Read Online Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles by Karina Cooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Karina Cooper
Ads: Link
easing into a serious line, “you going to visit Communion ever?”
This sobered me immensely. Ishmael Communion was a man high in rank of the Brick Street Bakers—if not the leader by now. We had been friends near as long as I’d been collecting, and had helped each other more than a fair few times.
Just as I could warn of collector’s business to earn my way through his turf, Ish had only to tell me, “Baker business,” and I left off on matters that threatened him. I had my ways, he had his, and only on occasion did they meet. I had not often taken a collection for Bakers, unless it were the Menagerie doing the requesting.
Though his gang bore no love for my profession, I’d been given a certain pass for my friendship with Communion—and what I did not earn by right of my own reputation, his towering build and quiet authority bridged.
I also owed him a debt, for it was a Baker man they’d lost when my rival collector shivved one by way of message for me. It was them that put ear to ground for word of the Ripper at work, allowing me to tag the rotter.
When they called, I would answer.
Problem was, if they called, I would have no choice but to answer, no matter what else I was embroiled in. I knew it wasn’t exactly fair of me, but I wanted to wait to announce myself to Communion, wait until I’d solved whatever it was I could solve for Hawke.
Once that was clear, I’d see to the Bakers.
Still, my gaze averted. “I will,” I said. “But I can’t yet.”
“All right.” Simple enough acceptance, which explained a great deal about our friendship. “Ain’t seen him around, but I don’t go into Blackwall all that much, either. What do you want me to say if I see him?”
A good question. One I hesitated in answering, for I did not like the thought of asking Maddie Ruth to lie to the Baker she’d come to respect.
A knock, ponderous and loud, saved me from an answer.
I stood. “Stay here,” I ordered, all else draining but the sudden caution I’d learned at the business end of the devil-fog I’d once hunted in.
Maddie Ruth tensed. She did not remain seated, but came to stand by the narrow wall that would keep her hidden from any view of the door.
By all rights, I should have been the one hiding. I had more to lose for discovery.
Yet I would not risk Maddie Ruth to whatever vagaries awaited upon my tiny stoop.
A repeat knock came.
I did not go unarmed. The knife I had taken—to replace the two I had lost with my collecting corset—had been left for me upon the small stand by the door, and I palmed this, naked blade tucked against my scarred forearm.
I was a decent enough fighter with both hands. One needed to be, for any number of reasons. Primary among these was that few expected a body to switch hands at the drop of a hat. Or, as was rather more likely, at the opportunity of a weakened guard.
The hand observable to my guest would appear unarmed. The other would be ready.
The door featured naught more than a stained bit of smudged glass by way of viewing port, and all I knew was that the figure behind was tall. I positioned myself in such a way that I could open the door just enough to allow for visibility, but utilize it for a shield if I had need.
“How can I—”
“It would be best to negate the pleasantries,” interrupted the rich baritone belonging to Ikenna Osoba’s effortless authority.
My jaw fell open.
Unlike the apparel worn for the rings, Osoba’s togs did not stand out from those who took to the streets by day. Working attire tended to consist of woolen or fustian trousers, sturdy belts and heavy shirts under patched wool or tweed jackets. He wore no hat—a scandal were he anything but the African prince the leaflets called him, and the fantastical title seemed fitting.
Unlike any other I’d ever known, Osoba’s hair was severely long, bound into a plethora of tiny plaits streaming down his back. The rich mahogany of his skin would never be softened, nor the
This sobered me immensely. Ishmael Communion was a man high in rank of the Brick Street Bakers—if not the leader by now. We had been friends near as long as I’d been collecting, and had helped each other more than a fair few times.
Just as I could warn of collector’s business to earn my way through his turf, Ish had only to tell me, “Baker business,” and I left off on matters that threatened him. I had my ways, he had his, and only on occasion did they meet. I had not often taken a collection for Bakers, unless it were the Menagerie doing the requesting.
Though his gang bore no love for my profession, I’d been given a certain pass for my friendship with Communion—and what I did not earn by right of my own reputation, his towering build and quiet authority bridged.
I also owed him a debt, for it was a Baker man they’d lost when my rival collector shivved one by way of message for me. It was them that put ear to ground for word of the Ripper at work, allowing me to tag the rotter.
When they called, I would answer.
Problem was, if they called, I would have no choice but to answer, no matter what else I was embroiled in. I knew it wasn’t exactly fair of me, but I wanted to wait to announce myself to Communion, wait until I’d solved whatever it was I could solve for Hawke.
Once that was clear, I’d see to the Bakers.
Still, my gaze averted. “I will,” I said. “But I can’t yet.”
“All right.” Simple enough acceptance, which explained a great deal about our friendship. “Ain’t seen him around, but I don’t go into Blackwall all that much, either. What do you want me to say if I see him?”
A good question. One I hesitated in answering, for I did not like the thought of asking Maddie Ruth to lie to the Baker she’d come to respect.
A knock, ponderous and loud, saved me from an answer.
I stood. “Stay here,” I ordered, all else draining but the sudden caution I’d learned at the business end of the devil-fog I’d once hunted in.
Maddie Ruth tensed. She did not remain seated, but came to stand by the narrow wall that would keep her hidden from any view of the door.
By all rights, I should have been the one hiding. I had more to lose for discovery.
Yet I would not risk Maddie Ruth to whatever vagaries awaited upon my tiny stoop.
A repeat knock came.
I did not go unarmed. The knife I had taken—to replace the two I had lost with my collecting corset—had been left for me upon the small stand by the door, and I palmed this, naked blade tucked against my scarred forearm.
I was a decent enough fighter with both hands. One needed to be, for any number of reasons. Primary among these was that few expected a body to switch hands at the drop of a hat. Or, as was rather more likely, at the opportunity of a weakened guard.
The hand observable to my guest would appear unarmed. The other would be ready.
The door featured naught more than a stained bit of smudged glass by way of viewing port, and all I knew was that the figure behind was tall. I positioned myself in such a way that I could open the door just enough to allow for visibility, but utilize it for a shield if I had need.
“How can I—”
“It would be best to negate the pleasantries,” interrupted the rich baritone belonging to Ikenna Osoba’s effortless authority.
My jaw fell open.
Unlike the apparel worn for the rings, Osoba’s togs did not stand out from those who took to the streets by day. Working attire tended to consist of woolen or fustian trousers, sturdy belts and heavy shirts under patched wool or tweed jackets. He wore no hat—a scandal were he anything but the African prince the leaflets called him, and the fantastical title seemed fitting.
Unlike any other I’d ever known, Osoba’s hair was severely long, bound into a plethora of tiny plaits streaming down his back. The rich mahogany of his skin would never be softened, nor the
Similar Books
