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Not sure this should be here, as it isn't really about the Ripper, although one major villain has Ripper-influenced tendencies. So, I will try posting it here for any and all criticism or feedback, and if it is considered too tangental for the forum I will happily delete it.
Oh and it is set in a fantasised London, so I have had to take some liberties with geography and history to fit the fantasy elements, so I appologise in advance.
Ghosts At War.
One.
The man who now called himself Alex Cohen climbed from the carriage of the train and into the unseasonably cold night. The locomotive at the front of the train vented smoke and steam across the platform with a mournful sigh like the song of a whale. Alex adjusted his scarf, lifting it over his sharp nose and his slender cheeks. He rolled his new name around his tongue. It was unfamiliar and dangerous. He found himself sharpening the wrong vowels, and inflecting at the wrong moments. He would have to shave away at the words, soften his accent until it was as anonymous as his new name. It would be European but not tied to any one state or city.
He dug his hands into the deep pockets of his thick grey coat, a bare defence against the bitter cold that was painting the window frames with a thin leaf of silver. Two men in suites of a quality that was just a little too expensive to be comfortable in this part of the city were pacing nervously in tight circles beneath the station clock. The taller of the two, Jones, was a policemen dragged up from the depths of the gutter and forced into wealth beyond his means. The pristine clothes hung from his bulky frame with an uncomfortable weight, failing to conceal his compact muscles and broad shoulders. Their respectability destroyed by the disjointed nose and heavy scars that defined his face. As far as Alex was concerned his new friends were lucky that Jones had mastered the opposable thumb and shoe laces.
Roman, the second man was far more at home in his clothes. He was clearly a man of independent wealth and daringly old fashioned facial hair. He had a body that had once been athletic but had gone fallow when he left the forces and indulged in a profession. He was sagging in the places that anybody who worked for a living could not afford to sag, and his face was insulated by a mass of whiskers, silver flecked with rust red. “Cohen.” He said, by way of greeting.
“Friends.” Cohen replied.
“Your journey was comfortable?” Roman asked, gesturing towards a carriage. “Would you like to take a coffee or tea before we-”
“I would very much like to see the accommodation you have secured.” Cohen said evenly. “My Master has given me a list of preparations that must be completed before his arrival.”
“Indeed?” Roman asked, snorting back a laugh. “On top of the stipulations he gave us for his new home?”
“Delicate matters he entrusts to nobody else.” Alex explained. “He also has an amendment to make to his salary.” Alex reached under his jacket and handed Jones an envelope of ancient velum sealed with a thick wax seal decorated in a swirling pattern of interlocking thorns.
Jones opened the envelope and unfolded a sheet of fine velum. He traced a finger slowly across the fine scratches of writing as he read the document. His eyes bulged in surprise and he handed the letter to Roman, who read it three times in short succession, refusing to allow the demands sink in. “This is unorthodox.” Roman concluded.
“He is an unorthodox man.” Cohen shrugged. “He is also going to be a valuable asset in the coming war. If you are unwilling to pay the price he will offer his services to your enemies.”
“Even they would not be so inhumane.” Roman scowled. “They are my enemies, but they are misguided not evil.”
“Is that a risk you are willing to take?” Cohen raised a thin eyebrow. “Or perhaps you are willing to pay the price to ensure my Master takes no sides. To guarantee his neutrality so to speak.”
“I can not authorise this.” Roman whispered. “I will discuss it with my superiors.” He folded the velum and placed it in his pocket. “I will let you know what they say.”
“At dusk tomorrow his price rises. And again each dusk until you agree.” Cohen said simply.
“Monster.” Roman growled.
“It is what you require.” Cohen said simply. “A monster. A weapon. Yes?”
Jones answered him with a deep seething glare of barely constrained rage.
*
The carriage rode through the city streets, clattering across cobble stones and paving slabs. They were headed south east. Despite the night having crossed the threshold of midnight, and begun its decent into the coldest, darkest hours where it was no longer very late, but instead very early, there were still figures shuffling through the streets. Women, wrapped in layers of rags to insulate themselves from the cold, workers shuffling between shifts at the warehouses and the docks and the factories, their bodies catching the shadows an giving them the haunted appearance of the shambling dead. Alex believed he had seen cities before, that he had walked through slums and stood in the shadows of cathedrals and palaces. But nothing prepared him for London, for the streets that had become so cramped in the rigid structure of the streets that it had begun to expand upwards, clawing for air as buildings grew taller and taller. He was amazed to see huddles of men and women apparently tied to a wall, before he realised the string was holding them up as they slept. They had paid for this unusual torture as they had nowhere else to go. London was stocked beyond capacity and the “standing room only” sign was being ignored.
They entered a district of working buildings, store fronts and market places. Early in his life Cohen had lived in another city in another country. He had been young and uneducated, not that it had mattered. As he had been ushered towards a workhouse, to be apprenticed in one of the vast halls of sweating, heaving, deafening seas of menial workers. He was dealt from the queue of immigrants as a card is dealt from the deck, and told he was to be a tailor. That was how it was done, the man in charge marching down the line putting a hand in turn on each shoulder saying; “Tailor, leather worker, jointer. Tailor, leather worker, jointer.” As he decided their fate with a mumble. In his young mind Alex had imagined himself in an exclusive shop being taught the secrets of the trade by a world class master. Instead he was in a workshop, one of a production line of men, manning a cumbersome sewing machine powered by peddles that had to be pumped furiously as he drove the fabric under a deadly needle, a skill he was taught through repetition and a cane rapped across his knuckles for mistakes. In London the process was the same, the stench was the same, the despair was the same, but only the scale had been multiplied many fold.
At last the carriage ground to a halt outside one of the many yards scattered through the district. The coachman climbed down to haul open the heavy wooden gates at the centre of the high brick wall that was crowned with iron spikes. With in the yard was cobbled, with a small water pump and trough in once corner, and a tall, square building in the centre, with windows that were barred by steel, and doors heavily reinforced and fortified, the front door alone carried three locks.
“My master asked for a fortress and barracks.” Alex said, studying the building. It may once have been a work house or store house, but it had never been a military development.
“And he has one.” Roman promised. “Secrecy is a defence. This building also has access to the sewer system, as he requested.”
“I will study the building.” Alex intoned, clearly unimpressed. “Perhaps it is as you say. A lion dressed as a lamb?”
“A barracks dressed as a warehouse.” Roman promised. “everything you requested is in that building.” He thumped the walls with his fist. “Far more solid than any old castle or abandoned mental institution. The shell of this building has been hollowed out and rebuilt from the inside to match any modern prison or fort.”
“I will inspect it.”Alex repeated. “And we will take it only if meets our requirements. As I mentioned, I have preparations to make to the building.” He chewed his lip. “You may leave. If I need anything I will discuss it with your superiors.”
“Will you now?” Roman raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I am my Masters representative. I do not deal with hired help. Even for the Brotherhood of Jacob. If I need to make arrangements with your superior I will do it to him directly.” Alex smiled, and stared at the eyes of Roman. The aristocrat was uncomfortable, his face was refusing to show it, but his eyes were wide, flickering desperately around him. He was a man used to commanding authority and respect, a man used to being at the top of the chain of command. He was not used to dealing with men who were to him as a king is to a mud lark. Men like the Master whom Cohen served. And Cohen was an envoy. For a short while at least he was the voice, the eyes, and the ears of the Master. And that scared Roman more. Cohen was an underling, a servant, but for the time being he commanded the same respect as his Master. Roman was not constrained by social decorum, he was cowering behind it like a child cowering behind his father as he went to confront the village bully. “Do not allow your pride to drive this deal to the devil my friend.” Cohen advised Roman. “Do you think my master would lose a wink of sleep if I decided that you had crossed a line? If I felt the need to slay you to ensure your silence and walk away? You need us my friend. Remember that.”
Cohen realised his mistake as soon as Roman looked over to Jones, who answered with a minute shake of his gorilla sized head. Cohen felt his stomach lurch and his heart hammer in his chest as the giant of a man lumbered forwards and inspected him. Jones gave him a wide smile of teeth the size of tombstones, each of them marble white and razor sharp. “Very well.” Roman said, with a theatrical imitation of reluctance in his sigh. “It appears we can not do business after all.”
“Wait.” Cohen commanded as the two men went to climb into their black and royal blue coach. “It would be a shame to waste an opportunity such as this over a misunderstanding.” He held out his hands placidly. Jones got down from the footplate. He marched across the yard to Cohen, and with flex of his shoulders launched into a punch. Cohen saw the punch ripping through the air before him, but did not manage to close his eyes before the suns of pain went super nova behind his eyes. An instant later he was laying on damp cobbles, a pool of warm blood spreading from his split lip. He groaned and tried to stand, but a sharp toed boot struck him on the chin, and he hit the floor.
“We do not need you.” Roman explained slowly, and carefully. “We are offering your master gainful employment. In return for his services we will tolerate his habits and offer him protection, as well as more than generous salary. You, on the other hand, are just the help. You do not get to see my superior. Ever.” With a flourish Roman produced the letter scratched onto the velum and dropped it beside Cohen. “Consider this our full and final offer. These are the terms your Master will obey in this city. If he fails to deliver his services when required, or if he or his representatives break the terms of the agreement then we will be forced to take action.”
Cohen swore from the floor. By instinct he reached towards the pocket where he kept his second hand bayonet, but Jones gave him a warning shake of a finger. Roman smiled genially and knelt to help the stricken foreigner to his feet. He attempted to brush some of the dirt from the long coat in which Alex was wrapped, and dropped a ring of iron keys into his hand. “Now,” Roman instructed, in a fatherly tone. “If you treat us with the due respect, I am sure we can turn a blind eye to this encounter. I am willing not to mention it to our employers, or to yours.”
“Do not make me your enemy.” Cohen warned in a hoarse whisper.
“Do not force our hand.” Roman grinned, turning his back to ensure this was the final word. “The Brotherhood of Jacob welcomes you to London, Mister Cohen. Remember if you need us, we will always be close by.”
Cohen watched as the carriage rolled away, pulled by four fine horses of sturdy pedigree. He forced himself to ignore the throbbing pain on his face and the aching humiliation that sat heavily in his stomach. He swung the heavy gates closed and locked it securely. He would need to buy a new padlock in the morning, not trusting the Brotherhood at all. He had no doubts they would have kept copies of all the keys on his iron ring. “When my master arrives he will hear of this.” He whispered.
“I am already aware.” A voice in the back of his mind echoed through his skull. The voice of his master was like that of a choir, a thousand different voices talking in harmony in a score of accents and tones. A swarm of angry hornets, or an orchestra of straining violins.
“They do not show you the respect you deserve.” Cohen growled.
“And you act like a common thug.” The Master berated him. “I entrusted you with this mission as an envoy, a diplomat. We cannot afford unnecessary conflicts.”
“I will not fail you.” Cohen promised. “All will be prepared.”
The echoes of the communion with his Master faded. Drained and exhausted Cohen slumped towards the Fortress. The cold had reached his bones and his body suddenly felt very old. He would retire to the barracks, to one of the iron bunk beds, and lay there, on itchy woollen blankets and stiff cotton sheets, where he would be lost in a dreamless sleep.
In the morning he would have work to do.
“Can we trust them sir?” Roman asked as the coach rolled away. Jones answered with a shrug. His eyes were filled with a sadness and pain. “You do not approve of the Monster?”
Jones shook his head. No. He did not approve.
“They say this way we can control him.” Roman offered. “And even as a monster he lives by a code of honour. He may be despicable, but he is despicable by his own rules.”
Jones waved the discussion away. Tilting the evening edition of the newspaper to his partner. The headline was an exotic tale in a far off land. Anarchists in Russia again, throwing bombs around in the name of serf emancipation.
“You think the cost will be too high?” Roman guessed. Jones ignored him, choosing instead to stare glumly from his window at the night rushing past.
*
Lee watched the yard from his vantage point on the lead and slate roof of the adjacent warehouse, where he had lain in the shadows for several hours. He collapsed the small brass telescope, and concealed it in his satchel, replacing the goggles over his eyes and adjusting the hood of his long oilskin cloak. He belly crawled across the roof to the iron stairs on the side of the building and gingerly he dropped down onto the steps and into the alley. He lowered his head and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the sleepless maritime community of Limehouse, where he would be lost among the crowds of citizens who filled the streets in an endless swarm that ignored the hours of the day or night. The entire spectrum of humanity could be found in the corners of Limehouse, and if you believed the most sordid stories printed in the least respectable newspapers any service could be obtained there. Any item could be bought there, new or nearly new. Normally with one previous owner, who may or may not have parted with it willingly. Skin colour, the shape of your eyes, the shape of your hearts desire, the shape of your addiction. None of this mattered, according to those same whispered stories, in Limehouse. Depending where you looked you might find it to be true, or you might find it to be hysterical nonsense. It all depended where you looked and which alleys you dared to stray into.
On the other hand there alleyways and shadows all over London where you might find you deepest fear or strongest desires available for the right price from the right person. The only difference in Limehouse would be the colour of the skin or the accent of the man who sold it to you. Lee knew every alleyway and every shadow and every dirty little secret in London. He was paid very well to know the secrets and he always delivered.
Lee ducked down onto the waterfront and followed one of the paths that hugged the snaking bank of the Thames. The tide was out, and Thames barges leant against the quayside lazily, spiders webs of lines holding them as close to upright as possible. Mudlarks padded across the exposed bed of the river armed with lanterns, sticks and satchels, scurrying for the baubles and coins lost from pockets and claimed by the sewers. The tanneries and the laundries belched foul smelling water (or Lee hoped it was water) into festering pools from iron pipes that jutted out of the grey stone of the embankment walls. The Police Constable on his circular patrol dispelled another perfectly good myth about the area. It was the stuttering of cartwheels on cobbles that caught Lee's ears. Instinctively he ducked into the shadows. Lee was short and stocky, so much so that his dexterity often surprised those who did not know him. By dressing in loose linen trousers and a simple, flowing shirt he disguised his muscular build and gave the impression of a tradesman with a enthusiastic interest in food. When stealth was called for however he could squeeze himself into shadows and scuttle between nooks and crannies.
Lee hauled himself into the shelter of a bolt hole and peered out into the street. The coach rolled past, and the heckles on his neck rose. The coach that Jones and Roman had used. It could not be a coincidence. He waited until it had reached the end of the street and turned the corner before he emerged, and doubled back away from it. He had to make his report, he had to tell his colleagues that the Brotherhood were drawing plans. Desperately he sought through the maps engrained in his mind, and tried to work out which agents were closest by. He had intended to report to his Watch Officer, but he could no longer risk it, time was of the essence.
“Paddington.” He muttered to himself. Paddington was nearest, even if he would not have been the obvious choice. Lee slipped the cover from a drain and crept down into the cavern of red brick and rancid air. He scurried through the shadows until he was a street or two away and clambered up a thin iron ladder, emerging in a small square with a water pump and a drinking trough for horses. Roman was waiting for him.
“Hello, little spy.” Roman sneered.
“Keep back,” Lee warned, adopting a defensive pose. “I do not wish to resort to violence.”
“Shame.” Roman said, drawing a nasty looking pistol from his pocket, and cocking the hammer. “Have you reported to your friends yet?” Roman asked.
“Yes.” Lee said, unflinching. Yet Roman seemed to see something behind the eyes of the younger man. He glared at Lee, gazing deep into his soul.
“Liar.” Roman snorted.
“Shoot me and the gunshot will be heard. You will be witnessed.” Lee warned, edging back towards the sewer cover. Jones stepped from a nearby doorway, appearing to manifest from the plume of steam that boiled from the sewers. In a single movement the giant man ensnared Lee in a wrestlers grasp, and crushed his throat under one of his arms. Lee flailed and kicked, and hammered at the giant with a flurry of desperate jabs that would have sent a layman tumbling to the floor. Jones ignored them, calmly closing his grip and clasping a hand over the mouth to stifle the croaked gasps for air. Lee squirmed and clawed and tried to cling to life, but his vision was clouding and his lungs were burning. As his limbs turned to lead he was dimly aware of Jones shaking his head in apology, as though ashamed at himself. Then there was nothing.
Jones looked down at the chubby teenager in his arms, whose body now hung like a rag doll. The youths tanned skin and almond shaped eyes glistened in the silver moonlight, and the thin lips hung open but sucked in no air. With a gentleness that should not have been possible from fingers like Cumberland sausages Jones closed the dead eyes. He knelt to retrieve a charm from the boys wrist that had broken free in his struggle. A white bead etched with a romantic view of Hong Kong on a broken leather thong. Probably an heirloom carried by a family member from the old country. He tucked into the pocket of the boys oilskin, and dumped the corpse into the sewer. He kicked the cover closed and nodded at Roman to depart.
*
The man who now called himself Alex Cohen slept uneasily, in a cold hall, surrounded by unfamiliar shadows and an empty house. One of his hands was always under his pillow, the long slender fingers wrapped around a clasp knife folded into a handle of naval brass and polished horn. He stroked his thumb down the blunt edge of the slightly curved blade. When he awoke, long after dawn, he sat on his bed, unfolded the blade until it latched, and he began to draw whet stone down the razor sharp edge, following the gentle curve from the hilt to the wasp sting point.
His Master was coming, and Cohen had preparations to make.
Oh and it is set in a fantasised London, so I have had to take some liberties with geography and history to fit the fantasy elements, so I appologise in advance.
Ghosts At War.
One.
The man who now called himself Alex Cohen climbed from the carriage of the train and into the unseasonably cold night. The locomotive at the front of the train vented smoke and steam across the platform with a mournful sigh like the song of a whale. Alex adjusted his scarf, lifting it over his sharp nose and his slender cheeks. He rolled his new name around his tongue. It was unfamiliar and dangerous. He found himself sharpening the wrong vowels, and inflecting at the wrong moments. He would have to shave away at the words, soften his accent until it was as anonymous as his new name. It would be European but not tied to any one state or city.
He dug his hands into the deep pockets of his thick grey coat, a bare defence against the bitter cold that was painting the window frames with a thin leaf of silver. Two men in suites of a quality that was just a little too expensive to be comfortable in this part of the city were pacing nervously in tight circles beneath the station clock. The taller of the two, Jones, was a policemen dragged up from the depths of the gutter and forced into wealth beyond his means. The pristine clothes hung from his bulky frame with an uncomfortable weight, failing to conceal his compact muscles and broad shoulders. Their respectability destroyed by the disjointed nose and heavy scars that defined his face. As far as Alex was concerned his new friends were lucky that Jones had mastered the opposable thumb and shoe laces.
Roman, the second man was far more at home in his clothes. He was clearly a man of independent wealth and daringly old fashioned facial hair. He had a body that had once been athletic but had gone fallow when he left the forces and indulged in a profession. He was sagging in the places that anybody who worked for a living could not afford to sag, and his face was insulated by a mass of whiskers, silver flecked with rust red. “Cohen.” He said, by way of greeting.
“Friends.” Cohen replied.
“Your journey was comfortable?” Roman asked, gesturing towards a carriage. “Would you like to take a coffee or tea before we-”
“I would very much like to see the accommodation you have secured.” Cohen said evenly. “My Master has given me a list of preparations that must be completed before his arrival.”
“Indeed?” Roman asked, snorting back a laugh. “On top of the stipulations he gave us for his new home?”
“Delicate matters he entrusts to nobody else.” Alex explained. “He also has an amendment to make to his salary.” Alex reached under his jacket and handed Jones an envelope of ancient velum sealed with a thick wax seal decorated in a swirling pattern of interlocking thorns.
Jones opened the envelope and unfolded a sheet of fine velum. He traced a finger slowly across the fine scratches of writing as he read the document. His eyes bulged in surprise and he handed the letter to Roman, who read it three times in short succession, refusing to allow the demands sink in. “This is unorthodox.” Roman concluded.
“He is an unorthodox man.” Cohen shrugged. “He is also going to be a valuable asset in the coming war. If you are unwilling to pay the price he will offer his services to your enemies.”
“Even they would not be so inhumane.” Roman scowled. “They are my enemies, but they are misguided not evil.”
“Is that a risk you are willing to take?” Cohen raised a thin eyebrow. “Or perhaps you are willing to pay the price to ensure my Master takes no sides. To guarantee his neutrality so to speak.”
“I can not authorise this.” Roman whispered. “I will discuss it with my superiors.” He folded the velum and placed it in his pocket. “I will let you know what they say.”
“At dusk tomorrow his price rises. And again each dusk until you agree.” Cohen said simply.
“Monster.” Roman growled.
“It is what you require.” Cohen said simply. “A monster. A weapon. Yes?”
Jones answered him with a deep seething glare of barely constrained rage.
*
The carriage rode through the city streets, clattering across cobble stones and paving slabs. They were headed south east. Despite the night having crossed the threshold of midnight, and begun its decent into the coldest, darkest hours where it was no longer very late, but instead very early, there were still figures shuffling through the streets. Women, wrapped in layers of rags to insulate themselves from the cold, workers shuffling between shifts at the warehouses and the docks and the factories, their bodies catching the shadows an giving them the haunted appearance of the shambling dead. Alex believed he had seen cities before, that he had walked through slums and stood in the shadows of cathedrals and palaces. But nothing prepared him for London, for the streets that had become so cramped in the rigid structure of the streets that it had begun to expand upwards, clawing for air as buildings grew taller and taller. He was amazed to see huddles of men and women apparently tied to a wall, before he realised the string was holding them up as they slept. They had paid for this unusual torture as they had nowhere else to go. London was stocked beyond capacity and the “standing room only” sign was being ignored.
They entered a district of working buildings, store fronts and market places. Early in his life Cohen had lived in another city in another country. He had been young and uneducated, not that it had mattered. As he had been ushered towards a workhouse, to be apprenticed in one of the vast halls of sweating, heaving, deafening seas of menial workers. He was dealt from the queue of immigrants as a card is dealt from the deck, and told he was to be a tailor. That was how it was done, the man in charge marching down the line putting a hand in turn on each shoulder saying; “Tailor, leather worker, jointer. Tailor, leather worker, jointer.” As he decided their fate with a mumble. In his young mind Alex had imagined himself in an exclusive shop being taught the secrets of the trade by a world class master. Instead he was in a workshop, one of a production line of men, manning a cumbersome sewing machine powered by peddles that had to be pumped furiously as he drove the fabric under a deadly needle, a skill he was taught through repetition and a cane rapped across his knuckles for mistakes. In London the process was the same, the stench was the same, the despair was the same, but only the scale had been multiplied many fold.
At last the carriage ground to a halt outside one of the many yards scattered through the district. The coachman climbed down to haul open the heavy wooden gates at the centre of the high brick wall that was crowned with iron spikes. With in the yard was cobbled, with a small water pump and trough in once corner, and a tall, square building in the centre, with windows that were barred by steel, and doors heavily reinforced and fortified, the front door alone carried three locks.
“My master asked for a fortress and barracks.” Alex said, studying the building. It may once have been a work house or store house, but it had never been a military development.
“And he has one.” Roman promised. “Secrecy is a defence. This building also has access to the sewer system, as he requested.”
“I will study the building.” Alex intoned, clearly unimpressed. “Perhaps it is as you say. A lion dressed as a lamb?”
“A barracks dressed as a warehouse.” Roman promised. “everything you requested is in that building.” He thumped the walls with his fist. “Far more solid than any old castle or abandoned mental institution. The shell of this building has been hollowed out and rebuilt from the inside to match any modern prison or fort.”
“I will inspect it.”Alex repeated. “And we will take it only if meets our requirements. As I mentioned, I have preparations to make to the building.” He chewed his lip. “You may leave. If I need anything I will discuss it with your superiors.”
“Will you now?” Roman raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I am my Masters representative. I do not deal with hired help. Even for the Brotherhood of Jacob. If I need to make arrangements with your superior I will do it to him directly.” Alex smiled, and stared at the eyes of Roman. The aristocrat was uncomfortable, his face was refusing to show it, but his eyes were wide, flickering desperately around him. He was a man used to commanding authority and respect, a man used to being at the top of the chain of command. He was not used to dealing with men who were to him as a king is to a mud lark. Men like the Master whom Cohen served. And Cohen was an envoy. For a short while at least he was the voice, the eyes, and the ears of the Master. And that scared Roman more. Cohen was an underling, a servant, but for the time being he commanded the same respect as his Master. Roman was not constrained by social decorum, he was cowering behind it like a child cowering behind his father as he went to confront the village bully. “Do not allow your pride to drive this deal to the devil my friend.” Cohen advised Roman. “Do you think my master would lose a wink of sleep if I decided that you had crossed a line? If I felt the need to slay you to ensure your silence and walk away? You need us my friend. Remember that.”
Cohen realised his mistake as soon as Roman looked over to Jones, who answered with a minute shake of his gorilla sized head. Cohen felt his stomach lurch and his heart hammer in his chest as the giant of a man lumbered forwards and inspected him. Jones gave him a wide smile of teeth the size of tombstones, each of them marble white and razor sharp. “Very well.” Roman said, with a theatrical imitation of reluctance in his sigh. “It appears we can not do business after all.”
“Wait.” Cohen commanded as the two men went to climb into their black and royal blue coach. “It would be a shame to waste an opportunity such as this over a misunderstanding.” He held out his hands placidly. Jones got down from the footplate. He marched across the yard to Cohen, and with flex of his shoulders launched into a punch. Cohen saw the punch ripping through the air before him, but did not manage to close his eyes before the suns of pain went super nova behind his eyes. An instant later he was laying on damp cobbles, a pool of warm blood spreading from his split lip. He groaned and tried to stand, but a sharp toed boot struck him on the chin, and he hit the floor.
“We do not need you.” Roman explained slowly, and carefully. “We are offering your master gainful employment. In return for his services we will tolerate his habits and offer him protection, as well as more than generous salary. You, on the other hand, are just the help. You do not get to see my superior. Ever.” With a flourish Roman produced the letter scratched onto the velum and dropped it beside Cohen. “Consider this our full and final offer. These are the terms your Master will obey in this city. If he fails to deliver his services when required, or if he or his representatives break the terms of the agreement then we will be forced to take action.”
Cohen swore from the floor. By instinct he reached towards the pocket where he kept his second hand bayonet, but Jones gave him a warning shake of a finger. Roman smiled genially and knelt to help the stricken foreigner to his feet. He attempted to brush some of the dirt from the long coat in which Alex was wrapped, and dropped a ring of iron keys into his hand. “Now,” Roman instructed, in a fatherly tone. “If you treat us with the due respect, I am sure we can turn a blind eye to this encounter. I am willing not to mention it to our employers, or to yours.”
“Do not make me your enemy.” Cohen warned in a hoarse whisper.
“Do not force our hand.” Roman grinned, turning his back to ensure this was the final word. “The Brotherhood of Jacob welcomes you to London, Mister Cohen. Remember if you need us, we will always be close by.”
Cohen watched as the carriage rolled away, pulled by four fine horses of sturdy pedigree. He forced himself to ignore the throbbing pain on his face and the aching humiliation that sat heavily in his stomach. He swung the heavy gates closed and locked it securely. He would need to buy a new padlock in the morning, not trusting the Brotherhood at all. He had no doubts they would have kept copies of all the keys on his iron ring. “When my master arrives he will hear of this.” He whispered.
“I am already aware.” A voice in the back of his mind echoed through his skull. The voice of his master was like that of a choir, a thousand different voices talking in harmony in a score of accents and tones. A swarm of angry hornets, or an orchestra of straining violins.
“They do not show you the respect you deserve.” Cohen growled.
“And you act like a common thug.” The Master berated him. “I entrusted you with this mission as an envoy, a diplomat. We cannot afford unnecessary conflicts.”
“I will not fail you.” Cohen promised. “All will be prepared.”
The echoes of the communion with his Master faded. Drained and exhausted Cohen slumped towards the Fortress. The cold had reached his bones and his body suddenly felt very old. He would retire to the barracks, to one of the iron bunk beds, and lay there, on itchy woollen blankets and stiff cotton sheets, where he would be lost in a dreamless sleep.
In the morning he would have work to do.
“Can we trust them sir?” Roman asked as the coach rolled away. Jones answered with a shrug. His eyes were filled with a sadness and pain. “You do not approve of the Monster?”
Jones shook his head. No. He did not approve.
“They say this way we can control him.” Roman offered. “And even as a monster he lives by a code of honour. He may be despicable, but he is despicable by his own rules.”
Jones waved the discussion away. Tilting the evening edition of the newspaper to his partner. The headline was an exotic tale in a far off land. Anarchists in Russia again, throwing bombs around in the name of serf emancipation.
“You think the cost will be too high?” Roman guessed. Jones ignored him, choosing instead to stare glumly from his window at the night rushing past.
*
Lee watched the yard from his vantage point on the lead and slate roof of the adjacent warehouse, where he had lain in the shadows for several hours. He collapsed the small brass telescope, and concealed it in his satchel, replacing the goggles over his eyes and adjusting the hood of his long oilskin cloak. He belly crawled across the roof to the iron stairs on the side of the building and gingerly he dropped down onto the steps and into the alley. He lowered his head and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the sleepless maritime community of Limehouse, where he would be lost among the crowds of citizens who filled the streets in an endless swarm that ignored the hours of the day or night. The entire spectrum of humanity could be found in the corners of Limehouse, and if you believed the most sordid stories printed in the least respectable newspapers any service could be obtained there. Any item could be bought there, new or nearly new. Normally with one previous owner, who may or may not have parted with it willingly. Skin colour, the shape of your eyes, the shape of your hearts desire, the shape of your addiction. None of this mattered, according to those same whispered stories, in Limehouse. Depending where you looked you might find it to be true, or you might find it to be hysterical nonsense. It all depended where you looked and which alleys you dared to stray into.
On the other hand there alleyways and shadows all over London where you might find you deepest fear or strongest desires available for the right price from the right person. The only difference in Limehouse would be the colour of the skin or the accent of the man who sold it to you. Lee knew every alleyway and every shadow and every dirty little secret in London. He was paid very well to know the secrets and he always delivered.
Lee ducked down onto the waterfront and followed one of the paths that hugged the snaking bank of the Thames. The tide was out, and Thames barges leant against the quayside lazily, spiders webs of lines holding them as close to upright as possible. Mudlarks padded across the exposed bed of the river armed with lanterns, sticks and satchels, scurrying for the baubles and coins lost from pockets and claimed by the sewers. The tanneries and the laundries belched foul smelling water (or Lee hoped it was water) into festering pools from iron pipes that jutted out of the grey stone of the embankment walls. The Police Constable on his circular patrol dispelled another perfectly good myth about the area. It was the stuttering of cartwheels on cobbles that caught Lee's ears. Instinctively he ducked into the shadows. Lee was short and stocky, so much so that his dexterity often surprised those who did not know him. By dressing in loose linen trousers and a simple, flowing shirt he disguised his muscular build and gave the impression of a tradesman with a enthusiastic interest in food. When stealth was called for however he could squeeze himself into shadows and scuttle between nooks and crannies.
Lee hauled himself into the shelter of a bolt hole and peered out into the street. The coach rolled past, and the heckles on his neck rose. The coach that Jones and Roman had used. It could not be a coincidence. He waited until it had reached the end of the street and turned the corner before he emerged, and doubled back away from it. He had to make his report, he had to tell his colleagues that the Brotherhood were drawing plans. Desperately he sought through the maps engrained in his mind, and tried to work out which agents were closest by. He had intended to report to his Watch Officer, but he could no longer risk it, time was of the essence.
“Paddington.” He muttered to himself. Paddington was nearest, even if he would not have been the obvious choice. Lee slipped the cover from a drain and crept down into the cavern of red brick and rancid air. He scurried through the shadows until he was a street or two away and clambered up a thin iron ladder, emerging in a small square with a water pump and a drinking trough for horses. Roman was waiting for him.
“Hello, little spy.” Roman sneered.
“Keep back,” Lee warned, adopting a defensive pose. “I do not wish to resort to violence.”
“Shame.” Roman said, drawing a nasty looking pistol from his pocket, and cocking the hammer. “Have you reported to your friends yet?” Roman asked.
“Yes.” Lee said, unflinching. Yet Roman seemed to see something behind the eyes of the younger man. He glared at Lee, gazing deep into his soul.
“Liar.” Roman snorted.
“Shoot me and the gunshot will be heard. You will be witnessed.” Lee warned, edging back towards the sewer cover. Jones stepped from a nearby doorway, appearing to manifest from the plume of steam that boiled from the sewers. In a single movement the giant man ensnared Lee in a wrestlers grasp, and crushed his throat under one of his arms. Lee flailed and kicked, and hammered at the giant with a flurry of desperate jabs that would have sent a layman tumbling to the floor. Jones ignored them, calmly closing his grip and clasping a hand over the mouth to stifle the croaked gasps for air. Lee squirmed and clawed and tried to cling to life, but his vision was clouding and his lungs were burning. As his limbs turned to lead he was dimly aware of Jones shaking his head in apology, as though ashamed at himself. Then there was nothing.
Jones looked down at the chubby teenager in his arms, whose body now hung like a rag doll. The youths tanned skin and almond shaped eyes glistened in the silver moonlight, and the thin lips hung open but sucked in no air. With a gentleness that should not have been possible from fingers like Cumberland sausages Jones closed the dead eyes. He knelt to retrieve a charm from the boys wrist that had broken free in his struggle. A white bead etched with a romantic view of Hong Kong on a broken leather thong. Probably an heirloom carried by a family member from the old country. He tucked into the pocket of the boys oilskin, and dumped the corpse into the sewer. He kicked the cover closed and nodded at Roman to depart.
*
The man who now called himself Alex Cohen slept uneasily, in a cold hall, surrounded by unfamiliar shadows and an empty house. One of his hands was always under his pillow, the long slender fingers wrapped around a clasp knife folded into a handle of naval brass and polished horn. He stroked his thumb down the blunt edge of the slightly curved blade. When he awoke, long after dawn, he sat on his bed, unfolded the blade until it latched, and he began to draw whet stone down the razor sharp edge, following the gentle curve from the hilt to the wasp sting point.
His Master was coming, and Cohen had preparations to make.
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