“Where did they come from? It doesn't matter, old-timer. All that matters is that they’re here.

  There’s rumours, sure. Some of Keaton’s boys, the ones we grabbed, speak ‘bout some mansion in Fermanagh and fancy prep school in Dublin. He’s a Saxon, aye, and a noble one. You can tell by the way he talks, the airs he puts on, the churches his parents walked into. But he hated it. He hated it all. The plantations, the riches, the pastors. He’d been plotting some kind of fight since he was six years old, so when Wolfe Tone and a few pints of Shorn blood started that fight for him…

  The Jew, Ratcatcher, he’s different. He don’t tell his Nocturni shit. You want to know about him, you have to reach the old Jews he protects, the ones who knew him before. Crusty merchants, broke craftsmen, whores who ain’t realised their old tits aren’t wanted. He was from the Pale, they say, out in Tsar lands. Run out without a shekel to his name by the kind of rulers that know how to deal with their kind. After that, he was anything. Street peddler, fishmonger. Whitechapel was already a shithole by then, packed with enough swindlers and fagins to keep you boozed and penniless ‘til the end of time. Ratcatcher lost too many bets. Crossed too many people. They threw him in some marsh in Walthamstow with rocks tied to his ankles.

  Probably weren’t expecting it when he walked right back out.

  I know what you’re thinking. And maybe in your time, when knights charged at each other in bright colours and shouted their father’s names, that sort of reprisal would work. But nowadays, you can’t just burn a man's town, rape their mothers, and leave a few quartered corpses as a warning. Ratcatcher’s home is thousands of miles away, and if it weren’t his blood on target by that pogrom, I’d wager ten shillings that he’d grab a torch and join them. And Keaton? Keaton’s worse. He has more passion than love.

  I heard that the first noble he shot was his own bloody father.”

  Unaddressed letter by the hand of Frederick Carroway, then Reeve of East London, believed to have been intended for Caedmon, then Potentate of the Court of the Sun. The letter was found in a coat pocket on Frederick’s corpse, along with three dozen stab wounds, in an alley on Coalmakers Wharf. October 15th, 1847.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  1868

  Springtime

  It’s only when they reach the bridge that Tom's stomach stops, and his mind starts to regret. He's wearing his best suit, but it’s covered in sweat and grime. He’s holding the sign he painted last night. ‘FAIR WORK. FAIR PAY.’

  But it doesn’t protect him from anything.

  He’s standing on the bridge, shaking in his suspenders. Breathing in the smog-filled air and the aromas of two-hundred workers surrounding him. It had been so easy to join. The union was ecstatic. For too long, the hours grew, the pay stayed the same. His little Gertrude got sick. They couldn’t afford medicine. The prices got higher, and soon, they were skipping meat on Mondays. Then Wednesdays. Then some weeks, they couldn’t get meat at all.

  He thought he couldn’t take it. He thought he couldn’t take watching his nine-year-old follow him onto the line. He thought he couldn’t take his father’s words, cursing him for moving to the city. He thought he couldn’t take his wife's eyes. Quiet, always quiet, but with every passing year, showing more and more of their shame.

  He thought he couldn’t take it.

  But now, he sees the smokestacks clear across the river. Now he sees the foremen, the alarms, the hisses and pistons and doldrums that define the fourteen hours he spends there every day of the week but one. He could have just gone back. Gone back and waited it out like anyone smart.

  Everyone knows what happens to strikers.

  “Hey.” Someone calls out, and Tom turns back. There are hundreds right behind him, in their own best clothes, under their own flapping signs. The one who speaks to him is at his right. Jack Harris. The one who started this. A wily boy with a clever smile, and all the knowledge one thinks they have at nineteen. “You’se left your lunch home or somefin’?”

  Tom swallows. “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “It has to work.”

  “But they could hire others. They always hire others. I heard-”

  “Any scab tries ta get through us, I’ll nail 'is hand to the door by me fahkin' self.” Jack reaches out, grasps his shoulder. “You’se remember Hal?”

  Tom nods. It’s hard to forget the stump.

  “You’se remember when he said he couldn't work, what they did to him?”

  Tom nods again.

  Jack starts nodding with him. “I gave speeches all morn, but I know you fink 'eir bullshit. You don’t care ‘bout classes and revolutions. You just want more bread for your kin, maybe on a slightly less wobbly table. But they’ll never give us that, Tom, you have to know. Not unless…”

  “We give ‘em Hell first?"

  Jack smiles. “Yeah."

  Tom’s eyes flit back to the bridge. The sun, just starting to rise. “If we die…”

  “We won’t die.”

  Brrrrr-um. Brrrr-um. Brrr-um bum bum. Drums resound from the end of the pack. The workers stand straighter, their signs rise higher. The ones in front start to cross, and Tom panics again. Considers pushing his way back North, or leaping into the waters, but he knows how these men will see it. He believes Jack when the boy says he'll nail hands to doors.

  So what would he do with him?

  Tom takes one step. Then two. Soon he’s half-way over, an ironclad traversing the waters right below. The factories are straight ahead. Already spewing their foul-smelling smoke.

  “No one’s gonna hurt,” Jack tells him. “No one’s gonna get hurt.”

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  It’s not an easy climb. Harriet’s been mounting trees all her life, but on these factory walls, she keeps slipping.

  It’s the bricks, she thinks. All the way up this building, they’ve been slimy, covered in soot. They’re smoother than the clay slabs Pa would make with Billy back home, and yet somehow they’re weaker, too. More baked, more brittle. Already, she's broken a few off, found herself dangling by her harness on five storeys of open air.

  The shoes don’t help her, either. Red bought her a pair on their second day, grey little things with black laces. But she’s already had to re-sew them twice, already comes home with blisters more oft than she doesn’t. The dark pants, the button-down shirts, they all feel the same. She was practically in tears when she tried to explain the hole in her shirt, made only three days after she got it, until Menowin came to her defense.

  “Clothes are always shit here,” he told them. “They know you'll just buy another."

  She looks up to the roof, blue eyes squinting into the floodlights. That was something else to get used to. Those lights, the stenches, the shouting. Those first few nights, she barely slept, and the gunshots and fires and drunken songs that fill this city haven’t helped her much in the month since then.

  But now, she’s looking for Menowin, not sleep. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on her rope, yet she sees nothing above except beyond dust and red air and another stupid black bird from that so-called Hermit Kingdom. Shooting its way through the clouds.

  Always circling them.

  Harriet scrambles her way up in a few minutes, collapsing the moment she can, her chest rising and falling. “Huh-huh-huh-huh.” Eventually, she forces herself upright, scowling at the man who stares at the streets below. “Coulda… huh-huh… helped.”

  Menowin’s ringed fingers drum along his binoculars. Heavy smoke pluming in the background beyond him. “You say you don’t like having your hand held.”

  “Yeah, by them. It’d be a welcome change fer you.”

  “Muro maj baro.” He turns, waving her off. “Next time, I will carry you like bride, hog-tied ‘round my shoulder. Your dainty feet won’t touch the ground. Is that easier?”

  “San tu.” She spits, borrowing some of the words he taught her on the voyage. “Not scared of breakin’ Romanipen? I could be bleedin’.”

  Menowin sputters at that, then laughs. It's a loud laugh, a welcome laugh, and she quickly joins it. Until they both hear the sounds.

  “Good people! GOOD PEOPLE! You are called to STAND WITNESS to justice being done!”

  Harriet re-coils the rope, grabs her own binoculars, and rushes to join him. It looks like a courtyard, concrete cornered by red-brick on all sides. She can hear the machines rattling in the nearby factories, so loud that they must be shaking the wood platform the crier stands on.

  “For the preservation of our country....” He rings a bronze bell. “... and to turn would-be evildoers from the path of chaos and sin, we sentence these men to DEATH BY HANGING! Under the eyes of God! And by His Grave, Her Majesty, the Queen Victoria!”

  Cheers from the crowd. There are already hundreds, and more pouring in, taking the handbills and postcards handed to them as they enter. They wear bright dresses and fancy hats, grime-covered shirts, clumps of hair. Some are splattered in the courtyard’s dust; others not at all. Children race between the adults, the crier's words ignored. Chasing each other with laughter in their hearts and loose stones in their shoes. If they have them.

  She looks at the gallows. Four nooses. Four men with black hoods tied over their heads.

  “Ya sure Rowe won’t mind me bein’ here?”

  “I’m not telling him. Are you?”

  She scowls again.

  “The men before you, late of this country, shall suffer this fate for the crimes they have committed against Her Majesty’s loyal subjects! Crimes of intimidation! Obstruction of public order! Conspiracy to breach contract! And UNLAWFUL COMBINATION!”

  “‘At’s not true!” One of the men breaks free of his guard, storms his way forward and screams through the hood. “People, please! I had nuffin’ to do with this! I'm a family man! My children will-"

  The blow comes quick, and hard. The man’s knocked to the ground, sputtering as soldiers rush onto the podium, battering him with their rifles. Eventually, even her ears pick up on the sounds of punctured flesh and broken bone. Harriet’s face twists. The beating's followed by too many cheers.

  She looks up. That black bird still glides over them. “An’ why did Rowe want ya here?”

  “Keaton asked.”

  “Aubrey Keaton? 'The Man with Ten-Thousand Faces?'" She says it in a mocking voice. "Does he think ya ain’t seen hangin's?"

  “I’ve seen hangings.” Menowin shifts his head. “Not for this.”

  Before she can ask what that means, the sputtering man is dragged to his feet. The rope tested, loosened, casually placed over his head. His hood is pulled off, and she spots the moles, the curls, can tell he’s still muttering. There are tears in his eyes. Trembling in his hands.

  “Tom Hillscroft!” the crier calls.

  “I’m sorry!" Tom’s carelessly placed on a high step. “I’m sorry! I'm sorry! I'M-"

  The plea dies with a snap. More cheers follow after.

  Harriet pulls the binoculars from her eyes, takes deep breaths, clutches her stomach. Before she stops. Sees. A single tug on Menowin’s sleeve, and he’s seeing them, too.

  A dozen men stand on the rooftop across from them, all in black boots, all in beige coats. Erika Mittenwalde is recognisable at once. A shotgun on her shoulder, her eyes submerged by goggles of red glass. To her right, a young man, with sandy curls and a fidgety step. Filled holsters pepper his hips, his sides, and bandoliers shoved full of dynamite hang loose from both his shoulders.

  Harriet blinks. She’s never seen someone so armed in her life. But at least she can see him. The one to his right, the one she realises must be Aubrey Keaton is barely seen at all.

  At first, she thinks he’s a burly man. Broad-shouldered, with a heavy black beard. But then something quirks, a trick in the light, and in the burly man’s place, a young woman. Half-starved features. A face like a rat’s. A few seconds more, and he’s another man again. Large ears. Moles and warts. It happens again. And again. A sixth and seventh time. The longer she watches, the more her head starts to split. No face ever looks like the last.

  Menowin laughs when she has to look away. “Paruvimata. Shape-changers. Little pricks, all."

  “Do ya get used ta that?”

  “Some do.” He spits. “You won’t.”

  More screams. Another snap. More cheering.

  “Menowin…" She swallows. "What does ‘unlawful combination’ mean?”

  “They asked for better pay when the man who pays them would rather they didn't.”

  “An’ people will cheer an’ watch someone lose their neck fer that?”

  “People are strange.”

  The first two are still swinging when they bring up the next. He’s smaller than the others, weaselly, his patchwork coat too large for his chest. “JACK HARRIS!”

  “Erika said this city was ready fer Revolt,” she says. “This don’t look ready.”

  Menowin pauses. "I'm less sure."

  She squints at him. “Well, why not?"

  “In all the time you’ve rode with us, all the desperate men you’ve seen… na?av darad.” He gives her a look. “Have they ever hanged strikers?”

  Jack doesn’t move a muscle as they tie the rope, pull it taut. The hood is pulled from his face, revealing wild eyes, a vicious grin.

  “You'll last a few hours,” the executioner snarls. “Orders from command.”

  Jack doesn’t reply. His eyes don’t even follow them. He just keeps perfectly still as they raise him up the steps. The crowd starts jeering his name. Harriet's chest starts to twist.

  Jack breathes in through his nose. Out through his mouth. Then a twist, and the bindings fall. Gasps and shouting and chaos as he lifts his arm. “FOR AUBREY KEATON!”

  The sleeve falls loose. Then the pin from his grenade.

  “OH MY GOD!”

  “GET DOWN!”

  Jack keeps shouting. “FOR THE WORKERS OF-”

  Splinters. Sounds. The podium covered in clouds of grey. She sees more movement from the ground. More flashes. More screams. Some are running. Embracing. Others, in loose coats, dust-filled coats, draw guns from their pockets and fire. And it just goes on.

  Soldiers fall. Orders are barked. The smoke clears as women are trampled and men are beaten down. The hanging corpses are mangled. Faces torn. Limbs missing.

  Harriet lowers her binoculars. Notes the way her hands shake. Menowin hasn't pulled back. Instead, he says:

  "... they weren't lying."

  “ZIGEUNER!” Their heads bolt up. Erika stands on the edge of her roof, the chaos below lighting her coat. There’s a letter cylinder in her hand, and with a thrust, she launches. Harriet watches it sail through the roof, clearly arcing to the ground below before it vanishes and reappears in Menowin’s hand.

  He thrusts the oblong into her chest. “Read it. Out loud.”

  Harriet rolls the top back. Menowin's eyes don’t leave the Prussian.

  “‘We will meet your Black Prince three hours before dawn. Be there. The b-...’” She squints, trying to sound it out. “‘The… borg-ee-oh…’”

  “‘Bourgeoisie.’”

  “-does not wait...” She rolls the letter back up. “... and neither will we.”

  Menowin exhales. “We need to find Rowe.”

  “Yeah, we need ta find Rowe quickly,” she starts gathering her grapnel. “Let’s-”

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  She stops. Focuses. Gunshots still ring from the courtyard. With whistles and bells and neighing horses. But to her it’s all distant. As distant as windchimes and white clouds.

  Aubrey Keaton still stands on the roof. Hair waving in the wind, red goggles slowly pulled from his eyes. The raven flies over him now, and when Harriet spies his new face, it fills her with a wrongness the likes of which she’s never felt.

  Wild eyes. A sly smile. The same blonde hair she saw before he exploded in a cloud of grey.

  Jack Harris, they called that man.

  Keaton is wearing the face of the boy who just died for him.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  If they were received by the Court in streets of elegance, and met the Unbound in streets choked with smog, the alley Menowin pulls her through was somehow in the middle.

  By day, Soho seems pleasant, even opulent. The streets are packed with flower shops and toymakers and apartments stacked high. Some buildings are new, others old, made from weathered stone, fresh wood, red brick. The streets are broad, packed with travellers and four-horse wagons, buskers and quacks. s greet from above, selling soaps and bicycles and everything Harriet could dream of, as well as a few things she can't.

  But the moment the Sun sets, the moment her new ‘father’ and his compatriots open their eyes, Soho changes. Polite conversation turns to drunken song. The bells on shop doors are replaced with the penniless thrown into street drains. Men crowd around tables, fight over dogs and drunkenly coo at, mmm… those who work at the other establishments still open. Those women always make Harriet feel self-conscious, same as on the frontier. Her pastor would call them sinners. Rowe calss them ‘ladies of the night.’ And Menowin?

  Menowin calls them a lot of things.

  She pulls her gun a little closer.

  There are beggars, too. The beggars interest her most. She’ll cross dozens, maybe hundreds in a single day, and she’s never seen anything quite like them. Most come from St. Giles, a place she frequently hears about, but only sees from a distance. A district with no streets, buildings with no windows, and a stench so fierce that she can smell it from a mile, when it catches on the wind. In Soho, they hold out rusting bowls, or hands missing fingers. Their bellies are bloated, their eyes hollow. Some shout at the people who walk past, or curse, or spit at their shoes. Others beg and pray and plead for mercy. But most, she knows, simply sit there. Their heads bowed, their lips quiet, their chests barely covered. As if they see no point in even asking, so often have they heard ‘no.’

  She doesn’t know if they seek Soho out for the generous drunks, or if every street in this city is alike. She’s not about to investigate, either. London's a city bursting with mysteries no one will solve. Does every factory produce such smoke? Does every poorhouse smell so rotten?

  What point is there in knowing, when knowing just makes it worse?

  Eventually, they find the tavern Rowe's rented, and the torment of her thoughts are replaced by slammed mugs and raucous laughter.

  It’s the fifteenth or so 'public house', or whatever she’s supposed to call them, she’s stayed in since they arrived. Rowe's likely in his room, writing, planning, praying, while it feels like everyone else simply wastes themselves outside. It’s hard to blame; she’s not fond of the smell of booze, sure, but it beats smelling the acrid air. As she readjusts her rifle, Harriet spots the rest of them, sharing a table. Drinking. Smiling. She frowns.

  Normally the sight of Red Eddards so relaxed would warm her heart. But not when it’s with the man he’s seated with.

  Menowin’s glare makes clear that he feels the same way. “I’ll find the Prince,” he says. “Keep your, uh, ‘father’ from getting mato.”

  Harriet stares at the tassels on Captain Morris’ sword. “Then ya better find him quickly.”

  Menowin shrugs, and turns to go, but before he can, she squeezes his arm. Makes him turn.

  "Phralo..." Harriet thinks that's the right word. "... if they, ah... if they ask..."

  “Ask what?”

  She gives him a look. “It’s been hours.”

  “You haven’t thought of what to tell them?” He watches her shake his head. “Then tell the truth.” He slaps her hand away and moves inside. “There’s nowhere private to piss.”

  Harriet rolls her eyes, looks up. The bird's still there.

  Then turns on her heel, and marches into Red’s conversation.

  “The City of London itself.”

  “No. Yer shittin’ me.”

  “For due service to Her Majesty, her Government, and her oldest subject.” Morris smiles to himself. “Have you ever seen a fireship, Josiah?” Red shakes his head. “The Turks and their Mamelukes are the masters of it. A great barge of wood, set alight until the flames are so high, that the smoke and God’s clouds seem the same.”

  “An’ what, did yer ship throw one off? Have it crash back in their faces?”

  “Oh, we crashed them in their faces through the whole battle,” Morris leans forward. “I was the only one to do it with three."

  Red laughs. "That's a goddamn good soldier." He settles back in his chair, tips his hat. “An’ all fer a people who don’t even speak yer tongue.”

  “For freedom. For our fellow Christian men. For a country that the West should have saved and a people who felt oppressed and abandoned. I gladly aided Greece. It was a wrong needing right. I thought a Texan, of anyone, would best understand that.”

  “Mmm. Freedom.” Red pauses, staring into his cup. “... yeah. Let’s call it that.”

  For a moment, there’s silence. Red only starts to spring up when Harriet forces herself into a chair.

  “Heyyyyy, kiddo!”

  She smiles as he ruffles her hair. “Hey.”

  “I was startin’ ta get worried. Where ya been?”

  See, Menowin? “Oh, ya know,” she laughs. “Pissin’. Broodin’. Seein’ the sights.”

  “It’s not always safe for a woman to go alone,” Morris shifts.

  “Yeah, well, neither was the frontier, Captain.” She grins to herself, reaching for Red’s mug. “An’ yet I still made it- HEY!"

  She pouts as the mug is quickly slid away from her.

  “What the Hell?"

  “Too strong fer someone yer size,” Red winks.

  Harriet scoffs. “It can’t be any worse than that swill in the river!”

  “This borough doesn’t take its water from the Thames,” Morris interjects. “Too unsanitary. You should thank Fortuna that you were not here the summer the waters receded, and the filth below reached open air."

  She makes a face at that. "An' yet I still see lil' kids divin' head-first in."

  "Men will dive into anything if they see an unopen crate fall first." Morris nods. "I heard you weren’t sleeping well.”

  Harriet blinks, then stares hard at Red. “Ya told him?”

  “I talked with him. Didn’t realise it was somethin’ ya want hidden.”

  Her face twists. Of course she wants it hidden. She wants everything hidden from a man like him! Has Red seen him? Even in human form, if she looks too closely, Morris' veins bristle with a dark liquid, clearly not blood, that contrasts strangely with his glowing grey skin. And that's not even mentioning the eyes.

  They’re staring at her right now. Depthless and dark. Trying to gauge her.

  “Harriet…” Red lifts his arms. “He’s fine. Ya think I haven’t been grillin’ him fer the past months now? He knows this city better than anyone!”

  “If it’s a problem with the noise, I might be-”

  “I don’t need yer help.”

  Morris slides back as she glares him. Speaks just before an angered Red can open his mouth. “No, don’t scold her. Not for that. Being slow to trust in your environment probably kept you alive."

  He stops to take a drink. Harriet doesn’t relax her scowl.

  “I struggled too, before my Lighting. The horses, the crowds, all of it. I was born with the sea in my ears, fell asleep to the sounds of rocks on the salt wind. So, first, I tried to borrow from Odysseus. Stick candlewax in my ears to block everything out. Except-"

  “Bad idea,” she interrupts. “Can’t be alert.”

  His eyes spark. “... True. But we’re not exactly in the Wilds here, Fireside. I'm not going to be set upon by a bear.”

  “Not in the open.”

  He shifts, looking down at the rifle by her leg. Growing a soft smile. “Better instincts than mine, then. You’re right, in a fashion. The absence of sound was worse. Made me feel nothing but less, mmm… comfortable.”

  “Yeah, walkin’ around with only that fancy sword ta defend yerself. I’d be on edge, too.”

  He chuckles. “The sword still works.”

  “Does it?”

  “For those who are capable.”

  Harriet squints, turns to Red. He's sipping from his mug, gestures for the others to go on.

  “Here’s a question, girl.” Morris leans up. “Which do you think is more practical? My ‘fancy sword’, or that rifle, half-again as large as you?”

  “Try ta rush me. We’ll find out.”

  “That’s the problem. They will rush you. I know you’re a talented shot; your father is quite eager to share those praises. But talents can be squandered when-”

  He reaches over the table, which makes Harriet immediately pull the gun back. Morris blinks, then opens his palm.

  “... may I?”

  The silence lasts half a minute, before she slowly slides it over.

  “Thank you.” Morris holds the rifle to the floor, letting his finger glide over the wood, putting the weight in his hand. “... you’ve changed the stock. And the muzzle, too?”

  “Parts break. I replace them.”

  “But not the sights?”

  Harriet laughs.

  Morris gives her a doubting look, but moves on. “On the frontier, this sort of barrel is an asset. Long distance. High velocity. But here, the police have guns, and no one else, and so those who fight you have adapted. Tight corners. Large crowds. Bludgeons to knock you to the ground, and knives to pierce you after. You might get ten good metres distance by the time you lift that gun, and if you miss-”

  “I don’t miss.” She growls.

  “I know. But if you do.” Morris tilts his head. “You’ll have twenty holes in your stomach before you can even pour more powder.”

  “So what should I do?” She folds her arms. “Trade-in fer a shotgun?”

  He smiles at that, then shakes his head. “No.”

  She watches him lower to below his seat. Withdrawing a long package wrapped with paper and twine. She stares at it, uncertain, as he pushes it close.

  He sees her hesitance. “Go on.”

  Slowly, she takes the package in hand. Undoes one string at a time, like she might be disarming a bomb. Rolls the paper back and-

  Morris chuckles at her pause. “Do you like it?”

  She doesn’t reply. Staring back at her, her own distorted reflection. Spread across eighteen inches, and ending in a tipped blade.

  A bayonet. She blinks at it, dares to reach out and slide a finger over the metal. Polished. Sharp.

  “It puts distance between yourself and any assailants,” Morris tells her. “It can hold them back, buy you time… or, with enough training…”

  “Kill them,” she finishes.

  Morris nods. “Yes. Often, even faster than a bullet.”

  Her eyes haven’t left the blade.

  Red suddenly sits up. “Harriet, normally we say ‘thank ya’ when folks give us gifts-"

  “No need,” Morris lifts his hand. “If half the stories you tell are true, she’ll have ample opportunity to repay me.”

  It’s a compliment, but her instincts don’t take it that way. They make her frown. She looks up, sliding the blade back his way, his reflection completely missing from the steel. “Does the Court often give weapons ta their enemies?”

  “I told you before. I’m not the Court. And you’re not my enemy.”

  “But I would be, if yer Court ordered ya.”

  “Not untrue.” He taps the blade with a gloved hand. “But at least now, if that event were to occur, we can fight on more even footing.”

  Harriet smiles at that, a little fire in her eyes. “I've gotta question, Captain. Why give ya a sword, an’ not a gun? Thought the whole point a’ them cannons was ta keep y’all away from each other.”

  “Cannons miss.”

  “Or maybe ya jes’ like skewerin’ them little boys up close more than ya like blastin' their legs off from a distance.”

  Red growls. “Harriet.”

  “Well, that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” She squints. “He said it himself, he started fightin’ at fourteen."

  "I don't see how my sword is-"

  "Ya want my trust," she interjects. "Ya wouldn't buy that if ya didn't. But here's the thing, Captain. I don't trust a man who goes on 'bout 'honour' an' 'glory' like killin' whoever his country picked that month makes him a better person."

  "Ah." Morris smiles. “Maybe it has.”

  “Then my country would be fulla good men."

  She can sense those black eyes. A coldness that radiates from his skin and makes her want to rush for some kind of jacket.

  “... do you know what my final posting was? The task I was given, in the weeks and months before my Lighting?” Morris lets the silence answer. “The Gold Coast. West African Squadron. We’d intercept pirates, smugglers, anyone who thought they could beat us to Brazil. We arrested those criminals who lived. Released all the… mmm… everyone those rats considered cargo.”

  "Cargo?" Harriet brightens. “Ya freed slaves?”

  “No. Never.” Morris hardens. “I freed men.”

  Her mouth hangs open, while Red suddenly looks away.

  “It was a horrid posting. Full of heat, and violence, and disease. But it was the right thing, and so I did it.” He leans forward. “And when I shoved my blade in a man who collars other men, in a monster who rapes mothers while their children are chained to their sides, it doesn’t matter what age they are, or what lives they’ve lived. I feel justice. Righteousness. Honour.”

  He stops. Realising that he’s half-stood up, before he sheepishly sits back down.

  “When you put a bullet in someone who’s done such wrong… do you not feel the same?”

  “No,” she replies.

  “Then what do you feel?”

  Her eyes flit around the table. Red is watching her too. Just as intensely. And that black bird is still twisting through the sky.

  “... Nothin’.”

  She tries to look the Captain in his eyes.

  “They’re things ta be done. They don’t make me feel... anythin’ at all.”

  He’s quiet for a long time. Studying her. But thumping boots soon pull them apart.

  “Rakli, Eddards, up!” Menowin lifts his arm. When Morris rises with the others, his growl keeps the man back. “Not you.”

  Morris slowly resets himself while Red takes a stretch. “What’s goin’ on, gyp?”

  “Rowe’s not here. We need to get him.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Where do you think, grastek?” Menowin twists back the way he came. “He’s fucking preaching.”

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “What you speak of is heresy!"

  “Heresy only to those unwilling-”

  “She was appointed by God!”

  “I have to say,” his friend whispers in his ear. “At least they made service a bit more exciting.”

  Julius Haverforth is supposed to smile back. But he doesn’t. He simply watches the two pastors spar - and, like all the congregation, with growing difficulty.

  Some are whispering, like Jacob to his side. Others bury their noses in hymnals or already begin packing their purse. For himself, he’s slipping cards through his sleeve. Two of Diamonds. King of Spades. On, and on, and on, until enough well-worn edges are finally staring back at him.

  They’re in a large church, of oak pillars and brick walls, vaulted ceiling and polished floors. Nearly a thousand Londoners crowd around the dozens of pews, wearing all sorts of fabric and colour. The women have waifish waists, the men hold half a hundred types of hat. Julius dresses just like them. A fine striped suit with ruffles at the sleeves. Dark hair hangs over bright eyes, and his long, lankish body is a mess of limbs. His black stovetop sets against matching leather shoes, and by his leg, a richly engraved cane made of ebony.

  “Your Majesty is a pious woman," the stranger continues. "Of that, I don’t deny. But piety is not divinity. God cares not for what station you were born to. He speaks to all of us with the same tongue. The Hindu, the juncker, the beggar-”

  “The beggars!?” Someone from the crowd shouts. “Well if he’s speaking to them, maybe those layabouts ought to listen!”

  That gets a lot of laughs.

  It’s not Julius' church. It was his father’s, his sister’s, and at many times he’s been tempted to leave it like his mother had, when the sickness took that father and sister and left them dead and gone. He feels that pull now. So many things. The tables that need repairing. The cheaters keep sneaking in. It’s the same anxiety that comes whenever he leaves his business. The parlour. The parlour. The parlour.

  “The Queen is head of the church. The Queen was appointed by God.” Father Howland points to the ceiling. “Do you think that this Empire that we’ve built, these riches that we enjoy, could have been made and given without providence?"

  “Britain has been ruled without monarchs before,” the stranger says. “Britain has been ruled by the people.”

  “And what came of those times? Strife? War?"

  “It wasn’t the people who started them.”

  “Gawen!” Duffy, the old Deacon with his ornate green robes and balding white head, hobbles his way from the altar. The stranger folds his hands. He’s in odd clothes - black robes, not white, and a thin layer of gold filigree. He’s not wearing shoes.

  The Deacon grabs his arm, stares Howland down. “This man is our guest. He has a right to finish his sermon.”

  Howland puffs up. “I will not stand here and-”

  “I’m not finished.” When the room is silent, Duffy turns to the stranger. “You might misunderstand our flock, brother Rowe. Many come to escape such material concerns as politics-”

  “Our God was murdered by the state, and you think we must worship without politics!?"

  The whispers have stopped. Now, worshippers simply rise from their seats, loudly leave. Julius sees the same desire clear on his friend’s face, and feels that temptation again. The tables. The cheaters. Mum still hasn’t left her bed.

  “You come here from across the sea,” Howland growls. “Insult my leaders. Attack my flock-”

  “If your ‘sheep’ feel a stick in their sides, it’s only so that I might keep them from false shepherds-”

  “You bastard!”

  “And who are you!?” Someone from the pew shouts. “Who made you judge?!”

  “Gawen… look into your heart.” Duffy squeezes again. “Would Christ want your wrath, or your mercy? His is a word of love-"”

  “Christ still knew justice.” Rowe hisses back. “Christ still knew rage!”

  He stops, seeing the people hustling for the doors, lowering their eyes, shaking their heads. Suddenly, his face quirks, and he shouts.

  “IS THIS WHAT YOUR FAITH LOOKS LIKE!?”

  They stop. At this point, half the congregation is standing. Most turn back. A few still push themselves out. But for the first time since he spoke, the whole church seems to go quiet.

  Rowe closes his eyes.

  “You came here in hope that I’d declare to you the same God as your pastors. And lo, I admit, they know His name, and speak it often.” His eyes slowly fan out., staring each down. “You’ve come knowing I arrive from a foreign place, a war-torn land, and so you expect me to return call the savages savage and the villains villainous. You come so that I can name your Queen righteous, her foes accursed, and praise your virtue and diligence and all the other things that make men like yourselves good. After all, you are craftsmen. Traders and shopkeeps. Butchers and binders. No man is free of sin, but some men are freer than others. Surely, you must be men of substance. Even Christ was a carpenter.”

  A pause for a few seconds. Julius isn’t aware of how closely he’s leaning in.

  “You come in your coloured suits, with hands scrubbed clean and smiles rehearsed, because it makes you feel free of this city. Free of the horror that wrecks its poor. Free of the greed that corrupts its owners. You behold that monster gripping our streets, but think your own hearts ungripped simply because you go to church on Sundays and are men of substance, indeed. Even Christ was a carpenter.”

  He storms back. Well past the altar, its gold crosses and jewelled chalice. Only stopping by the baptismal font, the small wood cross etched above the bowl.

  “But my God is not a carpenter’s God.”

  He tears the cross from its platform.

  “My God is a God of lepers!”

  He holds it high, shouting over the gasps.

  “My God is a God of WHORES!”

  The crowd erupts. Julius is gaping.

  “My God was born in a sheep-pen! My God fed five-thousand before his own! My God stood against Rome! DIED! AND STOOD AGAINST ROME AGAIN! He is not safe! He is not a coward! He bows to NO PRINCE OR PONTIFF OR ANYONE! NO MATTER HOW DEARLY YOUR PRIESTS WISH HE HAS!”

  Now the priests join the shouts. People stand and push and look for things to throw. Julius brings his cane closer, trying to hear Rowe's voice over all.

  “You who live beneath the new Augustus! You who dwell in the new Rome! We have a CHOICE! We can choose the Barabbas in our streets, in our factories! Or we can choose GOD! We can stand for those who can’t stand!”

  “Enough! Out, out! All of you out! This sermon is finished!” The Deacon hobbles over to Rowe, seething. “What have you done!?”

  “I’ve told them the truth.”

  “You set the state on us, is what you did!” He points an accusatory finger into Rowe’s chin. “You remind me of the pastors of my youth. Sin this! Sinner that! As if we exist to call people wrong! This is a place of decorum! This is a place where people deserve respect!

  “Respect? I’m sure the Pharisees thought that of theirs was a place of respect, too.” Rowe hardens. “You are free to hide in that Temple, Deacon. It will make your flock safer. Quite possibly, it will make them richer. But the truth always finds.”

  The back door bursts open. Julius sees them rush in. An Indian, he thinks, with a redhead and an absolute bear of a man. Rowe stops for a moment, then glares fiercely at Duffy.

  “And when the Ninth Hour comes…”

  He throws the cross on the ground.

  “... your Temple's walls will start cracking.”

  And with that, he leaves the ambulatory.

  Julius can’t take his eyes off him. How quickly he rushes to the group, leans in. Listens with his hands still folded.

  “What a quack,” Jacob huffs in his ear. “‘The monster in our streets?' It’s practically Fabian. Come on. Let’s get out of here before we’re seen. This will be the talk of the city, and I’d rather- Julius!?!?”

  He’s already pushing ahead. Walking to Rowe as quickly as his cane can carry him.

  The man's companions are fierce in debate. “- within the hour.”

  “Then we’d best rent a venue to host him.”

  “A venue?” The Indian squints. “He’s a wanted fugitive! What 'venue' will host him?”

  “Then write to Erika that current difficulties prevent us from-”

  “I have a place!"

  The three men stop. Slowly turn. The red-haired girl watches Julius with furtive blue eyes. At first, Julius thinks he'll be rejected on the spot, but then Rowe takes a step forward.

  “... What sort of place?"

  His men give him confused looks.

  Julius takes the chance to stand taller. The cane snapping behind his back. “A, uh… a gaming parlour.” He sees the reaction that gets, quickly tries to correct. “B-but it serves drinks, a-and I can clear it out as quickly as you-”

  “What’s a casino owner doin’ in a church like this?” The tall man asks.

  Julius stops, looks around. “... what’s a Hindu?”

  “Hindu?” The Indian chuckles. “Oh, that’s rich.”

  Rowe seems less humoured. “What’s your name, child?”

  “Julius. U-Uh, Haverforth.”

  “And can you keep a secret, Julius?”

  Rowe used his first name. A break of courtesy Julius tries to ignore. “Do you think men of my trade last if they can’t?”

  Rowe shifts his head at that. Julius takes another hobbled step forward.

  “This… fugitive… is he one of those men you spoke of? Standing for those who can’t stand?”

  "I don't know." Rowe exhales. “Not yet. But if you give me an empty parlour for the night, I will.”

  Julius nods. “Then I will help you.”

  The larger man pushes forward. His rawhide hat tipped over his eyes. “Forgive the offense, Mr. Haverforth, but… we don’t know ya. Don't know ya wanna help us."

  “You don’t believe in Christian charity?”

  “Oh, I do. But if you believed it, ya’d starve ta death.”

  Julius quietly smiles. “You know… this was my father’s church. The parlour, his business too. He found a way to loop those threads.”

  “Is that why you’re helping us?” Rowe asks. “Because of your father?”

  “No.” Julius’ smile grows. “I’m doing it because if he heard your sermon, he’d shoot you dead.”

  It doesn’t seem to relax the large man. But the girl by his side, the one with red-hair, pushes her way out from under him. Julius pales; she’s carrying a rifle that stands over her head, tipped with a bayonet. “Yer parlour got a name, Julius?”

  "It does," he shrugs. "A formal one. But most don't use it anymore."

  "They've gotta call it somethin'."

  "You're right. They call it the Respite."