she corrected. “You must never think that.”
“So why then?” Ben snapped, hating himself for being rude but not able to stop.
“I made a mistake,” said Mother Shepherd. “Can you forgive me?”
Ben looked back at her quizzically.
“It’s my fault that you feel the way you do, Ben,” she went on. “Josiah wanted to warn you of the danger earlier, but I thought that because of your destiny, because you are the Hand of Heaven, its dark power wouldn’t be able to touch you and the Watchers would be safer if you carried the burden for us all… It was selfish of me, I can see that now.” Mother Shepherd appeared older then than Ben had ever seen her, a great sadness clouding her face. “I’m so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “Why don’t you give it to me, Benjamin?” she said. “It must be so heavy, won’t you let me take the load instead?”
“What are you talking about?” said Ben, feeling the blood drain from his face as his deepest secret was laid out in the open.
“I’ve known you had it since the battle of Tower Bridge, Ben, but I trusted you – I still trust you – and I was hoping that you would decide to give it up voluntarily when the time was right. But everything has got out of control.” She shook her head. “This evil fog, the fires, everything… It’s too much for us… We can’t wait for you to be rid of it on your own accord. We need you to be free of it now.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ben, his hands beginning to clench and unclench with emotion. His left hand in particular started to throb with angry power.
“Benjamin,” said Mother Shepherd, still displaying infinite patience, which for some reason Ben found infuriating, “sometimes there are things that we want which can only do us harm. It is a parent’s job to try and steer their children away from the things that will hurt them.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“And I’m not trying to replace her, Benjamin. Yet I want you to know that I love you just as if you were my
own.”
Ben’s heart lurched inside him. He wanted this. He wanted this love and acceptance that had been missing from his life for so long.
But the Coin wouldn’t let him have it.
“Just leave me alone!” he shouted in her face. “I can solve this by myself. I don’t need your help!” His voice cracked with anger and the veins were standing proud all down his left arm.
“The Coin in your pocket is the last of the Thirty, Ben,” said Mother Shepherd. “The most evil, the most powerful, the most destructive of them all.” She extended her hand, still speaking in her gentle tone. “I made the mistakes, Benjamin; me, not you. I can’t bear to see you so troubled. Let me carry the Coin from here.”
“It’s my Coin!”
“No, Benjamin, the Coin owns you, not the other way round. Please just give it to me.”
Mother Shepherd took a step nearer and Ben could feel his left arm rising, as if to strike her. He stopped himself and retreated round the walkway. “Please get away from me, Mother Shepherd, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“See,” she said. “There’s your heart shining through. Just let me take the Coin and then we can go and get some breakfast.”
“NOOOOO!” said Ben, and this time his voice was a roar. His left hand was tremulous and possessed of a strength that was not his own. “The Coin is mine!” he bellowed and brought his left fist down on the stone railing, smashing the masonry in two.
Time stopped.
A crack raced through the stonework towards Mother Shepherd.
She was standing with her hand on the balustrade, the carved stone wall which kept people safe from the drop. The impact of Ben’s left fist had shattered the stonework in front of him, and the damage was radiating outwards at an alarming rate. Fissures began to open in the stone walkway that they were standing on. A spider’s web at first; thin, delicate lines of damage. Then deep, black scorelines through the stone.
“No!” Ben called, in panic this time, as all his anger dissipated. “You can have the Coin, I don’t want it. Take it, please!”
The Feast of Ravens Page 9
