Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Speculation about the delay had set the political hive buzzing. Bancroft had assumed Keating would make an immediate stab for Blue territory, but rumor had it that Tobias’s absence had caused problems. No one else understood Keating’s war machines the same way, and there had been unexpected delays pulling the Gold army together.

In Bancroft’s estimation, it was a textbook blunder. By dropping the bombs before he was absolutely ready to press his advantage, Keating had given the Blue King a gift-wrapped opportunity to marshal his own forces. That single mistake might just have cost Keating the war.

And it gave the rebels a chance, too. That meant Bancroft was in a race against time to find a source of coal. And that led him inexorably back to the East End warehouses to try his luck once more.

He exited the train and all but ran for the stairs to the surface. Trapped within the tunnel, the smoke and steam of the underground rail lines was choking. The overall effect was like smoking a cigar soaked in steaming piss.

Daylight made him squint as he emerged onto the street. He got his bearings and turned left, head down against a brisk wind off the water. It was a shabby neighborhood, with far more caps and coveralls than top coats and hats. He wanted to do his business and head home as soon as possible since there was a chance the trains could stop running at any time.

The street was crowded with newspaper boys, barrow-men, and idiots on soap boxes. Blue Boys swaggered in the streets, but always in groups of at least three.

“Get the Prattler! Latest edition!”

“Eels! Get your fresh eels! Good in a pie!”

“Long live Prince Edmond!” someone shouted from a window overhead.

It wasn’t the first time Bancroft had heard the cry. And while he kept his thoughts from his face, his heart surged with excitement. Who knew the young man was a prince? And he’d come to Duquesne’s to thank Bancroft personally for his help—and most wondrous of all, Bancroft had actually liked him!

Here at long last was a master worthy of all his energy and ambition and, more important, an excellent chance for rewards. If the prince needed coal, Bancroft was damned well going to get it, regardless of the cost.

And he had reached the row of warehouses that had been his destination. His first thought had been to investigate a small Dutch firm he had overlooked on his first round of inquiries, but a sign down the side street caught his eye. It had no words—or at least none in English. There were three Chinese characters and a serpent painted in black on red. Bancroft recognized the sign for the Mercantile Fellowship of the Black Dragons of the Hidden Sea.

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.”