The Black Rose by James Bartholomeusz Page A

Sardâr said. He had taken to his usual pacing before the fireplace, his shadow twisting in and out over the uneven wooden floor. The flickering light of a street lamp shone through the window. The other three Apollonians were crowded onto the bed, Bál still in his nightclothes.
    â€œSo where’ve you been this week?” Ruth asked.
    â€œUndercover. I’ve been a courier, a clerk, a porter, a pickpocket, a debt collector, a sailor—and you have
no
idea how much criminal activity is going on under the surface of this city. I’ve chased up several leads which have turned out to be parts of completely separate undertakings, not relevant to the Cult at all, and I’ve been very tempted to intervene. Robberies, smuggling, fraud, blackmail, embezzlement—but we’re here for a purpose, so I’ve let things lie. And now I think I’ve got enough evidence to give us an idea of how things stand.”
    He stopped pacing, staring intently at the three of them. The reflection of flames from the fireplace shimmered across the left side of his face.
    â€œAs it turns out, by apparent chance, your workplaces have been linked with this. The prime object of my investigations”—he turned to Ruth—”has been your employer, Lady Osborne. She is a new presence in the city, who is apparently married to a very successful businessman. She has been in contact with several of the major manufacturing firms, one of which is”—he now turned to Jack and Bál—”your employer, Mister Goodwin of Goodwin Construction Limited—who, I might add, would fit very comfortably into the criminal underworld if he didn’t have a family reputation to safeguard.”
    â€œWell, I’m not surprised,” Bál snorted, “given the way he treats his workforce.”
    Jack grimaced, all too aware that his one day off was swiftly drawing to a close.
    â€œSo you think this woman—
my
boss—is somehow connected to the Cult?” Ruth said.
    â€œYes, the timing of her arrival works out alongside the Cult’s. Lady Osborne, whether or not that is her real name, seems to be overseeing the construction of something. What it is, exactly, I do not know. No one I have spoken to, even when their tongue has been loosened by a few drinks, could tell me anything about it. All I know, thanks to a cooperative dockside clerk I happened to come across, is that its eventual destination is upriver.” He fell silent.
    The three on the bed exchanged looks. Jack was struck suddenly by how dirty they all were, having spent over a week in a smog-soaked city without washing properly. He thought he and Bál had looked bad, but Sardâr looked as if he’d been dragged through the countryside during an autumn thunderstorm. He had exchanged his sailor garments for some more generic ones, but these were barely cleaner.
    â€œSo I presume you want me to find out more, then?” Ruth prompted him.
    â€œYes. We have an advantage in that Lady Osborne has no idea who you really are, so you could be an ideal spy in the household. Be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary—well, out of the ordinary for Albion—and report back. I think we can safely assume the Cult hasn’t got its hands on the Third Shard yet; otherwise they wouldn’t be undercover. The top priority at the moment is to find out what is being made and where they’re planning to take it. That might give a clue as to where the Shard is.”
    Jack, Bál, and Ruth nodded. Despite the situation in which they and Sardâr found themselves increasingly submerged, Jack smirked. They had a direction and a purpose again.

    Not so far away, across the misty streets in which drunkards stumbled, gangs loitered, and the homeless huddled, the Osborne household was dark except for one room. Although the curtains facing the street below were pulled shut, hints of orange light sifted outwards,