The Black Orchid E-Book

Celine Jeanjean

• Herausgeber: Celine Jeanjean
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

An old friend drained of his blood.
A shortage of black silk.
Rory and Longinus face their greatest crisis yet.

Longinus is besides himself. Someone has bought all the black silk in Damsport, so he has to make do with grey. Unacceptable, given that an assassin in grey is as ridiculous as a bulldog in culottes.
Conspiracies don’t get more dire than this.
Of course, there’s also the fact that Rory’s oldest friend has been found drained of his blood. And that clues seem to indicate that Myran has returned just as an important diplomat visits Damsport.
Those clues take Rory and Longinus to a new brothel in town called the Black Orchid. That it’s decked in black silk proves that something nefarious is going on.
That its clientele tends to disappear is mere confirmation of that fact.
What is going on behind the brothel’s gilded doors? And more importantly, can Longinus get to their supply of silk?
Dive into a captivating and fun adventure packed with quirky characters and snappy banter.

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“I absolutely adore this world, these characters, and the exciting stories that Ms Jeanjean weaves in this series. I devoured this one over the weekend and thoroughly enjoyed it.” – Kate Sparkes, Goodreads.
“It’s awesome, go read it.” – Sara Snider, Goodreads.
“Overall, I honestly can’t recommend this series enough! Get to it!” Emily Wrayburn, Goodreads.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Copyright

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

The Black Orchid

Copyright © 2016 Celine Jeanjean. All rights reserved

http://celinejeanjean.com

The right of Celine Jeanjean to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

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PROLOGUE

In the half-light of early evening, a giant of a man swept a patch of cobblestones in the Rookery. He took care and pride in his work, swinging his long-handled broom in a slow rhythm. In the shadow of a nearby doorstep, a scrawny girl stared at the strip of dried beef the man held clamped between his teeth. Her long hair was filthy and matted, clumping in places into rope-like segments that partly obscured her face. Her eyes shone through the spaces between her hair, wide with hunger.

“What you doin’ there, lookin’ at me like that,” the man asked, pausing his sweeping to pull the strip of beef out of his mouth so he could talk more easily.

She didn’t answer, but her mouth made a chewing motion. The man chuckled.

“It’s my dried beef what’s got you all worked up, is it? Well s’ppose there ain’t no harm in you having a bit. Here.”

He handed it to her, one end chewed up and shiny with saliva. The girl grabbed it and tore a chunk out with ravenous teeth. She eyed it longingly but handed it back to him.

“You hold on to it for me for a little while. What’s yo name, by the way? I’m Slothum, but they call me Two Planks on account of how big I am. Thick as Two Planks, they call me.” Two Planks smiled and pointed at one of his massive arms.

“Rory,” said the girl around her mouthful of beef. She tore another chunk from the strip.

“Easy now, dried beef don’t like to be hurried. Got to chew it slow-like.”

Rory slowed her chewing and Two Planks nodded his approval. “Good. Now, I can’t be stopping my sweeping like this — sweeping’s a respons’bility, you know. A man’s got to sweep his patch, and look at my patch, ain’t it just the cleanest in Damsport?” He gestured at the cobbles around them.

Rory nodded, still carefully chewing.

“But I can’t very well leave you here with my dried beef. So —” Two Planks lifted the girl up and plonked her on his shoulders. She made a faint noise of surprise but otherwise seemed content. “There, now you can talk to me for a bit too. Two Planks likes company and sweeping’s a lonely profession. Say, pass the beef down.”

Rory leaned over and passed it to him, circling an arm around his forehead for balance.

“Mind where you put that arm, now.” As Two Planks took the strip of beef, he moved her arm away from his eyes and higher on his forehead. “That’s better. Old Two Planks’ gotta see if he’s to sweep.”

Chewing on his strip of dried beef like some men chewed tobacco leaves, Two Planks took up sweeping again. He rumbled beneath Rory like an elephantine beast, moving at a slow, plodding pace.

“Say, how old are you?” asked Two Planks. “Three? Four?”

“I dunno,” said Rory. “No one told me when I were born.”

“I reckon four, unless you’re a right titchy one. Don’t you worry yoself 'bout it if you are titchy, mind you. ‘Tis the titchy ones that grow to be the biggest and strongest. Take me for example, I’m as big as they come. Two Planks they call me, on account of how big and strong I am. Well, back when I were a child, I weren’t no bigger than a thumb!”

Rory snorted. “That ain’t possible.”

“By all the gods, that’s the truth of it. You can even hear it in my name. I were powerful lazy as a child and I loved to sleep, see, so my old mum called me Sloth, like the animal. You ever seen a sloth?”

“No.”

“Well, they likes to sleep powerful too. And then my old mum called me Thumb, on account of me being no bigger than a thumb.”

To illustrate his point, Two Planks lifted one of his massive hands, showing a thumb that looked like it could crush rocks. Rory laughed and grabbed it. It filled her tiny hand.

“My old mum, she’d carry me in her pocket. She’d slip me in there while she were working and I’d sleep — powerful strong, too! Nothing could wake me when I were in her pocket. So she named me Slothum, on account of me being a sloth the size of a thumb.”

Rory giggled, then fell quiet.

“You’re lucky,” she said at last. “Ain’t no story to my name.”

“O’ course there is. You just ain’t been told it, is all. Rory, Rory…. Hmm, sounds to me like there’s a ‘roar’ in there. Maybe you were powerful loud when you was born.”

Rory smiled. “Lions roar.”

“That they do. You know who else roars? Krakens.”

“Krakens?”

“Yep. Ain’t very well known, mind you, but it’s the gods’ truth. Krakens roar. Say, anyone told you 'bout krakens?”

Rory shook her head. “No.”

“Ah, then you’re in the right place. Krakens are just 'bout the most ‘mazing beasts in this world.”

Giant and girl plodded on, and Two Planks began to talk of the krakens. After a time, he forgot about the girl on his shoulders, talking to himself as he was wont to do. He recited his kraken facts with all the pleasure of a child playing with a favourite toy.

Other than Two Planks’ rambling, the lanes were quiet in this part of the Rookery, the tumult of Damsport little more than a distant rumble. The sun was warm on Rory’s back, and she dozed off on Two Planks’ shoulders, lulled by the rhythmic sound of the broom bristles against the cobblestones and the low drone of Two Planks’ voice.

CHAPTER 1

The advantage of being a great man was that even when one had nothing to do, one could always contemplate one’s greatness. Since entering the Marchioness’ employ, Longinus had been given precisely nothing to do, and as a result he had had plenty of time to contemplate. A good thing there was so much material for him to work with.

All the same, as great a man as he was, he was beginning to grow tired of his own greatness (a sentiment Longinus never thought he would experience). So tonight’s excursion was coming just in time to relieve him of his boredom.

Longinus decanted the sleeping draught he had prepared into a small vial, smiling to himself. It had been a lot of fun planning for this evening. Scheming with Rory, exchanging notes, agreeing on secret signals, and all of it, of course, without Cruikshank getting wise. They’d spent far more time and energy planning the excursion than needed, but it was refreshing after all that inaction.

And now the time for plans was past.

Longinus had spent all day selecting his clothing for the evening: a crisp white shirt, a forest green silk cravat, and a burnt orange smoking jacket. The attire suggested nonchalance, a man planning to spend his evening writing poetry. Perfect. He had in fact just finished composing a new poem for Lady Martha — thereby lending veracity to his appearance. The smoking jacket had the added benefit of roomy pockets, so Cruikshank wouldn’t spot the vial.

For the first time since moving into Cruikshank’s workshop, Longinus wasn’t sorry to be leaving his quarters, his oasis of peace and elegance. His room was encased within a large wooden box that Cruikshank had built for him up on the suspended walkway that ran along the top of the warehouse walls — a similar setup to Cruikshank’s own quarters. He’d furnished his room with characteristic elegance and style, choosing a lovely jade and gold velvet to upholster the walls and lacquered wood for the furniture.

As Longinus stepped outside, the noise, the heat, the acrid smell of sweat and hot metal hit him like a brick to the face. He pulled out his handkerchief (matching his cravat — of course) and waved it in front of his face.

“Could you make your workshop smell any worse, Cruikshank?” he called as he made his way down the ladder.

“Is that a challenge?” replied the machinist.

Cruikshank cut an impressive figure, even with her short height. She was all muscle and sinew, the brown skin of her bare arms rippling as she moved, bringing to life the complex tattoo of cogs that covered her right arm. Her goggles were pushed up into her curly hair, the dark roots showing where she hadn’t yet dyed them the russet colour she favoured.

“Where are they — where are my snub-nose pliers?” Cruikshank asked as she looked around the mess she called her workbench. (No matter what she claimed, Longinus failed to see where the ‘organised’ was in all that chaos.) “Lovey, I swear, if you’ve taken them…” Cruikshank threw Rory a warning look which the girl answered with an innocent look of her own, wide eyes peering out from beneath her mass of rope-like hair.

“Me? I’m hurt Cruikshank, really. I’m nothing but an innocent urchin, a reformed innocent urchin, too. My pickpocket days are over, I’m lost to thieving, I’m —”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Cruikshank rooting through tools and machine parts. “Help me find them, then.”

Longinus knew full well that Rory had taken the pliers — she had been stealing and returning things every day for the last few weeks as a way to keep herself entertained. The lack of work had left her as bored and restless as Longinus. Tonight though, the stealing was part of the plan to rile Cruikshank. When Cruikshank was cranky, she smoked. And when she smoked, she liked to have a coffee — or at least what she called coffee. Longinus wouldn’t befoul the word by associating it with the grim, mud-like concoction that Cruikshank drank.

Longinus moved over to the furnace, which was burning low. A metal kettle stood nearby, as did some mugs. He exchanged glances with Rory and touched his right ear. He was ready.

“Oh look, Cruikshank, is that them?” Rory pulled out a pair of pliers from beneath a piece of copper sheeting.

“What a coincidence that you should find them, lovey,” Cruikshank replied with no small amount of sarcasm. She snatched the pliers from Rory. Longinus took advantage of her attention being focused elsewhere to empty the sleeping draught into one of the mugs.

“Gods alive, you’re going to send me to an early grave,” Cruikshank said to Rory.

“Me? I’m here to help. We urchins are nothing but helpful types.”

Cruikshank grunted in reply and pulled out a cigar. She lit it and exhaled the smoke with a sigh of satisfaction.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” announced Longinus. “Or at least I’m going to attempt to make something resembling coffee. Would anyone like a cup?”

“Me, please,” said Rory.

“Cruikshank?” asked Longinus.

“Sure. Thanks, lovey.” Cruikshank clamped her cigar between her teeth and examined the machine part she had been working on with a frown.

“I really can’t fathom why you won’t let me set up something more adequate,” Longinus said as he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil on the furnace. “Can this even be called coffee?”

“I’m not listening,” replied Cruikshank without looking at him.

“I mean, really. Tramps probably get better coffee than this. The furnace is just too hot. It burns the coffee beans, to say nothing of the quality—”

A loud clanging interrupted him. Cruikshank had switched on one of her infernal machines, filling the workshop with noise. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Longinus stopped talking, and she turned it off.

“I’m only trying to improve —”

The loud clanging interrupted him once more.

“Have I made my point?” asked Cruikshank, finger hovering over the switch that turned the machine on.

“Yes, but —”

The clanging drowned out the rest of his sentence.

“Fine,” he sniffed once silence had resumed. “I see that censorship is the way of things here.”

“It is when you’re trying to change the way I do things,” replied Cruikshank with a fierce smile.

Soon enough the coffee was ready. Longinus gave Rory her mug, and the one with the sleeping draught to Cruikshank. He had dosed the draught to take effect in half an hour. Any faster and he feared that Cruikshank would get suspicious.

The potion was strong enough that once she was asleep she wouldn’t stir. She certainly wouldn’t hear Rory and Longinus borrowing her steam-powered spider.

Longinus risked a glance towards it.

It hulked in the corner beneath a tarp, the end of its copper legs just visible. Rory caught his eye and gave him a small smile. Longinus knew she was as excited as he was. Soon they’d be riding across the Damsian rooftops.

It took twenty minutes before Cruikshank yawned. Immediately after, Rory yawned, as did Longinus.

“Gods, I’m knackered,” said Rory. “I might go lie down.”

She went to the cot that had been set up for her in a corner and pulled off the blanket, spreading it on the ground. It had taken Cruikshank and Longinus six weeks to coerce her into sleeping indoors, but the bed remained a sticking point. Rory refused it, saying it was too soft for her liking. Her opinion remained the same after Longinus had found her the hardest and lumpiest mattress in Damsport. At least it showed the girl had standards, although in typical Rory fashion they were the wrong way around.

Cruikshank yawned again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight, I’m really tired,” she said with a frown. “It’s not even close to midnight.”

I should hope not, I plan to be at my tailor’s by midnight.

“Well, I for one am going to retire,” said Longinus. “Good night, one and all.”

Rory stretched out on the ground, yawning loudly. Longinus tutted to himself when she didn’t cover her mouth. Rory’s actions set off another bout of yawning in Cruikshank — she didn’t cover her mouth either. Typical.Where did anyone get the impression that women formed the ‘fairer’ sex?

Cruikshank’s eyelids drooped.

“Why don’t you call it a day, Cruikshank,” said Rory. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep at your workbench.”

“I think I might, actually.”

She put out her cigar and followed Longinus up the ladder. Longinus went to his quarters and turned on the alchemical chandelier. He and Rory had agreed to wait thirty minutes after Cruikshank had gone to sleep to make sure she would really be dead to the world. It also gave him time to change.

Longinus walked to his wardrobe and riffled through his clothes. He should be dressing in black since he was going out at night, but of late there had been a penury of black silk in Damsport, so he had been forced to make do with browns and greys. Insufferable. His wardrobe had been burned with the rest of his belongings when Myran had torched his house, and he had had to re-furnish himself with a decent wardrobe.

Now all that he lacked were black silks, and tonight he would finally remedy this unfortunate shortcoming. His tailor should have received a shipment this morning, with part of it specially set aside for Longinus.

“Myran,” he whispered to himself as he selected a maroon dark enough to pass for black in the night. “Myran, Myran, Myran.”

He whispered his sister’s name to himself every day, to ensure the stutter didn’t return.

Once the thirty minutes had passed, he crept out. Somehow the stink of the workshop was more intense in the dark. Longinus grimaced. His attempts at introducing perfumes and incense to try and improve the smell of the place had been met with nothing but brutal rebuffs. As with all his helpful suggestions.

Before going down, Longinus went to Cruikshank’s quarters and listened at her door. He smiled when he heard a faint snoring. He climbed down the ladder and reached the ground to find Rory still stretched out on the floor and fast asleep. How can she sleep so well on the floor? Longinus shook her shoulder and she started, frowning.

“Oh,” she whispered, quickly getting to her feet. “Clearly I was tired! Everything ready?”

“Cruikshank snores, as it turns out.”

“Huh. Don’t surprise me, mind you.”

“Me neither.”

They made for the spider.

“I feel a bit guilty now,” Rory whispered. “Not to mention, if we get caught, we’ll be up to our eyeballs in shit.”

“No need to get scatological,” Longinus whispered back. “Anyway, I’ve dosed the sleeping draught perfectly. She won’t stir until morning. It will do her good, too. She said she’s not been sleeping well of late.”

“Don’t try and pretend that we’re doing this for the good of Cruikshank’s health.”

“I’m not, but if our borrowing her spider means she gets a good night sleep out of it, then so much the better.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

When Longinus threw the tarp off the spider, all of Rory’s reservations seemed to melt away, and she grinned.

“Ain’t she a beauty?” She stroked one of the legs. The spider was huge, tall as a man and large enough to seat two people. Its copper hull gleamed softly in the moonlight.

“Well, hop to it,” said Longinus. “I like to arrive at my tailor’s precisely at midnight.”

“Course you do.”

CHAPTER 2

It didn’t take long before they were racing through the maze-like canyon of streets that was Machinist Crescent. Warehouses towered around them, the streets too narrow for the moonlight to reach the ground. Rory didn’t want to risk the rooftops here — most of them were zinc, and while Cruikshank’s steam-powered spider was generally quiet, its legs created a serious racket when walking on metal.

Rory inhaled deeply, revelling in the cooler night wind in her hair and the vastness of the sky overhead. A trace of nostalgia lingered within her: she’d been dreaming about her old friend Two Planks when Longinus woke her up, and the dream had been particularly vivid. It had been so long since she had gone to see him, and she felt guilty. Come morning she’d go to the Rookery. Maybe spend the whole day there.

It wasn’t exactly as if she was needed. The Old Girl, the Marchioness of Damsport, had given Rory and Longinus nothing to do since roping them into her service. She had made it clear that she didn’t trust them, demanding that they stay under Cruikshank’s supervision. Since then, she had clearly forgotten about them.

Rory knew she couldn’t complain. She had a roof over her head — a real one, not one she had made from rubbish collected from the streets — she got paid every month so she never went hungry, and all she had to do was sit on her arse all day and twiddle her thumbs. Not only that, Longinus had continued training her in sword fighting, and she was improving leaps and bounds. She should be thrilled — it was, in theory, the perfect arrangement.

Except that Rory was bored. Horribly, terribly bored. Stealing things from Cruikshank and Longinus helped somewhat — Rory set herself increasingly difficult challenges, and her ultimate aim was to steal the pillows under their heads as they slept. She smiled to herself: now that would be a worthy steal.

But she missed running on the roofs. She missed the sense of danger and adventure that came with her old life. She missed the thrill of picking a purse or conning a mark. Cruikshank wouldn’t hear of Rory and Longinus going out to roam the streets. They were under her supervision, she told them each time they suggested going out, and unless the Marchioness gave them work to do, they would wait in the workshop as instructed.

“Bloody honest types,” Rory muttered to herself.

“What?” Longinus asked behind her.

“Nothing.”

Once they were out of Machinist Crescent, Rory guided the spider up a house’s wall and onto the roof. She backed the spider to one end of the roof and pushed it to full speed, hurtling towards the opposite edge. As she reached the edge, she pushed the lever that released a powerful burst of steam from the spider’s abdomen and legs. They jumped easily to the next roof.

“Yeah!” she shouted, grinning from the thrill of it. Cruikshank had taught her to use the spider, but had never let her take it out of the workshop. This was infinitely better than making it jump over chairs.

They jumped again, and Rory increased the speed. Her rope-like hair streamed behind her. The spider’s legs moved so fast on either side that they were a blur, and the rapid clicking they made sounded like rain hitting the tiles.

Rory threw caution to the wind, hooting and cheering at each jump as they continued to race towards Longinus’ tailor.

* * *

Longinus was so pale as to be almost grey by the time they reached their destination.

“This method of transportation is entirely inadequate for the Viper,” he announced in a shaky voice as he climbed down, staggering a little on shaking legs.

“Oh, was I going too fast?” asked Rory. “Sorry.” She had forgotten him in her delight at racing across the roofs at full speed. Still, she wouldn’t have expected him to be so pale from a little jumping.

He cleared his throat as he regained a little colour. He fussed with his long hair, running a hand through it. Longinus’ hair had to be the most pampered hair in Damsport, treated to the extravagance of monthly visits to the barber. A waste of money in Rory’s book — she had never once cut or brushed her hair and it did just fine.

“I’ll go put the spider up on the roof, out of sight,” said Rory.

“Good idea.”

Once the spider was up on the roof, Rory lowered herself back down using her grappling hook and silk line. Longinus was busy tying a brown and cream handkerchief over his mouth and nose.

“Here,” he said once he was done. “I brought something for your hair.”

“How many times we got to go through this?” Rory flung up her hands. “I ain’t changing my hair, it is what it is, alright?”

“Yes, and because it is what it is, it’s recognisable. You need to hide it if you want to be discreet.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’ Now, I studied the hair-wrapping methods used by the desert tribes, and they should work for you. Let it not be said that I don’t look after my assistant.”

“I ain’t your assistant,” said Rory. “How many times?”

“As long as it takes for you to realise that you are my assistant.” Longinus got to work, wrapping the long scarf around her hair. “There, that should do it.”

The scarf covered Rory’s head and hair, one end falling across her cheeks and mouth, obscuring part of her face.

“Very good, very mysterious. Ah, it’s time,” he said, as the cacophony of bells that signalled midnight started up. “Let’s go in.”

Longinus knocked on the door in a complicated rhythm.

“Secret knock,” he whispered.

“Of course.” Rory rolled her eyes.

The door opened silently and Longinus stepped inside, followed by Rory. They found themselves in a large room illuminated only by diagonal shafts of moonlight that filtered through the windows. At the far end of the room Rory could make out bolts of cloth leaning in a neat row against the wall.

“Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” asked a deep voice, startling Rory.

She had thought the room empty, but now she noticed a red, glowing circle among the shadows of one corner. The red light flared a little, and Rory saw that it was the end of a cigar. Holding it was a long-fingered hand, and behind it were a pointed nose, flared nostrils, and thin lips framed by hollow cheeks that sharpened as their owner took a drag. The ember reflected in the man’s eyes, making him look for that brief moment like some hellish creature.

As he exhaled and removed the cigar, his face fell into obscurity once more, the glowing ember seeming to float in the air.

“The Viper,” said Longinus, in a lower voice than usual.

The red ember of the cigar danced at this, and a small alchemical lamp came on next to the tailor The light was very low, but its sudden contrast to the darkness made Rory squint. She could just make out a small table on which a crystal ashtray rested next to the alchemical globe. Next to the table was a shadowed pair of legs wearing tailored trousers over gleaming shoes. The light wasn’t quite bright enough to illuminate the tailor’s face and torso.

“Ah, yes, Master Viper,” the man said, fussing with the fabric of his trousers. He took a deep drag on his cigar, and Rory got the distinct impression that he was nervous.

“Here about the promised black silk,” added Longinus.

“Yes, yes, the black silk.” The tailor took another drag of the cigar. “It is my-my great, ah… great regret. That is, it is with great, ah —”

“Yes?” Longinus asked.

“Well, the thing is,” said the tailor, voice quavering. “That, ah, as far as black silk goes… Well, I am rather ashamed, I am, ah…” Another deep drag of his cigar. “There is no black silk.”

Rory felt a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, as if the air had tensed and the temperature had dropped a degree or two. She stepped cautiously away from Longinus.

“What did you say?” Longinus’ voice was barely more than a whisper, but it had an edge that could have cut glass.

“My dear Viper, p-p-please accept my most sincerest apologies,” said the tailor, putting his cigar in the ashtray with a shaking hand. “Nobody is bringing black silk in at the moment. I’ve tried, I’ve searched high and low —”

“Your excuses don’t interest me,” snapped Longinus. “You had a shipment coming today from which you were to explicitly set aside the black silk I needed. Now I am here for this black silk. I have paid for black silk. I have waited far too long for black silk.”

“I-I know, but the shipment was apparently, ah, intercepted… I’m — I’m so sorry.”

“You know that I am a man of refinement, of manners,” Longinus said pointedly. “You know that as such, I wouldn’t dream of assassinating at my tailor’s.”

Rory fancied she could see the tailor’s trousers dampen with sweat.

“But surely even you can see that I am being pushed beyond what a reasonable man could be expected to endure. It has been two months, two months, and you have been unable to provide me with the silk I need.”

“I’m so terribly —”

“I want solutions, not apologies.”

“I have a lovely charcoal grey! Yes, a charcoal grey. So dark in fact that in certain lights, in the night it almost looks…” The tailor’s voice faltered as the tension in the air seemed to thicken. “No, of course not grey. I could, ah… I could… I do have one, er… It’s in black silk, but it’s… it’s ready, ah —“

“Do my ears deceive me, or are you offering me off-the-rack?”

“I could tailor it for you, though. As a temporary… I’m aware, Master Viper, just how far from ideal this is, but it could, ah, tide you over until… I will get you that black silk.”

Longinus crossed his arms.

The silence stretched on.

Rory shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Very well,” Longinus said at last. “A temporary measure. And if my silk doesn’t arrive soon…”

“I promise… I promise,” said the tailor. “Everything in my power to make the wait as short as possible.”

“Good. And you will also clothe my assistant in that charcoal grey you mentioned.”

“Whoa,” said Rory. “I never agreed to nothing like that.”

“You need new clothes,” said Longinus.

“No, I don’t. My leathers are fine just as they are.”

“They don’t fit you properly. They’re too big, they’re not tailored —“

“I don’t care.”

“I could, ah, I could at least tailor them for you, young lady,” said the tailor.

“I ain’t no lady,” said Rory.

“She isn’t a lady,” confirmed Longinus. He turned to her. “But you’re getting new clothes.”

“Nope, and don’t you try and make me neither.”

“Rory…” Longinus’ voice was dangerous.

“Longinus…” Rory matched his tone.

“The gods be damned, girl. There is an art to irritation, but you take things to a whole new level.”

Rory grinned. “Well, you know what they say about imitation and flattery…”

Longinus sighed. “We won’t be clothing my assistant tonight,” he informed the tailor.

“Certainly. But if you ever want or need anything …”

“Considering your recent reliability, we won’t be coming to you. Please also note that I will be looking into this recent penury of black silk. If I find that you’ve been lying, if you’ve been hiding any shipments from me… If I find out that you have had any kind of involvement in preventing me from being attired as I should be, I shall consider our Peace null and void. And since you’ll have wronged me, I shall be fully in my rights to come visit you with one of my poisons.”

The tailor shook visibly at that. “Please believe that —”

“Enough. I will subject myself to your pre-made clothing. Let us get this unpleasant situation over with as quickly as possible.”

CHAPTER 3

“Good morning, lovey!”

Rory cracked an eye open to see Cruikshank beaming down at her. “You’re in a good mood today,” she mumbled.

“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” said Cruikshank.

Rory wished she could say the same. Although she and Longinus had returned to the workshop at a decent hour, Longinus had insisted they stay outside so he could rant and pace in peace. He had yet to formulate a plan for dealing with the missing black silk, but the ranting and pacing had at least improved his mood.

Cruikshank disappeared from Rory’s line of sight, and a moment later Rory winced at the shrieking sound of metal being twisted. She buried her head beneath the blanket.

“Up, up, up,” came Longinus’s voice. The blanket was yanked away. “We have work to be getting on with. Come on, up!”

Rory grumbled, but it was clear she would be getting no more shut-eye today. She’d go up to the roof later for a nap. She got up, yawned and stretched. Longinus strode over to the other end of Cruikshank’s workbench, which groaned beneath tools, parts, cogs, and chains.

“Cruikshank, I am going to make room for myself here.” He gestured at the workbench. “I have work to be getting on with, and this will be my operating base.”

“Knock yourself out, lovey,” replied Cruikshank. “Just so we’re clear though, you can’t touch anything around where I am now, and I don’t want to hear any complaints tomorrow when it all goes right back to the way I usually have it.”

“The way you usually have it? You don’t have it any way, it’s just mess.”

“Exactly the way I like it.”

Longinus was prevented from replying when the door opened.

“Good morning!” Rafe entered the workshop. He was a slim-built lad with the dark skin of a Damsian, and although he was a Varanguard, one of the Old Girl’s personal bodyguards, today he was dressed like a civilian.

Rory glanced over at him. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

Rafe regarded her with his usual sardonic expression.

“Your powers of observation, as ever, astound me,” he replied.

“In some parts of the world,” Longinus called from the workbench, “I mean in some civilised parts of the world, knocking before entering is considered polite.”

Rafe ignored him, turning to Rory instead. “You’re wanted at the mansion.”

“At the mansion?” she echoed.

“Sadly, your powers of hearing don’t astound me.”

“Ooh, stretching our powers of sarcasm, are we?”

“What can I say, you’re just the right person to practice on.”

“Always happy to help — maybe if you practice long enough, your idea of humour won’t bore me to tears.”

Rafe smirked and crossed his arms, leaning forward. Rory leaned back.

“Name one instance when you haven’t found me entertaining,” he said in a low voice.

Rory ignored him. “So why am I needed at the mansion?” she asked.

“Well, the Marchioness sat me down, explained to me in full depth and detail her innermost thinkings before sending me out to fetch you, just in case you had any questions,” replied Rafe. “How the hell should I know why you’re needed? I’m told to fetch you, and so I fetch.”

“Like a good little dog,” Rory quipped.

“If you two are finished,” interrupted Longinus, stepping in between them. “I don’t want to be late.”

Rory’s eyebrows shot up. “You changed?”

In the couple of minutes she and Rafe had been exchanging barbs, Longinus had removed what she now knew to be a ‘smoking jacket’ — even though Longinus didn’t smoke — and had dressed in soft grey silks. Rory wasn’t surprised by the change: Longinus changed his clothes at the slightest provocation. It was the speed that shocked her — he usually required at least a good half hour.

“Yes, well, we can’t be keeping the Marchioness waiting,” he said, fussing with a sleeve cuff.

“My orders are for Rory only,” said Rafe.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Longinus walked outside, followed by Rory and Rafe.

A steam rickshaw awaited, gleaming in the morning light, its engine puttering softly. It was a simple adaptation of an old-fashioned rickshaw: a seat wide enough for two people, set on two large wheels, with an oiled canvas cover that could be pulled forward in case of rain. A small steam engine had replaced the man that would have dragged the rickshaw back in the day, but it still required a driver. He waited by the engine, wearing a wide-brimmed, flat straw hat that kept his dark-skinned face and shoulders in the shade.

“Sorry, but orders are orders,” said Rafe, following Longinus to the rickshaw. Longinus climbed in and settled himself, smoothing out his silks. “Out,” Rafe said with a jerk of his head.

“I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus,” Rory replied.

She knew full well why Longinus wanted to go to the mansion: Lady Martha would likely be there, and he never lost an opportunity to make cow eyes at her. Rory would have argued even if that wasn’t the case, though.

It was fun annoying Rafe.

“This isn’t a joke,” said Rafe. “I was given orders to summon Rory to the mansion, so Rory is coming, and only Rory.”

“Oh, unclench,” replied Rory. “What’s the big deal if Longinus comes along?”

“He wasn’t summoned.”

Rory grinned. “I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus,” she repeated.

“I can make you,” replied Rafe.

“Don’t you dare threaten my assistant in my presence,” snapped Longinus.

“Nobody’s threatening your assistant, since you ain’t got one, alright?” replied Rory.

“Not the time, Rory.” Longinus waved a hand impatiently.

“It’s always the time. Jumping to my rescue ain’t no good reason to claim I’m your assistant. Not when I told you over and over that I ain’t. You keep doing that, and you’ll be the one what needs rescuing.”

“Hey!” said Rafe. “We’re not here to discuss whether Longinus has an assistant. Longinus gets out and Rory gets in.”

“Gods you’re slow, ain’t you,” exclaimed Rory. “I already told you I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus. We’re inseparable. We’re like… like pork and apple.”

“That’s a stupid comparison,” said Rafe. “Plenty of people have pork without apple.”

Rory grinned. “Yeah, and like having me without Longinus, it wouldn’t be as good a meal, right. If they’d gone with the nature of things and had apple too, well they’d have eaten much better.”

“Why, Rory!” exclaimed Longinus. “You attempted a metaphor. How wonderful that my refinement and education are finally having a noticeable impact on you! Although I should point out that if anyone is the pork in that comparison, it’s me.”

“You do make a fine pig,” said Rory with a widening smile.

Longinus didn’t take the bait, adjusting his silks instead. “We’re keeping Lady Martha waiting,” he said.

A look of worry briefly came over Rafe’s face.

“The Old Girl’s gonna be pissed off if she has to wait,” Rory added with a sly smile.

“There’s not enough space for three in the steam rickshaw,” said Rafe.

“That’s alright, I’m only little. We can squeeze. Better that than trying to win an argument against both of us. Ain’t gonna happen, and all you’re doing is keeping the Old Girl waiting.”

Rafe threw her a dirty look. “Fine,” he said at last. “Longinus can stay.”

“Well, that took you long enough,” said Longinus as Rory climbed in.

Rafe followed after her, wedging himself in.

“What were you thinking, bringing such a small rickshaw?” Longinus sniffed as he shifted in his seat. “It’s entirely inadequate for three people.”

“It wasn’t meant for three people,” snapped Rafe.

“Well, clearly that was an oversight on your part,” replied Longinus.

Rory’s smile widened. She’d have to remember to gang up on Rafe with Longinus more often.

* * *

As they walked through the mansion’s hallways towards the Marchioness’ office, Longinus became more obviously nervous. His fingers fussed with his cuff sleeves, then his collar, and his face was as taut as a bowstring.

“What if she doesn’t want me there?” he murmured to Rory. “What if the reason I wasn’t summoned is that she thinks I’m a subpar assassin? What if —”

“It’ll be fine,” Rory whispered back.

“What was that?” Rafe asked, turning back.

“Nothing,” said Rory.

She gave Longinus’ arm a reassuring squeeze.

They reached the office double doors and Rafe knocked smartly twice. “Rory and Longinus!” he announced.

Rory and Longinus stepped inside and Rafe closed the door on them, staying outside.

The Old Girl’s office was sober, almost austere. Dark wood panelling covered the walls. The furniture was also of dark wood, and the only decoration was a large map on the far wall, bristling with little flags and pins.

“I asked only for Rory,” the Old Girl said with a frown, rising from her chair. As usual the Old Girl wore simple leathers, her grey hair pulled back into a complicated braid, her nut-brown face heavily lined and all the more severe for looking displeased. She wasn’t seated behind her desk, but in the reading corner of the office with Lady Martha and a startlingly beautiful woman who Rory didn’t recognise. Standing behind them in a corner was a tall man with more salt than pepper in his neatly trimmed hair. He had the look of a warrior with his fighting leathers and sword.

“They obviously realised that you meant both of them since they work as a team, mother,” said Lady Martha, rising also, with a warm smile for them both and a warning look for her mother.

Lady Martha looked like a younger version of the Old Girl, but the resemblance ended at the similarities of their features. She was elegantly dressed in light blue silks, and where the Old Girl looked formidable and intimidating, Lady Martha was all smiles, making those around her feel at ease. Everyone, that was, apart from Longinus, who turned into a gormless fool at the merest mention of her name.

She wasn’t what would traditionally be considered beautiful: her features were just a little closer to plain than pretty, her nose had a hint of a hook to it, and her eyes sloped just a little downwards, but when she smiled — which she did often — her whole face lit up. And although she wasn’t formidable like her mother, she had an easy presence that seemed to command the room just as effectively as her mother did.

“If I had meant both of them, I’d have asked for both of them,” the Old Girl said. “I don’t need Longinus today. What I need is Rory’s connection to the Rookery. Last I checked, Longinus isn’t from the Rookery.”

“It might be a bit early to completely discount Longinus’ usefulness, mother,” said Lady Martha. “In any case, he’s here now, so why don’t we all sit down.”

Rory could see a blush creep up Longinus’ neck, although she couldn’t tell if it was caused by the embarrassment of not being wanted by the Old Girl, or by Lady Martha coming to his defence.

There was a brief confusion as an extra chair was brought in for Longinus, and then they all took a seat. Rory found her eyes repeatedly drawn to the woman who sat next to the Old Girl. She was more beautiful than a person had any right to be: her features had the kind of otherworldly perfection that was normally found only in stories or dreams. Her skin was like honeyed caramel, her eyes were framed with kohl and thick lashes, and her long black hair, streaked with silver, fell like two silk waterfalls on either side of her face.

Although she was dressed simply in a belted tunic of fine white linen, she was richly bejewelled. Her tunic sleeves were slit all the way to her shoulders, and beneath them were another set of sleeves, tight around the arms and all of cloth of gold. Gold and lapis bangles tinkled at her wrists as she moved, and more lapis and gold shone at her fingers. Enormous earrings covered most of her ears, from the tops to the lobes. A large gold and lapis collar completed the look, covering the base of her throat and stretching almost out to her shoulders.

“Rory, Longinus, may I introduce my dear, dear…friend. Mizria Ajmad,” said the Old Girl.

Rory started. “Consort Ajmad?” she asked, surprised. She guessed that the man standing silently in the corner was Mizria’s bodyguard.

The Marchioness glanced over at Mizria.

“Not any more,” Mizria said pleasantly. “But it’s nice to know I haven’t been forgotten.”

Rory was too young to have seen the Consort in person, but she had heard plenty about her. A Kushanian aristocrat, Mizria had been famous back in the day, both for her beauty and for being the Old Girl’s lover and Marchioness Consort. Although stories of Mizria and the Old Girl abounded, nobody knew why Mizria had left the city fifteen years ago, and the Marchioness had never spoken of the matter publicly.

Rory wondered why Mizria was here now, and she was even more curious about her own role in the affair.

“Mizria,” said the Old Girl. “Are you really sure —”

“Quite sure.”

“I just… I wouldn’t want you to —”

“Do you think me unable to withstand a little conversation?”

An awkwardness as palpable as summer humidity descended on the room. The two women’s eyes met, and the Old Girl quickly looked away. Rory glanced from one to the other, confused. What was going on?

Lady Martha cleared her throat. “Rory, Longinus, we asked you here —”

“I asked for Rory only to be brought here,” interrupted the Old Girl. And just like that her gaze was its usual calm and steely self. She gave Longinus a cold look. “And I like my orders to be obeyed to the letter. But it is what it is. Something unfortunate has happened: a man died a couple of weeks ago, in unusual circumstances. We managed to establish that he is from the Rookery, but that’s all. We can’t get any more information — his name, who he was, what happened to him. Nobody will speak to the people I sent to look into this.”

Rory grinned. “Well, you know what they say about the Rookery. We’ll kiss a cutthroat before we’ll talk to a guard.”

“I fail to see what’s funny,” replied the Old Girl.

Rory lost her smile. “I only meant that nobody would risk talking to a guard and looking like a grass. Grasses don’t live very comfortable lives in the Rookery — or very long lives neither. Depending on who they’re grassing up.”

“I’m well aware of that,” said the Old Girl. “My people were all in plain clothes. Nobody could have known they worked for me.”

“Beggin' your pardon, but we know our own kind in the Rookery. We ain’t talkative with strangers at the best of times, right, and strangers that go around asking questions, well that’s the kind of news that moves faster than a summer storm, and no mistake. Everyone will have been warned off your people pretty damn quick.”

The Marchioness sighed. “Yes, I assumed something of that sort would happen. I’m sure you can guess my purpose then. I’d like you to get in touch with any associates or acquaintances you have there, and find out what you can about this man.”

“What exactly happened to him — what’s unusual about his death?”

“He has been almost fully exsanguinated.”

“Exsanger-what?”

“Emptied of his blood,” explained Lady Martha.

“A vastly preferable state of affairs,” remarked Longinus. “If only we could find a way to survive in such a bloodless state, life would be infinitely better.”

Lady Martha, the Old Girl, and Mizria looked at Longinus, all nonplussed. None of them knew of his fear of blood, and Rory nudged his foot to remind him not to continue on with what must have seemed like ridiculous talk.

“Alright, so a man bled to death,” said Rory. “Ain’t nothing weird 'bout that.”

“There are no visible wounds on the body,” said the Old Girl, “other than two tiny punctures at the inner elbows and a circle of what looks like needle marks on the back of the neck. My man Howshinger has analysed what remained of the blood in the body, and he found that there was alchemy involved.”

“I could speak to Howshinger,” volunteered Longinus. “See if maybe I can help shed some light on what happened.”

Rory threw him a surprised look. He had taken a deep dislike to Howshinger ever since working with him ahead of the Revels to stop Myran. Not only that, he abhorred blood, so talking about it to Howshinger had to be the last thing he wanted to do. His desperation to get into Lady Martha’s good graces really was quite astounding.

“An excellent idea,” Lady Martha said with a smile.

Longinus beamed so hard he looked like he had swallowed the sun.

“One more thing,” said the Old Girl. “If this is another of Myran’s initiatives, I want to know at once. While Mizria is in Damsport, nothing is more important to me than her safety.” The Marchioness glanced at Mizria. “I want to know of every development,” she continued. “Every last piece of information, no matter how minor it appears to be. We won’t be taking any risks on this one. If Myran is back in my city, I want her hunted and killed. I want results, and fast. I’m sure I don’t need to explain just how disappointed I will be if you have no progress to report when we next speak.”

“Well, hold on now,” said Rory. “Them guards got nowhere, right, so if I don’t get nowhere neither, then why should I get into trouble?”

The Old Girl gave her a cold look. “Are you questioning me?”

“No, but —”

“Then I don’t want to hear any more on this. You will go find what you can in the Rookery and report back with an update on that man and what happened to him.”

“Please,” muttered Rory under her breath.

Not low enough.

“What did you say?” the Old Girl asked, her eyes like two chips of flint.

“Oh, er, nothing —”

“Let me make something clear,” said the Old Girl.

“Mother,” interposed Lady Martha. “I’m sure Rory didn’t mean —”

“Not now, Martha,” snapped the Old Girl. “Rory, I am the Marchioness of Damsport. You are an urchin, a nobody. You are also in my employ, and I do not tolerate my staff talking back to me.”

Rory looked down at her hands.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Rory.”

Rory lifted her head. She could practically feel the Marchioness skewering her with her gaze.

“You will learn your place,” continued the Old Girl. “And when I give you an order, you will say ‘yes, ma'am’ and do it without bothering me with your feelings on the matter. Am I clear?”

The room was as silent as a tomb.

Rory’s cheeks burned.

“Yes, ma'am,” she mumbled.

“Good. Then it’s sorted. You will go visit Howshinger and then you will head to the Rookery. I’ll expect a report early tomorrow morning.”

The Old Girl pulled a cord. The double doors swung open and a manservant stepped in, boot heels ringing smartly against the wooden floor.

“Escort them to Howshinger,” said the Old Girl.