Bank of Westminster

Chapter 5

The prison corridor was so quiet that no guards were patrolling. All that could be heard was a faint rustling from beyond the two iron doors—two voices murmuring, too indistinct to catch.

"So what do you intend to do? Escape?" Lawrence said coolly. "Her Majesty's Prison Thameside was built for people like us—criminals condemned to death by Old-Blood society. The inner side is etched with anti-magic arrays, and the walls are cast from cement mixed with dragon-crocodile scales. Those creatures live in the Nile delta and love chewing limestone; armor forged from their scales can stop a full-strike blow from a Bronze-ranked Templar."

"The only way to break those walls," Lawrence continued, "is brute force from an enforcer on the outside, or enchanted metal—copper, bronze, or brass—like the buttons on the officers' uniforms."

With a mocking lilt he added, "Though, if you ask me, the first thing you should do is demand a better last meal. Even if 'lavish' in England means fish-and-chips with mashed peas, it beats that black bread hard enough to knock out a Frenchman."

"Waiting to die isn't my style," Baron replied.

"I've told you—escape is impossible unless you've got alchemical metal for digging and are ready to burrow for three years without being caught." Lawrence sneered. "And you won't even live past tomorrow."

"So I need you to get me out."

"Me?" Lawrence sounded genuinely startled. "Are you mad? I'm locked up in here with you!"

From the other side of the wall, Baron said quietly, "When I was brought in, one of the guards was missing a button."

"That proves I took it?" Lawrence retorted. "Maybe he just—"

Baron cut in. "'Roaring Lawrence' is your cover. You use the roar to mask the sound of digging."

Lawrence gave a cold laugh. "The guards search the cells every day. They'd notice. That's wishful thinking."

"You told me you have a world map in your cell. The tunnel is probably hidden beneath it."

Baron lay on the floor, staring at the gray ceiling, speaking in a lazy drawl. "Should I call the guards to search your room?"

He knew Shawshank by heart; nevertheless, this was a gamble.

Lawrence fell silent for a moment, then sighed. "You're due to die in a few days. Even if I could get you out, you'd probably drop dead on the road."

"Besides, I can't dig a complete tunnel in such a short time, and once we're through, a bloodless scion without Soul Sensitivity would never get past the Templars guarding this place."

Baron said nothing. Four days—then death. Even if... wait—drop dead on the road?

"You didn't know?" Lawrence's voice carried a gloating lilt. "It seems you've stayed away from the inner side too long; your memories have eroded under the Law of Forgetting."

"There's a wall clock in your cell, isn't there?"

Baron glanced at the wall. On the side above the wooden bed hung a copper-plated clock, its red lacquer dulled by grime.

As if already certain of the answer, Lawrence continued, "That's a humane touch so you can keep track of time."

"'Timed Death Sentence.' When the moment arrives, you'll die at the appointed time—an inevitable, inescapable death."

"The creator of Timed Death Sentence was a silver-rank wizard at Edinburgh's College of Witchcraft—Frankenstein. A real firebrand... probably buggered by some bandit, for all I know, to come up with something like this." Lawrence snickered maliciously.

Baron stared at the clock and suddenly understood—when the judge had pronounced that string of numbers, it hadn't been the start of the execution countdown, but the exact moment death would arrive. The instant the gavel had left the block, death had fastened onto him like a parasite.

Does the fantastical world really ignore science altogether?

Baron curled his lip. Yet the thought of escape remained unshaken. Whether fantasy or science, surrender was not in a transmigrator's code. He smashed the clock with a single punch.

From now on, he would avoid any time that might foretell his death.

"Clever," came Lawrence's voice through the wall—half admiration, half mockery. "But that's mere self-deception. Even God has to hang from the noose of time."

"Soul Sensitivity—tell me how to awaken it." Baron flexed his bruised knuckles, drawing a deep breath. "In exchange, whether we get out or not, I'll keep your secret."

From Lawrence's words, Baron understood the key to escape lay in awakening Soul Sensitivity—something akin to the little-universe explosions of his previous life.

"That's your bargaining tone?" Lawrence sighed.

"It's not a bargain; it's a threat." Baron corrected him seriously. "Lawrence, you don't want years of escape planning to go to waste."

"I do hope you bloodless scions understand a gentleman's respect and manners. Address me as Mr. Lawrence."

Lawrence sighed again, then shifted tone. "Have you ever suddenly seen visions?"

"Visions?"

"Seeing things ordinary people can't is called 'Spirit Sight,' the prerequisite for Soul Sensitivity."

In a rare formal tone, Lawrence explained, "Have you heard of Swedenborg? Swedish philosopher and scientist—on the brink of death he saw angels, then predicted the Stockholm fire and others' deaths. His last prophecy was his own. He died naturally on 29 March 1772, at age eighty-four."

"So you want me to die?" Baron seized the key point.

"Swedenborg didn't die. To human society he died at eighty-four, but in the Old-Blood world he lived to at least 184 and founded the soul discipline of wizardry. I mean you could experience death like Swedenborg did."

"That's suicide. Anything more reliable?" Baron sounded skeptical.

"Nothing else." Lawrence shrugged. "For dinner, try asking for French red—preferably Margaux, it has a violet scent. Lafite's fine too..."

"Guard!" Baron suddenly called. "I have an urgent report—"

"There's one more method," Lawrence hastily lowered his voice.

The guard slid open the small hatch. "What is it?"

Baron said calmly, "For dinner, I'd like caviar with black truffle, paired with an '82 Lafite. Foie gras as the main, and a bowl of beef noodles—hold the noodles."

The hatch slammed shut. Moments later the guard's sneer filtered through: "You'll be lucky to get yesterday's baguette. Don't flatter yourself, bloodless scion."

When silence returned and the guard's footsteps faded, Baron asked, "What method?"

"'Opening the Eye.'"

When Baron didn't respond, Lawrence quickly explained, "'Opening the Eye' means opening the eye of your soul. That eye is the foundation of Spirit Sight, enhancing your perception. The color that flashes in your pupils at that moment reveals your aptitude assigned by Fate—generally Black Iron, Bronze, or Silver. Alchemists borrowed the ranking from Greek-myth ages."

"So there must be Gold as well," Baron thought of Carmen's eyes.

"Clever," Lawrence said. "But a Gold Eye is best left to imagination. The Law of Occupations follows the 'Rule of Three'—only three Gold-rank individuals can exist in any given occupation. And you'd need one of the three Law Fragments. Those are controlled by the major enforcer organizations and Old-Blood clans—ordinary people can't get them."

"Even if my aptitude is Gold?"

"If your aptitude is Gold," Lawrence mused, "it means Fate believes you can eventually possess one-third of the Law Fragment for your occupation."

"What exactly is a bloodless scion?"

"Literal meaning—your bloodline lacks spiritual power. You can't even produce the Spirit Sight phenomenon of Soul Sensitivity, so you're expelled from the inner side. Under the Law of Forgetting you lose all memory of it, just like now."

"How do I perform Opening the Eye?"

"Simple," Lawrence said. "Imagine a third eye growing in the crown of your head, until you can see yourself clearly with it."

...

In Birmingham's old town on Westing Street, a tall man in a tailored coat stood beneath a stately beech tree, pipe clenched between his teeth. He lit it with a flaming-cross necklace.

"The Dragon Witch's magical residue is strong. She likely completed the ritual without using her Authority. The Constantine family's bloodless scion may already be her vassal."

"Could the Law be hidden on him?"

At the sound of the voice, falling leaves whirled into mist, and from the fog emerged a hooded nun, figure graceful beneath her cloak. Green hair framed emerald eyes; a saw-toothed cleaver, as tall as she was, rested against her back.

"A scapegoat," he said. "The Witch won't linger long with him."

"Why?"

"Because he's a bloodless scion," the man replied, smiling. "A waste who can't awaken Soul Sensitivity. Even if he signed a contract, he could never become an enforcer."

...

Baron closed his eyes and tried to imagine that nonexistent third eye.

Yet the image that rose unbidden was of a crimson, ghost-like silhouette—foam on a sunset beach.

She whispered, soft as a lover's murmur: "To be, or not to be—that is the question."

No question at all—of course he would live.

Baron opened his eyes. In the slanted rain beyond the window, the pure black of his pupils flashed a line of golden light.

...

Outside the prison, a griffin-drawn carriage descended slowly. The on-duty guard stepped forward to question the driver, who produced his credentials.

"The griffins were spooked by something. London's outer side only has this prison with a barrier to keep prying eyes away. We'd like to rest here a moment."

The guard glanced at the seal on the papers—resembling a dollar sign—and stood straighter. Westminster People's Bank. A cabal obsessed with Mystery and Gold. Their hobby, under the guise of containment, was repeatedly blowing up and rebuilding landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. Rumor had it Buckingham Palace had once been contracted to their construction company. They controlled at least a quarter of the Old-Blood world's Forbidden Objects. No enforcer or judicial organization wanted to cross them, let alone seize their griffin carriages.

But on 16 November 1987, in a drizzly London when not even a starling could be seen along the Thames, two convicts knocked out an unsuspecting guard with a stale baguette, slipped past armored sentries, and—while the bank's hired driver was eating at a Chinese restaurant a kilometer away—seized the reins of griffins even Bronze knights struggled to control.

By the time alarms rang across London's enforcer factions, Baron and Lawrence were already ten thousand meters above the city, analyzing where to head next.