Larkin’s eyes bulged, but Fletcher ignored the barb. “The real question is, what did you end up giving her?”
“Three.”
There was a pause as Fletcher digested that. “Seems like a lot.”
“Saville gave us five,” Larkin pointed out. He’d made no secretof his disdain for Fletcher, and frankly Kane couldn’t blame him. Fletcher had gained Saville’s favor with inexplicable speed while Larkin was still a glorified errand boy. Much to Kane’s chagrin, Fletcher had been summoned away from the docks almost immediately. He supposed it was penance for having the build of a bodyguard and the poker face of a politician.
“Besides,” Larkin went on, “Mendoza was being difficult. Said she could sell it for twice as much if we didn’t accept.”
“That’s what everyone selling something says,” Fletcher snapped. He snatched the revolver from Kane’s hands. “You two are fools.”
“You don’t need brains to do someone else’s business” was Kane’s smooth retort. “We got it, didn’t we? And it’s the best of its kind, at least from what I’ve seen. I’ll eat my hat if Saville isn’t proper chuffed.”
Larkin’s face was wary, and Kane didn’t blame him. With his impassive eyes and sharp tongue, Fletcher put on an intimidating act. You never knew he was angry until his fist was already in your mouth.
Kane had a decent punch, but he had an even better smile, so he tended to use that more. He flashed it now, purely in a show of annoying his friend.
Fletcher glowered. “You each get five shillings.”
“Fiveshillings?” Kane repeated the words with mock incredulity but accepted the money. The little pouch was heavy, linen-smothered shillings rolling over his fingertips. Larkin opened his and peered inside, but Kane slipped the coins into his pocket without hesitation.
Fletcher arched a brow. “You’re not going to count it?”
“I trust you.”
Fletcher’s mouth twisted to hide his amusement. A few raindrops had begun to spatter their heads, and Larkin turned up the collar of his frock coat.
“We’re done here. Kane, go back to whatever hole you crawled up out of.”
“Until next time,” Fletcher agreed.
With a salute in Larkin’s direction, Kane slipped into the shadows, resigned to making the walk alone while Fletcher went to hand off the revolver. His detour took him past the Romney Street pub, where he often found patrons passed out in the gutters. This usually afforded Kane the opportunity to pluck their knives and what little money they had on their person. Tonight, though, the only men outside were a too-sober pair who watched him pass with more suspicion than he felt was warranted.
If they knew who he was, perhaps they’d avert their gazes.Ward’s golden boy, they might murmur to each other once he’d passed.Touch him and you’ll lose your hand.
But Kane took care with his identity. After all, no matter how many names he donned, he couldn’t help the fact that he wore the same face. Best to be recognizable to as few as possible.
Patrons stumbled out of the pub, circumventing him with loud guffaws, and that was enough to convince Kane there was nothing here for him. Not tonight. He wasn’t in the mood for alcohol accompanied by conversation or girls grasping at his sleeves and lapels. He didn’t care to lose himself in a smoky haze surrounded by strangers.
Instead, he made his way toward the docks. The streets of the slum gave way to factories, which in turn gave way to abandoned warehouses with smashed-in windows. The air tasted like gravel dust and reeked of the tainted river. It was a miserable place, especially when the overhead moon was shrouded by fog and factory fumes. Which, Kane thought wryly, was much of the time.
That said, it was familiar in its misery. The air rang with the distant hollers of the dockers and the accompanying thuds of cratedcargo being heaved from ship to shore or vice versa. The port was always busy, but it was positively packed with steamships as the Exhibition drew nearer, delivering people and exhibits and all manner of goods. It seemed to Kane that London’s population doubled daily, especially with the new rail lines leading into the city. It was driving him mad. Everywhere he turned he was reminded of his task, and how little time he had left before the necklace wound up in the Crystal Palace.
Kane made a concerted effort to avoid the riverbank, opting instead to duck down a narrow alley that widened a short time later at the entrance to an abandoned factory. Painted white letters above the door declared itMOORE&SONS, though time had left the words faded and barely legible. Kane shouldered the door open, momentarily obscuring the arrow carved into the wood. The crude symbol matched the tattoo on his neck in shape if not starkness. As he entered, he unconsciously brushed his fingers over the skin there, feeling the slight ridge where it hadn’t healed smoothly.
I am the archer, and my men are my arrows, Ward was fond of saying.It’s an honor to win my trust, Kane. And you barely had to fight for it, did you?
It never felt like a compliment, nor something to be proud of. It always felt like a threat. Being part of Ward’s crew was an honor. It brought you safety. Power. It brought you dark market connections, a place to live if you were lucky, and protection from the law.
But it also brought you Ward.
“There you are.” Fletcher’s voice echoed from the other end of the room. The floor of the abandoned factory had been converted into something of a living area, despite the telltale lofty ceilings and posts set at odd intervals in the middle of the space. A coal stove burned in one of the corners, its elaborate iron grate the focal point.
Kane crossed to where Fletcher lounged in a shabby armchair, all ease and impassivity. Despite the chill, his friend had removed his collared waistcoat, and one index finger skillfully twirled a silk hat.
“How did you get here before me?” Kane demanded.
“The good Lord granted me speed,” was Fletcher’s wry response. His Irish accent was back, drawling and playful.
