Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (46 page)

He could read the headlines from here. The report was in all of the newspapers. It wasn’t often that a courtesan was gunned down in her own home. To his distaste, the killer’s description sounded eerily familiar.

Only amateurs use firearms. Only dead men use my likeness when killing another.

Satyr had arrived at Madam Winston’s shortly after the crime, as per their arrangement. Taken aback at the unthinkable news, he’d wandered throughout the house, unseen, listening in on conversations with the butler, the police, and the hysterical maid. Whoever had co-opted his form knew it was the best means to gain entrance to the house. Since only Satyr and the now dead courtesan were aware of their appointment, the other assassin had just gotten lucky.

Acting on a hunch that this wasn’t an isolated event, Satyr had contacted those few members of the Twenty that he knew and they spread the word amongst their compatriots. Not quickly enough. By morning there was more grim news: three others had met Adelaide’s fate.

Sixteen members did not constitute a quorum, so no vote could be taken on the Ascendant’s future. Through targeted assassination, his superior had bought himself another day or two of life, until the Twenty reorganized. Pity it had come at such a high cost.

“We appear to have lost our Intermediary,” Satyr said, pointing toward the lead article.

The Ascendant’s expression grew wary. “No doubt a dissatisfied customer,” he said, derision icing the words. “I never liked meeting with her. The whore of Babylon, if there ever was one.”

Satyr wisely did not voice what was on his mind.

“You should be aware that I have disbanded The Conclave,” the Ascendant remarked. “They are of no further use.”

Satyr arched an eyebrow. “Why? They’re harmless enough.”

“It was time. Hastings is not pleased, but that is of no concern.”

He’s methodically removing any potential rivals.

“The Intermediary was not the only casualty last evening,” Satyr informed him coolly. “I understand three other members of the Twenty are now dead.”

The Ascendant responded with a noncommittal shrug. “Crime abounds in this country. Is the Flaherty girl no more?”

“She has been dealt with.”
In a truly creative way.
He smiled at the thought of how he’d paid off his debt to the unlucky sergeant.

“Excellent. For a time, I thought you were losing your edge, Mr. S.”

Satyr inclined his head at the comment, all the while pondering the best way to slay the viper in their midst. Still, he would not touch the Ascendant until the Twenty gave their blessing, though he had adequate reason to do so. His instincts told him to let this game play out.

“What about Flaherty?” the Ascendant inquired. “Is he dead?”

“I will deal with him today,” Satyr lied.

“Good.”

“Have the explosives been delivered?”

“They will be. Tomorrow morning,” the Ascendant replied.

“What’s this about an angel?”

His superior’s face went blank. “I do not know what you’re talking about.” He gestured toward Satyr’s empty plate. “Aren’t you eating breakfast? Surely you will want some of these fine sausages.”

Satyr was up in a flash. “No, sir, I am not dining this morning. Tobin can join you. I’m sure he’s excellent company.” He halted near the door, then turned. “In future, do not send one of
my
Seven against me.”

Their gazes locked in mutual distrust.

“I will send anyone I choose,” the Ascendant responded evenly.

“You may,” Satyr said, “but next time, I shall return the favor.”

~••~••~••~

Cynda stared at the note. It held both good and bad news.

“Alastair says they found Fiona Flaherty. Somebody looking like Keats rescued her, though the doc has no idea who that might have been.” Cynda sighed. At least their bargain with the anarchist had been fulfilled.

“Hmm? Oh, that’s good,” Morrisey said, his back to her. He’d logged onto TEMnet and was tapping out instructions for Fulham in an attempt to locate Defoe.

“Flaherty took them to the explosives, but they’re gone.”

No reply.

“You want to go down for breakfast?”

“No.”

“Any sign of Defoe?” she quizzed.

“No. He’s not home.
”

“Side-hop?”

“No. He’s vanished,” was the curt reply.

Since Morrisey wasn’t budging and she was hungry, she treated herself to breakfast in the hotel dining room. Her appetite was back, and other than a certain blue spider, she still had no time lag effects to speak of. The reboot had done her some good, though she doubted most Rovers would be willing to undergo that hell just to gain a few more months of employment.

As she finished her breakfast, she cast another quick look at the couple sitting near the dining room’s entrance. They’d been watching her, trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

Dabbing her mouth delicately with the napkin, she thanked her server and rose from the table. Sure enough, the couple was up and out of the room in a flash, headed for the front door. That cinched it. She had to find out who they were.

When she caught up with them, they appeared extremely interested in a poster advertising a girl’s school in Paddington.

“Excuse me,” Cynda said. “Can I help you? You’ve been following me, so I figured you wanted something.”

“I told you we were too close,” the woman grumbled.

“She’s never seen us before,” the man argued.

“Let’s go down that way for a chat, okay?” Cynda said, gesturing toward a side street.

“Ah, we can’t possibly—” the man began.

“Do it. Now!” The menace in her voice did the trick. They halted in a side street, clearly flustered by her presence.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Ah, we can’t tell you that,” the man replied nervously.

“Yes, you can,” Cynda countered. “That way, I don’t get nasty about you following my ass all over London.”

She waited for the startled expression at her raw language. Instead, the woman fished a tattered notebook and a short pencil out of a pocket, eyes aglow. “Good heavens, she’s just like they said.”

“Prudence!” the man hissed.

“Oh, this is perfect. I never thought we’d have a chance to talk to a
Past.
”

“Prudence!” the man hissed again, louder.

Past?
The ha’penny dropped. “You’re Futures, aren’t you?” Cynda asked.

The woman nodded enthusiastically.

“Why are you following me?”

“You’re Jacynda Lassiter! I mean, what an opportunity. You’re a legend,” the woman gushed.

Her companion shook his head in dismay. “Before my colleague goes any further, you must forget you saw us.”

“Not likely. So why come from…” Cynda waved her hand to indicate sometime in the future, “to watch me work? I’m good, but not legendary.”

“Well, according to DeMoss, your techniques were responsible for—”

“Pru!” This time the man’s warning worked, and the woman’s lips snapped shut.

Drat. I was so close.
“Were you following me the night I stopped the assassin at the party? My interface registered someone, but the readings were inconclusive.”

A cautious nod.

“So why aren’t you registering now?”

“We blocked it.”

“Why didn’t you block it that night?”

The man looked chagrined. “We forgot,” he admitted.

“So where else have you been?” The two traded looks. “Come on!” Cynda cajoled.

The fellow cleared his throat. “In Rotherhithe, near the Spread Eagle and Crown when you attempted to cross the water to Whitechapel; the night you were tossed under the beer wagon, and—”

“Never mind.” Why hadn’t she seen them before? What else was she missing?

After a quick look around, he offered his hand. “I’m Thomas, by the way.”

“Glad to meet you, Thomas.” They shook. “Is your last name Anderson?”

“Ah…no,” he said.

It was worth a try.

“Prudence,” the woman said and giggled.

This was embarrassing. “I’ve never had my very own entourage before,” Cynda remarked. “I really must screw things up.”

Pru became engrossed in the tip of her pencil.

Oh great.
“Any tips so I don’t get myself shot, stabbed, or my brain remapped again?”

Silence. At least from the two in the alley. Out on the street, a baked potato vendor called out his wares in a sing-song voice.

“That bad, huh?” she said, growing nervous.

“Not really good,” the man admitted.

“Fate-of-the-whole-world stuff?” Cynda joked.

The man looked at her sharply. She’d hit home without meaning to.

“You’re remarkably calm about all this,” he said.

“Mostly because I don’t have a clue what’s going on. Something’s up. Something bad, but I don’t know what. It would be a great help if you guys could fill me in.”

“You don’t know?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s what I just said,” Cynda shot back.

“That’s not right. By now you should—” He stopped abruptly. “Why is it going wrong?”

“Just a hint would help,” Cynda urged.
Please.

Prudence shook her head. “Tampering with history. Can’t do it. Cost us our grant.”

“You have a
grant
to follow me around? I really must screw things up if you got funding.”

The two Futures traded looks, and then Thomas moved closer. “I would suggest that you take a visit to…” He looked around. “Tomorrow, Lord Mayor’s Day. Anywhere in the East End. Just be careful when you do.”

“Well, I could do with a bit of a holiday,” Cynda mused.

“It won’t be any holiday, that I can tell you.” Thomas pulled out what appeared to be a pocket watch, but it was fatter and a bit more rectangular, like a vintage cigarette case. “It’s clear, Pru. You ready?”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Cynda said.

“Our time is up for this session.”

“But—”

There was no light, no sound. And no people. Time travel technology had clearly made some awesome improvements.

~••~••~••~

Theo was pacing. She’d never seen him do that before. “Fulham is trying to track down Harter,” he blurted before she could say a word. “He’s having no luck. Klein doesn’t have him, either. No one knows where he is.” He shook his head. “This is so off the rails.”

“Why not go back to the party and catch him?”

“We don’t dare, not in front of that many people,” Morrisey replied. “Too dangerous.”

“How about when they take him to jail?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Well, if you wait long enough he’ll surface eventually,” she replied.

He gave a grunt of displeasure. “I want him somewhere safe.”

She draped her mantelet over a chair. “There were a couple of people downstairs. They kept staring at me, so I asked a few questions. They say they’re Futures, and from the technology I saw, I don’t think they’re lying.”

“Why are they so interested in you?” Morrisey asked, all attention now.

Because I’m a legend.

“They’ve got a grant to follow me around.” She snorted. “Can you believe that? They said I should know what’s going on by now, and since I don’t, they suggested a trip to
tomorrow
.”

Morrisey frowned. “Why tomorrow?”

She threw up her hands and headed for the bedroom. If she was off to the East End, she wasn’t wearing her nice dress. As she changed, she realized that she’d have to buy mourning clothes for Adelaide. The steel-gray gown wouldn’t be dark enough for Defoe’s loss.

Cynda returned to the sitting room to find Theo staring into the fire.

She flipped open her interface. “Along for the ride, boss?”

A distracted nod. He pulled out his own interface and began copying her settings.

“It’s a major holiday. The streets will be packed, so make it four in the afternoon,” she said. “Might be less crowded.”

“Really?” he said crossly. “I’ve actually been to a Lord Mayor’s Show. How about you?”

“Yup. In 1789.” She’d lost her interface in the midst of the crowd and when she’d caught up with the thief, he’d already handed it off to an accomplice. She’d gone ugly on him and gotten arrested for assault. Once in jail, an inmate had tried to steal her boots. Nasty memory.

Like most of them.