Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Well, he ruefully thought, it had worked, though his daemon did pose an interesting question. Why was Meg Black walking around the streets of London with a pouch of blinding pepper and a brimstone smoke incendiary? His better angel sensibly suggested that was a question that could wait until later. Despite having to hold the collar of his gown over his face and being almost blinded by the smoke, they made it to the foot of the stairs without incident. Most of Earless Nick’s men could be heard making their stumbling way to the front of the tavern, coughing and cursing. As for their leader, Ned had lost him in the fog of battle, though his distinctive accent wasn’t anywhere near, of that he was sure. At a guess Nick would have figured this whole visit was a trap, and so head for his nearest bolt hole.

At the lowest tread they encountered another problem. The smoke, as was its want, was funnelling upwards into the rooms above, from which sounded a cacophony of screams and shrieks. Even with Meg Black’s surprise they had to be fast. Whether Earless Nick was respected or not, the locals would react to the threat of fire as Londoners always had in the past. Soon dozens would emerge to battle the flames and protect their buildings.

Acting as rearguard, Ned shoved Meg up the stairs first and slowly climbed after her, squeezing his eyes tight to peer through the smoke behind him, dagger at the ready. As they reached the top, a howling figure burst through the billowing fumes. It looked the very image of a harpy, blood streaked breasts, eyes a glazed, brandishing a long dagger and wailing. “Nick! Nick! It’s Hawks. He’s got Walter an’ set th’ place afire!”

At the sudden appearance of this screaming apparition, Ned flinched and took a step backwards. Meg undaunted, surged forward almost running up the last three steps and ignoring the waving blade, backhanded the harpy across her face. Clearing his eyes of streaming tears, Ned could now see that their assailant had been Anthea, the punk from St Paul’s, though how she came to be half dressed with a torn bodice and bloody on the stairway was a riddle for later. No matter, Meg’s blow had knocked her out and her body was now slumped against the wall.

Pushing past that obstruction Ned now led the way, hurrying along the corridor, pulling each door open and calling out for the still missing Walter. Their only discovery was some dozen scantily clad girls and their patrons, whom lacking hose and breeches either scrambled urgently out the windows or were milling around in the confusion. Depending on circumstance, the girls alternated between screaming shrilly and calling for help. And still no Walter.

It was now that Ned cursed the efficiency of Meg’s little incendiary. It had been damned useful below, but up here the drifting smoke made the search dangerous. Several times he’d had to turn aside his blade as a charging figure through the smoke had resolved itself into a young girl clad only in a chemise. If only for a bit more light, Ned sighed. That last one looked really cute with those long shapely legs. An urgent thump from Meg Black brought him back to the here and now. A large figure was swimming through the grey light towards them from the glints ahead in the smokey fog they were armed. Ned pushed Meg behind him, and dagger out, took up a half crouch and calling out menacingly, “One more step and I’ll gut you!”

Rather than a challenge or a girlish scream, instead Ned gained a very familiar curse. “Damn y’ for sluggedly wastrel, Bedwell. About time y’ got here! I hope y’ caught him, that slippery little ferret!”

Ned relaxed as Gruesome Roger limped into view, his face the usual grim scowl, though he did dip his head slightly embarrassed when he saw Meg. Then the import of his word struck home and Ned thumped the wall and swore. “What! Damn yourself, Hawkins, you useless puttock! Do you mean you lost Walter?”

“You slovenly fool, Bedwell. While you where fiddling with your cards, I was up here fighting off that clawing bitch, Anthea and two of Earless’ men!”

Ned sucked in a breath for a fitting retort. That was a stupid move and he ended up rasping his throat with the brimstone. Before the discussion could digress any further, Meg pushed between them giving each a significant glare from smoke reddened eyes. “We don’t have time for this! Where did you last see him?”

Her question was accompanied by a cuff to each of them to emphasis her request for cooperation. “Three doors back when he pulled loose and kicked me.”

Ned raised an eyebrow. Walter tackled Gruesome Roger? By the saints, he wouldn’t have credited it. The meek lamb had grown horns! A quick stumble around the hallway gave them only one choice — a door wedged shut two along from where they stood. A joint effort, shoulders to its rough wood, had them soon through it, to reveal an empty room with a rope of sheets trailing out the open window. Walter had escaped again. Ned looked at Roger and both looked at Meg, who gave a frustrated sigh and bundled up her good dress. It seemed the chase was still on.

By chance or design, Walter had picked the best escape route. This window overlooked a small, quiet courtyard. Within minutes they’d dropped down, even Meg hindered as she was by her skirts. Ned tried to peer through the wintery gloom. This was impossible — it had started to snow again and visibility had closed down to bare yards. By statute, the citizens of London were required to have a small lantern outside their dwelling. It was to be lit at dusk, between the celebrations of Hallowtide and Candlemass. As he’d seen too often, decrees may be grandly proclaimed, but the population as a whole ignored it. If those goodly householders weren’t going to waste good tallow rushes then who could expect it of the Liberties?

So to Ned it seemed that they’d reached a dead end. How could they track Walter? It was as dark as a Blackamore’s soul! Roger though, proved more resourceful. The retainer wrenched a cresset off the nearby wall and stuffed part of their sheet rope into it as a wick. Ned gave shrug. He’d already thought of that and dismissed it. So what — it was useless without tallow or a flint. Knocking on a door around here to beg some wasn’t going get you anything other than cudgel around the ears and a boot to the backside.

Damn! Ned thumped his thigh with a fist, and moving mainly by feel, slipped over to the narrow alley leading out of the court. Walter had to head this way, but left or right? One solution was to split up. They had a chance. However the menace of Earless Nick and his lads remained. They’d be recovering from Meg’s alchemist’s ploy, and he reckoned, keen for mischief and revenge. So separately they were vulnerable and no doubt Earless Nick knew the twists and turns of this patch better than the back of his hand. Ned returned the dozen or so paces to report his lack of discovery and beheld Mistress Black calmly digging into her hidden satchel. He let out an exasperated sigh — what was she doing? A smoke incendiary wasn’t any use here. Even flint and steel wasn’t going to light up that cloth, damp from the falling snow and sleet.

Ned huddled in the limited shelter of a projecting upper story and watched his partner in disaster fiddling around with another small flask. First she uncapped and poured some of its contents onto the bundled cloth in the improvised torch. Well he grudgingly conceded that may work. It smelled rank like the rock oil they used in liniments. The second though, had Ned amazed. This was a small mechanical tinder box. Meg wound a very small handle, then holding it close to the cresset, flicked a lever. Suddenly it shot out a small fountain of sparks and the cresset immediately lit up with a steady bluish flame. By the saints they had light! For the third time that evening, Ned seriously wondered what else the apothecary’s apprentice had stashed away, and as his daemon had asked, why?