The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

Deciding it was safe enough for her to circle about and return to her hotel—just in case any Ministry operatives were to happen upon her by chance—Beth set her weary feet on the path back to her room. That was when a gleam of brass in front of the court snagged her gaze. Quite the contraption had been set up in front of the grey building, and a small crowd was gathering. On one side of the stage was a gleaming brass and bronze contraption resembling a five-foot wide metallic spider. Unlike an arachnid, though, this device held spun wool in all of its multi-jointed arms. It was hard not to admire the mechanical cleverness of it.

  On the opposite end of the stage was a loom. The contraption, looking ancient in comparison to the other, was made of polished wood. Beams were bolted together to frames and limbs, all of these connected to a variety of cross beams that eventually led to a series of foot pedals set before a long bench. Threaded through hooks and stretched between two of these beams were many colours of wool strands.

  Beth curled her lip and wondered why two such incongruous designs were placed so close together. The loom belonged in the museum, the brass device in a humming factory. The answer was quickly revealed when a tall, handsome gentleman stepped up on the stage next to the brass machine.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, gather round…gather round,” he said cheerily, his voice holding a light French accent, “I see many visitors in amongst the ranks of the more curious citizens of this lovely canal city, yes? You all are strangers, but strangers united through one commonality.” He held up his index finger and slowly drew it across the crowd, his eyes holding contact with random people, his smile never faltering. “Curiosity.”

  A showman obviously cut from P.T. Barnum’s cloth, Beth thought with a wry grin.

  “You see upon this stage the trusted tools of a trade,” he said, giving his hands a slight flourish as he motioned to the loom, “and the wonders of modern technology,” and his hands flickered towards the brass spider. “I am here today to give a demonstration of my latest invention, an innovation for artisans here in Bruges and for those of you travelling abroad. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present the Weaver’s Web!”

  As if on cue, the clouds parted, allowing for slivers of sunlight to illuminate its brass body.

  Beth craned her neck, and noticed a line of round little businessmen standing at the front of the crowd, observing the showman with hawk-like intensity.

  “To show how soundly my device trumps any human in skill and speed, I have one of your city’s finest weavers to compete against.” He turned towards the stairs, and a woman shambled up onto the stage. The tattered dark blue shawl and bent back of this decrepit creature didn’t speak much to her skill. If she was making any money as a weaver, she was not spending it on herself.

  Beth let out a little snort of derision, however the crowd was watching the weaver keenly. She sat before her loom, adjusting its bench so that her feet were at a comfortable distance from the pedal array. The salesman missed this reaction from the locals, but Beth could easily label it as respect. Whoever this weaver was, she had a reputation.

  Their Master of Ceremonies, wrapped in the confidence of his ilk, yanked back a cloth, revealing an over-sized hour-glass. His grin looked fit to break his jaw.

  “Both your local artisan and my Weaver’s Web will have half an hour to show how much they can create in that time. Your very own mayor will be the judge to the quality of the work.” His glance at the old woman dripped with dismissiveness. “Are you ready, madam?”

  The old woman gave the slightest of nods, but did not even look in his direction.

  He blew the silver whistle, flipped the glass over, and then stomped on a pedal by his foot. The metallic spider leapt to life as it began clicking and clacking, the legs spinning, retracting, and reaching while on the other end of the stage the old woman began smooth, practiced movements of her own. The audience cheered on the old maid and the machine, the locals cheering a fraction louder for the old woman that seemed undeterred by the strange machinery weaving without any signs of slowing. At first Beth was riveted by the hypnotic dance of the device’s eight legs. The way the thread moved and spun through the abdomen was entrancing, each retraction and extension appearing as if this collection of metal, pistons, and bolts had served as an apprentice to the greatest of weavers. The rug that was being crafted was a beautiful scene of the market itself.

  Then Beth glanced over at the old weaver, and swiftly realized she had been missing the true wonder on the stage.

  She sat quietly at her loom, her eyes neither glancing at the audience nor at her competition, as the shuttle flew backwards and forwards between the threads. The old crone embodied determination and focus, her own patterns in the rug appearing conservative in comparison, her chosen colours whites, greys and blue.

  As skilled as the old woman appeared, Beth could see the showman’s creation was swifter, moving at a pace a flesh and bone creature could not possibly match.

  Despite her love for mechanical wonders, she felt a sharp pang for the crone, and a part of her demanded that she turn away from this old woman’s fall. It was evident how the people of Bruges revered this weaver, but the mayor and other rotund gentlemen in attendance remained preoccupied with the Weaver’s Web. In a matter of moments, this salesman would collect a fine commission while the accomplished artist would fade into obscurity.

  Beth had half-turned away to find her hotel, when cries and gasps of horror rippled through the crowd. She spun around to see the old weaver slump. Her hands and feet still worked the loom but fatigue was taking hold. Was this old woman to breathe her last on the stage before them? The weaver was waving the shuttle in one hand over her head, her hand shaking, and her body trembling.

  Dramatic.

  A bit too dramatic for Beth’s liking.

  Her gaze narrowed on the weaver’s other hand, which hung lifeless, as well as upstage of the action, and obscured.

  The weaver’s limp right hand twitched once, then again.

  Then she let out a tiny cry and pulled herself back up, the crone’s eyes finding their focus again. Her teeth gnashed together and her jaw set as she continued her motions, commanding the loom to continue; and in her emerald gaze, she would be satisfied with nothing less than victory.

  Those hard, emerald eyes…

  Just when that realisation flashed into Beth’s mind, the contraption’s clicking grew louder. Then harder. The clockwork precision was degrading to a grating rattle that came from deep within the machine. The showman glanced nervously around, but Beth already knew that his demonstration was not long for this audience. Joints that had once bent slowly and with the skill of an artist were now snapping and whipping out and around, as if the machine thought it had fallen behind the crone. Attention began turning to the shiny creation and its demise. Its legs jerked and seized, curling into themselves like a dying man’s hand, while the body from where its legs sprouted now shuddered and smoked. As the showman ducked and dodged the Weaver’s spasms to find out why his machine was suddenly failing him, the old woman worked on calmly as if nothing was happening.

  The sand finished in the hourglass, and a hush fell over the audience as the Weaver’s Web gave one final bang before listing to one side, sparks and super-heated pieces of metal falling on its rug and catching it on fire. Its creator was now earning a fair share of chuckles as he stomped out the small flames dotting its half-completed rug.

  Then the silence returned as the old weaver stood and walked to one side of the loom. Carefully, she removed the rug from her device and held it up for the audience to see. At first, there appeared to be nothing there, apart from white and grey smudges. The old woman then stepped into the light that had been turned on the Weaver’s Web, and that was when the details of the rug came to life.

  Vétheuil in the Fog, painted in 1879 by artist Claude Monet.

  With the swelling adulation of the crowd, the show and the competition was over. Moments later, the crowd evaporated, chattering around the re
st of the market. Some small clusters remained to watch the showman scramble about the remains of his failure, others had returned to their tourist maps for ideas on where to venture next.

  The old weaver tidied up her belongings into her bag and shambled down the stairs, not even acknowledging the showman. She’d made her point. As she made her way across the market towards the tangle of streets, Beth noted how the crone kept her head down. She now appeared exhausted, and in desperate need of rest.

  Beth helped herself up on to the stage and walked around the remains of the machine. She knelt, placing one hand on the Weaver’s Web and the other on the showman’s shoulder.

  “An impressive display, to be sure,” she said.

  Her other hand searched for what she believed had been the old woman’s secret weapon. Her fingers then brushed across the edge of a disc. She trapped the circle of metal between her fingers and wiggled it. The magnet popped off the housing and into her palm.

  “Perhaps next time, monsieur,” she said, clutching the device in her fist so as not to reveal it.

  Spotting the bent, frail form now far from the attention of tourists or locals, Beth followed the weaver deeper into Bruges. Rain started to fall, the additional darkness reducing her target to a formless shape against shadow. Beth’s heart began to race as she increased her pace, her eyes taking in any possible doorways or alleys that could mask her pursuit as a foolish English tourist lost in the city.

  A pair of boys barrelled out from a corner, sending her to her knees. They raced past her, calling out rude words in French, having no earthly clue how lucky they had been that she had not slit their throats. With a few choice curses of her own, Beth pulled herself back on her feet and pushed onward, her eyes peering ahead for her quarry.

  Turning a corner, Beth caught sight of a bent old woman with a dark blue shawl over her head bustling away. The canal was on her right, dark and slowly flowing past just beyond a low stone wall. This corner of the canal city presently belonged to herself, and her prey.

  “Mistress!” she called out.

  The old woman stopped.

  Beth slipped the knife back into her sleeve as she approached the old weaver. The woman oddly seemed to be shrinking the closer Beth drew. “Can I help you, child?” a creaky voice asked.

  “I just wanted to return what belongs to you,” she said, holding up the magnet.

  The old woman slowly turned, lifting her slender hand up to the cowl covering her head.

  Beth stepped back as she locked her stare with the weaver’s. These eyes were not the ones she caught a glance of at the Markt.

  Stars flashed in her vision as something jammed into the back of her neck. Beth stumbled forward, and opened her eyes in time to see the old woman making the Sign of the Cross to her, the cloak she had been wearing left behind in a puddle at Beth’s feet.

  She needed to turn around. She needed to reach the knife she had out only moments ago, or the gun just under her wrap, but her fingers wouldn’t move. Beth collapsed into the street, landing face down. The impact should have broken her nose, but she felt nothing. Hands grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her over, and now rain gently fell on her face.

  Once, during her idle years of youth, Beth had kicked a tortoise over on its back just to watch it wriggle. Now it was Sophia del Morte that watched her, and suddenly Beth felt terribly guilty about tormenting that tortoise as she had.

  “Your eyes,” Beth said, and her voice grew more and more raspy with each word. “I recognised you by…your eyes.”

  “Shhh…” Sophia perched herself on the other woman, knees on each side of her, dark hair blowing slightly. “You’ve been injected with the Family Kiss,” she purred, holding a small syringe before Beth’s eyes. “Paralysis is immediate. Death, somewhat slower—and a great deal more painful. If you answer a few questions for me, I can make your passing much quicker and more pleasant than you deserve.” The assassin leaned closer until the subtle smell of her rain-kissed skin wafted over Beth. “Does the House know I survived the Jubilee?”

  Beth nodded.

  “Is there a bounty on my head?” the assassin asked, her head tilted to one side.

  Beth gave her another nod, hoping that would give Sophia a fright.

  Sophia’s lip curled. “I hope it is a big one.”

  “Huge,” Beth ground out through her tight throat.

  “Well, I shall take comfort in that.” Sophia tenderly brushed away a curl of hair from Beth’s forehead. “Did you tell anyone you saw me?”

  When it came to deception and misdirection, Beth’s skills could not be matched. It had carried her through her life as a double agent, had allowed her to dispatch eight agents, and now at the edge of death she would deploy it with relish. “A dead drop,” she managed. “The House of Usher will come for you. They will…not…stop.”

  Those words took effort to speak, and she slumped back into the stones under her, grasping for what tasted like final breaths. The world had now narrowed down to just Sophia’s eyes. Such beautiful green eyes, but as cold as a raven’s. No remorse or regret even as she rifled through Beth’s pockets.

  “I keep my promises,” Sophia whispered to her, her breath caressing Beth’s cheek. The slice of the blade was quick against her throat. The world was quickly slipping away, but not so fast that she was denied the welcoming chill of the canal, wrapping itself around her in a loving embrace.

  Chapter Three

  In Which the Mettle of Her Majesty’s Infantry Is Tested

  “Lord Featherstone’s designs and recent innovations have all been field tested and approved here in India,” Vania shouted over the throaty report of the motorcar’s engine. “The Ministry and the military have been in dire need of any and all advantages as insurgents have been taking arms against the Empire with renewed vigour of late.”

  “Insurgents?” Wellington asked, just before being jostled back against Eliza. Again. Not that he minded, but he was reminded with each rumble and shudder of India Branch’s motorcar at how his own Ares handled. “A rather harsh word to describe resistance factions, don’t you think, Agent Pujari?”

  “Resistance factions, Agent Books, is too polite, especially in the case of recent events in Bombay. Civilian targets are becoming more common, and that captured the attention of Parliament. Featherstone undertook the challenge with great delight.”

  “How long—” and then Eliza was sent sliding into Wellington. He adjusted his bowler, hideously off-balance as he had forgotten about the isotope detectors still resting across the hatband. “How long has Featherstone been involved in the making and manufacturing of weapons for the Empire?” she asked, straightening her tiny hairpiece.

  Vania opened a folio resting on top of a modest pile of case files and flipped through a few pages. “At least three years.”

  “That corroborates with our own notes concerning Featherstone. He had been referred to Jekyll by the Duke of Sussex.” She then looked into the dossier Vania had open before her. “Have you all had any reports of malfunctioning munitions? Any sort of accidents or problems in the performance of these new weapons?”

  “None,” Vania said.

  Wellington caught glances of various photos and schematics. Rifles, pistols, and even personnel armour, all of it carrying the signature of Lord Featherstone. Jekyll would have known about all of these technological marvels from inception to application. So much trust had been invested into Featherstone, and now every soul in the British Army and the Ministry were in potential danger.

  Vania looked up. “What did you discover from Featherstone while on the African Sunset?”

  “Not a great deal,” Eliza said. “His room on the cruise ship yielded an appointment book—from the looks of the notes he kept, they were all of a deeply personal nature—and he was to meet with Jekyll two days from now.”

  “He has an apartment,” Wellington said, “in a rather questionable section of Bombay, from what I read.”

  Vania closed the dos
sier. “Then I suppose you have a bit of time to take in a few sights while we wait for Jekyll to appear.”

  “I have no intention,” Wellington stated, his tone low but still audible over the noise, “of waiting for the doctor.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled between the three of them, but Wellington did not mind it so much. Agent Pujari knew only of Jekyll through field reports. He did not have that luxury.

  Through thick tuffs of steam rising from their transport’s undercarriage, he noticed they were now crossing an open expanse just outside of the port city. Larger mountains could be seen in the distance, while the uneven land, greener than he would have expected but punctuated by hints of brown and beige earth, made their travel that much more difficult.

  “We’re just on the outskirts of the Hornby Vellard,” Vania said, also taking a look outside her window. “We have an appointment with Lieutenant General Lawrence Southerby, the officer in charge of the troops in the Bombay area. The only person above him in India is General Sir William Lockhart, who is Commander-in-Chief at Fort William in Calcutta.”

  “Being in charge, wouldn’t he prefer to command the troops from inside Bombay itself?” Wellington asked. Eliza furrowed her brow at the question. “It is not uncommon for a Lieutenant General to live outside the fort in a somewhat more salubrious accommodation.”

  “Lieutenant General Southerby is an uncommon commander,” Vania said, “or he believes the Empire is at war. He insists on staying close to his men.”

  “Really?” He sat back in his seat, pulling at the hairs of his close-cropped beard. “Rather telling, I would say.”

  Eliza folded her arms. “So, how is Southerby a person of interest?”

  “Southerby was a direct contact of Featherstone’s.” Vania said. “If Featherstone ever had new designs or was making a delivery here in Bombay, he would only speak to the Lieutenant General.”

  A muscle in Wellington’s jaw twitched. Vania looked at them both as she returned the folio back to her satchel.