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.”
Albert Garrick plucked another twenty-first-century phrase from the store in his mind: the runner’s high. I ain’t a jot tired, he thought, as the adrenaline coursed through his system, maximizing his muscles’ performance. That is because my adrenal gland is releasing epinephrine. Fascinating.
Garrick leaned into the wind, pumping his arms in the style of Carl Lewis, one of Felix Smart’s favorite athletes.
The feeling didn’t last, and darkness clouded his morning mood. Garrick couldn’t rest until the Timekey was destroyed and the landing pad dismantled. He wouldn’t be completely safe in this time until that happened.
Riley shall know that I am his master, even unto dust.
When this is resolved, I will need to find myself a new apprentice. A less reluctant one.
I spared the rod. That will not happen again. I will select an indigent from the Old Nichol, feed him up, and teach him respect. And if he doesn’t learn it, he shall go to the grave, as his predecessor is about to do.
Garrick cut through the park, vaulting the iron railings onto Bayley Street, just in time to see the tail of Riley’s coat disappearing into the shadowed hallway of Charles Smart’s house.
Garrick’s bloodlust rose in his throat like bile.
I shall have them both, he thought with raw savagery, then away, before the alarm is raised.
Garrick drew himself up to avoid conspicuous glances and strolled across the street, as easy as a man with nothing more on his mind than the purchase of morning coffee and sweet rolls. This casual manner was sloughed off once he put his shoulder to Charles Smart’s door and found it unbolted.
They are mine, he thought, but then urged himself toward caution.
Chevron Savano has considerable training. She is young and impetuous, but still capable of surprises.
Garrick bolted the door behind him, then drew the lasersighted pistol and walked rapidly toward the stairs. There was clattering ahead as someone went down to the basement. Garrick knew from the weight of the footfalls and the whistle of breath that it was Riley.
It is possible that the boy is slightly asthmatic? Formative years spent in London’s poisonous smog will have that effect, he realized. And soon Riley’s breathing problems will become more severe.
His own lungs were as clean as a whistle, thanks to the wormhole.
Garrick took hold of the banister with his free hand and swung himself into the stairwell, using a shoulder to check himself against the wall.
Riley was in view. Ten steps below! A piddling, easy shot.
“Riley!” he thundered, rather enjoying the melodrama. “Halt!”
The boy did not even turn, but his legs wobbled and something slipped from his hand.
The Timekey! Riley has dropped it.
Garrick could not quell an exclamation. “Aha!”
The Timekey slipped from Riley’s fingers, and the boy knew that he must be seen to return for it, or else the plan counted for nothing. He spun around, only to find Garrick already crushing the key under his heel.
“You betrayed me, orphan,” said Garrick. “And your punishment will be a slow death.”
You orphaned me, thought Riley, fury building in his heart like steam in an engine, and he attacked, which was most certainly not part of the plan.
Riley balled his fists, as he had been taught, and punched Garrick in the nerve cluster above the knee. The assassin’s leg had no choice but to collapse, causing Garrick to list sideways in the narrow stairwell. Riley got off one more punch to the gut before Garrick raised his guard.
“Some fighting spirit,” he said, his voice reedy from the blow. “Too late for that, my boy. We are at the tail end of this story.”
Riley fought on, searching for the chinks in Garrick’s guard, finding them down low, around the hips and kidneys. And though Garrick’s expression was untroubled, he was reluctantly impressed by Riley’s skill, and surprised at how difficult it was to defend himself against the boy.
I have never fought someone who employs my exact style, he realized.
Finally Garrick grew tired of the game. He swept one arm around in a rapid arc, clouting Riley soundly on one ear, disorientating him utterly and sending him tumbling to the base of the stairs, into the basement corridor and out of sight.
Riley will turn on his master no more, thought Garrick.
All that stood between him and total peace of mind was one American teenager, who was probably unarmed. Still, he would take no chances.
Garrick spared a moment to finish crushing the Timekey beneath his boot, grinding the innards with great relish.
I could leave now. Just ascend and go. I have destroyed the Timekey.
This voice Garrick now recognized as the last wisps of Felix Smart’s conscience, attempting to manipulate him. Garrick was delighted to realize that he could not be turned from his path.
Riley knows my face. His voice must be silenced.
Death was the only answer. Unto dust, as he always said. And now he could proceed to the basement bedchamber without fear. The bed’s metal frame was nothing more than that without a Timekey to activate it. In truth, Garrick knew he should have come here during the night and disassembled the bed, but he had been wary of ambush and had to ensure the price on his head was removed. No need for fretting now.
Garrick almost wished for twenty-first-century surveillance cameras so that he could record what was going to happen next. This was an episode he would like to view critically, to confirm that his presence was as striking as he supposed.
There is always room for improvement in a performance.
Garrick banished such thoughts and allowed a cold, efficient sense of purpose to encase his brain, like the cold steel of a dragoon’s helmet.
I must be the assassin now. Tomorrow my world changes—in fact the entire world may change—but for now, I am performing a job of work. And Albert Garrick always takes pride in his work.
He strode down the corridor, eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom. There was scratching in the shadows that perhaps an amateur would have wasted ammunition on, but Garrick knew the claws of rats when he heard them and held his fire.
Riley moved slowly ahead of him, hampered by steamer trunks and mannequins, hunched over and casting fearful glances toward his mentor.
“She has deserted you, son,” Garrick called after him. “You are alone.”
“You murdered my parents!” Riley said. “I am no son of yours.”
Garrick was about to deny it—after all, how could Riley know what had transpired all those years ago?—when the truth occurred to him: The boy saw it in the wormhole.
“It was a job of work,” he admitted, shooting a wheeled mannequin for fun. “I did what I was hired to do. It was a matter of trust. And did I not save you? Against orders, I might point out.”
“Murderer!” howled Riley, darting through the bedchamber door,
into the gloom beyond.
Garrick prudently took up a position beside the doorway, unwilling to follow Riley directly, in case Agent Savano attempted an ambush.
Remember, you have both had the same training. What is standard operating procedure when defending a room with a single entrance?
Chevie would be waiting in a blind spot, aiming whatever weapon she possessed at the doorway.
If she is there at all.
Perhaps Agent Savano was not even in the building. Still, better to lose a few seconds than waste the opportunity to close this sordid chapter of the book.
Garrick summoned his memories of the room. He had passed quite some time here, waiting for Felix Smart to turn up.
A rectangular space with a small alcove in the southern wall, with a dresser and writing desk. Rows of barrel-sized cylinders—crude batteries, I would guess, which Smart was building to power future visits to Victoria. Agent Savano will be in cover behind the desk. Upon my entrance she will have a clear shot at the optimum target zone.
Garrick checked his pistol’s load.
Very well. Albert Garrick will indeed enter as expected.
Chevie knelt behind the writing desk with Barnum’s revolver pointed at the doorway. The instant Riley appeared, she was on her feet with the weapon cocked.
Come on, Garrick, she willed the assassin. Show me that greasy smile.
Garrick talked all the way, cock of the cockney walk.
“We have shared quite the adventure,” he said. “But for me to realize my full potential, I need to be allowed to invest time in myself without constant interference . . .”
This speech surprised Chevie greatly, as she had shot Garrick three times between the first and third syllables of the word adventure. His cloak had twirled to the ground, and the magician keeled over stiffly, yet he continued to speak. And though she had been forewarned that there would be trickery, Chevie left herself exposed for a fraction of a second, which gave the real Garrick the chance to step calmly into the doorway and shoot Chevie square in the chest while still projecting his voice into the wheeled mannequin on the floor.