Page 95 of Who Cries for the Lost

Hero straightened her gaily plumed hat. “Then let’s do it.”

“Mr. Tiptoff! Good evening! That is you, is it not?”

Sebastian could hear Hero’s voice, ringing with a cheerful, hail-fellow-well-met buoyancy, as he quietly slipped around the back of the old warehouse, stepping carefully lest he stumble over rubble hidden in the long, rank weeds. The air was thick with the smell of decay and the loud whine of insects waking up with the approach of nightfall.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Hero was saying. “Running into you like this. Whatever are you doing out here? And Miss Kat Boleyn, too. You do remember me, don’t you? I believe we met at one of Annabelle Hershey’s salons. Or perhaps it was at a scientific lecture at Somerset House. Do you recall?”

Splendid in yellow batiste de soie, her lilac ribbons fluttering in the breeze, Hero drew up just before the end of the building, forcing Tiptoff to continue walking toward her. Flattening himself against the wall, Sebastian watched as Hero, a blithe smile curling her lips, waited for Tiptoff and Kat to come to her. Kat’s face was a white mask of rigid self-control. Tiptoff still had her by one arm, the fingers of his left hand digging into the cloth of her dark green spencer just above the elbow. His right arm hung straight down at his side, and Sebastian knew by the curve of his fist that he held a knife.

His breath coming hard and fast, Sebastian measured the distance between them. The timing was going to be tight. One betraying sound, any hint of warning, and Tiptoff could instantly shift to hold the edge of that knife to Kat’s throat. Creeping around the corner, Sebastian took one step, two, then threw himself forward in a running lunge.

He slammed into the man hard, breaking his hold on Kat and bowling Tiptoff over. The two men went down together, Sebastian grunting as his hip hit the ground. He lost his hold on Tiptoff and felt something sharp slice his arm as he rolled up into a crouch. He saw Tiptoff leap to his feet, then quickly jump back, eyes widening as Kat seized what looked like the broken handle of an old wheelbarrow buried in the weeds and swung it at his head.

“You bloody son of a bitch,” she swore, the Irish accent she’d long ago eradicated from her speech now coming through thick and strong.

Tiptoff’s eyes cut from Kat to Sebastian to Hero, who was picking up a length of rusty iron.

He turned and ran.

“Take the wherry and get out of here,” Sebastian shouted to Hero and Kat, then tore after the bastard.

Slipping and sliding on the narrow ribbons of bare clay, Tiptoff cut between the long rows of dye pits, their rainbows of color muted and dusky in the gathering gloom. He was quick and agile, his body lean and lithe beneath the deceptive padding that had now slipped slightly askew. Gone was the limping, eccentric scholar of Bloomsbury. In his place was the man who’d once fomented counterrevolution in the Vendée for his notorious uncle and who now killed with lethal purposefulness as the assassin Gabriel.

Casting a quick glance at Sebastian over one shoulder, he leapt a pile of debris that lay in his path, then careened around one of the crumbling old gateposts to hit the cobbles of the narrow, winding lane beyond. This was a wretched part of Southwark dominated by timber yards and cloth manufactories, the pavements broken or nonexistent, the tightly packed shops and houses old and mean. But even here, people were milling about in the streets and congregating on corners, everyone anxious to hear the official word that was, surely, coming at any moment from Wellington.

Heedless of the mutterings and foul looks he provoked, Tiptoff plowed through the crowds of shopkeepers and artisans, dockworkers and navvies, servants and barmaids, with Sebastian close behind. But Sebastian’s leg was already on fire, the familiar burning pain from his half-healed wound ripping through him with each jarring step. They ducked under a row of ragged, flapping laundry dangling from a line stretched from one window to the next; dodged a skinny, half-grown yellow dog nosing a pile of rubbish. Two boys tossing a ball with split seams stopped to cheer them on, while a white-haired, stoop-shouldered old woman shouted something as they dashed past her, her milky white eyes widening blindly.

The light was fading rapidly from the sky now, the streets growing narrower and older as they neared the bridge. Sebastian was starting to suck air badly, his leg a breath-stealing agony, every gasp fouled by the stomach-churning smells of poverty, the reek of decay and rot mingling always with the noisome stench of overflowing bog houses.

The pain was starting to make him clumsy, so that he tripped over an iron boot scrape, then stumbled in the gaping water-filled hole left by a missing sett. Gritting his teeth, he ran on. Up ahead he saw Tiptoff veer around the corner toward Blackfriars Bridge. A coal wagon rumbled past, heading toward the city, and Sebastian saw Tiptoff leap up to hook an elbow over the high tailgate. For a moment he hung there, legs pedaling as he scrambled for purchase. Then his feet found the narrow ledge of the wagon bed and he steadied, half turning to gaze back at Sebastian with a taunting smile.

“God damn it,” swore Sebastian as the wagon’s driver cracked his whip and the tired team leaned into their collars, picking up speed as the wagon lurched up the approach to the bridge.

But the bridge was thick with a raucous, surging crowd that spilled off the narrow pavements running along the side battlements to block the roadway. The team of bays jibbed at their bits, sidling nervously; the wagon creaked nearly to a halt.

Putting on a burst of speed, Sebastian reached up to close his fists around one of Tiptoff’s legs and drag him down into the roadway. The man landed on his back with a grunt but scrambled up fast, throwing a punch that caught Sebastian high on the cheekbone and swung him halfway around. For an instant his wounded leg gave out from under him, and he almost went down. And in that split second Tiptoff was off again, weaving nimbly through the swelling crowd.

Sebastian barreled after him.

Reaching the end of the bridge, Tiptoff plowed through the crowds gathered in Chatham Place to dart down a narrow street that opened up to one side.

His leg now a howling agony, Sebastian ran on.

This was an ancient part of London’s waterfront, an area of decrepit, soot-stained brick warehouses and dilapidated wharves piled with everything from freshly milled timber to barrels of grain, all reduced now to looming shadows as the long midsummer twilight neared its end and the last of the light faded from the sky.

By day the waterfront would be crawling with laborers and watermen, porters and thieves. But now the rickety piers were deserted, the weathered gray planks of the old wharves creaking and groaning underfoot as the two men ran on, dodging piles of crates and lurking coils of rope and dangerously broken boards. Sebastian could hear the roar of the crowds gathered on Fleet Street in hopes of catching news from the battlefield and, nearer, the inrushing tide washing against the stone foundations of a row of long-vanished structures that littered the riverbank far below the high wharves.

He had been gradually falling farther and farther behind. But as darkness closed upon them, his wolflike night vision gave him the advantage. Tiptoff was obviously running almost blind, tripping and stumbling. Then he caught his foot on the unseen long pole of an idle handcart and went down on all fours. He was just pushing up when Sebastian kicked him in the face and sent him flying.

Tiptoff slammed back against a rotting pier, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, his body curling forward. When he pushed away from the pier and bounded up, he had his knife in his hand.

Sebastian kicked again, sending the blade skittering away into the darkness. But as he stepped back, his wounded leg gave out from under him and Sebastian went down, his back slamming hard against the dock’s splintered, uneven planking. Tiptoff threw himself on him, his hands closing tight around Sebastian’s throat, his elbows locked, his lips curling away from his teeth as he squeezed and squeezed.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” said the assassin, squeezing, squeezing. “You bloody fool.”

His blood rushing in his ears, Sebastian shot his fists up between the man’s outstretched arms to smash into the assassin’s chin.

Tiptoff’s head snapped back and he went reeling, losing his grip on Sebastian’s throat. Rolling away from him, Sebastian yanked his own knife from the sheath in his boot and staggered to his feet just as Tiptoff scrambled up.

---