Fyfe shook his head. “He’s stubborn. And persistent.”
“Exactly. If Gedeon was after something he hoped was in that crypt, then he’s after it still. We need to know more about this apprentice, you’re right. But we also need to know who’s entombed in that crypt.”
When Eliot looked at Fyfe again, Ilsa was relieved to see his wrath had been subdued. “I suppose thanks is due again, Fyfe.”
“You din’t thank him the first time,” Ilsa muttered.
“I should have trusted your intelligence weeks ago.”
A furious blush spread up Fyfe’s face all the way to his ears.
“And for another thing too,” he added, “if you’ll oblige me. The acolyte said Cogna was different; that they couldn’t See him—”
“Or her,” interjected Ilsa.
“—or her. So coercing random Oracles has reached the limits of its usefulness. We’re going to have to tap another source for information, one outside of the Docklands.” Fyfe nodded his understanding as they stood to leave. “I’ll research this crypt, you two – Cogna.”
“What other source of information?” Ilsa murmured to Fyfe as they exited the pub into a dwindling warmth. “What’s he mean?”
Fyfe grinned, his eyes alight. “He means you and I are going to Whitechapel.”
25
“The Docklands want to kill me.”
“Yes,” said Fyfe.
“It ain’t just an empty threat.”
“Oh, they’re committed.”
“And it ain’t some rebel unit or secret society – it’s the whole bloody faction.”
“Seer’s orders.”
“Then tell me again,” said Ilsa, crossing her arms, “why we’re ’bout to go knock on some senior Oracle’s door and ask for a chat?”
This was where she and Fyfe were headed. In order to find a neutral, cooperative Oracle beyond the Docklands – one who might tell them more about the Seer’s apprentice without hoarding secrets or bartering for vemanta – they needed to visit the Whisperer quarter.
“You don’t need to be afraid of Jorn, Ilsa,” said Fyfe, grinning.
“Who said afraid?”
Fyfe grinned wider. “He’s important to the Docklands, yes, but Jorn isn’t the ambassador in Whitechapel because he cares. He’s the ambassador because he gets to live the life he wants away from those he answers to. Not standing up for your people is messy morally, but fighting for them is messy literally.” Fyfe held his hands palms up like he was weighing the two, and his grin became a grimace. “And Jorn just bought an expensive Belugian rug.”
Ilsa narrowed her eyes, but she hadn’t made it to seventeen by questioning people’s reasons for not wanting to kill her. “Well I wouldn’t want to mess up his new rug, neither. Long as we’re agreed.”
The mid-morning sun was already sweltering when Fyfe tugged her out the door, but Ilsa was dismayed to find there was no carriage waiting.
“We’re walking?” she whined.
“It’s not far,” said Fyfe. “Besides, it’s better to avoid the fanfare of a carriage and guard detail on a mission like this.” He delighted on calling the trip a mission, and had done so thrice already. “Whitechapel is unlike anywhere else in the city. When its people can conduct all their business without ever breathing a word out loud, the smallest of disturbances could attract unwanted attention. Eliot was very insistent that if I take you with me, we slip in and out.”
They came to the edge of the park and peeled east towards the Whisperer quarter.
“He don’t think I can handle myself against a Whisperer?”
Fyfe rolled his eyes, but smiled affectionately. “Sometimes, you’ve got too much fight in you. Try not to handle yourself against anyone.”
Ilsa pantomimed cracking her knuckles. “It’s the street urchin in me. Can’t help myself.”
King’s Cross marked the boundary of Camden Town and Whitechapel, so it wasn’t long until the border loomed and Ilsa was trying not to stare at another breed of soldier.
The Whitechapel stewards were dressed in their faction’s midnight blue. Their double-breasted coats with gleaming silver buttons, black gloves and patent leather shoes gave them the appearance of Otherworld constables, if not for the matching half-capes cascading from one shoulder. They were more elegantly dressed, and more fearsomely disciplined in appearance, than any of the militia she had met.
And, to her surprise, they were armed. Not with claws or spells or hovering nets, but with more metal and fire power than any man would ever need if this was the Otherworld. Here, they were probably still weak against the likes of a Wraith.
The stewards squared themselves as Ilsa and Fyfe approached.
Men in police uniforms and good old-fashioned guns; finally, some fears Ilsa was accustomed to. It made her homesick. Almost.
“We need to state our purpose for coming,” Fyfe murmured in her ear. “Telepathically, I mean. Hold meeting Jorn in your mind and keep the rest locked away.”
Ilsa had a moment of panic and started skimming through all she remembered from her lessons. But that was exactly what Fyfe had told her not to do. How would a Whisperer react to a blow-by-blow of how she learned to best them? With those pistols at their hips and a bandolier of blades gleaming on each chest, Ilsa didn’t want to find out.
Wordlessly, the steward in charge placed himself in their path, so that they met him face to face. He exchanged a nod of recognition with Fyfe, who crossed the border often, then looked Ilsa up and down. His eyes weren’t vacant the way Alitz’s were, but they still took on a new sharpness when he focused his gaze on Fyfe, who remained still and stared back at him. After a moment, the Whisperer nodded and turned to Ilsa. She pushed aside her thousand curious questions and tried to speak directly into the soldier’s mind. We’re going to the Oracle embassy to meet with Ambassador Jorn, she tried to tell him, but the background hum refused to die down. What do you see? What does it feel like? Do my thoughts have my voice?
