The Ghost Rebellion Read online

  “If I may, sir,” O’Neil began, and the officer’s sudden courage to speak on the Ministry’s behalf caught even Southerby by surprise. “I believe Her Majesty’s agents are not looking to tarnish Featherstone’s good name. They just have a few questions.”

  “Do not test my limits, O’Neil,” Southerby warned. “I may be indebted to both you and your father, but that does not give you carte blanche.”

  O’Neil lifted his hands in surrender. “I would never dare to presume as such, General. These agents are merely following—”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” the old man seethed. He then rounded on Wellington. Perhaps out of the three of them, Southerby felt more a “connection”—contemptuous as it may be to him—but any such connection was lost when he looked at Wellington now wearing wide, dark lenses over his eyes.

  “And…” Wellington said, running his eyes up and down Southerby’s tall, wide form. “No, General, you have not met Doctor Jekyll,” he said, replacing the goggles back above the brim of his bowler.

  “What—in—the—name—” the general stammered.

  “Please, General.” Wellington held up a single finger, somehow silencing the bombastic man. “Lord Featherstone was a patient of Jekyll’s, and this doctor is dangerous. On several fronts. We have no idea how deep Jekyll’s influence ran with him.”

  Southerby glared at him for a moment before replying. “Did I meet this Jekyll you are looking for? No. I did, however, work closely with Featherstone, a man who has done more for the Empire than all the branches of the Ministry combined. Now, you come here to tell me that Featherstone was perhaps compromised in some way? Sabotaging his own work? Selling secrets to the enemy? I do not believe that Featherstone has ever been disloyal to the crown—”

  Wellington was certain the lieutenant general’s next words were to be “...and I do not intend to start believing that now!” or something to the effect, but his attention turned to the gooseflesh rippling along his arms as a sudden chill swept across his skin. The smell, a scent reminiscent of summer thunderstorms at Whiterock, filled his nostrils and excited his tongue.

  Then came the flash of light, and before their eyes the fabric of reality began to fold upon itself.

  Interlude

  In Which Miss del Morte Makes a Move

  Sophia took each stair, slowly and carefully. A pair of tourists, a man and a woman chattering to each other, passed her without a glance.

  Still she waited until she reached the top of the stairwell before glancing over her shoulder. No one was following her. No one was casting a glance up to see where she had been. She was just an old woman with laboured breathing who had to take her time to reach the top of the stairs.

  Just as Sophia wanted.

  Continuing the illusion up another stairwell, Sophia finally arrived to the third floor. She looked up to the room numbers as she trundled by each door. On reaching Room 312, Sophia slipped the key into the lock, waddled inside, shut the door, and then whipped off the shawl around her head. She glanced out one window, ran over to an opposite window, peered through the curtain, and then took a deep breath that felt like her first.

  “Damn!” she whispered, looking around the stranger’s room.

  Months of hiding in Bruges, months of building the perfect cover, months of building an identity, and her own vanity had caught up with her. The urge to break something—furniture, a mirror, a complete stranger’s arm—welled up in her. Her instincts warned her all along taking up that shlockwork’s ridiculous challenge had been a bad idea. Yet she had done it anyway. Some part of her wanted to show the world the skills her aunt had taught her. Weaving had always been her family’s sanctuary of calm and centring, the exact opposite of what her life had been before going dark.

  Another part of her was so desperate for some excitement that she’d found a stupid weaving challenge irresistible.

  Complacency had led her to the Grote Markt, and dumb luck had placed an agent of the House of Usher there at the same time. She had craved for excitement, and Fate certainly had an interesting sense of humour.

  “Who are you?” Sophia muttered as she turned to examine the luscious suite.

  The woman had certainly spared no expense for herself—but then again this was the House of Usher. They believed in only the finer things. If they ever achieved their goal they would undoubtedly do it from opulent surroundings.

  Sophia’s attacker had surrounded herself with velvet drapes, gilt mirrors, and a huge four-poster bed.

  The end tables on either side of the bed yielded nothing, aside from some books to which Sophia could only shake her head in disgust. However, she also had a huge wardrobe full of the latest Parisian fashions, so she was not without some sense of taste.

  There was no evening finery to speak of, but plenty of choices for her to appear as an innocuous tourist. On the shelf above were three hat boxes. Sophia stood on a nearby stool and climbed up to have a closer look. Reaching between them she rapped her knuckle on the wall behind the boxes. All was solid, until she struck the panel to the left of the last box.

  Pressing gently against it, she heard a latch unlock while springs popped it open. Then pushing aside the hat boxes, she reached into the compartment, and found several bound leather folders, a seal bearing the raven burned into each of them. She felt deeper into the cubbyhole and discovered a small box.

  Hopping down from the stool, she scattered her finds across the bed. Before diving into this hidden treasure trove, Sophia retrieved from her satchel the other items she had lifted from the dead Usher agent: a passport, a map usually issued to tourists, and a small wallet carrying a modest amount of currency.

  The map was worn, frayed. It had been opened and folded closed repeatedly. Sophia opened up the passport, and now this Usher agent had a name: Diane Elizabeth Case. From the looks of the currency she carried, Agent Case had plenty of lavish tastes that went beyond this hotel room.

  “Tell me more, Agent Case.”

  Pulling the tie free, she opened the folder to stare at a woman she did not recognise. The photo was an image of her standing against a brick wall. The accompanying notes identified her as Fiona Brannagh, an agent of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Flipping through the other pages, there were additional images of Agent Brannagh wandering streets Sophia knew from her time in Bruges. These photos had been taken without her knowledge.

  The final photograph in the dossier was of this woman with her throat cut. Clipped to the photo was a note bearing the crest of the raven. The message read:

  Please send a postcard. Father would love to see what you are up to in Europe. Take all the time you like. Your work abroad is exceptional.

  Sophia knew that code all too well. Agent Case and she shared much in common, it appeared.

  She opened another file. This time the subject was Ignatius Daniel Wadsworth, another Ministry agent. Again, a photo taken in front of a brick wall. Again, images of him captured wandering throughout Bruges, taken without his knowledge. The final photo, Agent Wadsworth dead. Same message attached.

  She glanced up. There were six other folders, all secured like this.

  Time to examine the box. Giving it a quick look for anything out of the ordinary—this woman was skilled enough to have dispatched eight Ministry agents and kept it secret—Sophia flipped open its latch. One item inside immediately caught her eye and caused her stomach to turn over. It was a small fold of leather with the stamp of an eagle and a dragon on it—the crest of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. Inside the small wallet was the face of Diane Elizabeth Case, and her credentials as a Field Agent for Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

  Sophia pressed her hands to her forehead for a moment. When she had killed Agent Case, she knew her as an agent of the House of Usher. Now, Agent Case’s secret was out, but only to Sophia. She was a marked woman by two agencies. The Ministry would believe she had killed one of their own, and not a double agent.

  What was she to do? The possibility of ret
urning to her family’s village flitted through her mind, but Sophia dismissed it quickly. It was one of the del Morte’s rules. If there was trouble, never take it back to the family. Never.

  That left the only people she trusted to watch her back. They possessed true honour, honour that her own family would no doubt respect, and perhaps be glad of their assistance as well. The challenge would be locating them before either the Ministry or the House of Usher found her.

  She checked inside the box for anything that could aid her in that search. Sophia found there were messages from “Uncle Basil” that looked to be sent via æthermail. No doubt from the communications office in the town plaza. She remembered her neighbour Febe telling her of an analytical terminal being installed there. With the amount of tourism in Bruges, that came as no surprise.

  Before taking flight, she would have to become herself again. Her illusion was on borrowed time, she knew that, but she would take up as much of that time as she could.

  The dossiers stretched the seams of her modest satchel even after she emptied it to make room for them. The box she would have to carry by hand. With the extra weight, it would be a long, agonising walk through town. Perhaps she would see a neighbour or a farmer willing to take her home, granting her a few precious minutes.

  Leaving the hotel room, she shut the door carefully, and returned the way she had come. When she reached the ground floor, her mind was already working on her route out of Bruges.

  “Mona!“ a voice called from across the marble lobby.

  Sophia froze halfway towards the door, her honed instincts preventing her from releasing one of her lethal cogs from its launcher and sinking it squarely in the head of the person who had called to her from the concierge desk.

  The young woman standing in the lobby, causing many unwanted eyes to turn to Sophia, was Febe, a neighbour who had always been eager for advice from Mona, the “kindly old weaver” that Sophia had been playing for months. As usual, she was bundled up like a sore thumb, with her bright red hair sticking out at all angles. The young woman’s grey eyes were wide and innocent, her cheeks naturally ruddy, and that sweet face staring at her contained only endless innocence. She knew nothing of the world outside of Bruges, but Bruges she knew intimately.

  Sophia did not care for redheads, but as she was a foreigner in Bruges, she did need at least one person to feed her gossip, which Febe never lacked. It was the most adventure the simple woman knew.

  “Bonjour, Febe,” Sophia replied, pulling the small box in the crook of her arm closer to her. Hopefully, the shawl concealed it from view. “What brings you here?”

  “I should ask the same,” the woman said, her hand motioning to the hotel all around them, attracting even more attention. “Such a fine establishment for simple folk like us.”

  Sophia shook her head. “Oh, Febe, you have so much to learn of the world. I was just meeting with someone who had taken a shine to my work.”

  Febe’s eyes suddenly lit up with delight. “I saw you coming in here, and I did wonder. I just had to find out what you were doing.”

  The girl was far too curious for her own good and had absolutely no shame about it either.

  Sophia frowned, and took a couple of steps away in an attempt to get Febe outside, and shut the woman up. “We were discussing a commission and payment.”

  Febe clapped her hands, and Sophia knew her limits were being tested. “Oh how exciting!”

  “Yes, yes, yes…” Sophia said, allowing her words to trail off as she waved a free hand towards the door. “But I think the day is catching up with me.”

  “Would you care for a ride back home?” she asked.

  Finally, the peasant comes in use. “Splendid.”

  Outside, the horse and cart awaited them. Febe helped Sophia up to her seat, then she joined her, clicked her tongue, and off they went.

  For the entire ride Febe talked. And talked. And talked. It was the usual gossip of town, which was no longer of interest to the assassin. Sophia nodded, but used the opportunity to glance around, and reassure herself that they were not being followed. On this trek to her modest hovel, though, the only thing eventful was Febe’s news; and according to the peasant, it was the only thing worth knowing about.

  “And then there is you,” Febe said suddenly.

  Sophia blinked. “Whatever do you mean, child?”

  The girl burst out laughing. “You don’t know it, do you?” Febe, shaking her head, sighed. “Oh, Mona, what you did in the Markt today is the talk of the town. You beat a machine, Mona. A machine! So many weavers are praising your name, and I think the Gazette wants to feature you!”

  Sophia shook her head. Damn.

  “We will have to sit down and talk about how you will charge people for your wares. After all,” she said, “you are now a local treasure. A celebrity!”

  It had to be now. She needed to leave Bruges now.

  Their cart trundled up to Sophia’s house, the modest dwelling she had called home all this time. She patiently waited for Febe to help her down from the cart. With a gentle nod to her friend, Sophia began her slow walk up to the front door. It had never appeared so far away.

  “Poor thing, you must be exhausted,” she heard Febe say from behind her. “Let me help you.”

  “I may be old,” Sophia barked over her shoulder. She had to get rid of Febe. “I am not helpless.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” the girl said, cutting in front of her, “I insist.”

  Perhaps it was the uneven ground underfoot, or Febe’s excitement making her move faster than Sophia had ever seen before, but the light jostle between Febe and Sophia for the key in Sophia’s hand knocked the small box out of her hidden hold. It landed at their feet with a dull thud, and did not go unnoticed.

  “Mona,” Febe asked, turning the rectangular object over in her hands, “whatever is this?”

  The hand slapped firmly across Febe’s mouth as they both slammed into Sophia’s front door. Sophia unlocked the door, pushed her neighbour into the dark dwelling, and shut it behind them in one fluid motion.

  “Not. One. Sound.” Sophia’s warning was returned with a muffled whimper and a rapid nod.

  She had to kill her. It was the sensible thing to do, especially now that she had tipped her hand with the “Mona” disguise. The girl was a knot left untied, a dangling thread, where Sophia did not want to leave a trace.

  With a shove against Febe, Sophia stepped back, and then reached for a lantern sitting on a table by the door. She lit it, hung it up, and then took the matches to another lantern suspended across from them.

  “Mona?” Febe finally gasped out.

  “I said, not one sound!” Sophia snapped, causing her to flinch.

  Sophia checked the curtains to assure herself they were drawn. With a deep breath, she stripped off the grey-haired wig, then worked her fingers underneath the hidden seams of her elaborate mask, which extended to her neck, and she began to pull. The second skin stubbornly held on, but she continued to tug at it until a good portion of it was free. She tossed the section of her disguise at Febe’s feet.

  The young woman let out a tiny cry at the portion of neck, cheek, and nose lying there. Sophia could only imagine the fresh horror she emulated with tatters of another face remaining on her actual one. She continued to pull at the false skin on her nose until finally the remains were gone.

  Febe remained rooted where she stood, her eyes tracing over Sophia’s true face. Yet—even in this moment—she couldn’t quite stop herself from talking. “Mona...how...why? All this time...” Then she swallowed, and said in a raspy voice, “Who are you?”

  Sophia could end all this, either with the stiletto hidden up the right sleeve or a single razor-cog from her left. As the assassin’s eyes narrowed, she couldn’t help but think of the two of them. They’d sat out in the courtyard, carding wool, chattering and gossiping. Febe had a widowed mother and three younger brothers; and though they drove her mad, she loved them. Sophia knew everyth
ing that went on in that house. The arguments, the joys, the minutiae of a normal life. It was all so lovely, in an honest, sincere fashion.

  “I am sorry I have put you in this situation,” Sophia said to the wide-eyed girl, “but you and your family must leave Bruges immediately.”

  “Leave Bruges?” Febe asked. If the woman was not careful, she would faint, considering how hard she was breathing. “We cannot just leave.”

  “Your spectacle at the hotel has tied you back to me,” she said in a hard tone so that Febe would understand that this was serious. “When I disappear, when Mona disappears, people will talk about who was last seen with her. This means you and your family must disappear.” Sophia went to the centre of the kitchen and stomped hard against the end of a floorboard. The plank lifted, and she reached into the hole and produced a pair of saddle bags. Flipping one open she rummaged through it and fished out two wrapped bundles of what she knew was currency. “There is enough there to start a new life,” she said, tossing Febe the money. “Do so. Tell no one what you have seen tonight, or where you are going. If you do, the people I was hiding from will kill you all.”

  Febe just stared at the money in her hands, definitely the most she had ever seen in her life; and then back to Sophia, her mouth agape.

  Her left arm shot outward, and the razor-sharp teeth of the cog sunk into the wood of the door just behind Febe.

  “Go,” Sophia uttered.

  The girl spun on her heel and scrambled out of the hovel. Sophia honestly hoped she would take her advice, and that her own pity would not end up coming back on her.

  She went to the solitary mirror suspended over the basin, and removed the last scraps of Mona from her skin. She then scooped up the remnants, dropped them into the basin, and with the strike of a match, lit the disguise on fire. Perhaps that was a silver lining in all this: she would not miss the ritual of creating this old crone.