Karina Cooper - Corroded

As I made my escape, the noise faded behind me. The tiff was still confined to a narrow band of streets, then. In its place, an eerie silence set in—one not entirely quiet, for London could never be accused of stillness. It was a pressing feeling, an anticipation as Ratcliffe drew back into the permeating miasma and resigned itself to waiting. Whichever gang won this one, regardless of the victor, it would be business as usual once it was decided.

I walked a narrow plank set over a larger divide, moving quickly and with my head up, and shimmied down to a second ledge where the last rooftop slanted sharply up. I climbed it, feet digging in for purchase in the shingles, and grasped the fenced peak for balance.

Three of what, now?

The answer came almost as fast as I thought it. Three poles thrust up from the front of the steepled ridge, each sporting a tattered flag. The Queen’s colors, naturally, for British patriotism kindled in the hearts of all stout-hearted men. Even those who demanded change did so in the name of betterment for London, for England, for what ever business venture, all in the name of Her Majesty the Queen.

Lip-service, mostly. Them what flew the Union Jack hoped to be given a bit of leeway by the rozzers, most useful when an evening’s gathering turned unruly. The two other flags suggested this was a deliberate act, as each signified the presence of two of London’s many low street salons. No fashionable entry, here, nothing like the Society gatherings I had never been allowed to join. The closest I’d come was Lady Rutledge’s scientifically minded salon, and even Fanny had been unsure of the use of such a mixed gathering.

These flags were even less reputable. Troublemakers, the lot. Loud-mouthed sorts who searched for any opportunity to gather where there was drink to be had and women to dander on one knee as they spoke grand plans of change and committed to none. I doubted the Queen’s colors helped them overly much.

They would help me today. I adjusted the straps of Maddie Ruth’s device, ensured it remained tight in place. I had never attempted this with such a weight upon my shoulders. Compensating for the awkward balance would take a great deal of care.

I slid down the steep slope, caught my weight on the ledge and ran across it as lightly as I could. The dizzying drop to my left was only a floor higher than the one Maddie Ruth had navigated, but I had no Ishmael to catch me if I were to fall.

The thought sent a surge of energy through my veins, bubbled in near manic glee.

I reached the front lip of the rooftop. “ Allez , hop! ” I said cheerfully, and leapt to the flag pole.

I dared not try anything too risky. My body felt as if I’d bruised it, forehead to toes, and even the simple act of seizing the flag pole in both hands drenched me in painful, cold sweat. I clenched my teeth, re-adjusted my grip so abruptly that I nearly slid one hand clean off the rod.

The weight of the net-launching device jerked me to the side, but wrapping my legs around the metal haft helped ease the rock from my stomach. The air whistled past my ears, and then I was upon the ground, tottering for balance, my shoulders aching

“Nicely landed.” Ishmael’s voice was not so quiet as to be a whisper, but it was near enough as he was capable. It came at me from behind, still in the vee of the lane I’d run beside. “Hurry, girl, before the Ferrymen come.”

My knees were a bit more watery than I expected them to be. I stumbled some as I turned.

Maddie Ruth was a pale blur behind the Baker’s greater shadow, eyes wide and dark.

“I’ll escort you close to Limehouse,” he said as I approached.

I joined them, saw the dockman was no longer present, and eyed Ishmael. “Why are you in Ratcliffe?”

His features were difficult enough to read, but there was no mistaking his apology—and the implacability of it—as he rumbled, “Baker business.”

Close enough to my frequently declared collector’s business that I knew the warning.

I kept up with his pace easily, even with the device upon my back. Maddie Ruth struggled some, but she did so without complaint.

I edged closer to him. “Ish? You’re not encroaching on the Veil’s land, are you?”

His rolled grunt sufficed as a denial.

“Are the Ferrymen?”

The man said nothing, his gaze focused on the streets on either side of us as we hurried east through eerily empty thoroughfares.

“Likely,” Maddie Ruth piped up, not so lack-witted, after all. “Limehouse has the best dens.”

Opium dens, she meant, and she was right enough. They claimed the best because the Veil imported the best of the resin from China, where the organization hailed. Smuggled, more like. “‘Tis not something one may just step in and seize,” I pointed out.

“Baker business,” Ishmael said again, cutting off Maddie Ruth’s proposed wisdom with a glare. “Best stay clear, girl.”

The “girl” was mine. The glare was Maddie Ruth’s, deadly enough serious that I left both alone.

Fair enough. I would find out another way; I always did. Maddie Ruth, on the other hand, needed to keep her soot-smeared nose a good sight cleaner. “Right,” I said, ending it for the both of us.

We walked in silence, quickly as we could, but relatively unbothered. Short of a full-sized crew at hand, no one would dare take on Baker’s famed Communion. Soon enough, we approached near enough to Limehouse—and subsequently, the Menagerie—that he drew up short.

“There.”

I nodded. “Go ahead, Maddie Ruth. I’ll be on your heels.”

“But what about—”

That girl and her arguments. “Skiv off,” I cut in firmly, fitting her with a glare that suggested my already raised ire would be sharper if she didn’t obey me right this moment.

She did. There was hope for her. Not too terribly much, but some.

I turned back to Ishmael, looking up into his pitch-dark eyes. “Thank you. You were under no obligation.”

He shrugged, I think somewhat uncomfortable with the direct sincerity of my observation. “Not your fault you were caught in it.”

Perhaps. I could have argued in either direction, but did not. “Also,” I continued slowly, seizing my moment, “I owe you a great deal for—”

A very broad hand settled atop my head, in a move he had never before attempted on me. It was one part affection, I think, but mostly I believe it a way to cement my attention. I peered at him from under his fustian-clad forearm, surprised into silence.

“No thanks needed,” he rumbled in his dark, matter of fact voice. “Some things are best left.”

My brow furrowed. “Ish, I owe you—”

“No debts,” Ishmael cut in, his fingers—easily the span of my skull—squeezing gently. “I’m your man, girl.”

That simple statement stole my aching heart. To my consternation, tears sprang sharp and fresh to my stinging, too-long dry eyes. I blinked them back forcefully. “And I’m your girl, man,” I replied, repeating his turn of phrase with a smile. “Come case to crack or word to spread, you know where I am.”

His near-black eyes lifted behind me, to where Maddie Ruth lingered awkwardly. Then back to me. “Be careful. Word is that miller’s still about. Your miss there seems a ripe target.”

Miller, one of his many words for murderer. “You mean the murdering Jack?”

He nodded, and let go of my head. “And the other.”

The sweet tooth. The very mention of him turned my spine to brittle ice.

“Not for long,” I said, a quiet assurance. “I’ve promised to collect the latter.” I still hadn’t figured out how I would go about doing so, or who to deliver him to. This little escapade had cost me the first step in my nebulous plan.