Chevie held the boys down until she felt that the attack was past.
“He’s found us,” gasped Riley.
The boards creaked under their weight as though collapse was imminent. The stench of boiled tripe was stronger with their noses to the wood, and through a gap in the floor Chevie could see a dozen figures rousing from their sleep in the cramped murk below.
“If you are well enough to leave,” she said to Riley, “I have had quite enough of the Old Nichol.”
“You try keeping up with me,” said Riley, and commenced crawling for the doorway.
Unto Dust
THE OLD NICHOL ROOKERY. BETHNAL GREEN. LONDON. 1898
Albert Garrick had spent most of the previous night in discreet observation of the house on Bedford Square until one of his stooges sent him word of the Injun princess’s whereabouts. There had also been a Battering Ram keeping an eye on the place, but the man received news from a runner at twelve bells and cleared out of his lurk.
Doubtless Otto has heard of Tibor Charismo’s fate.
So now Garrick was on the border of the Old Nichol with his marvelous weapons.
A few warning shots, he had reckoned, to smoke out my quarry.
Garrick spotted the twitch at the loft window, then utilized the beautiful and deadly laser to lay a few potshots into the room. The effectiveness of the sights made him quite emotional.
It is a perfect creation in its blend of form and function.
It was a simple matter for Garrick to take two paces eastward on the rooftop and thus have a clear view of the tenement’s front door.
Riley knows I could never enter that building, he realized. The boy had a cruel streak in him. He could have made a worthy assistant, had he not betrayed me.
The rookery had only one exit, and it was through this doorway that Riley and Chevie must emerge, unless they planned to drown in the sewage pit at the rear of the house or batter their way through the one-story shack sublets that stood propped against it.
And with my most excellent FBI weaponry, I will pick them off as they leave.
He smiled. The end is nigh, Chevron Savano.
There was a flurry of activity at the door, precipitated by some yappy fighting mutts who tumbled into the street barking.
Here they come, thought Garrick, activating his laser sight. Two shots only; save bullets for the gunsmith.
But instead of two frightened fugitives, no less than a dozen youths erupted from the hovel door, bursting through the refuse littering the front passage, all sporting broad-brimmed hats, scattering like criminals on the run. It was impossible to tell if Riley and Chevie were among them.
Garrick grinned tightly from his perch. A diversionary bunch. Clever.
The assassin supposed that he could drop half a dozen, but that would be a shocking waste of ammunition, and the bobbies would be attracted by mass murder, even in the Old Nichol.
Garrick pocketed his weapon and ran for the stairwell.
So now we race, my son. Only the swift shall survive. The future lies in Bedford Square for us all.
Chevie ran straight across the road, avoiding potholes as she went. Directly facing the tenement’s doorway was a forlorn alley barely the width of a man’s shoulders, which Chevie and Riley darted down, avoiding the turgid stream that trickled down the middle. The black passage was lined with an honor guard of Bob Winkle’s boys, all clapping and whooping with whatever enthusiasm their tarry lungs would permit.
Bob Winkle waited like an angel in the white fog at the alley’s end, holding open a crooked wooden door.
“Get in, Yer Highness,” called Winkle. “I fed the horse some peppers, and she is rearing for the off.”
Chevie dived into the hansom cab’s box while Riley clambered up to the driver’s seat and Winkle landed beside him with remarkable agility for one so malnourished.
“You move sprightly-like,” commented Riley.
“I threw down a few beers,” admitted Winkle. “Just to perk myself up.”
“This is your cab?” Chevie called to the boy from below.
“For the moment, it is your carriage, ma’am,” said Winkle, winking through the roof hole.
Riley grabbed the long-handled whip from its holster and cracked it expertly between the horse’s ears. Part of his magician/assassin training had been whip work, and Riley could snap a playing card out of a punter’s fingers blindfolded. The horse reared once in fright, snapped strong teeth at its tormentor, then took off across the cobbles toward Bloomsbury and Bedford Square.
Garrick opted to run toward the house on Bedford Square. A hansom would be swifter, but there were none to be seen. It vexed him, even as his lungs burned, that he, the great Albert Garrick, was forced to run down an urchin and a girl.
There was no question now of letting them live.
They know my secrets, and I suspect that soon enough Agent Savano will turn her wiles to the task of plotting my downfall.
Garrick knew that these two links to the future must be comprehensively severed lest they use the Timekey to reconnect with Chevron’s time and bring justice down upon him.
The magician felt his hat fly off his head and he let it go, allowing his long hair to stream out behind him. The wind in his locks made him feel primal and unstoppable.
Riley drove the hansom as though the devil were on their tail, which was not far from the truth. The trip was a little more than two and a half miles, and Riley clipped almost every footpath on the journey, tossing Bob Winkle and Chevie like bulls-eyes in a jar, but they never complained or cried halt; they were all too willing to wear a few bruises if the prize was escaping Albert Garrick.
Riley, not content simply to graze footpaths, seemed determined to drive the cab to destruction. He thundered past a lord’s carriage and was only saved from tipping upside down by the steadying steel of a lamppost, which buckled under the weight of the hansom’s broadside.
Their progress along Gower Street was marked by two constable’s whistles; a baker’s tray tossed into the air, showering the boys trailing the cart with hot rolls; and a sea of roast potatoes rolling from an overturned grill.
Chevie tried to hold herself steady enough to look out for Garrick, but the city flashed past, and her senses were addled by the jostling.
“Nearly there,” she said to herself, teeth clacking as she spoke. “I know this area.”
And she did, as the general architecture and layout of the streets did not change substantially over the next century.
Riley stood on the board, hauling on the reins, and slowed the beleaguered nag to a trot. He leaned into the roof aperture.
“Out you get, Chevie,” he ordered. “Bob, you dump this hansom in Covent Garden so as to draw the bluebottles away. Take it steady from here; no need to draw any sharp looks.”
Bob took the reins, his face a-glow with the sheer joy of flight. “Yessir, Mr. Riley. And if they nabs me, I’ll not peach, Winkle’s word on it.”
Riley passed him the last of Malarkey’s coin. “The princess thanks you, Bob.”
Winkle stuffed the money inside his ragged waistcoat. “You know where I lurks, if you have need. Inform the princess that next time I’ll be bartering for a kiss.”
Chevie threw open the door. “You wash your face,” she said, stepping onto the road, “and I might kiss it.”
Which caused the said mucky visage to churn in consternation, then grin widely as Bob Winkle snapped the reins and hurried off, vowing to wash his face at the next available opportunity.
The door of the Bayley Street house was solid wood with brass hinges and iron rivets and would obviously not succumb to a kicking.
Chevie was incredulous that a mere door might stop them, when they had come so far. She cast her eyes wildly around the square for some tool that would help them break in, but there was nothing on the street but nannies with strollers, enjoying the morning sun in the small park, or various street traders offering breakfast treats.
“How are
we supposed to get in?” asked Chevie. “Our plan only works if we’re inside the house.”
“Calm yourself, Chevie,” said Riley. “I have cracked this drum before, remember?”
The assassin’s apprentice climbed on top of the groundfloor railings and sprang upward to grasp the sill of an upper window with his fingertips. Riley hoisted open the sash window and wriggled inside, just as he had during his previous, fateful visit. Last time the clasp had taken some forcing with a jemmy; this time it was already busted in two.
Half a minute passed, then Riley pulled open the door a slice.
“Duck inside,” he said to Chevie. “I smell Garrick approaching.”
Chevie obliged, saying, “I don’t smell anything. I think I broke my sense of smell in the Old Nichol.”
Riley closed the door, but he did not apply the chain. “I feel him near in the twist of me guts. It’s something I’ve always been able to do.”
Chevie placed the flat of one palm against her own stomach. “You know what, Riley? I think you may have something there. Let’s get moving. My guts are twisting something awful.”