The Viper and the Urchin: Books 4-6: A Quirky Steampunk Fantasy series

Prologue

Cruikshank was so intent on her work that she never heard Adelma enter her workshop. So when the smuggler called out a loud greeting, Cruikshank nearly jumped out of her skin. Grind my gears, have you never heard of knocking?

Much more fun to sneak up on you and see the expression on your face, Adelma replied.

Cruikshank rolled her eyes. You and Rory are as bad as each other. Must be something to do with coming from the Rookery.

Adelma grinned. "Probably. We’re more used to breaking and entering than knocking and entering."

Cruikshank put aside the plans she’d been drawing. She was working on something to help alleviate the pain in the big toe that had been broken back in Azyr. She’d been back for six months, and it still caused her pain. The bones had been too badly broken to set properly, leaving her with a limp and a choice between medication and constant dull pain.

That was no choice at all, as far as she was concerned. Cruikshank had always held the opinion that doctors were as useless as marzipan nipples, and her recent experience had done nothing to improve her opinion.

So she was taking matters in her own hands and searching for a mechanical solution to help her walk better and without pain.

I got something for you, Adelma said.

Oh?

Yeah. I think you’ll find it interesting.

Adelma placed a small box on the workbench. Cruikshank immediately peered at it with interest. The box was closed by an intricate mechanism unlike anything she had seen before.

I don't know what's inside it. I tried to pry it open, but it wouldn't work. Seemed like a shame to just smash it open, so I thought of you.

Cruikshank picked up the box and turned it over in her hands. It was made of copper, and its surface was covered with tiny gears and switches. Where did you get it from?

Little mugging—a smuggler I got a grudge against.

Cruikshank looked up at her, appalled. You mugged someone to get this? You work for the Marchioness of Damsport now, Adelma. You can't be going around mugging people.

Adelma shook her head. No, no, no. I don't work for the Old Girl. I'm an independent contractor. She gave a smug grin. I made proper sure of that. I don’t get paid a salary or nothing. So that means I ain’t an employee. I can be contracted when there’s need of me, right, and then I get paid for a specific job. But when I ain’t working on an assignment, I’m under no obligation, and I got no responsibilities. I paid a fancy lawyer and all to check on that.

Cruikshank raised an eyebrow. Did you actually tell the lawyer you contract yourself to the Old Girl? And that you wanted to mug people in your spare time?

Well… not in so many words.

Cruikshank half laughed, half sighed. Well, I guess I should thank you for this, at least, she said. It does look like an interesting puzzle.

You can keep your thanks, Adelma said. I ain’t giving it to you. It’s for sale.

What? This was… you said you brought me a gift.

No, I said I got something for you. That’s different.

I thought we were friends.

Exactly, and as your friend, I ain’t your charity. I will give you first dibs on interesting stuff I come across, but that’s it. If you don’t want it, I’ll offer it to the highest bidder. Adelma put her hand out.

Cruikshank cradled the box closer, too intrigued to let it go. Fine. How much?

Three jinns of gold, Adelma said.

What? Cruikshank spluttered. That much?

Well, there might be something real valuable inside. I don't know. Adelma shrugged. Might be full of gold.

You’d hear it rattle if that was the case, Cruikshank replied.

Gold what’s been melted and set in the shape of the box.

It’s too light for that.

Diamonds wrapped in cloth so they don’t rattle, Adelma countered.

Cruikshank rolled her eyes. It’s not full of diamonds, and we both know that.

Do we? Didn’t realise you could see through metal.

Cruikshank narrowed her eyes. I ain’t paying any more than two jinns for it.

Two and a half, ’cause you’re such a good friend I’ll let you rob me blind. Adelma wiped a pretend tear from the corner of her eye. My poor Tommy’s gotta eat.

How charming, bringing your boy into this.

At what point did I give the impression that I were going for charm? Adelma asked, pulling out a set of scales to weigh the money.

Cruikshank paid, and Adelma weighed out the change.

Pleasure doing business with you, she said, grinning.

I wish I could reciprocate, Cruikshank muttered, wondering if she had just been royally ripped off.

Once Adelma had left, Cruikshank began puzzling out the box. Whoever had made it was highly skilled, and Cruikshank had a great time poking through each bit of the mechanism and learning how it worked.

The sun was setting by the time she cracked the box open. Inside was a glass container the exact shape and dimension of the box, fitting snuggly within the copper casing. It was half-full of a ruby-red liquid that glowed softly.

There was a small collapsible spigot that could be pulled out to measure out single drops of the liquid.

Cruikshank frowned. She’d never seen anything like it before, but whatever it was, it had to be valuable to be carried this way. She would ask Longinus to take a look at it.

For the moment, she did the only test she could think of. Using a pipette, she placed one drop of the liquid onto a thin metal plate a few inches wide. Then she shut the glass container and the box and placed them on a nearby shelf, which was crowded with sketches and blueprints. She plonked the box atop a sheaf of paper, turning it into an impromptu paperweight. Then she returned to her workbench, and she sat down, grabbing a match. She presented it to the liquid.

The explosion was loud enough to make her cry out in shock, falling backwards in her chair so that she went rolling arse over head.

Cruikshank picked herself up, ears ringing from the bang, more than a little shaken. The metal plate that had housed the drop was no longer on the workbench. Cruikshank looked around for it.

It had been twisted by the strength of the explosion and flung right across the workshop. She retrieved it with an unsteady hand, throwing the copper box a fearful look. If a drop was enough to create that kind of explosion, she dreaded to think what the whole container could do. Level her workshop to rubble, for a start.

Cruikshank had never heard of such a powerful explosive, especially not one so stable it could be carried around, shaken about, and still retain its properties without exploding unexpectedly. Alchemical explosions were possible, of course, but they were either weak or so unstable that the slightest change in condition could mean no reaction or an uncontrolled explosion. To work with alchemical explosives was to gamble your life or your limbs away, so very few people ever did.

Cruikshank looked at the box sitting placidly on her shelf. It didn’t look like much, yet it was clearly extremely powerful. An idea wormed its way into her head, and she began to see how she could make use of such a strong and stable explosive.

She didn’t like the idea, and yet her professional curiosity tugged at her, demanding to know if such a design was even possible. She hesitated, looking over at the explosive. If she pulled off the design, it would be unparalleled. The first of its kind.

It’s just to see, she told herself as she pulled out a clean sheet of paper. No harm ever came from just sketching.

Chapter 1

It was part of life’s fickle nature that no sooner was one problem solved than another took its place. Longinus had spent oodles of time finding a suitable house for him and Rory to rent, to say nothing of the effort required to convince her that she should sleep within the house and not on the roof. He displayed a perfect mix of cunning and persuasion along with enough saintly patience to put the most devout monk to shame.

When Rory finally agreed to move out of Cruikshank’s workshop, she insisted that she and Longinus split the rent equally. And while Longinus knew she had a bit of money, given the salary the Marchioness paid her, he didn’t want her to spend too much of it on rent. He told her a figure far below what the house was actually worth.

Even then, she spluttered at the cost, immediately suggesting they search for a bargain in the Rookery. It had then taken yet more cunning, persuasion, and saintly patience to dissuade her of that idea.

The mere thought of living in the Rookery still made Longinus shudder.

So after all that hard work with Rory, he should by rights have been enjoying the fruits of his labour in the form of a perfectly appointed house in a nice neighbourhood, far from the noise and mess of Cruikshank’s workshop.

But alas, life could never be smooth for long, and his enjoyment of the new house had to be postponed, given the latest crisis rearing its ugly head.

Careful, Longinus called up, watching two movers grunting as they tried to heave his precious wardrobe up the stairs. Careful! He winced as one of the wardrobe’s feet came precariously close to the varnished teak bannister.

Who the hell… has a solid-teak wardrobe that size… that doesn’t break down into parts? one of the movers grunted as he and the other man tried for the third time to negotiate the bend in the stairs.

Someone with taste, Longinus replied, sucking air through his teeth as the wardrobe once again came close enough to the teak bannister to shave it.

It was fair to say that Longinus’s relationship with his carpenter hadn’t progressed on the best of terms. Something about the man not appreciating Longinus’s razor-sharp attention to detail or his very specific instructions.

Longinus failed to see what the problem was in having a client who liked to keep an eye on how his furniture was made. And surely, the carpenter should have been grateful for the many, many suggestions Longinus had put forth during the process. He was only trying to help, after all.

But no, apparently the man’s pride was too prickly to accept that someone without carpentering skills could have useful input. As a result, the carpenter had purposefully built the wardrobe in a way that wouldn’t allow for it to be taken apart. Longinus knew this was no accident, because when he’d seen the wardrobe on delivery, he’d rushed over to demand why it couldn’t be taken apart.

Because you didn’t specify it, the carpenter had replied, smirking.

Longinus could have poisoned him there and then. He was only held back by a sense of professionalism. Assassins didn’t just poison on a whim to relieve their anger.

But now he faced a solid-teak wardrobe of significant size and a bend in his staircase of less-than-significant size. The challenge of wedging the former through the latter was proving difficult to surmount.

Longinus hissed in almost physical pain as the movers once again heaved the wardrobe up, attempting a new angle, and one of its legs gouged a hole in the sage-and-duck-egg-blue wallpaper.

My wallpaper, he groaned. It had cost him a small fortune.

The movers grunted and swore, sweat pouring off their bare chests. They shoved the wardrobe up and forward on top of the curved bannister. Longinus heard a crack, and he buried his face in his hands, unable to work out if he was more upset about the wardrobe or the bannister, given that both were teak.

Go back, go back, one of the movers said, wheezing from the effort.

They began pulling the wardrobe backwards, but it was wedged in. Longinus pictured himself forced to either live in a house with stairs blocked by a huge wardrobe or use an axe to hack through the problem.

The patience of a saint… I have the patience of a saint…

Ahem, came a voice behind him along with a knock at the open front door.

Longinus turned around to find a nervous-looking young man standing in the doorway, holding a parcel.

I have a delivery? the young man said, looking uncertainly at the staircase. The Enchanter’s Breath, from Fetter and Waft, renowned purveyors of household finery for the discerning gentleman. The delivery boy recited the whole thing in one breath and one tone. He swallowed. It’s my first day, he added awkwardly. Do I just… He thrust the parcel at Longinus.

Why don’t you bring it here. Longinus ushered the delivery boy to the sitting room and had him deposit the parcel on a desk. The lad gawked at the sitting room, obviously unused to such surroundings.

Longinus paid the lad and sent him on his way, but he didn’t return to the wardrobe crisis right away. Instead he indulged himself by unwrapping his parcel, careful not to tear the pretty sea-green paper.

Much as Longinus was delighted to have managed to convince Rory to live in a proper house, he felt some trepidation at the idea of cohabitating with her. Longinus liked his interiors just so, and Rory didn’t quite…fit with that vision.

One of his greatest concerns was her tendency to track foul smells on the soles of her boots. More than once she’d returned to Cruikshank’s workshop, grinning from ear to ear, rattling out some story, while stinking the place up from having trodden in the gods only knew what back at the Rookery.

At least now that the girl had grown used to washing regularly, she had stopped stinking. But just to be safe, Longinus had ordered several of the Enchanter’s Breath devices, which emitted a perfumed steam that neutralised unfortunate smells.

He finished unwrapping the parcel, setting out the devices on the desk. He would tinker with them so they would diffuse his own formula for neutralising smells. Maybe also come up with a signature perfume. A man of his calibre should really have a signature scent—he had been remiss in not attending to this before. It should be a fun bit of alchemy.

The thought of alchemy had Longinus’s eyes drifting over to the pile of heavy alchemical tomes he’d received earlier in the day. On top of securing a house for him and Rory to live in, he’d been hard at work on an alchemical treatment to counteract his phobia of blood. The books would allow him to apprise himself of the latest cutting-edge alchemical developments to help him refine his initial work.

He sighed with yearning. If not for the crisis taking place in his stairwell, he would have made himself a cup of excellent coffee, sat himself down in his newly acquired ebony-and-velvet armchair, and perused the books at his leisure in the soothing calm of a tastefully decorated and well-appointed sitting room. Maybe even set up one of the Enchanter’s Breath to test the perfume provided with the device.

As if to remind him of their presence, the movers shouted. There was the worrying crash of something large and heavy coming into contact with an immovable object such as a wall.

Longinus took a deep breath. He gave his sitting room a final look—the palette of muted turquoise and deep greens really had been an excellent choice—and he returned to the disaster in his stairs.

Chunks of plaster and strips of wallpaper had been torn from the wall. A scattering of white plaster dusted the bottom-right corner of the wardrobe as the movers struggled to get it back down.

Through an almost superhuman effort of will, Longinus remained calm as he watched their slow, awkward progress.

They returned the wardrobe to the entrance of the house. You’ll have to keep this on the ground floor, one of the movers said, wiping his sodden brow with a sinew-corded forearm.

The other mover had his hands on his knees, leaning over and breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his forehead onto the parquet floor. Longinus made a mental note to tell the maid to clean the corridor. Then he remembered that Rory wasn’t supposed to know he’d hired a maid.

Another problem to deal with later.

He pushed the thoughts away, returning to his wardrobe and the mover’s suggestion. Impossible. A wardrobe on the ground floor? What else—a kitchen on the upper floor? A roof in the basement? Please suggest a less ridiculous solution.

The man gave him an odd look.

We could try getting it in through the upstairs window, the other mover said, straightening up. It looked wide enough.

The first man nodded. We could. It’ll cost you extra, though. We have a winching system that we can install on your roof to hoist the wardrobe up and then hopefully get it through the window.

That will be fine, Longinus said. At this point, cost is no object.

Great. See you tomorrow.

Both men headed out the open front door.

Um, excuse me? Longinus called, hurrying after them. "Tomorrow? I cannot have a wardrobe in my entrance tonight. I assumed you would get it upstairs today."

We’re beat, one of the movers said. We’ll come back tomorrow with the equipment.

I’d be happy to compensate you for your time, Longinus said, producing a few coins.

Thank you, the mover replied, taking the coins. Could do with a few beers after all that.

So you’ll come back today? Longinus asked.

No. I told you, we’re done for the day.

But I just paid you extra.

And much appreciated it is. But that don’t change the fact that we’re beat. We’ll come back tomorrow.

But… but… I cannot have a wardrobe in the entrance on the day that I move into my new home, Longinus spluttered.

Then you shouldn’t have bought something so massive that can’t even be taken apart, the mover replied with infuriating logic.

Longinus pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.

The patience of a saint… the patience of a saint…

He should have been putting the final few touches on the house so that by the time Rory arrived, it would all be perfect. A wardrobe plonked in front of the staircase was as far from perfection as the great gash torn in the staircase wallpaper.

Oh dear, a familiar voice said. I’m sensing a crisis.

Longinus opened his eyes to find Rory looking distinctly amused. She wore her usual fighting leathers, perfectly tailored—his contribution—but heavily stained, scuffed, and scratched from their last adventure in Azyr. Her hair was a thick mass of ropelike segments dwarfing her diminutive frame, and her unusual blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

Please oblige me by removing that look from your face at once, Longinus said.

What look? she asked, all mock innocence.

Don’t push me, Rory, Longinus said, his voice growing dangerous.

Fine, fine. What’s got you all in a tizzy, then? Wallpaper? Furniture? You know, we could have just rented one of them set of pre-furnished rooms in the Rookery. Would have been much easier, and cheaper, too.

"Rory, I will not have this argument again. Your refusal to understand the importance of a gentleman owning his furniture is nothing short of abysmal and infuriating. I have faced what can only be described as a major crisis that has completely derailed today’s plan for moving into the house, and I won’t have you pouring salt into the wound by blathering on about the Rookery again!"

Alright, alright. Jeez, Rory said, raising her hands to pacify him.

Longinus shook his head, his anger evaporating. Not only was the wardrobe a disaster, but he was also losing it with Rory on the very day she was supposed to move into the house. Getting her to this moment had been every bit as difficult as coaxing a badger out of its set. He was suddenly worried that he might have undone all his good work by snapping at her.

What if she decided she wanted to go back to living on the roofs after all?

Rory stepped into the house. Ah. My amazing sense of observation spots the problem, I reckon. Quite a big varnished problem with—stone the gulls, Longinus, is that gold?

Gold inlay, Longinus said. And yes. It goes perfectly with the colour palette of my room.

Rory looked up at the stairs, then at the great tear in the wall, then back at the wardrobe. See, when you only got one set of clothes, no chance your wardrobe’s gonna get stuck on the ground floor.

Longinus glowered at her. Continue this line of thought, and I’ll remind you that the dead have no need of clothes.

Rory laughed and moved around the wardrobe to the bottom of the stairs. There was an awkward pause.

Your bedroom upstairs is furnished, Longinus said encouragingly, forgetting all his earlier frustrations.

This was the moment he had worked so hard for. For all Rory’s infuriatingly nonsensical views on houses and furniture, Longinus really wanted her to feel happy and settled in the house. He knew full well what an alien concept having her own home would be for her.

Furniture and all, eh? Rory said with a nervous smile. That’ll be a change.

She took a breath and climbed the steps. Longinus hoped he had gotten her bedroom furnishing right. He didn’t want some blunder—too many cushions, for example—to spook the girl and send her running back to the rooftops.

Chapter 2

Rory climbed the stairs, trailing a hand lightly along the bannister. Her bannister. What a weird thought. Well, it was half hers, since she split the rent evenly with Longinus.

She felt a rush of emotion at the thought that she was paying rent. On a house. With stairs and a bannister.

Rory couldn’t identify the feelings that roiled in her stomach, but she realised that her hands had started to shake slightly. It was all a bit overwhelming. She stopped at the top of the stairs to catch her breath.

A part of her would have liked to bolt out of the house and head back out to the familiar freedom of the rooftops. But she knew how much time and work Longinus had put into setting the place up, and she couldn’t do that to him.

Living at Cruikshank’s workshop had been different to this. It had been Cruikshank’s place, Rory only taking a bit of space on the floor. The space hadn’t actually belonged to her. All that had ever belonged to her until not too long ago had been makeshift shelters atop crumbling, derelict houses.

Rory ran a hand along the wall, feeling the smooth wallpaper. She knew Longinus would be crapping bricks over the enormous hole gouged farther back, and the thought made her smile. She should have probably also been upset that someone had gouged a hole in her wall, but just having a wall felt so surreal that she really didn’t mind if it had a hole in it. If anything, the damage made it less perfect and therefore less intimidating.

Rory grinned, finding herself absurdly grateful for the ridiculous wardrobe stuck on the ground floor and the many scuff marks all along the stairs. Longinus didn’t have it all figured out either, and that made the prospect of staying with him in the house more comfortable.

She set off along the upstairs corridor, trailing her hand along the dado rail. Until a few days before, she’d had no idea such a thing even existed. When you lived on the streets, dado rails weren’t exactly essential.

Alchemical globes hung in sconces on the wall, but they were currently cold as there was plenty of sunlight streaming through the open doors.

Rory walked past Longinus’s laboratory. She caught a glimpse of a workbench so perfectly pristine and tidy it looked like a shop display. Next to it was his bedroom, and farther down would be Rory’s bedroom.

Her heart pounded. The door to it was ajar, and sunlight spilled out.

She had absolutely no idea what awaited beyond. She had left Longinus to select all the decorations since she had no ideas on or opinions about what was needed to furnish a house. He had tried to involve her in one decision, something about cushions, and she’d had to hide her panic behind a mask of utter indifference.

She reached the door, and her mouth felt dry. She pushed it open.

Her room was bright, flooded with sunlight. The windows were large enough for Rory to climb out, even large enough for Cruikshank’s steam-powered spider to slip through. She smiled. Longinus would have paid attention to that kind of detail.

The room was otherwise simple to the point of starkness, much to Rory’s relief. She’d feared walking into an explosion of Longinus.

Instead, the walls were white with a single decoration: a map of the world. There was a bed, a desk and chair, a small wardrobe—a fraction of the size of the one stuck downstairs—and a sideboard with a water basin and jug.

Rory swallowed. It was perfect. And it was hers.

She walked to the map and traced the coastlines with her finger. There was Damsport, and there, far away, was Azyr, the city state where she had been involved in a rescue mission more than six months ago. Her finger traced the coastlines of unknown, exotic places still left to explore.

The world was so vast. She smiled. It was going to be fun poring over the map.

Rory headed to the wardrobe and opened the doors. Only a set of spare fighting leathers hung there. Rory’s eyebrows shot up. That was restrained, especially for Longinus. She’d been sure he would use the move as an excuse to force new clothes on her.

My, my, she murmured, smiling. Things change.

The leathers would, of course, be perfectly tailored—if Longinus one day stopped caring about tailoring, the world would probably end.

There was also a twin set of hooks for her sword, another for a grappling hook and line, and a small shelf with a compartment for her dagger. Experimentally, Rory removed all three items and put them in their resting places. It felt odd.

She took the dagger back and immediately felt better. Beneath the shelf for her dagger was another one that housed a neat pile of white handkerchiefs. The little Longinus touch. Rory chuckled—he was incorrigible after all.

Rory stopped herself. She had automatically begun to tally up the value of the handkerchiefs if she were to steal them and sell them at the secondhand stalls near the Great Bazaar. Apparently, she was incorrigible as well.

She stepped back from the wardrobe and realised that she had no idea what to do next. She had seen her room. Now what? What did people do when they had houses of their own? She turned slowly around, feeling awkward and out of place again.

She looked over at the bed. Longinus had explained that he had gone for a very thin, hard mattress, something that would come close to mimicking sleeping on the floor. Rory couldn’t understand why anyone would want to sleep on a soft, sagging surface.

She climbed on the bed to test it out. It wasn’t bad. She shifted around a bit, tossing this way and that. The bed was nice and firm beneath her—not quite as hard as a floor but definitely nothing like a mattress. Maybe she would try it that night.

She sat up and saw that her boots had left dirty marks all over the sheets. Rory had never taken her boots off to sleep before—no need when you slept on the floor. She cursed and climbed down from the bed. The sheets would need washing. Well, at least now she had something to do.

***

Rory climbed down the stairs, carrying her soiled bedsheets.

What did you think? Longinus asked anxiously the moment she set foot on the ground floor, hovering next to his wardrobe.

I like it, she replied.

Longinus gave a relieved smile. And the bed… is it alright?

It’s fine. Rory smiled at his eagerness.

Then why have you taken the sheets off?

Well, I tried the bed out, but I forgot that when you sleep on a bed, you got to take your boots off. There’s mud all over this now.

She stepped past him towards the kitchen at the back of the house.

Give it to me, Longinus said, hurrying to stand between her and the kitchen, holding out his hands.

Rory looked at him incredulously. You’re gonna do washing?

Don’t sound so shocked. I’m perfectly good at doing washing.

Yeah, I'm sure you are, but you really expect me to believe you’d do it voluntarily?

Longinus had just taken the sheets from her when a maid appeared at the kitchen door behind him—black uniform, apron, and all. She bobbed a quick curtsy.

Rory looked at Longinus, aghast. "A maid? You hired a maid??"

I needed some help to get the house in order, he replied defensively. And I went looking for one with poor references, the kind who would struggle to get decent employment, just so you would approve.

Roy shook her head vehemently, snatching the sheets back from Longinus. No, absolutely not. I ain’t having no maid. You lost your marbles?

Now, Rory, Longinus began, his tone infuriatingly reasonable.

No. I ain’t hearing another word on it. We ain’t having a maid. No way.

The maid rushed over. She looked the same age as Rory, eighteen or so. She was fresh-faced with large brown eyes and the dark skin of a Damsian.

Please don't fire me, she begged. I need the money for my family. Please. The poor reference isn't my fault. Honest, it wasn't. I can explain it all. Please give me a chance. I work real hard, and I’m real good at doing laundry. She spoke so fast the words tumbled out of her mouth in one breath, her eyes wide and pleading. I cook decently, too.

Rory was taken aback. It hadn't occurred to her that by refusing to have a maid, she could be putting somebody else in a difficult position.

I’ve got four little brothers, the maid continued. They eat a lot. That costs money. I can’t afford to be out of work. Please.

Oh… well… Rory hesitated.

She had all that money the Old Girl had paid her, after all, but if she wanted to help, she could spend it on urchins from the Rookery rather than on a maid who would be able to earn more money than any of them. Then again, she didn’t want to be responsible for the maid’s little brothers going hungry.

She looked over at Longinus, whose face was perfectly blank.

Alright, Rory said. But only for now, until you can find work somewhere else.

Thank you, miss, thank you. Can I take the sheets? The maid held out her hands tentatively.

Rory hesitated and then handed her the sheets. I’m sorting out my own food, she said to Longinus in a warning tone. "And I ain’t having her doing nothing for me. She’s your maid, and soon as she finds work elsewhere, she’s off."

We can determine the exact nature of her duties as we go along, Longinus said quickly. And we can also address the issue of her finding alternative employment later. He turned to the maid. Thank you, Tess.

Tess bobbed another quick curtsy, gave Rory a grateful look, and hurried away with the bedsheets, disappearing into the kitchen.

Rory looked at Longinus, shaking her head incredulously. "I can’t believe you’ve managed to talk me into having a maid for a bit. Completely ridiculous. The hell am I supposed to now, though? The bedsheet would have kept me busy for a bit, at least. What do people do all day when they have a house?"

Well, what did you use to do before? Longinus asked.

You know, the usual. Picking pockets, stealing from stalls, running on the roofs…

I mean at Cruikshank's workshop? What did you use to do all day there?

Rory grinned. I were pretty bored at first. But then I started stealing Cruikshank’s tools…

Longinus's face immediately turned stony, and he crossed his arms. No.

He turned and walked away, and Rory trotted off after him. Oh, come on. It could be fun!

"Every item in this house has been carefully curated and selected. I will not have any of it stolen and sold to some back-alley stall."

I promise I won't actually sell anything, Rory said. But we could make a game of it. See how much I can steal before you catch me red-handed.

If she could pull off stealing that wardrobe, for example, what a coup!

No! Longinus said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

So of course, Rory argued.

Chapter 3

Cruikshank stared at the finished design. She had never liked making weapons, even though she’d designed every weapon protecting the Bottleneck—the wall that separated Damsport from the Airnian Empire. She also knew very well that the Empire had none of her squeamishness and wouldn’t slow down their weapons expansion simply because Cruikshank didn’t like the thought of making something that could kill another person.

Not only that, but the Airnian Empire had recently become more aggressive. It had been involved in several skirmishes with other countries, and the number and calibre of the weapons on their side of the Bottleneck Wall had increased. Damsport had no choice but to ensure increased defences in proportion.

Especially given the question of the origin of the explosive. There was no telling whether the Airnian Empire already had access to it, or something similar, and had also begun weaponising it.

Which was why, when Cruikshank had seen the potential for a new kind of weapon, she’d gone ahead and designed it, much as it pained her.

Cruikshank made a mental note to ask Adelma to find out where the box had come from. If they knew the country of origin and the amount of explosive in circulation, they could get a better understanding of the situation.

She stared at the sketch some more. The weapon looked so harmless, all black lines on white paper. It wasn’t even that big—small enough to be held with one hand—and it would be light enough to carry at arm’s length.

And yet once the weapon was made, it would be able to fire a sharp metal bolt at an impossible speed into a person’s body, like an extra-powerful crossbow with the ability to shoot multiple bolts in succession.

Cruikshank felt almost nauseous as she imagined the kind of damage the weapon could do if aimed at the heart or the head. It made her want to burn the sketch and never breathe a word of it to anyone.

She sat back, pushing herself away from her desk.

The damned explosive had turned her workshop upside down. Normally, it was her refuge, a haven of cogs and chains and soot and tools. Now the furnace was cold and dark. Her gear cutter, her lathe… in short, all her steam-powered tools were silent and still as if sleeping. She couldn’t risk any sparks near the explosive and didn’t even dare smoke a cigar around the damned thing.

Cruikshank stood, the thought of a cigar making her crave one. She stepped outside, carefully closing the door before lighting up. But even cigars had lost their usual soothing influence. The weight of responsibility felt heavier than an anvil hanging from her neck.

She knew the design would work.

How many people would die once the weapon was made? She needed to talk to someone, unburden herself. It was all too much for her to carry alone, and she wanted reassurance that in taking the weapon design to the Marchioness and beginning to make a prototype, she was doing the right thing.

Her old friend Spaindel, an arachnologist, would be of good council. She’d collaborated with him to build her steam-powered spider. They’d met when they were both at university. If nothing else, she knew he would provide a sympathetic ear.

Cruikshank returned to her workshop and carefully locked the explosive and sketch away. She then went through the complicated process of setting both alarm systems—carefully winding each spring, cocking each latch, and checking that each gear was in alignment. Never had this felt so important. She checked everything twice.

She and Rory had been playing a kind of game, Cruikshank attempting to set up something that would alert her anytime Rory tried to break in and Rory doing her best to enter undetected. More often than not, she managed, infuriatingly, to worm her way past Cruikshank’s alarms.

Now, though, Cruikshank found herself profoundly grateful for Rory’s thieving ways. It was reassuring to know she had more than one alarm in place to guard her workshop.

But nobody knew she had the explosive, she reminded herself, nor did anyone know about the design. Therefore, nobody would be trying to break in.

She finished setting both alarms and locked the door.

***

Spaindel’s laboratory and office weren’t far from Machinist Crescent. Spaindel was based in Crenwell Hill, near Damsport’s university, where he lectured on arachnids with varying levels of success. His work simply wasn’t something people were very interested in. Cruikshank shook her head wistfully at the memory of Spaindel addressing an almost empty lecture hall. Still, his dedication to this work and his enthusiasm couldn’t be faulted.

She found herself enjoying the walk over in spite of the oppressive humidity. It gave her time to mull things over and, more importantly, to have another cigar.

Spaindel, she said as she knocked on his door.

Come in, come in, came a jovial response from within.

Spaindel must have been roasting hot, given how he dressed. In spite of the sweltering heat, he had on a long-sleeved shirt, a waistcoat, a cardigan, and thick socks into which he tucked his trousers. Just as in his student days, Spaindel liked to keep his feet ventilated, so he wore sandals over his socks come rain or shine, sweltering summer or cooler winter.

He also had the appalling habit of leaving his dirty socks strewn about his rooms and office. It was no great surprise that he remained a confirmed bachelor. Then again, Cruikshank thought wryly, so did she.

Cruikshank, how are you? Spaindel said, smiling and standing to greet her. He stopped and frowned. Something bothering you?

She gave a half-smile. You know me too well.

Come, come, sit. I can offer you something… to drink… He looked around.

His office was far messier than Cruikshank’s workshop. The walls were covered with spider specimens kept under glass, a shiny pin stabbed through each thorax. His desk and his many shelves were covered with bags and jars of dried spiders competing for space with piles of papers, journals, and sketches. Some of the papers were weighed down by blocks of clear resin, inside of which more spiders were preserved.

The pungent smell of body odour and strong cologne didn’t quite drown out the camphor and alcohols used to preserve the specimens or the faint smell of decay from all the dead spiders. Swirls of amber-and-black flypaper hung from the ceiling like screws of earwax. They were covered with tiny fly corpses.

The tools of Spaindel’s trade—magnifying lenses, several microscopes, tiny nets and vials, and dissecting tools of the highest precision—were scattered about the remaining furniture, although most of the microscopes were on the floor.

Back at university, Spaindel had developed a predilection for looking through the microscope while he sat on the floor, and he hadn’t yet grown out of the habit.

After several minutes of rooting around among his papers, he produced two coffee-stained cups and, after several more minutes, he found an old pot of stale coffee. Cruikshank didn’t protest but let him pour what looked like muddy water into the grimy cup.

So what’s troubling you? Spaindel asked, sitting behind his desk again.

He blinked a couple of times, his eyes unnaturally magnified by his thick optics. People at university used to tease him for his obsession with spiders and his large eyes, likening him to a jumping spider. His movements were quick and jerky enough for the nickname to fit him well.

Cruikshank was about to answer when her eyes fell on a letter on the desk with appeal rejected stamped in bright-red letters at the top.

Sorry, she said. I’m coming to complain to you, and here I’d forgotten you were having trouble securing funding.

Spaindel looked embarrassed and moved the letter beneath other papers. Never mind all that, he muttered. What’s troubling you?

Cruikshank took a deep breath and then explained about the explosive and the design for the weapon.

Spaindel listened in silence, his head cocked.

And now that you have that design, you don’t want to bring it to the Marchioness’s attention, he said.

Cruikshank sighed. I know it’s my duty to. I’d be betraying the Marchioness’s trust if I didn’t. That weapon would be a great asset to Damsport’s defences. But I can’t help but think of all the people who will die… She sagged in her chair at the thought.

Spaindel leaned forward. What’s to stop you from destroying the sketch? Have you told anyone about it? Other than me?

No, you’re the only one who knows. As to destroying it… I don’t know. The Marchioness would never forgive me.

Don’t think about the Marchioness and your duty to her, Spaindel advised. For now, this is just a scientific invention. It isn’t a product out in the open or even an object. For now, it’s entirely in the abstract—just an idea. Therefore, you must act according to your conscience and your ethics, not according to someone else’s interests.

But my conscience is completely tied in to my duty, which is tied in to Damsport’s interests. Say I destroy the design and keep it secret. The day might come when another country—or worse, Airnia—creates a similar weapon. They might be creating one right now if they also have that explosive. What if Damsport is attacked and thousands of Damsians die because we are unable to fight back? I would be responsible. But if the weapon is made, I would also be indirectly responsible for all those deaths. No matter what I do now, I will cause death.

Spaindel leaned forward and squeezed her forearm. You are taking on far too much responsibility. The people who operate your weapon would be responsible for the deaths, not you. The weapon itself is neutral. You, as its creator, are neutral. You have brought a tool into the world, and it is the choice of every person who wields it whether or not to kill.

Cruikshank didn’t reply. It was a nice theory to think of the weapon and herself as neutral, but she knew that the reality was different.

It’s like when I observe spiders in the wild, Spaindel said. I watch them kill countless other insects. I have also watched this particular type of wasp that paralyses spiders and then lays an egg on them. The spider stays alive so that the wasp larvae can eat it when they are born. I’ve watched this happen to spiders I had been following for a long time. Am I responsible for what happened? No. This is between the spider and the wasp. In the same way, you have to see yourself as a scientist, above the rest of the people. You created this weapon, but the ways people choose to use it are as distant from you as the wasp and the spider are from me.

The world of insects is so much simpler than the world of humans, Cruikshank replied with a smile.

Spiders aren’t insects, Spaindel chided gently.

Cruikshank remembered how heated Spaindel had grown as a young man when anyone tried to tease him about spiders being the same as insects. The thought would have made her smile, but she didn’t want to risk upsetting him.

The world of insects, as you put it, Spaindel continued, seems simple because it’s far removed from us. In reality, it’s a cruel, hard world full of death. You need to remove yourself from the daily world of Damsport. Distance makes everything clearer.

Cruikshank thought of Longinus and of Rory. She didn’t want to remove herself from that world. The thought of Rory brought another pang to her stomach. The girl was still so young. What kind of world would it be if Damsians could carry concealed deadly weapons? It was possible to defend against a knife, but there would be no defence against Cruikshank’s new weapon. What if Rory tried picking the pocket of a person armed with such a weapon and was caught?

Spaindel sighed, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. If I were you, I would at least sleep on it. It was always going to be a difficult design to deal with, but you might find that things are clearer come the morning. Have you got a good security system in place?

Cruikshank nodded. I keep the explosive and sketch locked in a drawer, and I have my alarm. Anyway, nobody knows about either.

Exactly. So it’s fine to leave it for another night, at least. See if things aren’t clearer come morning.

Cruikshank sighed. I doubt they will be. But you’re right—a good night’s sleep will help. I’ll go see the Marchioness in the morning. Thank you, Spaindel. It did me good to talk about it. I know what I have to do. I just needed to talk to someone about it first, lighten the load a little.

Spaindel smiled. I’m always happy to help.

So have you got a plan for securing your funding? Cruikshank asked to change the subject. Have you been to see the Marchioness in person? The rejection might just have been processed by her office without her knowing. I can mention it to her if you’d like.

Spaindel’s face immediately darkened. I spoke to her. There’s nothing to be done. The city treasury is too low to fund any research not dedicated to the city’s advancement. Apparently, spiders aren’t considered important.

Cruikshank bit her lip. I’m so sorry, Spaindel.

He shrugged. There are other ways. Private backing.

And you have someone interested? Cruikshank asked.

Spaindel looked a little awkward and gave a shrug. Maybe.

Sorry, I’m prying. If there’s anything I can do…

Spaindel smiled. Thank you.

I’d better go back to my workshop. I don’t want to leave it unattended for too long. Cruikshank stood to leave, the old injury in her toe twitching.

Don’t worry, Spaindel said. All will work out for the best.

Chapter 4

Rory stepped out her front door, intending to go to the Rookery to visit Pip and Alice. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her front door.

She shook her head wryly, marvelling at how much her life had changed. Not that long ago, her life had been just like Pip and Alice’s, yet it felt like a lifetime had passed since then. She was slowly getting used to life in the house, although at times, she still found herself bowled over by the craziness of it all.

Rory headed down the street. She hadn’t been walking for long when she crossed paths with a woman so striking that she found herself compelled to stop and turn back to watch her walk away.

The woman was dressed plainly, but she carried herself with such grace and confidence that she looked like a warrior queen. She wore light- and dark-grey striped leggings, a crisp white shirt lashed to her waist by a black leather girdle, and thigh-high black boots. A sword at her hip marked the rhythm of her steps with a metallic click.

Rory had seen her face briefly—she had the dark skin of a Damsian, and her eyes were rimmed with thick black kohl. She was beautiful in a powerful way, and Rory felt a stirring of envy.

The woman walked as though she owned the street, as though she could bring the world to heel should she choose to. Her hair was black and glossy, loose and carefree.

The moment only lasted a few seconds before the woman turned the corner and was gone.

Rory stared after her thoughtfully then continued on her way. Her own fighting leathers were stained, scratched, scuffed—a living memory of every scrape and adventure. That was partly why she loved them: they felt like a part of her, physical evidence of her story that traced her journey from scrawny, starving urchin to the girl she’d become.

Yet now that she had seen the woman, Rory wanted to look like that. She wanted that cool, effortless confidence. She wanted that kind of simple but crisp clothing. It was odd—she had never given much thought to how she looked before. So long as the clothes vaguely fitted and were comfortable, the way they actually looked had never bothered her.

Maybe her new interest in clothing was the effect of living in her own house with a bedroom, a bed, and even stairs.

Rory continued on her way, and when she passed a tailor a few streets later, she stopped. On impulse, she pushed the door and entered.

It felt weird, walking inside a shop without Longinus at her side to bustle her about or take control of the situation.

A woman in her forties greeted her with a smile and asked what she was after. The tailor had an open face and was dressed simply but elegantly in a cropped light-blue jacket and matching flowing trousers.

Do you mind if I look around? Rory asked, feeling a bit awkward and shy—a far cry from the woman in the street.

The woman smiled. Of course. Take as much time as you need. Just give me a shout if you have any questions. She bent her head and returned to whatever she’d been doing before Rory entered.

The shop was empty of other customers, for which Rory was grateful. It was a bright space, flooded with sunlight that winked off the glass frames displaying sketches on the walls. The shop catered to women, the sketches ranging from elaborate dresses to simple, warrior-like outfits like the one worn by the woman Rory had seen in the street. That was encouraging.

She looked over the bolts of fabric arranged by colour and material, some standing, leaning against the wall, others neatly stacked on shelves. Rory stayed clear of the brightly coloured and patterned ones, drawn to the darker and more muted tones. She’d never thought about it before, but now she realised she didn’t like bright colours, at least not for her clothing. They felt uncomfortable. Too bold. Calling too loudly for attention.

Soft greys and browns felt more inviting—safe and comfortable as old boots.

Rory had never before thought about clothing, let alone colour, in this way, and it was both odd and thrilling.

She examined the fabrics slowly, enjoying the feel of them as she touched the bolts, taking the time to form an opinion on each one. Some were stiff, some scratchy, and some wonderfully soft. One in particular was so soft and lovely to touch it made her want to rub her cheek against it. The colour was nice too—a pale grey tinged with light brown.

What’s this? Rory asked, her fingers still on the bolt of fabric.

That’s bamboo linen. The tailor stood and stepped out from behind her counter. Very breathable, very light, and so soft. She cocked her head and examined Rory. Taupe will suit you, too.

Rory continued to stroke the fabric as though it were a living thing. How much to make a pair of leggings?

I’d recommend using that for a top, the tailor said. I’ve got exactly the same colour in a stiffer cotton—much better for leggings. Still very comfortable, still plenty movement, but more durable. Let me just get it for you.

The woman returned a moment later, walking to her counter. She spread the fabric out and then pulled out the bamboo linen and spread that out, too. The fabrics were exactly the same colour, but as the tailor had pointed out, the cotton felt far sturdier.

It would look really good trimmed with chocolate brown, the tailor said.

Rory nodded, still touching the bamboo linen.

Would you like sleeves for the top or a vest similar to what you have now? the tailor asked.

No sleeves, Rory said at once. She loved the feel of having bare arms, especially at night or when there was a breeze. Damsport sweltered in summer, sweated in autumn, and took a brief breather for a couple months during winter before rushing to catch up with a humidity spike in spring. As far as Rory was concerned, going sleeveless was the only real way to be comfortable.

She thought of the woman she had passed on the street, with her crisp shirt and leather girdle. Do you do anything in leather?

The tailor nodded.

Maybe a brown leather girdle for my waist, then? Rory asked tentatively.

She wasn't naïve enough to think that just getting a girdle would make her move like the warrior woman, but she really liked the way it had looked.

That's a very good idea, the tailor said. You have a tiny waist. Enhancing it will suit you.

Rory nodded. Her heart pounded, her stomach fluttering with nerves. This wasn't Longinus picking out clothes for her or Mizria turning her into a miniature and inferior version of herself. This was Rory choosing alone, being her own woman, and it was oddly exhilarating and kind of nerve-wracking, too.

How much will it cost? Rory asked with some trepidation.

The tailor quoted an amount, and Rory grinned. She had more than enough. It was such an amazing feeling to have enough money for whatever she wanted. She wouldn’t even have to sacrifice a couple of days of eating.

You might want to get a strap for that dagger of yours, the woman said. Keep it flush to your thigh rather than hanging at your hip.

Yes, good idea. Thank you.

The tailor smiled and scribbled down the order. She then took Rory’s measurements, moving with brisk efficiency.

Rory paid and received her receipt. She folded it carefully over and over until it was a small square. She slipped the receipt into the armhole of her fighting leathers, which were sleeveless, so that it was resting against her heart. She wasn’t about to risk someone picking her pocket—not that thieves had any interest in pieces of paper, but still, better safe than sorry. She hadn’t been gone so long from the Rookery that she’d turned into an easy mark.

As she walked out the shop, her receipt safely tucked away, she had the absurd urge to giggle to herself.

***

Once Rory had left the tailor’s, she headed to the Rookery to see Pip and Alice. She was looking forward to it, especially now that they’d moved to their own room, which Rory and Longinus rented for them.

When Rory agreed to move in with Longinus, she had naturally immediately thought of Pip and Alice. What could have been more perfect than having them set up their shelter on Rory and Longinus’s roof?

According to Longinus, a lot of things were preferable—including having a dog shit daily on their doorstep. Longinus had suggested that, instead, he rent a room in the Rookery for the urchins. Rory had immediately insisted on paying for half. Longinus had arranged it all, telling her the amount she paid each month covered her half of the rent on both places.

Nice and easy. And pretty good value, too, all things considered.

Rory grinned, remembering again just how excited the urchins had been when they’d heard the news. They’d moved in a few weeks earlier, and Rory liked to check on them to make sure they were adapting to their new situation alright.

She knew better than most how weird, and even overwhelming, it could feel to have a room of your own when you were used to having nothing.

Stepping into the Rookery, the area that she had grown up in, she smiled. It was one of the poorest and most raucous areas in Damsport, a warren of crookback lanes lousy with pickpockets, thieves, and cutthroats, where respectable citizens stood out like snakes in a nursery.

Nowhere felt more like home.

Low-hanging laundry lines formed a canopy over Rory’s head, the linen a questionable colour even when clean. The cobblestones were as uneven as broken teeth, caked in seagull droppings and the rotting leaves and fruit from the banyan trees that grew in every unoccupied spot.

The buildings themselves were simple, mostly made of cheap wood that sagged with rot and humidity. Insects chewed the wooden beams, leaving maze-like patterns behind. Rory passed a house that had once been red but the sun and rain had made the paint peel off like large strips of burnt skin.

Rory picked her way nimbly through lanes with gutters clotted with sewage and rubbish, enjoying the familiarity of the stench. She called greetings to every person she recognised.

She was nearly at Pip and Alice’s place when she bumped into both urchins in the street.

Rory! Pip exclaimed.

Next to him, Alice smiled shyly. Rory still couldn’t quite make her out—sometimes she seemed to have completely come out of her shell, and other times she was as shy as the first time they’d met. Pip, on the other hand, was far more straightforward. Open-faced, cheerful, and cheeky.

How are you doing? Rory asked, examining them both critically for any sign that they might be starving.

We’re eating like kings and queens, Pip replied.

That so?

Some toff’s coming to the Rookery each day and giving out food for free, Alice said, her voice as quiet as a mouse’s, her eyes wide.

Rory frowned. Really? In exchange for what?

Nobody ever gave free charity in the Rookery. Usually when food was given out, it was by some temple or other, and there was always something they wanted—a confession or participation in a sacred ritual. Once Rory had been made to sit still while a man poured water over her head and whacked her shoulders with a cane to show her repentance for her sins.

There was always something.

Nothing, Pip said, grinning. He comes, gives out food, tells everyone his name, and gives out a card.

A card? Rory echoed.

Yeah. Someone read it for us. It just says his name, Egremont. And then something about him looking out for the people of Damsport.

It’s good quality, too, Alice added. We been selling them. Thick paper, and the writing stands out so you can feel it under your fingers.

Rory narrowed her eyes, suspicious. Someone giving out free food in the Rookery could only mean trouble. She was well aware that Mizria had targeted people in the Rookery when she’d been plotting to overthrow the Marchioness.

This new toff, Egremont, with his free food and his name cards, smacked of something dodgy.

You going there now? she asked.

Alice nodded.

"Alright, I’ll come with you.