Trails might lead to something or nothing at all. Only way to know, is by sticking to it, no matter how frustrating it is.
The Lamb was a dingy little pub in a quiet back street of the Strand, a small and forgotten establishment overlooked by even the working-class. To call it a novelty was an understatement. It was a hole, deemed sufficient only among the lost souls at the bottom of society, and only to a certain extent. A place so deprived, even the Blighters stayed clear. Perfect for a meeting when on Blighter turf.
Jacob pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, squinting to get a bearing. The low-lofted room was dim, what little light reached between the buildings hardly filtered through the dirty windows. The only source of lights were the candles on the occupied tables and a lone gaslight by the bar. The corners lay draped in shadow. Most likely that was a blessing, the stale smell drifting in the room spoke volumes of the dirt and grime beneath his boots. He spared it no heed as he found Tom and John already seated at a table at the back, leaning together over a couple of pints.
Tom had his back turned, John on the opposite side kept quiet surveillance following the crowd out of the corner of his eye. He muttered something before taking a drink from his tankard and Tom casually turned his head, nodding shortly in greeting as Jacob approached the table. Sitting down, John slid a pint front of him. Jacob hummed a muttered "thanks" and took a grateful drink.
The ale was definitely not the best he had had. Swallowing it down, he frowned, and Tom's mouth lifted slightly in mirth.
"Tastes like piss, doesn't it?" he muttered.
Jacob hummed in agreement, and took another large gulp of the drink. After trekking through London all morning, he did not really care. Sitting down was a blessing, and at least the ale was cold. John's gaze flitted across the room. The few other guests were old regulars, drunks and long-since fallen women, milling about their own business and of little concern, but John as always kept a keen eye trained to the surroundings. He seemed contented no one payed their little gathering any heed. As Jacob cleared his voice, he found John's gaze across the table. Jacob kept his voice little above a murmur, making sure their business stayed private just in case someone around had big ears.
"So, Lads. What news do you have?"
Tom huffed in irritation and exchanged a glance with John.
"There's nothing, Boss." John sighed. "Not a bloody rumour or whisper of anything."
John shook his head slowly and Tom drained the last of the content in his mug.
"What about you? Had any luck, Boss?"
"Not a damned thing."
John's eyes flickered back over the room in thought.
"We were right though," Tom said. He eyed the mug of ale in Jacobs hand with disputable longing as he leaned back on his chair. "The Blighters are definitely receiving firearms from somewhere. There are more guns among those bastards than before."
The troubling feeling that had lingered at the back of his mind the last a couple of days had bloomed into genuine concern over the last hours. It had been like a bad dream; alarm raising and wanting to wake up, only to realize this was real. It was raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The Blighters had somehow obtained more guns, and not a whisper of the foreboding disaster had been heard.
"I know," he said glumly. "We have to find and stop the deliveries."
The day they found Evie in the middle of an ambush was the first time they had noticed the unusual number of guns among the Blighters. Evie had taken down one gunman, Jacob another, but still among the ten who ran from there were at least one more. Three out of fourteen men. That had sparked his attention, as well as that of the seasoned men who were with him.
It was bad news.
Knifes and daggers and clubs were the Blighters common tools. Among Templars was another story. They were prone to possess more firepower, both carrying guns themselves and keeping guards with shotguns around their strongholds and houses. Occasionally there had been Blighters who bore guns and firearms, however, now it seemed the numbers were increasing. Fortunately, the Blighters were lousy shots, but that would not last. Once they grew accustomed to the weapon, their skills would increase.
Guns could easily tip the scales in the wrong direction.
"There must be something we have overlooked. None of the shipments we've been intercepting…" - John fell suddenly silent as a somewhat haggard-looking barmaid came over. Giving them a look over, she dried her hands on her dirty apron and gave them a toothless grin, noting the empty mugs sitting on the table.
"Wha' can I bring ya', lads?" she crowed expectantly, knowing their purse gave ample room for business. That was a rare occurrence in this establishment, and she was intent on making another transaction. The easy way to get rid of her was to comply, even if the ale was horrid. Tom ordered another couple of pints, and the barmaid went to fetch the drinks.
The conversation stalled while she was gone, the lads patiently waiting for the return of uninterrupted privacy. The barmaid returned to put the mugs on the table between them and collected the empty once. Watching her back retreat towards the kitchen, John finally continued.
"None of the shipments we intercepted lately contained guns. There were explosives, but no munitions or firearms."
"Mm. They must be getting them in somewhere. The docks are many, we are not covering all."
The men both settled their eyes on him, quietly waiting for him to make a decision what to do next. The network of Rooks had come up empty handed. It was unnerving how the Templars were able to arm their gangs with no forewarning, no whisper of such an important shipment. They usually meant a heightened security, more Blighters massing in an area. This time; there had been nothing.
He would have to use other resources, and warn Evie and Henry of the added danger.
"I'll have to go talk to my sister about this. Maybe she has come across something to put us on a trail."
Jacob fished the watch out from the pocket and flipped the lid open, checking the time and then polished off the last of the contents in his mug.
"Get a word out to the strongholds to keep an eye on the docks. If there's even a whisper of gun shipments or Blighters gathering in an area; I want to know!"
The lads nonverbally committed to the order. Jacob flicked out the top hat and rose to his feet.
"I have a train to catch. I'll see you Lads back at the base later."
Having a train hideout was a real asset. Outsiders bearing ill intent were not able to reach them there without figuring out the timetable. Downside to having a train hideout was, he too had to find the train to get aboard.
To keep the hideout secret, the train was on the move most of the day, travelling across London in an alternating pattern to throw off anyone who were not intended to board and keeping a written tab of the times was a bad idea. Scraps of paper were easily lost, and mishaps had a hang of turning out in the worst possible way. Evie had forbidden to keep any sort of physical account, opting for fixing the route week by week and memorizing the times instead. Jacob had nearly thrown a fit at the thought and was seriously debating discarding the hideout all together when Evie presented Agnes with her suggestion. A rancorously laughing Agnes though, had proved to possess a clever mind and a nifty solution to their problem. She would have never struck Jacob as the bookish sort of type, nor someone vastly acquainted with numbers and calculations, however, hearing of their problem, she had provided a way to keep track of arrival times and routes, assigning lines and starting points to different days. According to Agnes, all they needed, apart from the first line and the order of the rotation, was a set of calculations and everything was set. The intricate pattern was a tangled mess, leaving Jacob stranded and frustrated on several occasions until he got the hang of it and saw the pattern. It was more than enough to confuse those few he had trusted with the knowledge, let alone throw off outsiders.
Trouble was; just to make sure Agnes occasionally made changes.
Jacob had not been back to the train for quite a while. Now he entered Charing Cross railway station hoping that the pattern had not been altered. If not, the train should be there, and ready to depart shortly.
Craning his neck, he gazed the vast hall, looking over the sea of hats and heads to spot a well-known chimney sporting black and gold trimmings over a dark green body, at the far end of the hall. Pleased, he made his way to the platform, nudging through the throng and avoiding the few Blighters milling about within the crowd.
The trains whistle sounded in a shrill cry, signalling imminent departure. Billows of steam and smoke released as the steel beast shuddered, wheels slipping a little against wet rails until friction provided grip and the big body was coerced into moving with a moan from the engine. It rolled slowly forward, hesitant under the drag of the weight, though with surprisingly gentle grace for hundreds of tons setting into motion.
Gaining a semblance of speed still took time and getting aboard was but a small effort, a few hastened steps along the side, then a short leap to get onto the footboard and up the landing in-between sections. As the train rolled out of the station, huffing its effort in short bursts, Jacob flipped the top hat off and ducked through the coach door entering the train.
The coach was tepid, nights were getting colder and no one had lit a fire yet. He hung his top hat on a peg and left the cane leaning against the wall. The train smelled of Evie; a curious mix of rosewater and leather; sweet, feminine and assertive, distinctly befitting her character he mused as he went in search of her.
Evie was in the next compartment sat at the table, legs crossed at the ankle leaning over a small, leather wrapped book. He instantly recognized it as the one Elisabeth's father had hidden away. Her brow was kitted in concentration as she poured over the minute writing filling each page, but the expression turned more into a scowl of frustration as he pulled up a chair taking a seat across the table.
"Is the book giving you resistance?" he said
Evie let out a frustrated growl, and pushed the book away.
"This thing truly is a nuisance," she said. Jacob raised an eyebrow at her outburst. A smirk drew across his lips.
"Never thought I'd hear your reproach of a book, sister."
"Jacob, I'm not in the mood for your antics."
"Come now, what has gotten you this riled up?"
Her jaw clenched as she shot him a glare across the table. By the look in her eyes, and the way she drew her breath, he was quite sure she was about to tell him off. He was curious to her troubles though, and kept a keen eye on her, shrouded under a face of indifference. She halted her hastened reply and closed her mouth, eying him with a calculating expression. Her hand rested on the table, one finger tapping agitatedly against the tablecloth as she bit her lip, thinking.
"I just can't make any sense of it," she said, flinging a hand in the direction of the book without dignifying it with a second glance. In Evie's world, that was as good as admitting defeat. Bested by a book; her home turf.
Jacob waited for her to continue.
"I was so sure; there would be something in there… I mean why risk everything, the journey, his daughter, and his own life if there wasn't anything in there?"
Evie stared at the book with contempt. Jacob reached for it and flipped it open in his hand. The scribbles were in a minute and untidy hand, the letters bunched together and overlapping. He flipped through it and inspected the binding. All edges neat and even, no signs of it having been tampered with. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If the book were hiding a secret, it would be within the text. He closed it and placed it back on the table.
"I'm sure you'll find something-"
"I've been through it three times, Jacob." Her finger started tapping the table top again. She pointedly avoided meeting his gaze. Shrugging her shoulders, she sighed exasperatedly. "It's just so excruciatingly slow," she looked at the book and frowned in distaste, "…and badly written; I mean listen to this." She snatched the book and read aloud:
"These object come to us for ages, and we have an obligation to secur futur genrations also have opportun to study, as we do now. – It's a nightmare!"
Evie took pleasure in a well-written piece, the fluent language of an experienced writer. This text littered with errors was stinging her ears. He held his tongue until he trusted his voice to hold no trace of mirth before he spoke.
"Topic seems dead on, though. He's talking about artefacts isn't he?"
"The entire book is about artefacts, or mostly at least; finding them, their preservation, the copying of them. The man was some kind of archaeologist or curator at a museum." Evie rubbed her eyes. "There's nothing about the shroud, though, or of cloth or textile of any kind."
She fell silent, and Jacob mulled the information ower. If she had poured through the text three times, surely she would have found it, if the clue were there.
"Then why continue?" Jacob was wary. Wary she was chasing wild geese, leaving him to deal with London.
"It might be something else entirely; another Eden fragment. There is something in there. I'm sure there is!" Fervent will laced her voice, as if threatening the book for its hidden meaning to show itself. He watched her scowl towards the book and the determined set of her jaw. Her belief could not come merely from faith in Elisabeth's father. The fact that she was not sharing just meant that whatever evidence she had, was threadbare.
"And how is that? How do you 'know'?"
She threw him a glance, measuring his interest and weighing her options. His patience with research was in short supply and she was clearly calculating whether confiding in him the straw of evidence she was clutching was worth sharing or if he would see it as a reason to quit the trail.
"There's this one section…," she said. Her eyes met his, a challenging glare, willing him to dispute her conviction. She reached for the book, flipping through the first few pages, then turned it around and splayed it out before him, pointing to the text.
The page was different from the others. It started with a large "A" in abundant calligraphy in the corner, like the illuminated bibles and ancient Holy Scriptures. The book itself though, was not that old. He looked to where Evie was pointing in the text.
'What are the basic skills we should teach our childeren? To know right from wrong, to follow the teachings of the good Lord in all our strife, to reed and write…'. The text went on lecturing, and Jacob did not see it holding any grater meaning. He frowned. If that was her only clue, then she was surely wasting their time.
Lifting his gaze back up, Evie was staring at him intently.
"Before you say anything, look at the calligraphy," she said.
Irritation was spreading like an itch through his veins, but he held his tongue and looked back at the text. The 'A' was wrought in elaborate swirls crossing and interlacing in a willowy pattern of thin, measured lines, bearing every sign of an educated hand. The lines came together at the bottom, joining the legs of the letter in an arch. He knew what she was aiming at. The resemblance to the Assassins symbol was there, he had to admit, however it could just as well have been a quirk of the artist. He rifled through the book again. There were a few more calligraphies throughout the book, though no more A's. Nothing to compare it to.
Well. That's enlightening, he thought. And this is what she bases her search on. He was not impressed.
"Do you see it?" The glare he sent in her direction convinced her he did not. She sighed again, impatiently.
"What are the basic skills we teach our children?" Jacob was at the end of his patience. There were matters more urgent than deciphering the rantings of a pious archaeologist. Evie looked at him expectantly, but he was in no mood to humour her.
"Hide in plain sight, Jacob. He is basically telling us it's right before us. We just have to see it."
"This is what you base a search on? Clues that could mean anything or nothing at all. For all you know, Elisabeth's father might have been wrong! And while you waste your time, the Templars are scheming."
"Just forget it, Jacob. I knew I should never have involved you."
"I'm glad you did; you convinced me it's useless. Now put that thing away, and find something more productive to do!"
She looked back at him, cold and measuring. Her finger that had been tapping against the table, stopped as she flipped open her watch.
"I have an appointment with Clara. I should go."
She rose from her seat, picked up the book and placed it back on the shelves. Then she crossed over to the dresser to stock her tool belt.
Jacob was seething. His eyes were burning holes in Evie's back, but she ignored him. Typically Evie. She gave no promise to leave the book and the search for the Eden fragments alone. She would pick up where she left off when he was gone. And he would be left to deal with the Blighters alone.
Blighters… guns… Suddenly he remembered why he was there. Evie was in the corner, putting on her coat and strapping on her gear in sharp movements. Buckling on the gauntlet, she was nearly ready, when he spoke.
"Evie…"
The look she shot him was not hostile, though held its weight, letting him know she had no intention of being bullied around.
His jaw clenched involuntarily at the challenge in her glare, before he got a grip on himself again. This was more important than their squabbles.
"The Blighters are obtaining firearms. The number of guns amongst them are growing. Rapidly," he said. The defiance in her eyes gave way to concern, then shrewd interest.
"You haven't picked up rumours of it? Shipments, or transports or anything?"
He shook his head, and Evie frowned.
"That's odd," she said. "Transports like that are usually heavily guarded." Her eyes turned to him. "When did you learn of it?"
"Your ambush, the other day; that's when I first noticed."
She searched her mind's eye; looking past the memory of their fight witch had stolen her attention that day and realised he was right.
"Me and the Lads have talked to Rooks throughout the boroughs today. It's the same everywhere. The Bighters are arming themselves. Have you heard anything, Evie? Rumours or talk of guns?"
She shook her head slowly, then decisively.
"No," she said. "Nothing that sticks out comes to mind."
He knew she understood the severity of the situation. They had to get to the bottom of it quickly, or risk losing territory to the Blighters.
"Why don't you join me? We'll ask Clara if any of the urchins have heard anything."
They got off at the next station and walked through the streets in silence, Evie always half a step in front. He preferred it that way, having her back and an overview of their surroundings. Her straight back held a proud, reassured posture. Combined with her unusual attire, she stood out in the crowd, drawing the eyes of passers by, the men specifically. She had learned to ignore it, or maybe she just failed to notice, too long acquainted with the feeling. He never would, though, and meeting the gaze of the men ogling his sister, they shortly withdrew their eyes receiving his sinister glare.
Evie flicked a gaze over her shoulder.
"Will you stop that!" she breathed through clenched teeth.
"What?" He of course knew what she aimed at.
"Stop it Jacob. They might ogle, but then forget they have ever seen me. You're making sure the impression sticks in their minds."
Jacob huffed. He never liked the way society reacted to Evie, but of course, she was right. Grumbling, his eyes flicked ahead, ignoring the stares and walking on in silence.
Clara was at her usual spot in Babylon alley, and came over as soon as she saw the assassins approaching.
"Miss Frye, Mr Frye, how may I be of service?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her eyes shone bright and the gaze fixed on Evie was that of an old soul; shrewd and alert, too mature for a child her age. From what little Evie had managed to gather, Clara had had to fend for herself from a very young age. Now, at ten she took care of others as well.
"Always ready to serve, aren't you, Clara?" Jacob held her unwavering gaze, smiling.
"For my most important business partners? Always." There was no note of teasing in her voice.
Jacob's smile stretched into a grin. Some business, he thought. Clara and her urchins served the Assassins with information; in return, they freed children from factories who kept them enslaved or on odd occasions payed her coin.
Evie cleared her voice.
"Clara, there is a Templar I need to find. He has most likely gone underground, somewhere in the city. Can you keep an ear out for me? Find out where he is staying?"
"Certainly. I will tell my associates if you will give me a name?"
"His name is Louis Blake, but Clara, only listen. I do not want anyone near him; he is dangerous."
Moreover, if he is startled, he'll be even harder to find. Jacob thought.
"Miss Frye is not to worry. My associates know what to do. Now... as for the price." The girl spoke in seriousness, but Jacob had to contain a smile. This little person was a fierce negotiator for her size. He had tried to haggle with her before, feeling the added toll of another set of missions were a deviation to their goal. That had turned out to be futile; the girl knew her own worth. She would not sell herself short and Jacob would not stoop so low as to intimidate a little girl. After discovering the conditions the children were working under, though, he regretted ever having put up an argument. He would have done the missions anyway. It was not child labour; it was slavery, pure and simple. In any case, Jacob stopped haggling the price.
Even so, Clara always made a separate deal with every job. She portrayed the statue of a serious businesswoman.
"There is a brewery in City of London; he Wolfshead Brewing Company. There are children there working long hours without any other pay than a few scant meals. Free the children, and we will provide the information you need." She tilted her head, fixing Evie in her gaze and extended a hand.
"Do we have a deal?" she said.
"I will see to it at once, Clara."
Jacob watched the girl's face break into a smile for a second, her features softening and her eyes beaming. Those momentary smiles of achievement were the only times she ever looked her own age. Then her business mask came back on and she turned her attention to Jacob. Slightly more reserved she awaited his request. It seemed she never would relinquish the memory of their first encounter.
Schooling his face in serious folds, he addressed the girl.
"I'm I need of your assistance as well. There's a new threat looming. The Blighters are receiving guns from somewhere, and we don't know where. Have you heard anything?"
There was a curious twinkle in her eyes.
"None of your little black birds heard anything?" she said and tilted her head again. There was a nerve in this girl unlike anything he had ever seen. Evie might have come close when she was of that age, but he sensed another sort of will in Clara. A smug grin pulled across her mouth as her gaze lowered, before she looked back up at him from under her lashes.
"No wonder," she said. "Grownups never really listen, nor do they notice. I know you have been through the boroughs today."
By the satisfaction in Clara's eyes, his face must have shown evidence of the surprize he felt. He registered Evie's snort of amusement at his side and clenched his jaw in indignation. This girl should not be able to catch him off guard, nor keep a track of the Rooks business the way she did.
His gaze lay heavily on her face, irritation rolling off him in waves. The girl relented her teasing.
"Relax Mr. Frye. Grownups never pay us urchins any heed. Your secrets are safe with us."
It had better be, he thought. If the Templars even had an inkling to what Clara knew, she would be in grave danger.
"As to your question, Mr. Frye, I have no leads to give you, but my associates are already working at it."
That was the advantage to the girl's proficiency; she wasted no time getting to work. Jacob inclined his head.
"Thank you, Clara. How can I repay you?"
She eyed him with a twinkling, calculating gaze.
"Right now, there is nothing I need your help with. I will settle with the promise of your aid for another time."
An unusual request form Clara. He held back a frown. Knowing there was no haggling on the price, he accepted with a nod.
"My aid will be yours."
"That's settled then. My associates know how to find you."
Jacob rolled his eyes. Of course.
"…when we know something, so will you."
Good day to you Miss Frye, Mr. Frye!"