With Fate Conspire (11 page)

Now he had to keep a bit of his awareness on everything else, not just the other dog, for fear he’d be caught by surprise again. But the padfoot was panting hard; he probably couldn’t manage so quick a rush again.
Tire him out a bit more, then go for his throat—

They wouldn’t let him stop short of tearing it out, though. Unless …

A shift in the air made him tense, expecting another hurled bone. What it brought instead was a new scent, barely discernible over the blood-stink of the pit, and the oddly sour smell of the other dog. And it gave Dead Rick a very dangerous idea.

Probably won’t work. But I ain’t got nothing better.

He feinted another lunge, then pulled up short as if it pained the bleeding scratches where the other dog had raked him. Rewdan took the bait, and leapt for him again.

This time Dead Rick let himself go under. He kept his paws between their bodies as best he could, fending off the padfoot’s weight, hoping he was right and Rewdan was too tired to resist if Dead Rick tried to throw him off. But he let himself be wrestled onto his back, matted fur grinding into the filthy sand, and the padfoot’s jaws dove for his throat—

A thunderclap obliterated the cheers. Rewdan jerked sideways, and all the strength went abruptly out of his body; he collapsed onto Dead Rick, no longer fighting, his snarls twisting off into an agonized whine. The reek of blood flooded Dead Rick’s nose, obliterating the sour smell: blood, and acrid gunpowder. He squirmed out from under the padfoot’s twitching, dying body, and looked up.

Nadrett stood at the top of the stairs, a smoking pistol in his hand. Raggedly, the arena fell into silence; even those cursing their losses over the padfoot stopped when they saw the cause.

Dead Rick’s master waited until he had quiet, except for the padfoot’s last, gasping breaths. Then he said, “Who put my dog in the pit?”

No one answered. Nadrett lifted his gun again. It was a Galenic Academy design, adapted from the American Colt so as to fire elfshot; the cylinder clicked smoothly around as the master cocked it a second time. “
I
decide ’ow long my dogs live, and ’ow they die. And I ain’t given no orders for this other one to die. Who put ’im in there?”

Confession would win nothing for the guilty party, except possibly a bullet between the eyes. Betrayal, however, was more profitable. A dozen hands moved to point, at seven different targets. Nadrett aimed his revolver at the one who had collected the most fingers: a puck in a knee-length leather coat. “Nithen, put ’im in the cages. I’ll deal with ’im later.”

The fetch shoved his way through the crowd to obey. Dead Rick, crouching in the pit, didn’t look at the dead padfoot. He’d hoped Nadrett would end the fight; he’d known Nadrett might end it with murder. It told him what he needed to know, which was that the master had, in fact, given the order for Rewdan to die. Which meant there never would have been any chance to question him, regardless of how the fight ended. Dead Rick hadn’t found him fast enough.

The master left the room, trailed by his lieutenants. Only when he was gone did the voices feel safe to rise, grumbling to one another and settling their bets. Dead Rick gathered his back feet under himself, waiting for a small gap to open up in the crowd; with a tired leap he made it to the pit’s edge. Then he wormed his way between the legs until he reached the wall, where he could safely change back to man form.

“Bloody clever of you.” Gresh leaned against the wall nearby, digging in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. “Getting Nadrett to settle it like that. Cost me a mint, you bastard; I’d bet Rewdan wouldn’t drop ’til the fifth fight.”

Maybe there was still some hope of finding out what the padfoot had been doing. “Who was ’e, anyway, and did ’e bite Nadrett in the knackers, or what? ’Ow’d ’e get ’imself stuck down there?”

Gresh shrugged. “Ain’t seen ’im before myself. I ’eard ’e’s some kind of courier, and tried to sell some of ’is shipment to the Academy. You know, make a little bread on the side.”

“Shipment?” Dead Rick straightened, despite the complaints of his weary back. “What was ’e carrying?”

The goblin hawked and spat, then began sucking on the pipe. “The sort of thing the Academy likes. I look like a bleeding scholar to you?” Dead Rick held his breath, not wanting to betray his curiosity by prompting. Gresh got his pipe properly lit, then said, “Compounds of some kind. Lunar caustic, satyr’s bile—valuable, from what I ’ear, but not if it gets you on Nadrett’s bad side.”

Dead Rick knew enough to recognize those as faerie compounds, rather than mortal. Brought in from Faerie itself? Perhaps. One of them must have been what he smelled on the padfoot, that oddly sour scent. Dead Rick opened his mouth to ask what Nadrett wanted them for, but closed it before he could be that stupid. Gresh wouldn’t know—but he’d take note of the fact that Dead Rick had asked. And maybe sell that information to others.

Someone in the Academy might know what they were useful for, at least. Whoever Rewdan had tried to sell to, if that rumor was true. Some of the scholars weren’t above getting their materials from the unclean hands of the Goblin Market.

To distract Gresh from the real point, he said, “Am I going to ’ave ’is friends coming after me?”

“Friends, hah. Think anybody’s ’is friend, after ’e got dropped in there?” Gresh jerked his patchy beard at the pit.

Well, that was one less worry.
Now all I’ve got to worry about is Nadrett.
“Sorry you bet on Rewdan. I’ll buy you a beer in the Crow’s Head, to make up for it.” One good thing from the breakdown of the palace: it had forced the pub to move from its old location to a spot inside the Goblin Market, where Dead Rick could go freely.

“That don’t ’alf make up my losses,” Gresh complained, but he was never one to turn down beer. And it would give him reason to forget anything Dead Rick had said. Clapping one hand on the goblin’s shoulder with a friendliness he didn’t feel, Dead Rick headed for the pub.

Cromwell Road, South Kensington: March 27, 1884

To the uncritical eye, Miss Louisa Kittering’s bedroom appeared a model of respectable young femininity. It was agreeably papered in a floral pattern, with sunny landscapes and paintings of birds upon the walls, and a soft rose carpet upon the floor. The lace-trimmed curtains at the windows were neatly tied back; the one minor sign of disarray was an embroidery frame balanced upon the arm of a chair, as if the needlewoman had set it down just a moment ago, and would return at any second. But the frame had lain there since Eliza began working in the Kitterings’ house three days ago, and not a stitch had been added to its contents in that time: one of many little marks of Miss Kittering’s rebellion.

Eliza studied the room, running the tip of her tongue absently through the gap in her teeth. She kept being distracted by the Kitterings’ unfathomable wealth; the lace on the curtains alone was worth more than she would earn in a year. Every time she touched something, she felt guilty, as if the basic grubbiness of her own birth would somehow stain the finery. If the Kitterings weren’t so desperate for servants, she never would have had a place here; everything around her, even the servants’ quarters in the garret, shouted that she didn’t belong.

I’m only here for one thing,
Eliza reminded herself. Once that was done, she could go back to where she
did
belong. But first: Where would a young lady hide her secrets?

Not under the mattress. In a house like this, mattresses were turned every day, and the linens aired; Eliza would have seen it her first morning. Nor behind the headboard of the bed, which had been her second guess. She’d had regrettably little time for prying, though; if she fell behind on her tasks, Mrs. Fowler would come looking. And if Eliza were found with her nose in the young miss’s belongings, a sacking would be the
least
of her concerns.

But she had to keep trying. As quietly as she could, Eliza dragged a chair to the wardrobe, then tossed a rag over the seat to protect it from her shoes. The top of the wardrobe, unfortunately, held nothing more than a shameful quantity of dust, undisturbed by any human touch. Underneath was cleaner, but likewise empty.

She put the chair back, wondering if she dared search the writing desk. There was little reason for any honest maid to be going through those drawers, and if someone were to find her … Eliza told herself it was not merely caution that kept her away, but common sense. Mrs. Kittering was very obviously the sort of mother who had no compunctions about going through her daughter’s letters. If Louisa was keeping secrets—and her behavior in Islington made it clear she was—then she had to be keeping them elsewhere.

Such as
inside
the wardrobe. Eliza threw the doors open, preparing a variety of suitable lies in case someone were to come upon her, and began to rummage through.

If there were any false panels built in, she’d have to find them another day; she couldn’t spare that kind of time now. But Eliza dug swiftly through the clothes and shoes, making sure there was nothing tucked away in a back corner—and then her eyes fell upon the hatboxes at the top.

Instinct overcame caution. Eliza dragged the chair back over, pulled the front boxes out of the way, and reached for one at the back. It proved to be inappropriately heavy, and when she lifted the lid, a smile spread across her face. “Caught you.”

Whatever hat had once occupied this box was long gone. In its place were books, magazines, and pamphlets. Eliza paged through them, hardly breathing. A pair of gothic novels, showing signs of repeated reading. A book of poems by someone named Oscar Wilde. An advertisement for a mesmerist. Scattered numbers of a few spiritualist magazines, and some pamphlets by Frederic Myers, whose name Eliza recognized. He and some other fellows had done a great deal of research into mediums and ghosts, even forming their own Society for Psychical Research.

Was Miss Kittering interested in contacting a departed spirit, or did she fancy herself a medium? Eliza supposed it didn’t matter. Either way, this collection held a great many things Mrs. Kittering would not approve of in the slightest, not with her insistence upon perfect respectability. Nothing on faeries, not that Eliza could see without a more detailed search—but plenty that spoke of disreputable things.

At the creak of the stairs, her heart leapt into her mouth. Eliza hastily crammed everything back into the hatbox, shoved it into place, threw the doors shut—catching them at the last instant so they would not slam—and put the chair back more or less where it belonged, before flinging herself at the fireplace, where she ought to be hard at work.

When the door opened, she knew that only vanity had saved her from discovery. Not hers, but that of the footman Ned Sayers, who invariably paused to admire himself in the looking glass mounted at the top of the family staircase. Mrs. Kittering did not sack footmen as often as she did maids, because of the necessity of keeping a pair who were reasonably well matched in height and looks; as near as Eliza could tell, Ned Sayers’s face was the only thing keeping him in his position.

She offered him a smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she had only just begun to rub black lead into the iron bars of the fireplace grate, when she should have been nearly done. Sayers smiled back, and held up a pair of delicate ankle boots. “Just returning these,” he said.

“I hope they weren’t too much trouble to clean,” Eliza said. Servants’ gossip was her other great hope of learning anything; they knew far more about their masters and mistresses than those employers liked to consider. But Mrs. Fowler, who watched over their meals, had little tolerance for idle chatter; and when Eliza went to bed at night, she was far too exhausted to question Ann Wick, the upper-housemaid whose room she shared. Hoping to get something from Sayers, she added, “From what I hear, Miss Kittering can be dreadful hard on her belongings. A real hoyden, that one.”

The footman shrugged, going past her. “I suppose.” Eliza watched surreptitiously as he opened the wardrobe doors and tossed the boots casually onto the bottom shelf; she prayed he would not notice anything out of place. Then she saw her rag still lying on the chair, and jerked her eyes back to the grate, cursing silently. But Sayers only said, “If you’d like, I could shine your shoes up for you. Such a pretty ankle you have.”

A hand settled on Eliza’s calf, exposed where she knelt to do her work, and she jumped in surprise. Her sleeve caught on the knob of the ash pan; for a moment she was off balance, almost falling. Sayers caught her. Eliza dropped the brush in her haste to be free of him. “Mr. Sayers—”

“Ned, please.” He smiled at her.

Eliza did not like that smile at all. Maids could be turned off for dallying with men; perhaps Mrs. Kittering was not solely to blame for all the departures. But if she made him angry with her, that could be trouble, too. “I’m already behind in my work,” she said, dodging the question of what name to use. Picking up the brush, she frowned; it had rolled off the canvas she’d put down and left a smear of oily black lead on the floor. Then she bit back a curse in Irish, seeing that she’d gotten some of it on her hands, too. Even if Sayers left, there would be no returning to those hidden pamphlets; she’d leave dirty finger marks everywhere.

“You’ll always be behind. Sunup to sundown, and Mrs. Kittering will be displeased at
something
you’ve failed to do; what’s a bit more, in exchange for some fun?”

It cut too close to the bone. Sayers was right about the work; this house was so big, and the staff perpetually shorthanded, that Eliza found herself busy every waking minute. A stray thought had her wondering how deeply Miss Kittering slept, and that frightened her into sensibility: if she was considering sneaking into the young woman’s room at night, then she had lost every last shred of sense.

All of which made Eliza’s tone harder than was perhaps wise when she said, “I need this job, Mr. Sayers. Mrs. Kittering may be displeased whatever I do, but that’s no reason for me to add to it a-purpose.”