A really long chapter this time, a compensation for the long wait. Plan to finish the NeXT chapter within the month, hopefully sooner and then start uploading some of the Chapters that were posted earlier, but were taken down for polishing. Thank you for sticking With this story and following. There is still more to come. I promise! Now I hope you will enjoy.

John's fingers, curled around a half-empty tankard of ale was slowly tapping an irregular beat, his head turned and eyes drawn to the sound of the kitchen door opening downstairs. Jacob watched the reluctant smile crossing his face at seeing Charles straightening in his chair by the kitchen stairs, only to slump back against his seat again when one of the younger women emerged up the stairs, the way he had already done nearly a dozen times. John turned back and found Jacob's gaze.

"Poor sod," he mumbled, his eyes filled with mirth and pity in equal measures.

"Mm," Jacob conceded. "He has certainly fallen hard." Amusement pulled at the corner of his mouth and he swallowed it down with a mouthful of ale as Charles gaze raked ignorantly over the crowd in their direction.

"Do you think she will ever give in?" John's lopsided grin widened a fraction as Jacob re-emerged.

Jacob shrugged, but his voice was laced with humour as he answered. "With her; who can tell?" he said, and John huffed a quiet laugh into his tankard.

It was late evening, the warmth of a good meal set in his stomach and the familiar buzz of Rooks enjoying ale and leisure time pleasantly relaxing. Elisabeth had already gone to bed, knackered after a gruelling day of laundry and Jacob had half a mind to join her, however there was still ale in his tankard and he opted to stay. By his side, John leaned back on his seat and propped his legs upon the table with a contented sigh.

Just then, the entrance door was thrown open and a guard came trudging through the room, weaving his way between the tables. In front of him was a rather intimidated looking boy, forced along by the scruff of his neck. Both were soaked to the skin. The light summer drizzle had been falling steadily all afternoon, and seemed intent on continuing well into the night. The temperature seemed placidly enough and the guard did not seem bothered, but the boy was shivering in his boots, though possibly not due to cold.

"Boss," the guard said and pushed the lad forward. "This insolent rascal was caught sneakin' through the gate. Says 'e 'as a message for ya'."

Jacob turned in his seat to face the boy, a scrawny figure in a jacket too long and trousers that were tattered and dirty. His hands fidgeted nervously with a cap, clutched tightly in his hands as he took in the intimidating crowd with wide eyes.

"I- I'm sorry, Mr. Frye. I meant no disrespect," he said flicking a glance toward the guard. "S-she said to deliver the message in person."

The guard sneered and the boy swallowed hard and snapped his eyes back to his hands. Jacob's lip quirked.

Evie sometimes sent messages through urchins, and finding the Rooks untrustworthy, she insisted on direct contact. It wasn't the first time a guard caught an urchin trying to sneak in. So far, none had managed the feat of entering undetected and that did keep the guards on their toes.

Evie's messages usually meant a disruption of a night with the lads though, and he was slightly peeved. He set the tankard down on the table, rested forearms on knees and leaned forward to catch the boy's attention.

"What does she want, lad?" he said in a slightly disgruntled tone.

The boy's gaze flickered bewildered and his anxiety dissipated in surprise.

"You did want to know of guns didn't you?" he blurted and Jacob's heart altogether skipped a beat. He had expected Clara would need a few days to dig up information. He expected it would require eavesdropping and sneaking around. After all, the Rooks had turned up with nothing. Yet it had not been more than a few hours, and here was a boy talking of guns.

Beside him, John's feet slammed onto the floor as he straightened in his seat. Eyes locked on the boy, he quietly put his half-empty tankard down. Jacob's gaze lingered on the boy a second longer, before he tilted his head and addressed the guard standing alert behind him.

"Thanks, Gary," he said quietly. "I'll take it from here."

The guard nodded and shot a final glare at the boy before returning to his post outside. Jacob polished off the rest of the ale with no further ado. John was already on his feet and scanning the crowd. Whistling sharply between his teeth, he caught Tom's attention across the hall and signalled to follow with a flick of an arm. The boy's gaze flickered between the men, anxiety returning tenfold with the abrupt reaction.

"I-I thought…" he started, but Jacob broke him off.

"Not here," he said quietly.

Intelligence and news were for a few select ears only until its significance was assessed and measures could be plotted. Raising to his feet Jacob put a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and steered him towards the kitchen stairs.

Mrs. Cutler was just finishing up in the kitchen when they entered. She eyed the fretting boy without a change of expression, keeping whatever surprise she felt to herself.

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Frye, I really didn't mean no disrespect!" the boy plead, trying to shirk out of his firm grip. He had completely lost his bottle, mistaking Jacob's reaction as offended and panicking at what consequence would follow. He probably regretted ever setting foot on the base. Even if Jacob and the Rooks had a favourable reputation among the urchins, there were other stories going around as well, rumours of what happened between Rooks and Blighters and the urchins were bound to pick them up. Jacob recognized the rising panic in the boy and moved to interfere.

Turning him around, he lowered to one knee, meeting his gaze at eyelevel.

"Calm down," he said. "No one is going to hurt you." He seemed to settle a bit at that, though continued to fidget with the cap as Jacob steered him toward the end of the kitchen table where the kitchen range reached with soothing warmth.

Tom walked into the room in long hastened strides. He regarded the urchin shortly and tossed a questioning glance in Jacob's direction. "This one of Clara's kids, then?" he said.

"Yup" John said as he drew out a chair. "That woman sure as hell's efficient."

Tom sat down next to John and Jacob turned a chair, sitting down back to front on the other side. Three sets of eyes on the child, he cringed and seemed to shrink as Jacob addressed him.

"What's your name, lad?" he said.

"Benjamin Smith, sir." The boy's voice was a mumble, his neck bent in relent and staring into the table, still expecting punishment for impertinence.

Questioning him in that state of mind would do no good. Urchins were fickle, most had had to lie their way out of a tight spot more than once and could, if threatened concoct a mix half-truths and fantasy and real intelligence with ease. Picking out worthwhile information would be a nightmare.

Jacob's gaze flitted across the room in grim consideration. Mrs. Cutler had finally finished for the night, but was quietly waiting and watching from across the room. A small smile broke on his lips as the solution appeared in his mind.

"Mrs. Cutler," he said, addressing the woman in an unusually formal tone. "Do we have some dinner for our guest?"

That was her que, it seemed; what she had been awaiting. Her eyes twinkled good-naturedly as she answered in the same sombre seriousness.

"I believe we do, Mr. Frye. And some bread, maybe?"

The effect the interaction had on the boy was formidable. His chin shot up, his eyes flicking between Jacob and Mrs Cutler, his eyes wide and hopeful at the prospect of food.

"Perfect," Jacob said, catching the suppressed grins from John and Tom. "And some ale, Mrs Cutler, if you please."

"Certainly, sir."

"So," he said and turned his gaze to the boy. "Clara sent you?"

Ben nodded sharply.

"Clara told me to come here. I meant no offence to your guard, Mr Frye, but Clara told me to bring you the message in person."

Jacob's eyes twinkled, and the two Rook's mouths drew up in crooked grins at the abrupt change into eager and forthcoming. Jacob waved him off as Mrs Cutler put tankards of ale on the table and returned to her chore.

"Don't worry about Gary, lad. Clara was right. Now, what news do you have for me?"

"You wanted to know about guns…", he started and his gaze flitted between the men and his cheeks turned slightly pink. "I mean… I'm not sure it is what you want to know," he said, casting another gaze between the men before turning it to his hands, clutching the cap. "… but I found it strange, and Clara said it was probably…"

Tom coughed, and the boy halted the incoherent story, his eyes grazing his company with apprehension as his mouth snapped shut. He swallowed hard.

Intimidation was a great tool in the right setting, and a big hurdle in others. Clearing his voice, Jacob caught the boys gaze.

"Ben," he said, "just tell us everything you know. Let us worry over the importance."

"Sorry Mr. Frye. I'll start at the beginning." The boy sighed, gathering his thoughts.

"Do you know the former Colt factory? The one at Bessborough Place?" Ben started.

Jacob nodded quietly. He knew the general history of the place. The factory set up by colonel Colt in the early 50'es, a model factory with prime working conditions and solid wages, even for the unskilled workers. It had run up until the time when Jacob's father had returned to England, when the end of the Crimean war and a favour of 'flying the flag' halted the sales, and Colt took the business back to America. After that, there had been only one arms manufacturer left in London, the London Armour, but that too had gone bankrupt a couple of years back.

"I usually sleep there, by an air outlet where the warm air exits. The heat is enough to fend off the morning cold. It's a good spot, and I have it all to myself."

Jacob nodded, acknowledging the quality it represented. A secluded spot on high ground meant security and the warmth was an added trait. The place probably offered a nice overview of his surroundings as well and Jacob wondered if that was the reason why he had come; that he had seen something.

"I thought I would lose the spot, once, when the foreman found me," Ben continued, "but instead he gave me a piece of bread and let me stay."

The smell of food warming on the stove was slowly growing in the room and the boys eyes were drawn away.

"The Armour has been my home ever since," he finished absentmindedly.

Something ticked in Jacobs mind and he frowned.

"The Armour?" he said. "I thought you were talking about the old Colt factory?"

Ben's ears went slightly pink as he turned back.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "It's called the London Small Arms Company, but the workers just call it the Armour. You see, most of them came from the London Armour, and founded the small Arms company when the London Armour went out of business."

Jacob's senses seemed to sharpen.

"There's still an arms factory in London?" he said, sensing Tom and John were sitting on the edge of their seats awaiting the answer. Three sets of eyes were now keenly trained on the boy.

He nodded.

Meeting the lads gaze across the table, Jacob knew they were just as struck by dread and urgency as himself. This was the key piece to their puzzle. The scales weren't just tipping in the wrong direction, they were about to topple all together. The Templars were acquiring a bloody arms factory. A desperate plea filled his soul, that they weren't too late, that the scale's movement could still be stopped and turned.

"It's a small business," the boy offered matter-of-factly, as he seemed to miss the silent exchange between the men. "Since they lost the army contracts they mostly cater posh guns for the toffs."

Jacob clenched the tankard in his hand lifting it to his mouth. The factory was outside primary gang territory, neither Blighters nor Rooks ruled there, and the reason why there had been no forewarning suddenly made sense. Placed within the city, there was no need for shipping the guns. Watching the docks would have never given a forewarning because the weapons were likely transported by carriage.

"It is still a model factory, owned by the workers," Ben said. He lifted his head again in search for Jacob's eyes, "but the last couple of weeks something's been off."

Jacob held the boys gaze above the rim of his tankard. 'Two weeks. How many guns were made in that amount of time? How many guns had the Blighters obtained?' he thought and noted Tom and John were equally stiff in anticipation across the table.

"What do you mean, 'off'?" he asked, a neutral tone coaxing the boy on.

Bens gaze suddenly turned wavering and unsure, and the pink flush spread back across his cheeks.

"The workers… they never smile anymore, they stopped talking, too. It's like all the joy has gone from their work."

He watched Jacob, searching his face for confirmation of understanding.

"I think they are afraid." His face turned pink again. It was the explanation of a child, frantically trying to convey his worry and frightfully aware grownups rarely heeded such.

Jacob needed no convincing. This was the best clue they had to how the Blighters were able to acquire the guns undetected. The boy worried his explanation would not be enough, though, and fidgeted with the cap sitting in his lap.

"I believe you Ben," he said. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"The boy shook his head. "I'm not sure what else there is, Mr. Frye."

What he really wanted to know, was when the Blighters got their next delivery, how many guns they had already acquired. The boy knew something was off at the factory, but he had not seen the extent of his information and Jacob did not want him too either, not yet at least.

"What do you know of their routines? When does the deliveries leave the factory grounds?"

"Monday mornings, Sir. The carts are loaded Saturday, at the end of the shift, though…" the boy paused, his brows coming together in a frown as he pondered something. "A fortnight ago, there was a cart leaving in the middle of the night," he said, "and then again Saturday, last." His voice trailed off as his attention was drawn away by the waft of the warming meal again and he swallowed eyes wide with hunger.

"Saturday, today, too," John mumbled, his words casual, but the intent gaze he crossed with Jacob and Tom held urgency. Jacob pulled out his watch. It was a couple of hours until midnight. They might still have a chance to stop a third delivery.

"Think we'll have to pay the Armour a visit, lads," Jacob said. "Get the others ready, mind you, none of the inebriated, and none of the recruits. Harry is staying here as well."

Ben's attention shot to Jacob with rising trepidation as the two Rooks rose to their feet and exited, haste quickening their steps.

"Thank you, Ben, for letting us know," Jacob said and caught the boy's gaze. "You have been most helpful. Now I just like to know the name of the foreman, before I go."

The urchin paled, swallowing hard.

"H-he is a good man Mr. Frye," he stuttered. "I'm sure he would never…" his jaw clenched and his eyes acquired a defiant glow. "He is my friend," he stated.

Jacob sensed he was getting cold feet, starting to get a grip on what he had set in motion. Jacob shook his head in an attempt to level the boy's concern and put a hand back on his shoulder. From what the boy had told him, Jacob was reasonably sure the gun-maker's involvement in the sordid mess was forced. A factory owned by the workforce had little to gain from consorting with Templars. He knew the Templars way of controlling people and the toll it took on those unfortunate souls.

The reassuring grip of his shoulder tightened as the boy moved to stand, keeping him securely seated.

"It's all right, Ben," Jacob said. "We're going to help him."

The matron chose just that moment to put the warm meal in front of the boy. His eyes flitted to the bowl and back to Jacob. "Y-you swear!" he blurted, then snapped his mouth shut in surprise at the demanding tone. When he continued his voice turning pleading. "Swear you will help him, and that he will not be harmed?" he said.

"By everything I hold true," Jacob said, not an ounce of mirth in his voice, "I swear I will do anything I can to help them."

Ben regarded him seriously for a moment, clearly deliberating, then sighed. "His name is Ebsworth," he said and all resistance seemed to melt from his body. His eyes locked onto the meal and with an encouraging signal from the Matron, the boy was lost in his food.

Jacob signalled the Matron for a private word. "Make sure to keep him here until we return," he said quietly. "I don't want his cold feet trailing after us." Then he hurried out the door.

It was late when Evie neared Babylon alley to report a successful mission to Clara. The job had taken longer than she had expected, all due to snags and misfortune. Firstly, the long trek across the boroughs, dodging Blighters that seemed to constantly cross her path, then logging the number of guards just before a change of shifts and doing it all over to make sure the new ones followed the same routines. Then, when the mission was over, the kids were uneasy, rattled by the appearance of the band of Rooks, there to lead them away.

She could have just left it at that, assured them all was well and left, but somehow their unease and wide frightened eyes gnawed at her conscience, and she ended up following them all the way to the orphanage where they would stay from now on.

Her stomach growled lowly, reminding her of the overdue dinner waiting back at the train.

The light was already falling, stolen away by grey curtains of rain hung from the grey sky above. She half-expected to find the alley deserted at that hour, all the children retreated to whatever shelter they had for the night. Really, the only reason she went there at all, was because it was on the way back to the train, but when she rounded the corner, Clara was still there, pacing back and forth and watching the lengths of the alley. Her face lit up in relief when she spotted Evie, and a sense of urgency crept up Evie's back.

"Miss Frye! How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed closing the distance between them in a hurry.

"Clara, Is anything amiss?"

"We found him, Miss! There is to be a meeting in the Strand tonight, end he is going to be there but I'm afraid you are running out of time," she said.

"Where, Clara?"

"He has indeed gone underground," she said, a cheerful twinkle in her eyes. "The meeting is in the sewers beneath the National Gallery. They were supposed to meet at sundown."

All sense of hunger and fatigue were forgotten at the surge of purpose coursed through her veins. Finally! The search for the Templar had been a fruitless endeavour stretching back a fortnight. Evie was determined not to lose this oppertunity.

"Thank you Clara!" she said already backing away and breaking into a sprint.

"Say Boss… When are you going to introduce us to this 'Clara' of yours?" Liam was leaning against the side of the cart, arm relaxed against his sides as he fidgeted with a throwing knife.

The wagon rattled steadily through quiet streets toward Vauxhall Bridge and Bessborough Place. The Rooks were prepared for battle. They were finished going over arms and munitions, and now they could only wait while the horses brought them to the scene. Fighting off thoughts of the oncoming battle, they drew on a returning topic for distraction and entertainment.

Jacob's lips quirked.

"You could at least give us a description, Boss. What's she like?" another Rook said.

Jacob chewed on it for a bit, feeling the anticipating scrutiny of the lads under his gaze. The crock of his mouth drew up.

"I guess you'd say she's pretty," he said, "her hair is dark and her skin is fair, but she's not really my type."

"Ah, come on!" the exasperated expressions of Liam sitting across from him made Jacob chuckle under his breath.

"All right, all right! She has the face of an angle and a tongue as sharp as a whip. She will cut you in half if you try anything."

"Never knew you to back down from a challenge, Frye," Greg chided.

"Ah, come on! You know I don't. As I said, she's not my type." Greg wasn't going to coerce him into revealing further details. The wide grin stretching across his features stated the fact, and another one of the Rooks spoke up.

"Then why not let one of us have a chance at her?" he said.

Jacob eyed him up and down.

"I'm pretty sure you're not her type."

"She's married, then?" the Rook said.

"Nope."

The conversation generally went this way when Clara was brought up. Jacob fed them morsels of information, and they voiced theories for him to deny.

Tom's face lit up in glee.

"I know!" he said throwing a sidelong glance at the expectant faces turned his way. "She's a noble lady with her heart set on charity. Boss has charmed her nickers off with his rough and ready ways."

General sniggers travelled around the benches. Jacob chuckled.

"Not it," he said.

It was a game to pass time, a distraction from foreboding nerves and thoughts of danger. So far, none of them had come close to who and what Clara really was, but Jacob was prepared to give the same humoured reaction if they did. Clara's identity was safer when he and Evie were the only ones who knew.

"A madam of a 'disorderly house', then," John stated.

"Oh God, no!"

Darkness had fallen and the street lights were already lit as Evie entered the Stand.

She approached the National Gallery from high ground, cautiously surveying the surroundings. A short distance away, the sense of danger alerted her to a guard, flashing bright crimson in her mind like the blood they wanted to shed, his shotgun slung over his shoulder as he lazily patrolled the roof. Her side prickled, drawing her attention along the row of houses across the square to another gunman patrolling there. She halted her approach, staying absolutely still while she scanned the rest of the roof, making sure she had not missed anyone. There were no more rooftop guards and when both men were retreating, she crept to the edge of the roof. Resting on her hunches, she surveyed the ground below, counting. One, two, three… four men. Four Templar guards patrolling the grounds.

That should be easy enough.

She checked the position of the rooftop guards before turning the attention back below, studying the routs the guards moved, searched for the entrance to the sewers. It wasn't hard to spot, her interest drawn there like a magnet. That was where the meeting would be, somewhere below ground level. She stretched her senses further, reaching to feel direction and distance, trying to get a bearing of the target. She sensed the cool air and musty smell of the channels, the enclosed space… and then the feeling dwindled. She frowned as her grip on the second sense slipped. The light summer rain drizzled from the dark sky, distractingly chilling the garments against her skin. Evie threw another cautious glance at the rooftop guards and reached again. Furrowing her brow, she closed her eyes and felt the positions of the blighters ping in her mind, before the clammy feeling of sewer tunnels enveloped her. Squinting in concentration the sense of direction and purpose nevertheless soon faltered.

With a sigh, she let go the sense, pinching the bridge of her nose against an oncoming headache. It had been a long day. Her reach was a little more limited than usual, it seemed.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Evie mulled the situation over in her mind. It was an unfortunate disadvantage, making her less prepared. Should she abort? The meeting was apparently still undergoing, considering the guards patrolling the otherwise uninteresting spot. The mouth of the sewers gaped at her from across the square, as if raucously laughing and goading her. She had been on his trail a fortnight, and now she was so close, was she just going to let the chance slip? Let the Templar get away once again?

Her insides bristled with frustration. Definitely not! No reason to let the chance slip. Reaching her decision, she quickly formed a plan.

Well. Dispatch the snipers first, I guess.

The summer rain was still falling as the wagon halted in a narrow alley near Vauxhall Bridge and heavy boots thumped against the cobbled street as the Rooks dismounted. The horses were teetered to a water post in a backstreet while Jacob scaled a nearby building with an overview the factory. Tom and John followed at his heels, grunting in effort as they hauled themselves up on the roof before crouching silently at Jacob's side at the top. The streets below lay deserted and everything seemed quiet.

The Armour was shut down for the night, no smoke rising from the chimneys high above the roof. Apparently, there was no nightshift, however, at the far end of the building, there was a faint glow of light shining through the windows and someone was still there.

Jacob concentrated and opened his mind, searching the location.

The factory was silent in his mind. The place felt quiet and unthreatening like the deserted streets below. There was movement there, the dull grey of a few workers shifting, and a golden glow of interest, the foreman Mr. Ebsworth. He searched the rest of the building, but felt no Blighter presence there, nor in the nearby area. He frowned, searching the area once more to make sure nothing had escaped him and Tom sent him a sidelong glance.

He had never explicitly told the Rooks of his abilities, but Jacob suspected that at least some of the lads closest to him guessed. They never asked, though, and Jacob saw no reason to explain himself.

The light in the factory wavered slightly before resuming its faint orange glow.

"Seems we are on time, Lads. The workers are gathered inside," he said. "There are no Blighters there, but I have a feeling we'll be seeing them before long. Let's move."

They scaled down the side of the building, John and Tom following nimbly using a drainpipe and dropping down on the crates stacked along the wall in their decent.

"The workers are alone, for now," Jacob said. "When we enter, no one speaks but me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Boss." Various confirmations were muttered through the crowd.

"Remember where we are. These workers are not our enemies, but they are armed and they are wary. No matter what happens, I want all your weapons sheathed and holstered until I tell you otherwise."

The men gathered around in the darkness were all reliable and seasoned men. Tom and John had understood his request to bring only seasoned men who would not make stupid mistakes out of nervousness. The men all silently complied, tilting their heads and raising hands, before Jacob turned and set off across the street, the Rooks following at his back.

The large factory door swung smoothly open on well-oiled hinges. It made no sound until the iron bar clanged against the wall. It resonated through the vast space of the main hall as Jacob and the Rooks filed in, boots clicking against the tiled floor. The room was draped in darkness, the wheels of large steam engines looming in on both sides of the central isle. At the end, a main stair lead up to another floor and a mezzanine running along the length of the hall. Light emanated from somewhere up the stairs. It flickered and grew as someone approached, bringing along the lamp. On the mezzanine above, steps rustled quietly along within the darkness. Jacob gave a quiet sign to halt their progress.

The warm glow flickered about the hall, but left the edges draped in shadow.

Half way down the stairs, the man carrying the lamp halted. Uncertainty lined his brow and he shifted on his feet to shoot a glance toward another worker following a few feet behind.

The man regained his resolution.

"Who are you?" the man demanded. "You have no business here!" The man spoke with authority, fronting the factory's interests, suggesting he was Ebsworth, the foreman.

"Rumour is you're in a pickle," Jacob said and tilted his chin, regarding the man under the brim of his hat. "We are here to get you out."

The proclamation was met with stern disinterest as the man regarded the Rooks covering his back. Noting the green uniforms and yellow sashes, the man frowned in recognition.

"I know who you are," he said, shifting his gaze back to Jacob. "We do not require your help."

"I'm afraid you have no say." Jacob held his gaze unwavering, his hands resting atop the pommel of his cane in front of him. "We cannot chance the Templars taking control of this factory."

"No one will be taking control here, but us," Mr. Ebsworth said. On the mezzanine above, guns were suddenly cocked.

The sound was an undisputable threat, underlining the statement, and John's hand twitched beside him as his gaze flicked upward.

Jacob stared unflinchingly on.

The workers were prepared to fight for what was theirs. Jacob was pleased. He had expected as much, but to find the confirmation was reassuring. A feral smile pulled at his lip. They knew not what they were up against, and though prepared, they weren't ready.

"You were expecting someone else tonight, weren't you?" he said. "The Blighters are coming to collect a share of your profit."

The man shifted on his feet, but remained silent.

"I wonder what they charge?" he continued. "Money? Guns?"

"They wanted guns," a voice from the darkness up above shot in, "we had to give them someth-

"Quiet!" the man behind the foreman bellowed and the hall fell deathly silent.

"And what will it be next?" Jacob asked quietly. His voice still filled the room, voicing the dread of the workers strewn about in the darkness. "Your profits? Your wages? … Your livelihood?"

"We are well aware of what they are," the foreman replied dismissive, "and we are prepared to deal with it."

Jacob regarded him with cool consideration. He had counted the men lining the mezzanine in the dark. They were ten, twelve when counting the two at the top of the stairs. Though they did not bear weapons on display, Jacob was sure they were armed. Still they were nowhere near the numbers needed to take on the Blighters.

"Twelve is cutting it a little short, don't you think?" he said quietly.

The man froze.

"How ..." he gasped before stopping himself short, his gaze darkening. His hand stole to his back and in one fluid move; he produced a gun and aimed it at Jacob. The hand held the gun unwavering and true. The man was a practised shot.

"We are offering you our assistance," Jacob growled, irritation starting to rise with the level of distrust shown. Ebsworth seemed unfazed, though as he answered just as hostilly.

"Why would we accept? To exchange one heel for another? A different boot is still a boot." Freedom was a valuable thing, even more so when acquired by hard work. Again Jacobs mouth crocked with a satisfied grin.

"We have no interest in your business Mr. Ebsworth, nor will we interfere in the future, however, you are right. Our aid comes at a price. I do have two conditions."

The gaze locked on him darkened and the hand holding the gun did not drop an inch.

Jacob regarded him with quiet confidence. The man was a business man, not a killer. He would refrain from violence if possible, and Jacob was adamant to give him that chance.

"Firstly, you will swear to decline any future business with the Blighters and known members of the Templar order; I will provide a list." The man gaze remained flintily locked on him, no reaction giving away the thoughts in his mind.

"Secondly," he continued and the man shifted on his feet, brisling with contained anger.

"Secondly, you will take Ben Smith as your apprentice."

The foreman's jaw clenched, and his colleague grumbled something under his breath.

"And who exactly is Mr. Smith?" irritation was rolling off the men in waves.

"Ben is the urchin you let stay under your factory roof."

The angry stance faltered as surprise flitted through the foreman's eyes.

"The street urchin?" Cautiously he exchanged a glance with the man next to him. "What is the kid to you?"

"He is the reason I know of this threat, the reason why we're here. For that information, I owe him a debt, and when we are done here tonight, so will you." The gun was still held aloft and pointing in his direction, but the man behind it was no longer angry.

"I know you to be a decent man, Mr. Ebsworth. If you agree to these terms, we will leave you and this factory alone. Now I need an answer; do we have a deal?"

Ebsworth shared a glance with his next man, a conversation bearing no words exchanged between them before he turned back, regarding Jacob with wary consideration, before signalling affirmation with a curt nod.

The silent interaction changed the mood in the room. In the darkness above, guns were uncocked and by Jacob's side, the Rooks relaxed and let go the defensive stances.

"Well played, Frye," Tom muttered.

Jacob hummed, casting Tom a sidelong glance, before approaching the two workers now descending the stairs.

Eight Blighters were not much of a guard. The Templars confidence in keeping the meeting a secret was slightly affronting, if not unnerving. Were there other meetings the Assassins had missed, gatherings going on, despite their surveillance? Evie hoped not, but the lack of guards made her uncertain.

She scanned her surroundings again, feeling the proximity of the remaining Blighters as she crouched behind a corner. The rain drizzled steadily on, making the puddles of blood behind her indistinguishable from drenched dirt in the darkness. The bodies of the dispatched guards were well hidden, and soon, there would be little trace of the deed committed.

The Blighter posted just outside the entrance shifted quietly in the darkness. He pulled out a pocket watch and held it close, studying it in the faint light before flicking it shut strolling off as scheduled. Evie watched his back retreat and then snuck across the yard down the entrance to the sewers.

The rank smell soon filled her nose, making her want to gag. Evie breathed through her mouth and forced herself to focus, opening her mind and searching the path ahead.

There was danger down here. She felt it with every fibre of her being, Blighters patrolling the tunnels in the dark. However, the target was there as well. She felt him a distance away, purpose and direction flowing through her veins and urging her forward.

The tunnel was some sort of main pipe. Off it ran several branches in different directions, every few yards. She felt the presence of more Blighters somewhere in the dark down a tunnel leading south, but their attention was turned away, out towards a non-existent threat from the outside. The Templar presence, however, was drawing her further along the main.

She pressed on, making sure to stay out of the water running along the bottom of the tunnel. Though stealth demanded silence, the noise stepping through water made was less of a reason to stay clear than the unspeakable matter floating in the murky water.

Another tunnel branched off to the left, this one closed off with metal bars. The darkness there was empty and quiet, and Evie payed it no heed as she silently stepped forward, slowly closing in on the target.

There was a faint glow in the distance. Another couple of turns, and she would be there. Evie stopped a second and felt the surroundings again. Up ahead, there was another branch, leading off to her right, just before the main tunnel turned right and widened into a room. Something told her to choose the branch leading left. There usually were several entrances to these underground chambers to ensure water could flow freely during floods.

Her skin prickled slightly with unease. Being underground, confined to passageways with no exits was not a favoured situation. She shrugged it off and concentrated on what lay ahead instead.

Curious.

Her target seemed to be alone. Again she stopped, extending her senses and feeling her surroundings. There was only one presence in the room ahead. Evie frowned.

How odd.

Why was he alone? He had come here for a meeting, then why was there no one with him? She cast a cautious glance back whence she came in thought. None of the guards had seemed perturbed. Maybe the other Templar was running late, the fortunate reason why her target were still there?

If that was the case, they could be arriving soon.

Better move things along.

Jacob stood with his Rooks at his back, waiting as sounds drew near, metal-rimmed wheels rolling over cobbled streets and horses gait slowing to a halt outside the doors. The workers had taken positions in the darkness above. Now they shifted in nervousness, the rustling of clothes and agitated shuffle of feet giving them away. John threw the sound a glance and shared a wicked grin with Jacob. When push came to shove, the workers were probably grateful for the Rooks assistance, however initially resented.

There was a pause of silence as the arrivals outside disembarked carts and wagons before the door was thrown open, and Blighters came filing into the hall. The ranks of men wearing red halted inside the door and parted to each side straightening in attention as a couple of Templars approached between the ranks, one following just a step behind the other signalling the formers higher rank.

The Templar regarded the dark corners of the mezzanine with distaste before his eyes landed on Jacob and the Rooks. His gait faltered somewhat and his accomplice stopped; surprise evident on both faces.

Jacob's mouth stretched in a feral grin. They had turned up in numbers matching that of the Rooks, clearly anticipating resistance, though not like this, not a mass of Rooks and their leader there to greet them.

The Templar leader halted his steps, his face a stony mask of haughty indifference.

He turned his head to the upper floor and addressed the workers.

"So this is your answer, then Mr Ebsworth? You claim independence, and here we find you allied with the worst riff-raff London has to offer." His words were of little consequence. What Jacob noted tough, was the face of the man at his back, lighting up in reproachful glee. Unease settled in his gut. Anger or irritation he could fathom, but glee… The light tap of the older Templars cane to the younger's shin, equally chilling. Something was at work, and it could not bode well. Jacob blinked and reached out to his surroundings, searching for an ambush, certain that he would find one, but the darkness outside was silent and empty.

"Your business here has ended, Templar," Mr. Ebsworth growled. "Any red coat or cross that dares enter these factory grounds again will find himself facing the barrel of a gun."

The empty blackness outside did little to settle the churning feeling inside, but there was no time to ponder it as the Blighters drew their arms and barrelled forward.

Evie crept through the tunnel toward the expanse of light before her. She had just turned around the bend outside the expanding room and was approaching another branch-off opening into the room where her target was waiting. He had his back turned, standing with his arms clasped behind his back and bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

Suddenly, somewhere behind her in the dark, someone started whistling. It was an off-tune, melancholic melody, slowly rising and falling, fleeting through the tunnels in an ominous sound. It raised the hairs on her neck, partly by the threatening presence sounding suddenly close as the tones resonated between the walls, but mostly for the way it murdered the tune.

Evidently, the Templar was also unnerved by the sound. He froze, his muscles tensing, before turning his head and bellowing down the hall.

"Enough! Enough, already!"

The whistling down the tunnels stopped immediately, however, the ominous feeling it had brought, remained. The skin on her neck prickled unnervingly, and Evie turned her attention the way she came. There were Blighters there; probably the ones she felt in the branches at the start off the tunnel, however, now they were shifting around, their positions moving. The entrance behind her was blocked.

Evie cursed in her mind. She would have to find another way out.

She extended her search, feeling the passageways around her. Across the expanding room, there was a tunnel that felt right. It was another way out, though, the metal bar door closing it off, was probably locked.

No matter. The set of lock-picks in her pocket fit any lock. No closed doors were to hold her down.

The fight had ended, Blighters fleeing head over heal at the first sign that the fight was lost.

Three Rooks were dead, lying sprawled on the factory floor, a worker injured on the floor above. The older Templar dead as well, a master shot having dropped him to the floor just as the fight started, reminding Jacob that the gunsmiths were not to be trifled with. They knew their craftsmanship and how to handle and evaluate the merchandise. Moreover, from now on, they would not hold back against the Blighters. The factory would be safe, for the time being, and Jacob's attention was turned to the gnawing feeling of foreboding in his gut. Something was not right, and he was adamant to find out what, as he leaned over the second Templar.

The man was lying glassy eyed and panting, blood seeping from a deadly wound in his thigh. Jacob grabbed his lapels, raising him off the ground. The man groaned in pain, but finding Jacob's face before him a sneering laughter bubbled up his throat.

"You bloody eel," he sneered, "slippery bastards the lot of you Assassins."

"What is it?" Jacob growled, "What do you know?"

The man blinked. Deliberating, he wet his lips and swallowed.

"Your sister is an eel too," he said, "but even eels can be caught, if you just set the trap right."

Jacob felt as if his heart stopped as the man cackled in laughter.

Evie!

"Where!" he growled, but the Templar just continued laughing at his own clever joke. Jacob pressed his fingers into the wound on his leg and the laughter turned into a howl of pain. He didn't feel an ounce of remorse for the dying man as he writhed in his grip. His heart was racing, panic creeping up his spine, feeling as if time was running through his fingers, trickling away like the Templars blood. Liquid rage filled his very being, burning in his chest and bringing clear focus to his mind. He would find her, no matter what.

"Where!" he repeated, barred teeth an inch form the man's face and his grip tightening.

"It doesn't matter, Frye," the man gasped, his voice somewhere between a cry of pain and a hiccupping laugh. "Your sister will be dead before you get there, beneath the National Gallery with the other rats."

Evie! Oh please, Evie, get the hell out of there!

His fingers snatched the cane from the floor as he rose, grasping it in a deathly grip; an anchor of reassurance as he turned and bolted.