08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

She glanced up at Moor, a big outline on the wagon’s seat, reins in his hands. She glanced at Tallow, perched beside him, rain beaded on his oversized oilskin. She almost asked again if they were sure they wanted to do this. But there’s a time when doubts might do some good. A time to chew over the risks and the consequences. Then a moment passes. A moment you might not even notice. Then it’s too late, and you’ve got to commit, and give it everything with no backward glances.

‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

Grise caught her arm in the darkness. ‘What about them?’ And she jerked her head towards the two bedraggled nightwatchmen either side of the foundry’s gate, faces pinched in the light of their own lanterns.

‘They’re paid.’

‘You paid the fuckers?’

‘It’s easier to shift a man with gold than steel, and it almost always ends up cheaper.’ And before Grise had the chance to answer, Vick struck out across the street, head down, collar up.

She glanced each way, but the drizzle was on their side, the lane almost empty. The blood thudded in her head as she walked to the gate. Fear creeping up her throat and making her want to rush, want to shout. She told herself she’d been in tighter corners and knew it was true. She kept her breaths deep, her steps slow.

‘Got a delivery for you,’ she said, shocked by how calm her own voice sounded.

The nightwatchman lifted his lantern to get a look at her and Vick narrowed her eyes at the glare. He knocked on the gates and there was the clatter of a bar being lifted. They took deliveries all night here. Nothing to remark upon.

‘Let’s go!’ called Vick, and Moor gave the reins a flick, brought the wagon across the muddy street and through into the darkened yard. Coal heaps and wood stacks were gloomy ghosts, glistening with wet. The side of the shed loomed up, cliff-like, the angry gleam of fires beyond the windows.

Moor called softly to the big carthorse and slipped on the brake, handed the reins to Tallow. Sibalt clambered down from the back of the wagon, wiping his hands on his leather apron.

‘Working so far,’ he muttered as he walked with Vick to the great foundry door.

‘So far,’ she said. The big padlock had been left open and she slid it from the hasp, planted her hands on the big handle next to Sibalt’s. His hands and hers, side by side. They heaved together, wheels clattering as the door slid open.

A waft of heat spilled from inside. The furnaces, and the engines, and the forges still giving off a welcoming glow. It’d never be cold in here, never be dark. Vick picked out the black outlines of the ironwork. The skeleton of the building. The pillars where they’d pack the powder.

She started back towards the wagon as Sibalt slid the door all the way open. Grise had already unlashed the tarp and dragged it away, the barrels showing underneath.

‘All right,’ hissed Vick at her, ‘let’s get that first one—’

Light flooded the yard and they all stood frozen, blinking in the glare. Hooded lanterns, suddenly opened all around them. Grise on the back of the wagon, rope in her hands. Moor with fingers hooked under the first barrel. Tallow holding the reins, his eyes bigger than ever. Sibalt in the wide doorway of the foundry.

That fast, their plans turned to shit.

‘Hold!’ bellowed a voice. ‘In the name of His Majesty!’

The big carthorse startled, dragged the wagon screeching forwards with its brake on. Grise tumbled over the side.

Moor stood, letting go of the barrel and snatching up a hatchet.

Tallow gave a high shriek. Not even a word.

There was a clicking, a fluttering. Bolts thudded into the wagon’s side. Thudded into Moor, too.

Vick was already running. She caught Sibalt and dragged him into the foundry. They wove between the engines, the wagons, the rails, as they whipped up from the firelit gloom. Sibalt gasped as he slipped and went bowling into some crates, lengths of metal scattering across the stones with a clash and clang.

She helped him up, nearly falling herself, pulled him on, her breath and his hissing and wheezing, their slapping footfalls echoing from the roof high above. She glanced back, saw lights twinkling, a flicker of movement, heard shouts in the darkness.

She gasped as something caught her head – a dangling chain, left swinging in her wake. A few more steps and Sibalt grabbed her by the elbow, dragged her down into a shadowy space between two great iron tanks. She was about to ask why when she saw the lights ahead. Heard the footsteps. They were closing in from both sides.

‘They were waiting,’ whispered Sibalt. ‘Knew we were coming.’

‘Who told ’em?’ hissed Vick.

There was something strange about his face in the half-light. She was used to seeing him weighed with worries, now he looked like his load had been lifted. Vick glanced down and saw he had a dagger in his fist, the orange of the furnaces glinting along its edge. She drew away a little on an instinct. ‘You don’t think it was me?’

‘No. But it doesn’t matter.’