after he’s done that he can convince the sun to take a loaf for the day.”
“Bailey’s pigheaded enough to try it anyhow. This door opens quietly enough, and comes up through a cabinet on the back wall. We’ll have a plain view of the warehouse.”
Already beating quickly from their precarious walk across the beams, Oliver’s heart jumped into a yet faster rhythm. “You expect to just rush them?”
“By the saints, no.” Hews reached beneath his coat and withdrew a .45-calibre revolver from inside his vest: a Webley British Bulldog. “But this may lend some perk to Bailey’s lack of eloquence, eh?”
“Just the one? And how many canaries do you think?”
“One?” Hewey said. “Aren’t you armed, lad?”
Oliver swallowed hard, then reached into his pocket and produced a four inch wood-handled flick blade. Next to a firearm, the weapon looked more fit for sticking sausages than fighting. Hews’ face constricted in a pained expression for a moment. Oliver stared dumbly down.
“I haven’t carried an iron since the Uprising,” he said.
Hews sighed and shook his head. “Just stay behind me and look like a mean-spirited Scot, or something.”
Hews mounted the ladder again. Shortly, two clicks sounded and a faint square of light materialised above Hewey’s head.
“Quickly, now.”
After some few seconds of manoeuvring his belly through the tight trapdoor, Hews slid up and disappeared. Oliver clenched his miniature weapon tight in his right fist and steeled himself against the quivering fear in his gut. Just up the ladder and to it.
He ascended.
The cabinet turned out to be not quite large enough for the two of them. Oliver had to bend his knees and neck at an unnatural angle to fit entirely inside. Hews had a similar problem, being quite unable to bend forward to the small crack between the cabinet’s two swinging doors on account of his belly. Hews gestured at the trapdoor, and Oliver closed it silently by lowering it with his foot.
Bailey’s wine-rich baritone rumbled from beyond the doors.
“Well, I do take it as an affront, sir. You and your ilk have no respect for the sanctity of a man’s property.”
Another voice answered, punctuated by a springlike clicking sound on every glottal syllable.
“I’ve shown more respect than you rightly deserve, being traitors and spies.”
Bailey harrumphed. “How dare you, sir, after damaging my door and assaulting my comrades?”
As the crack between doors was out of Hews’ reach, Oliver bent his neck farther and lined up his eye with the soft orange light filtering through. Already his neck had begun to ache.
Just beyond the door sat wooden boxes half the height of a man. The room seemed to extend perhaps thirty yards to the other end. A jowled, sour-faced man stood perhaps halfway across, dressed in a grey suit and bowler hat. He wore no cloak to signify his position but had enough gold on his person in terms of hat ribbon, cuffs, chains, gloves, and tie to make up for it. He brandished a revolverlike weapon the length of Oliver’s forearm.
When the man spoke, his facial muscles moved in tiny stops and starts like the hands of a clock, eventually resting in a configuration resembling a tense grin. “I’ll savour dashing that out of you before we hand you over to our brothers in armour.”
“You have made a threat on my person, sir,” Bailey said. Oliver heard something that might have been Bailey spitting. “And that I will not tolerate. Let’s settle this without delay, hand to hand, as God intended.”
The gold cloak squinted suspiciously. “I’ll not have you starting a ruckus and warning your coconspirators.”
Oliver felt a poke in his ribs and turned to Hews, who spoke in a whisper that was little more than an exhalation shaped by the lips.
“A view of the room.”
Oliver moved his head left to right, swinging his small slit of vision to encompass as much of the room as possible. In order to do this without sound, he
“Bailey’s pigheaded enough to try it anyhow. This door opens quietly enough, and comes up through a cabinet on the back wall. We’ll have a plain view of the warehouse.”
Already beating quickly from their precarious walk across the beams, Oliver’s heart jumped into a yet faster rhythm. “You expect to just rush them?”
“By the saints, no.” Hews reached beneath his coat and withdrew a .45-calibre revolver from inside his vest: a Webley British Bulldog. “But this may lend some perk to Bailey’s lack of eloquence, eh?”
“Just the one? And how many canaries do you think?”
“One?” Hewey said. “Aren’t you armed, lad?”
Oliver swallowed hard, then reached into his pocket and produced a four inch wood-handled flick blade. Next to a firearm, the weapon looked more fit for sticking sausages than fighting. Hews’ face constricted in a pained expression for a moment. Oliver stared dumbly down.
“I haven’t carried an iron since the Uprising,” he said.
Hews sighed and shook his head. “Just stay behind me and look like a mean-spirited Scot, or something.”
Hews mounted the ladder again. Shortly, two clicks sounded and a faint square of light materialised above Hewey’s head.
“Quickly, now.”
After some few seconds of manoeuvring his belly through the tight trapdoor, Hews slid up and disappeared. Oliver clenched his miniature weapon tight in his right fist and steeled himself against the quivering fear in his gut. Just up the ladder and to it.
He ascended.
The cabinet turned out to be not quite large enough for the two of them. Oliver had to bend his knees and neck at an unnatural angle to fit entirely inside. Hews had a similar problem, being quite unable to bend forward to the small crack between the cabinet’s two swinging doors on account of his belly. Hews gestured at the trapdoor, and Oliver closed it silently by lowering it with his foot.
Bailey’s wine-rich baritone rumbled from beyond the doors.
“Well, I do take it as an affront, sir. You and your ilk have no respect for the sanctity of a man’s property.”
Another voice answered, punctuated by a springlike clicking sound on every glottal syllable.
“I’ve shown more respect than you rightly deserve, being traitors and spies.”
Bailey harrumphed. “How dare you, sir, after damaging my door and assaulting my comrades?”
As the crack between doors was out of Hews’ reach, Oliver bent his neck farther and lined up his eye with the soft orange light filtering through. Already his neck had begun to ache.
Just beyond the door sat wooden boxes half the height of a man. The room seemed to extend perhaps thirty yards to the other end. A jowled, sour-faced man stood perhaps halfway across, dressed in a grey suit and bowler hat. He wore no cloak to signify his position but had enough gold on his person in terms of hat ribbon, cuffs, chains, gloves, and tie to make up for it. He brandished a revolverlike weapon the length of Oliver’s forearm.
When the man spoke, his facial muscles moved in tiny stops and starts like the hands of a clock, eventually resting in a configuration resembling a tense grin. “I’ll savour dashing that out of you before we hand you over to our brothers in armour.”
“You have made a threat on my person, sir,” Bailey said. Oliver heard something that might have been Bailey spitting. “And that I will not tolerate. Let’s settle this without delay, hand to hand, as God intended.”
The gold cloak squinted suspiciously. “I’ll not have you starting a ruckus and warning your coconspirators.”
Oliver felt a poke in his ribs and turned to Hews, who spoke in a whisper that was little more than an exhalation shaped by the lips.
“A view of the room.”
Oliver moved his head left to right, swinging his small slit of vision to encompass as much of the room as possible. In order to do this without sound, he
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