The Ghost Rebellion (10 page)

“
That it does, Books,” Southerby said, his words even and controlled.

“
Agent Books,” he corrected. “Still in the service of Her Majesty, but now my uniform comes from Saville Row.” He glanced back at Eliza, and her smile only reinforced his confidence. “We need a moment of your time, concerning Lord Hieronymus Featherstone.”

The general motioned with his swagger stick in the direction of Vania, but kept his eyes on Wellington. “Was bringing the brownie really necessary?”

Eliza’s victorious grin melted away.

Vania cleared her throat gently as her grip on the folio tightened. “The particulars of our investi—”

“
Agent Books,” Southerby interrupted, “whatever transgressions this wog has convinced you Lord Featherstone is to be held accountable for, I assure you her understanding of any particulars is far from what currently plagues us here in India.”

“
Then if you please...” Wellington’s gaze met Eliza’s. It seemed that they were sharing a tether now as a couple. Wellington admitted to himself he was about done with this arrogant toff. “Enlighten us.”

Wringing his hands against the stick in his grasp, Southerby’s face twisted in disgust. “Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, indeed. A pain in the backsides is what you are.” He got back to his feet, O’Neil shadowing him. Wellington, Eliza, and Vania remained where they stood. “As my guests,” Southerby began with false civility, “I would like to show you something.”

The invitation, hollow as it was, served as motivation enough for the agents to join the general. Once more they found themselves looking across the training yard. “India is more than just a part of Her Majesty’s Empire,” Southerby spoke over his shoulder. “It is the centre jewel in the Queen’s crown. Bombay is my responsibility, and I will not falter in my duty.”

“
Yet you have a problem. Lord Featherstone,” Wellington stated. “If you would spare but a momen—”

“
Do not presume to know that gentleman as I do,” Southerby said with a low growl, waving them off with a free hand as if they were simple flies bothering him at a picnic. “I will entertain your visit, but whatever accusations you hurl against our Royal Engineer I will take with a grain of salt considering all that he has done for us here.”

Vania fished out from the dossier in her hands a photograph of Henry Jekyll and held it out towards him. “General, we need to know if you have seen this man in the company of Lord Featherstone?”

Southerby’s eyes continued to inspect the Enforcer now standing motionless in the motor pool, its maintenance crew conducting a visual inspection.

“
General,” Wellington began, amazed he could still speak what with the tension tugging inside his neck and jaw. He knew he was merely a breath away from losing his composure. “Agent Pujari asked you a question.”

The old man’s eyes dressed down Wellington as if he were in his regiment. “Whose side are you on, Books?”

“
The Queen’s,” he replied evenly. “And the Empire’s.”

Southerby glanced at Vania as if for the first time, and then fixed Books with a stare. “Then act as such.”

He was the same height as the decorated officer, but his posture had stiffened on the challenge. This old relic of the Empire’s heyday was hardly worth the attention, but dashitall if Southerby were not working under his skin presently.

Then Wellington suddenly remembered the goggles still around his hatband. Perhaps Southerby could still answer the question presented.

“
Your Ministry believes Lord Featherstone to be a threat, even after providing Her Majesty’s finest with weapons of the latest engineering advancements?” Southerby asked, his chin elevating slightly.

The mannerism gave Wellington the impression he thought himself on a stage towering over them all, which was fine. The more self-involved the accomplished soldier remained, the more time Wellington would have to slip the isotope detectors down and see if any signs of Jekyll were present.

“
If I may, sir,” O’Neil began, and the officer’s sudden courage to speak on the Ministry’s behalf caught even Southerby by surprise. “I believe Her Majesty’s agents are not looking to tarnish Featherstone’s good name. They just have a few questions.”

“
Do not test my limits, O’Neil,” Southerby warned. “I may be indebted to both you and your father, but that does not give you carte blanche.”

O’Neil lifted his hands in surrender. “I would never dare to presume as such, General. These agents are merely following—”

“
Stuff and nonsense,” the old man seethed. He then rounded on Wellington. Perhaps out of the three of them, Southerby felt more a “connection”—contemptuous as it may be to him—but any such connection was lost when he looked at Wellington now wearing wide, dark lenses over his eyes.

“
And…” Wellington said, running his eyes up and down Southerby’s tall, wide form. “No, General, you have not met Doctor Jekyll,” he said, replacing the goggles back above the brim of his bowler.

“
What—in—the—name—” the general stammered.

“
Please, General.” Wellington held up a single finger, somehow silencing the bombastic man. “Lord Featherstone was a patient of Jekyll’s, and this doctor is dangerous. On several fronts. We have no idea how deep Jekyll’s influence ran with him.”

Southerby glared at him for a moment before replying. “Did I meet this Jekyll you are looking for? No. I did, however, work closely with Featherstone, a man who has done more for the Empire than all the branches of the Ministry combined. Now, you come here to tell me that Featherstone was perhaps compromised in some way? Sabotaging his own work? Selling secrets to the enemy? I do not believe that Featherstone has ever been disloyal to the crown—”

Wellington was certain the lieutenant general’s next words were to be
“...and I do not intend to start believing that now!”
or something to the effect, but his attention turned to the gooseflesh rippling along his arms as a sudden chill swept across his skin. The smell, a scent reminiscent of summer thunderstorms at Whiterock, filled his nostrils and excited his tongue.

Then came the flash of light, and before their eyes the fabric of reality began to fold upon itself.

Interlude

In Which Miss del Morte Makes a Move

Sophia took each stair, slowly and carefully. A pair of tourists, a man and a woman chattering to each other, passed her without a glance.

Still she waited until she reached the top of the stairwell before glancing over her shoulder. No one was following her. No one was casting a glance up to see where she had been. She was just an old woman with laboured breathing who had to take her time to reach the top of the stairs.

Just as Sophia wanted.

Continuing the illusion up another stairwell, Sophia finally arrived to the third floor. She looked up to the room numbers as she trundled by each door. On reaching Room 312, Sophia slipped the key into the lock, waddled inside, shut the door, and then whipped off the shawl around her head. She glanced out one window, ran over to an opposite window, peered through the curtain, and then took a deep breath that felt like her first.

“
Damn!” she whispered, looking around the stranger’s room.

Months of hiding in Bruges, months of building the perfect cover, months of building an identity, and her own vanity had caught up with her. The urge to break something—furniture, a mirror, a complete stranger’s arm—welled up in her. Her instincts warned her all along taking up that shlockwork’s ridiculous challenge had been a bad idea. Yet she had done it anyway. Some part of her wanted to show the world the skills her aunt had taught her. Weaving had always been her family’s sanctuary of calm and centring, the exact opposite of what her life had been before going dark.

Another part of her was so desperate for some excitement that she’d found a stupid weaving challenge irresistible.

Complacency had led her to the Grote Markt, and dumb luck had placed an agent of the House of Usher there at the same time. She had craved for excitement, and Fate certainly had an interesting sense of humour.

“
Who are you?” Sophia muttered as she turned to examine the luscious suite.

The woman had certainly spared no expense for herself—but then again this was the House of Usher. They believed in only the finer things. If they ever achieved their goal they would undoubtedly do it from opulent surroundings.

Sophia’s attacker had surrounded herself with velvet drapes, gilt mirrors, and a huge four-poster bed.

The end tables on either side of the bed yielded nothing, aside from some books to which Sophia could only shake her head in disgust. However, she also had a huge wardrobe full of the latest Parisian fashions, so she was not without some sense of taste.

There was no evening finery to speak of, but plenty of choices for her to appear as an innocuous tourist. On the shelf above were three hat boxes. Sophia stood on a nearby stool and climbed up to have a closer look. Reaching between them she rapped her knuckle on the wall behind the boxes. All was solid, until she struck the panel to the left of the last box.

Pressing gently against it, she heard a latch unlock while springs popped it open. Then pushing aside the hat boxes, she reached into the compartment, and found several bound leather folders, a seal bearing the raven burned into each of them. She felt deeper into the cubbyhole and discovered a small box.

Hopping down from the stool, she scattered her finds across the bed. Before diving into this hidden treasure trove, Sophia retrieved from her satchel the other items she had lifted from the dead Usher agent: a passport, a map usually issued to tourists, and a small wallet carrying a modest amount of currency.

The map was worn, frayed. It had been opened and folded closed repeatedly. Sophia opened up the passport, and now this Usher agent had a name: Diane Elizabeth Case. From the looks of the currency she carried, Agent Case had plenty of lavish tastes that went beyond this hotel room.

“
Tell me more, Agent Case.”

Pulling the tie free, she opened the folder to stare at a woman she did not recognise. The photo was an image of her standing against a brick wall. The accompanying notes identified her as Fiona Brannagh, an agent of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Flipping through the other pages, there were additional images of Agent Brannagh wandering streets Sophia knew from her time in Bruges. These photos had been taken without her knowledge.

The final photograph in the dossier was of this woman with her throat cut. Clipped to the photo was a note bearing the crest of the raven. The message read:

Please send a postcard. Father would love to see what you are up to in Europe. Take all the time you like. Your work abroad is exceptional.

Sophia knew that code all too well. Agent Case and she shared much in common, it appeared.

She opened another file. This time the subject was Ignatius Daniel Wadsworth, another Ministry agent. Again, a photo taken in front of a brick wall. Again, images of him captured wandering throughout Bruges, taken without his knowledge. The final photo, Agent Wadsworth dead. Same message attached.

She glanced up. There were six other folders, all secured like this.

Time to examine the box. Giving it a quick look for anything out of the ordinary—this woman was skilled enough to have dispatched eight Ministry agents and kept it secret—Sophia flipped open its latch. One item inside immediately caught her eye and caused her stomach to turn over. It was a small fold of leather with the stamp of an eagle and a dragon on it—the crest of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Inside the small wallet was the face of Diane Elizabeth Case, and her credentials as a Field Agent for Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

Sophia pressed her hands to her forehead for a moment. When she had killed Agent Case, she knew her as an agent of the House of Usher. Now, Agent Case’s secret was out, but only to Sophia. She was a marked woman by two agencies. The Ministry would believe she had killed one of their own, and not a double agent.

What was she to do? The possibility of returning to her family’s village flitted through her mind, but Sophia dismissed it quickly. It was one of the del Morte’s rules. If there was trouble, never take it back to the family. Never.

That left the only people she trusted to watch her back. They possessed true honour, honour that her own family would no doubt respect, and perhaps be glad of their assistance as well. The challenge would be locating them before either the Ministry or the House of Usher found her.

She checked inside the box for anything that could aid her in that search. Sophia found there were messages from “Uncle Basil” that looked to be sent via æthermail. No doubt from the communications office in the town plaza. She remembered her neighbour Febe telling her of an analytical terminal being installed there. With the amount of tourism in Bruges, that came as no surprise.

Before taking flight, she would have to become herself again. Her illusion was on borrowed time, she knew that, but she would take up as much of that time as she could.

The dossiers stretched the seams of her modest satchel even after she emptied it to make room for them. The box she would have to carry by hand. With the extra weight, it would be a long, agonising walk through town. Perhaps she would see a neighbour or a farmer willing to take her home, granting her a few precious minutes.

Leaving the hotel room, she shut the door carefully, and returned the way she had come. When she reached the ground floor, her mind was already working on her route out of Bruges.

“
Mona!“ a voice called from across the marble lobby.  

Sophia froze halfway towards the door, her honed instincts preventing her from releasing one of her lethal cogs from its launcher and sinking it squarely in the head of the person who had called to her from the concierge desk.