Joanna Bourne - My Lord and Spymaster

Sebastian Kennett’s men were inside, in the lobby. The pair sat on the wood bench, under the eye of a disapproving porter, deciphering their way, word by word, through the London Times.

The British Service was there. Invisible. A street sweeper. A waiter smoking in front of the tavern. Two men checking a pile of crates, dressed like bank clerks, muscled like jungle animals.

They were the only ones who saw her slip out the back. It took her half an hour to lose them.

SHE’D ALWAYS LIKED ROOFS. SHE LIKED BEING UP high. There was a whole city up here nobody knew about but chimney sweeps and thieves. Miles of slanting, topsy-turvy roads ran over the gables, across balconies, and up and down chimneys and fences. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Safer than the streets, if it came to that. Her own private London. This was one more thing she gave up when she went respectable.

She’d left her cloak and her woman’s clothes with Doyle, at the bottom of a drainpipe two houses down. Might as well lay a ladder up to a house as run a drainpipe. Doyle said if she was going to climb that, why didn’t she just jump off Tower Bridge and spare him the apprehension. A fine man to work with, Mr. Doyle.

It was a regular turnpike for cats up here. A fair treat to crawl across.

She squatted on the cornice, keeping low to the roof so she didn’t make an outline on the sky. She wore a black scarf wrapping her hair and soot-colored trousers and shirt. If somebody spotted her, she was small enough to pass for a sweep.

Over there, on the other side of the alley, was Eaton Expediters. The jump across was seven feet, give or take.

A solid company. The Captain was only one of the shippers who ran paperwork through Eaton, using them to keep records instead of hiring clerks of their own. He should set up his own premises, though. Kennett Shipping had got to be the size it needed a general manager who stayed ashore and looked after the cargo. Somebody should talk to Sebastian about that.

“It’ll be interesting to see his books, anyway. He’s highly profitable.”

The bag at her back wriggled and listened.

“I might clear him. I have four of the dates secrets were lifted from the War Office. If he didn’t have any ships sailing out of London right then, he’s clear. Cinq ships his secrets to France, fast as he can peel ’em loose from Whitehall.”

Eaton’s roof was a steep bit of slate. Nothing more slippery than old slate. And she couldn’t rig up a safety line. Everywhere here was rotten stone all through and mortar crumbling like cheese. Disgraceful, really, the way people neglected their chimney pots.

Seven feet. She’d made hops worse than this when she was a kid. Of course, she’d had a partner then, helping out, handling the rope. It was harder, doing this alone. That last time, the time when she fell, she’d been alone, going home after a job.

She wasn’t going to think about that.

“Trouble is, the Captain’s got just a mort of ships. Always some Kennett ship in the Thames. It’s not going to be that easy.”

He’s not going to lock me up. The British Service isn’t finished playing games with me.

The Captain thought the scum of the dock were dangerous. Did he want her dealing with Colonel Reams? That was the other choice. Reams slicked his way in and out of her office, promising to help Papa, promising to give her that list of dates the secrets walked out of the War Office. If she married him.

“I can deal with Reams,” she told Kedger. “If it comes to that. I have a plan.” But it was chancy. She didn’t like to take risks.

And Reams was a woodland violet compared with what she’d have to face after that. “Always a challenge, innit?”

It was a fine day for burglary. The sky was blue, with clouds piled up way off to the west, looking thwarted. She could see a slice of the Thames from here, raw gold, bright as a mirror. South-facing windows flashed squares of light back to the sun.

Everybody thought burgling was done at night. A fair amount was, of course, but folks are particularly unwary in the daytime. They leave the world unlocked and simplify matters for thieves.

“Time to get going. Those clouds aren’t going to hold off forever.”

The black bag she had slung under her arm gave a squirm and a wiggle. Kedger’s nose peeked out. A ferret at work, sniffing the air. Silent though. He knew to keep quiet when she was on a job.

“If Kennett’s Cinq, the money’s going to show up in his books.” She skritched the top of Kedger’s head. “And I’ll find it. I am England’s expert on skullduggery in accounting.”

Right. Kedger nodded.

“I don’t think he’s Cinq. I wouldn’t feel like this, if he was Cinq.”

She stretched, loosening up her muscles. That was enough to startle a shirring of sparrows into the sky. The soffits and railings were always full of sparrows, hopping back and forth, changing places for no reason. The dozens she’d roused took off and headed for the river. Higher up, another sort of bird was whooping around in the sky. Martins? Maybe those were Martins. No telling why Martins and Robins had a human name and the rest of the birds didn’t. The air could be full of Georges and Clarences and Prunellas if they gave birds proper names.

Whatever birds they were, the five of them were making free with the air, dancing on the wind, practicing their art. Grabbed her breath away, it did, they were so beautiful.

It’d been a good few years since she made a jump like that. “I can do this. I used to do it all the time.”

A squeak from the bag at her side. Kedger agreed. Not being a toady. Really meaning it.

She should have spent more time watching birds. Cheerful little buggers, birds. They enjoyed themselves when they flew. They loved it.

She paced off her running space. Four strides. Left, right, left, right. Easy enough. She kicked an old pigeon nest away and watched it fall, end over end. A long way down.

The last time she’d been on a roof, she’d been headed home, working her way down a line of old warehouses, when the slates broke. She slid down into an old airshaft and it collapsed in on top of her. It took them two days to find her. The rats found her first.

Don’t think about that.

A clear and beautiful day over the roofs. Almost no wind at all. Couldn’t be nicer weather.

Kedger was getting impatient. Not a ferret who took the long view, Kedger. She closed him in and slung the bag to the center of her back, where he’d be safe. She tightened straps here and there. Nothing flapped in the breeze. She looked across the alley. No hurry. No hurry at all.

It hurts when you fall. Hurts like the end of the world. She’d been alone, except for the rats. And the Dark. Toward the end, the Dark started talking to her.

Don’t think about it.

Papa never let her climb roofs after she went to live with him, not even for fun. She used to sneak out sometimes. She admitted it afterwards, of course, and he about yelled her ear off. Probably fathers were always strict with their daughters. She should have left him a letter in case she . . .

It was bad luck, leaving that kind of letter.

There’s only the sky and the wind and where to put your feet. Nothing else.

Lazarus used to say, if you don’t enjoy burgling, you should give it up. No reason to do it if it wasn’t fun. I’m going to enjoy breaking into your books, Captain. Oh, yes. Show you what it feels like.

She felt light, at times like this. Felt like she was floating inside, clean and empty, and the sky was made of crystal. This was what the birds had.

She gathered herself together and set her eyes on the other side. She rocked, like a cat getting ready to spring. The moment snapped into place. She uncoiled.

One. Two. Three. Four. Her last step struck square and hard on the overhang of the cornice. She threw herself.

And slammed into cold slate on the other side. A narrow, black instant of pain split the sunlight. The slate trembled and beat beneath her. She held on to the slant of the roof.

With a cold, terrifying ripple, she slid.

And stopped. Her bare toes caught and held.

Her skin sucked into the crevices of the roof. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. The roof was promontories of slate, valleys of shingle. She grew like moss. She was part of the roof. The wind swept past her with a cold whistle.

Don’t think. Pigeons flapped inches above her head and she didn’t blink.

She held on to the roof with her breath and the curve of her cheek. Inching slow as a snail. Slow as the crawl of the sun. No hurry. All the time in the world.

All the time in the world. All the time . . . And at the end she stretched and cupped her fingers over the lip of the fine, sturdy, ornamental pediment of Eaton Expediters and turned her grip to iron.

Got it! A handhold. Give her one solid handhold and she could climb Buckingham Palace.

Time started again. She dragged herself up and over the parapet and dropped onto the damp leaves that collected in the angle of the roof. Safe now. She put her forehead on her knees and hugged herself together. She’d just sit for a while. I am out of practice.

“Cut that one close, didin I?” she whispered. “Lazarus would’ve boxed my ears.”

The sack at her back grumbled and shifted, calling itself to her attention. The Kedger was miffed at her. Got miffed easy, Kedger did.

“All rug now. Sorry for the rough ride.” She jerked the knot on the drawstring. “Off you go, chum. Enjoy yerself.” Kedger was an arc of scuttling gray, up and over the roof peak, galloping down the other side. When they got inside Eaton’s, he’d tell her what rooms were empty and which ones had somebody behind the door. He’d warn her if anyone was coming. No surprises when she had Kedger for a lookout.