Jack made his way back along the balcony and down the stairs as quickly as he could, retracing the run he had made the previous night in reverse. Only now his ribs ached with every breath, and his legs dragged at the hip, stiff from the beating he'd taken at Benny's.
He burst out onto Slope Street. Much emptier now - doors closed, a few torches still lit, mostly shadows and fog.
At the best of times he knew he could make it from here to the bridge in fifteen minutes. Tonight, the run to the top of the hill nearly killed him. He stopped there for a second, bent over, dragging in air.
Kate. Jane.
He pushed the thoughts away and set off again, slower - a hard jog. His side still hurt when he ran. Not sharp anymore. But still there.
The streets thinned as he went. Barely anyone around. He kept one hand on his coat as he cut corners and crossed where he could. The canal stank along this stretch - rot and river mud, the tide low, exposing the slick stone edges below.
Eventually he came up towards the bridge. He could half see it looming ahead, the details lost in fog.
He slowed as he came closer. Nothing. No movement. No figure waiting. He might already be gone.
Jack stopped, forcing himself still. He listened. A faint gurgle of water. His own breath. Nothing else.
He moved forward, slower now. Part of him was relieved the smuggler wasn't there. Part of him began to panic. The smuggler would not take kindly to being made to wait again.
Jack stepped onto the bridge - then, movement in the fog. A shape resolved out of it.
"You're late," said the smuggler. "For the second time in one night."
Jack swallowed. "It took longer than I thought. Finding it -"
"That's funny," said the smuggler. "I watched you leave earlier. Followed you for a while. You were heading uptown." A pause. "What was more important than me?"
Before Jack could answer, two men stepped out behind him. One tall and bald, the other short with long hair and a beard. Both with arms earned lifting boxes on the docks - by the smell of them anyway. They took an arm each, pinning them tight to his sides.
Jack jerked. Surprise, followed by anger. Then he forced himself to be calm. It wasn't too late to talk his way out of this.
"I have your package," he said quickly. "Inside left pocket. Just take it and we're even."
The smuggler smiled at that but said nothing. He stepped closer, his hand going into Jack's coat.
Left pocket.
He pulled the package free. "That's the first truthful thing you've said tonight."
Then he paused. His eyes shifted.
"There's more."
His hand moved again, slower this time, pressing against the shape in Jack's other pocket before reaching in. He pulled out Tully's purse. The weight of it settled in his hand.
Jack felt it - a flicker, small but real.
Relief.
The smuggler saw it.
"Most men aren't happy to hand over a purse full of crowns," he said, glancing inside. "A small fortune." He looked back at Jack. "Most men would be protesting by now. What aren't you telling me, boy?"
Jack said nothing.
"No?"
The smuggler studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, almost to himself.
"Search him."
One of the men forced Jack's arms back. The other started at his coat, working methodically. Jack felt the hands move across his chest, his sides, his pockets.
The fingers pressed in. Closer.
"Wait -"
"Hold him."
The grip tightened. Pain flared through his shoulder. The man reached in and pulled something free.
The device.
The smuggler took it, turning it over in his palm. Wood and brass. Intricate. The moonlight caught the carved symbols along its length. His expression changed. Subtle. Interest. Jack saw it happen and knew.
"Please," he said. "Take the package. Take the gold. Just give me that back."
The smuggler didn't look at him. He twisted one section of the device, testing it. Then another. It moved with a precision that didn't belong in the slums.
"I've seen things like this before," he said quietly. "They belong to people who pay well for discretion." He looked at Jack now. "People who wouldn't trust it to a gutter rat from the slums."
He stepped closer.
"Where did you get this?"
Jack said nothing.
The smuggler sighed. He nodded to the men.
They forced Jack forward, bending him over the stone balustrade. His left hand was pressed flat against the cold stone, fingers spread. One man pinned his arm at the elbow. He couldn't move it. Couldn't close his fist. Couldn't do anything but watch.
The smuggler drew a short, heavy tool from his belt. A persuader. He pressed the edge of it against Jack's smallest finger. Just resting there. Not pressing. Not yet.
"I'll ask you again. Where did you get this?"
Jack's breath came shallow. He could feel the canal below, the water moving in the dark. The stone was wet against his palm.
He didn't answer.
The smuggler waited a beat. Then another.
"Shame."
He brought the persuader down.
The crack was small. Intimate. The pain came a heartbeat later - sharp, white, climbing up Jack's arm. He didn't scream. He couldn't. His breath had stopped somewhere in his chest.
When he could see again, the smuggler was already raising the tool.
"Which finger next, do you think? Or shall we try the other hand?"
Jack's voice came out thin. "Found it."
The smuggler paused.
"Where?"
"In her room." Jack swallowed. "Kate's room. It was hidden there. I don't know where she got it. I don't know what it does."
The smuggler studied his face. Looking for the lie.
A long silence. The canal moved below them. Somewhere on the far bank, a dog barked once and stopped.
The smuggler tucked the device into his coat.
"If I find out you're lying," he said, "I won't come back with men. I'll come back with a shovel."
He nodded to the men. They released Jack. He nearly collapsed against the balustrade, catching himself with his good hand, his left already swelling.
The smuggler walked away without looking back. His men followed. Their footsteps faded into the fog.
Jack stayed there for a long moment, one hand trembling against the balustrade. The canal moved below him, black and indifferent, the world narrowing to the sound of his own breath dragging its way back into his chest.
Something moved in the corner of his vision.
The note.
It had fallen near the edge of the bridge, half-soaked already, the ink beginning to blur where the water had touched it.
Jack took one step and fell to the stones. Pain flared through his shoulder, sharp enough to make him gasp, and his arm gave out beneath him. He hit the stones again, teeth clenching, vision flashing white.
He dragged himself forward. One hand. Then the other.
The stones were slick beneath him, cold and uneven, scraping skin as he pulled himself across them. His breath came in short bursts now, each one tighter than the last.
The note shifted in the wind. Forcing his shaking hand to steady he reached out. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper, then slipped.
He pressed his palm flat over it instead, pinning it against the stone before the wind could take it.
For a second, he just stayed there, hunched over it, head bowed.
Then he peeled it free.Jack sat back on his heels, breathing hard, staring at the blurred lines as if they might reappear on their own.
The device was gone, Jane's note useless. His finger throbbed in time with his pulse.
He struggled back to his feet. Then he turned away from the bridge and the lights, back toward the narrow streets, the tunnels and the familiar darkness.