A Study in Silks (42 page)

Striker, as their leader, had been an even greater find. He was strong and hard and ambitious, but he also had a talent for firearms. Not just to use them, but to make them from bits and scraps. Illiterate, barely articulate, Striker was a natural savant, a primitive Mozart of weaponry.

Keating had snatched him up, a rare and useful specimen to keep close by—but not too close. A streetkeeper had privileges—a place of his own and enough money for regular food, liquor, and the occasional whore—but Striker could still see the workhouse from his rooms. A useful reminder.

Striker’s home was not the kind of place Keating preferred to go, but some orders were better delivered in person. Still, he took extra grooms to watch the carriage, and another pair to follow him into the rooming house where Striker lived, just in case.

It was daytime, so the place felt oddly subdued, as if the very bricks of the ramshackle building were sleeping off last night’s gin. The main floor had a communal parlor to the left of the front door, probably where whores entertained their customers. Above that were three floors of supposedly
private quarters. Striker was up a long, steep flight of the narrow, filthy stairs in one of the corner rooms.

Keating followed behind one of his men, another bringing up the rear. The middle of the steps sagged and creaked, so he found himself walking close to the wall for safety, and then leaning away so his sleeve wouldn’t brush against the grimy paint.

The first man, who had moved up the steps more quickly, pounded on Striker’s door.

“Go away,” came the streetkeeper’s growl, muffled by the wood.

The man pounded again.

“What the bleeding hell do you want?”

By that time Keating had caught up, puffing a little from the climb. “It’s Keating.”

“Then do come in, sir.” More polite, but not exactly welcoming.

Keating turned the rattling knob and pushed open the door. The sight reminded him of an illustration to a cautionary tale, something to do with the wages of sin. The stench was worse—cheap gin cycled through the human body and sweated out again.

Striker sat at a wood table littered with odds and ends, his ragged shirt half buttoned and his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him. His dark complexion had a gray cast, his eyes pink with lack of sleep. Perhaps pain was keeping him up nights.

If so, the man had found his solace. An open bottle hung loosely from his hand. Striker shoved the other through his spiky hair, as if dimly aware of his disheveled state.

It was the first time Keating had ever seen him without the metal-encrusted coat. Now he could see the outline of heavily muscled arms beneath his filthy shirt.

Striker began to struggle out of the chair, but Keating waved him back. “Don’t try to stand.” If he didn’t fall from his injury, the drink might do the job.

Striker subsided. “Thank you, sir. Right kind of you.”

Keating looked around, the floor crunching as he shifted his feet. There was almost no furniture. There was an unmade
bed in the corner and a fireplace with a cook pot, but little else. Something had crusted inside the pot that added to the malodorous fug hanging in the room.

Keating felt his gorge rise. “How’s the leg?”

Striker’s face darkened, but he shrugged his bulky shoulders. “It’ll heal. The wound’s clean enough.”

“Glad to hear it.”
Probably the cleanest thing in the room
.

Keating looked down at the table. Among the plates and string and garbage were several of Striker’s weapons, the housing cracked open and the guts spilling out like cornucopias of gears and wires. Fixing, inventing, improving—he was never done with his creations. They were always works in progress. Always better than anything Keating could buy for his street rats, no matter the price.
He’s an asset, if an ill-mannered, grubby piece of work
.

He flicked through the mess with one gloved finger, until he uncovered the handle of a silver paper knife. Not something a streetkeeper would own. “Is this the weapon that hurt you?”

Striker grunted and took a pull at the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Keating saw the crest on the handle of the knife and frowned, first shock, and then a worm of anger, sliding through his guts. He picked it up, making a fist around the elegant coat of arms.
Bancroft
. What was his knife doing in Striker’s leg? The Roth family kept turning up these days like an invasive weed.

“May I keep this?” he said, already sliding the knife into his pocket.

Striker’s lip curled. “Why not? I’ve got others. A knife’s a knife, and that’s not the sharpest. Did for me well enough, though. Gypsy bastard who had it was a professional.”

Interesting
. What was Bancroft doing with a professional knife man? Or was this the work of bizarre coincidence? It was one more thing to follow up on. He watched Striker take another swig and decided to get down to business. “I have a job for you. There’s a man who needs killing.”

The streetkeeper glanced at his bandaged thigh. “How soon?”

“Now. The man’s name is Dr. Magnus. I expect he’ll be staying somewhere close at hand. He means to annoy me, and I won’t have it.”

“Give me another day or two and I’ll be back on my feet.”

“Get others and do it now. Use some of those interesting guns you’ve made. I know you have plenty stored at the dockyard.”

He’d only just arranged for Striker’s excess arsenal to be moved to a locked and guarded shed at a yard owned by Keating Utility. The streetkeeper had been stockpiling his lethal inventions in a seaman’s chest at the foot of his bed. Given the neighborhood’s reputation as a den of thieves and cutthroats, it was only a matter of time before the guns found their way into the worst possible hands. Peace of mind was worth the price of cutting a new key.

But at the mention of the dockyard, Striker flinched. He covered it quickly, but Keating caught it all the same. “What is it?”

“The Gypsy bastard took my key.”

Keating’s vision went white, the room disappearing for a beat. Then it was back, red-tinged with rage. “
What?”
He spat the word with such fury, the two grooms who had come with him backed away. They knew his temper.

Keating could barely breathe. The Harter Engine supplies were also in that locker, and much more. But that wasn’t the point. It was the disappointment. “That was careless, Striker.” This time it was a whisper. “I trusted you to guard my back. Do you understand me? I
trusted
you, and you let me down.”

Striker’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I’ll get it back. I’ve got a thirst for payback. A terrible thirst, sir.”

Keating leaned in closer, smelling the stink of the man, but he didn’t recoil even when his lips nearly touched Striker’s ear. “Why am I just hearing about this now? Why didn’t you come and tell me right away?”

Striker’s gaze flicked his way, but didn’t hold his regard. “I couldn’t walk, sir.”

Keating swore softly. The street value of the supplies from Harter’s was incalculable. If the thief knew what he
was about, the locker was already empty. Rogue power vendors sought to rob the steam barons at every turn—and every barber, baker, and candlestick maker wanted to pay the filth to do it. The only way to exert control was to ensure that nothing—no machine, no generator, no wind-driven device—would ever be built in the sheds and alleys of the city’s underbelly.

“That’s a poor showing for a man who is supposed to run my streets. You could have sent a note.”

“I never learned my letters. And I couldn’t send a runner, ’cause then they’d know my business.”

“Excuses.” And the delay meant that changing the padlock would be an afterthought at best. Still, he turned to one of his men. “Grimsby, get someone down there to check the shed. Get a new lock on it.”

With an air that verged on insolence, Striker pushed the bottle onto the table. It was empty. “My apologies, again, sir.”

The statement was as sincere as he was likely to get, but Keating felt as chill as January ditch water. Apologies meant nothing. They were an epilogue to carelessness.

“You’re lucky I let you live to say you’re sorry. Do you know what my father did to me when I failed as a boy?”

“No, sir.”

Keating ground his teeth a moment before he replied. “He would not permit me to eat until the fault was corrected. Oh, I was allowed at the table, and the food was set before me, but I was not to touch it. If I did, I would be beaten until my back was raw. So I learned to sit and smell my supper, and my mouth would water and my belly would cramp, but there would be no eating. Not until whatever sin I had committed was sponged away. And just to be sure I felt the full force of my shortcomings, my mother would not be allowed to eat, nor my brothers or sisters. We would endure together, if any one of us erred. Father was evenhanded that way.”

Keating looked into Striker’s eyes and saw nothing but a kind of dull curiosity. Whatever Keating’s lot had been, it was fair to say a brown-skinned bastard from the dockside had seen worse. That just made Keating angrier, his resentment gnawing from his groin to his throat.

“My father was a holy man,” he spat. “He dressed up his punishments in scripture. It was hard for a child to argue with chapter and verse.”

As he was speaking, Keating took a step away from his streetkeeper. It gave him the chance to find firm footing. When he struck, he put his weight behind a perfect left hook. Keating’s knuckles cracked against the side of Striker’s head with a meaty thud. And he was fast; too fast for the man to block the unexpected blow.

Striker sailed from the chair, sprawling facedown on the floor, sliding like a sack of meal through the grit.

Didn’t expect that from me, did you?
Keating’s blood fizzed, the violence of the moment like a tonic. He flexed his throbbing hand, grimacing with pain and the beginnings of a smile.
Sometimes blood is a better release than a whore
. “You’ll get no sermons from me. I prefer to keep things simple.”

Striker rolled to his side, cradling his face in one hand. Keating’s groom moved forward, just in case he planned to fight back. Striker’s eyes had gone dark with murderous anger, but he stayed down.

Keating moved closer so that he stood with the man at his feet. He nudged him with a toe. “Sometimes dogs need a good beating. Now get up and start hunting.”

“
HOW DO I LOOK
?”
IMOGEN ASKED, EXECUTING A SHARP
turn so her train curled around her feet like an affectionate kitten.

“Lovely as always,” Evelina replied. “Every man in the place will faint dead away, overwhelmed by your astonishing beauty.”

Imogen made a face. “I’m not too pale for this color?”

“No. It suits you.”

Imogen wore a shell pink, a shade just off cream, the bodice embroidered with pale green and pink roses twining around a shimmering latticework of tiny brass gears. The style was called
à l’automate
, the latest mode since
à la girafe
and
à l’égyptienne
. There was no possibility anyone would mistake Imogen for an automaton, but the glittering effect was lovely.

“And why are you so particular about your toilette?” Evelina asked airily. “Have you set your cap at some fine young peer of the realm?”

Evelina had chosen a simpler dress in a shade of rose that set off her darker coloring. Imogen’s face flushed until she almost matched it. “No special reason.”

They linked arms, starting down the stairs. “Is Mr. Penner going to be in attendance?” Evelina asked, thinking of what she had seen as she had come out of the tea shop. Bucky had been kissing Imogen’s hand, and the look on her friend’s face had been anything but displeased.

But now Imogen was the picture of innocence. “I assure you I have no idea.”

Evelina let the matter drop, making up her mind to keep an eye on matters that evening.

The two girls had spent the afternoon getting ready for the Season; the presentation was only days away. Evelina had collected three new dresses she had ordered when she first got to London and, at her grandmamma’s insistence, ordered three more. The seamstress had also finished altering her mother’s presentation gown, and now that was spread out on the bed—too pretty to put away quite yet.

To be sure, there were many, many more important things to do than buy new clothes—such as find out who owned the warehouse where she had found the cube. There seemed to be no way of finding out without drawing attention to herself, which was the very last thing she wanted. In addition, a copy of
Barrett’s Guide to the Mechanics of Ancient Europe
sat on the desk, waiting for her to do some research on the mysterious cube—but she was only human. No young, bright woman on the threshold of life was immune to the fascination of a months-long orgy of parties, and there was something wonderful about seeing her name inscribed on so many invitations. She’d had to order more calling cards.

And, to be honest, the encounter in the warehouse had made her cautious. She had lost none of her determination to protect Imogen and her family, but whoever had kept the dragon would be scouring London for news of other adepts. And by returning Bird to her, Magnus had shown that he knew more about Evelina than she liked. She was no coward, but she had an increasingly sharp urge to dissolve into the crowd of innocent young debutantes and concern herself with nothing more than waltzes and bonnet ribbons and blessed security.