“Why don’t you take a look at it?” Zaria snapped, shoving the linen-wrapped explosive across the counter. “I don’tdoless than impeccable quality.”
The girl’s features remained cool as she picked up the device. She didn’t say a word as she unwrapped it, but it was obvious she had a practiced eye. Zaria was tense even as she crossed her arms in a show of impatience. Sothiswas why such a young woman had been sent on Vaughan’s behalf. Somehow, one way or another, she had knowledge of alchemology. Strange—it wasn’t a skill that good, God-fearing citizens taught their children, and that applied twofold where women were concerned. Zaria hoped that the girl wasn’t practiced enough to notice something was missing.
On the outside, her commission appeared fine. Excellent even. The inner workings were carefully contained in a smooth casing, a few metal pins protruding from one side. Mercury fulminate had been injected into the pins, and significant contact to any of them—say, someone throwing the explosive onto the floor—would result in immediate detonation.
The girl tapped one of the pins now, her fingernail clicking against the metal. “I take it I’d better not drop this.”
“I wouldn’t,” Zaria said dryly.
“It’ll only affect organic matter, though, correct?”
“Yes.” The lie slipped out too easily. Had she gotten the soulsteel, she would have used primateria to alter the function of the mercury fulminate, imbuing it with magic to ensure the resulting chemical reaction aligned with her intentions. Instead, all she had to offer was a regular explosive.
There was a tense silence as the girl turned it over in her hands. Had she tilted her face closer, she might have noted the absence of the faintest glow surrounding the base of each pin, but it appeared her examination was complete. Zaria let a long breath out through her nose.
“Satisfied?”
The girl pursed her lips. She was really quite pretty; how unusual that she’d ended up in this line of work. “I believe I am. It’s Mister Vaughan, though, who will make the ultimate determination.”
Zaria nodded. “I’d offer to demonstrate, but you can imagine why that would pose some complications.”
“Indeed.” A pouch of coins skidded across the counter once the girl had returned the explosive to its wrappings. “For your sake, I hope the product makes up for the long wait.”
Zaria smiled tightly. Then the girl was gone, two figures detaching from the shadows and following her into the night.
Hell.Now she only had to hope Mister Vaughan didn’t use that explosive until she was well out of London.
As she made her way down the corridor, more than ready for a decent night’s sleep, she came to an abrupt halt. Voices were emanating behind the door to George’s office, sharp and impatient. Unease crept into the back of her throat as she pressed her ear to the wood.
“It’s a matter of business,” a man was saying. His voice had a snide, nasal quality about it. “You’re in debt, George. Ward has extended a considerable amount of clemency, but he’s running out of patience.”
Zaria had to strain to hear George’s reply; he spoke more softly and must have been farther away from the door.
“He asks for a different amount every time, and always more than the time before. How am I meant to plan for that?”
“You keep your own books, don’t you?” the other man responded. “You’d best figure it out.”
George muttered something Zaria couldn’t quite hear, then a second unfamiliar voice cut in.
“You wouldn’t know how to beg if your life was on the line, huh? You always did have more pride than a bloke like you ought to.” Zaria could almost hear his sneer. “That said, for reasons I don’t understand, Ward quite likes you. Believes you do good work, and that your shop’s a fixture in this area. So here’s his offer: You have a fortnight to pay everything you owe, or one of two things is gonna happen. One, you lose your precious family business. Or two, he’ll let you keep it, but your son is gonna work off your debts. Ward could always use a few more in his crew, you see. Choice is yours.”
Zaria bit down hard on her lower lip, suppressing a gasp. Given the silence beyond the door, she could only assume George Zhao was equally aghast. Ward, the dark market kingpin, also controlled a significant portion of Devil’s Acre. Anyone who lived in the slum paid for his crew’s protection—either from the coppers, rival gangs, or the crew themselves. Business owners, however, were expected to contribute far more than most, and on a monthly basis. Last year a brothel owner had refused to pay up, and a week later he was discovered to have offed himself. Or, at least, that was the story. The business was now run by Ward’s crew.
The kingpin had his uses, though. When it came to the dark market, he kept buyers and sellers alike in check. Anyone who had an issue with undelivered commissions or payments could appeal to him, and he would have his men deal with the problem discreetly—for a percentage. He also helped rich buyers track down the right alchemologist for a job. Though Zaria knew Ward must be aware of her existence, she hadn’t had any personal dealings with him yet. Shefeared it was only a matter of time before one of her clients invoked his services. Vaughan almost certainly would once he realized he’d been duped.
Overall, the kingpin was a notorious presence in London, and neither Parliament nor law enforcement cared to interfere. If the rumors were true, this was because he had contacts in both places.
Given that Zaria lived and worked in the pawnshop, she and George had an agreement that she cover 25 percent of his dues. She didn’t know exactly how much debt he was in, but he prodded her for payments with enough desperation that she was sure the amount wasn’t negligible. Itmustbe considerable if the local kingpin was threatening to take the entire pawnshop.
Well. The pawnshop, or Jules.
The idea of Jules being forced to join the kingpin’s crew was almost too horrible to bear. Not only because of the type of work it would entail, but because Zaria knew her friend would do it. Regardless of what George chose, once Jules knew what the options were, he would give himself up willingly. That was the type of person he was—his loyalty to his family meant he would never allow his father to give up the business if there was another alternative.
“You’re not taking my businessormy boy,” George said finally, his voice unsteady, and Zaria realized she was digging her nails into her palms with enough ferocity to sting.
One of the men laughed; by now, Zaria was too distracted to tell them apart. “You get the money and that won’t be a problem, will it?”
“You ought to be thankful,” the other man said. “Anyone else woulda been homeless already.”
