The White Hornet E-Book

Celine Jeanjean

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A city of snow and wind.
A logistical nightmare when running a mission…
…or an opportunity to explore new sartorial delights?

Rory has faced many challenges in her time, but none quite so frustrating as mastering the art of walking in a corset and bustle.
She has to pass herself off as a wealthy heiress to infiltrate the House of Bel, a mysterious and highly exclusive club for Airnian high society, and of course her true identity must remain hidden at all costs.

Luckily, Longinus is on hand to advise—that is, when he’s not busy discovering the giddy delights of winter outerwear and investigating the mystery of what happened to his family.

But they soon become aware of a mysterious presence—someone paying disturbingly close attention to their every move.

Who or what is the White Hornet? What is the link to Longinus’s family?  

And will Rory and the gang be able to infiltrate the House of Bel before the White Hornet uncovers their true identities?

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Please note: this book ends on a cliffhanger ending, but the next book is already out so you can read it right away.

“Loved it! What a plot twist at the end, too!” – Marie Reed, Goodreads
“Wow. Just as compelling as the previous books. Can not wait to read the next one. The suspense is killing me.” – Beth Norton, Goodreads.
“Intensely satisfying read” – Matthew, Goodreads

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 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

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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 White Hornet

Copyright © 2019 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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CHAPTER 1

Some events change a man’s life so definitively that everything becomes defined in relation to this one moment. Such a milestone divides all other points in one’s life into Before and After.

This was one such moment for Longinus. He knew with perfect clarity that his life would never be the same again.

He gathered himself, took a deep breath, and burst through the velvet curtains, stepping regally out from the changing booth. In one fluid motion, he graced his audience with a twirl.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you… the Cape.” He managed to put a special emphasis on the capital ‘C’, feeling that so glorious an item most definitely warranted capitalisation. The Cape was of the most divine cerulean blue, its edges embroidered with silver.

“Who you calling a lady?” Adelma grunted. She lounged, or rather sprawled, on a chair by the door, with all the grace of a boulder dislodged by an avalanche.

She’d removed her fur hat, revealing the shaved sides of her head with their incongruous tattoos of small purple flowers. A thick plait ran from the top and down the back of her head, curving around her neck, over her left shoulder, and finishing by her waist.

“Ain’t you got one of them cape things already?” Rory asked from a nearby tailor’s fitting platform. She frowned. “Yeah, you definitely got some of them back in Damsport. I saw you wear one and all.”

White calico was pinned to her body, approximating the elaborate dress being made for her. The thick ropelike segments of her hair were piled atop her head, the copper rings and tubes she’d taken to wearing in her hair gleaming in the light.

The tailor and his team of assistants had all been kicked out when Adelma and Cruikshank had arrived earlier, so they could all talk in peace.

“No, no, no,” Longinus replied. “What you’ve seen me wear back home are cloaks. They are completely different. Cloaks are merely practical, to protect one from the rain, for example. This, however…” Longinus moved again, displaying the stunning drape of the fabric. “Look at the thickness of it. The richness. The silver detailing here. And the versatility! See how the clasp and chain adjust? I can have the Cape pushed back as a simple decorative item at my back, like so. Or I can wear it like so, covering my shoulders. Or like so, for a more rakish, off-the-shoulder look… oh, that is just divine.”

Longinus planted himself in front of a triptych mirror, moving to observe himself from every angle.

Rory snorted. “Did you seriously just call yourself divine?”

“Well, when one looks like this, what else should one call oneself?” Longinus replied distractedly, admiring himself in the mirror. “I look like a winter god—an elegant winter god.”

“Let’s not forget that modesty’s for amateurs,” Rafe said from his fitting platform. A half-finished jacket was pinned to him, chalk lines showing where the jack would be fitted snuggly to his waist.

“Much as I like to hear my words quoted back to me,” Longinus said, “I should point out that only fools mistake sarcasm for wit.” He moved again, placing a hand on his hip and admiring the ripple of the Cape’s fabric. “The cloak is prosaic and common. The Cape, however, is a statement.” He lifted both arms, spreading the Cape like two ethereal wings. “I shall get one in black too.” After all, no self-respecting assassin went out at night in anything other than the deepest, most perfect midnight black.

Longinus didn’t yet have a firm opinion of Northern Airnians. Most Damsians considered Airnia to be a cruel, brutal force that had kept Damsport in slum-like poverty for most of its existence until the Old Girl had freed the city by obtaining its independence from the Empire.

All this was true, of course, but Longinus knew better than to give weight to the myriad of stories that circulated about Airnia. He was waiting to make up his own mind. Prejudice could easily muddy the waters, and their mission was too important to take that risk.

The Old Girl expected them to return with information on which Damsian allies had turned their cloaks and agreed to potentially support an Airnian invasion. Longinus also hoped to discover the truth behind his sister’s wild claims that their mother was alive and a prisoner of the Empire.

For now, one thing was for sure—Airnia could teach Damsport a thing or two about the uses of fabrics, patterns, and colours. And as luck would have it, it wasn’t a conflict of interest for Longinus to play the eager pupil.

The fine establishment they found themselves in was a perfect example. The walls were upholstered in teal damask with a delicate repeating pattern woven into the fabric itself so that it was only visible when the light hit it in a certain way. Luxury without slipping into gaudiness.

Beneath the fabric, the walls were padded, so every corner was a soft curve, further softened by the perfectly diffused golden light. The walls were uninterrupted by windows, which was a blessing. The city of Bel Stadd might have been a hellish place of icy cold and horrid flat-grey light that filtered through the snow-laced winds, but one merely had to go to the tailor’s to escape to paradise.

And of course, the padding and lack of windows meant complete privacy—no sound or sight could be perceived from outside the room.

“I should have been born in a cold-weather country,” Longinus said, still moving the Cape in front of the mirror. “Heat limits the sartorial spectrum at one’s disposal.”

“Oh, alright, enough already,” Rory said. “Will you stop about the damned cape?”

“My dear girl, when steam power was invented, one did not stop talking about it. It revolutionised the way we live, just in the way that this Cape is going to revolutionise the way I live.”

“I’m not sure you can compare the marvel of technology that was the discovery of steam power to an item of clothing.” Cruikshank let a thick puff of smoke escape her mouth as she spoke. “Much as I think you look great—maybe consider a little realism in your statements.” She sat next to Adelma, and in spite of her stocky frame and thick musculature, she looked almost small next to the massive smuggler. The complex cog tattoo over her right arm was hidden beneath layers of warm clothing.

She and Adelma were dressed like simple Northern Airnian workers: thick, padded tunics fastened by leather straps down the left sides and belted at the waist, over boiled wool leggings tucked into sheepskin-lined boots.

“Could we maybe go back to our assigned roles?” Rafe suggested. “Rory, focus on behaving like the eccentric heiress you’re supposed to be. Longinus, go back to being her cousin. And Cruikshank and Adelma should really be leaving. Hired help aren’t supposed to sit and ogle their employers at the tailor’s while making sarcastic comments and smoking.”

“If it bothers you, Cruikshank can put out the cigar.” Adelma grinned.

Longinus picked a tiny bit of fluff from his Cape. “I’ll have you all know that I haven’t stepped out of my role as a wealthy Southern Airnian merchant,” he sniffed. “I’m displaying just the kind of enthusiasm a man from the Choma province would feel on arriving in the capital and finding an establishment ready to attend to all his stylistic needs. Choma is rather provincial—pun intended—so my alias would be thrilled to find himself in the cosmopolitan beating heart of the Empire.”

The Airnian Empire was the vastest in the world—so vast, in fact, that it encompassed numerous climates and ethnicities. The Choma province, part of the Southern District, bordered Damsport, and its people were ethnically identical to Damsians. Choma had the same hot and humid climate too.

“Come on, Adelma. Let’s leave them to it.” Cruikshank stood up, clamping her cigar between her teeth. She winced and shook out her right leg. “Ooh, my foot’s gone to sleep.”

Adelma stood. “That’s right. Some of us got proper work to do. No fannying around with clothes for us.”

Rory looked longingly at the two women. It was painfully obvious just how much she would rather go with them than stay at the tailor’s and get dresses made.

“We’ll see you at the tavern,” Cruikshank said.

“Don’t forget the all-clear signals,” Rafe said.

The two women headed for the door, leaving it ajar. “They're ready for you now,” Adelma called once they were outside.

A scratch against the door’s wood. “Are the gentlemen and the lady ready to continue?” the tailor asked, poking his head through the door.

“We are indeed,” Rafe replied imperiously.

The tailor bowed and clapped his hands, and a stream of seamstresses and various assistants followed him back into the huge fitting room.

Interesting. Earlier the tailor had been aloof. He’d left them to a couple of seamstresses, claiming to be too busy to attend to them himself. Now he eyed Rory and Rafe with greedy eyes.

That meant he’d gotten confirmation of the enormous line of credit they’d opened with Arvestia Bank under Rory’s alias’s name.

Good. That will start building our reputation nicely.

“Good to see you’ve finally found the time to tend to us,” Longinus sniffed. “I shall require a full team all to myself—I have many orders to place.”

“But of course. I do so apologise for the delay in tending to you. Now, about this cape…”

“The Cape requires no alteration.” Longinus shrugged it off in one theatrical movement, allowing it to drape over the arms of a seamstress. “This waistcoat, however, does. Look at this loose fabric, here.” He pinched the fabric to the side. “It’s as if you’ve only ever clothed men with potbellies.”

“I will rectify that at once.” The tailor smiled obsequiously. “You must be the envy of the town, with such a trim waist.”

“I appreciate flattery, but I draw the line at sycophancy.”

“Yes, quite. I didn’t mean… of course.” The tailor bent to work on the waistcoat.

Longinus had no trouble playing Darro Bogats, cousin to a millionaire, especially since he was required to clothe himself in keeping with his persona.

The trials and tribulations of spy work…

Rafe, likewise, had easily stepped into his cover identity. Cayden Stayre was a minor noble from the Choma province, and since Rafe’s family was one of the richest and oldest in Damsport, he had grown up in a world very similar to that of minor Airnian aristocracy.

Rory, however, had a little more trouble. Her alias was Samara Bogats, her father being the millionaire Darro Bogats was a cousin to. Samara’s father had made millions in the trade, specifically in the export of tropical fruits. He was real, as was his daughter, but she was a recluse who hadn’t left her home in years and who had never been to the capital.

The perfect person for Rory to impersonate. Her supposed wealth would make people forgiving of her lack of refinement or manners, following the principle that eccentricity was most easily forgiven for those who were very young, very old, or very wealthy.

Not only that but, as anyone with old money could testify, nothing was more crass than new money. And no one did crass as well as Rory.

Cayden Stayre was also real but had died in infancy. The Airnian Empire was lousy with minor nobility, many of whom lived in complete obscurity, so there was no danger of anyone in the capital knowing of the real Cayden, not without a lengthy search through the Southern Province archives.

Cayden and Samara were supposedly following the time-honoured tradition of matches seeking to bring money and titles together: they were engaged, and the official reason for their trip was to look into a new business opportunity that Cayden had supposedly put together.

Darro was a complete fabrication, but some kind of supervising family member would be expected on such a venture, and given that Longinus was somewhere around ten years older than Rory, he could realistically pass as her cousin.

“Ow,” Rory protested. “Watch what you’re doing!” She glared at the girl pinning the calico. “Last I checked, I didn't come here to be turned into a human pincushion.” The tone was perfect, but she ruined the moment by allowing guilt to skitter across her features.

Longinus gave her a quick warning glance. Passing for nobility was easy—all one needed was enough money and to be either exquisitely polite or so rude it bordered on abusive. Teaching Rory manners would have been as efficient as teaching a cat to juggle, but she still had to practice not looking guilty when she abused the staff.

“I do beg your pardon.” The tailor hurried to Rory’s side. He hissed something at the assistant, slapping her hand away. He looked up at Rory with a bright smile plastered on his face. “I do apologise, Miss Bogats. I will take over.”

“Well, hurry up about it,” Rory replied crossly. “I got better things to do with my time than stand around while you prod me with needles.”

CHAPTER 2

Cold didn't come close to expressing the feeling Rory experienced upon stepping out of the tailor’s. It was like being hit in the face with a barrel of frozen bricks, like syringes made of icicles being injected into her veins. The wind had ice on its breath, and it bit cruelly at any patch of exposed skin.

Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go. Their steam carriage was waiting in front of the door, and it boasted a very efficient heating system. The driver had kept the engine running, and the heat it generated was redirected to keep the carriage almost stiflingly hot. And right now, as far as Rory was concerned, stifling was better than frigid.

She opened the door and threw herself inside, sighing with relief as a cocoon of warm air enveloped her. Rafe and Longinus followed.

“How do them people stand to be outside, ever?” she muttered as she rubbed off the thin dusting of snow covering the shoulders of her coat.

“Drive on, my good man,” Longinus called into the speaking tube.

The carriage rattled forward. Just like the tailor's shop, it had no windows. Initially Rory had been disappointed at not being able to look out onto the city. But the wind whipped the falling snow into such a frenzy that it was impossible to see more than a couple yards ahead, and once you’d seen one snow-covered street, you’d seen them all.

She wasn’t interested comparing how rotten the snow was from one road to the next.

Rory reclined against the corner of the carriage, the padded and upholstered panels as comfortable as any cushion. The fabric muffled the howling of the wind, making the outside world seem distant.

“Stone the gulls, that took forever,” she said. “And being rude’s exhausting.”

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Longinus replied. “Just stop looking apologetic or guilty, and no one will question your cover.”

Rory snorted. “I mean really, having money’s just an excuse to act like a prime arse wipe.”

Rafe laughed. “Couldn't have put it better myself.”

Rory grinned at him.

Longinus looked to the skies and sighed. “And this is why we had to make your alias a commoner. It’s a good thing you have your gentlemanly, well-mannered, sophisticated, and generally amazing cousin to step in and attempt to improve you.” He put on a mock-delighted expression. “My, how fiction mirrors life.”

Rory raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that. Samara and I are quite happy as we are.”

“I guess it’s a good thing my alias likes headstrong women,” Rafe said with a wink that made Rory’s stomach tie itself into a little knot.

She was growing used to the feeling—it was actually kind of nice.

The carriage drew to a halt. “We have arrived, sir,” the driver said in the speaking tube.

Rafe glanced at Longinus and Rory. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Longinus opened the door and stepped out, letting in a swirl of snow-laced wind.

“Maybe I should…” Rory’s right hand anxiously flitted to her left, checking for the large emerald now hitched to her ring finger.

It was worth more than all the money she’d ever owned, and she couldn’t help but worry that someone would steal it.

“We’ve been over this,” Rafe said gently, taking her right hand in his and twining their fingers. “The ring will be safest on your finger. If anyone attacks you for it, I’ve got all my knives, and Longinus has his poisons.”

“Hey, I got a dagger, too, and a rapier,” Rory protested. “I‘m perfectly capable of defending myself.”

Rafe grinned. “Are you now?”

Rory grew genuinely annoyed. “What? You’re actually questioning—”

“Your ability to tell when I’m distracting you by winding you up? Yes.” Rafe’s grin widened.

He had an uncanny ability to mix mischief and genuine good nature into his smiles. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he decided to be charming.

“What if I’d taken proper offence?” she asked, trying and failing to stop smiling at him.

“Ah, it would have been worth it, given that your worries about the ring are clearly forgotten for now.”

“Are you two coming out of the carriage today?” Longinus called from outside. “The Cape isn’t going to stop me from turning into a human ice statue if this goes on much longer.”

Rory retreated within the depths of her enormous coat, like a turtle seeking refuge in its shell. Rafe climbed out of the carriage, still holding her right hand, tugging her along after him.

The wind whipped the fur of her hat and collar as she stepped out, their fine hairs fluttering against her face. She tucked both her gloved hands into her muff, which was a kind of furry tube.

Rory had never really cared about clothing before, but this she loved. It was warm and soft, and if she could, she would walk around in a full body muff, like a cocoon of fur against the cold and the wind.

“This way.” Even wrapped in layer after layer to keep warm, Rafe still looked and moved like an athlete, a reminder of the incredible fighter he was.

Longinus fell into step with him.

Rory followed awkwardly, her bulky coat constricting her movements. Flakes pattered her face, but they didn’t melt. She realised that most of what was falling wasn't snow but ash.

The wind must have changed. When it came from the west, it brought ashfall from all the enormous factories, steam engines, and other fires that burned everywhere in the western part of Bel Stadd.

Out in the street, carriages rumbled slowly past. Their wheels were thickly ridged, some even covered in chains to allow them to get good purchase. Only the poor walked, holding umbrellas for protection. Beyond, the Elva River was frozen solid.

Thick wafts of steam rose up like pillars from grates in the ground, the heat melting the snow but doing nothing to dispel the ash, so the grates seemed to be surrounded by a circle of thinner, greyer snow.

Rafe reached a tall brick building and threw open a small side door.

All three of them hurriedly stumbled into the warmth. A low thrum of voices drifted up a set of steep stairs. They climbed down.

Rory ran a hand against the brick wall. It was warm to the touch from the water or steam that was being pumped through it. Almost every building in Bel Stadd received this treatment in the winter—definitely not a luxury, given the outside temperatures.

The bar was deep in the basement, poorly lit, and choked with smoke. Beneath the smoke were the fusty smells of old grease and too much breath in noncirculating air. Patrons ate fried stuff served in stiff, greased-soaked paper cones. In spite of the unappetising smell of old oil, Rory found herself wanting something fatty and comforting after the cold.

Mugs of hot beverages on the tables let off curls of steam, but that was nothing next to the steam rising up from the coats of those who’d recently arrived, including Rory, Rafe, and Longinus.

Rory had been in Bel Stadd for a couple of days now, but she still couldn’t get used to how normal people seemed. She’d grown up, like most children in Damsport, on a steady diet of stories featuring Airnians as the bad guys. She’d never given much thought to the fact that all Airnians were depicted as stupid brutes, strong but idiotic bullies unable to get the better of smart, scrappy little Damsians.

She’d expected to find Bel Stadd full of people the size of Adelma, with very little going on between their ears.

But people in Bel Stadd weren’t massive nor, as far as Rory could see, particularly dense either. They were weirdly pale, obviously, and Rory still couldn’t get used to how ghostly everyone looked. Sickly white faces peeking out from under hats, hands like dead things, clutching mugs.

It gave her the odd feeling of having stepped into a room full of the undead.

The tavern was also popular with Southern migrants, their reassuring nut-brown faces dotted around the room. Among them, Rory spotted Cruikshank. She sat alone, hunched over a drink. With her clothing, she looked like any of the other migrants who came to the capital for work, and no one paid attention to her.

“We’re going to the back of the room, right?” Rory muttered to Rafe and Longinus. Longinus nodded, also not looking at Cruikshank.

Cruikshank made the agreed signal for the all clear as they walked past, and Rory touched her ear in response. She scanned the crowd, trying to spot Adelma. The ceiling was supported by brick arches and was very low, so Adelma would have to duck if she were standing. She and Cruikshank had been here since leaving the tailor’s to stake out the place and observe the contact as he arrived.

After the troubles they’d had in Azyr, they were being careful. The contact, a man named Barian, was little more than a man for hire, a source of local information for anyone with enough money. He was one of those impoverished minor nobles with no skills and no way of earning a living other than by selling information, contacts, and gossip.

He knew only their cover identities, and he’d selected this tavern as a discrete spot where, according to him, no one who was anyone was likely to see them.

“There. I see him.” Rafe led the way.

They threaded their way through clusters of tables where men and women drank small glasses of thick, almost-viscous-but-clear alcohol alongside their hot drinks. Only two tables away from the contact, Adelma sat in conversation with an Airnian woman, and as the trio passed her, she also made the sign for the all clear.

Barian had grabbed a booth against the wall, and he nodded at them as they arrived. His hair was slicked back, his jaw clean-shaven. But although his coat must have once been fine, the fur trimming was tatty and moth-eaten.

“You have the money?”

Rory raised her eyebrows. “And hello to you too.”

Barian made a noise halfway between a cough and a snort. “You’re not here to make friends, and neither am I.”

Longinus pushed an envelope across the table. “This letter will get you your payment if you take it to the Arvestia Bank.”

Barian snatched the envelope and tore it open. His eyes took in the heavy seal of the bank, and he nodded. A draft from Arvestia Bank was better than gold in Bel Stadd. The bribe wasn’t that significant, all things considered, but apparently it would have been crass and almost insulting to pay Barian in actual coins.

Rory thought it was all a load of nonsense, but if it got them the information they wanted, then it was worth doing.

The note disappeared into the depths of Barian’s coat. “My thanks.”

“Now your part of the deal,” Rafe said.

“If you want to meet with Minister Voynia, you’ll have to find a way to get into court,” Barian said. “The quickest and best way to achieve that is to get one of the courtiers to arrange an introduction. Court has a complex structure, and you’re unlikely to meet someone who can introduce you to him directly. You’re all nobodies, so you’ll need to start at the lower end. That means finding someone to introduce you to a mid-tier courtier and, from there, finding suitable intermediaries until you reach the minister himself. Courtiers are growing quite particular about who they introduce, so your business proposition will need to be lucrative enough to interest someone with real influence. Introductions are an important source of income for courtiers.”

“Wait, courtiers are nobles, right?” Rory asked. “Ain’t they stuffed with money?”

“Wealth is a relative concept, and court is a complex and expensive game. Many courtiers ruin themselves by buying extravagant clothing, carriages, servants—anything to appear impressive in a bid to catch the attention of the person they’re hoping to align themselves with. The greatest prize is, of course, being noticed by the Emperor, something courtiers are willing to sink deep into debt for.”

Rory wondered if this was what had happened to Barian.

“Right,” Rafe said, “hence why they act as go-betweens, making introductions—I’m assuming in exchange for high fees or portions of the business deals discussed?”

“Exactly.” Barian produced a heavy green leather-bound book with gold lettering. “You’ll find everyone in court inside these pages, arranged according to hierarchy.”

“You said courtiers buy lots of fancy clothes to get noticed at court,” Rory said. “Can’t we just do something like that?”

Barian gave her a patronising look. “No.”

Rory shrugged. “Well, I don’t know. You just said—”

“It takes a lot more manoeuvring and cunning to get ahead than just clothes. But appearances are necessary—the Emperor and Empress like to be surrounded by beautiful people.”

“Do all courtiers live in the palace?” Longinus asked.

“Only the ones in high favour. They live in the palace because of their duties, which can start very early in the day. The rest have to come and go each day.”

“Duties?” Rafe asked.

“Yes. The Officer of the Wardrobe, the Lady of the Slippers, and so on.”

“Officer of the Wardrobe?” Rory asked incredulously.

“Yes. He’s in charge of bringing the Emperor’s clothes to him in the morning.” Barian shrugged. “That’s the kind of position courtiers spend their time and money fighting to secure. The ministers aren’t part of the aristocracy—they’re selected purely based on merit and experience.”

Rory nodded—that, at least, made sense. The courtiers, on the other hand, made as much sense as an odd breed of exotic bird.

“And how would we even go about approaching a courtier to get our first introduction?” Rafe asked.

“Those who don’t live at the palace tend to finish their evenings at the House of Bel. It’s an exclusive club in the city, where they go to blow off steam and drown their frustrations. It’s also where a lot of networking and deals happen. The House of Bel works on a similar principle as court, though—you need to be brought in by an existing member, and to become a member in your own right, you need to be endorsed by two existing members.”

“Wait, if they’re at court all day, where we can’t go,” Rory said, “and then at night they’re in the House of Bel, where we can’t go—how we supposed to get someone to invite us to the House of Bel in the first place? Or to court, for that matter?”

“Some of the members of the House aren’t courtiers,” Barian replied. “You’ll have to figure out how to approach one of them first, and then get into the House.”

“So we need an introduction to get an introduction to get an introduction,” Rory said, pretending to count on her fingers.

“Exactly. That is the world of court.” Barian downed his drink and stood up. “I wish you luck.”

CHAPTER 3

Cruikshank and Adelma entered the house that Rory, Rafe, and Longinus had rented under their aliases. It had taken a couple of days to find a suitable place and arrange all the paperwork—the large credit line at Arvestia Bank funded by the Old Girl helped move things along quickly.

The place was luxuriously furnished, in keeping with the wealthy background the three of them were supposed to have. Cruikshank couldn’t care less about gilded furniture, but the heated walls, robust insulation, and roaring fires were very appreciated. Especially when coming in from the icy cold of night.

Her big toe throbbed, a reminder of the injury she’d sustained in Azyr. Back in Damsport, she’d made herself a brace to help her walk without a limp, but it was too noticeable, and she wanted to blend in. Instead she made do with limping slightly, although the cold was making the joint ache more than usual.

“Servants are all gone for the day,” Longinus told her and Adelma as they walked in. “We’ve got full privacy.”

“Cor, I ain’t never been so grateful for a fire.” Adelma threw herself into a chair. “You trying to get burned alive or something?” she asked Rory.

Rory had moved her chair so close to the fireplace, she looked like she was trying to climb into it.

“I just miss feeling too hot,” Rory replied wistfully. “I miss sweating, you know? Not cold sweating like they got here. Just good old sweating from standing in the sweltering heat and humidity. And I miss having bare arms—all them clothes are so, so…” She stood up with a huff, hitching up her intricately bustled underskirt. She jerked it around this way and that and sat back down angrily. “I really don’t know how women here do it—I really don’t. How can you sit comfortably with all that stuff bunched up back there?”

“Adjusting to the new clothes, I see.” Cruikshank gave Rory a wink as she sidled over to the side table, where a selection of tobacco boxes had been thoughtfully laid out next to a number of pipes, rolling papers, and even a couple cigars.

She had to admit, much as Bel Stadd was the most inhospitable place outdoors, the people had a real knack for hospitality. And they were prodigious at counteracting the harshness of their climate. The walls of the sitting room were entirely panelled with wood that was varnished in warm tones, while the floor was covered by several beautifully patterned rugs. Thick velvet drapes hid the windows and the outside world from sight, and all the soft fabric gave a muted quality to sounds, underscored by the fire’s merry crackling. Even the smoke was pleasant—regular logs were mixed with chunks of fragrant woods that released scented smoke.

Cruikshank sighed contentedly as she sank into a chair next to the table with the smoking paraphernalia. If not for the fact that the Airnian Emperor was currently plotting to invade Damsport, she wouldn’t have been averse to Bel Stadd at all. In fact, the cold weather had to be ideal for machinists—roaring hot furnaces would make the temperature of a workshop pleasant rather than the sweltering inferno of her own place back home.

“Why can’t I be an eccentric heiress what dresses like a peasant?” Rory grumbled.

“That would just take it too far,” Longinus replied. “Besides, the whole point is to infiltrate. You heard what Barian said about appearances. No courtier will want to introduce you if you look like a factory worker.”

Rory grunted and fussed with her bustle some more.

“Grunting is seldom heard from ladies of means,” Longinus added, raising a finger. “The ability to sit down with a modicum of grace is also expected.”

“You try sitting in one of these damn things,” Rory snapped. She squirmed in her seat.

“Ready to see if you can last a whole minute without standing up this time?” Rafe asked, looking highly amused, his eyes glued to the mahogany-encased clock against the wall. The large brass pendulum measured out the seconds.

“I get that this is highly entertaining for you all,” Rory replied, “but last I checked, none of you gotta get tortured for this bloody mission. I got the worst role here, and no mistake. Damned things are so bloody uncomfortable.”

“Think of the bustle as a kind of engineering,” Cruikshank said. “You need a large and stable foundation to better enhance the slenderness and fragility of the waist, I suppose.” She picked up an enamelled box and lifted the lid, taking a sniff of the tobacco. “Hmmm… maybe I could be persuaded to convert to the pipe while we’re staying here.”

“Fragile, fragile,” Rory grumbled. “Why the hell would anyone want to look fragile? That's what I want to know. And anyway, it ain’t a bustle what I’ve got on. It’s a flat crinoline cage with an attached bustle, so there.” She paused. “No, wait, that one’s the crinolette… or maybe the half hoop… dammit, I already forgot what I’ve got on. A great load of nonsense.”

Cruikshank stuffed a pipe and lit it. “See? Yet another advantage to being a machinist. Trousers.” She sucked on the pipe a few times, releasing thick clouds of smoke from the side of her mouth. “This isn’t bad, not bad at all.” She made a mental note of the name of the tobacco engraved on the box.

She and Adelma were dressed in the same way as the men in Bel Stadd—as was the case with all female workers. The complicated contraptions—corsets, bustles, and all the other mysterious underthings Cruikshank was only vaguely aware of—were strictly kept for the women of the upper classes who didn’t do any manual labour.

“Same. It's pretty damn good being a sailor,” Adelma said, purposefully extending her trouser-clad legs. “Although I ain’t so sure about them padded tunics.”

She stood up and produced her axes. She made a series of frighteningly rapid and agile movements, chopping the air and swinging the axes around her in complicated figures. Adelma’s size made it easy to assume she would be slow and lumbering, but when she fought, she moved with incredible speed.

“Mind the furniture,” Longinus said.

“And the people,” Cruikshank added.

Adelma put the axes away and swung her arms around in large windmills. “Yeah, them tunics definitely reduce movement.”

Cruikshank had to admit it was odd seeing everyone looking so different. Gone were the fighting leathers, the bare arms, and in Longinus’s case, the thin, brightly coloured silk shirts. Instead they wore thick woollen trousers, fur-lined boots, and billowing sleeves allowing for a number of warm thermal layers beneath.

Rory huffed and stood up again. “The wires are digging into me,” she complained. “And my back hurts from having to sit up so straight. Can’t touch the back of the chair with all this rubbish in the way.”

“One minute and a half,” Rafe announced, laughing, apparently entirely unfazed by the glare Rory threw him.

She hitched up her bustle—or her crinoline. “The only advantage to this idiotic thing—the absolute only advantage—is that with so much space under there, I'll be able to carry a whole arsenal of weapons.” Rory grinned, lifting the skirt contraption up entirely and revealing leggings that bulged over the thick stockings she had on beneath. The skirt was a complicated setup of steel hoops and wires.

Cruikshank leaned forward, immediately interested now that she was looking at a structure made of flexible steel rods. Rory was right. There was a lot of room under there—Cruikshank’s mind began ticking away, working out how she could use that space to arm Rory to the teeth.

Rafe almost fell off his chair laughing. “How many stockings you got on under there?”

“Two, plus my leggings. There a problem? Bloody itchy they are too.” Rory let her underskirt drop and scratched her thigh.

“Ladies don’t tend to wear two pairs of woolly stockings. That’s why. You might want to try silk.”

“Them people as wear silk underthings are also dumb enough to wear all this—” Rory gestured at her underskirt. “Clearly they got as much sense as a whelk. If they want to freeze their underbits in silk, that’s their problem. I’m keeping myself warm, thank you very much. With wool stockings.”

“But you’ve practically climbed into the fireplace,” Adelma pointed out. “Ain’t you warm enough as it is?”

“I am warm enough,” Rory sniffed. “On account of wearing two pairs of wool stockings under my leggings.”

Longinus sighed. “All this fuss over a skirt. Imagine how bad it will be when she has to start wearing corsets.”

“No!” Rory jabbed an index finger in his direction. “I ain’t wearing no corset. My waist is already tiny. I don’t need to suffocate myself to make it any smaller.”

“Let’s leave Rory’s clothes for now,” Cruikshank said. “Although someone remind me later to look at how to alter that bustle or whatever it is. I reckon I could make something useful of it.”

Rory grinned. “Ooh, yes please. Make me shoot crossbow bolts out of my arse.”

Rafe snorted with laughter. “That’s quite the mental image.”

“Anyway, leaving the disturbing discussion of Rory’s rectal abilities, how did you both get on?” Longinus asked Cruikshank and Adelma.

“Nothing worrying to report,” Adelma said. “Neither of us saw no one coming before Barian or afterwards. He didn't talk to no one neither. We followed him back to his home address, but so far he looks clean.”

Cruikshank nodded her agreement. “We shouldn’t get complacent though.”

“Well, at least he was useful,” Longinus said. “Voynia is our best bet to find out which of our allies have pledged to support the Airnian Empire if they invade Damsport.”

“You know, I were thinking,” Rory said. “Maybe we don’t even need to get introduced to him. A little bit of tickling the locks might get us a long way.”

“Voynia’s the war minister,” Rafe pointed out. “He’s bound to have some security in place. And we’d still have to get into the palace.”

“At least for now we know where to start,” Longinus said. “We find who goes to this House of Bel, and we get ourselves invited.”

“We need to move fast,” Cruikshank said. “The sooner the Marchioness and Lady Martha can find out which of our allies has turned their cloaks, the sooner they can begin negotiations to solidify Damsport’s position again and avert any outright hostilities from the Empire. Tomorrow, Adelma and I are going to see what we can find out about weapons manufacturing. If we’re going to pretend to offer my gun as a business opportunity to Voynia, we need to know what the Empire is currently producing. And more importantly, we need to know whether Myran took my design back with her.”

Myran had had a prototype of Cruikshank’s design when she’d taken Longinus hostage. It had since been found on the coastline near where Myran had boarded a dinghy awaiting her.

It was, therefore, possible that Airnia didn’t have anything as effective as Cruikshank’s gun, and the hope was that Voynia would be very interested in Rory and Rafe’s offer to mass-produce it for him. The idea was that Cayden would be the driving force behind the operation, with Samara providing the initial funding, given her father’s fortune.

The plan was to get the information they needed before giving Voynia any detailed information about the gun. At least that was how Cruikshank hoped it would happen. She dreaded having to give away her blueprint, but if it came down to it, she might not have a choice.

Cruikshank pushed the concerns away. Over the last couple months, it had become clear that Airnia had also begun weaponising the liquid explosive, creating their own handheld weapons. Even if she didn’t give them her design, they would eventually create something similar on their own.

For now, she needed to find out exactly what Airnia was manufacturing so she could position her own weapon in a way that would be seen as different, or preferably better. Rory, Rafe, and Longinus should then be able to secure several meetings with the minister, giving them time enough to get the information they needed.

The information they would obtain was far more valuable than the weapons—even if every Damsian had a gun and could use it well, they still couldn’t defeat the enormous Airnian army. Damsport’s safety lay in its international treaties and alliances keeping the Airnian Empire at bay.

“What if they’ve already got something similar to your gun?” Rafe asked Cruikshank. “Or if Myran brought your design back with her?”

“I’ll falsify my blueprint to make it look like the gun can work in some more efficient way than what they have.”

“That won’t stand up to any check by a machinist,” Longinus pointed out.

“No, but we’re not actually in the business of selling my gun. We just need to buy you three enough time to find out the information we need.”

“We could also try to find their weapons stockpile,” Adelma said. “Destroy it.”

Rafe frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. They could manufacture more—we’d just be delaying the invasion, not stopping it. And we’d be taking big risks to destroy the stockpile.”

Adelma shrugged. “We destroy their factories.”

“The Empire has factories in other places than just Bel Stadd,” Longinus said.

“Yeah, well at least destroying the ones here would be a start.”

“What will protect Damsport the most is having our alliances secure,” Cruikshank said. “The focus has to be finding out which countries are still on our side and which ones are now in bed with Airnia. Then we have to trust the Marchioness and Lady Martha to strengthen our position once again.”

“Alliances didn’t protect my Tommy back in the Rookery,” Adelma growled. “It didn’t protect all the people there what died.”

Rafe didn’t meet her eye. “You’re right. The Varanguards should have seen to that.”

Rafe still carried guilt over the fact that Myran got the better of him, leaving him unconscious when the Old Girl’s Arms exploded.

“I ain’t having a go at you, foetus boy,” Adelma said. “You’re a good fighter, and you did your bit. But words are too vague. We need something more solid.” She made a fist.

“Things would have been a lot worse without our alliances,” Cruikshank replied. “They’re still the only thing stopping Airnia from invading.”

Adelma crossed her arms, looking mutinous.

“This isn’t up for debate, Adelma,” Cruikshank said curtly. “We have a mission. We work for—”

“You know damned well I don’t work for the Old Girl,” Adelma cut in.

“Oh, will you stop it with that already?” Cruikshank replied. “You can call yourself an independent contractor until you’re blue in the face—you still work for the Marchioness, same as the rest of us.”

“I came here to support a friend in his search for his mother,” Adelma said, gesturing at Longinus. “Don’t know that I agreed to no mission. I’m happy to help you all. I am. But—”

“Adelma, we could destroy all the factories and stockpiles in Bel Stadd, and the Empire would still be able to steamroll through Damsport,” Cruikshank said. “There is no scenario in which Damsport can stand up to the Empire in a confrontation. None.”

She was surprised when Adelma seemed to deflate. She hadn’t yet known the large smuggler to walk away from a confrontation.

Adelma poured herself a drink. “So we just do the pretty words and the treaties, and there’s no vengeance.” Her voice was subdued.

Vengeance? Cruikshank frowned. Radish. Adelma’s man had been killed during one of Airnia’s attempts at removing the Old Girl.

“We may also find something of interest in Longinus’s personal quest to find out about his mother and his sister,” Rafe said, making an obvious ploy to change the subject and lift the mood. “Given that Myran now works for the Emperor.”

Longinus nodded, but he looked far from confident. In fact, he almost looked a little scared. Cruikshank guessed that all this had seemed far less daunting back in the safety of Damsport.

“How ’bout you and me go visit the address Myran gave you?” Rory suggested. “I know you’ve been waiting until you’re ready, but it ain’t never gonna be easy. We could go late tonight. I mean, if you want me there—you know, in case you need someone to have a little chat with a lock…”

Longinus nodded distractedly, producing the note Myran had left at his and Rory's house back in Damsport. There was nothing on the note but an address in what was apparently a reasonably well-to-do part of the capital. He fingered the paper, turning it over and over.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want,” Rory said quickly. “But you know… sometimes it’s best to get these things out the way.”

Longinus swallowed. “Alright, yes. Yes, let's do that. Let's go take a look.”

Cruikshank glanced over at Adelma, who had refilled her glass, downed it again, and was now staring into it.

“And, hey,” Rafe said, coming to stand by Rory. “Look how long you managed to sit without fidgeting.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “A real lady in the making.”

Cruikshank smiled to herself, noticing how Rory both beamed and seemed awkward at having had an audience witness the display of affection.

CHAPTER 4

It was pitch-black by the time Longinus and Rory headed out. A fresh layer of snow hid the dirt, the rotten snow, the grey ash, and it crunched beneath their boots, crisp and sparkling in the moonlight. 

The city was turned into a world of muted greys and winking whites, icicles gleaming wetly from gutters overhead. The grates still let out their silent towers of steam, the only movement in the otherwise still night.

Longinus’s throat felt tight as he walked, and he kept having to unclench his teeth, not from the cold but from the tension. His stomach roiled with it. A part of him wanted to forget about the note and run back to the house, to the safety and comfort of the mission he shared with the others. Another part of him was simply dying to know what he would find—clues of his mother’s disappearance, an idea of why his sister now worked for the Empire? 

He turned down along the embankment of the Elva River, and Rory followed. She was so thickly covered with fur and layers that she didn’t so much walk as waddle. All that was visible was the tip of her nose—reddened from the cold—and the gleam of her unusual blue eyes under the fringe of her fur hat. 

Longinus had suggested several times before leaving that she should try to remove at least one layer, but she’d flat-out refused. 

“This is nice,” she whispered. “I’m almost sweating.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Don’t want to risk my fingers going cold, see—I need ‘em nimble to pick the lock when we get there.”

Longinus wouldn’t go as far as to say he enjoyed the cold, but he found the clean crispness of the air appealing compared to the hot, moist air of Damsport. Especially now that the ashfall had stopped. He rubbed his hands, finding a moment of fleeting joy at the sight of his fur-lined gloves. But the night’s mission was too heavy for him to be distracted by aesthetics for long—even a sartorial marvel like the Cape in black wasn’t enough to fully lift the tightness at his throat. 

The river embankment was empty of people, overlooked by tall, elegant apartment blocks. The silence sounded thick, as though the snow muffled the world.

The address Myran had left wasn’t far from the house they rented, so the walk wasn’t too taxing. Longinus hadn't wanted to use the carriage and have the driver know their destination.

They reached the apartment building on Myran’s note. As the research had indicated, it was a respectable place, the kind of lodging consistent with a well-to-do merchant. 

What would they find on the third floor, apartments C? Was it where Myran had lived, or someone else? Maybe his mother had been there. Myran had claimed that their mother was alive and a prisoner of the Airnian Emperor. Longinus didn’t yet know if there was any truth to this or if Myran had been trying to trick him into coming to Bel Stadd. 

Rory stepped up to stand close to the door. She was a gifted lockpick, but Cruikshank had taken things a step further, devising a clever device that Rory could use to create a kind of master key for a given lock. Rory worked quickly, the device making faint clicking noises.