Broad might’ve called it treason once, but his patriotic feelings had taken quite the kicking the last couple of years. Now it just sounded like daydreams. ‘Not sure there’s enough king to go around,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t want trouble, Sarlby. Had more than my share.’
‘Some folk are made for trouble, Bull. You were always at your best with your fists clenched.’
Broad winced at that. ‘At my worst, too.’
‘You were there, on the walls. You know how it is. Anything worth anything has to be fought for!’ And Sarlby bared his teeth and punched at the air, a Ladderman’s tattoo like Broad’s showing on the back of his fist.
‘Maybe.’ Broad felt a tickle of excitement, a stab of joy, but he pushed it away, twisted his own hand up into his sleeve as far as it would go. ‘But I’ve fought enough.’
He’d made Liddy a promise. This time, he meant to keep it.
A Blow for the Common Man
‘Everything ready?’ asked Sibalt. Even in the darkness, Vick could sense his nerves, and it didn’t help with hers.
She glanced up at Moor, a big outline on the wagon’s seat, reins in his hands. She glanced at Tallow, perched beside him, rain beaded on his oversized oilskin. She almost asked again if they were sure they wanted to do this. But there’s a time when doubts might do some good. A time to chew over the risks and the consequences. Then a moment passes. A moment you might not even notice. Then it’s too late, and you’ve got to commit, and give it everything with no backward glances.
‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Grise caught her arm in the darkness. ‘What about them?’ And she jerked her head towards the two bedraggled nightwatchmen either side of the foundry’s gate, faces pinched in the light of their own lanterns.
‘They’re paid.’
‘You paid the fuckers?’
‘It’s easier to shift a man with gold than steel, and it almost always ends up cheaper.’ And before Grise had the chance to answer, Vick struck out across the street, head down, collar up.
She glanced each way, but the drizzle was on their side, the lane almost empty. The blood thudded in her head as she walked to the gate. Fear creeping up her throat and making her want to rush, want to shout. She told herself she’d been in tighter corners and knew it was true. She kept her breaths deep, her steps slow.
‘Got a delivery for you,’ she said, shocked by how calm her own voice sounded.
The nightwatchman lifted his lantern to get a look at her and Vick narrowed her eyes at the glare. He knocked on the gates and there was the clatter of a bar being lifted. They took deliveries all night here. Nothing to remark upon.
‘Let’s go!’ called Vick, and Moor gave the reins a flick, brought the wagon across the muddy street and through into the darkened yard. Coal heaps and wood stacks were gloomy ghosts, glistening with wet. The side of the shed loomed up, cliff-like, the angry gleam of fires beyond the windows.
Moor called softly to the big carthorse and slipped on the brake, handed the reins to Tallow. Sibalt clambered down from the back of the wagon, wiping his hands on his leather apron.
‘Working so far,’ he muttered as he walked with Vick to the great foundry door.
‘So far,’ she said. The big padlock had been left open and she slid it from the hasp, planted her hands on the big handle next to Sibalt’s. His hands and hers, side by side. They heaved together, wheels clattering as the door slid open.
A waft of heat spilled from inside. The furnaces, and the engines, and the forges still giving off a welcoming glow. It’d never be cold in here, never be dark. Vick picked out the black outlines of the ironwork. The skeleton of the building. The pillars where they’d pack the powder.
She started back towards the wagon as Sibalt slid the door all the way open. Grise had already unlashed the tarp and dragged it away, the barrels showing underneath.
‘All right,’ hissed Vick at her, ‘let’s get that first one—’
Light flooded the yard and they all stood frozen, blinking in the glare. Hooded lanterns, suddenly opened all around them. Grise on the back of the wagon, rope in her hands. Moor with fingers hooked under the first barrel. Tallow holding the reins, his eyes bigger than ever. Sibalt in the wide doorway of the foundry.
That fast, their plans turned to shit.
‘Hold!’ bellowed a voice. ‘In the name of His Majesty!’
The big carthorse startled, dragged the wagon screeching forwards with its brake on. Grise tumbled over the side.
Moor stood, letting go of the barrel and snatching up a hatchet.
Tallow gave a high shriek. Not even a word.
There was a clicking, a fluttering. Bolts thudded into the wagon’s side. Thudded into Moor, too.
Vick was already running. She caught Sibalt and dragged him into the foundry. They wove between the engines, the wagons, the rails, as they whipped up from the firelit gloom. Sibalt gasped as he slipped and went bowling into some crates, lengths of metal scattering across the stones with a clash and clang.
She helped him up, nearly falling herself, pulled him on, her breath and his hissing and wheezing, their slapping footfalls echoing from the roof high above. She glanced back, saw lights twinkling, a flicker of movement, heard shouts in the darkness.
She gasped as something caught her head – a dangling chain, left swinging in her wake. A few more steps and Sibalt grabbed her by the elbow, dragged her down into a shadowy space between two great iron tanks. She was about to ask why when she saw the lights ahead. Heard the footsteps. They were closing in from both sides.
‘They were waiting,’ whispered Sibalt. ‘Knew we were coming.’
‘Who told ’em?’ hissed Vick.
There was something strange about his face in the half-light. She was used to seeing him weighed with worries, now he looked like his load had been lifted. Vick glanced down and saw he had a dagger in his fist, the orange of the furnaces glinting along its edge. She drew away a little on an instinct. ‘You don’t think it was me?’
‘No. But it doesn’t matter.’
She could hear Grise screaming somewhere. ‘Come on, you fuckers! Come on!’
‘You said it yourself,’ said Sibalt. ‘Once they get you, everyone talks. Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this.’
‘What are you saying?’ Her voice didn’t sound calm any more.
He smiled at her. That sad little smile. ‘Wish I’d met you sooner. Things might’ve been different. But the time comes … you have to stand up.’ And he rammed the dagger into his own neck.
‘No,’ she hissed. ‘No, no, no!’ She had her hands to his throat but it was ripped right open, blood welling black. Nothing she could do. Her hands were sticky to the elbows already. Her trousers soaked with blood as it spread in a great warm slick.
Sibalt stared up at her, spluttering black from his mouth, from his nose. Maybe he was trying to give her some message. Regret, or forgiveness, or hope, or blame. No way of knowing.
Grise’s screams had turned to meaningless screeches, then muffled gurgles. The sounds of someone with a bag forced over their head.
Sibalt’s eyes were glassy now, and Vick let go of his leaking neck. She sat back against iron still hot from the day’s work, her red hands dangling.
And that’s where she was when the Practicals found her.
Knowing the Arrow
Rikke crashed down the slope, trees and sky bouncing, all their careful plans flung away along with her cloak and her bow. That’s the trouble with plans. Not many survive being chased through a downpour by a pack of dogs. Wet brambles clutched at her ankle, snatched it from under her and she reeled, howl cut off as she smashed face-first into a tree, fell and rolled helpless through thorn bushes, over and over, yelping with every bounce and giving a long groan as she slid on her face through a heap of sodden leaves.