Bank of Westminster

Chapter 21

The head footman finished his drink and strolled toward Baron and Freya at a measured pace.

Back at Buckingham Palace the night had been too dark, and Jack's cudgel had fallen too fast, for Baron to take notice. Now, in the tavern's light, he saw how broad the man's shoulders were, how steady his gait, how his back curved like a tiger's and his chest bulged like a bear—every inch a trained fighter. Baron's instincts screamed danger.

Freya felt it too. Though the man's gaze stayed fixed on Baron, every careless sweep of his eyes sent a chill through the young Bronze sorceress. Enemy, her intuition said. Plain as spell-light.

"Sir," the head footman said, stopping at Baron's flank and cutting off any escape, "you've been stealing glances at me since I walked in. Care for a drink together?"

Baron's mind leapt. Last night he had worn the Mimic's Chain; to this man he was still the stranger who had vanished wearing Face-3. Thoughts flashed like lightning. One wild gamble crystallised.

The moment demanded it.

To Freya and the footman alike the young man across the table seemed suddenly different, as though an unnameable abyss had opened behind his eyes.

Baron spoke softly. "Is that how you speak to a colleague, Number Two?"

Colour drained from the footman's face. "How do you—"

Baron cut him off. "Last night your team failed. To avoid further complications, the higher-ups sent me. The target is mine."

"Who are you?" The footman dropped all pretence, voice taut with suspicion. "Why wasn't I informed?"

"Number Four. And failures don't get to ask questions."

Baron took Freya's hand—she still had no idea what was happening—and slipped an arm around her waist, steering her toward the door. Today she wore a pale silk dress that clung to her figure; under the tavern lamps her legs looked endless. When Baron's arm circled her waist she stiffened, then relaxed, and he breathed a silent sigh of admiration for both her quick wits and the silk-smooth curve beneath his palm.

They were almost at the side exit when a mocking voice rang out behind them.

"Mr. Baron Constantine, nice performance, but playtime's over."

Baron's heart lurched. He spun round; the footman spun too. Freya whispered, "The barman!"

The barman vaulted the counter, rolling his shoulders with a crackle of joints.

"I'm Number Four."

Baron swore under his breath. Without another word he flung a burst of Dragonfire behind him, grabbed Freya, and ran.

When Freya's heels slowed them too much, Baron simply hoisted the sorceress onto his back and sprinted for the crowded cross-street.

"Why rescue me?" Freya asked, arms around his neck.

"My Timed Death Sentence is tomorrow. You're the only one who can persuade the judge to lift it. If you live, I live."

Baron set her down, panting from the weighted run, and pointed to a deserted stretch of the Thames embankment. "There's a hidden griffin. Ride it and get out of here. I used Promise—the enforcers will be on me soon. Remember: stay alive, reach the Prol Court, and convince the presiding judge I'm innocent. Otherwise this rescue is wasted."

He turned and ran, away from the crowds, straight toward the two killers, drawing them off for Freya's sake.

Freya stared after him, realising she had never truly understood her notorious, once-betrothed partner.

"If only..." she whispered.

...

Baron stopped, stood silent, and looked ahead.

Baggin had been right: the Inside was efficient. He had used Promise only minutes ago, yet already the enforcers were closing in.

At the far end of the street a lean, middle-aged man in a long coat, a pipe between his teeth, lifted a cross and smiled.

"There you are, God-cursed man."

The priest bowed with measured grace. "Allow me to introduce myself: Bronze Saint of the Inquisition—"

"Handsome as in the papers. Almost a shame to kill him."

A drifting leaf landed beside the Saint and unfolded into a green-haired, green-eyed Battle-Sister with a saw-toothed cleaver as tall as she was.

Dragonfire flared—and died. No, not died—Baron watched in disbelief as the priest-Saint raised the burning cross to light his pipe.

"Thanks for the light." He sketched a clumsy cross on his chest. "Praise be."

Dragonfire spiralled into the cross, trapped.

"Praise your ancestors," Baron snapped, and emptied his revolver at the Saint and the Battle-Sister before bolting.

"Sister Camilla, finish the God-cursed one for me."

The Saint turned away with a smile. Not far behind him, Number Three and Number Four approached at a leisurely pace. "I still have two heretics to deal with."

Camilla snorted. "Try not to capsize in the gutter."

"Relax. I'm looking forward to next Mass with you... Praise God and the Lord... To think I'm actually nervous—how discourteous of me."

The burning cross split into two silver shortswords.

...

A light rain fell at dawn. In a grey side-street a single lamp still glowed.

Baron lay exhausted, the Battle-Sister's monstrous cleaver at his throat. Blood seeped onto the wet cobbles.

Too great a gap in rank... even a desperate burst of power wouldn't help... his last spark had burned out... life had been short, but not wasted... blowing up an Underground station had been worth it...

He stared, trying to read mercy or mockery on the nun's face the instant the blade fell.

Instead she lowered the cleaver, looked left and right, her cheerful expression smoothing into calm, and said, almost to herself, "The fog's rising."

Baron didn't understand—but it didn't stop him striking.

A gunshot cracked.

The nun reeled back, cleaver raised. By the time the other sisters arrived the alley was empty.

...

Baron, slumped against a wall, reloaded his revolvers with shaking hands. Massive blood loss told him he couldn't run much farther.

The rain was light; the blood would not wash away quickly. The hunters would follow the trail soon enough.

Even so, he refused to give in. The brief taste of freedom had made the hunger for life burn brighter than any fanatic's faith. He thumbed bullets into the cylinder, whispering:

"Don't quit..."

His heartbeat slowed to a dull thud.

"Just hold on..."

Tinnitus and darkness crowded in.

"...and there's still a chance to go home."

He collapsed.

Through blurred eyes he saw the ornate joker card slide from his coat pocket and soak in the spreading blood.

Black-and-white turned red; colours that should not exist bled across the face.

The little joker became the ace.

...

When the Saint, Battle-Sister Camilla, the belated griffin-riders, Templars, and demon-hunters reached the spot, the blood-trail ended as though severed by an invisible blade. Every clue had vanished.

It was as if some vast hand had erased Baron Constantine from the world.

Bronze Saint Erwin, pipe clenched between his teeth, squatted beside the last smear of blood.

"Looks like the intelligence was off," he muttered. "The bloodless scion of House Constantine isn't a waste after all."

He looked up at the Templars of Holy Cross, the griffin-knights of the Order, the demon-hunters of the Association, and Camilla, and smiled wryly.

"We're the wastes."

...

Inner London, the very top of the Tower. Master Alchemist Isaac Newton stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching the rain-fog swallow the city.

When the mist grew dense enough that no one walked the streets and the distant roars and groans of fog-beasts could be heard, he sighed.

"It chose the boy after all..."

He turned to his apprentice. "Bring me everything on Baron Constantine. The more detail the better."

"Master, do you want the part about bed-wetting too?"

"..."

Newton regarded his closed-door disciple in silence, then sighed again. "Yes."

After a moment he added, "When you're done, copy the Emerald Tablet ten thousand times as penance."

"What?" The apprentice wailed.