The Ghost Rebellion (11 page)

The young woman standing in the lobby, causing many unwanted eyes to turn to Sophia, was Febe, a neighbour who had always been eager for advice from Mona, the “kindly old weaver” that Sophia had been playing for months. As usual, she was bundled up like a sore thumb, with her bright red hair sticking out at all angles. The young woman’s grey eyes were wide and innocent, her cheeks naturally ruddy, and that sweet face staring at her contained only endless innocence. She knew nothing of the world outside of Bruges, but Bruges she knew intimately.

Sophia did not care for redheads, but as she was a foreigner in Bruges, she did need at least one person to feed her gossip, which Febe never lacked. It was the most adventure the simple woman knew.

“
Bonjour
, Febe,” Sophia replied, pulling the small box in the crook of her arm closer to her. Hopefully, the shawl concealed it from view. “What brings you here?”

“
I should ask the same,” the woman said, her hand motioning to the hotel all around them, attracting even more attention. “Such a fine establishment for simple folk like us.”

Sophia shook her head. “Oh, Febe, you have so much to learn of the world. I was just meeting with someone who had taken a shine to my work.”

Febe’s eyes suddenly lit up with delight. “I saw you coming in here, and I did wonder. I just had to find out what you were doing.”

The girl was far too curious for her own good and had absolutely no shame about it either.

Sophia frowned, and took a couple of steps away in an attempt to get Febe outside, and shut the woman up. “We were discussing a commission and payment.”

Febe clapped her hands, and Sophia knew her limits were being tested. “Oh how exciting!”

“
Yes, yes, yes…” Sophia said, allowing her words to trail off as she waved a free hand towards the door. “But I think the day is catching up with me.”

“
Would you care for a ride back home?” she asked.

Finally, the peasant comes in use. “Splendid.”

Outside, the horse and cart awaited them. Febe helped Sophia up to her seat, then she joined her, clicked her tongue, and off they went.

For the entire ride Febe talked. And talked. And talked. It was the usual gossip of town, which was no longer of interest to the assassin. Sophia nodded, but used the opportunity to glance around, and reassure herself that they were not being followed. On this trek to her modest hovel, though, the only thing eventful was Febe’s news; and according to the peasant, it was the only thing worth knowing about.

“
And then there is you,” Febe said suddenly.

Sophia blinked. “Whatever do you mean, child?”

The girl burst out laughing. “You don’t know it, do you?” Febe, shaking her head, sighed. “Oh, Mona, what you did in the Markt today is the talk of the town. You beat a machine, Mona.
A machine!
So many weavers are praising your name, and I think the
Gazette
wants to feature you!”

Sophia shook her head.
Damn.
 

“
We will have to sit down and talk about how you will charge people for your wares. After all,” she said, “you are now a local treasure. A celebrity!”

It had to be now. She needed to leave Bruges now.

Their cart trundled up to Sophia’s house, the modest dwelling she had called home all this time. She patiently waited for Febe to help her down from the cart. With a gentle nod to her friend, Sophia began her slow walk up to the front door. It had never appeared so far away.

“
Poor thing, you must be exhausted,” she heard Febe say from behind her. “Let me help you.”

“
I may be old,” Sophia barked over her shoulder. She had to get rid of Febe. “I am not helpless.”

“
Don’t be so silly,” the girl said, cutting in front of her, “I insist.”

Perhaps it was the uneven ground underfoot, or Febe’s excitement making her move faster than Sophia had ever seen before, but the light jostle between Febe and Sophia for the key in Sophia’s hand knocked the small box out of her hidden hold. It landed at their feet with a dull thud, and did not go unnoticed.

“
Mona,” Febe asked, turning the rectangular object over in her hands, “whatever is this?”

The hand slapped firmly across Febe’s mouth as they both slammed into Sophia’s front door. Sophia unlocked the door, pushed her neighbour into the dark dwelling, and shut it behind them in one fluid motion.

“
Not. One. Sound.” Sophia’s warning was returned with a muffled whimper and a rapid nod.

She had to kill her. It was the sensible thing to do, especially now that she had tipped her hand with the “Mona” disguise. The girl was a knot left untied, a dangling thread, where Sophia did not want to leave a trace.

With a shove against Febe, Sophia stepped back, and then reached for a lantern sitting on a table by the door. She lit it, hung it up, and then took the matches to another lantern suspended across from them.

“
Mona?” Febe finally gasped out.

“
I said, not one sound!” Sophia snapped, causing her to flinch.

Sophia checked the curtains to assure herself they were drawn. With a deep breath, she stripped off the grey-haired wig, then worked her fingers underneath the hidden seams of her elaborate mask, which extended to her neck, and she began to pull. The second skin stubbornly held on, but she continued to tug at it until a good portion of it was free. She tossed the section of her disguise at Febe’s feet.

The young woman let out a tiny cry at the portion of neck, cheek, and nose lying there. Sophia could only imagine the fresh horror she emulated with tatters of another face remaining on her actual one. She continued to pull at the false skin on her nose until finally the remains were gone.

Febe remained rooted where she stood, her eyes tracing over Sophia’s true face. Yet—even in this moment—she couldn’t quite stop herself from talking. “Mona...how...why? All this time...” Then she swallowed, and said in a raspy voice, “Who are you?”

Sophia could end all this, either with the stiletto hidden up the right sleeve or a single razor-cog from her left. As the assassin’s eyes narrowed, she couldn’t help but think of the two of them. They’d sat out in the courtyard, carding wool, chattering and gossiping. Febe had a widowed mother and three younger brothers; and though they drove her mad, she loved them. Sophia knew everything that went on in that house. The arguments, the joys, the minutiae of a normal life. It was all so lovely, in an honest, sincere fashion.

“
I am sorry I have put you in this situation,” Sophia said to the wide-eyed girl, “but you and your family must leave Bruges immediately.”

“
Leave Bruges?” Febe asked. If the woman was not careful, she would faint, considering how hard she was breathing. “We cannot just leave.”

“
Your spectacle at the hotel has tied you back to me,” she said in a hard tone so that Febe would understand that this was serious. “When I disappear, when Mona disappears, people will talk about who was last seen with her. This means you and your family must disappear.” Sophia went to the centre of the kitchen and stomped hard against the end of a floorboard. The plank lifted, and she reached into the hole and produced a pair of saddle bags. Flipping one open she rummaged through it and fished out two wrapped bundles of what she knew was currency. “There is enough there to start a new life,” she said, tossing Febe the money. “Do so. Tell no one what you have seen tonight, or where you are going. If you do, the people I was hiding from will kill you all.”

Febe just stared at the money in her hands, definitely the most she had ever seen in her life; and then back to Sophia, her mouth agape.

Her left arm shot outward, and the razor-sharp teeth of the cog sunk into the wood of the door just behind Febe.

“
Go,” Sophia uttered.

The girl spun on her heel and scrambled out of the hovel. Sophia honestly hoped she would take her advice, and that her own pity would not end up coming back on her.

She went to the solitary mirror suspended over the basin, and removed the last scraps of Mona from her skin. She then scooped up the remnants, dropped them into the basin, and with the strike of a match, lit the disguise on fire. Perhaps that was a silver lining in all this: she would not miss the ritual of creating this old crone.

Returning her attention to the saddle bags, she winced at the amount of generosity to Febe, but this was not the girl’s fault. Sophia still had enough money to keep her on the run, hopefully enough time to find her allies. When she found in the second saddle bag her assassin’s gear, her lips lifted in a surprised smile. Life certainly took some strange turns, but perhaps this one could still be interesting.

Be careful what you wish for,
Sophia thought with a wry grin.

As she swung the bags over her shoulder, removed the cog from the door, and finally glanced around the small house that had been her home, Sophia let out a soft sigh.
Ah well
, she thought to herself,
Bruges lost its charm awhile ago. Time to go find some friends, or at least allies.
 

But first, a quick stop at the communications office. Considering the security in Bruges, it would be a brief detour.

Chapter Four

In Which Our Colonial Pepperpot Finds Herself in Most Comfortable Trappings

“
Get down!” Eliza screamed just at the moment the training yard around them went white. When her vision began to clear it was to see figures emerging out of the glare—worse still, armed figures.

Wellington was going to be very cross,
Eliza thought as she yanked at the edge of her wrap skirt, and buttons went flying. Yet she was now lighter, agile, and far more nimble in her tight leggings beneath. It also meant she could better access her pounamu pistols and a small baton holstered against her left thigh. Eliza slipped both pistols free and brought them to bear on the rebels now charging.

Three men dropped in quick succession, but there were too many to dispatch quickly or efficiently. As she continued to fire, Wellington dragged her by the elbow towards a storage facility, while Vania followed.

“
Whomever they are,” Vania said, looking in the opposite direction of the attack, “they will easily flank us from the other side.”

“
Then we need to get back inside the office,” Eliza said, peering around the corner. She could see a small group of these invaders break away from the line, only to disappear from view. “Here they come.”

Wellington drew from inside his coat the modest experimental, barely larger than a Remington-Elliot. Where there should have been a hammer, there was instead a clear cylindrical chamber lit with a faint glow.

Eliza’s jaw twitched. “You really should stop with those clankertons’ toys, you know that?”

“
I’ll provide cover. You and Vania make for the door.”

“
With that?”

“
Just trust me, my darling. Oh, and don’t look in my direction once you start moving.” Wellington’s fingers splayed around the handle of the gun. “Ready?”

Eliza glanced over her shoulder, and Vania gave a shrug. “As we will ever be.”

Wellington gave his sun spectacles a quick adjustment, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Go.”

Then, calm as you please, he stepped out into the firefight.

Eliza and Vania sprinted back for the office, but the door felt like it was farther and farther off with each step. Then, everything around her disappeared in a brilliant white flash. Even the sandy ground underfoot vanished, leaving her and Vania running through a white void. Eliza tripped, her toe catching something in the ground. She toppled over, pulling her colleague on top of her. She placed a hand on Vania’s back and could make out the agent nodding.
Get up,
Eliza thought to herself. Slowly, texture and shape were returning.

Steps. This was the stoop just in front of the barracks door.

“
Go on,” she shouted. “I’m right behind you.”

Pulling herself back to her feet, Eliza could now make out a door handle and the dark cool interior of the command offices. Against the glare, she could see soldiers loading pistols and rifles. Those inside were calm, but visibly rattled by this surprise attack. She only took two steps before a pair of hands grabbed her from behind and shoved her through the threshold.

“
Close the door!” Wellington ordered as he released Eliza and dropped her on a bench against the wall. He plopped onto his backside on the floor at her feet.

The dead giveaway was the slight sunburn on his face.

“
Welly, what was that?” Eliza demanded.

He winced slightly. “Just an idea I had been bandying about for a spell. Something akin to the Mule’s Kick, only using light. Haven’t christened it yet.” He glanced at the small pistol in his hand. “Went rather well for a first field test.”

Eliza scowled. “Remind me to have a serious talk with you about how ‘the field’ is not the optimal place to test your weapons. Especially during a firefight.”

“
Bloody wogs are everywhere,” grumbled a voice alongside them.

She whipped her head around to see Lieutenant General Southerby working his arms into a mechanised device Eliza suspected was a small backpack of ammunition. The strand of bullets fed to a small Gatling gun mounted on a chest plate covering his midsection. It was easily recognisable as a variation of what the Maestro’s Grey Ghosts wore in their assault on the Diamond Jubilee.
Lord Featherstone,
Eliza seethed.
  Must have worked with Jekyll in the scavenging and adapting of the departed Peter Lawson’s technology.
 

Behind the backpack, O’Neil was engaging several locks that connected hoses and hydraulics. With a final look, he came round to face Southerby.

“
The Gatling Garrison is at the ready, sir,” O’Neil stated. “My men will provide cover fire from the left flank, as ordered.”