Authors: Sharon Joss
Whatever Sir Magnus was planning, it would happen today, Roman was
certain. He made his way determinedly against the crowds, dodging in and out of
the traffic, all of which seemed to be heading south to see the air show. The
difference between the people on the street today and the usual traffic was
startling. The men wore their best suits—vest, tailcoats and bowlers;
while the women strolled by in groups or rode in landaus, in colorful fitted dresses,
clutching at their tiny hats ornamented with egret feathers or silk flowers. This
influx of laughing and ruddy-cheeked mainlanders was nothing like the drab and
mismatched work clothes of the Island’s residents.
Two roads controlled the island's only access to the mainland.
West Ferry Road on the west, which ran north through the somewhat more
prosperous town of Millwall up to Bridge Road which crossed to Limehouse, and
Manchester Road on the east, which linked Cubitt Town with the southern end of
Blackwall and crossed to the mainland via New Road.
The closest mainland station house was in Limehouse. If he could
get there, it would be easy enough to send a warning to the royal guard at
Buckingham Palace, and dispatch officers to the island to arrest Sir Magnus before
he could act. If the Queen’s escort was already on their way, he knew they would
take Bridge Road on the west as it was the most direct route to the airfield.
If he kept to the road, he would be assured of intercepting the royal party on
the way.
But working his way against the mob, it took him more than an hour
to cover the stretch of West Ferry Road, in part, because he was being careful
not to attract the eye of any constables on duty. Oddly, there were none on the
road.
They were all stationed at the Bridge Road crossing.
Six uniformed
constables, three on each side of the bridge, were stopping anyone trying to
leave
the island. The only man he
recognized from the station house was PC Wallace; the others were presumably
district men, brought in from Poplar or perhaps even Limehouse for the day.
They were searching all departing wagons and carts. Anyone crossing
onto
the island was completely ignored.
With the exception of Wallace, the policemen all carried a
picture, which they were holding up against each person’s face. Why? Who are
they looking for?
His stomach churned as the realization hit him.
They’re looking for me.
Roman ducked into a doorway to watch unobserved. His suspicions
were confirmed as he noticed they were only looking at the men. Certainly
Wallace knew him, so whatever it was had to be plausible to someone who knew
him. Would they stop him from leaving the island?
Likely. Arrest him, probably. Even if the charges were disproved,
no hearing would be scheduled until after the airshow. And who knew how far Sir
Magnus’s reach extended?
Roman fought against a rising panic. His mind raced. He felt
himself lapsing into the grip of battle fatigue, such as he’d experienced in
the war. Chilled to the bone, without proper sleep or food, the situation
threatened to overwhelm him.
Got to warn the Queen, got
to warn the Queen, got to warn the Queen!
The words tumbled over and over in his head,
shouting down every other thought. He understood he was not thinking rationally,
but he also knew that he could not cross to the mainland here. They would stop
him. His only choice was to go around and cross on the other side of the
island. Perhaps that crossing was clear.
He turned south. This time, he merged with the flow of the
traffic, and found the way easier, until he reached the airfields and once
again battled against the tide.
He reached the New Road crossing in Blackwall at mid-morning. By
this time his clothes were dry and he’d stopped shivering. Overhead, blue skies
held the promise of a better day. But as he neared the bridge, his optimism
quailed at the sight of six more uniformed constables on the road.
Roman slipped into an alley beside a boarded –up bakery,
where he could watch them without being seen. None of the man were from Cubitt
Town, but one he recognized as PC Clark, from Poplar station. Lud Clark had had
grown up on the island; his family still lived here. Clark would recognize him
instantly. There was no way around, and no way to pass without being stopped.
He could send a messenger, but no mudlark would be believed by the
Queen’s guard. It would have to be someone he could trust. Someone who wasn’t
already on his way to the airfield. His lips pressed into a thin line as he
considered his options.
There was only
one, really.
He moved into the stream of traffic heading south and allowed it to
carry him away from the crossing.
A block later, he
stepped off the street and ducked into the open doors of a squat, black-painted
brick pub.
The Iron Arms smelled of pipe smoke, stale beer and pickled eggs—and
brought back childhood memories of his home upstairs. Bright sunshine poured
through the front window, illuminating a graveyard of empty tables and chairs.
Nary a soul to be seen—until he caught sight of a lone figure behind the
bar.
“Hello, Padraig,” Roman
said, without warmth. His father’s bleary-eyed expression looked every bit as
cold as it had d the last time they’d spoken, some two years earlier. The
ravages of alcohol had taken its physical toll on the old man, but the force of
Padraig Greenslade’s glare had not lessened one bit.
“What’re
ye
doing here?” His father’s sharp gaze
flicked to Henry, but didn’t soften.
Roman had been born in the apartment upstairs. He’d grown up
listening to the songs of drunks, the clink of glasses, and the sounds of beer
barrels rolling across the wooden planks below. Even now, the smell of beer
made him homesick for a time and a father who no longer existed.
Long before the Metropolitan Police had ever existed, the Bow
Street Horse Patrol horse patrol kept the worst of the violent crime in
London’s East End in check. Padraig had been one of them once. The best and
last of them. He’d retired from the Patrol the day the Metropolitan Police took
it over, saying that Robert Peel’s idea of a London police bureau would benefit
no one but the criminals. And Padraig had never forgiven his only son for becoming
one of them.
Now that he was here, Roman was even less certain that asking
Padraig for help was anything but a bad idea. Even before the drink took hold
of him, his father had been the most contrary person he’d ever known. As likely
to go off on a rant or a binge as to do what was needed.
And what if no one believed him? The old man had been a drunk a
lot longer than he ever was a policeman.
But
there’s no one else
.
Roman put his hands on the bar and leaned his foot on the brass
rail beneath. “There’s a new wraith out on the marsh below the Ferry Road.”
The old man’s chin jutted forward. “Death by hangin’ or magick is
the only way to make a wraith, boy.”
“They don’t hang men anymore.”
“How do ye know? Lots a pirates still on the river.”
“He was a policeman.” Roman pulled the handkerchief out of his
pocket and unrolled it until the broken tooth pried from Stackpoole’s truncheon
lay on the top of the bar.” He picked it up gingerly, holding the fang between his
thumb and forefinger. The taint was fading but still there. “A friend.”
The old man started to reach for it, but fumbled for his pipe
instead. His hands trembled as he relit it—Roman made no move to help
him. As a boy, he used to beg to light his father’s pipe for him, but those
days would never come again. Two years and the old flint was as hard as he’d
ever been.
“What do ye want?”
“I’m in trouble, Da. I need your help.”
The sharp eyes narrowed. Padraig jerked his head toward the keg
room. “Come on back.”
Roman rolled the tooth back into his handkerchief and followed his
father past the lav, through the bottle room, down the hall to the very back of
the building.
The low-ceilinged keg room had been rearranged since the last time
he’d seen it. Only a few barrels squatted in the furthest corner, while
opposite, the coils of a radiator took the chill out of the room. The air held
the sour tang of old vomit and sweat.
He
must be living down here now.
On one side of the radiator, a cot had been
set up with a couple of old army blankets and a filthy grey pillow. On the
other side, Lizzy, the old man’s beloved bull terrier, lay in taxidermied
splendor on the same faded blue rug where she’d been for the last thirty years.
Henry crept across the
room for a careful sniff at the stuffed form. After confirming she wasn’t real,
he curled up beside Padraig’s chair. The old man reached down and scratched him
behind the ears. The dog’s eyes closed contentedly. Other than their mutual
love for dogs and horses, he and Padraig had little in common any more. It was
Padraig who’d urged him to join the cavalry, as soon as he was of age.
The old man picked up a near-empty bottle of rye whisky from the
floor near the bed and settled himself onto a battered captain’s chair near the
heat. He twisted the cork out of the top and took a long swig. “Well? Let’s
have it, then.”
There was another stool near the stove, but Roman paced the room
as he spoke. He told Padraig about the missing sailors from the Valkyrie, the
missing French navigator, and the blood spatters. Then he told him about Owain
Stackpoole, and how the young constable had disappeared, and how when he’d gone
looking for him, he’d found the man’s truncheon out on the marsh with the
tainted tooth embedded, deep into the hard wood. Then he told him about Welsie
and the Hamm thing, and how it had very nearly drowned him, including the part
where Simon Atters had driven it off.
And
saved my life
.
Padraig listened and puffed away without comment. His hopes of
getting his father’s help began to rise. But when Roman told him about the
scene at Superintendent Wicke’s house and Sir Magnus, a familiar redness rose
in the old man’s cheeks. By the time he got to the men waiting for him at the station
house and at the Blackwall bridge, the old man began to curse.
Padraig took another long swallow from the bottle. “A course
they’re lookin’ for ye. That London Met gang is nothin’ but a gang of crooks
and mobbers. And don’t even get me started--.”
He felt his own fury rise at Padraig’s senseless hatred for the
London Police. “Stop it. You’ve made no bones about what you think of me
joining up with them, but I’ll not have you going off one of your tirades about
what happened back in the day. Just shut your trap for a minute and listen to
me this time! It’s Magnus Vetch, Da. He’s the one responsible for all of this.”
“Vetch? What’s he got to do with anything?”
Roman snatched the bottle from his father’s hand and drained the
last of it. It burned going down, but he welcomed it. For the first time in his
life, he met his father’s stony stare with one of his own.
“He’s the reason I quit the army. I just didn’t know it at the
time.”
Roman wiped his mouth, wishing there had been more left in the bottle.
“I never told you why I couldn’t re-enlist after the war. To be honest, I
wasn’t sure myself until recently. Only the General, myself, and Sir Magnus
Vetch are still alive to tell the tale.”
“Hold up a minute.” Padraig got up and left the room, and Roman
heard him slide the bolt on the front doors of the pub. When his father came
back, he had a fresh bottle of rye and a pair of glass tumblers. Without a
word, Padraig poured a splash of the golden liquid into a glass for Roman, and
filled the other one nearly full for himself. “Never understood why ye wouldn’t
even tell yer old man.”
“I couldn’t. Thinking about it made me physically ill. I never told
anyone.” Roman drained the glass. “I put it out of my mind. Or maybe he did
something to me—something that made me forget. It wasn’t until last night
that I remembered what happened at Balaclava.”
“We’d lost badly, that day, and the light brigade was
hardest hit. Everyone was upset because we shouldn’t have lost, but the orders
got bollixed up. We lost more than a hundred men, including Archie Tompkins.
Some said we’d lost the war to the Russians that day, and it wasn’t fair,
because we’ve followed orders but the commanding officers were to blame. There
was talk of having them brought up on charges of incompetence.
“
It was after
dark. I’d just finished tending my horse and was in the morgue tent, paying my
last respects to Arch, when the two of them came in. It was General Somerset
and the Royal Wizard, Sir Magnus Vetch. I tried to excuse myself, but General
Somerset commandeered me and three others for duty, saying we would do for what
they needed done.
“At
the General’s order, Sir Magnus did something. I didn’t see what or how he was
doing it, but the air grew heavy, and I felt the maddening itch of magick crawl
across my skin. I was standing right next to Archie’s body, and when he opened
his eyes and grinned, I jumped a foot. I knew immediately that he hadn’t come
back to life. There was a film over his eyes, and he looked right through me
like I wasn’t even there. The thing that moved beneath his skin wasn’t human.
“As
he lay there, I swear his body began to swell. He sat up and pulled his shirt
off—just ripped it off his back. I remember the sound one of the buttons
made as it hit one of the metal washtubs. His boots had already been removed,
but he ripped off his trousers as well, until he was standing there, naked. By
this time, he stood nearly half again as tall as me. His face had
changed—he wasn’t human anymore. There was nothing left of the Archie I knew
at all.
“They
were all like that. All of them, growing huge as they ripped their clothes and
shrouds off. The stink of blood and death and magick filled the tent until I
nearly choked on it. This was wrong.
“I
wanted to say something. To shut my eyes against it and look away, but I
couldn’t. The General would not let Sir Magnus stop, and he would not dismiss
us.
“‘Stand fast, soldiers,’ the General
ordered. ‘Sir Magnus will save countless lives and bring an early end to the
war.’
“But
it wasn’t right. What Vetch had turned Arch and the rest of those men
into—it was unnatural. Awful in a way I could never have imagined. I
heard the General give the order to Sir Magnus myself, and by now, the wizard
was in the grip of something uncanny. His hair stood on end. I could feel the
greasy power radiating off him.
“I
could not bear it. ‘This is sacrilege, Sir,’ I said. I couldn’t stand being
there. ‘I beg you, General; allow our dead to lie in peace--.’
“‘Shut
up Lieutenant,’ he said. His expression hard. ‘One more word and I’ll have you
horsewhipped.’
“But
then he stepped up to me and spoke just loud enough for me to hear, ‘If
anything goes wrong, shoot the wizard first’.
“On
some unseen signal, the men began to stumble forward, and without a word, they
went out into the night.
“The
four of us soldiers were ordered to accompany them. Sir Magnus called them
Draug. Animated with earth magick, they obeyed only the wizard’s silent
commands. With the General and Sir Magnus leading, we followed on horseback,
keeping back, so the horses wouldn’t spook.
“Halfway
across the field, Sir Magnus reined up his horse and turned to General
Somerset. ‘I can stop them now, General, if you’ve changed your mind. We
proceed by your order.’
“The
half-moon was well up; and Sir Magnus looked every bit as inhuman as the draugs
we were following. His skin gleamed with sweat. He wore the grimace of a
madman—as if he were not their master, but instead one of the possessed.
“‘And
so you have it, Vetch,’ the General answered. ‘Send in the dead.’ The draugs moved
fast. They crossed the bloodied field of the day’s battle, and up the hill to
the Russians encampment in less than an hour.
“No
word was spoken, but as one, the draugs ran up to the crest of the causeway. A
lone sentry cried out, and the Russians opened fire. Ahead of us, we saw
several of the hulking draugs fall, but they did not stay down.
“Believe
me when I tell you, Da--bullets do not stop the dead. They do not even bleed.
Not even cannon fire could slow their forward progress. It was a horrifying sight—like
something from a nightmare.”
Roman
considered his empty glass, then resolutely turned it upside down on the barrel
head.
“By
the time we reached the camp at top of the causeway, the Russians were all
dead. The draugs had torn them apart with their bare hands. The flickering
light of the campfires showed the draugs eating the final remains of the
Russians.
“I
unslung my rifle, unable to stand the sight. Even General Somerset finally
seemed to come to his senses. He demanded that Sir Magnus stop them
immediately, but the wizard seemed to be in some sort of trance, and ignored
him.
“The
General pulled drew his pistol and held it to the wizard’s head. ‘Stop what
you’re doing this instant or I shall shoot you where you stand!’
“Only
then did Sir Magnus seem to hear him. With visible effort, he pulled back his
magick and the d
raugs all fell to the ground
as misshapen, lifeless
corpses. ‘I did warn you,’ he said. ‘You have no
call to threaten me.’
“General
Somerset ordered me to take the wizard into custody. ‘Show him every courtesy,
Lieutenant, but to not allow him to speak to anyone, or leave his tent. You
will say nothing to anyone about this, Greenslade. If I ever hear even one word
of what happened here, I will have you hung for treason, do you understand?’
“I
was so glad that Somerset had finally come to his senses, I never did tell
anyone. Not even Welsie when she asked what happened to her brother. The other
three soldiers piled up the corpses into the wagons and burned them. One of the
men on that detail hung himself two nights later. I heard another shot himself
just after I left for England.”
Roman
stared at the half-empty bottle. “They sent me home as Sir Magnus’s escort,
along with a sealed letter from the General for the Queen. Sir Magnus was never
arrested, but he never returned to court.”
Padraig’s
eyes gleamed with understanding. “So
that’s
why they
pensioned him to the old Mellish estate. Albert never did like the idea of a
Royal Wizard anyway. Short of banishing ‘im, sending him here was probably the
best way of keeping him at a distance. But I still don’t ken why ye quit.”
“My best friend died twice that day, Da.
I couldn’t go back. My heart wasn’t in it anymore.” He crossed the room and
stood with his back to the warm black stove. “We lost so many that day. How
could I face the rest of my regiment, knowing how badly our brave dead had been
disabused, and unable to say a word?”
His
father’s expression softened. “If it was as bad as ye say, how could ye stand
knowing he was livin’ here, right under your nose?”
Roman
pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t know,” his voice broke. “I didn’t
remember any of this until last night, when I saw what was left of Hamm Foine.
Then, when I saw Sir Magnus at Wickes’ house last night, I remembered all of
it. I remembered Vetch telling me that night in Balaclava—that it was all
a dream, and that in the morning, I wouldn’t remember it, and that it would
fade completely from my mind. He did something to me that night, I’m sure of
it.” Roman shivered. “I remember the crawling feeling of his voice along my
skin. He used magick to make me forget. I’m sure of it.”
Padraig
gave a wordless nod, which Roman took as a good sign. “They’re looking for me.
It’s got something to do with the air show and they don’t want me to raise the
alarm. They won’t let me leave the Island.”
Padraig
squinted at him through a haze of pipe smoke. “What about this Atters fellow?
That ship of ‘is, eh? Maybe he could fly ye up to the palace, then?”
Roman
snorted. “It’s not his ship. He’s no pilot. He’s nothing but a thief and wanker
who toys with the affections of women.”
Padraig raised a bushy eyebrow. “Is he now? Are you referring to
any woman in particular?”
Embarrassed, Roman
patted his pockets, searching for the telegram.
Drat. Welsie must’ve taken it
. “The police in Brussels are looking
for him. He’s a fire wizard. He’s got Welsie and the rest of them well fooled,
but not me.” Although the tingle of Atters’ green flames paled compared to the
stain he felt around Sir Magnus.
Padraig erupted in something that was halfway between a laugh and
a cough. “Forget her, son. You lost your chance wi’ that lass years ago. Give
‘er up.”
He stiffened. An old jibe, but one that still stung, and Padraig
knew it. “I think Sir Magnus is going to try something at the air show. We’ve
got to stop him, Da. Will you help me?”
Padraig had gone pale. Paler than Roman had ever seen his father.
He’s old. Sick. Maybe he’s not up to this.
But
there’s no one else…
“Someone’s got to warn
the palace and I don’t know who else I can trust. Will you go? You’ll have to
do a bit of persuading, I think. Convince them that the threat is real; that
she’s in danger. Don’t let them bring her here.”
His father stood up. “Aye, for what it’s worth, I will. What are
ye goin’ to do, son?”
“I’m going over to the air show. Whatever he’s got planned, I’ve
got to find a way to stop it.”