Free Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance by Jana G Oliver Page B

she clung to the wooden oar, trying to work her legs free of the cloth wrappings as the pull of the water worked against her efforts. A moment before she lost hold of her lifeline, hands pulled on her, drawing her up. She scraped across something and then flopped face down into the bottom of a boat.
    “Why’d ya go and do that?” a rough voice asked. “If ya’d left ’er in there a bit longer, we’d ’ave got more brass tonight.”
    “Oh, hush up,” a second voice replied.
    Cynda focused on each breath. In…out. In…The breath caught and she choked, spitting up water in a heaving gasp, nearly causing her throat to spasm.
    “That’s it girl, ya keep breathing, ya hear?” the second voice commanded.
    “Just clunk ’er on the ’ead with the oar. Does the trick every time.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    The first voice swore. “And I thought we’d get another five shillin’s.” He spat into the water. “Maybe she’s rich, and we’ll get us a reward for findin’ ’er.”
    “Not bloody likely. Give me that tarp, will ya?” Something heavy and rough enfolded her. “There ya are, girl. It’s up to ya if ya live or die. I’m not God, so I got no say in the matter.”
    Cynda couldn’t speak; her throat hurt too much. She focused on each breath as the watermen chatted back and forth. She finally caught their names: Syd and Alf. It’d been Syd who had suggested they hit her on the head with the oar. Listening to their conversation, it sounded as if they spent their nights hauling passengers back and forth across the Thames. Occasionally, they’d snag a body. Those were always worth money.
    Her eyes blinked open when the boat landed.
    “Is she still alive?” Syd asked.
    Alf peered over at her. “Yup.”
    He spat into the water again. “Never get a break.”
    ~••~••~••~
     
    Saturday, 27 October, 1888
    Rose Dining Room
    As usual, his superior was already in his chair, paper at his elbow, enjoying his breakfast. They’d traded terse pleasantries and then food had arrived. Still, Satyr sensed that all was not as it should be.
    “Are the buyers in London yet?” he inquired, swirling a bit of toast around the plate to capture the remaining bits of egg.
    The Ascendant did not answer, but poured himself another cup of tea. Satyr poured his own tea, buying time. He always took it black. The darker the better. In fact, the dining establishment made a separate pot just for him as his superior had pronounced it unpalatable.
    Satyr tried again. “Have our customers indicated how they’ll remove the items from London without drawing attention?”
    “That is not your concern.”
    Satyr’s irritation rose. “On the contrary; as Lead Assassin, everything is my concern if it involves you, sir.”
    “The transfer is in hand,” the Ascendant replied tartly.
    “Do you need me there to ensure—”
    “Not needed.”
    What is going on? Why am I suddenly of no importance to this project?
    There was a tap on the door. The servers knew never to interrupt them unless they were summoned. Satyr was up and moving in an instant, vanishing into nothing as the knife came out of his pocket.
    “Not to concern yourself, Mr. S. It is one of our associates.” The Ascendant put down his cup. “Come!”
    That was unwise. His superior had no notion who was on the other side of the door. To Satyr’s surprise, the man who entered was one of his associates. Or at least he was presenting as such. The Lead Assassin remained vigilant.
    “Ah, Tobin, there you are,” the Ascendant called in a welcoming tone, beckoning the man forward. “Please come in.”
    Satyr returned to his usual form, eyeing the newcomer. Tobin was equally uneasy. He made the customary sweeping motion with his finger across his left wrist, the sign that he was one of the Seven.
    Satyr closed the knife and dropped it back into his pocket. Secondary assassins were not invited to this breakfast meeting. That was reserved for the Lead Assassin only, a