The Rising Rooks E-Book

Celine Jeanjean

• Herausgeber: Celine Jeanjean
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

While Damsport is facing civil war, Longinus cuts Rory’s hair…
Don’t miss the final instalment in The Viper and the Urchin series!

The Rising Rooks, the Rookery rebels, are mounting an attack against Garrata that they hope will destabilise her enough to weaken her grip on Damsport.

But not only does the mission fail, its failure causes a rift between the Rising Rooks and the rest of Damsport. 

Rory and Longinus find themselves retreating to the Rookery without support from the rest of the city and without resources. They’ll have to use all their ingenuity and inimitable style to somehow get to Garrata.

Whether it’s cutting Rory’s hair, robbing a post office, or creating dastardly poisons, Rory and Longinus fight with everything they’ve got.

Will they succeed, or will they fail to free Damsport? If they go down, at least they’ll be going down in style…

Grab the final adventure in Rory and Longinus’s saga.

The Rising Rooks is book 9 in a complete 9 book steampunk fantasy series. Other books in the series:
#1 The Bloodless Assassin
#2 The Black Orchid
#3 The Slave City
#4 The Doll Maker
#5 The White Hornet
#6 The Shadow Palace
#7 The Opium Smuggler
#8 The Veiled War
#9 The Rising Rooks

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Copyright

Title Page

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 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

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Epilogue

Adelma

Longinus

Rory

More fun to discover!

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 Rising Rooks

Copyright © 2021 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.

Cover by bonobobookcovers.com

Copyedit by redadeptediting.com

Proofread by Kath Macfarlane ([email protected]) 

CHAPTER 1

Rory

The night before a risky and potentially dangerous assault to try to deactivate the explosives Garrata had placed in Damsport’s foundations, the night before the mission that could be the first step in liberating Damsport—in short the night before one of the most important events in Rory's life—that was the night Longinus chose to cut her hair in her sleep.

They had all been staying at Susie's since the raid on the Mansion, as their respective homes would be too dangerous for them to go back to for the foreseeable future. Tess had been sent back to her family, although Longinus continued to pay her salary so she wouldn’t find herself in a bad financial position.

Susie's rooms above the coffeehouse weren't quite big enough to accommodate everyone, so Rory had been sleeping in a storeroom, among the pleasant scents of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and a myriad of other spices.

The smells made the storeroom feel oddly cosy, despite being furnished only with rows of free-standing shelves on which were stacked various jars and boxes. They each had a label, some with familiar names of herbs and spices, but many were exotic, speaking of distant lands she’d yet to visit. Some she couldn’t even figure out how to pronounce. Before falling asleep the previous night, she’d read out the more exotic names, letting the foreign, unfamiliar syllables roll over her tongue, trying to imagine the countries that matched such words. She still dreamed of seeing more of the world.

For now, though, all energy was focused on finding a way to get Garrata out of Damsport. Entire days were taken with strategising sessions, continuing late into the night until Rory, exhausted, staggered into the storeroom, falling into sleep as she fell onto the futon that had been wedged between boxes. Normally Rafe shared the storeroom and the futon with her, falling with as much exhaustion as her. They didn’t have much time to talk, but it was nice to at least finish the days—or the nights—together.

Last night, though, Rafe had decided to sleep in the Rookery with the men and women he’d been training. Clearly, his presence had served as some kind of a deterrent to Longinus, who had sprung into action with his scissors the moment Rafe was out of the way.

Had Rory known, she’d have padlocked herself inside the storeroom. But how on earth were you supposed to plan for the possibility that someone—not just someone, but your closest friend—might cut all your hair in your sleep? You’d have to be on the wrong side of paranoid to anticipate that.

Rory had slept through the whole thing, only realising what had happened on waking up. Longinus had obviously been nearby, because the moment she’d yelled in shock, he’d entered to reassure her that he’d been the one to cut her hair, not some dangerous psychopath.

As if that made things better.

Her disbelief at the situation was possibly the only thing preventing her from committing murder there and then.

“Are you seriously kidding me?” she shouted for the third time, both hands rubbing the fuzz on her skull—all that remained of her hair. Longinus hadn’t just cut her hair but shaved it all off. She was almost as bald as an egg. “What kind of nutter cuts a person's hair in their sleep?”

“A very well-meaning nutter who was expecting things to turn out differently,” Longinus replied defensively. “In fact, not a nutter at all, but someone who had your best interests at heart.”

“You cut my hair off in my sleep!” Rory shouted, spraying spittle. “How the hell is that having my best interests at heart?”

Longinus wiped his cheek with a gloved finger. “In my defence, I also applied a special alchemical lotion that was supposed to ensure the regrowth of your hair while you were sleeping. By now your hair was supposed to be just the same length as it was before, except without those awful rope-like segments.”

“Well clearly you got ripped off because my hair ain't grown back, now has it?”

“Yes, it’s rather confusing…” Longinus picked up the offending bottle, frowning at the label. “This came from a highly reliable and high-quality source—I’ve never had problems with their products before. I followed the instructions exactly. I really was very careful in the way that I applied it, and—”

Rory slapped the bottle from his hands, sending it bouncing onto the futon.

“Stone the gulls, Longinus! I ain't having a go at you for the way you applied the bloody lotion on my head. I'm having a go at you for cutting my hair off in the first bloody place! I mean, I know your mind don’t work like the rest of us, but what demented part of your brain made you think this was a good idea?”

“I had it all so well planned out,” Longinus said, shaking his head. “I really don’t know what went wrong. Your hair was supposed to have grown back by now, and I have an appointment booked in about thirty minutes with a woman who can make new rope-like segments like your old ones. Just slimmer and more refined. More symmetrical. I didn’t want to get rid of your hairstyle, rather elevate it. You see? I just don’t understand why the lotion didn’t work.”

Rory wanted to bang her forehead against a brick wall. Or better yet, bang Longinus’s forehead against said wall. “We’re in the middle of a rebellion, and tonight we’re fighting Garrata’s guards. Who bloody cares about my hair!?”

“Evidently, I do. And you do, too, or you wouldn’t be so upset.”

Rory hadn’t thought it possible for her fury to increase, but it did just that. “The gods help me, if you’re gonna play the smartarse on top of it all—”

Longinus raised a finger. “And more than that, I care about you and your legacy. The risks will be high tonight, and when facing such danger, we must have our affairs in order. Death could come for any one of us, and this during an event that will possibly shape Damsport’s history. Think of posterity! I know you’re young and that doesn’t matter to you, but it will in time. Historians will write of this day. I couldn’t stand to think of them referring to you as ‘the girl with the tragic hair.’”

“Ain’t it occurred to you that they’ll just use my name instead of describing me?”

“Well, it depends on how famous you become after all this is done.”

“Alright, let’s pretend your reasoning ain’t completely crazy for a moment. Well now, them historians are gonna describe me as ‘the boy with no hair,’ ’cause being skinny as I am, and without no hair, I probably look like a boy, don’t I?”

She only just managed to stop her voice from quavering at the end. The feel of the thin layer of fuzz that covered her skull was awful. Rory felt naked without her hair, and she knew that if she stopped yelling at Longinus she was in danger of crying. She wasn’t some little milksop to cry over something like hair, but damn if she wasn’t feeling the pressure of tears behind her eyes.

Longinus cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I really am. I wasn't trying to upset you. It was supposed to be a nice surprise. You could have seen what your hair is like naturally when it's not all matted. And you have noticed that I was trying to help you refine your rope-like hair, right? I was trying to keep your hairstyle, just make it better.”

Rory closed her eyes, drawing every scrap of strength and patience she possessed. She spoke slowly, fists clenched. “I get that you was trying to help, Longinus, in your weird way what no one understands. But this ain't the kind of thing you do the night before a bloody attack. Not when I've got a ton of things on my plate, and loads more important things to think about today than my bloody hair. On top of which it ain’t never alright for you to cut my hair in my sleep. Ever.” She snapped her eyes open as something occurred to her. “How did you even manage to cut it all off and then shave my head without me waking up? I’m a real light sleeper.”

“Oh, you'd be amazed at what can be achieved with narcotics,” Longinus replied breezily.

His expression quickly dropped back to something more contrite when Rory sent him a glare that could have turned granite to dust. “I ain't amazed. I don't wanna be amazed. I want my hair back, and I wanna know that when I sleep you ain’t gonna drug me and cut my bloody hair again!” She yelled the last couple of words.

“Fear not, I have no plans to repeat this unfortunate foray into the world of coiffure.”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

“You use the word bloody a lot, have you noticed?”

Rory loved Longinus like a brother, she really did. She’d never had a brother before, so she had no real benchmark to compare him against, but she couldn’t help but wonder if all brothers were as idiotic, annoying, and frustrating in a throttle-him-and-bang-his-head-against-a-wall kind of way. It really was a testament to how much she cared for Longinus that he was still alive. Truly.

Some of that must have shown on her features, because Longinus hastily said, “Right, right, I will leave you some peace and privacy.” He picked up the bottle and turned to leave. “I’ll find out what went wrong with the lotion, and see what can be done to remedy the, er, situation.”

“The problem ain't the bloody potion,” Rory said as he walked out the door. “The problem is you cutting my hair in my bloody sleep!”

Longinus hurried away, and she slammed the door after him. She pressed both hands up to her temples where she could feel a headache building. This was not starting out as a good day.

* * *

Once she felt calmer, Rory headed out of the storeroom to get on with the day. Since Brandt and those working for Garrata wouldn’t know of Rory and Longinus’s association with Susie, the coffeehouse and lodgings in the upper floors had turned out to be the perfect place to set up headquarters for the Rising Rooks.

The sleeping situation at Susie’s was a hodgepodge of futons and sleeping mats laid about Susie’s suite of rooms as well as within the coffeehouse. For a time there had even been a few people sleeping in the coffeehouse’s kitchen, although that had caused problems. The people had been from the Rookery and hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to steal food and kitchenware.

Rory wasn’t angry—she understood. It was as ingrained as the reflex of squeezing your eyes shut when something came flying at your face. Rookery folk were reliable, truly they were—it was just that most of the time they could be relied on to rob you blind. Sometimes, though, they could be relied on for other things as well, and if you knew to expect the thefts, you could take appropriate measures so that it wasn’t a problem.

The Rising Rooks weren’t trying to sabotage the cause, they just weren’t thinking much further than the immediate future. The thieves had been made to give all the stolen loot back, and they’d done so apologetically, explaining they didn’t think it would be missed, since ‘posh folk got so much stuff, it’s coming out their ears.’ Given half the chance, they’d have explained how, in fact, they’d done Susie a favour. Rory knew this because that was exactly what she’d have done a couple years ago. The problem was that while one person stealing here and there was manageable, multiple thieves robbing Susie blind wasn’t.

This had also highlighted a larger problem. Donations of all kinds—weapons, clothes, money, food—had been steadily pouring in from the rest of the city, slowly making their way to Susie’s through various members of the Rising Rooks. Rory had no doubt that a decent amount had been skimmed from what eventually arrived at the coffeehouse. But they really couldn’t afford to have people steal the growing stash from the coffeehouse.

Those resources were going to be essential if the Rising Rooks were to do anything useful to free Damsport. So Pip and Alice had volunteered to sleep with the goods which were stored in the main room of the coffeehouse. They were very light sleepers, and both had been given incredibly loud whistles to blow the moment they heard anything.

There had been a couple of alerts early on, and Adelma had done what Adelma did best, convincing the would-be thieves that any repeat attempts would be extremely bad for their health. It hadn’t taken long for the robbery attempts to stop. And a good thing, too—yesterday Smythson, Damsport’s largest weapons dealer, had delivered a whole set of weapons ahead of this evening’s attack. They couldn’t afford to have that go missing.

Rory slipped down the service corridor towards the main room, where she knew there would be food laid out for the day.

“Oh my God, Rory! What happened to your hair?”

Rory turned to find Rafe hurrying towards her from the back entrance, his eyes full of concern. Her stomach sank. She didn’t want Rafe to see her like this. Looking like…like a boy.

“Did something happen? Are you alright? Are you…” Rory saw Rafe's eyes drift over to look at someone behind her.

She spun around to find Longinus at the end of the corridor, in the middle of making frantic ‘abort’ gestures. He froze as their eyes met and gave her a sheepish grin, letting his hands fall to his sides.

Rory turned slowly back to face Rafe, feeling her anger rise up again. “If you wanna know what happened to my hair, ask the soon-to-be dead man behind me. And that man, if he knows what's good for him, better not still be here when I turn again or he’ll go from soon-to-be-dead to actually dead, quick sharp.”

“Right-oh,” Longinus said quickly. “Point received. I had come back to, er… never mind. As I said before…um… I’ll give you space and privacy…” Rory heard him hurrying away.

“What happened?” Rafe asked. “I was only gone one night.”

“Apparently that's quite enough for Longinus to cause some serious damage,” Rory replied glumly.

Rafe put an arm around her and ushered her through into the main room. Susie's coffeehouse was officially closed for renovations, so they had the whole place to themselves. The so-called renovations allowed Rising Rooks members to come and go, disguised as tradespeople, without attracting attention. Deliveries were made or parcels were collected, hidden among the building materials. Susie had been absolutely incredible in helping with the rebellion effort.

The main room of the coffeehouse was a comfortable space decked out in burgundy velvet and dark varnished wood tables, with booths and partitions for privacy. The dark colours and tinted glass at the windows made it impossible for anyone to see anything from outside.

Now, though, the partitions and most of the tables were pushed out of the way, making spaces for boxes and crates. The futon Pip and Alice slept on was in front of the donations, so anyone wanting to get to the goods had to walk past them. They were gone for now, already getting on with the day’s tasks. They hadn’t had to deal with a madman cutting their hair in their sleep.

At the other end of the main room was a long trestle table on which Susie had loaded all kinds of food, so everyone could help themselves throughout the day. It was the perfect setup, given that everyone was constantly coming and going at all hours of the day.

Rafe handed Rory a plate, and she began heaping food onto it. Corn and coriander fritters, fried tempeh with peanuts and chilli, turmeric rice, and several ladles of jackfruit and pumpkin curry. There was no meat, so the dishes could be left out all day in the Damsian heat without spoiling.

“So tell me what happened?” Rafe asked her.

Rory brought him up to date in a few terse sentences.

Rafe shook his head in disbelief. “How on earth does he think up things like that?”

“Beats me, but now I'm left looking like a boy.” This time Rory’s voice wavered. She hated how upset she was over this. But she wasn’t exaggerating—she really looked like a boy. And what would Rafe think? That thought made her want to run and hide.

“Well actually, in a weird way, I think it suits you,” Rafe said.

That, she hadn’t expected. “You ain’t seriously taking his side?”

“Course not. No matter which way you look at it, cutting someone's hair in their sleep is a seriously messed-up thing to do. And the way he justified doing it is… the man’s mind is so weird it should be studied. But it kind of suits you—probably because your features are so fine. Like a little pixie. And it brings out your eyes. It’ll be nice when your hair goes back to normal, but you still look great.”

Rory stared down at her plate for a heartbeat, her face growing uncomfortably hot. And then she looked up at him again. “Do you really mean it?” Her voice came out small and insecure. Pathetic.

But the thought of Rafe no longer finding her attractive made her feel—she didn’t want to think about that. The gods knew she wasn't the prettiest of girls, even with hair. So now…

Rafe put down his plate and crooked a finger under her chin, lifting it up until she was looking him in the eyes. “There's a lot of things I like about you, Rory. And yes, your hair was one of them. But that's far from the only reason I find you amazing, and I still find you just as amazing now, without hair.”

He reached down and kissed her gently. When they pulled apart, Rory gave him a shy smile, her heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. “I feel like such an idiot for even worrying about it. I mean at the end of the day –"

Rafe kissed her again, probably to shut her up. It was remarkably effective.

By the time they broke apart, she felt better. “What about you? You were alright, sleeping alone last night?”

Rafe tended to sleep better when Rory was there. It helped keep the voices at bay, settled his mind.

“You mean did I talk to teacups?” Rafe broke into a smile.

That was the joke they'd come up with, their shared code language for the fact that Rafe still sometimes heard his mother’s voice in his head. He feared that one day he’d grow mad like her. She’d spoken to teacups, back when she’d been alive, and Rory and Rafe found it better to jokingly refer to it, rather than dive into an intense moment or ignore it.

“Teacups were quiet all night,” Rafe said. “I didn’t feel the urge to talk to any of them. Not even to a teapot.”

Rory grinned. Since he’d come clean about his past and all the things that were bothering him, Rory was amazed at how much he’d changed. It was nothing big, but rather a multitude of little relaxations that she could see in the way he moved, the way he talked, even the way he smiled. And the fact that they were able to joke about his mother's voice seemed to have somehow brought them closer together.

“Don't worry about me,” he added. “I’m fine.”

And unlike before, Rory knew that he genuinely meant it, which was a relief. The possibility of turning mad like his mother still hung over him like a dark cloud, but it was a cloud that now had shafts of sunlight coming through it.

This time she kissed him, twining her arms around his neck.

“Oi, you two lovebirds, get a room! Or at least get out of my way. This is heavy.” Adelma walked in carrying a large crate. “More stuff from Smythson. That woman's really come through—there's both guns and ammo in here. Don't think I've ever seen anyone as gifted at finding crates what fall off the back of steam wagons.” Adelma grinned. “Come to think of it, I ain’t never known anyone so good at convincing steam wagons that crates should fall off the back of them.”

She looked as strong and imposing as ever. If Rory hadn't known that a few weeks ago she'd been a complete wreck, there would have been no way for her to tell.

Adelma carried the crate with her good left hand, the mechanical pincer hand that Cruikshank had made clamped around the right crate handhold. She’d been training relentlessly, both to increase strength and improve her ability to operate with the mechanical hand. Veins bulged on her bare biceps, muscle straining beneath her dark skin. The artificial hand only served to increase her strength, and there seemed to be nothing that she couldn’t punch or lift.

In short, there was no trace left of the woman who had fallen so spectacularly apart. She was so confident with the artificial limb that it seemed she'd had it for years. It was so good to see, it never failed to cheer Rory up, and this time was no exception.

Hair could grow back, after all. It wasn’t a big deal. If Adelma could get used to a fake hand, Rory could get used to being bald.

“Perfect, I was waiting for this,” Rafe said. He took a step towards Adelma, paused, and looked back at Rory. “Are you going to be alright? I need to get these out to my sharpshooters.”

Rory nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

Adelma frowned. “What happened to your hair? Why d’you cut it all off?”

“I ain't explaining that again.” Rory picked up her plate and headed out for the coffeehouse's reception. There would be a lot of people coming and going today, and it was her turn to act as pretend receptionist, turning away any real customers and dealing with any of the Rising Rooks, directing them and their cargo to the right places.

CHAPTER 2

Longinus

Longinus felt rather guilty after the morning's events. He didn't feel guilty about cutting Rory's hair—had things gone the way he had planned, he remained absolutely confident that the girl would have been pleased as punch with the results. Oh, she might have groused for form at first, but Longinus had seen what could be done when rope-like hair was a conscious style rather than a result of neglect, and he knew Rory would have loved it. She’d have looked like herself, just better.

The alchemical solution’s failure to work had created a disaster, though, and now she was furious with him. In keeping with the long tradition of passing the buck, Longinus was off to Gamp’s barbershop to pass on Rory’s discontent. She hadn’t lied when she’d pointed out that there was a lot to be done ahead of the evening’s attack, but Longinus intended to have the problem fixed before then. He wasn’t about to tolerate Rory going into battle bald, of all the ridiculous things.

The confusing thing was that Gamp was normally reliable when it came to alchemical enhancements. Longinus had gone to him for help on several occasions, such as when he’d wanted a longer moustache, and he’d always been pleased with the results.

Longinus exited the coffeehouse, stepping out onto the street with caution. It was getting close to the end of summer, the soupy, humid air slowly releasing its grip on Damsport, iron-heavy clouds giving way to blue skies and pounding sun. Rain still came from time to time, often later in the day, and the puddles from last night’s downpour shimmered in the bright morning light. The cobblestones always looked cleaner after a good rain, the grit stuck between them having temporarily been washed away.

In the month since the raid on the Mansion, things had taken a highly surprising turn. Everybody had been on a high after such a great victory, but there had also been a heightened tension as they all expected blowback from Garrata and Voynia.

Nothing had come.

Not only that, but Garrata had announced a blanket pardon for all those involved in the raid and had held a press conference to explain that while her intentions had been good—she still claimed that the ultimate goal had been to better the children’s quality of life—her methods had been wrong. And then she actually apologised.

Nobody had seen this coming. The curfew imposed on the Rookery had been lifted along with the weapons ban. Announcements were made throughout the city that no one in the Rookery would be arrested for attacking the Mansion.

And it seemed to be true—nothing had happened since that day.

It was impossible for people to remain on high alert constantly, especially when nothing was happening. Life had to go on. People still needed to work, to earn money, in short to live. The inhabitants from the Rookery had gradually drifted back to their homes—helped by the fact that a great many had robbed their hosts and therefore had, understandably, been thrown out. If the armoured guards hadn’t still patrolled the city, one could almost believe all was back to normal.

As far as Longinus could tell, no attempt had been made to locate him or his associates, but he certainly wasn’t about to rely on that. They all took great care when out in the open, but nothing had gone wrong. No one had been arrested or bothered.

It was so bizarrely perfect for the Rising Rooks to prepare their next offensive, that Longinus didn't trust it. So they got ready for their next attack, but they were careful.

The biggest problem, really, was that without a clear adversary, and without the focusing influence of the children being taken, the Rookery folk no longer worked so well together. They fought and argued. They stole. They’d even attempted to rob Susie’s, no matter that they knew this was the headquarters for the fight against Garrata.

The theft at Susie’s had been the catalyst precipitating the return of everyone to the Rookery. The Rising Rooks needed to make money, to get back to business as normal so they would stop stealing from the rebellion against Garrata. Life had settled into a weird kind of new normal.

As Longinus made his way through quiet back streets, sticking to the narrow, discreet lanes—even though they smelt of urine and other unsavoury things he'd rather not think about—he reflected that this very much felt like the calm before the storm. He hoped the storm would wash Damsport free of Garrata as well as it washed the cobblestones of dirt.

He reached Gamp's establishment and entered. Gamp hurried over, bowing as he moved. “Good morning sir, I trust that—”

“You trust erroneously,” Longinus snapped. “The lotion you sold me did not work as advertised. I do not know if you are merely incompetent or if you sought to rip me off, but I can assure you that I shall be just as displeased with either option.”

Gamp frowned, looking confused “It didn't work? I’ve never had a failure before. And you applied it—”

“Do not seek to move the blame onto me, sir,” Longinus said curtly. “I applied it following the letter of the instructions you provided. The letter! Yet when my associate awoke this morning, her hair was still no more than a fuzz on her skull. Please explain this phenomenon.” As he spoke, he thrust the bottle in Gamp’s face.

Gamp frowned and took the bottle, examining it carefully. “Allow me to do a quick check to ensure that nothing has caused the lotion to be compromised. I—I’m not trying to insinuate that you compromised the lotion, sir,” he added quickly, no doubt seeing the darkening in Longinus’s expression. “I meant that maybe some external factor or element could have caused it not to be working as it should.”

Gamp’s establishment specialised in alchemical enhancements, so while the front of the shop looked like any regular barber’s with chairs set up in front of mirrors, the back was closer to a small alchemical laboratory. Gamp made his way to the back and ducked behind the counter. The wall there was covered in shelves housing a quantity of vials and jars and pots, all carefully labelled.

Longinus joined him at the high counter, peering over the edge to see a small alchemical workshop laid out on a lower bench behind it. It was clear from Gamp’s movements that he knew his business. In a short time, he had tested the residue found in Longinus's bottle and declared it to be perfectly fine.

“It should therefore have worked exactly as I explained, inviting the hair to grow back within a matter of hours. This young lady definitely has Damsian hair?”

“Of course she has Damsian hair! She's Damsian, and one does not have hair of a different nationality to the rest of one's person! What a ridiculous question to pose! In fact…” Longinus's voice faltered. Because now that he thought of it, although it was hard to tell, what little hair there was on Rory's skull didn't quite seem to match the standard Damsian hair.

Damsians had dark skin and straight black hair, wavy at the very most. From time to time one could come across a Damsian with a bit of frizz, such as in the case of Mercy, but that was rare. Outright curls, however, were unheard of. Women who curled their hair, like Cruikshank, did so using alchemical enhancements.

Until now, Rory’s hair had always been clumped in those awful ropelike segments, so it had never been possible to ascertain the texture of it, and if Longinus was honest, he hadn’t wanted to look at it too closely, either. He had simply assumed her hair was the same as everyone in Damsport. But of course her blue eyes marked her as having foreign blood—so maybe her hair wasn’t Damsian after all.

“If the young lady in question doesn't have Damsian hair,” Gamp said cautiously, “That would explain why the lotion didn't work as advertised. It will still work, just more slowly. I would expect that at the worst her hair will have grown back by the end of the day.”

Longinus made a half-hearted reply, too distracted. He muttered some vague apology and then hurriedly left the barbershop. The appointment he had booked for Rory to get her new ropelike segments wasn't very far, and he hurried over.

The shop in question was a bright and lively, if small, space. It boasted just two chairs and two basins for clients, and the doorway to the back room was covered by a yellow-and-orange beaded curtain. Longinus was used to frequenting barbershops that veered towards elegantly muted colours, whereas this establishment was a real riot of colour, the walls and surfaces covered by loud fabrics that clashed merrily with the myriad of knickknacks that crowded all available surfaces.

The hairdresser was an Azyrian woman who had apparently come to Damsport after the Azyrian rebellion, seeking a new life for herself. She specialised in cutting women’s hair and had come highly recommended, but Longinus had been particularly interested in her ability to create refined versions of Rory’s normal hairstyle. The woman had the extremely dark skin of Azyr, so dark it almost looked black, but she dressed as brightly as her shop, with large red hooped earrings and a wide beaded collar that ran from her throat and spread to her shoulders.

She frowned when Longinus entered. “You're late, I was expecting you half an hour ago.”

Longinus nodded apologetically. “We've had a huge unforeseen problem in that the girl in question currently doesn’t have hair for you to work on.”

“What? How does a person accidentally lose their hair?”

“It wasn’t accidental as such, since I shaved her head.”

“Before a hairdresser appointment?”

“I had an alchemical lotion that was supposed to make it all grow back, but we are experiencing some delays…”

Longinus found himself staring at the woman's head. Her hair was cropped short, almost to her skull, and although it was black, it was nothing like Damsian hair. Rather it was a dense mass of extremely tight, kinked little curls.

Longinus couldn't have said for sure, as there wasn't much hair on Rory's head yet, but he could have sworn that it looked similar.

“And you are Azyrian, right?” he asked the woman. “As in full-blooded Azyrian—both your parents are Azyrian?”

The woman frowned. “Yes. What is this about exactly?”

“It just suddenly dawned on me that my associate who was supposed to come and see you today might not be… That she may not have Damsian hair. I couldn't tell before, because she had ropelike segments –"

“We call that almujas,” the woman said.

“Yes, sorry I’d forgotten. Almujas. It’s not a style I’ve seen in Azyr, though.”

“The infernal heat means that most people prefer to keep their hair cropped like mine—it's just easier. Only the really wealthy who can afford to be indoors all the time and have cooling devices wear their hair longer. But there are many other nations out there with similar hair to ours, and who wear almujas.”

“I see. And is it possible to have almujas with Damsian hair?”

“Of course. That's were I come in—I can felt Damsian hair into almujas, it just takes more time. But of course you can't have natural almujas with Damsian hair. See if you look at your hair…” She grabbed a lock of Longinus's hair—recently trimmed in a rather pleasing layered style that reached just above his shoulders. “See how smooth your hair is? If I let my hair grow without brushing it for long enough, it would naturally come together in segments because of how kinked it is. Your hair, however, would never be able to get to that place on its own. That is why I would need to go through the process of creating the almujas myself through felting the hair.”

Longinus nodded slowly. Rory’s almujas had come as a result of her living on the docks as a kid and never owning a hairbrush. He also knew that while the girl didn't like talking about it, her theory was that her mother must have been some back-alley prostitute who had slept with a northern pale skin, and either abandoned the blue-eyed child that came as a result or died when Rory was a baby.

The Azyrian type of hair, though, complicated things. Were there people out there with hair like that and blue eyes? Rory had to have at least one Damsian parent given that she grew up in the Rookery. And her skin tone was right for Damsport too.

Her hair had to be a clue as to part of her heritage, although Longinus had no idea how to interpret that clue.

“Thank you very much for that explanation,” Longinus told the hairdresser. “I’m hoping that my associate’s hair will grow back during the day, at which point I’ll bring her over as soon as possible.”

The woman frowned. “I have clients today.”

Longinus threw money at the problem. “Two days’ worth of appointments, if you free up the rest of your day and see to Rory as soon as I bring her to you.” He placed the money on the counter.

The hairdresser gave him a quick, evaluating look, and then she nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll push everyone back. You’ll need to allow some time for the appointment, though, if her hair isn’t like mine. If her hair is like mine it’ll go fast—I have some special alchemical enhancements to help speed the process along.”

“You don’t have anything to speed hair regrowth, do you?”

“My clients don’t tend to accidentally shave their heads…” She gave Longinus a look. “Or other people’s.”

Longinus sighed. Why was everyone set on giving him a hard time over this? Could they not see that it was possible to shave a person’s head because one had their best interests at heart?

* * *

Once Longinus returned to Susie's coffeehouse, he slipped around the building to enter through the back door. He started as he came across Susie in one of the storerooms.

Even when she was working, Susie retained an air of understated elegance. She was dressed in her usual manner, with a loose silk tunic with high slits on either side, over a pair of wide-legged trousers. This tunic had short sleeves, highlighting her slim yet strong arms. Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, from which a few wisps had escaped, and she moved efficiently about the storeroom, taking stock of food supplies.

All thoughts of Rory momentarily deserted Longinus, and he found his mind growing blank. His tongue seemed to become an awkwardly heavy thing while simultaneously tying itself into knots.

“Susie, my dear,” he managed to say somewhat breathlessly, as if he’d just been running.

Susie looked up from her work and smiled at him, sending the butterflies which had taken residence in his stomach fluttering even more madly. “Longinus, how are you this morning? Is there anything you need?”

Longinus realised that this was the moment. He had been putting it off, but as he had said to Rory, tonight could potentially be a dangerous mission. Now was not the time to delay or postpone anything of importance. Seize the moment! Be brave! Courage!

His stomach lurched painfully as if he were aboard a ship.

“Actually, there is, er, something,” he stammered. He caught himself and took a breath. This was not conducive to making the kind of impression he wanted. Confidence and eloquence. Eloquence!

“That is, ah, I would not be so bold as to presume that, um, you would have noticed given all that is going on at the moment, but I have of late developed feelings of a rather, um, ar-d-dent n-n-nature—” Longinus realised he hadn’t breathed yet and gasped an inhale—”And as such I would consider myself the happiest of men if you might consider entertaining the notion of perhaps, um, considering to allow me the great honour and privilege—that is if you are able and willing to spare the time, and if it would not be inappropriate for me to presume on your time in such a manner, and yet it would be remiss of me to not at least ask because it would be an absolute delight and pleasure if you would perhaps entertain the notion of possibly considering that I might…”

“Longinus, I would be delighted to have dinner with you.” Susie gave him a breathtaking smile, yanking Longinus out of the verbal maze he’d been getting hopelessly tangled in.

“Oh… oh. Yes, quite. Delighted. Me too. I, um...” It was proving surprisingly difficult to form a coherent sentence. Longinus was overly aware of her nearness, of the straightness of her nose, the silky perfection of her skin, the smallness of her earlobes.

“Susie,” Cruikshank called from another room. “Might I borrow you for a second?”

Susie gave Longinus an apologetic smile. “I better get going.” She placed a hand on his forearm, and Longinus felt it as keenly as if her touch were burning through the fabric of his jacket. “But yes, let's find time to grab some dinner sometime. That would be lovely. I know it's all a bit mad at the moment, but hopefully we can steal a quiet hour or two.”

And with that, she hurried off, leaving Longinus rooted to the spot and quite convinced that this might be the happiest moment of his life.

CHAPTER 3

Rory

Rory had set herself up at the reception to Susie's coffeehouse, a varnished teakwood counter from which Susie used to greet her customers when they arrived. From there Rory could turn away any customers who attempted to enter in spite of the sign saying Susie's was closed for renovations, and she could also field the various people who came and went in relation to the night’s attack.

There might be more donations coming in too. The stockpile in the main room should ensure that the Rising Rooks had everything they needed to do their work for months to come. Although if tonight went well, they should hopefully not need much more time before Damsport was free.

Adelma passed through the reception on several occasions, rubbing Rory's head affectionately as if she were a child or a dog, much to Rory's irritation. She squirmed and ducked away from Adelma, telling the big smuggler to get lost. Cruikshank told her several times that it really wasn't that bad, and that being bald suited her. Pip and Alice came in, and Pip wondered whether she might have caught mange, like so many of the stray dogs in the Rookery.

“Stone the gulls, is everyone mistaking me for a dog, now?” Rory had snapped.

Alice then pointed out that Rory still had hair, just very short. If it hadn't fallen out, it probably wasn’t mange. The two urchins had then had a spirited discussion as to whether or not humans could be mangy, like strays. Rory hadn’t put up with it for long before sending them both off on more errands.

Pip and Alice had both sold their school uniforms as soon as they could, reverting back to rags that were very similar to what they’d been wearing back when they’d been taken, and keeping the money. Smart kids.

Plenty of other people had walked in throughout the morning, and almost everyone had felt the need to ask or comment about Rory’s hair. Of course, none of this was doing anything to help dampen her anger at Longinus.

Which was why when the latest person walked in while she was laboriously writing down a note to remind herself of something to do later, Rory didn't bother to look up. “No, I don't wanna tell you about my hair, and no, it ain't none of your business.”

“I agree that it's none of my business,” an unknown male voice replied. “Although I fail to see why anybody would want to talk to you about your hair.”

Startled, Rory looked up to find Rafe with a dour-looking man in his fifties who was looking at her sternly. A beak-like nose preceded him like a dagger in guard position, and he was dressed all in black as if in mourning. He looked intimidating and disapproving, and Rory’s stomach turned to jelly as she recognised him.

The last time she had seen him was at the Forum—he was Rafe's father. The only resemblance with Rafe was in the eyes—almond shaped and missing nothing. Rory guessed that in all other ways, Rafe took after his mother. Right now, he looked sullen as he stood silently next to his father.

There couldn’t be a worse time for Rory to meet Lord Standorr for the first time—she was bald. What would he think of her?

“My son confirmed that this was the place to come to speak to the leader of the Rising Rooks,” Lord Standorr said abruptly.

“That would be me,” Rory stammered.

Lord Standorr frowned. “Is this your idea of a practical joke? Some kind of weird follow-on from that hair comment from before?” He turned to Rafe. “Well? Take me to the person in charge.”

Cruikshank stepped into the reception hall. “I thought I heard a familiar voice. How are you, Lord Standorr?”

“Cruikshank. I'm glad to see you.”

“How can we help you?”

“I'm here to talk about the rebellion effort against Garrata. I want to talk to the leaders of these so-called ‘Rising Rooks.’”

Cruikshank nodded. “Why don't we all go into the main room to talk?”

They all started to follow after Cruikshank, when Lord Standorr turned back to Rory. “The invitation didn't extend to you, boy. Get back to work.”

“You are unbelievable, Father,” Rafe snapped. “What gives you the right to come here and be rude to –"

“The boy lost the right to any respect when he pretended to be the head of the rebellion. As if such an important role would be left in the hands of someone so young and, from what I saw of those clumsy scrawls, barely literate. You know how much I hate to be lied to, even in the context of a practical joke.”

“Rory's a girl, Father, and she put together most of the plan behind the raid on the Mansion.”

“Rafe is correct,” Cruikshank said gently. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

Lord Standorr looked surprised. Rory really wouldn't have minded if the floor had opened up and swallowed her whole. Giving credit to Rafe's father, he looked sincere as he said, “In that case, young lady, I apologise.”

“It's fine,” Rory muttered, wishing the whole incident could be erased from everyone's mind.

They grabbed a table in Susie's main room.

“So are you hoping to get involved with the Rising Rooks?” Cruikshank asked.

Lord Standorr shook his head. “Rather, I've come to ask that you stop your efforts.”

“What?” Rafe seethed. “Father, you cannot mean to leave Garrata ruling Damsport.”

“Of course not. But myself and a number of my associates are in the process of putting together a rebellion force. A professional force, including hired mercenaries and people experienced in this kind of guerrilla warfare.”

Cruikshank frowned. “Why would that require us to stop what we're doing?”

“It goes without saying that your reputation and your work are beyond reproach, Cruikshank. But as much as the raid on the Mansion was a success, what you are working with is an unorganised, ragtag force of inexperienced and uneducated people. You cannot hope to succeed against a man of Voynia’s skill and experience. If the aim is to liberate Damsport, then I ask that you ensure the best people for the job are in charge.”

“And what the hell makes you think we ain't the best people for the job?” Rory said hotly. “We pulled off the raid on the Mansion, didn't we? Where were you and your so-called professionals back then? It weren't the posh people what risked their lives, was it? It was good, honest folk from the Rookery.”

Lord Standorr gave thin smile. “That must be the first time anyone's referred to people from the Rookery as being honest.”

“Now isn't the time for humour, Father,” Rafe said coldly.

“You're right, now is the time for professionals to get to work.”

“We are getting to work,” Rory replied, struggling to contain her anger. “And tonight we’ll strike such a massive blow—”

Rafe placed a cautioning hand on Rory’s arm, making her stop midstream.

“Tonight?” Lord Standorr leaned forward. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Not your business,” Rafe said categorically.

Lord Standorr shook his head. “You need to stop and think this through. Any failures on your part tonight could be hugely damaging for our own efforts, and ultimately make it harder to liberate Damsport.” Lord Standorr turned to Cruikshank. “I hope I can ask you to convince everyone of the truth of what I’m saying. The raid on the Mansion was a fluke, and we cannot base the freedom of Damsport on so uncertain a proposition.”

Rory was seething. As if she hadn’t already had enough to be angry about today.

“I think it would be best if we discussed this among ourselves first,” Cruikshank said carefully.

“And if we’re a rousing success?” Rory asked Lord Standorr.

“I doubt that will be the case.”

“Lord Standorr, it might be best if we discussed this among ourselves,” Cruikshank repeated calmly but deliberately. “Friction between Damsian factions will achieve nothing.”

Lord Standorr nodded and stood up. “You’re right, but I can’t help but feel frustrated. There is too much at stake for something like pride to matter. The best people for the job should be involved.”

“And where the bloody hell have they been for the last month, huh?” Rory asked, glaring.

“It’s taken time to gather the force together. Rushing ahead often does more damage than proceeding more slowly but with more caution. Remember what is at stake here. Damsport. If you make things worse for us, you will be responsible for ensuring Garrata continues her rule.” He nodded at them all—unfailingly polite—and then walked out.

“What the hell was that?” Rory exploded as soon as he’d gone.

“That,” Rafe grated, “is my father for you. Never around when needed, but very happy to arrive after the fact and throw his money around.”

Cruikshank frowned. “We need to discuss this. To consider his point.”

“You ain’t seriously gonna listen to him?” Rory asked aghast.

“Lovey, don’t be naïve. He isn’t wrong. Look at the trouble we’ve had with the Rising Rooks stealing, arguing, not doing what we ask. They might be experienced in their line of work, but they’re not soldiers. They’re not used to working together. I mean, we can’t even trust them not to steal the equipment.”

“That’s just reflexes, that’s all. When you’ve lived your whole life as a thief, it takes time to learn to stop being a thief. They didn’t mean nothing by it, and they gave back what they stole and all. Plus many were running on empty, on account of not having worked for a long time.”

“Yes, but it’s troubling that they stole from us in the first place.”

“It’s taken care of,” Rafe replied.

Cruikshank frowned “I’d have expected you to be more measured in your opinions. Surely you’re not so naïve to think we won’t have more problems.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll deal with them. There’s nothing you can say that will convince me that working with my father is the right answer. Maybe if he’d been around since the beginning, trying to help us. But this is what he does. He was nowhere before, and then he comes and takes over. Make no mistake—he cares about Damsport being free only because it suits him. He cares nothing about the Rookery, about us. Is that really who you want to be spearheading the fight to free Damsport?”

Cruikshank rubbed one of her thick-jointed hands along the side of her neck. She shook her head. “I still have my doubts. Lord Standorr has a point. If tonight fails—”

“It won’t,” Rory said curtly.