Part 14 (2/2)

”d.a.m.nation! There's no light down here,” one of them snapped.

Nick stumbled but leapt, landing clear of the steps. He crouched in the moldy, damp silence, hoping for the best. The other guard stopped, fumbling in his clothes. Nick could just see them in the light from the door above-a pair of backlit shapes patting their pockets for matches. He took the opportunity to creep into deeper shadow.

Then the second guard-Nick's special friend-drew out a chemical lantern, shook it, and twisted the shutter open. A lurid green glow surrounded the two men.

”Ugh, smells foul down here,” said one. ”Like something died.”

”It's a crypt, you buffoon,” grumbled the other.

”Do you suppose there are rats?”

”Only if they like very old leftovers.”

Nick backed away, leaving them to b.u.mble about at the foot of the stairs. They inched forward, looking from side to side at the sarcophagi arranged in haphazard rows across the floor. There were vaulted arches here, too, but they were plain, the only ornament leering faces at the top of the pillars. It was clear from the tight shoulders and stiff walk of the guards that they didn't enjoy hunting through the graves. That was good. Jumpy men made mistakes.

Nick crouched behind a marble tomb, peering around the corner to watch his pursuers. As he had hoped, they were going deeper into the crypt, leaving the safety of the stairs behind. Nick looked around for weapons. There were plenty of stone swords and even a few real ones resting atop the graves, but nothing that looked like a match for a rifle. He was good with knives, but his pen knife was hardly up to the job. So instead Nick found a piece of fallen masonry the size of his fist. This was a back-to-basics moment. Then he rose and glided along the ancient marble floor, quiet as the dust.

He waited until they came to a narrow pa.s.sage, where one fell behind the other. Nick came up behind the shorter of the two men, clipping him behind the ear with the rock. He dropped like a sack of laundry. By the time the other one turned, Nick had vanished again.

From where he was crouching behind a pillar, he heard the low cursing of the guard. There was a note of fear in the mumbled words that Nick understood all too well. His own fingers were shaking, nerves wound to a screaming pitch of desperation. Nick clutched his weapon, the sharp edges digging into his fingers. He heard the awkward footfall as the guard stepped around his friend, and then hurried back toward the stairs-no doubt going for help.

Nick was up in a flash, and in three steps he was behind his foe. But this time the guard turned, drawing a pistol, not even bothering with the more awkward rifle. In half a second, the muzzle was in Nick's face. ”You'll need more than a rock, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

Nick let his eyes go wide with fear. At the same time, he planted a kick in the man's kneecap, just a little to the side to do maximum damage. The shock of it let Nick sweep the pistol aside and bash the man's temple, knocking him to the ground. The man fell against the edge of a sarcophagus, the force of it sending the weapon spinning away. Nick pounced on the man, grabbing his jacket and slamming him into the stone floor once, twice with all the ferocity of his pent-up fury.

The guard sagged, face slack. Nick's breath was coming in ragged gasps, each inhalation a tearing wheeze that was almost a sob. Slowly, painfully, he made himself let go before he reduced the man's skull to pulp.

Priorities. Nick grabbed the lantern, the pistol, and then searched both men for more weapons and ready cash. To his joy, he found a knife and almost a pound in coin between them. And then he stripped off the ridiculous robe and took the taller man's jacket. He ripped off the prison insignia and dropped it to the floor. Finally, he began hunting for a way out.

Nick found the tunnel to the ruined monastery almost at once, and bolted toward freedom.

September 27, 1889.

SOUTHBOUND TRAIN, GREEN LINE.

2:20 p.m. Friday.

NICK PRAYED THAT NO ONE WOULD NOTICE ONE MORE DIRTY, desperate stowaway hiding on the rusting boxcars. He had spent the night lying in wait for a southbound train, but now he was finally near his destination. He was by no means the only one who'd jumped aboard without paying, but he'd kept to himself. Guards wearing the green uniforms of Spicer Industries-the Green Queen's men-came through regularly, swinging batons like they were cricket bats. Two of the unwanted pa.s.sengers had been tossed to the rails.

Nick had crammed himself between the piles of crates of foodstuffs and the steel walls, smelling the vile mix of ash, grease, and the cloying scent of honey. Somewhere a container had broken, and the rail car was thick with flies. He was desperately hungry, but wouldn't risk giving himself away by breaking into the crates in search of dinner. After all, the trip wouldn't take more than half a day.

At least he had time to think-a good thing when one's life had been blown to pieces, and the retrieval of even one shard was bound to be a complex affair. But there were things he needed first-starting with a good place to hide. For that, London had no equal. He made his move when the train began to slow, making its way into Paddington Station at a rolling wheeze. Nick hit the ground, rolled, and vanished into the crowds. The first thing he wondered as he slipped through the familiar alleys was who among his a.s.sociates was still there, and whether or not they could be trusted. He'd been gone almost a year, and that was a long time in the game of survival.

Instinct told him to avoid any of his old haunts. The Saracen's Head tavern had already proven to be the target of the Gold King's spies, and any of the rooms he had rented had probably been taken over by others. After a moment's hesitation, he turned east, working his way toward Russell Square. There was a small handful of men he trusted enough to ask for help, but only one he knew who was even better at hiding than himself. Not even Nick knew the Schoolmaster's real name, but they'd shared risks in their short acquaintance. It was a mark of trust that the man had given Nick an address to use in case of emergency. Nick was reluctant to put himself in debt to the rebel, but if this wasn't an emergency, what was? And he had a delivery to make to the man anyway.

It was early afternoon, the sky a deep autumn blue. Nick stayed in the cool shadows, making himself invisible as he worked his way through the streets. A few yellow leaves crunched under his boots-a sound Nick had almost forgotten in the wasteland of the manufactory. But as beautiful as the natural world was, he found his gaze straying to the people pa.s.sing by-ordinary people chatting, laughing, and sitting in tea room windows eating platefuls of perfectly ordinary food. He'd almost forgotten all that, too. It was one thing to know that he'd lost a year of his life, quite another to feel it in the pit of his gut. The Scarlet King had sliced away a piece of him.

Before, he'd had a s.h.i.+p and crew. He'd had friends-Striker, Digby, and the others. He'd had his s.h.i.+p, and the deva who had taught him to use his power. And-after years of yearning-there had been Evelina. Against all odds, they had finally found a way to be together and then-then loss had burned him away until he was nothing but a husk of ash. He wanted her back-all of them, but especially her. Maybe after that, he would find himself again.

Fury curled inside, speeding his steps toward his destination. He knew the small rooming house was occupied by artists, which meant the rents were cheap and the landlady oblivious to the kind of visitors tramping up her stairs. A good thing, since Nick was too exhausted to scale the wall and climb through the window. In fact, he rather wanted someone to carry him the rest of the way. Not the mode for daring pirates, perhaps, but he'd had a long day.

He went through the tradesman's entrance and trudged up the back stairs to the second floor. The door he wanted stood slightly open, as if a servant hadn't quite pulled it tight. He pushed it open, wondering if the Schoolmaster even still lived there.

The sitting room that came into view was shabby, but bright and pleasant in a disorganized way. Papers, discarded clothes, and a guitar littered the sagging furniture. A huge, threadbare armchair faced the door, and in that chair sat the man Nick had come to see. He was tall and lean, about thirty, and he wore green-tinted eyegla.s.ses that all but hid a pair of shrewd blue eyes.

The Schoolmaster raised his eyes at the squeak of hinges, one hand reaching for the pistol half hidden in a stack of newspapers. Then he froze, his eyebrows lifting in almost comical surprise. ”Captain Niccolo? We all thought you were dead!”

Nick stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. A flash of his old pride brought a grin to his lips. ”They didn't call me the Indomitable Niccolo for nothing.”

The Schoolmaster's face crumpled into a grimace. ”Oh, come now, you've been saving that line. G.o.ds, man, you look awful.” And then he sprang to his feet, grasping Nick in a bear hug that nearly squashed the last breath from his body. The Schoolmaster laughed. ”It's good to have you back. Where have you been, you old dog?”

The greeting was so warm, so normal, Nick had a momentary urge to weep. After feeling like the dead watching the living all the way there, he was suddenly folded back into the human race. ”I've been in Manufactory Three.”

The Schoolmaster fell back, stunned. A sober silence rang like a bell through the room. Then he ran a hand through his sandy, curling hair, as if he didn't know what else to do or say. ”G.o.ds.”

”I made it out,” Nick offered.

Coming back to life, the Schoolmaster took Nick's arm, guiding him to a chair angled to the right of his own. Nick obeyed, although he wanted to point out that he needed rather more than a sit-down after months in the Scarlet King's h.e.l.l.

”No one has lived to tell a soul what goes on there,” said the Schoolmaster. ”Surely you know that. So how did you get out?” His look turned suspicious. ”How did you get out?”

Nick understood. The Schoolmaster, as a rebel, had placed a lot of trust in him by giving him this location. There was every chance Nick had bargained for freedom with the Schoolmaster's life. ”I swear on everything holy that no one knows I'm here. They didn't even know who I was in that pit of Hades.”

”Good.” But the Schoolmaster didn't relax.

”Give me a gla.s.s of brandy and I'll tell you everything.”

The man's lips quirked. ”I'll do better than that.”

He pulled open the door and yelled down the stairs at the top of his lungs. ”Mrs. Pennyfeather!”

There was a long pause, and then a shrill voice floated up from below. ”What is it, scamp?”

”Be a love and give us a bit of a spread, will you? Bread, cheese, and meat and maybe a bit of that steak-and-kidney pie? And a jug of ale?”

There was grumbling from the bottom of the stairs, but it concluded-after a bit more boyish wheedling-in a.s.sent. Nick listened to the exchange with his eyes closed, the soft cus.h.i.+ons of the chair urging him to sleep. Fatigue had him in its undertow, but he forced himself to rally as the Schoolmaster returned.

”Don't you have any guards?” Nick asked. ”I could have walked right in here and shot you dead.”

The Schoolmaster shrugged. ”That only makes me more conspicuous. I do my best hiding in plain sight. Besides,” he said with a smile, ”you mustn't forget there's Mrs. Pennyfeather. Now.” The Schoolmaster leaned on the arm of his chair, his chin in one hand. ”Do tell. You promised to give me everything.”

Nick pulled the device he'd taken from the fallen airman from beneath his coat. ”The reason I got away was because I was sent to retrieve this.”

He put the device on the small table that sat between their chairs. The Schoolmaster picked it up with obvious curiosity. ”Why you?”

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