Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

“He awakes?” Bancroft was lost.

“He has been asleep for a century. When he is awake, he grows hungry and the darkness stirs.”

“And what does that mean?” The conversation was sending a chill up Bancroft’s spine, although he desperately wanted to believe the old man was speaking in metaphors.

“Let me say simply that the Black Kingdom is the receptacle of all things the daylight world abhors. Centuries ago, before the Empire and before gunpowder came west, your king demanded that magic users cleanse the land of black sorcery. And so everything that dwelled in the dark—the revenants and beast-men, necromancers and shades—were banished beneath the earth by powerful spells.”

Bancroft gaped, unsure how to respond. He knew all too well that sorcery was real, but he’d never heard any of this before. “Are you telling me there are monsters imprisoned beneath the streets?”

“It is not so simple as that. Spells fade and the Black Kingdom wanes. Our king no longer desires to rule. It is custom more than force that keeps the dark gates closed.”

“And your king sleeps ?”

“Just so. The kingdom is not so much ruled as maintained through the administration of men like myself. It is in everyone’s interest that we succeed.”

Bancroft had to ask. “And if you don’t succeed?”

“If the Black Kingdom fails, all those horrors would have no place to go but aboveground.” Han Lo gave a faint smile, but it wasn’t a happy one. “Trust me on this, Lord Bancroft. What is below the earth should stay there. It should not stir.”

Frustration heated Bancroft’s face. He wasn’t sure what to believe, and this tale of buried horrors and sleeping monarchs had no bearing on his very real problems in the here and now. He shoved Han Lo’s story aside. “Sell me the coal I require, and I will do my utmost to supply the kingdom with whatever it needs to remain in good health. And asleep, if necessary.”

Han Lo’s eyebrows quirked. “Do you give us your word on this?”

A thread of caution tugged in Bancroft’s gut. “If it is within my power to achieve, yes.”

“Then consider our bargain made.” Han Lo held out his hand. “And the scales will be balanced.”

Bancroft took it, feeling the papery dryness of the man’s skin. “I am not certain what scales you mean, but I’m glad we could do business.”

The old man rose to show Bancroft out. “Indeed, my lord, justice is the nature of the Black Kingdom. Unlike the other members of the Steam Council, the Black Kingdom is ancient and has its counterparts throughout the world. In my own language it is called the Kingdom of Ashes, in others the Kingdom of Alchemy. Though mortal, my family has served the underground for time immemorial.”

Mortal? Bancroft’s mind reeled as they passed through the curtain to the front of the shop. After their conversation, the tiny space seemed even more tawdry and cramped than before. Ashes? Alchemy? “Where does the alchemy come in?”

“The transformative nature of the underground journey. Some liken it to a rebirth, others to a chemical reaction. All is destroyed and reborn in harmony, assuming whatever state is necessary to achieve balance.”

“That is a very philosophical view.” The only thing Bancroft had ever heard was that those caught wandering in the underground vanished, never to be seen again—transformative, yes, but not necessarily harmonious.

“It is also a historical one. Chemistry, law, and the realms of spirit and dreams were once its area of influence. Now most regard the Black Kingdom as the dustbin of the world’s immortal community.”

Bancroft had listened to enough. He just wanted to leave. “With a new heir to the throne, your lot will no doubt improve,” he said heartily.

“Which throne would that be, Lord Bancroft?” Han Lo smiled. “There are more kingdoms than your daylight empires.”

For a moment, Bancroft was lost for words. “I’ll send a man around with instructions on quantity and distribution.”

“Good day, Lord Bancroft.” Han Lo bowed low and with a hint of mockery. “And good luck.”

Dartmoor, October 10, 1889

TAVERN AT THE EAST DART

4:35 p.m. Thursday

“I COULDN’T HELP but overhear that you fine gentlemen are staying at Baskerville Hall, where poor Sir Charles was frightened to death by a dog.” So said the barkeep of the public house by the East Dart River. He was a young, dark-haired fellow with a quick, sly smile.

“You must have read the account in the papers,” replied Watson, who in accordance with Holmes’s original plan was author of the report. As Holmes had said, there were stories about a savage dog roaming Dartmoor and there had been plenty of material to embellish. In particular, he was proud of the history he’d invented for the infamous Baskerville ancestors and their curse. With a little work—and perhaps a love interest for the heir?—it might even make a decent novel.

“I’ve seen the creature you speak of. Rumor has it that they made it in those laboratories and it got out from time to time.”

“Indeed?” Holmes replied as he began packing his pipe. “I have managed to remain happily innocent of all of Dartmoor’s canine peculiarities until now.”

Watson frowned, his stomach cold at the thought of what had gone on in those labs. Holmes had given him an account of their destruction—or at least a partial one—but he’d gone to look at the wreckage himself. There had been corpses there that would give him nightmares to his grave.

The afternoon shadows were growing long, making a stark contrast to the slanting autumn sun that streamed in the open door. And that brilliant passage of day into evening would be over soon.

Watson pushed his glass toward the barkeep. “Another, if you please.”

The young man gave him that quick smile. “Ah, Doctor, you must try the scrumpy. It just begs to be drunk, it does. We make it local.”

“Scrumpy?”

Holmes blew out a string of smoke circles. “Oh, yes, Watson, you must.”

“You as well, Mr. Holmes?” asked the barkeep.

“Oh, no,” said Holmes. “I’ve taken a fancy to this brown ale, but you, Doctor, go ahead.”

Watson lifted the fresh mug to his lips, and then wished he would die. “Faugh!” He spat and slammed down the mug, slopping some of the cloudy yellow substance over the side. An indescribable miasma assaulted his tongue that brought to mind the specimen library of his student days, the rows upon rows of jars filled with every permutation of tissue, tumor, bile, and excrescence pickled for his educational benefit in what looked and smelled like the vile putrescence in his mug. “What is in that?”

Holmes gave the mug a cool glance. “They tell me it has something to do with apples, but in my opinion the data is inconclusive.”

“Good God.” Watson wiped his mouth with his pocket handkerchief and gagged slightly. The barkeep had vanished, no doubt to indulge his hilarity in the back room.

Then the Schoolmaster walked in the door, wearing his usual green-tinted spectacles and long striped scarf. He carried a battered leather shoulder bag and a heavy walking stick. He spotted the barely touched mug and flashed a grin. “Been trying the local delicacies, Doctor?”

“For my sins.” He still felt odd talking to this young prince in hiding. For practical reasons, Prince Edmond insisted on being treated as the Schoolmaster, with no ceremony or titles, but it grated on someone who’d been trained since boyhood to revere the Throne.

Holmes, however, was on his feet, clearly impatient. “Do you return alone?”

“Yes,” the Schoolmaster replied. “Come into the back and I’ll tell you all.”