In the fifteen minutes that Harriet’s been here, she’s learned only that the Respite is a very dirty place. Perhaps it would seem less so, if it was full of people.

  All around them are empty tables, thrown-over chairs, half-filled clay cups that form thick rings of moisture. The tables aren’t all for drinking - some are covered in cards, others with green felt or spinning wheels. But without players to spin them, victors to cheer and losers to curse, the whole place feels…

  …eerie.

  It might not help that she’s tucked behind the bar. With Pa’s Springfield held tightly in her fingers.

  Her three companions stand before the entrance, with Captain Morris right behind. It’s been ten minutes since they cleared the place and told Haverforth to not come until called. The silence feels like screaming.

  Rowe turns his head. “How will Keaton-”

  “Keaton knows.” Morris answers.

  “Is there anyone in this city who hasn’t been bought?”

  The Captain pauses, drumming his fingers along his sword hilt. “By our count, there are a hundred-and-seventy-five Freeholds in this city. Some number in the hundreds; most are as small as your own. They share nothing, trust no one, and hate the Court only slightly more than they hate each other.”

  “An' how many greys does the Court got?” Red asks.

  “Around three-thousand.”

  “God.” Red smirks. “We’re dead already.”

  “They’ve worked together before,” Rowe interjects. “The Unbound of my Lighting was an army. Fighters for freedom. Now they rummage for scraps like dogs. Why? What’s happened to them?

  “You said it yourself.” Menowin smirks. “Freedom."

  Suddenly, the men sour, and Harriet bunkers down. There are voices through the door. But the voices are louder than she would expect. Louder, and…

  “- it leaves in the morn!”

  “Seamus made his choice-”

  “Fuck t’at! You told me you’d protect him!”

  … a lot less civil.

  The voices go quiet. The door opens soon after.

  Aubrey Keaton stops himself in the frame. He’s even more imposing up close: at least six feet tall, eyes smouldering beneath his goggle's red glass. Harriet blinks. There’s that mirage-like affect, that shifting, and then she's looking at a woman with thin features, darkened skin. Keaton raises clasped hands to the elbows.

  “Gawen Rowe.” It’s the woman’s voice. “I offer myself and my company as guests across your threshold, per all the laws of our kind, and under the ancient Rites of Hospitality.”

  Everyone but the Black Prince looks confused. “You follow the old way?”

  “No.” Another mirage. Another voice change. “But I’m not sure if you do.”

  Harriet curls back. This magic's causing a headache. Rowe ponders, scanning the man. “... If we are to speak, it should be as one-and-one. Not one-and-ten-thousand. I will host you, and your men, per the ancient Rites of Hospitality. But only if they keep one face.”

  A small nod, and a flourish of arms. When Keaton steps through, it’s with sandy hair, darkened cheeks, generous freckles. It does nothing to make Harriet feel better. It’s the same face as the man who was hanged.

  The well-armed boy walks in next, his coat rattling with his green sash and so many guns. He looks younger than Harriet realised; maybe twenty, maybe less. Briefly, she sees his eyes, dry and red and bloodshot. But then he wipes his face, and the glass goggles are quickly thrown over them.

  As Erika follows in, shotgun slung over her shoulder, the Man with Ten Thousand Faces locks eyes with Morris. And quickly scowls.

  “Not him.”

  Rowe doesn’t look back. “Captain Morris has been offered the same Rite as you. He comes with an open-”

  “He’s a spy,” Erika snarls. “Shoot him, or I will.”

  Menowin shrugs to the others. “See? I warned you.”

  “Captain Morris fights for the tyrant," Keaton says. "Fights for the causes of property, of imperialism, of titles and capitalists and every other poison the Court has spread.”

  “Really?” Red frowns. “If half the rumours ‘bout what he did ta Caedmon are true-”

  “Those rumours aren’t true,” Morris hisses.

  “- ya owe him a bit of a favour.”

  “Caedmon, the New Sun, they are facets of the same jewel.” Keaton shifts. “I promised my people that I would put a bullet through the skull of our enemy. It matters little to me if I have to raise my aim, or lower it.”

  Menowin laughs. The bells in his clothes jingling as he bows. “It’s good to see you again, chavi. Always the Unbound’s most pragmatic tactician.”

  “I’ve seen men unravelled by pragmatism, paralyzed by their compromises. If you want to join that sort of socialist, go. This city is awash with them. But I am the voice of the working class, and that voice accepts crumbs no longer.” Keaton frowns. “I walk, or he goes.”

  Before Rowe can reply, Morris marches to the door. Hand on his sword, the same way Erika lifts her gun. When Keaton moves out of the way for him, they meet each other again. The Captain whispers something, something Harriet doesn't hear, and then he's gone.

  The night takes him.

  More men in beige greatcoats flow in as Keaton moves deeper through the room. “I apologise that I must be so forward, but my Get, Fionn, has need of your aid. His-”

  “Seamus.” The Get, sniffing his nose, walks over. “They got him. Puttin’ ‘im on a barge to the Raj, or worse! I need guns. I need ‘im back.”

  Menowin squints. “And your Getter can’t spare the men?”

  Keaton growls. “Not quiet ones.”

  “I can’t imagine breaking into a prison barge would go smoothly with the authorities,” Rowe observes.

  "That's why we kicked the envoy out." Erika grins. “We won’t tell him.”

  “We come from the same parish. We joined the Brotherhood together. Please!” The boy takes his goggles off. Eyes still dry. “We're dead men in t'is city. He’s all I have left.”

  Rowe purses his lip. Turns to Menowin. “Can I spare you? Would the negotiations-”

  “Stay in your favour? No.” Keaton interjects. “I know the gypsy. He shouldn’t go.”

  The Black Prince ponders a moment longer, before turning even further back. To the red-haired girl whose gun is still trained on Keaton.

  “You.”

  The boy blinks when he sees her stand. “What, the child? A mortal?”

  Keaton shrugs. “She had enough stomach for the execution.”

  A pang in her chest. Rowe’s face twists, his worry plain, but by the time he eyes down Menowin, it’s changed to anger. “Execution??”

  “You shouldn’t be hiding her from this city.”

  “That’s not your choice to make. Red and I were-”

  Menowin growls. “Later.”

  The boy shakes his head, gestures to her gun. “No. At least bring the giant. Can she even hold t’at bloody t'ing?”

  “I’m a better shot than you.” Harriet frowns, and points to his holsters in turn. “Ain’t need ta bring four pistols.”

  “Fireside has ridden with us,” Rowe says over them. “She’s survived as much as any of us. Say the word, and she’ll get your Seamus back.”

  “Hell,” Menowin chuckles. “Say the word and she’ll get on her-” He stops when he catches Rowe’s glare. “Sorry.”

  Harriet’s halfway to the door when she turns to Fionn. “Ya game."

  There's a brief hesitation. "Yes."

  “Great. Ya know where it is?”

  “Yeh. East wharf. Shouldn’t take more than-”

  “Wait.”

  Harriet stops. Turns. Rowe’s reaching out. His face is pale.

  "... Our mission has changed.” His face sets. “If you must fight, fight. But we do make mourners any longer. You are not allowed to kill."

  The room immediately erupts.

  “Are ye outta yer feckin’-"

  “Excuse me?”

  “The fuck do you mean-”

  “No deaths!” He shouts over them all. “That’s all I’ll hear of it!”

  "Rowe." Menowin gets in his face. “Shunen pe tumend. This is fucking madness.”

  “We’re in a new place. With new people. People who do not know us, who do not trust us. And they will never trust if we start murdering their brothers and-”

  “If this is about that boy-”

  “Do not mention the boy!”

  A silence falls over them, until Keaton folds his arms. “My Get will not follow this. Marx tells us that the war of class is inevitable, and our opponents have long since fired the first shots. Strikers are hanged. Protestors ridden down. If we don’t adapt to their tactics, what hope does the revolution have?”

  “If we sink to their depravity, the 'revolution' has no hope at all."

  Menowin’s nostrils flare. “These are Queen’s men. They’ve made their choice.”

  “And I’m making-”

  “I’ll do it!” She shouts loud enough for all to turn, and then, when all their eyes are on her. wants to retreat right behind her rifle. “... I’ll do it," she repeats, more quietly.

  Red reaches out. “Harriet-”

  “He wants ‘em alive!? I’ll keep ‘em alive.” She points at Fionn. “An’ yer playin’ the same hand.”

  “Like Hell I’m-”

  “Then at least keep those sticks a' yer's in yer fuckin' pants."

  “What are ye gonna do?” He flusters. “Shoot the guns out t’eir hands!?”

  She marches towards the door. "Somethin' like that."

  “No. No no no. Ye can’t possibly-” He yelps. Harriet’s grabbed him by the shirt-collar, pulling him through. “There could be dozens on t'at feckin’ boat! No-one’s t’at good of a shot!”

  “I told ya. I’m not good.” She launches him off the porch, sauntering behind. “I’m better.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  For once, it feels like the city’s quiet. The streets are bare, the horses stabled, and even the coppers have long since crawled to the brothels and pubs. It’s been an uneventful walk beneath dark clouds and pale moonlight. The loudest sounds around them, the flickering hum of iron-light's gas.

  Harriet lets the boy lead her, in his quick and hurried way. The more she watches him, the more he seems odd. Shorter than even her, his hands are always fidgeting with his dynamite, his firearms, his many sticks of chewing gum. At first, she worried that he’d blow himself up, but mentioning that risk only brought out a hyena-like laughter.

  Eventually, as always, she loses focus, lost to white clouds and windchimes and the great black birds that swirl overhead. They’re watching.

  Again.

  “‘Ey!” She looks back down. Fionn’s pointing at the road. “Boat’s this way.”

  Harriet bites her lip, and tilts her eyes up. “Ya know those birds?”

  “Ravens? ‘Course. Little shits don’t leave us be.”

  “Ya know who runs them?”

  Fionn chuckles. “T’ey don’t ‘run’ the birds, girl. Birds are birds. But Fionnachta, talks to t'em. Coos an’ squawks an’ flap her arms. An’ trust me, she's a feckin’ talker.”

  “Fee-not-tuh?”

  “Fionn-Nachta. Na.”

  “Fee-nya-tuh.” Harriet squints when he nods. “Ya know her?”

  “‘Course I know her. She’s one of us!”

  “An Unbound?”

  “No. Irish!” He beats his chest and holds out the green sash on his shoulder. “God’s chosen people! Maybe t’at’s the Jews nabbed her, innit? Still tryin’ to claim top spot.”

  “Irish?” Harriet’s eyes spark, and she points at herself. “I-... I’m Irish, too!”

  “Really?” Fionn struts. “Don’t hear it in yer voice.”

  “Yeah, well, uh, Pa, er… Gran’Pa, he, uh, he moved from Ireland to America.”

  “Yeah, with half the feckin’ island. What part?”

  She stops, looking at him. “Tennessee?”

  Fionn rolls his eyes. “What part a’ Ireland?”

  “OH! Uh…” She bites her tongue, racking her brain. “He called it… he called it... Londonderry!”

  Bursting with pride, she looks to Fionn. But for some reason, the boy seems more sour. “Are ye feckin’ serious?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Still smiling, she prods him with her gun. “Are ya from there, too?”

  Fionn watches it for a while, bouncing against his skin. Then he shifts, squeezing Harriet’s arm with a fingerless glove. “Fireside… uh...” He giggles, pulls up his goggles. “Somethin’ ye oughta…”

  He stops when he sees her open mouth. Curious blue eyes.

  "Just..." The grip loosens, and he pats her shoulder. “... Stick with the Yanks, yeah?"

  He’s turned around when she reaches out. “W-wait! That green sash, what does it mean?”

  “Means I’m a member of the Bráithreachas Phoblacht na héireann. We want them British out. Though, sometimes..." He muses for a moment, eying her down. “... we'll take consolations."

  “An’ Fee… fee-na…” She sighs. “An’ the bird lady, she’s in that, too?”

  “‘Course not!” Fionn scoffs. “She’s in the East End!”

  “What's that mean?"

  He turns. “It means the East side of feckin’ London!"

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Her eyes are wide. “Ohhh.”

  “They’ve got the largest Freehold. Four-hundred jerks, led by an even bigger jerk called Ratcatcher."

  “Why’s he called-"

  “Why would I know?!” Fionn throws up his arms. “He caught rats!? Do I look like a feckin’ book to ye?"

  “Uh…” Not wanting to offend him, Harriet tilts her head. “I-I mean, uh, maybe at a certain angle-”

  “Fireside.” She winces at his tone.

  “I-It’s jes’ that those birds have been followin’ since I got on the docks!"

  “Yeah, of course they’re followin’ ye. Yer a mortal, hangin’ around Nocts wit’ a big fuckin’ gun!”

  “But yer the only one who’s tellin’ me anythin’!” She pouts. “I don’t get this big city stuff! I’m from Iowa!”

  “An’ I’m from a hectare spud farm,” he spits. “I managed!"

  “Wait.” She lowers her voice, points ahead. Listens to Fionn's curse. “Get down!”

  She grabs him by the arm, throws him against a short wall. A large wooden ship is just ahead of them. Three decks tall, with four sails overhead and a lot of soldiers. Harriet and Fionn are bunched up together. Her arms in his hands, and Pa’s Springfield in hers.

  “Not good,” she whispers.

  “Yeah," he nods. "Count the torches.”

  Her eyes dart about. “Fourteen?”

  “Shit.”

  “Maybe we can distract ‘em? I fire out there, they go investigate, an’-”

  “An’ then we’re dealin’ with eight. The odds are so much better!” Fionn sighs and puts his goggles back on. Starts to stand.

  “Well I don’t see you havin' any bright…” She stops when she sees the red sticks in his hand. “... Are ya stupid!?”

  He smiles. “Should handle t’ings easily.”

  “We told Rowe we wouldn’t kill them!”

  “We…” He frowns. “Shit, were ye serious ‘bout followin’ through wit’ that?”

  “YES!” When she hears his chuckle, she sours. “Look. I’m tryna be one of ya, okay!? An’ I can’t do that if I keep fuckin’ up!”

  “Fuckin’ up? Is t’at why they was scoldin’ you like a-”

  “Not yer fuckin’ business!” She hisses. “If ya try ta kill them, I’m gonna scream.”

  “Relax.” He presses three fingers to her cheek, and tilts her head towards the ship. “New plan. Seamus an’ them are in the brig, right? So ye do yer thing, fire shots, make ‘em scurry ‘round, an’ I’ll blow a hole right from under them!”

  “A hole?” He nods. She gestures to the dynamite. “With that?”

  “Yeah.”

  She blinks. “Fionn, I’m not sure if ya’ve caught on yet, but the bottom of the boat is underwater!”

  “More than fine,” he grins. “Nocturni don’t breathe.”

  She stares at him. “Candlewicks do!”

  “Oh, Fireside.” He lifts up his goggles so she can see the glee in his eyes. The red shade, dark as the glass. “This ain’t no feckin’ candle.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  It bleeds through her cover by the wall. A roaring sound, a flash of white, and then colours, patterns. Swirling reds and looping greens. She hears shouts of pain, water rushing, the snap of wood beams as the ship starts to careen. Her gun is close to her chest. Splinters break free as bullets whizz past her.

  “FIONN!”

  ““Go hIfreann leat!” There’s a hiss. Another throw “Go hIfreann leat, a shlíomadóir-”

  Whatever's in that explosion, it sure as shit isn't gunpowder.

  Harriet’s rocked from her position. Rolls against iron and casings and wood. When she comes to, she’s out of breath, her hands deep in murky, ice-cold water. Suddenly, a great shift to her right, and she’s scurrying back, just as pox-ridden fingers miss their chance to grab her. Their own is stuck behind bars. Water pours through his cell wall.

  “LET US OUT! LET US OUT!”

  She stops. Stares. There's others in the cage. They’re missing patches of skin. Noses. Ears.

  Three bullets pierce through the wood by her feet, and she’s running back, cowering twice. They stream down the stairs with ornate beards, fancy hats. She aims. Shoots. A gun clatters to the ground. Aims. Shoots. A soldier loses three fingers

  “FIONN!” The water’s reaching her ankles. “FIONN!”

  She can hear the jangling of keys. Screaming. Begging. “KEEP ‘EM BACK!”

  “I can’t keep ‘em back!” She runs further down the ship. “We need ta-”

  She freezes. Fionn has found Seamus, alright. And opened his cage. But she wasn’t expecting his ‘brother’ to be so…

  ...so…

  She picks her jaw up from the floor. “Can ya stop fuckin’ KISSING!?”

  Fionn hurriedly parts with the boy. “I told ye to hold them off!”

  Another rattle, another lurch, and all three are being tossed back. Harriet collides into a pillar, her cover from before. Officers shout. Waves crash. She realises belatedly that the wall’s becoming the floor.

  “LET US OUT!” They shout from the cage. “LET US OUT!”

  Harriet climbs as high as she can, watching as men throw their weight into the bars as the water keeps rising. She hears a scuffle from behind, looks up. Fionn’s climbing out the window, a pistol firing wildly from his hand. Five others in green sash jump the ship before him.

  “FIONN! WE HAVE TA HELP!”

  “Help them?” The boy laughs. “Amhail is go bhfuilim ag cabhrú lena gcineál! They’re English, Fireside! Best let beasts slaughter each other!”

  “Fionn! ... Fuck!” He's already gone. Harriet brings the rifle’s sight to her eyes. More water. More shouting. But there’s locks on the cages, right? If she can…

  Shot. Shot. Shot. Doors breaking. Men climbing. Crying their eyes out, screaming God’s name. She almost smiles to herself, when the ship rocks again, and she finds herself in the air, dangling on a spare beam. How fucking deep is this river!?

  “Help!” It’s a voice from below. “Help me!” She looks down, and sees one of the men in blue coats, stumps still bleeding where she shot off half his hand. He’s trapped beneath debris, she can tell; a wood post sticks bloodily in his side, and the water’s already at his chest. She looks at her gun, the bayonet. There could be leverage there, if…

  Another rumble. Somewhere on the top deck, a sail mast snaps.

  “PLEASE!”

  Harriet closes her eyes, says a quick prayer, and drops into the water.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  She’s a hacking mess by the time her feet touch the ground. Makes it a few more steps up the sandy shore before she collapses to her knees and retches.

  Foul-smelling sludge forces itself out. She's in tears by the end. Pa’s waterlogged Springfield is by her legs, and behind her, a large, blue-coated body is drawn in by the tide.

  After a few breaths, Harriet steels herself, grabs both. It’s not an easy thing, dragging a full-grown man weighed down by water, her shoes quickly pressing into sand. Fucking shoes. And her fucking clothes, and this fucking stink, and all the fucking-

  “Fireside!” Two sets of boots leap onto the beach. She can already smell the rum bottle they must have stolen. “Fantastic shots!" Fionn coos. "T’ose sorta moves, that’s legend shite, that’s myt’ology! You oughta drink to t’at!"

  She falls over the body, gripping his coat with white knuckles. “Go ta Hell. Ya coulda ruined my gun!”

  “I’m sorry.” He makes a grand gesture. “Plans go awry. Sometimes we forget a detail or two-”

  “Like three explosions!?”

  “Ye know how to swim! Held t’at part back!” Fionn lifts his arms in mock defense. “An’ now they can’t sail any more shits to-”

  Fionn stops when he sees him. The blue-coat. The soldier. The rum falls to the sand, and he withdraws one of the pistols still remaining in his holsters. “Ye brought one all the way here?”

  She quirks when she hears the hammer.

  “Waste of yer feckin’-”

  “NO!”

  She gets there just before the shot rings out, loud and buzzing. She can feel her hands rattle, the bullet sinking into the sand. Fionn shoves her back. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

  She looks up. “No-one dies.”

  “No-one? What about the men they killed there, the-” Fionn stops rushing over to Seamus. “Have ye seen what they did to him?

  “Fionn, tá sé ceart go leor,” Seamus pulls back, suddenly defensive. “Tá an cailín díreach-”

  “Níl sé ceart go leor!” Fionn thrusts, dragging the boy forward by the wrist. He forces down his sleeve. “Look. LOOK!”

  She does. And at once her stomach twists. A red cauterised stump replaces the first bone of Seamus’ thumb. All the rest are missing nails.

  “They did this today. Not a gang. Not debtors. OUR OWN FUCKING GOVERNMENT!” Fionn spits into the sand. “I don’t care ‘bout what’s right an’ honourable to a bunch of foreign shits! T’at bastard either stood by an’ watched or handed t’em the BLOODY PLIERS, and ye don’t t’ink we should kill him!?”

  She looks away. Worried lip. “R-Rowe said-”

  “‘Rowe said.’ ‘Rowe said.’ ‘ROWE FUCKIN’ SAID!’ Is that all you DO!? Squawk like a bloody parrot!?”

  “Stop it!” Seamus shouts, so loud that the others turn to listen. “Is páiste í!”

  The mortal's arms are folded, his eyes ringed by black, and the shame on his face makes her heart churn all over again.

  “Fionn…” She climbs to her knees. “You know them as little as they know you.”

  “T'ey don’t put good men on those ships. T'ey don’t hand good men guns.”

  “Then who are we?”

  "Heh." For a while, Fionn doesn’t move. Until, slowly, he holsters his gun, and lowers the goggles back over his eyes.

  “Ye know, lotta me brothers," Fionn starts to fidget. "They ask why I fight fer Keaton. He’s a lot like you. Northerner. Prod. Talks about all t’ese big words and morals like the uasul he fuckin’ is. But none of t’at’s never bothered me. Can ye guess why?”

  She looks at him in silence. He swallows.

  “‘Cause when I run somet’in’ for him, he makes sure to tell me why. When I disagree wit’ somet’in’, he listens, explains. An’ when I need somet’in’ done, somet'in' really done, it don’t matter if it matches his Fabian ideals. It gets done. He understands.”

  “That doesn’t mean yer right,” she whispers.

  “No. An’ I never claimed I was. But you? Ye don’t know where ye are. Ye don’t know who yer fightin’. Rowe commands, ye obey, an’ t’at’s where the t’inkin’ ends. Ye wanna be a Noct, girl? Then ask yerself this.”

  He lowers to his knees, meeting Harriet’s eyes.

  “Keaton trusts me.” His eyes smoulder beneath the goggles. “So when’s yer’s gonna trust you?”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Crash!

  She stomps her way through the Respite, her boots still squeaking, and water dripping from her hair. She knows Pa’s gun needs drying, but has no desire to grab a towel, set it down. Morris is sitting, alone, on a stool by the bar. He stands when she passes him. She barely gives him a glance.

  “Fireside, are you alright? Let me-”

  “I’m fine.” She lifts her hand, keeping him back. “Fionn’s lil’ problem got solved. He can diddle his friend as much as he goddamn likes! Where are they!?”

  “Alcove upstairs. But!” He pulls on her arm before she can take her first step. “... I don’t know how comfortable they’ll be letting a human-"

  She frees herself while giving a hollow laugh. “I’m not you.”

  She can hear muffled voices as she climbs up. Normally, she’d wait for a lull in their talking. But today, she’d rather kick the door.

  “We-” Keaton stops first. Stares into her with the eyes of the hanged man. “Is it done?”

  Harriet takes a moment to scout. Menowin, Rowe, Red, Erika, they’ve all crowded around a table. She sees a map of the city on it, its margins smothered by letters and notes. By its side, a smaller sheet, this one of the whole world.

  She glares hard into Keaton’s face. “Yer boy didn’t make it easy.”

  The Man with Ten-Thousand Faces doesn’t react, but Erika’s face falls. “Schei?e.”

  “Ya know we don’t all grow back our limbs, right!? Those bombs ya strap on the fuck can really-”

  She’s stopped by Rowe. He launches at her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Harriet feels something lurch inside. Her ear on his chest. His hand running through her hair.

  “Did you save them?” He whispers. “Are they alive?”

  She blinks. All the anger in her voice fades. “That… w-wasn’t easy, but I-”

  He pulls her in tighter, until her face is buried in his chest. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  She smiles into his shirt. Warm flesh against cold.

  Erika watches for a moment before speaking slowly. “Fionn has… passion. Sometimes, that is a gift. But others... perhaps for this..."

  “No,” Keaton stops her. “I will not make excuses for him. He destroyed a ship of the enemy. He deserves only applause.”

  “Applause?” Red stands taller. “Did ya listen ta her?”

  “Better a messy victory than a clean defeat.”

  “Thing with messes, Mr. Keaton, is that they make it very hard ta see where the victories start an' the defeats end."

  “He walks our path,” Keaton interrupts. “I do not expect you to follow it, just as I do not expect Menowin to abandon his barbarism, or Rowe to betray his god. For her difficulties, the girl earns my gratitude, which does not come easily. But if she expects discipline in place of good duty?” Keaton shakes his head. “There is a reason why my men still live."

  That gets a grunt from Menowin.

  Rowe has to force himself from Harriet’s arms, so tightly is she binding herself to him. But part from he does, returning to the table, and leaving the girl to feel like a candle without wax.

  “I believe we were discussing strategy?”

  Keaton stares at Red for a moment more, before breaking off to the map. “As in all times, the rich that seek to rule us lack the strength to hold their whips. There are five forces in this city worthy of your fear. Destroy them all, and the Court dies.”

  Menowin’s picking his teeth with his dagger. “So I’m guessing the Reeves are first?”

  “A woman leads them now. Juliet Wynter, of the dhaoine y lleuad.”

  “The dhaoine y lleuad? Aren't they all manics?" Rowe’s face hardens. “That’s either great for us or very, very terrible.”

  Erika shrugs. “It tends to change by the hour.”

  “The Reeves were decimated by the last Revolt, and Wynter knows she has neither the time nor the genitals to win Caedmon’s men back. Instead, she’s bolstered humans, primarily through two means.” Keaton points. “Most Oathsworn keep to the higher districts, where they act as private security.”

  “Excellent!” Menowin grins. “That means we can outbid them!”

  “Outbid with what money?” Red asks.

  “We’re in London, Red. There’s always money.”

  “They’re the smallest force, but the most agile. If the war truly starts, it will be the Oathsworn holding baricades.” Keaton points again. “Poisoned One, but they’ve changed. Wynter knows this was the Court’s failing, and she's invested accordingly. They’re more organised. More disciplined. More armed. They’ve even taken back parts of the city.”

  “Taken back?” Red blinks. “What, did they lose some when they weren’t lookin’?”

  “The Rookeries. The union wards. Any place that the working man rules is a place of death for uniformed men.”

  “Hell, there’s a few Rookeries out there that are places of death for any man.” Erika stares at the map. “They aren’t like to fight us there, but if they do, they’ll send the army. Well-armed, and no longer conscripted, which does wonders for their quality. But Disraeli and his lot have, uh, hesitations about using them in London.”

  “‘Hesitations.’” Rowe repeats. “What does that mean?”

  “They’re Irish,” Erika smiles. “The girl can probably tell you now. Those freckled cunts have some real Beschwerden with their government.”

  Harriet, mindful of her freckles, doesn’t reply.

  “So that’s four forces in London,” Rowe nods at the map. “All strong on paper. All compromisable. The fifth?”

  “The fifth…” Keaton splays his hand across the smaller map. “... is everywhere else.”

  His thumb lands on India.

  “At first we feared the other powers of Europe would strike us down. But Russia is liberal, Austria bruised, and if France hadn’t already shot itself in Mexico, North Germany seems desperate to disembowel them.”

  Rowe squints. “North Germany?”

  Erika folds her arms. “You’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Keaton says. “With enough insiders, we can take London. With London, we can take Birmingham, Cardiff, Manchester, Glasgow. But we’d never be able to hold them. The only reason the New Sun and her forces can’t crush us here is because her forces aren’t here. They’re in Cape Town, and Cairo, and Halifax, and Mumbai. The moment we make a gain in Britain, those soldiers - more experienced and more brutal than any sod they’d station here - will crash against us like waves.”

  Erika frowns. "And some of those colonised would be more than happy to help them."

  “If they can reach us,” Red replies. “We’re on an island. Take its ships, and it’s a fortress.”

  “Ja, it would be, if the Navy wasn’t the most loyal einsatz Her Grace has. And the largest in the world.”

  “We’ve been looking at solutions for two decades," Keaton growls. "The arrival of four fighters won't change that.”

  “Then perhaps there isn’t a solution.” Rowe says quietly. “Perhaps the problem is the problem itself.”

  Harriet looks up. It’s hard to get a clear read on Keaton and Erika, goggled as they are, but they must be confused as all the rest of them. “Problem?”

  “What are you after, Aubrey Keaton?” Rowe stares into his face. “What are you trying to sell to these people?”

  It makes Keaton frown.

  “I don’t sell to my people. I stop them from selling. Selling themselves for beatings and scraps. Selling us for much the same. I do not tell them to cling to little hopes. What is coming is as certain as one is less than five. Bread and power. Work and ownership. Justice they’d never receive, vengeance they’d never have. The day will come when they will know where their next meal comes from, and I will bring that day."

  "Then we have the same-"

  "I..." Keaton interrupts with a snarl. "... not you."

  Keaton moves closer, towering a good six inches above Rowe. Harriet can hear cracked knuckles. A heavy, deliberate breath.

  “I know what you are, Black Prince, and I know what you’re about to present. You think me a fool for starting battles when the way of peace still exists. You think me monstrous for putting innocents in danger, when they could just as easily be protected. The men who worked beside you, they called you a man of God. Is that still true?”

  Rowe glares. “Yes.”

  “Then what you present is not real.” Keaton scowls. “Because God, and peace, all the words they say, all the spirits they evoke, they’re just a mirage in the sand. Crafted so wondrously to keep us in line. Crafted so artfully by yourself and your pastors.”

  Keaton turns just before Rowe can shout. “And your words are honest? Menowin told me of what happened today. One of the men you coerced screamed innocence, screamed that he played no part, up ‘til the moment they strung him!”

  “In their final moments, all men may wish their realities changed.”

  “He was a striker! A worker! You could have saved him, and you let him die!” Rowe steps closer. “Why? To preserve your little murder spree!? Because he's human!?"

  “The proletariat know that it will never be easy taking what their hands built.”

  “And what if no right is found in the building?” Rowe huffs. “You talk of ‘taking back’ factories, but that won’t stop the filth that piles in the river, or the smog that poisons the air! What will you do then? When children die-”

  “Gentlemen!” It’s Erika’s voice. Accented and sharp. “I did not drag us three thousand miles so that we might spat at each other like children! Philosophy is great in a salon. Here? The words are empty!”

  “Oh, no.” Rowe takes a pencil from the desk, hunching over while scratching sounds fill the air. “My words are never empty.”

  Eventually, he steps back, letting them see the two circles he’s drawn on, and the words he’s scrawled over it.

  Voters in Britain

  “The left circle represents every citizen who, if they were in America, would be allowed to vote on their government. The right, the same, but with women.” Rowe ignores Menowin’s laugh. “Do you know what portions of each, in this country, currently have that right?”

  When Keaton only folds his arms, Rowe draws the shapes in. A tiny sliver, so tiny that Harriet can barely see.

  “Five percent for the first; two percent for the rest. Two. Give the people democracy, and they will give you London! I was there when America came into this world. It won its freedom on less!”

  “America?” Keaton scoffs. “Is that your stellar example? Have the Americans shown us that they can rule peaceably? That they want to free others? That they even know how to free themselves?”

  “They tried,” Rowe growls. “You never have.”

  “I haven’t had to. You tried first.”

  Harriet stiffens. Behind her, Red does, too. Keaton takes heavy steps, watching them all from around the table. Feeling the tightness in the air.

  “Every step in this fight, we’ve been halted. Not by the bourgeois, or the police. They wish they could make the progress that our own class traitors have done to us! They break our strikes. Report our brethren. Swindle our pockets, hang us like your Americans hang slaves! What good are our pamphlets to men who won’t read?” What point is there in preaching justice to men who spit at the concept!?”

  “If so many do not listen to the idea,” Rowe interrupts, “perhaps that proves the idea less sound.”

  “No. It proves only that men are desperate. They don’t do it for politics. They do it for crumbs of bread. Pieces of silver! They do it so that they can feel, if even for a second, more powerful, more in-control than the man they bash! That’s all democracy’s ever been! Men on top kicking the step right below them.”

  “So you want a war!?” Rowe huffs. “Fine! But war requires morale. War requires soldiers. Which will move a mother of five? The plight of workers she’s never seen? The threat of guns and boots and the noose around her neck? Or the chance to do this without risk!?"

  “We have taught them all that only by fighting can we-”

  “You have taught them nothing but that fighting gets them shot!”

  Rowe stops. Looks around. Several aghast faces stare back at him. He slowly brings his hand to his throat. His neck is thrumming with veins full of aether.

  Keaton shakes his head. "I am the voice of the working class, and the working class alone. You can try and speak for the rest. But a voice that speaks too many things is a voice that's lost all power."

  "It won't be my voice." Rowe inhales. "Parliament is in chaos. The Queen lies in hiding. The rich are growing richer while the poor are growing hungry. We only need one torch, then two, then ten, then ten-thousand. The threads are breaking. If we light the spark that gets this city to march, even peacably?

  “What?” Erika smirks. "They won't hang you?"

  “They can’t hang three million.”

  “You have four Nocturni, two mortals." She chuckles. "That’s quite a long way from the number you need.”

  “Have you never seen an avalanche on the continent? Snow tends to build. If we can get the other Freeholds on our side-”

  “I called the Revolt two years ago,” Keaton replies. “The men you see are the men who we can persuade.”

  “Who you persuade and who I persuade might be different.”

  “Really? I put a gun to their heads. Which of your arguments do you think is stronger?”

  Rowe stares into his goggles. “Put me in front of the city’s largest Freeholder, and I will happily show you.”

  Harriet looks around. Red looks sturdy as stone. But the others, the Londoners… Menowin's face is wrought. A deep shade of pale.

  “Gawen." He uses his first name. “That isn’t-”

  “If we can’t convince him, what chance do we have?”

  “A much stronger chance than-”

  “If you can break bread with Ratcatcher,” Keaton interrupts. “I will consider your path.”

  Harriet stiffens. Ratcatcher. The rumours. The ravens. That black mass of a shanty on the Eastern shore. Immune to light. Immune to everything.

  Menowin looks ready to bite heads off, but Rowe appears relieved. “Thank you, Aubrey Keaton. It’s good to see that the Unbound has kept its honour.”

  “Honour?” Keaton pauses before shifting his boot. “You haven’t met him.”

  political chapters, but I hope the folks that aren't as into that still enjoyed!

  whom, though? Find out in Part III, where Harriet might meet this raven girl at long last...