Jacob Frye: The boss and the recruit

by SlushBro19

With a friend's encouragement, this story is... the beginning

'See that one, sir?'

The urbane young man at the bar turned his head to look in the direction that the informant in a green checkered jacket had indicated with a nod of his head. 'Comes here every Saturday night, like clockwork,' the clean-shaven man added. 'Sits at that same table.' His dark green eyes met those of the scar-faced tough, black leather coat open to reveal a red vest and a blue scarf poking up above it, the top buttons of the white shirt undone in a careless manner of one who cared very little for proper attire. 'She drinks like a barrel,' the short man went on with his story. 'And challenges all comers, theirs, ours, it don't matter. To outdrink her.'

The carefree visitor of the pub turned back to face his companion, interest registering on his sharp features for the first time.

'A drinking contest?' he asked with a gradual dawn of a happy smile. Twisting around he studied the curious sight at a round table near the wall, not far from the coloured window of the pub. Sitting on the soft sofa behind the round table, surrounded by men in green and red jackets - Blighters came here too did they? Must teach them a lesson - the short-statured woman in men's dress was holding forth, a shot glass in one hand, her lips pulled back in a toothy smile directed at a hulking bald Blighter, whose red face was rapidly becoming green. Clearly, he had just lost the bout as his mates were groaning and sliding and slapping coins down onto the somewhat polished surface of the wood, their drunk as a lord partner finally slipping off the chair to land with a dull thud on the barroom floor to the cheers of the closely pressing crowd of patrons, some, all of whom were also in various stages of inebriation.

'See?' the tipsy Rook gestured. 'Just like that.'

Elbows leaning on the bar behind him, the chief of the successful syndicate calling themselves the Rooks observed their principal rivals exiting the public house close by the storage silos, a working man's watering hole, unremarkable and easily missed unless you knew to look for it. The kind of drinking that took place here usually involved broken heads and spilled blood to which Jacob Frye was not a stranger. Au contraire, he sought out thrills and bloody spills, the more the merrier, the bigger the odds against him, the sweeter the victory.

'Well, then, why don't I go get acquainted?' he remarked, easily getting to his feet, tankard in hand. 'I'll try and win back some of that money you lot have lost.'

'Take care, guv,' the other muttered into his cups, his gaze moving back and forth between the unnamed woman and his boss. 'She's got tricks, sure as shit.'

'I'll find them out for you, shall I?' was the glib response of the gang boss who lived for the challenges of life. Without obstacles and foes to overcome, what was the point of living? Like, really? Enemies made your blood boil. Problems demanded solutions and ingenuity. Why waste time on maudlin reflections of what life meant or the suffering that it could bring? Forget tomorrow, live today. That was his motto and he planned to enjoy his life to the hilt.

'Who r'you?' the young woman asked, regarding him with half-closed eyes, her back pressed against the soft sofa, fingers around the shot glass, empty now. Her accent was one he'd never heard before: neither Scotch, nor Irish. Something else entirely.

'Your next opponent, miss,' he replied with a curl of his lips, lifting his top hat a little bit from the unruly shock of dark brown hair. 'I hear you've been drinking the Blighters dry.'

She smirked, raking him up and down, her brown eyes a little glazed. She must have been consuming copiously for some time. It was past midnight already. 'It's too easy, actually,' she informed him, nodding her head at the empty chair which had been occupied so recently by the vast carcass of the rival gang member. 'Sit, why don't you? I'm getting a crick in my neck just looking up at you.'

Taking the chair by the top of its back he twisted it around, straddling it, and sat the red-banded hat down onto the table. 'So, what brings you into my pub?' he asked, his forearms resting lightly on the scratched back of the chair.

'Your pub?' Her eyebrows rose up her forehead as she chuckled. 'You're the owner then?'

'A friend,' he corrected, still smiling. He'd never dream of being rude to a woman, no matter what state of intoxication she was in. Having been down that road himself a time or two, he did not allow his manners to slip when dealing with drunks, especially of the other sex.

'Whose?' She leaned forward a bit, grinning now. She had spunk, he had to give her that. She wasn't afraid of him, apparently. Not that he wanted to her to be afraid. She did not know him and he didn't know her. Yet. He had a feeling that he would though…

'Yours if you wish,' he suggested in his most suave manner, waving a server over and ordering another bottle of whatever she was having.

'You say that to all the ladies you meet?' If he didn't know better, he would say she was leering, challenging him to his face quite frankly. Where did she come from? Who was she?

'Do you challenge every man you meet?' he fired right back at her, his easy smile remaining in place. He was beginning to enjoy this back and forth, really. She wasn't backing down and something told him she wasn't as drunk as she appeared.

'Basically?' she snorted and poured the last of the dregs of whatever had been in the dark glass bottle into her glass. Swirling it around to clear it up a bit, an amber coloured liquid, she threw it back with the mastery of a professional and sat the glass down with a thud, holding his stare. 'Yes.' There was no joviality in her tone or her face now: she was grave, almost angry. Had a man offended her at some point? What was going on behind that hard stare?

'I accept your challenge, then, miss,' he said, saluting her with a full glass of his own. 'What are the stakes?'

She cackled, sizing him up, her glass held in front of her face. 'You win, you take all this money,' she offered sweetly. 'I win, I join your gang.'

'What makes you think I lead a gang?' he asked, scarred eyebrow lifted, drinking down the first shot glass of the sweet but fiery liquor. He grimaced, surprised by the sensation of the warmth and sugary flavour combining in his mouth. 'What is this?'

'Something a German friend of mine makes,' she replied, pouring two more shots for them. 'Calls it Jagermeister.' One finger lifted to point at him. 'Don't you change the subject, mister.' She glanced around at the gathering crowd of green-clad men and women. 'Your lads here have told me all about you. Singing your praises to the sky. To hear them tell it, you're the second - or is it third now? - coming of Jesus.' She sat back, smug and happy at her own witticism. She didn't lack for sass either. He liked her already. 'Those blokes in red whisper your name in dark corners.' She shrugged, ironically. 'If they dare to open their mouths at all that is.' She raised her glass to the expectant public, whose eyes were glinting merrily from their own alcohol consumption. 'Here's to the Rooks!' Happy yells all around, slapping of shoulders and nods of heads. 'And their indomitable leader Mr. Jacob Frye!' Another flash of that easy grin to the accompaniment of more vocalisations of glee and pride in their chief. 'Your health, sir.' Bottoms up went the brown Jager, betting intensifying on all sides now. The evening was getting down to serious business now that the leader of the infamous Rooks was involved personally.

In fact that night at the Goose's Wing would go down as the most bloodless in its history. The only things that flowed were booze and money: the former from bottle to cup to throat to stomach, the latter from pocket to hand to pocket - and sometimes to the barkeeper who was only too happy to keep pouring the drinks. He'd not only line his own pockets but have a damn fine story to tell his kids and their kids for generations. About how the dapper boss of the Frye syndicate lost to a diminutive but bottomless barrel of a woman whose liver surely must have been made of iron as the third bottle of Jager went down, long after Mr. Frye had succumbed to the second one to the disappointed groans of his mates, his head pillowed on his arms on the table.

'Well, ladies and gents,' she slurred, blinking sleepily. Jager did have that effect on her at times. 'Looks like we ave oursssssel a winner!' She laughed, happily, the spread of round metal on the table in front of her twinkling gleefully back at her. 'Tell you 'at…' she managed to get past a tongue that was having some difficulty forming consonants and vowels. 'E 'as a brave soul,' she said, tapping the half-comatose Frye's shoulder. 'E may be a damn good Rook!' Her voice rose a bit, she chuckled. 'But 'e can't 'old 'is Jager!'

Drunken laughs all around, nods. True enough, Mr. Frye could not hold his drink. That he had made it as far as bottle number two was due to his stubborn refusal to quit. An admirable trait in a gang boss. 'Tell you 'at,' she added repeating herself and plucking at the passed out Frye's sleeve. 'Since I'm a Rook now.' Noises of inebriated agreement all around. 'I think it only fair to share the money with my new comrades.' She blinked at the hazy faces around her. Really should lay off the Jager. Really. 'After paying the bill, 'at is.' Groans and sounds of accord: a rather confusing flow of auditory harmony on her ears. 'We do want to be honest, right?' she asked rhetorically. 'Reputation and whatnot.' More hubbub of understanding: she was right of course. Boss'd kill 'em for not paying the booze account. You couldn't just take, you had to give in return - at least to the people you did. The Blighters, well, it was only righteous to extort from them what wasn't theirs in the first place. 'Now,' she continued, both hands on the table in a cautious attempt at getting up. The Jager weighed a ton in her head just now. Her legs being the lighter part of her at the moment. 'Boys and girls, 'is time to go home.'

The skull-splitting headache that at last brought him out of the unconscious state at some point next day elicited a weary groan from him, a slow groggy lift of the head and a tired opening of the eyes. Which he wished at once he had not done: the light of day hurt, o god, did it ever! He groaned, his hand reaching for his face which felt strange and unlike his own. For a split moment he wondered what the devil had happened and who he was. Memory was hazy at best when he tried to strain it. He'd been… what? Out on the town? Carousing with the lads? Drinking! Yes, indeed, drinking… but what? What could make him feel like a waterlogged piece of flotsam in the Thames? And what was this aftertaste in his mouth? And why did his head hurt fit to split right down the middle?

'Where I come from,' came a mysterious voice without warning into his aching brain. 'The usual cure for the condition you're in is more of the same.' A female voice, a somewhat familiar accent that didn't belong in London or England for that matter. 'Cuz you look like hell.' A certain dose of satisfaction in the tone of the words. She was clearly enjoying the sight of him being in discomfort. He opened one eye to see the short-statured woman from the pub. The one who had offered him that sweetly poisonous drink and who looked the better for the wear, he thought enviously. 'Boss,' she finished with a shrug. 'Or whatever title you prefer.' Her smile had that happy smugness with a knife behind it quality to it as she held out a steaming cup of the strongest black tea he'd ever had. 'Try this,' she commanded more than suggested to her new employer. 'Works wonders in clearing the alcoholic fumes.' Sitting up step by painstaking step, he sat for a spell holding his head in his hands, massaging his still-unfamiliar features. Was it him or was it not? Given the fact that his head was spinning even now, his thoughts took their time formulating coherence and cohesion.

'Come now, Mr. Frye,' the oh so helpful young lady prodded him. 'Believe me you will feel much better once this is down in your belly.'

Lifting his head carefully he reached out to take the hot cup in his hands and sipped, taking care not to make sudden movements. Idly he noted her nodding in approval, her brown gaze regarding him with much interest.

'So, what adventures did you have planned for today?' she asked in an offhand manner. 'The new recruit needs breaking in.'

He choked, for a moment forgetting his divided skull. A new recruit? Hell… had he…? Was she…?

'Oh, incidentally,' she went on, holding up a hand to forestall his spluttering. 'Almost forgot.' She leaned back to pick up a cloth bag from a table. 'Last night's winnings.' She grimaced. 'Minus the price of the Jager and other vomit-inducing substances of the liquid variety.'

He gaped at her for a split second that became rather long, then shook himself. Right… the drinking contest… it was coming back now. The Goose's Wing down in Southwark. He had been enjoying a brew and then… He strained his fragmented misted memory. Oh yes! She had challenged him. Right… what next?

'I figured being nice to my new-found employer would help with making him feel less bitter about losing to a woman,' she remarked as if reading his thoughts. 'And my liver can start to recuperate.'

'Wait…' he put up a hand, his sluggish brain finally starting to piece things together. 'This was your plan all along? To join the Rooks?' A deviously straightforward scheme really. Why complicate things with intrigue when alcohol could do just as well?

'Basically?' She seemed to reflect on her answer for a quick second. 'Yes.' Once more that self-satisfied curl of the mouth. 'Been planning and watching and choosing for six months, actually. You do get about, Mr. Frye.'

He sniffed, pinching his face to get some feeling back and grinding the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He'd never drunk so much or so strong a liquor. Meister Jager packed one mean wallop, truly. 'Alright,' he said, grinning at her. 'You want in? Very well.' Hands hanging down from his knees he let out a warm chuckle, his eyes taking on a half-amused half-serious tinge. 'You challenged me. I challenge you.'

'I am all ears, boss,' she responded, leaning forward, her interest piqued, her palms rubbing on each other.

'Race me.'

'You call this a race?!' she shouted, almost thrown clear of the drivers seat of the two-wheeler she was occupying by the ramming of the growler carriage of Mr. Jacob 'Race me around the Strand in broad daylight' Frye. 'Are you nuts?!'

All she got in reply was a wide grin and a yelled command to his horse which strained to pull the coach, a bit battered by the physical use - or abuse depending on your viewpoint - that the all too happy crime boss was putting it to.

'You scared?' he threw over his shoulder, waving one hand cheerily at her as he sped off in a cloud of dust amidst the wreckage of broken street lamps and trampled citizens who screamed imprecations and gesticulated wildly after the departing box-like carriage which tried to avoid any obstacle, whether of solid matter or flesh.

'Like hell I am!' she hollered lashing the black horse in the traces, whose shrill whinny just barely proved to be enough warning for two men to leap out of her way with alacrity. Dim bloody Londoners! Couldn't they see there was a damn race going on!? Did they have to cross the street right here?!

Taking a rather sharp corner at full speed she almost crashed through the front windows of a flower shop, just barely dodging the early afternoon shoppers whose blanched faces flashed by in a hazy swirl of wide eyes and open mouths, gloved hands raised up in a futile gesture of self-defence. Like there was any defence to be had against a mass of horseflesh and carriage. Grunting, she righted herself and kept after the trail of debris that clearly indicated the route of the man she had been so anxious to meet. And what for? Why? Why did she want to meet him and join this ragtag band of the London underclass?

For the fun of it, really. She had been bored with her life for quite some time and wanted something more stimulating than working in shops and training in fight clubs at night. That's where she'd seen him for the first time. He'd been destroying the joints of two sturdy fellows with the ease of a master, on reflex. Her jaw had fallen off her face, literally, when she'd seen what he had done to the six men who'd entered the ring to disassemble him down to the bone. They'd had to be carried out on stretchers - and she didn't think that they would be walking again any time soon. If he could train her to fight like that!... Damn!

She had just taken yet another turn around the Trafalgar Square, in a vain attempt to catch up to the leader of the Rooks whose growler was practically flying over the cobbles, when two carriages slammed into her from both sides, coming out of the paved side streets that led into the circle around Nelson's monument.

'You!' she hissed, recognising the two brutes, one in each coach that rammed and scraped her rather weak-looking two wheeler causing it to veer side to side and the black horse to neigh in a high-pitched sound of unhappiness. 'What the hell?'

'I want my money!' screamed one, one beefy hand reaching out for her. 'You bitch!'

Belting her horse to go faster, she laughed. 'Like hell!' Attached together all three carriages careened around the square, the sidewalks and main road now clear of anything human or equine besides them - although…. Was that a police wagon in the distance coming towards them? Had someone actually had the brains to get the coppers' attention? It wasn't Mr. Topping, for sure. He rather liked his operations to remain as clandestine as possible, out of sight and out of mind of the thugs of the British law which forbade street racing, a rule that was joyfully ignored by the gangs and the youths of the city who competed against each other in deep of night or in light of day just to thumb their noses at the red-faced and blue-uniformed Bobbies, whose truncheons were not frightening - despite their reputation for inflicting deep damage on the body of the one unfortunate enough to end up within its reach. She had seen a man almost clobbered to death one day - and all he'd done was try to break up a fight.

She, for one, didn't fancy a meeting with those sticks of hard wood that could break bones with the same facility as Jacob's fists. But it was proving to be difficult to get away from the two Blighter coaches that hemmed her in and were pushing her away from the race path and into a small yard surrounded by conjoined flats. The two-wheeled hansom hit one of the arched entrance's sides and then bounced off the other, the horse screaming its less than amiable disposition as the denizens of the yard scattered out of its way with shrieks of terror. She tried desperately to keep the flimsy carriage from turning over - however, that proved to be impossible as the larger box coach 'kicked' the left wheel of the already-off balance cart and sent it flying, bent rims and horse screeching in harmony. Her body hurtled through the hot summer air and then smacked into a brick fence, breath knocked out of her. Disoriented she shook her head, attempting to come to her feet - only to be helped by a rough hand grabbing the back of her jacket and tugging her upwards.

'The money,' growled the bearded occupant of the other Blighter coach, approaching her with a drawn knife. It didn't look too sharp but that point would wreak havoc on the insides anyway. 'You's stole it from us.'

'Really?' she managed to gasp, half-laughing while dangling from the vise-like grip of the other brute. 'The way I see it, I won it. You and your mates can't drink worth shit!' She was shaken like a rag and then punched in the side of the head, dizziness sweeping across her mind. Damn, that had been one hard mother of a fall!

'You's gave it to that damn boy, didn't ya?' he demanded, grabbing the lapels of her dusty coat and shoving his face right up into hers. His breath smelled worse than the Thames and that was saying something.

'Och,' she waved one hand in front of her face. 'Jesus…. You ever think about cleaning that cesspool of a mouth you got, chum?' That came out on reflex - the reflex for which she suffered. She just never could resist having the last word, especially with those who thought they could push her around, or had the delusion that they had authority over her. Take these two idiots for instance. Bullies. Simply bullies. They'd been having their way with London for some time now if the newspapers and the evidence of her own eyes could be trusted - and Mr. Frye was in the process of bullying them back to whatever little hovel they'd come from. Fighting fire with fire. Hm… sometimes it worked… and sometimes…. Well….

'You said what?' The volume of the bearded thug's voice rose into the upper octaves as did the dulled knife in his hand. 'You gonna pay for 'at!'

'You know,' came a smoothly toned burr from behind him. 'I never did like bullies.'

Both Blighters blanched, a bit, the one with the serrated knife twisting around with a snarl, and the fist of the other becoming tighter around the young bitch's neck.

'Ah, just the boy I's wanted to see!' crowed the knife-wielding ruffian, his pathetic attempt at bravado dying off in the face of the newcomer's sneer which conveyed how unimpressed he was by the puerile threats of these two mice in wolves' clothing.

'You should've sent me an invitation, then,' was the purred suggestion from the leader of the rival Rooks whose posture indicated that a bad case of violence would break out shortly unless the choking woman was released at once. 'I do so love these impromptu little get-togethers.' His smile was devoid of anything humorous. The young woman felt a shiver of excitement and dread down her spine: she'd seen this before, in the fight club down in Lambeth. Two months ago, was it? There'd been this horde of loud mouthed boxers who had believed themselves to be top dogs - and in short order had been shoved under ground, quite literally and in most spectacular fashion by this slim but strong young man whose hard flat stare had now paralysed the two gang bangers who'd had the temerity to attack one of his own.

'Oh you two are in deep shit now,' she muttered, gleeful despite it probably being a good idea to not draw attention to herself anymore. Especially seeing as how with an angry growl the brute shoved a knife of his own into her side before tossing her aside like so much ragdoll.

The leader of the Rooks, not even batting an eye in her direction, measured the two roughnecks, sizing them up like beef for dinner. They licked their lips, eyes hungry like the wolves that they were and advanced, knives held out in front of them defensively - as if they were afraid of this sodden bastard who had strolled into their town and in spite of their best efforts to stop him was taking over their boroughs. Perhaps here today was the best chance they'd get to end his miserable arse for good.

What they got was their arses handed to them in cracking of snapped joints and splintered bones, not to forget fractured jaws and snapped fingers. This one took no prisoners, expected no quarter and gave none in return. To face him, to stand athwart his path, was to confront mutilation and death. He didn't simply beat one up: he obliterated his enemies, one joint at a time, disarticulating the human body to the point of no recovery. Because no recuperation was possible after the chief of the Rooks had had his way with one. Annihilation was total and complete.

Laying on her side she observed the liquidation of the two Blighters who certainly came to rue the minute and the hour they'd made the foolish decision to interrupt the race between the gang boss and his new recruit. 'Hah…' she laughed wearily, one hand covered in blood as it pressed uselessly over the wound. Nothing would stop the blood flowing except a wad of cloth which she didn't have on her at the moment. 'Six months….' she sighed, her eyes fluttering for a moment. It was cold - why was it cold on a blazing hot July day? 'And the day… after I meet you… I get holes punched in me.' She shook her head.

'A simple thank you would suffice,' remarked the man with the most pleasant burr she'd ever heard.

'I don't remember asking you… to… to rescue me,' she tried to bite, her body not obeying her too well. Things were swimming in her vision: how many fences were there? Two? Three? Was the sun going down? It'd not been three past noon yet…

'Ingrate,' muttered the gang boss, shaking his head at such lack of appreciation. 'I am risking my life and what do I get?' Lifting her hand from the hole in her side, he grunted. 'You're lucky I know just the doctor for this.'

'Do.. you?' Her whisper was breathless. 'How nice...'

He clucked his tongue in irritation at the thanklessness of the woman who had drunk him under the table the night before and picked her up, taking care not to aggravate the injury more than necessary. The wound was deep, the bleeding not stopping. She needed medical attention and quickly.

'Into the back seat with you,' he murmured, laying her out on the carriage floor and shutting the door. 'This ride may be a bit bumpy.'

'You're drooling,' he remarked with a sideways glance at the still nameless young woman at his side.

'Look at that,' she invited him, jerking her head at the window display. 'Ain't that just about the nicest bottle of Jager you've seen?'

He rolled his eyes, snorting. Really? They were here looking at spirits?

'I thought we weren't going to cause any more pain to your tender liver,' he reminded her, sarcastically lifting his eyebrows.

'True,' she agreed, her eyes narrowing. 'But we're also trailing those two blokes with the sack, right? The ones that just entered that alleyway that oh so conveniently leads to the end of the pier where a body may be disposed of?'

'Ah, so you were paying attention,' he grumbled, casually turning around to walk across the shit-strewn two lane road, watching out for cargo carts and careless drivers, of which there were many in this part of town. For some reason, the docks appeared to attract the less than scrupulous conductors of the horse-drawn transport. He was still trying to figure that one out.

'Of course,' she sniffed, skipping ahead to get away from the stinky cobbles. 'That's what you pay me for, isn't it?'

Tight-lipped he ignored that remark and headed down the foul-smelling alley. There were fish bones in heaps, old rotten sacks that contained anything from dead rats to spoiled wheat to human decomposition. The sickening stench was so thick that, if you truly wanted to, you could touch it. Better not, probably. You never knew what diseases lurked in this heap of London refuse. Better not to ask either. The half-drunk denizens of the dockside regions of the heart of the sodden Empire were more than happy to tell you the entire history of a particular bit of garbage in long and convoluted detail. Mum's the word: that advice she had gotten early on in her stay here and used it after once making the mistake of talking to one of the semi-comatose dwellers down by a pier the name of which she could not remember. He'd talked for so long that her eyelids had begun to droop and the sun was coming up by the time he had finished his sordid tale of a lump in the corner of a huge furnace that suspiciously had the consistency of human proportions.

'What's the plan, boss?' she asked as they trailed the duo with the long heavy sack that surely contained some body or other. 'The usual smash and grab?'

He chewed his lip, assessing. The pier they were approaching was practically deserted even now in the middle of a busy weekday. And this surprising fact was easily explained. This dock was not used for any sort of run of the mill legal activity. On the contrary, this was one of the smugglers' docks, specifically the Muttoner contraband dock. The sheep-loving gang conducted their shady deals here buying and selling… sheep, dogs and roosters for the not so legal races, stolen exotic pets and other merchandise of a live nature. The two chums ahead of them were two representatives of the Baas who had apparently recently committed a murder and were hoping to dispose of the physical evidence in the time honoured fashion of chucking the poor sod into the floating graveyard of the Thames.

'Oh I thought you could tackle this one,' he said sweetly with an inviting gesture. 'A test of sorts if you will.' Leaning his back against the nearby wall of what was a warehouse with a most carefree air he crossed his arms. 'If you really want to be part of the gang, then you need to prove your worth.'

'I took a knife for you, mister,' she reminded him indignantly. 'And I have been training my ass off for a month.' Her finger pointed at him in recrimination. 'And you…? Do this to me?' She shook her head, scoffing at his self-satisfied smirk. 'Me and Mr. Jager will pay you another visit then… Just you wait...'she warned him with a jab of that same finger.

'Oh I so look forward to that,' he assured her, chuckling under his breath.

'At least give me a smoke bomb,' she demanded more than asked, making a snapping gesture with her hand.

'Oh no no no,' he refused suavely, shaking his head and finger. 'No focused aid for rookies.'

'Hahaha, very funny,' was the offended and yet scathing retort of the young recruit as she turned away, adjusting the dark leather jacket collar. 'I am going to lodge a complaint with Meister Jager,' she warned over her shoulder.

'I am sure he will listen most attentively,' cane the repartee in the warm burr that never failed to be pleasant even as it shredded the opponent.

Muttering under her breath what he was certain were dark imprecations mixed in among the swear words of which she seemed to have quite a repertoire, she walked down the stinking bit of alley and out onto the pier where the two Muttoner representatives were just about to toss the sack into the contaminated flowing muck that was the liquid artery of the Empire, choked and almost at the point of a heart attack.

'Good day, gentlemen,' she greeted the two would be drowners of dead bodies in her most 'I am a stupid girl' voice. 'You wouldn't happen to know where I can catch the steamer for Oxford, would you?' She looked around as if confused, a lost little lamb walking into a wolf's den.

Startled, the two dirty and smelly thugs dropped their burden with a dull thud and turned around, eyes widening for a moment until they noticed that she was alone. A short young woman in man's dress, rather clean looking too, alone in the wrong part of town. They smiled, showing gaps in their teeth and slowly drew their knives hiding them behind their backs.

'Of course, miss,' said one, small eyes glittering dangerously. 'If you would just come this way…' He motioned with his hand, believing his smile to be reassuring to this piece of soft cake.

She smiled pleasantly, playing the stupid git for all she was worth, giggling and simpering. They were so dumb as to fall for that old trick, were they? Oh well, more power to her then.

The two murderers, simple but dangerous men nonetheless, approached her, one on either side, with one of them taking her elbow to help her along, easy prey for them and yet another body to dispose of - after having some fun, that is. They made their way in between two dilapidated old and half ruined warehouses that had sat unused for a decade at least. And that is where they had their nefarious plans turned upside down. As soon as the hand on the elbow had tightened and the knife had come out, even before it struck, the fragrant ruffian received a stomp to his booted foot followed up by a knee to the nose when he'd bent down instinctively and was contemptuously shoved aside into the wall, his companion shouting something incoherent and coming up behind her, only to have her dodge him and let his momentum carry him forward while she added a stab into his back with her own knife, with a crunchy twist for the cherry on top of this Muttoner cake.

'Sorry, gents,' she told the one unconscious and the other dead man. 'This is a robbery.' Wiping the bloody blade on the not so clean shirt of the unconscious man, she hid it in the sheath under her jacket. 'What did you have in that sack, eh?'

'Son of a….'

'My god…'

They looked up at each other, equally dismayed by what they had found in the sack which had been the possession of the recently departed Muttoners. Two children. Two newsboys to be precise. Dead. Their necks broken, heads twisted at an unnatural angle. Thin, clothed in the homespun garb of the poorest of the poor. Such children died by the hundreds every week in London, which had more poor than any other place. More destitute and unwanted children than any other city of the Empire. Their deaths went unremarked and uncommented. Their bodies unburied or thrown into the Thames to float down to the sea to be eaten by its hungry inhabitants.

'Newsboys,' she said at last, sitting back on her haunches. 'Who would kill newsboys?' Her palms rubbed up and down her thighs. 'This is sick, you know?' She felt her gorge rising. 'Another level of sick. Depraved. Immoral. Degenerate. Vile.'

'I get the idea, thank you,' he butted in, rubbing his cheek. He was not any less disgusted by what he saw in the sack. Children. Killing children. In his book that was worse than poisoning a well. Deliberately killing children who'd done nothing wrong. At least insofar as he knew, no newsboy ever had done a crime: nothing serious, for which an adult would hang, at any rate. This… This was perverse, he agreed. So, why do it? Who would do it? The two sheep loving marauders? Most likely. Why? On their boss's orders. So why would their boss be interested in despatching two street kids to the other side?

'Look at this, guv,' she broke into his thoughts, pointing to a smudge on the wrist of one of the boys. 'Is that a tattoo?'

He bent closer and grunted. It was indeed a tattoo, a small sparrow to be exact. A very detailed and nice rendition too. Whoever had done this was really good at what they did. The bird had its wings spread, head cocked as if listening, one beady eye staring up at the viewer from the cold clammy skin of the child who'd had it marked on his skin - as had his partner. Both of them, little sparrows. Both of them, dead.

'Sparrows…' he muttered, looking off into the distance, across the stinky Thames. 'The Sparrows…'

'Isn't it the newsboy group?' she suggested, raking her brains. She too had seen the sparrow symbol on a few kids she'd talked to over the six months she'd been trailing the leader of the Rooks who never sat still. 'Their own little organization?'

'So it is,' he said slowly, coming back to the present. 'You know of them, do you?'

'They helped me find you, boss,' she informed him with that same snide smugness that she didn't bother to hide from him when she had the upper hand or some piece of knowledge that only she possessed. And he still was none the wiser as to her name or motives. He only knew that Meister Jager was one of her dear friends and that now he'd been shelved. For a while. He had a feeling that he'd make a reappearance at some point.

'And just who are you, miss?' he asked her, off the cuff, aware that she'd not answer. As usual. Her identity would remain a secret until she chose to reveal it.

'Your raw recruit, boss,' came the expected snarky remark. 'The Rookie, I believe, is the proper term around here.' She put the dead boys' hands back into the ripped sack and folded the cloth over them with astonishing gentleness. She had not struck him as overly sentimental. 'Shall we take these lost chicks back to the Sparrows?''Yes, we shall,' he said heavily, rising and sighing, hands on knees like an old man. 'I'll get a carriage.'

'So much for a clean getaway,' she remarked ironically matter of fact, her eyes moving around the circle of London's finest men in blue. 'Why did you have to take that cart out front?' Seriously, what had he been thinking, filching an empty cargo wagon from in front of a bakery? In broad daylight, no less?

'It was the only one I could find,' he snapped, his hands held out, away from his body, with no apparent menace in intent. 'Officers,' he addressed the tense circle of the law's frontline agents. 'This doesn't have to get nasty.' He had hisost disarming and easy smile on, which nonetheless carried the promise of worse consequences if his subtle suggestion was not followed through.

'Step away from the cart, mister,' commanded the copper put front, his truncheon still at his waist, his vast moustache poking out of the sides of his egg-shaped casket. 'And there needs not be any nasty business.'

Rolling her eyes skyward, the young woman, hereto unremarked with full awareness by the copper's, moved to the cart and got up through the back.

'Miss!' one of the constables said warningly. 'Get down!'

Ignoring him completely, she yanked aside the burlap piece of cloth. 'Here, officer,' she called him over. 'Take a look at this.' All of the males making up the late afternoon tableau on the bridge across the Thames, police carts surrounding the trapped duo, gaped at her in absolute astonishment. Her eyes moved from one to the other, she let out an exasperated sigh. 'Yes, officers, I exist. I am here.' She waved her hand. 'Now stop being dumb and come on over. I'll tell you what's what.'

Another stunned moment of silence, during which the boss of the Rooks half-turned to give her a long look and mouth a question along the lines of 'are you insane?' All he got in response was a total lack of acknowledgement. What was she trying to do exactly? Save their skins?

'My my,' she scolded them like little boys. 'Ten big men.' Her merciless and merry eyes raked them all as she shook her head. 'All afraid of a slip of a girl. Shame on you.'

The younger ones blushed at such a reprimand coming from the said 'slip of a girl', who stood on the cart hands on her hips and threw that challenge into their faces. Two of them cleared their throats, nervously, glancing at their superior who nodded crisply, upset with himself and them for such cowardice.

'Settle in, gents,' she invited the two young coppers companionably enough to sit on the built in benches of the cargo cart. 'It's a long story.'

In the next few minutes the chief of the gang and the leader of the police beat force were witnesses to a most masterful performance of caustic honesty that drove its point home in the most direct and acid fashion imaginable. She regaled the two young coppers and the listening elder ones with the events which had led up to the two boys' bodies ending up in the sack on the cart. For the most part her tale was true as to details - except the part about how they'd come upon the two Muttoners in the first place. That it had not been quite a coincidence was not something the pugnacious Bobbies needed to know. Sleight of hand was sleight of hand after all and should remain beyond the purview of such naive and innocent young men who only sought to do good in the world.

'Where did you find this one?' muttered the superior officer on scene, the one with the broad bar of a moustache to his counterpart in the criminal world.

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you,' was the thoughtfully slow reply of the other, whose thoughts were bouncing off the inside of his skull. What had just happened? Had she just gotten them out of this fix without spilling blood? What the devil was she?

'How did you do that?' he asked her once the coppers had made an agreement with her that after showing the bodies to the top honcho of the newsboys' organization they would take them to the morgue, one policeman coming with as a precaution: a criminal was a criminal and had to be watched.

'Do what?' she asked innocently, flicking the reins and not looking at him.

'That,' he insisted, jerking his thumb back at the bridge where the police carts were dispersing and the traffic which had been held up was flowing again. 'What happened there?'

'I told them a story,' she said, shrugging. 'Everyone likes a good story. With a good ending.' A flash of that toothy smile in his direction. 'You looked interested too.'

He shook his head, looking ahead and massaging his face. It'd been a long day. It had started with him deciding to demonstrate to her that becoming part of a gang, HIS gang, wasn't quite as easy as drinking its head half to death. There was real work to be done and not everyone was up for it. Some did not have the fortitude to do what needed to be done. Apparently that wasn't a problem for her. She had her own tricks, Jager notwithstanding.

'You had Goose's Wing in stitches the other night,' he recalled. 'That story about the French padre and the housewife.'

'Oh,' she waved her hand dismissively. 'That's an old one. Everyone knows it.'

'The folks at the pub didn't,' he reminded her, keeping his voice down. No point in sharing too much with the copper in the back.

'True,' she agreed amiably. 'Oh well, I'll just have to come up with some other ones.'

'You make them up?' He was surprised. The stories hung well together, it was hard to tell if they were lies or truth.

'Where I come from, everyone is a storyteller of some sort,' she revealed. 'Helps to pass the long winter months.'

'Ah,' he nodded. Here was a lifeline: she'd not said much at all about her origins and quite frankly he was curious, more curious by the day. 'So you're from up north.'

'You could say that,' she said in a tone of finality which told him that she was aware of his fishing for information. 'Curiosity did kill the cat, I believe,' she remarked, in a nonchalant manner which nonetheless was filled with caution.

'Eventually…'

'Let me ask you something, boss,' she said turning to face him. 'Do you know everything about every one of your gang?'

He would have replied but… her question did have merit. He didn't know everything about all of his Rooks. He wasn't the one to pry unless necessary. Usually his lads and lasses volunteered the information, recognizing that a certain element of trust lay in not covering up the truth about themselves. If they were all set on the goal of liberating London from Blighter tyranny, then it behooved them to know one another - at least somewhat. Not all the secrets. Not all of the sordid or honest past. With her, however,... he knew NOTHING. She'd clam up as soon as he'd come close to the subject. What had happened to her? Why was she here in London with her strange accent and acerbic way of addressing every thing and every one?

'Exactly, Mr. Frye,' she noted, having read his thoughts in his face. 'Exactly.'

'Anybody got a map of London around here?' she asked looking around at the children's faces, some sooty, some dirty, some a bit better fed than others - or was that just the difference in appetite?

In answer to her question a shaking of the heads all around. Of course they'd not have a map. Why would they? They didn't need it. They knew these streets like the backs of their hands. For her that wasn't quite the case yet.

'Anybody know where I can find a map?' she asked and this time received an affirmative nod from several boys and a girl.

'A mapmaker down Park Lane,' said one boy, the knees of his pants ripped and patched recently. A neat job too. He had a wild shock of bright red hair and blue eyes that were still full of childhood even if combined with the hardness of an adult. What Empire was this that treated kids like shit? Really?

'Think you can get one for me?' she asked, holding up ten hillings, a lot of money for a favour like this but she did want these kids on her side - albeit she wasn't a lovey-dovey when it came to the smaller dwellers of London. She had never felt comfortable around kids. Noisy. Always wanting something... 'I need a specific kind of map, with street names, borough boundaries, things like that.'

He grinned, two teeth missing. 'Sure, miss, I know the one you want,' he said, holding his hand out.

She closed her hand over the money. 'You go in, all quiet, pick a map, and leave.' The look he gave her was one of 'I know how to steal'. She handed him five coins. 'Half now, half on delivery,' she told him firmly. With another grin of mischief he vanished, the sound of soft boots almost unheard. Sitting back in her chair she glanced at the so far silent leader of the Rooks.

'Did I do good, boss?' Her smile, while genuine, still contained that scornful quality that truly could be irritating. It was beginning to become tiresome. At times. Did she never take anything seriously?

'You did good, Rookie,' he had to admit, reluctantly. The idea with the map was actually not a bad one. So far they'd not been able to establish a pattern to the Sparrow murders and that bothered them all. Why kill newsboys? That made no sense at all. They sold papers all over town, their high children's voices calling out the main stories of the day to attract potential buyers. They got paid by the number of papers sold, not by the hour. The more they sold, the more they got. Simple. Considering that the article writers and newspaper editors earned much more sitting comfortably in their offices. But that was a worry for another time. 'So while we wait for the map, what's the plan?' he inquired, hands folded on his stomach, one eyebrow lifted.

'Oh I don't know,' she replied, smiling still. Reaching inside her jacket she took out a deck of cards. 'Shall we play whist?' Her smirk widened as that got a reaction out of him: losing at cards had never been easy for him. He lacked patience for any kind of long game that required extensive intellectual effort. He liked games but only insofar as they allowed him to show off how good he was at coming up with strategies in the heat of the moment. Spending a long time thinking was a waste as far as he was concerned. There was so much more to life than just sitting around overthinking things and moping.

'Or,' she chuckled, setting the cards aside and shrugging off the jacket so that she could roll up her sleeve. 'We can always arm-wrestle, boss.' Giggles from the kids who drew up closer at this: usually it was men that arm-wrestled each other, so this was going to be interesting - a lady versus a man who just happened to be her employer. 'Three rounds, a shilling each.'

'You're on,' he said happily, his forearm bared and ready. 'Get ready to pay up.' He pointed a scolding finger at her. 'And no tricks. No Meister Jager to help you this time.'

'Oh, I don't need him for this,' she dismissed his concern airily. 'I'll have you all to myself.' Her gaze had turned predatorial, her tongue licking her lips. 'Mr. Jacob Frye.'

He grinned right back at her and placed his elbow on the table, hand out. He could give as good as he got: his own eyes glittered with the amusement of a master wrestler who fully intended to destroy his competition. 'Let's begin, shall we?'

The next quarter of an hour showed him that winning at arm-wrestling a woman was not as easy as he'd thought. He'd done his fair share of the forearm competition over the years, down in seedy bars and in backstreet rooms, over cards, cigarettes and booze. It was not something new. What was unexpected is that this short-statured but stocky lady gave him a run for his money. She held her own making him work for each inch, each victory. Apparently that was her strategy from the start. She was aware that beating him would not be quite possible. His forearm was longer for one thing and him being a male gave him another advantage in natural reserves of strength. She'd had to train and work hard to grow her own toughness of body and still it wasn't ever as much as a man would have. Ah, the limitations of being female… lovely… sometimes she truly hated being of the 'weaker' sex. Which only made her train harder - the results of which were quite evident now in the strain on her boss's face. He'd anticipated an easy bout, easy money, and she'd given him more than he could chew.

'Damn, woman!' he hissed in admiration, having finally slammed her hand to the table and massaging both of his forearms one after the other. 'Where do you get that strength from?'

'Wouldn't you like to know?' she fired back at him, as always not giving him an inch as to who or what she was. Well, he'd been getting glimpses of it over the last two months, hadn't he? Clearly she had a chip on her shoulder, the size of a log, especially where men were concerned. What was her beef exactly? Why did she throw the gauntlet down for some but not others, with him coming in for special treatment? Just what had occurred in that mysterious past of which she'd not said a word?

'Here,' she slid the six shillings across the table. 'All yours.'

He made no move to take the coins, studying her face for any hint of… he had no idea what he was looking for if he were quite honest with himself. No bitterness. No acrimony. No emotion at all. She'd lost and paid up, all fair and square. And yet…

He picked up three of the shillings and pushed the others back. 'Respect where it's due,' he said softly, holding her eye, and watched a sincere smile dawn on her face for the first time ever, no bite behind it, no irony in the twist of the lips.

'Why, thank you,' she murmured, taking back the three shillings. 'You're not half as ill bred as you'd like us all to believe, are you, Mr. Frye?' Her eyes had taken on that keen observer's tinge again: it seemed she was always measuring him, assessing him, testing him. For what? Why was she so… contradictory, defying every thing and every one including him, who was supposedly her boss?

'We all wear masks, don't we?' he remarked cordially, leaning one elbow on the back of the chair.

'Huh,' she grunted, sitting back also. 'Don't we just.' It wasn't a question but an observation made in that faintly bitter tone that was her habitual one for discussion of anything deep or approaching her secrets.

It was at this awkward moment that the door opened and the red-headed boy appeared, a little breathless but with a long package tucked under his arm.

'Here, miss,' he said, putting the container with the map down onto the table and holding out his hand. 'As we agreed.'

She laughed, taking out the five shillings still to be settled between them. 'First show me what's in the tube,' she instructed. Once the map was shown to be genuine, she handed over the money. 'Alright, something to hold down the corners, ladies and gentlemen,' she addressed the room at large. 'Anyone got marbles? Preferably different colours?'

'Yeah, miss.' That was the girl who'd not spoken earlier but had indicated that she knew a mapmaker. 'Here,' she said depositing a rather heavy homespun bag onto the table.

'Thank you.' Opening the bag she spilled out the variously coloured bits of stone, mostly of ovoid shape with a few truly rounded ones. 'Alright,' she began, once four kids were holding down the corners of the map that stubbornly wanted to roll up into its original cylindrical form. 'Let's assume the red ones are for the ones who died.' Sad nods all around. 'Mr. Frye, our notes if you please,' she directed her employer in a tone that did not sound at all deferential. With an amused curl of his lips, he shook his head and spread out the papers which had been in a little leather pouch attached to her belt. He began calling out the names of places and streets where they'd been finding the dead Sparrows or where they'd been told by the other Sparrows that their comrades had met their end. And there had been many, more than usual in the past three weeks. It seemed there was a concerted campaign by the Muttoners to get rid of the Sparrow newsboys and girls. For reasons that were still unknown. Perhaps the mapping would tell them something.

'The white ones can be the usual places where the Sparrows sell papers,' she noted and this time enlisted the aid of the kids themselves to tell her where the usual spots were. Which turned out to be quite an extensive network. These kids were all over the place, from the central boroughs to the further ones. Newspapers circulated widely and the children's feet could carry them even further. As was common, the children were recruited locally, from within the boroughs - becoming part of the Sparrow organization of eyes and ears.

'What about…' She was examining the map intently, her eyes moving between the different marbles. Leaning her hands on the table, she stared off, apparently through the far wall.

'The newspapers,' her boss supplied, guessing her line of thinking. 'What newspapers were the murdered Sparrows selling?'

One finger shaking at him in affirmative, she nodded briskly, returning to the present. 'Exactly.' She looked around at the children's faces. 'Think you can get us a list of all the papers you lot sell?'

Nods and assenting mutters.

'But not all at once,' the same girl said, taking the lead. 'We would need time.'

'A couple of days perhaps?' the chief of the Rooks suggested. 'Time is pressing.'

'Deal,' the girl said, nodding crisply and holding out her hand which was shaken with firmness by the young woman and the chief Rook. 'A shilling for each name.'

'Ha,' both adults laughed, delighted to find the leader of the Sparrows at last. She'd effaced herself rather well until now. Apparently she negotiated and commanded the Sparrows and had wanted to size up the adults and their intentions before committing. 'You drive a hard bargain, Miss…?'

'Amy,' was the prompt reply. 'Amy Sparrow.'

'Makes sense,' the Rookie nodded, with a quick glance at her boss. 'A shilling a name eh?' She bit her lip. 'A hard bargain, you drive, little girl.'

Arms folded, Amy regarded them both with keen attention. 'Business is business, miss,' she remarked stoically.

'Fine, a shilling a name it is,' was the sighed agreement from the now deferring woman. 'Isn't it, boss?'

'Oh, now you remember,' he grumbled, pleased by this renewal of their usual banter. It was easy to go back and forth with her. He'd never had too many friends despite being very good at charming his way into someone's affections and trust. Friendship… that had eluded him, true friendship that is. Superficially he'd met many a man or woman who were sort of like friends but not really. A knife in the back was common. For some reason he didn't think she'd shiv him when his back was turned. She didn't strike him as that kind of woman.

'It is coming out of your pocket, guv,' she told him, all innocence. 'I'm only a lowly Rookie, remember?'

He snorted and held out his hand. 'A shilling a name it is.' He paused. 'Like she said.'

'You know,' she said over her shoulder into the darkness of the London street, slowing her pace down and finally stopping. 'If you're going to sneak up on someone, at least wash the stink of the Thames off you first.' She half turned. 'And why are you sneaking around anyway?'

Exhaling noisily, now that he had been discovered, Jacob Frye emerged from the shadows, running a hand through his hair and adjusting his hat as if nothing had happened.

'That obvious, huh?' he remarked, nonchalant as usual.

'To my overly sensitive nose, yes,' she spread out her hands. 'How do you Brits live in this eternal stench?' She waved one hand in front of her face. 'It's disgusting.'

'We're used to it,' he replied with a shrug. 'I guess up north it's better.'

'Fresh winter air, white snow,' she said half-dreamily. 'You wouldn't understand. Hidebound as you are by what you Brits call 'civilization'.' She made it sound like a curse.

'You're not too impressed with London, are you?' he noted falling into step beside her.

'Should I be?' she asked with scathing irony. 'Look at this place,' she jerked her head at the dark alley, assuming he could see anything. Which he could, what with his unusual talent. 'Dirt. Shit. Decay. Effervescence.' Each word enunciated to make it clear what she thought of this largest city of the world's greatest Empire. 'Can you tell me that I should be impressed by all that? Like, seriously?'

He'd never thought much about the physical surroundings of the places he'd spent his time in. He'd kind of taken the dirt and muck for granted. Most British citizens did. The home was the home: abode of cleanliness and propriety. The street was the street: abode of degenerate contamination and disease, in worst cases, death. Such was the order of the world: he'd understood early that something had to be done and the Assassins were doing something about the freedom of the people who could influence such things as sanitation in the street. However, they couldn't do everything. Hence the need for allies and associates and friends.

'I see your point,' he admitted at last. 'Civilization isn't pretty. The Industrial Revolution only makes it more apparent.'

'Ah, the glorious Revolution,' she drawled, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. 'The time of innovation, of giant leaps forward for mankind.' A slight emphasis on the 'man' signalled her feelings on that score. 'For some, at any rate,' she amended the thought a bit. 'Definitely not for the blokes working in factories or the women slaving away making matches by candlelight or the kids selling papers and paying for that with their lives.' That familiar tinge of acrimony in her tone again.

'The coppers found five more today,' he told her, turning a corner to get away from the fragrant aroma of the Thames. The effluvium was bad at the best of times and in a scorchingly hot summer it became even worse. No wonder the rich packed up and decamped to the country: the miasma alone was enough to cause a headache and be an assault on the olfactory senses and sensibilities of the 'better' off.

'Oh for the love of…' She shook her head. 'And what of that list?'

'Amy said it'd be ready tomorrow morning,' he assured her.

'Which gives us tonight to begin the civilizing process,' she decided, tugging his elbow. 'Come, want to show you something.'

'The civilizing process?' he asked, confused. What the bloody hell was she talking about now?

'You Brits need to be shown what real civilization looks like,' she told him in no uncertain terms. 'Let's start with you and see where it leads.'

'Серега! Ты как? Живой, хлыст?'

The thin and fat-less middle-aged man turned around at the sound of that familiar voice and grinned, his eyes lighting up when he saw who it was invading his premises so late at night.

'Это ты, дорогая?' He spread his arms out in welcome. 'Какими судьбами?'

She hugged him, grinning in pleasure. Clearly they had known each other well for a long time. Jacob watched in amusement, listening to a language he didn't understand a word of but which would explain her bizarre accent.

'Это кто?' the man with the moustache asked, nodding in his direction, once the friendly greetings of kissing on the cheeks were done with. That wasn't something the young rogue had seen before. In his book kissing was for the married couples or those romantically involved. This was… different. And intriguing.

'А, это мой друг,' she said, holding out a hand to gesture at the Rooks' boss. 'Позволь, Джекоб Фрай, собственной персоной.'

'Очень приятно,' smiled thinly the dangerous looking man, holding out his veined but hale hand.

Jacob grinned and took it. He liked him already. There was a no-nonsense air to the man's manner. One that made him feel at ease and appeared to be sincere, no back stabbing intended.

'Pleasure is mine, sir,' he replied, delighted by the firm grip of the other.

'So what brings you two here to the bath house?' he inquired politely, eyeing them both.

'Цивилизация, Серёжа,' she replied, that snide smirk in place again. Jacob tensed. What devitry was she concocting now? 'Мы пришли цивилизацию наводить на мистера Фрайя.'

'Ах цивилизацию?' The older man chuckled in delight, scratching one cheek and assessing the head of the Rooks. 'Он готов к этому?'

'Мы его просветим,' she assured her friend, her smug expression turning to Jacob, whose eyes had narrowed down in dawning suspicion of her ulterior motives.

'You're giving me a bath?' he asked a little warily. It couldn't be that easy… right?

'Civilization, Jacob,' she corrected him. 'We're here to civilize you.' She opened her arms out. 'Welcome to the Russian bath house.'

'Oh my, this is criminal,' hummed the no longer bizarrely accented voice, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. Twisting around, hating himself for his flaming ears and face, he found the towel-draped Russian woman regarding him like a piece of choice meat at market.

'You!' he choked, still half dressed thankfully but...

'How long you going to be?' she asked him, apparently ignoring his discomfort. He rather thought she was enjoying it. 'The hot room is ready.'

'The hot room?' he asked, confused.

'That's the best translation I could come up with on short notice,' she shrugged. 'You can call it a steam room if you want.'

'Steam?...' Now he could start to regain his balance a bit as she didn't seem to want to take it any further: her eyes were eloquent enough. 'You steam in a bath?'

She motioned impatiently. 'Come on, you'll see.' Throwing casually over her shoulder as she turned to go, 'Don't forget to put the towel on. We are in Her dear Majesty's London after all,' she finished caustically, shaking her head.

The moment he stepped into the steam room he understood exactly what she'd meant by hot room. The heat was stifling. For a moment he couldn't breathe. Heat was all enveloping and got into his mouth and lungs.

'Damn!' he swore, taking shallow breaths, sweat breaking out all over him.

'Shut the door, would you?' she ordered more than requested in a peremptory tone from the other side, from her seat on the wooden bench drenched in cold water which only added to the amount of steam as it evaporated. 'You're letting the steam out.'

Reluctantly he did as told. Honestly, closing the door was the last thing he wanted to do. This was INSANELY hot!

'In some parts of the world this is called a sweat lodge,' she informed him conversationally, leaning back against the wooden wall behind her, eyes half closed in happy bliss. 'To get all the dirt and muck out of the skin.' A short laugh. 'The civilized way.'

'You call this civilized?' he finally found his voice in the cloying intense steamy air, the temperature of which surely would melt any metal. Hence the wooden nature of this torture by steam chamber.

'More so than what you Brits call hygiene,' she retorted with a roll of her eyes. 'Sit,' she invited, cracking one eye open. 'Shed the British repressive tendencies and join the civilized Russians.'

He sniffed, smiling now that the shock was wearing off a bit, and walked over, barefoot to sit not too close and not too far from her, to the amused shaking of her head. 'See? I was right. You Brits are repressed to the point of choking on it.' She jabbed a finger his way. 'Even you, the rebel leader of a small time revolution.'

'Revolution?' He'd never thought of what he did as a revolution. One was happening all around them true but his movement, his Rooks as revolutionaries? Hmm… he'd spent little time reflecting on what he did. He just did it, leaving deep thinking to others, the academics and the like. His sister and Greenie for example. They spent all of their time thinking, sitting on their hands, quite frankly. Doing nothing to stop the Templars. He on the other hand was out there doing the dirty work, actually killing Templars to stop them in their tracks. 'Why small time?'

'You're not thinking far enough,' she told him. Clearly she'd been thinking. 'You only see what's in front of you now. The knife. The Blighter. Starrick.' She lifted one eyebrow up her forehead, sweating profusely. 'But have you considered what will happen after you're all done with the Starrick scheme? What then?'

He shrugged, finally beginning to enjoy the heat. Apparently it took some getting used to. A lot of getting used to. The wet steam clung to him plastering his hair to his scalp, and making him perspire even more as his body temperature struggled to adjust.

'Here's food for thought,' she suggested, in the most serious tone he'd heard yet. 'What will happen to the Rooks once they have helped you to achieve your goals? Will you simply dump them?'

Now that was a damn good question. He'd created the Rooks to counter the Blighters. He'd not really focused on the aftermath of the 'little war' that was going on in London. He had enough to do as it was.

'What will you do with the Rooks when the Blighters and Starrick have been cowed?' she echoed his thoughts, head tilted to one side.

'I… I don't know,' he said slowly, recognizing the truth of that. He had no idea of what he would do. He usually winged his way through any situation, not really caring too much about the effect it had on others. Something that both his sister and his father had reproached him for. Even George had done so. His Templar victims too, Dr. Elliotson most recently. Ideas that he didn't want to think about now swirled in his mind and he had been fairly successful at driving them away. Until this Russian woman had stirred up the anthill once again.

'We follow you, boss,' she went on, relentlessly driving home her point. She never would stop, would she? Not until she'd made him understand. 'We trust you, believe in you.' She leaned her elbows on her knees and regarded him sideways. 'You can't play with our lives.' She paused. 'Sir.'

He wiped his hands down his face, unwilling to look at her and not because of his 'repressive tendencies'. She was hitting near the mark of his somewhat guilty conscience. He did have one, even if he tried to hide it deep inside. And how the hell had she found it anyway?

'Who are you, Rookie?' he asked her with not a little bitterness. 'Who are you, to peer so deeply into a man's soul?'

'I am Russian,' was the less than helpful reply. 'And you are in my friend's bath house.' Her grin was back, that cutting mischievous grin. 'And you are about to get a taste of what happens in a steam room.'

He was blushing again, damn it! What was she doing for gods sake? What was that in her hand? Twigs? With dried green leaves?

'What is that?' he asked pointing to the object in her hand that looked like the bottom part of a broom.

'This?' she lifted it casually. 'This is a birch broom.' Her tone did not convey any unduly degenerate ideas in regards to that broom.

'And it's used for….?' he left it hanging, tensing up again. She was up to something. Another challenge, another in his teeth dare. She was going to age him before his time if she kept on like this.

'Lie down on your stomach and you'll find out,' she told him with the sliest expression he'd ever seen. Her smirk was slipping off into an overt leer. 'Or is the great and manly Jacob Frye afraid of a few twigs?' There it was, that defiance once more, the defiance that seemed to be natural, a habit that she'd been born with. 'I do need you alive, sir, so we can get to the bottom of this Sparrow newsboys debacle,' she informed him in her sweetest sarcastic tone. 'So I promise not to kill you.' A long pause as she reflected. 'Yet.'

'Well, I am ever so grateful,' he retorted, folding his hands in front of him and bowing slightly. 'Especially since I do happen to hold the purse strings.'

'Ah, good point,' she admitted waving the birch broom at him. 'Now, where were we?'

'You enjoyed that,' she remarked an hour later once they were both refreshed and dressed once more, the summer night of London feeling much cooler than prior to the bath house visit. 'I can see it all over your face.'

He would never admit it out loud but she was right. He had enjoyed that, actually. It was an intriguing way of cleaning oneself. He'd never really given much thought to hygiene, there'd always been a river or something to dunk into. This… this had been different. A thorough cleansing. He actually felt like a new man. He touched his face, just to make sure that Jacob Frye hadn't been replaced by someone else. His skin felt squeaky clean, literally. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this: renewed, rejuvenated.

'I did, actually,' he said out loud, more thoughtfully than intended. 'And not only the steam room.'

'Ah, so the civilizing process was a success then,' she concluded, self-satisfied once more. He was coming to read her better: he could hear the irony, the sincerity, the amusement. 'Don't forget to come back often, then. One session of civilization ain't enough.'

He sniffed. Of course not.

'And just why would you want to civilize me?' he asked, out of curiosity.

'You have potential, Mr. Frye,' she replied promptly. Obviously she had been doing a lot of thinking along with all the other things on her plate. 'I hate to see it wasted.'

'You and my sister both.'

'She does have a point,' the short-statured Russian offered. 'A man or woman should show ambition in developing themselves to the fullest extent. Why reduce yourself to only the mundane, to only what's in front of you?'

Ha, his father had said something similar once: to be a true Assassin one had to pierce the veil, to transcend this reality. He'd not really listened then. It had sounded like so much nonsense to him: the veil? Transcending? What the hell was all that about? And here was this new recruit echoing the same thoughts!

'You haven't met my father by any chance have you?' he asked with a sideways glance.

'Is he in London?'

'No.' His jaw tightened, the light mood evaporating. 'He's dead.'

'Oh, I am sorry to hear that.'

'Don't be,' he said harshly. 'He was a tyrant.'

'Ah, one of those…' she nodded sympathetically. 'So was mine and I decided I had had enough, so…' she held out her arms. 'Here I am.'

'So, it was your father that placed that chip on your shoulder,' he surmised, glad to lead the conversation away from himself. There were secrets that he had, things he didn't want her to know.

'You could say that, seeing as how you carry one too.' The tilt of her head for emphasis. 'Mine tried to make me into his idea of what a daughter should be and I said no thank you.' A military salute: hand to forehead and out.

That he could relate to, he found. His father too had set boundaries on what he had believed Jacob should have been, without asking if Jacob wanted any of it in the first place. Well… here he was too. The two of them, quite the pair…

'So, what do Russians do after the bathhouse?' he asked, simply to lighten the mood which had swung into a more grave channel.

'Drink,' she answered with a shrug. 'Kvas is best but you Brits don't have it… civilized…' she muttered under her breath. 'So ale it'll have to be.'

'Allow me then,' he invited, extending his elbow to her. 'I think I know just the place.'

'Why kind sir.' She batted her eyelashes at him, grinning. 'Do lead the way.'

The alehouse wasn't too far away, in fact just around the corner from where they were. It was still open and music spilled out into the warm night. The patrons were a mix of tipsy and drunken workers and Rooks out of uniform. She recognized a few from the Goose's Wing, exchanging greetings and back slaps alike. Finding a table near the window, they ordered to ales and sat back to observe the card games, the chess games and the arm-wrestling. The typical British pub: loud, boisterous, alcoholic. Just the way he liked it.

When the two ales came, brewed locally of grass and malt and other things that he couldn't put a name to, she lifted hers first.

'This is criminal,' she offered as a toast, smirking.

'This is criminal,' he echoed, touching his full tankard to hers sharing their own private toast.

'So what is kvas?' he asked much later as they made their somewhat unsteady way down the street away from the pub. It was late night or early morning depending on your preference. The roadway was empty which wasn't quite unusual this late. Nonetheless, the tranquility was a bit… unsettling.

'Ah, that,' she said, walking with deliberation. They'd had a few ales and beers at the pub, enjoying themselves immensely. Even played cards, he'd taught her one game, she'd taught him another. 'It's uh drink, from bread.'

'Bread?' Total puzzlement.

'Like…' Stopping she put up one hand. 'You take bread,' she explained. 'Rye bread. Soak it in water. Add sugar, some yeast. Let it sit for several days while it ferments.'

'It's alcohol then?'

She waved her hand back and forth. 'Not really.' she looked back the way they had come. 'It's more like lemonade, but without lemon.'

'I see,' he said, not really understanding this drink from bread. 'And is it drunk warm?'

'Nah,' she shook her head, 'Cold, ice cold.' Leaning closer she dropped her voice. 'We are being tracked, aren't we, guv?' she asked, one hand on his shoulder for support as if she couldn't quite stand up straight.

'We are,' he confirmed, adjusting his hat in the direction from which the trackers were coming. 'Muttoner scouts and tough boys.'

'Think we can take 'em?' Without any hurry she turned around to resume their walk. 'Considering..?' She meant their current state of tipsy inebriation. 'I don't know about your reflexes but mine…' She waved her hand vaguely.

She did have a valid point, he admitted. Neither of them was in top form just now, nor ready to take on several thugs in a full on frontal assault. However… no one said anything about not using guile.

'I have a little something,' he said, thinking about the two voltaic bombs in his possession. 'Let's lead them into a dead end street.' His lips pulled into a most unfriendly smile. 'Have a bit of fun.'

The 'fun' turned out to be really spectacular once the Muttoner bullies had backed them into a corner - or rather had been allowed to back them into a cul de sac which was as closed to noise as a priest's hand on the alms bowl. Grinning in apparent anticipation of triumph, the five Muttoner villains approached slowly but confidently, secure in the knowledge that their prey wasn't going anywhere. Not from here. Not on their own two feet. At least that was the initial idea. What really occurred was most different to their expectations. Instead of submitting as all good victims should, the two Rooks had the audacious fall to face them, throwing out lightning bolts and roasting at least two of the Muttoners where they stood, smoke gently rising from their fried from the inside bodies.

'Hoo-ly!' was an impressed and somewhat choked mutter from behind him. 'I gotta get me one of those!'

'I'll get you some,' he threw over his shoulder, dodging one swing of a knife and breaking the arm of the thug who believed he could end an Assassin's life just like that. The bully screamed, a pig-like sound of pain that made the other two hesitate for a moment which is what gave her the chance to practice live target shooting with the revolver she'd bought only a week ago. Loud bang after loud bang as she unloaded the entire clip into the two spasming human dummies. He had to cover his ears in order to avoid being deafened.

'Alright! Enough!' he shouted once he was sure he could be heard. 'Leave some bullets for later!'

'Oh damn,' she said, a little slurred, her eyes not able to focus fully. 'I did it, didn't I…?'

He caught her before she dropped to the ground, the pistol falling from her convulsing hand.

'Sod it,' he cursed under his breath realizing too late that his voltaic bomb had hit her too - she didn't have the special insoles that Aleck had given him and Evie. She'd taken her own dose of the electric charge. 'Sorry…' He touched her forehead, her hands. The skin was hit and tingly. 'Damn…' How long did it take for the charge to dissolve? A few minutes? Longer? He'd never thought to ask Aleck, an oversight on his part, which he was paying for now.

'Hell of a…' she muttered indistinctly, rolling her twitching head side to side, her tongue sliding off into the Russian, which was her native tongue.

Picking her up, her gun stuck in his belt now, he walked with her away from the electrically charged zone, hoping that distance and lack of contact with the ground would solve the problem. Thankfully the small dirt track of a street was deserted and no one saw them, except the rats and cats that seemed to take over this part of town at night. They scattered away from the boots of the Assassin striding down it, cats glaring at him or observing him with their cold green eyes. It would have been eerie but for the incoherent singing that was coming from the throat of the raw recruit who had taken a knife for him and now had suffered for his thoughtlessness. What Evie would say he could well imagine, so no point in dwelling on that. Better get this one back to the Rookery and bed for her to sleep it off.

For which deed he would need a cart. Inevitably. Probably should avoid any kept out front. He couldn't help it: he chuckled to himself. She had a way of getting under his skin but not in an unkind way. Almost like a sibling or a friend, rather. He had a sister and there was nothing pleasant about her teasing, not any longer. A friend then. Fine. He was completely content with that idea. So, a teasing friend who challenged him all the time, who made him think about life but without weighing him down with cloying mortality like his father had used to. Yes, that was it. A friend. And he'd had damn few of those. So he had no intention of losing this one.

Bundling her up into the sacking he found in an abandoned cart, whose owner was getting hammered inside the pub behind which the cart and horse were standing, he hopped up into the driver's seat and touched the reins.

'Let's go,' he encouraged the sleepy horse. 'Good girl,' he kept on turning the cart and heading out of the backyard of the semi-respectable drinking establishment. 'Keep moving.' The open cart rumbled over the cobbles, wheels hitting puddles and splashing dirty water to the sides. The tired horse moved apathetically, more by rote than because it was listening to the new voice talking to it and letting it go at its own pace, more or less. It actually liked not being lashed and prodded. It was old. It would be sent to the slaughterhouse soon enough. 'Whoa,' the unfamiliar driver finally said, drawing the reins and stopping the cart. 'Rest, girl.' He patted the weary animal's neck. 'Lads, open up, it's me!' he called out to the locked gate of the Rookery, from behind which a light appeared and a sleepy brunette let him in. 'See the horse and cart taken care of, would you?' he murmured, burdened by the unconscious and no longer convulsing Rookie who had not woken up at all and didn't even when he had deposited her into her bunk. Instead she curled up and continued her deep slumber, much to the amusement of the Rooks' boss who could only shake his head.

'You're welcome,' he spoke quietly, leaving her there. No rest for the wicked: he still had some planning to do for the smuggler raid he had been promising to Wynert. Apparently an animal cargo ship had been captured by the Muttoners from the original smugglers. Wynert wanted it taken because those animals didn't deserve to die in some fighting pit for the amusement of the jeering London crowd. And he just happened to agree.

'I'll tell ya, this is one hell of a way to become sober,' she noted in approval while hefting a shiny new voltaic bomb which the boss of the top criminal syndicate in London had just handed over. 'Lightning-fast.' She snapped her fingers, fully intending the pun. 'But you still electrocuted me, guv,' she accused him, that ever ready finger jabbing him again. Was it a Russian habit? 'Cause you didn't think, did you?' Real hurt in her voice, no flippancy, no scathing irony. 'You didn't bloody think!' She slapped her hand down onto the table, anger twisting her features. 'Really, Jacob? After all this time?' Since when had they been on a first name basis? He wondered idly, unable to get a word in edgewise. 'You could've killed me!' Her voice didn't rise - unlike Evie's or his father's, whose volume went up several octaves into shouting range when he'd do something 'stupid' or unworthy of an Assassin. The Rookie's did change to reflect the depth of the betrayal that she felt. 'You're a leader, damn it, Frye!' Another slap of the table, harder this time. 'Behave like one!'

And just what did one say to that? 'You know,' she said conversationally, looking out of the window and tapping her mouth with one finger. 'There is only one way to settle this.'

'What would that be?' he asked, finally getting enough of a pause so he could insert a word or two.

'Mano a mano, Mr. Frye,' she told him, her tone shot through and through with warm glee. 'At the Westminster fight club,' she added, watching the hard fire burn in his eyes. 'Let's see what you're made of, chief.'

'Anytime,' he grinned in reply, rubbing his hands against each other. A fight? That's what she wanted? Well, that was what she was going to get then. He had no problem with this challenge whatsoever. She had been pushing and prodding him ever since their first meeting and now it appeared that her plan to get a rise out of him had taken another turn.

'Oh, you're going to love the stakes of this one, boss,' she almost crooned, her eyes glittering, hands on the table now and leaning over.

'I'm listening,' he sat back, relaxed and confident in his ability to win this one. After all he'd been born for just such thrills as a hand to hand brawl. He loved it!

'Should you win, Mr. Frye.' Her tone had taken on a certain venomous cast. 'You get to keep calling me a Rookie with a capital R.' She paused, smirking. 'And keep your leadership position.'

Into the dead silence that followed that last pronouncement, two chair legs thudded down as the chief of the Rooks stared at her. His ears surely must be deceiving him. Had she just made a power grab? Had she just openly told him to his face that she intended to take the Rooks from him?

'What…?'

'You are reckless, Mr. Frye,' she told him, straightening up. 'You play with the lives of your Rooks. Now it's time to pay up.'

'You are insane!' His own anger was swelling in his chest now. Did she really think she would take the Rooks from him? Her, an offcomer? Had this been her plan all along, to get into his good graces and then set him up like this so she could make a power play? Just who did she think she was?

'We shall see,' she chuckled darkly. 'Won't we?'

Robert Topping was tickled pink. Fairly literally. This promised to be a doozy of a fight: the great Jacob Frye against one of his own Rooks, who had had the audacity to challenge him after he'd almost killed her, by accident of course. He hadn't meant to but…

The bets were pouring in, there was not an empty seat in the house. He'd done his job well in fuelling the public spirit flames in the lead up to the bout at the Westminster club, underground of course and all hush hush. Only those who were interested would ever be invited, only those who could be trusted not to run to the coppers were allowed to buy tickets. Even the rafters were fair game as seats, looking down at the two combatants, one a stocky young man of boxer build, hands wrapped in protective cloth, a tattoo of a rook on his chest pretty much giving away his identity. Across from him, discarding any sort of female propriety was the challenger, the hard-eyed woman in a sleeveless top that showed off her own muscular physique, albeit shorter of stature. Her short hair was uncovered and glistened with oil - a precaution against any attempt at being grabbed. She wasn't taking any chances. Not in a fight like this.

'There is still time to end this,' Jacob Frye suggested out of the side of his mouth.

'You don't care about the Rooks,' she cut him off. 'We're playthings for you.'

He sighed, rolling his eyes. She'd stubbornly clung to this idea that he didn't give a damn about those who had chosen to follow him, to fight with him against Starrick and the Templars.

'You don't know everything,' he tried to explain although it probably was too late at this point. The scene was set, the curtain had risen….

'Enough talk, Frye,' she told him, dropping any pretence of respect, feigned or otherwise. 'Time's wasting.'

Fine, he thought. If she wanted to do this, fine. He'd give her more than she bargained for. Taking one step sideways he kept his guard up, watching her carefully. She'd been practicing for this one. That much was clear in the way she didn't give him any opening, her keen regard focused on him. Was she really so offended by what had happened with the bomb? It's not like he'd just left her there! He'd brought her back but that obviously wasn't the point. What was the point then? A public humiliation? And he still didn't know what would happen if she won. Would she really take the Rooks from him?

A lunge, a fake jab and a real cross which he blocked, aware that this had been only a test and not meant to connect. Just to see how he would react, what he would do. Smart idea, that. She knew what she was doing then. That made her if not more dangerous, then at the very least competent. This was going to be interesting after all.

And boy was it ever!

As the Rook on Rook spectacle unfolded he gradually came to the realization that she was using his own moves against him. She'd been watching him carefully these two months - apparently her leers had been more than mere ogling - and carefully analyzing them so that now she could give him tit for tat, one attack blocked, another swept aside, a dodge of the third. He'd have to come up with something new, something she wasn't familiar with if he wanted to win this. And by god did he want to win this! Not so much because he feared losing his leadership. That wasn't going to happen. His Rooks were loyal. Most of the betting that he saw going on had been against her, the new one, the upstart Rookie. The old guard so to speak were sure of him and cast their numismatic votes for him. Some of the younger ones… well, there was a reason they hadn't risen up the ranks yet, right? Not that he minded terribly: he had never laid down any rules in terms of betting on himself. Each man's conscience was his own at the end of the day: Jacob Frye wasn't any sort of divine being to tell a man or woman what to do with their money. He left that kind of intrusive worship to the Templars.

Catching one of her incoming fists in his palm he moved it aside, stepping inside her guard and tripping her with his foot. She grabbed his arm as she went down, taking him with her. He rolled letting his momentum take him out of her reach.

'Not bad,' he told her, rising up and dusting off his hands. 'But you dipped your shoulder when you came at me.' He chuckled, moving his head side to side to get the tightness out of his neck. 'Rookie.'

She didn't answer, gathering herself up off the ground, barely hearing the audience's hushed breathing. A man on woman fight wasn't something they'd seen before and so were intrigued of course. They'd actually expected her to be long since defeated but she wasn't giving an inch. Did she truly want to usurp Frye's position so badly? If she were honest with herself, no, not really. He could keep it. But she did want to teach him a lesson on the value of what one had which could be taken away - and possibly see if this friendship thing between them was the genuine article or just empty air. His loneliness was fairly apparent: he kept himself apart from others, only sharing what he thought the others needed to know. He was like a shell that thought itself alive and vibrant. And why did she want him to open up, to actually look himself in the eye? She wasn't sure herself. An impulse, that's all it was. She'd always liked a challenge herself: to see how far she could push someone before they broke or opened up. For all his frivolity and seeming devil may care honesty, Mr. Frye was as clammed up as a mussel. Well, she'd made it her mission to crack nuts like him wide open. So… here went nothing.

'You didn't really expect to win, did you,' he panted, having finally gotten her into a hold from which there was no escape. 'Nice fight, though.' He tapped her shoulder. 'We made Topping a hell of a lot of money tonight.'

She grunted, half choking what with his arm around her neck. Given the fact that he was heavier there was little in the way of getting him off that she could use, especially since she had no leverage, her belly being pressed to the sandy floor. Still, she twitched and struggled, unwilling to let him win just like that.

'Relax, Rookie,' he said, reading her defiance with the expert ease of someone who'd been on the losing end a time or two. 'You got what you wanted.' Releasing her he stood up, one hand extended. 'Come on, up you get,' he offered amiably, his anger having evaporated long since. It was good to have someone besides Evie who could give him the level of compete that he felt he needed in order to not get rusty. Rusty was dead and he didn't have any intention of visiting Hell any time soon.

'You…' she looked up at him from where she sat on the floor, elbows on her knees. She shook her head. 'You rotten bastard.' She grinned, shaking her head. 'You pulled that last punch, didn't you?'

'And what if I did?' he asked, tugging her up to her feet. 'You going to challenge me to another slugfest?'

'What an excellent proposition!' she retorted, smiling beatifically. 'Now that I know you will never end someone you care for…'

'And what makes you think I care?' His defensive walls went up again. She saw it as clearly as if he'd blown a trumpet. His stance changed, his eyes went opaque, even the tone of his voice announced to any who cared to read it that any time something even remotely involving self-examination or emotion was invoked, Mr. Jacob 'I am harder than life' Frye would pull up the portcullis and retreat into that clam shell he wore like a second skin.

'And what makes you think you don't?' she countered, wiping her streaming face. 'Ah… time for another dose of civilization I would say,' she remarked, glancing at her soaked hand and finally regaining her breath.

'First,' he smiled, nodding his head in Topping's direction. 'Permit me to collect my winnings.'

'Some of which will inevitably end up in my pocket as salary,' she reminded him of his obligation, not backing down one little bit. The indomitable spunk of the woman!

'But of course!' he said with a laugh, beginning to unwrap his bloodied and sweat-stained hands. His knuckles had once again taken a beating and would need some of that ointment Agnes had made for them both, Evie and himself. The curse of the fine fingers…

'Those definitely could stand some time in the steam room,' she noted casually, swiping his towel to wipe down her head and face. The cheek!

'Is that a peace offering?' he inquired, scarred eyebrow going up, one bottle of beer in hand.

'No,' she replied, watching him with steady intensity. 'A favour.' She paused, smiled thinly. 'For a friend.'

He would have choked in shock if there'd been any liquid in his mouth. Was she…? Really? He hadn't truly given thought to what this puzzling relationship between them was. It had not been simply that of a gang boss and a gang member. It had not been that of a flirting couple either. It'd been more… like two chaps, two blokes, who understood each other, recognising a certain kinship of interest and mutual respect. Who had each other's backs in a tight corner.

'So, what do you say, Frye?' Her accented question broke his wonderings. He really should stop that. He was a creature of the moment: anything went anytime, anywhere.

'I say, you're on, Rookie,' he laughed, shaking her held out hand. 'Let's go get steamed.'

'You weren't going to take the gang from me, were you?' he said, sitting back against the hot wooden wall of the hot room in the Russian bath house.

'Wasn't I?' she parried with a delighted smirk, enjoying the overly heated humidity that enclosed them both.

He sighed wearily, rolling his head across the wall back and forth. At times truly she was exasperating. 'What do you want?' he finally demanded. 'Why are you here?'

'To get clean,' she shrugged, deliberately misunderstanding the purpose of his questions. 'Why are you here?'

He leaned forward, groaning and massaging his perspiring face. There it was again. 'As a favour…' he ground out. 'For the woman that drives me to distraction.'

'Ah, so you finally figured out I am a woman,' she teased him, her tone full of mischievous sarcasm that was her never ending habit. 'Nice to be appreciated.'

'You!' He stopped because there was nothing he could say. She was devilishly incorrigible. She'd quip even as she died, he was certain.

'Keep the gang, Mr. Frye,' she said graciously but with that same backbite, waving her hand in his direction. 'Leadership is too much work and I am too lazy.'

He stared, both eyebrows lifting up. 'Now that's a definition of leadership I've never heard before.' He laughed softly which wasn't easy in the thick humidity of the steam room. 'Too much work…'

'Isn't it?' She shrugged. 'You worry, you lose sleep, you have to take care about every damn thing, everyone hanging on your every word, waiting for you to solve their problems…' She counted off on her fingers. 'No fun.'

She had a point there, he had to admit. Some of his nights were rather sleepless, what with keeping the other gangs in line, nocturnal and daytime operations like the one with Wynert and the smuggled animals, not to mention the petty crimes he came across almost daily. Running all of this huge undertaking of delivering London from Templar influence was not easy - but then, if it'd been, wouldn't the Assassins have taken the city back years ago?

'And you're all about having fun, aren't' you, boss?' she rubbed it in, with a sly sideways glance.

'You know… one day, someone will slap you silly,' he warned her in an off the cuff manner.

'LIke you did at the club?' she retorted sweetly, snorting.

'I was trying to be a gentleman,' he remarked with a touch of asperity. She just never quit! Always pushing and poking!

'Really?' She scratched her cheek. 'Could've fooled me.' There was that self-satisfied curl to her lips again: she was trying to get a raise out of him, he realized. Teasing him - like a younger sibling or a friend who genuinely worried about him. And just why did she show such concern for him?

'Fine,' he said, throwing up his hands. 'Fine.' Digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, he turned to her. 'You want an apology?' Her answer was apparent indifference of not looking at him but she obviously was listening. 'Very well, I will apologize if you apologize.'

'What for?' Her face was devoid of any guile whatsoever.

'You challenged me for the Rooks,' he reminded her.

'After your recklessness,' she recalled to him. 'You hurt me more than I did you.' Arms crossed on her chest, pugnacious jaw thrust out.

He massaged his jaw: she'd clocked him good with a one two punch combination that had been followed up with a kick to his gut. That had hurt, a lot. She must've put all of her strength behind all three strikes.

'We are at an impasse, then,' he remarked, hands on the edge of the bench as if he were about to get up.

'You apologize first, then I will,' she offered, deciding that enough was enough. There was still the matter of the Sparrows to work through.

'Very well,' he sighed and turned his head to look her in the eye. 'I am sorry.'

'Me too,' she said nodding and holding out her hand. 'Friends?'

He smiled, his entire face lighting up, and took her hand. 'Friends.'

She chewed her lip, studying the spread out map and marble tokens of various colours, the newly placed flags of bits of paper of different colours to indicate the many newspapers that the Sparrows sold about the boroughs. She didn't like what she was seeing. The red marbles, more of them now than before, were accompanied by only one colour of flag - green for the only newspaper in London that was advocating the cessation of all animal races as uncivilized behaviour for the benefit of the masses and the prohibition of animal importation for such purposes. This newspaper served the Strand, the City, Whitechapel, and Southwark, the four boroughs where animal fights happened on a regular basis and where animal carcasses were dumped out into refuse heaps once they were killed during competition or died of old age.

'That operation of Wynert's involved animals, did it not?' she asked, raising her head to look across the table at her boss cum friend whose own expression was as grave as hers.

'Smuggled exotic animals, actually,' he corrected her softly, hands splayed out to hold the map down. 'The Muttoners were bringing them in.'

'For fighting,' Amy chimed in, occupying the third side of the table, her round face pinched. Two more girls had been found dead, eviscerated in the most cruel fashion. She didn't want to think about it, the nightmares were more than enough.

'I assume you intercepted the live cargo,' the young Russian woman of unknown name went on.

'Of course,' Jacob shrugged matter of fact. What had she expected? That he would fail?

'Because I did wonder what all those strange sounds were coming from the carts in the hangar,' she noted dryly.

'I thought you were on watch,' the chief of the Rooks said with a touch of reproof.

'So I was,' she responded with a thin curve of her mouth and another of her subtle leers. 'I am always watching.'

He rolled his eyes skyward: there it was again...

'Do you then see any way to end this?' Amy asked, her voice filled with sadness. Her Sparrows were dying off, her little flock, her friends, her playmates forced to grow up early by the uncaring world of the cold capitalist machine.

'If they are coming after the newsboys and girls,' the short statured Russian suggested, hitching one hip onto the table. 'Then it is only logical to expect that the writers and the editor of the paper would be next.' Her brown eyes moved between her boss and the homespun wearing girl. 'In fact it is surprising that it has not happened already.'

That was true. The adults running the newspaper clearly had not suffered as of yet. No reports of beatings on the street or murder in a dark alley. No news about any resistance to the idea of abolishing animal fighting. It appeared that the Muttoners were the only ones interested in getting rid of the newspaper which was basically digging into their own profits.

'Where are the newspapers distributed from?' the chief gangster asked, the wheels of his mind grinding as a plan was forming.

'A printing shop in the City, near St. Paul's,' Amy offered, sliding a finger across the map to point to a short street that ran off the circular road around the magnificent cathedral. 'Each morning at 5am we gather there to receive the newspapers.'

'Do you walk to where you sell them?' he asked, making mental notes.

'No.' She shook her head, hair tucked up under her hat. 'The carters are kind and take us all around to our destinations.' She sniffed softly, hands kneading her shapeless dress in distress.

'Come here,' said the young woman, standing and holding out her arms. 'Give you a hug.'

The leader of the Sparrows, lip shaking to hold in her tears, finally gave in. Hiding her face against the Russian's jacket she cried, sobbing with her entire body, making incoherent sounds while small but strong hands rubbed her back in sympathy.

'What pub do these carters frequent?' the head of the top criminal enterprise asked with a tinge of intensity: clearly he'd just come up with some derring-do scheme.

'The Pigs Paddle, on Crashaw,' Amy hiccuped, finally getting a hold of herself.

'Lovely,' Jacob purred, chewing the inside of his cheek. 'Then this is what we're going to do.'

'This is criminal,' she said, shutting the door of the pub and locking it.

'Basically, yes,' her boss grinned, watching the street for anything troublesome. The operation 'Sleeping Carter' had gone off rather well. There were at least twenty working class blokes snoring away inside the pub, drunker than any lord on a feast day. It'd not taken much to spice up their evening, not with the spiked gin, rum and beer. Most of them will still be asleep in the afternoon. Which should be enough time for the Rooks to play their parts in delivering the news boys and girls to their destinations and then quietly slip away to the prearranged hiding spots from which to keep an eye on the kids. At the sign of any danger they were to swoop in and deal with it, no prisoners taken. It was time to send the Muttoners a message that the Sparrows were under the Rooks' protection.

'Don't you dare to throw my words back at me, sir!' she growled, punching him lightly in the shoulder. 'I do the snappy lines around here.' She was fooling around again: he could tell by the foxy glint in her eyes.

'Why don't you snap the lines of the cart then, dear lady?' he invited in his suave burr, leaping up into the seat, agile as a cat on a pipe.

'Oh I'm your driver now too?!' She shook her head, muttering a mix of English and Russian curses with the facility of a connoisseur. Where had she picked up such salty language? Not from him surely.

'Since you're the Rookie with a capital R….' he chuckled at the baleful glance she gave him.

'Would you like me to arrange another civilizing session?' She watched him blush and cackled. 'With the birch broom?' Her brown gaze was honestly undressing him down to the skin: how did she do that, make him feel naked and defenseless? Why did he permit her such liberties in the first place?

'I thought we were friends,' he complained, lower lip thrust out, one hand rubbing one side of his flaming face.

'We are,' she insisted, guiding the horse along the newsboys route. 'And friendly banter is like a mug of fresh kvas,' she let out a sigh of appreciation, expression on her face dreamy. 'Or a shot of Meister Jager.'

He couldn't stop himself and laughed. He tolerated her freedom to be a rebel because he was one too. He recognized himself in her. The spunk. The unbending will. The daring. She never quit pestering him because that was her nature - and he rather liked it. With her the fun never stopped.

'You'll have to let me try some that kvas,' he said, looking at her sideways. An overture of peace in their never-ending friendly competition.

'Ah, that, my friend Frye, will have to wait,' she said, pointing up ahead, her voice becoming stony. 'Cuz we got trouble. By cartload.'

True enough. Blocking the road up ahead was a contingent of Blighters who obviously had combative intentions as evidenced by the clubs, canes, knives and pistols either in their hands or somewhere about their person. There were about ten to fifteen of the men and women in checkered red trousers, jackets and top hats. Their faces conveyed their obvious disdain and deep desire to end the chief of the Rooks and his sidekick in the most brutal and final fashion imaginable.

'Головня хуйева,' he heard her mutter darkly, one hand reaching for her revolver. 'Shall I plug them full of holes, boss?' she asked with a barely repressed eagerness, one hand on her gun which still was in its holster as she waited for his answer. If it was only the two of them, he'd just go for it. But…. They had kids in the back. He really didn't want to risk their lives, not in a fight with his enemies.

'Move over,' he ordered, switching seats with her. 'I drive, you plug.' He three her that cheeky gangster grin. 'About time for live target practice.' She sniffed, rolling the chamber of one gun and then, to his surprise, extracting another from a second leather holster. She carried two pistols?! Since when?

'Two guns are better than one,' she noted clinically, aware of his gaze. 'You might want to look into that, boss.'

'I will,' he promised and nodded his head in the direction of the sneering Blighters. 'Just as soon as we deal with this little problem.'

'Kids,' she addressed the Sparrows hidden in between the newspaper stacks. 'Heads down. Stay still. Not a peep.' Big eyes stared at her with resignation and a bit of fear: they were brave but still children. Being in the middle of an adult squabble wasn't exactly the best place for them. 'You'll be fine,' she tried to reassure them. 'This is just a little hiccup.' Her face lit up as she braved herself against the wall of the cart. 'Let'er rip, boss.'

It wasn't that they were not ready. It wasn't even that they were secretly afraid of the strutting cockerel who led the poxy bird gang known as the Rooks. What kind of a name was it anyway? Made no sense at all! Rooks? Loud, obnoxious little shites is all they were. Fit only to be killed. Like the Sparrows that were cowering in that cart driven by the high Rook himself and the female bottomless barrel that had decided to interfere in their little war for whatever reason. Apparently a knife to the kidneys hadn't killed her: must be like a cat, nine lives and what not. Well, maybe they could cut down on the number some more. They had to get lucky at some point. Right?

'Wrong,' the pathetically short woman muttered, the two revolvers in her hands discharging lead slugs with much more precision than before. She'd never really gotten the hang of firearms. They had never felt as comfortable as a knife or a sword in her hand. Not only that: they were not thrilling. There was no adrenaline in killing an enemy with a single shot to the head or the heart. She much preferred to feel the foe's flesh and bones snapping under her hands or boots. She liked it up close and personal. Guns were too impartial and removed from the intimacy of a conflict.

Although in cases like this when she was outnumbered at least six to one, she had no problem whatsoever with letting the fools who dared to cross her taste lead. She aimed for any body part that would either disable them or kill them outright. Bouncing on the wagon wasn't exactly the easiest way to choose and hit the target accurately but if the bullet struck a knee instead of a belly, she'd take it.

'I'm almost out of ammo, boss!' she called out as their pursuers fell back to regroup and pick up the chase again. 'Mind if I drive?'

'Be my guest!' he yelled, glancing quickly over his shoulder at the resumption of the Blighter hunt. Why were they so persistent today? Who had put them up to this? How had they known to ambush them in that exact spot? 'My hands are tired anyway.'

'Well we can't have your pretty little hands become useless, can we?' she commiserated mockingly, taking the traces from him.

'One day…' he snarled in mild irritation as he turned to climb back.

'One day, boss, one day…' she replied easily and lashed the horses' backs. They were tiring clearly: straining to breathe, foaming at the mouth. No norse was meant to run for long. They were not built for endurance but for short sprints to get away from their predators like wolves or bears. This chase had lasted longer than they were used to. 'Sorry, horsies…' she apologized. 'Blame the Blighters back there.'

She was about to make a sharp turn when a cloud of smoke materialized right in front of the horses which reared in panic, bucking in the traces and in their confusion running through a street lamp instead of around it. The screech of metal served to only frighten them further and now they had the bit their teeth.

'Ah shit!' she yelled in chagrin, the cart barreling down the early morning street filled with sleepy men and women going off to work, in addition to a large omnibus coming towards them slowly. 'Oh fuck!' was her next ejaculation as she swerved to avoid that monstrosity, the two horses of which shied away from the two fellows in the newsboy cart.

'What the devil are you doing?' her supposed boss shouted, unable to pick his targets due to the wild seesawing of the newspaper cart.

'Ask the horses!' she yelled back at him in irritation, hauling on the reins to try and regain some control over the two equine engines that seemed to have made up their minds to not listen at all.

'Here, take this,' he handed his revolver to her as he climbed over the board. 'Let me deal with this.'

'Gladly, guv,' she grumbled and then watched with an open mouth as he clambered out in between the horses. 'What the bloody 'ell are you doing, Frye?' A rhetorical appeal that was ignored by the fearless boss of the Rooks whose impulse in a crisis was to get physical, in whatever way was called for. A punch to the face. A kick in the bollocks. A faceplant into a wall. Or getting between two terrified and stressed beasts whose hooves could make mincemeat of him should he end up under them. 'Damn daft boy,' she muttered, shaking her head and still yanking on the reins with all of her strength to get the maddened creatures' attention.

Taking care not to get his fingers caught in the leathers of the reins and bridles he made his somewhat shaky way to one's back and grabbed the left rein, shortening it and pushing his hand against the horse's neck, reaching for the right side to reel that rein in too.

'Come on, girl,' he grunted, moving with the galloping heaves of the impulsive animal, face almost at the neck, mane slapping him from time to time, and making the leather bridle shorter and shorter to curve the neck enough for the horse to feel that it was not in control, that there was another creature calling the shots. 'Be a good girl,' he mumbled between clenched teeth, drawing the right rein closer and leaning back, the bit in its mouth pressing against the soft palate and the constriction of the neck making it aware that it wasn't alone, that someone else was there. It swerved, snorted, sides heaving. 'That's a good girl,' he soothed, still holding onto the leather, grateful for the gloves on his hands. Shredding the skin off on the old tack was as easy as clobbering a Blighter to death with his fists. He rather liked his hands to be in more or less one piece. He might need them later - to throttle whoever had set the Blighters on them in the first place. Were they working with the Muttoners? That was the first thought that came to mind: after all the Sparrows were being hunted by the mutton-eating gang. Two of the Rooks' rivals pairing up: not unusual but not savoury either. Being knifed in the back by one was bad enough. Having two of them on his arse was taking things a mite too far. He'd have to organize a little raid or two to make his point of unhappiness with this unholy alliance crystal clear to the other two groups of useless scum. Maybe bring the Meister Jager-loving Russian along for the fun too. And why not? She enjoyed a challenge, a thrill - and it'd give her an ideal opportunity to practice target shooting. She was woefully inadequate in that. And what of her climbing skills? He'd never seen those. Did she even use rooftops? So far she'd kept her feet firmly planted on the ground. It would be interesting to see if she'd even thought of shimmying up a building. Although… 'up north' perhaps there wasn't much to climb - except maybe ice and ice was so… slick, almost impossible to gain a handhold.

'You're daydreaming, Frye?' butted in the caustic drawl of the woman Rookie with the capital R. 'We're on the clock, remember?'

He started, realizing that the horses had stopped in truth and that the cart was yet in one piece, amazing at it seemed. Dust was gradually settling down, bowled over pedestrians groaning or coming to their feet all around, hisses of pains and aches and curses filling the air - and no signs of the red-clad fools who had precipitated this whole debacle in the first place.

'I had no idea you were a farm boy, boss,' she went on, not waiting for his answer, looking up and down the street, the bounced about kids peering over the top of the side board of the somehow still intact cart. 'That was one hell of a trick.'

'I'll show you sometime,' he remarked absent mindedly, a little breathless. That had been one hell of a ride! He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much danger and excitement mixed in one.

'Them Blighters sure seemed determined,' she noted, rubbing one horse's neck soothingly. 'You don't suppose someone put them up to it?' Her certainty on that was one hundred percent. A familiar foe didn't just jump out of the woodwork like a cockroach. Well, maybe they did but not without a kick in the backside to propel them that way. 'Where did you say their HQ was?'

'I didn't,' he croaked and spat, finally getting down off the fatigued horse. 'We'll pay them a private visit after we deliver the news.'

Her answering smile was all the more pleased. Adventure on top of adventure? That was the bloody life!

'Oooo goodie!' She rubbed her hands together in happy glee. 'Do lead the way, Mr. Frye!'

She planted her fist in the rogue's smudged face, his curly hair bouncing about, his head connecting with the pavement in a sickeningly loud crunch of bone, his scalp ripping apart as she drove his head into the street with a shout of rage. Damn did it feel good to break open a man's head like a coconut, as payback for all those little kids' lives destroyed. And he was only the first.

Another one came at her out of the dark, club raised to bash her head in - only for her to grab his wrist with both hands and step to his side bringing it down to yank the thing out of his hand and crack it over the back of his skull.

'Down, motherfucker!' she hissed, tossing the bloody bit of wood aside and spitting at him in contempt. 'You think you gonna ambush me?!' she asked the two dead men perfunctorily, her brown eyes blazing in rage. Here she'd been just minding her own business on the way to meeting her boss to discuss the next steps of the Sparrow operation when out of the blue - or black rather since it was deep night - come these two jerks and two of their Muttoner buddies and try to slice her to bits. Well, she'd not been training for nothing, back home and here. Watching her employer had not been invaluable: the kinds of moves he pulled she'd made part of her repertoire. Committing to a fatal strike had never been a problem for her: the killer instinct she possessed. Her family had known it. Her teachers had known it. Even if they hadn't approved of how often she took delight in pulverizing a sparring partner or target she'd been sent to kill. Much like Jacob Frye, it seemed, no matter what she did, she'd always do something wrong. She'd had enough at last and decamped - only to find a kindred spirit in this young British gang boss, whose swagger made women swoon if only he'd bothered to look. Which he didn't, preoccupied as he was with his mission to end the Templars and his 'games'. Not that she begrudged him the fun: she liked it too. But she… there was always so much more to life than bringing down the enemy. Her British friend was too shortsighted - a contrast to his sister who saw too far and lost sight of what was close by. Oh the two of them… really… thank god she didn't have siblings, else she'd have gone mad long since.

Her hands, hurting a bit from the fisticuffs, massaged her face. 'Damn you all to hell!' she cursed the heaps of what had been living men a few minutes before. 'You and your boss Starrick!'

Kicking the corpse in her way just one more time to make her point stick, she walked on, flexing her hands. Better borrow some of that cream off Jacob. No point in her joints swelling up like melons. The one disadvantage of close hand to hand fighting: cumulative damage to the hands, the fragile joints of which could not stand much hard shock without breaking down.

And she kind of did need her hands… her lips pulled into a warm smile. Her boss was a looker and sometimes it was hard to not think of what else they could be doing. But…. self control was self control. She'd cultivated it and had no intention of giving in to some frivolous dream. Damaging the still somewhat fragile relationship between herself and Mr. 'I'm so good looking I can ignore you' Frye was not in the cards. Her goal was clear and she was going to stick to it. Self bloody control. Stiff upper lip. And all that.

'You're late,' he said as the train pulled away from the platform, off into the warm late summer night.

'Blame your buddies the Blighters,' she told him darkly, sitting down in a huff and shaking her hands. 'Tried to gut me in the street. Had to teach them manners.' She shook her head in disgust, groaning half in anger, half in pain. 'I really want to blow up their HQ,' she told him. 'The whole hornets' nest to kingdom come.'

'You and half this city,' he scoffed, sprawled out on the sofa, hatless, sans coat, and relaxed. He always did give off the air of a silently intent predator ready to pounce at a moment's notice. 'I take it the operation 'Sparrow Sequestration' went off without a hitch?' he asked idly, reaching for a drawer in the nearby bolted hest and extracting a small metal container, round in shape, that contained that soothing cream he used on his own knuckles in addition to a roll of bandages.

'It did,' she said, accepting both and beginning the process of treating her bruised hand. That bloke's skull had been as hard as a rock. Seriously. No wonder he was a Blighter: they only accepted thickly-skulled thugs while the smart ones went elsewhere. 'Until those mutual friends of ours tracked me and tried to either slice me…' She paused, lifted one finger. 'No… wrong word…' She tapped her lip, one hand shiny with the ointment. 'Ah, tenderize.' She grinned cheekily. 'That's the word! Tenderize me.' Her brown eyes took on that by now familiar regard of devil may care attitude which mirrored his own.

'Well, they only managed to tenderize one hand,' he remarked, clinically ironic, sitting forward a bit and reaching for that roll of white soft linen.

'The one I need too,' she grumbled, one eyebrow cocking as her hand was taken to be wrapped and a shudder ran through her. She had to inhale deeply to regain a measure of self control. Damn it was getting hard! The boss tending to a Rookie? Who'd ever heard of that?! 'What are you doing, boss?'

'Helping a Rookie,' was the prompt and flippant reply in that soft hum that he had sometimes when he wanted to be as persuasive as possible. 'Since I am the boss, I set the rules.'

'Oh, do you now?' Her lips pulled back from her teeth. 'Do you help all of the Rookies with capital R's?'

'Considering that you introduced me to the Russian bath house,' he remarked with light sarcasm. 'I thought I'd introduce you to some of those repressive British tendencies.'

'Haha,' she laughed and tried to get her hand out of his grip. 'Funny, Mr. Frye. Very funny.'

'Do you see me smiling?' he asked, lips curved at the corners despite his words.

'Yes, I do, boss,' she said a little roughly, holding up her newly bandaged hand. 'Hm… I thought you'd make hash of this but you didn't…' she complimented him, a little grudgingly. A slight incline of the head. 'Thank you.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Friend.'

For a long moment they just looked at each other as the wheels of the train knocked against the tracks and the black cloud of coal smoke trailed like a comet over the length of the train. It wasn't easy for either of them to admit to weakness, to being… human. They'd both held themselves apart, rigid, with defensive walls built up high around them. Breaking through had not been easy. Getting as far as friendship had been hard. Easy charm, no problem. Humorous quips and competitive banter, easy as pie. Listening to each other… trying to understand the other's view… well… that'd taken a hell of a long time. And neither was sure if they truly understood the other at all. Deep down.

And did it truly matter? Was it really so important for them to understand each other down to the very depths? Such was the beauty of friendship: no need to dig down into secrets the other didn't want to bring out into the open light of day. Not until they were ready.

If ever they were.

'Nice train,' she congratulated him to break the awkward moment. 'Who did you nick it from?'

'Who says I nicked it?' he reapplied easily, falling back into their usual bantering routine.

'The fact that it don't have your name on it,' she retorted, putting the cream back into its drawer and glancing out the window at the thick London night.

'You noticed.' He grinned, sitting back into that nonchalant gangster sprawl.

'I do pay attention, Meister Jager notwithstanding,' she remarked, chuckling, her eyes not quite focused on the vista of street lamps, fog, clouds and Big Ben in the background. She did observe what went on around her: she'd made it a habit. Because very often her life depended on it. She stood back and examined human actions, seeking the reasons behind them, the motive. Human behaviour and body language very often gave away what their intentions were, what they meant to do before they even became consciously aware that they were going to do it. She had preferred to listen and study from the shadows - like the true member of the Order that she was. And sometimes she liked to mix it up a little… nothing wrong with that. Doing one thing over and over did get boring after a while, so a shakeup had been in order. Which had brought her here, to London, the most exciting city on the planet. Things were happening here. Life was happening here, running at a frenetic pace. The Industrial Revolution in full swing. And her boss was right smack in the middle of it all, running riot and leaving in his wake the detritus of human and inanimate debris a mile wide, a trail that had led her to him.

'Rexford Kaylock,' he said at last, settling into his storyteller self. 'The first of Starrick's gang boss lackeys. He lorded it over Whitechapel.' His mouth tightened, his regard taking on the menacing glint of bad memories. 'It wasn't pretty.'

'I bet…. I've seen what Ms. Octavia had done to Southwark,' she said, shaking her head. 'People afraid of their shadows, slinking around in corners and dark doorways… like frightened mice.' Her tone held contempt and pity for those poor sods who had no say in their lives. That's what she found so unfair: when one's freedom to decide their life was taken away. And by whom? By those who fancied themselves 'better', 'more cognisant' of what the working class needed? Who said THEY had the authority? Some dusty old useless piece of paper?! Bah! She called bullshit on that!

'Kaylock was no better,' he rumbled, kneading the skin of his face. 'Bodies on every street corner. Blood in the gutters.'

'So, you blew in like a hurricane,' she said with a light chuckle as the image rose in her mind of the guv as a whirlwind. 'Or like a bull in a china shop.' Yes, that was more accurate. Her boss did have a penchant for wrecking things. Shame he'd not been a pirate during the Golden Age of Piracy. He could've given Kenway a run for his money. Them as allies? Sacre Dieu, that would have made the whole Seven Seas shiver in fear, that would have!

'Moo,' he rejoined, that familiar artful smirk playing about his mouth and causing her to sniff.

'Really, chief?' she threw a caustically disappointed glance at him over her shoulder. 'Moo? That's all you can say?...' Shaking her head side to side she turned away. 'You lead the Rooks, boss. The Rooks. Not the Bulls.' Her voice had taken on a graver more sombre quality. 'And you don't even know where you're leading us.' Her voice had fallen by the end into dark whisper. She inhaled deeply, fighting for control, for sanity. She'd almost died tonight. Those four had obviously wanted to dice her up into little pieces. It wasn't that she'd been afraid but…. Dying in a foreign city alone… that wasn't in the plan. Not in her plan anyway. She wanted to live. On her own terms. Without being beholden to anyone. And yet… and yet TWICE her boss had helped her out of a tight spot, had had her back. And why? Why? She was so unused to kind gestures that his made no sense. What motive did he have? Was it just the challenge of having a recruit owing him a favour? Or was it real, a real friend's act?

'Tonight, we're going to pay a visit to Ms. Cranston,' he said out of the blue in that matter of fact tone which indicated serious business. The fun was over. Time to get to the real fun.

'Cranston?' She blinked, mystified. 'Who's she?'

'The woman who wrote a series of articles about abolishing animal fighting,' he informed her, walking over to the large board on the wall, bits and pieces of paper with notes scrawled on them and pictures from newspapers in addition to article clippings pasted all over it in seeming chaos.

'It seems she's been writing about this for some time,' she said, scanning the lines of the papers and studying the sketch of the young woman with tightly bunned hair under a wide-brimmed hat with a large ostrich feather. 'Starting last year.' She took her lower lip between thumb and forefinger, thinking. 'The Sparrows started dying off only a month ago. So why did the Muttoners wait so long?'

'That's what I hope to find out,' Mr. Frye said, shrugging into his black leather coat and picking up his top hat to dust it off a bit. 'You coming?'

'You bet, chief.' The heavy veil lifted from her face like mist evaporating in the sun. 'Ms. Cranston it is.'

'Oh shit!' Features twisted in disgust, the Rookie stood in the door of the reporter's apartment and stared at the sprawled out body of the woman they'd come to see. 'They got here first.' Stepping aside, taking care not to put her boots into the pool of blood which had soaked the thick carpeting under the white nightgown of the dead Ms. Cranston, she walked over to take a closer look. 'Caesar was stabbed twenty four times,' she said apropos of nothing, her voice hushed. 'Ms. Cranston… how many blows do you really need to kill someone?' A somewhat rhetorical question, one she didn't expect an answer to.

'That's why there was no opposition to the Sparrows hiding,' he surmised, kneeling on the other side of the inert corpse, the smell of blood hitting his nostrils in all its metallic salty glory. 'They'd already moved on to the next part of the plan.'

'Hunting down the adults, the newspaper creators…' she added, inspecting the wide-eyed body. 'Is it me or is the blood very fresh?' she asked, not touching the soaked cloth at all. Better not leave any sign they had been here. No point in giving the police a lead, albeit a false one.

'So it is,' her boss cum friend murmured thoughtfully. 'With this many wounds…'

'The heart works overtime to try and keep the blood flowing,' she continued in an impartial tone of an uninterested observer who wanted to show off a bit of her knowledge. 'The more it struggles, the more blood comes out through the perforations.' She sighed, working her fingers into her face. It was deep night, almost morning and her body wanted to sleep. She'd already broken her waking-sleeping cycle this past week and now her bodily systems were telling her to hit the sack and stay there until they permitted her to get up again. 'The faster the body dies.'

'Indeed,' he echoed, wondering silently how she had come to know such things. She still was a mystery, an unknown friend that did not share and did not divulge her name or purpose, content with being called a Rookie and tagging along with the gang. 'Thirty minutes, you think?'

She grimaced, glanced at the clock on the wall, still ticking, which showed four of the clock and twenty five minutes past in the morning, then stood and walked over to the work desk on which lay a manuscript for an article which the dead woman had been working on. The ink was dry on most of the four pages and still a bit wet in the middle of the last one, the last line of which had trailed off into an untidy scrawl. She must have been sitting here at the table when…

A long whistle came from outside, on the street. Quickly Jacob strode over to peer in between the closed curtains although he already knew what he would see. Coppers. Policemen. Constables. Batons and whistles. Blue uniforms, egg-shaped caps. All converging on the front door of the flat block in the City where the young lady reporter had met her unfortunate end.

'Don't tell me,' she noted with resignation from near the work table. 'They set us up.'

'It surely cannot be a coincidence…' he agreed, turning away and taking care not to leave any tracks as he made for the apartment door, shut it and wedged a chair under the knob to prevent it from being opened before they'd had time to slip off. 'I suggest a retreat.'

'Agreed,' she followed him into the bedroom which contained a rather simple wooden bed, made with due diligence. Ms. Cranston had clearly been a neat woman which made her horrific death all the more dissonant. 'Out the window, I presume?' she asked with a sigh. She'd never had a thing for heights and had preferred to keep her feet on the ground. Now….

'You coming?' he asked, already up in the windowsill, having noted her slightly green expression. 'Up the the roof,' he pointed up, hands holding on to the outside of the window frame.

'Have you never wondered why I always stay on the ground?' she asked him, half-resigned, half-ashamed of admitting the one weakness that she'd not been able to overcome. 'Heights and me do not agree, boss.'

Damn! What a time to tell him! NOW she was…! He pressed the bridge of his nose, swallowing back the snide remark he'd been about to make. The fear in her eyes was real and not to be laughed at. At least not now. Later… when they got out of here…

'Well, no time like the present for a lesson, is there?' he half-quipped. 'Come on,' he invited, vacating the sill and easily clambering over to the next one which had a long flower pot trough sticking out. Balancing his weight carefully on it, silently sighing at the dirt he'd get on his boots and the clear signs they would leave of their passage, he waved her over. 'Both feet on the sill, yes, like that,' he directed. 'No, no looking down,' he ordered, shaking one finger side to side. 'Look at me.' And when she did, breathing quickly as panic began to take hold - It wasn't that far down, only two stories but for her…. - he continued, 'Now turn, slowly, and hold on to the top part of the window frame.' He followed every one of the gradual and tortured white-knuckled changes in her position as she bit her lip, a mulish twist to her features that said she was going to do this - not because the police were already trying to break down the door and not because her boss was there but because it was damn time to grow up and learn this damn climbing! 'Now look to the left,' he instructed. 'There is that flower trough. That's where you need to go.'

Air hissed between her tight lips as she glanced to the side and found an earth filled long container which was wide enough for her feet to fit. It wasn't that far either - if only she could make herself move! The terror was real, her fingers and body frozen rigid. 'I'd rather face a dozen Blighters and Muttoners than do this,' she muttered angrily, more at herself than him. 'Блядь! Да что же это такое!?' she swore, forcing herself to move, bit by bit until she reached the end of the sill. 'Now what, o great teacher?' she snapped, exhaling sharply.

'Now you need to let go,' he said simply. 'One hand, one foot.'

'Let go? Are you insane?' she wheezed, her grip once more white knuckled. A part of her mind understood what he wanted, the logical cooly assessing part, the one that could imagine the left hand and left foot moving in unison to shift her body weight to the left and onto that flower balcony. The more primitive terrified part of her mind was the one clutching at the window like a life line, unwilling to let go because it didn't know what would happen.

'Come now,' he half-teased half-cajoled. 'The great mistress of the Jager bottle, the Rookie who had the guts to challenge me to my face, is afraid of a half-a-foot patch of air?' Well when he made it sound like that…. Mocking, ironic, and teasing at the same time. How did the man do that with just his voice? Recognizing that she was dithering, prolonging the inevitable, she growled, 'Чтоб вас всех..!' and reached over, her hand catching hold of the other window frame and her foot following to find the edge of that flower trough with a brief glance down which never looked at anything but that metal box, her breath stopped for a moment as she hung half on one and half on the other.

'Good, very good,' came the approving brogue from her right. She'd almost forgotten he was there. 'Now the other hand and foot.' And just in time too: both of them clearly heard the entry door to the flat broken down under the combined forces of several constables. 'And now, up,' he ordered, moving on reflex to scale the pipe that hung next to him and reach the edge of the shingled sloped roof that permitted snow and rain to roll on down instead of weighing the bulkheads and the top of the building which could potentially bring it down on top of the heads of its inhabitants. The one smart thing Brits had thought of, she noted idly, looking up. Now that she'd managed to scoot sideways, up looked much easier - and her mind, still jibbering in a corner in its genetically-induced terror but at a reduced volume, started to function again, attempting to analyze the available handholds and navigate a path up to the top.

'You coming?' was the dry question from up above as her chief's head poked over the edge. 'Or would you like to spend a night in a Met cell?' He grinned. 'I hear they're really comfortable.'

'Just you wait till I get up there,' she groused, wanting to shake a fist at him and instead rewarding him with a steely hot glare. 'You'll wish you'd never taught me.'

'Catch me, Rookie,' he teased. 'If you can.'

Griping and swearing the Rookie with the capital R began her ascent, looking down completely forgotten in the adrenaline of the challenge thrown down by her boss. He was good for her, no denying that. He made her feel alive. He made her want to be better. Every retort, every biting remark, every teasing look… all of it, just to make her pissed off enough to stand up to him, to throw caution to the wind, to stop thinking and just do - in his face, to spite him and herself alike! Thought he could climb better than her, faster than her? Fine, she'd learn, catch up. Challenge given. Challenge accepted.

'So, boss,' she gasped when she finally reached the top, aware that she would wake up with muscles sore in places that she had no idea existed in her body. This climbing was a different kind of exercise entirely: fingers and toes and subtle shifts of weight. 'What now?' Hands on knees, she panted, regaining her breath, her racing heart beginning to slow down.

'Now we run,' he said, smirking and pointing across the equally sharp angled roofs of London. 'Think you can manage?'

Her brown eyes glowered brilliantly at him like twin stars of rage and hurt pride. 'Lead the way,' she growled, flicking her head back and straightening up. 'Mr. Frye.' All of her chagrin and fury and shame filled those two syllables, her upper lip stiffer than any man's. She dared any man or woman to stand in her path now: her fire had been lit, the sparks had been blown into a hot flame which had to be fed and nurtured attentively.

'Then follow me,' he invited, lightly moving up and then past the smoking chimney stack into the night.

'Ты собираешься ему рассказать о себе?' her mentor and friend asked her quietly in his office in the bath house which was also the HQ of their group.

'А что я ему скажу, Серёжа? А? Что?' She slapped the table top, warped a bit from the humid air of the baths that inevitably slipped in. 'Что я Ассасин, как и он? Что мы изгнанники из России?' She got up, agitated, and groaned, striding around the room, staring up at the ceiling, eyes stinging with bitter tears of helpless impotent rage. She hated being backed into a corner, especially one not of her own making. 'Что нам пришлось бежать из-за ее предательства?'

'Цыц!' Her teacher's hand struck the unfortunate table which seemed to come in for a lot of palm slapping. He half-rose from the chair, frowning at her. 'Она поступила по совести, по своим домыслам. Она - предатель, не спорю,' he added, calming down, sorrow and anger of his own rearranging his mobile features. 'Но она была нашим командиром, главой, и мы не могли ослушаться ее приказа.'

The Russian Assassin gaped at her suddenly aging tutor. 'Ты защищаешь ее? Серёжа, ты с ума сошел!?' Her voice had fallen into a half-strangled whisper of disbelief. 'Она собиралась тебя казнить, нас всех, черт побери! Друзей и родственников!' She advanced on him, her fury growing into a full-out rage at such weakness, such temerity to forgive the unforgivable, the one person who never should have betrayed her trust, the leader who had placed her fellow sisters and brothers of the Creed in peril simply because she had wanted to further her rise through the ranks of the Russian Assassins. 'А ты ее оправдываешь?'

'Да, дорогая, да,' he replied, his voice low and lifeless. 'Потому, что я понимаю наконец-то почему она так поступила.'

'Так расскажи мне, простой дуре?' She invited scathing in her intonation.

'Ты, как твой друг мистер Фрай,' he noted, lips curled up at the ends as he scoffed lightly. 'Сорвиголова.'

'И что?' She demanded, shrugging, arms across her chest. 'Он не играет с нашими жизнями. Он честный, даже можно сказать добрый, человек.'

'Он тебе нравится,' her mentor remarked with an astute gaze at her reddening face.

'Ну нравится.' Another shrug. 'С ним интересно.'

'Ага, очень занимательно,' he said, nodding his head, amused. She couldn't lie to him. Her face and body stance told him all he needed to know. 'Ты его в ринг затянула, после того, как он сыграл с твоей жизнью.'

'Оплошность,' she said, with yet another shoulder lift.

'А сейчас кто кого оправдывает? Хм?' He saw her blush deepen, her eyebrows come together. 'Да и так все всем понятно.' He threw up his hands. 'Иди, продолжай свое дело,' he released her. 'Привет передавай, да и наводить цивилизацию приводи.' That last with a delighted laugh. Civilization indeed. She fancied the young man but would never admit it or even let herself think it. She had too much discipline for that - and cared about other things anyway. Her relationships with men always stopped at friendship and she liked it that way. The camaraderie, the teasing, the push and shove of those who shared common bonds, interests, and goals. And character. These two one an Englishman, the other a Russian woman, two beings from opposite ends of the world and yet… here they were, running around London causing trouble and living it up in the big town. Well, let them. It would appear that they meshed with each other, needed each, found the other intriguing. Else why would the boss of a criminal gang submit to the Russian steam room ritual with such good grace?

The Russian mentor exhaled, smoking his cigarette bit by bit, eyes distant. He too has once found another captivating, another Assassin, a Brother. They'd had much in common, not least their affection for one another. And that had been what had led him here. She had found out about it and her old-fashioned sense of morality so fundamental to any Russian soul nurtured by the Orthodox Christian beliefs which she could never leave behind as she had the nunnery…. It had driven her to turn traitor, to double-cross her own Brotherhood, to this!

'Василисушка,' he sighed and sat, head in his hands. 'Как же так получилось?'