A Study in Ashes (60 page)

Annoyance swept over him. The Black Dragons had coal but wouldn’t sell it. They’d sent him threatening notes and now they were lurking down side alleys when he was trying to do business. The worst part of it was that he didn’t
actually
know what they had against him. All he had were a lot of nasty guesses.

That should have been enough to make him back away, but today—when he was nursing a kernel of hope for his future—it wasn’t. A bell on the door chimed as he entered. The tiny space carried the faint, sweetish pungency of incense. There was a narrow counter and reams of posters tacked to the walls, all in Chinese, but no one was there.

“Hello?” Bancroft called out.

There was a rustling and the ratty silk curtain that made up the back wall swung aside. An elderly Chinese man appeared and bowed. “Pardon me, if you have waited long.” The words were delivered in accented but perfectly clear English.

“May I speak to the proprietor?” asked Bancroft.

“I am he.” The man bowed again. “Han Lo, at your service.”

“Are you the same Black Dragons that hold a larger warehouse
at the docks?” Those were the men with whom Bancroft had dealt before.

“We are. I am but a more modest piece of the whole.”

Bancroft strolled up to the counter, doing his best to look relaxed. “Your friends weren’t able to help me, but perhaps you can.”

“Perhaps,” said the old man. “But I am sometimes obliged to ask more. Economies of scale, you understand.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Bancroft replied, feeling optimistic for the first time in a long while.

“Then by all means.” Han Lo held the curtain aside, inviting Bancroft into the back.

For the first time, Bancroft noticed the sleeves on the man’s jacket. They were wide, edged in a thick border of black silk, and covered with tiny black dragons stitched on a field of gold. The luxurious sheen of the cloth was at odds with the shabby office.

With a whisper of misgivings, Bancroft followed the man into the back rooms. He half expected a den of Oriental splendor, but the room was disappointingly ordinary. A central table was covered with ledgers, as if Bancroft had interrupted a bookkeeping session.

“Please, sit,” Han Lo said. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“No, thank you,” Bancroft replied. “I mean no discourtesy, but my time is short.”

“No doubt. Conflict makes men hasty.”

There was mild rebuke in the man’s tone, but Bancroft ignored it. “I need coal. Lots of it.”

“I am well aware of what you need, Lord Bancroft, and why.”

Halfway into his seat, Bancroft froze. “You know my name?”

“Yes,” the man said smoothly. “You have come to our attention in the past.”

Bancroft wanted to ask how, but that would have revealed his anxiety. As it was, his heart thumped so loudly his ears sang. He could see the face of the Chinese foreman he’d shot, his brains splattering the earth as his skull exploded. He wondered if Han Zuiweng had been any relation to Han Lo.

Bancroft settled into the chair with as much casual ease as he could muster. “Then you must know that my inquiries are serious.”

“We do.”

A lacquered door opened, revealing the figure of a pretty young girl about Poppy’s age. Bancroft glimpsed a stairway behind her—probably to living quarters above. She said something in an Oriental tongue and Han Lo replied. She bowed and disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

“My daughter asking if we wanted tea,” he said with a smile. “I told her we were content for now. Forgive the interruption.”

“Of course,” Bancroft replied smoothly.

The older man nodded, then seemed to gather himself. “First I must ask, my lord, why you think that I will sell to you when others will not?”

“Since I have never understood their refusal, I cannot say.”

“Ah.” Han Lo considered. “Do you understand who the Black Dragons are?”

“You are merchants.”

“We are one of the mercantile arms of the kingdom underground. The Black Kingdom has not been consulted in this coming conflict and we are conscious that backing one or the other faction may impact our own position.”

This was the closest that Bancroft had ever come to real information about the Black Kingdom, and he leaned forward with curiosity. “I thought you had an understanding with the Blue Kingdom.”

“Only insofar as the Blue King stored some of his weaponry underground for a price. A considerable price. That does not prevent us from making a deal elsewhere if we so choose.”

“Then your reluctance to do business with me is based on the fact that I represent the rebels?”

There was a pause. “Yes.”

Then it wasn’t personal. Relief made Bancroft’s limbs feel rubbery. At the same time, ambassadorial instincts came awake. “Perhaps I can represent your interests to the prince.”

Han Lo smiled, steepling his fingers. Bancroft noticed the nails were long and coated in gold. “Perhaps you can. But we are already cautious. The rain of explosives has crushed some of our tunnels. Your dead fall into the waterways and foul our underground spaces. Worst of all, our king awakes.”

“He awakes?” Bancroft was lost.

“He has been asleep for a century. When he is awake, he grows hungry and the darkness stirs.”

“And what does that mean?” The conversation was sending a chill up Bancroft’s spine, although he desperately wanted to believe the old man was speaking in metaphors.

“Let me say simply that the Black Kingdom is the receptacle of all things the daylight world abhors. Centuries ago, before the Empire and before gunpowder came west, your king demanded that magic users cleanse the land of black sorcery. And so everything that dwelled in the dark—the revenants and beast-men, necromancers and shades—were banished beneath the earth by powerful spells.”

Bancroft gaped, unsure how to respond. He knew all too well that sorcery was real, but he’d never heard any of this before. “Are you telling me there are monsters imprisoned beneath the streets?”

“It is not so simple as that. Spells fade and the Black Kingdom wanes. Our king no longer desires to rule. It is custom more than force that keeps the dark gates closed.”

“And your king
sleeps
?”

“Just so. The kingdom is not so much ruled as maintained through the administration of men like myself. It is in everyone’s interest that we succeed.”

Bancroft had to ask. “And if you don’t succeed?”

“If the Black Kingdom fails, all those horrors would have no place to go but aboveground.” Han Lo gave a faint smile, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Trust me on this, Lord Bancroft. What is below the earth should stay there. It should not stir.”

Frustration heated Bancroft’s face. He wasn’t sure what to believe, and this tale of buried horrors and sleeping monarchs had no bearing on his very real problems in the here and now. He shoved Han Lo’s story aside. “Sell me the coal I require, and I will do my utmost to supply the kingdom
with whatever it needs to remain in good health. And asleep, if necessary.”

Han Lo’s eyebrows quirked. “Do you give us your word on this?”

A thread of caution tugged in Bancroft’s gut. “If it is within my power to achieve, yes.”

“Then consider our bargain made.” Han Lo held out his hand. “And the scales will be balanced.”

Bancroft took it, feeling the papery dryness of the man’s skin. “I am not certain what scales you mean, but I’m glad we could do business.”

The old man rose to show Bancroft out. “Indeed, my lord, justice is the nature of the Black Kingdom. Unlike the other members of the Steam Council, the Black Kingdom is ancient and has its counterparts throughout the world. In my own language it is called the Kingdom of Ashes, in others the Kingdom of Alchemy. Though mortal, my family has served the underground for time immemorial.”

Mortal?
Bancroft’s mind reeled as they passed through the curtain to the front of the shop. After their conversation, the tiny space seemed even more tawdry and cramped than before.
Ashes? Alchemy?
“Where does the alchemy come in?”

“The transformative nature of the underground journey. Some liken it to a rebirth, others to a chemical reaction. All is destroyed and reborn in harmony, assuming whatever state is necessary to achieve balance.”

“That is a very philosophical view.” The only thing Bancroft had ever heard was that those caught wandering in the underground vanished, never to be seen again—transformative, yes, but not necessarily harmonious.

“It is also a historical one. Chemistry, law, and the realms of spirit and dreams were once its area of influence. Now most regard the Black Kingdom as the dustbin of the world’s immortal community.”

Bancroft had listened to enough. He just wanted to leave. “With a new heir to the throne, your lot will no doubt improve,” he said heartily.

“Which throne would that be, Lord Bancroft?” Han Lo
smiled. “There are more kingdoms than your daylight empires.”

For a moment, Bancroft was lost for words. “I’ll send a man around with instructions on quantity and distribution.”

“Good day, Lord Bancroft.” Han Lo bowed low and with a hint of mockery. “And good luck.”

Dartmoor, October 10, 1889
TAVERN AT THE EAST DART
4:35 p.m. Thursday

“I COULDN’T HELP
but overhear that you fine gentlemen are staying at Baskerville Hall, where poor Sir Charles was frightened to death by a dog.” So said the barkeep of the public house by the East Dart River. He was a young, dark-haired fellow with a quick, sly smile.

“You must have read the account in the papers,” replied Watson, who in accordance with Holmes’s original plan was author of the report. As Holmes had said, there were stories about a savage dog roaming Dartmoor and there had been plenty of material to embellish. In particular, he was proud of the history he’d invented for the infamous Baskerville ancestors and their curse. With a little work—and perhaps a love interest for the heir?—it might even make a decent novel.

“I’ve seen the creature you speak of. Rumor has it that they made it in those laboratories and it got out from time to time.”

“Indeed?” Holmes replied as he began packing his pipe. “I have managed to remain happily innocent of all of Dartmoor’s canine peculiarities until now.”

Watson frowned, his stomach cold at the thought of what had gone on in those labs. Holmes had given him an account of their destruction—or at least a partial one—but he’d gone to look at the wreckage himself. There had been corpses there that would give him nightmares to his grave.

The afternoon shadows were growing long, making a stark contrast to the slanting autumn sun that streamed in
the open door. And that brilliant passage of day into evening would be over soon.

Watson pushed his glass toward the barkeep. “Another, if you please.”

The young man gave him that quick smile. “Ah, Doctor, you must try the scrumpy. It just begs to be drunk, it does. We make it local.”

“Scrumpy?”

Holmes blew out a string of smoke circles. “Oh, yes, Watson, you must.”

“You as well, Mr. Holmes?” asked the barkeep.

“Oh, no,” said Holmes. “I’ve taken a fancy to this brown ale, but you, Doctor, go ahead.”

Watson lifted the fresh mug to his lips, and then wished he would die. “Faugh!” He spat and slammed down the mug, slopping some of the cloudy yellow substance over the side. An indescribable miasma assaulted his tongue that brought to mind the specimen library of his student days, the rows upon rows of jars filled with every permutation of tissue, tumor, bile, and excrescence pickled for his educational benefit in what looked and smelled like the vile putrescence in his mug. “What is in that?”

Holmes gave the mug a cool glance. “They tell me it has something to do with apples, but in my opinion the data is inconclusive.”

“Good God.” Watson wiped his mouth with his pocket handkerchief and gagged slightly. The barkeep had vanished, no doubt to indulge his hilarity in the back room.

Then the Schoolmaster walked in the door, wearing his usual green-tinted spectacles and long striped scarf. He carried a battered leather shoulder bag and a heavy walking stick. He spotted the barely touched mug and flashed a grin. “Been trying the local delicacies, Doctor?”

“For my sins.” He still felt odd talking to this young prince in hiding. For practical reasons, Prince Edmond insisted on being treated as the Schoolmaster, with no ceremony or titles, but it grated on someone who’d been trained since boyhood to revere the Throne.

Holmes, however, was on his feet, clearly impatient. “Do you return alone?”

“Yes,” the Schoolmaster replied. “Come into the back and I’ll tell you all.”

They followed him into the private room and he closed the door, standing against it. Watson thought, for a fleeting moment, just how young the Schoolmaster looked, but then he seemed to recover.

“My business in Bath went precisely as planned,” said the Schoolmaster.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Holmes. “How can we assist you now?”

A variety of emotions flickered across the man’s face. “I’m about to begin an undertaking, for good or ill, that in some measure will figure in history. I would do so with as little doubt as it is humanly possible to achieve.”

“Doubt about your cause?” Watson asked, concerned.

“No.” The Schoolmaster gave a wry smile. “Not that. But there have been casualties I would lay to rest.”

“Ah,” said Holmes.

“Ah?” Watson was skilled at interpreting Holmesian monosyllables, but this one eluded him.

The Schoolmaster waved toward the table and chairs. “First, I must ask. Are you any closer to solving Sir Charles’s death?”

Watson sat down opposite the Schoolmaster, Holmes at the head of the table.

“Yes, at least in part,” Holmes replied. “As you know, there was every sign that his heart had failed due to an extreme fright.”

“Which the good doctor has attributed in his official account to a family curse in the form of a giant hound,” the Schoolmaster replied dryly. “How enormously Gothic.”

“In any event,” Holmes went on, “his death bore marked similarities to two others you have asked me to investigate.”