When Gods Die

“You won’t get far down here, Devlin. Not without a lantern. It’ll be dark soon. Is this what you want? To die in a sewer like a rat? For what? For a shrieking madman of a king and his bloated buffoon of a son?”

A silence fell, filled with the drip of water and the furtive scurrying of unseen rats’ feet.

Portland’s voice came again. “You know what we’re doing is right, Devlin. You saw what it was like up there. The people of England have had enough. They’re restless, angry. If we don’t act now, the people themselves will bring down the monarchy. Only, they won’t just sweep away this king, this regent. It’ll be the end of us all. We know what happened in France. Is that what you want? To see England a Republic? With a guillotine in Charing Cross and every man, woman, and child of noble birth a target?”

Sebastian could feel the damp chill of the place seeping up through the soles of his boots and wrapping around him like a fetid embrace. He glanced up at the rough bricks overhead and tried not to think about the crushing weight of the tons of earth above him.

“Join us,” Portland was saying. “You want what we want. A strong England, a strong monarchy. It can happen. All it takes is a few selfless, determined men in the right places. Tomorrow the Regent leaves for Brighton. We will simply seize control in his absence. Declare for Anne of Savoy and her husband, and present the world with a fait accompli. What can Prinny do? March on London? It won’t happen. What regiment would follow him? It’ll be the Bloodless Revolution of 1811. Join us, Devlin. It will be a historic moment.”

The Home Secretary fell silent.

“There!” said a man’s gruff voice, cutting through the darkness. “See the footprints? He’s headed toward the river.”

Sebastian splashed forward, heedless now of the noise he made. His feet slipped in the muck, his head brushing the rough bricks above. He could hear Portland and his men behind him, their feet slapping in the mud, their voices breathless. The feeble light from their lanterns bounced and flickered over the tunnel’s damp-stained walls, chasing him.

Rounding a long bend, he came upon another tunnel that angled away uphill to his right. This tunnel was both higher roofed and broader than the one he followed, and for a moment he considered taking it.

He’d long ago lost all sense of orientation. But when he hesitated at the junction, the air of the wider tunnel lay still and dead in the darkness, while a faint stirring of air seemed to waft up from below.

He followed the air.

Before he turned away from the intersection, Sebastian was careful to leave the sides of the tunnel and deliberately wade out into the sluggish stream that now trickled down the center. The water was deeper here; it would hide his footprints, mask his choice of direction.

Debris-fouled water swirled around his boots, slowing his steps and growing higher by the minute. He dared not move too quickly now: the least sound would betray the direction he had chosen. He covered another two hundred feet, three. Then the lights behind him wavered and the splashing, scrabbling sounds quieted.

Sebastian immediately drew up, holding himself perfectly still. He could hear his own breath soughing painfully in and out, so loud in his ears he wondered Portland and his men couldn’t hear it.

“Son of a bitch!” swore Portland. “Which way did he go?”

Sebastian breathed through his mouth, trying to block the stench of the place. The bloated carcass of a dead dog floated beside him. Glancing around the damp, cramped vault, he became aware of myriad eyes staring at him, glowing pinpricks of light in the darkness. More rats, he realized, scores and scores of rats.

“We’ll have to split up,” he heard Portland say. “Bledlow, you and Hank keep going ahead. Rory, you come with me.”

The splashing started up again. Cautiously, Sebastian pushed on. But he had to move more quietly than before, lest the two men still behind him become alerted to his presence and call the others back.

The tunnel he followed angled downward, becoming both broader and higher as he neared the river. He could move more easily now, walking upright rather than stooping. But the water at his feet was rising, lapping at the tops of his boots, splashing up on his thighs.

He became aware of the sound of rushing water coming from up ahead. A cold draft wafted toward him, carrying a different smell, the salty scent of the river mingling now with the acrid stench of sulfur and decay. Rounding a bend, Sebastian could see that up ahead the tunnel he followed emptied into a larger vault. Wider and flatter than the sewer he followed, the larger tunnel looked old, probably dating back to medieval times. Built of stone rather than brick, its center formed a deep culvert through which rushed a wide stream of water flowing so fast it filled the air with a soft mist.