'That dark fey lad?' The commodore helped lift Molly to her feet, passing her across to Coppertracks, the steamman already inside the carriage. 'Let's not talk of that wicked lad, Molly Templar. We're well shot of him. Oliver's good for a tale of highwaymanship in one of your penny dreadfuls, but let's not have him hiding out in the warmth of Tock House again. No, one outlaw on the run from the cruel House of Guardians is enough sheltering under our fine roof.'
'I fear you have struck your head, Molly softbody,' said Coppertracks. 'One of your fastblood fevers, perhaps? Shall I send for a doctor of medicine?'
Molly shook her head. The fever was in her veins, blood that still fizzed with the tiny symbiote machines of the Hexmachina. The Kingdom of Jackals was threatened once more.
But threatened by what?
Opening the curtains wide enough to see the drops of red rain rolling down the windows, the woman gripped the threadbare fabric nervously and tutted in disgust. She hated the bleeding stuff, filthy red rain that would stain your dress – the normal variety was bad enough. Rain, bringing the risk of fevers and time spent off the job. Time not earning money. And here it was again. Rain that might wake up her mark if it drummed down too hard on the roof above. She glanced back inside the bedroom. Thank the Circle, he was still snoring. Down in the lane outside a figure moved from the shadows and crossed to her side of the street, stepping over a gutter quickly filling with a torrent from the crimson downpour. There weren't many people out late enough to witness what the two of them were about to do, which was just peachy by her. She slipped out of the bedroom and into the corridor, stepping lightly so the floorboards wouldn't squeak.
She always murdered her victims on her second visit, the first being a sizing-up – so to speak – of the mark's valuables. Although in this instance there almost hadn't been a second visit from her; the Circle knows, the absence of anything of value and the dilapidated state of the apartment had given the lie to all the tales she had heard about the apartment's owner from the tavern's drinkers. That her mark came from a wealthy upland family, that they had purchased him a commission in the regiments down on the southern border. That he was some sort of war hero. Connor of Cassarabia, that's what the others called him, half-jokingly, as he drank himself into oblivion. The great Duncan bloody Connor getting bladdered in the corner of their jinn house every night.
Well, all that family money had to have gone somewhere. Yes, she had nearly dismissed her scheme of murder when the bailiffs had arrived during her first visit to the hero's home, banging on the door of the lodgings and shouting through the letterbox about the unpaid bills at the butcher's, the tailor's, the vintner's. She had been witness to enough similar scenes from her own life to know that the embrace of the debtors' prison – the dreaded sponging house – wasn't too far off for this so-called war hero. But then she had seen the ex-soldier hide his little travel case, the hard leather shell not much of a treasure chest, but never kept too far away from him when he was at home. There had to be valuables inside the case, she could feel it with every iota of her street-sharp senses. A man with a suitcase, living alone and half-mad, he was almost begging to be robbed and murdered.
A gust of rain blew in from outside as she opened the front door. Her thug glanced up the empty stairs. 'He asleep then?'
'Five pints of jinn and an hour biting the pillow with me, what do you think?'
The thug pulled a garrotte out of his heavily patched coat, a thin, rusty hang of wire between two wooden handles. 'I think you should find that suitcase you were so full of yourself about.'
'It's in the cupboard in his bedroom.'
'Right,' whispered the thug, taking his not inconsiderable bulk up the stairs. 'After I've done him, I'll take him down to the waters of the Gambleflowers and toss him in. By the time the river crabs and eels have had their meal, his own mother wouldn't know him – or want to.'
She felt a little shiver of excitement. The murder was always exciting, that little tug of power over life and death. It was a power she lacked in almost every other area of her life. Swinging open the bedroom door, there was enough light from the oil lamp's dwindling reservoir to see her thug moving across to the ex-soldier's bed. She levered open the cupboard and, finding the suitcase, lifted it out and placed it on the floor. It certainly felt heavy enough. Family silver? Gold gewgaws looted from one of the battlefields down south? Enough to keep her from the company of the other working girls down in the jinn house for a good few months, hopefully.
Her man was about to slip the wire around the uplander's neck and send him along the Circle when she opened the suitcase. And saw what was inside. And screamed.
Duncan Connor was up and out of the thug's grasp far quicker than anyone with five pints of jinn sloshing around their body had a right to be. Her thug kept a long knife for the difficult ones, the ones who wouldn't go quickly, but the ex-soldier's sheet was off the bed, turned into a matador's cloak, concealing him from her man's blade, before becoming a whip, wrapping around the thug's arm, yanking him off balance and into the ex-soldier's reach. There was a crack as a kick shattered the thug's kneecap and a louder snap as the collapsing man's neck was twisted at an angle his spine could not survive – at least, not while still attached to his head.
Duncan Connor rose up from the floor as a breeze from the corridor outside lifted the papers pinned across the wall. The lassie was gone. She wouldn't be surfacing at the old tavern on the street corner again, but then Middlesteel had a thousand more taverns like it scattered across its rookeries in the shadows of its pneumatic towers, and a thousand more like her, no doubt, too.
Lifting the suitcase up carefully, the lid still open, Duncan Connor placed it on top of the mattress of his bed. 'I'm sorry you had to see that wee barney. Are you all right?'
‹I think so. Who was that woman?›
'Nobody you need to worry about.' He turned the suitcase away from the direction of the thug's corpse, hiding the sight of his dead would-be assassin.
‹It's nighttime, isn't it? I should away and sleep some more.›
'Aye, you should.' He shut the suitcase gently and placed it back inside the cupboard, making sure to hide it properly under the threadbare blankets this time.
Duncan Connor looked at the corpse. No doubt the thug would be known to the Middlesteel constabulary, his blood code turning on the drums of their transaction engines, a Ham Yard arrest record linked to his citizen file. But if he involved the police in this hubbub, one of them would only leak the tale to the news sheets and Connor of Cassarabia's name would be linked to yet another horror. It was hard enough finding work as it was, and he had the promise of a little job coming his way from the circus that might vanish if he was dragged along to listen to a coroner pontificate and call witnesses from the jinn house. No, the wee waters of the Gambleflowers would do for this one.
The river took everything, in Middlesteel.
Kyorin departed the perfumery shop along Penny Street leaving an assistant looking in surprise at the silver coin in her hand – not because she had seen through the counterfeit, but wondering how someone as dishevelled as Kyorin actually had the money to buy an expensive bottle of scent for his beloved in the first place. The last couple of days hadn't been kind to Kyorin, harried and hunted across the streets and slums of Middlesteel by the monsters, staying only in cheap, anonymous dosshouses. He stopped in an alley and squeezed the scent bulb, spraying his clothes and exposed skin, even his hair. Watching the carts and carriages rattle past and praying that the stench of this perfume would be enough to mask him from his hunters for a while.
One of the residual thoughts of the policeman whose mind he had joined with floated up unbidden. ‹You smell like a whore's handkerchief.›
'Shut up,' Kyorin muttered. 'When I want your advice, I'll ask for it.' He had grown uncharacteristically cantankerous with hunger and desperation.
A vagrant stumbled past, his clothes so frayed and ancient they were almost black. He stopped when he saw Kyorin slumped against the wall, muttering to himself. Taking him for one of Middlesteel's own, obviously. Two friends together, living low on Jinn Lane.
'Penny for an old soldier? Fought at the Battle of Clawfoot Moor, I did.'
'What's a soldier?' asked Kyorin.
Laughing, the vagrant raised a bottle of cheap grain whisky to his lips and stumbled deeper into the rookeries.
