The Slum Orphanage - Chapter 28 (Patreon)

Four days flew by in the blink of an eye: constables and infantry combed through Farnell with a fine-toothed comb, sweeping street after street, house after house, flat after flat. Some criminals reacted a little too emotionally, thereby giving themselves away, and as a result every station’s cells were overflowing. De Camp even allocated a separate building for those who wouldn’t fit. Criminal dens burned by the dozen, set alight by their own occupants rather than waiting for a raid. Half the city stumbled about dazed from the sweetish fumes of opium hanging in the air. It was worst in Smuggler’s Bay, the port, and Pool. Uncle Bryce even commissioned a special canopy from Harry, which covered a couple of blocks around Bremor House and drove the smoke out towards the sea.

Under the Crown Prince’s leadership, the combined forces of the military, police, and secret services dealt a crushing blow to Farnell’s organised crime. If anyone cared nothing for local arrangements, it was Thomas Montgomery. It seemed to me he had not come solely for the werewolves, or at least not only for them… The heir focused his efforts on the port, sweeping through it and confiscating most of the contraband for the Treasury. His pet squirrels poked into every nook and cranny, presenting their sovereign with evidence implicating every third dock worker in illegal trade, including ordinary labourers.

Proceedings were swift and efficient: judges stamped out sentences like a baker turning out penny pies, though they mostly limited themselves to fines and seizure of property. Royal justice spared neither industrialists nor aristocrats, newspapers swelled with the names of lords, while the Treasury filled with hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of pounds. And whenever anyone dared mutter about royal overreach and attempted to complain to Parliament, they found themselves accused of ties to werewolves, risking not a fine but charges of treason, and their own necks on the block. By old tradition, aristocrats were not hanged, but beheaded.

Yes, the prince had his own agenda in the city, but he had not forgotten the clan that had so graciously given him the opportunity to run wild. In effect, Bryce was given command of an entire infantry regiment, along with the local PSS unit. Vixley was ‘delighted’, though his grumbling did not last long, he soon came to appreciate the advantages of working with real hunters. In the first two days of joint operations, four werewolves were killed and eleven captured. Of those taken alive, only one posed a serious threat to seasoned fighters, the rest were inexperienced, untattooed youths who might still have been cured of lycanthropy, though it was unlikely they would be. There were no true minors among the captives, each had an impressive criminal record, and the court would most likely prescribe them the hangman’s dance.

Over the next two days, only four more flea-ridden beasts fell into the Bremor net, but part of the infrastructure of the so-called Blood Moon clan was uncovered, along with numerous accomplices. The ears and tail of the so-called Rat King seemed to stick out everywhere, yet no one had ever seen the legendary figure in person. All contact was conducted through his emissaries, chief among them a man called Bruiser, but everyone who had seen him gave a different description. That suggested there might be several of them, or, conversely, that the Rat King and all his minions were one and the same: a powerful illusionist.

In this regard, Kate’s vampires proved most effective. The other two nests chose to lie low and keep out of sight, but Lady Blair acted swiftly, funnelling a trove of information on smuggling, collected by her late father, through Bryce to the prince. In return, the bloodsuckers were granted a form of amnesty and the right to take part in the great hunt, albeit without press coverage. Still, the right people were informed that Kate’s girls had repaid the criminal king in full, and the nest’s reputation soared.

It was a pity the Rat King himself remained at large, though his ties to the Blood Moon clan had been strengthened. The threads led south, where other nests held sway, and where Farnell’s vampires no longer felt quite so at ease. Bremor hunters were dispatched there alongside the secret services. Bryce, having access to royal personages, made full use of it without the slightest hesitation, securing for the clan a leading role in the hunt, and full funding for the fighters, including for the Farnell operation. The fighters, in turn, were expected to give a percentage to the clan, so we stood to make a very tidy profit from it as well.

That income, however, paled beside the affairs at the port. There, every hour someone lost a fortune, and the Crown gained one. To dampen the outcry over the port purges, the werewolf hunt was deliberately inflated in the press. The sheer number of werewolves taken down was sensational enough on its own. The prince even had to tear himself away from what was, in effect, plunder, to stage a show trial and hold several meetings with Bryce, de Camp, and the Duke of Farnell. By all appearances, the clan could soon expect a cascade of honours, and perhaps even a couple of additional titles.

The large-scale hunt filled every front page in Farnell and most of those in the capital. In the race for headlines, Olivia Foxtrot’s star burned brighter than ever, she was no longer published in The Herald, but in the Farnell Daily. Not for nothing did she spend every waking hour not devoted to sleep or her typewriter in Burke’s bed. Then again, Burke did not indulge the journalist for nothing either. Every article was written in a light most favourable to the clan: the Bremors as saviours, Vixley as a brilliant investigator who had exposed a deeply rooted criminal network, de Camp as a saintly administrator who risked his career to clean up the mess. And the ‘mess’ itself was reframed — not chaos at all, but a carefully planned operation conceived by de Camp and Bryce and carried out with the Crown’s support. The Duke went unmentioned, though he had his own wireless station, where he received due praise.

Harry’s name appeared in the Farnell Daily as well, though no longer centre stage, while I, to my misfortune, found myself thrust into the spotlight. At least not on the front page. In that article, I had single-handedly tracked down and killed a werewolf. Utter nonsense, but dressed up with convincing detail and photographs of the beasts, it sold like hot cakes. The Farnell Daily’s circulation tripled, everyone was reading it.

Naturally, praise alone would not suffice. The public wanted names, and names were provided. The first to be sacrificed was the Lord Chief Constable, I suspect he had fallen out with de Camp over something. Somehow, de Camp’s main rivals in the upcoming elections were also added to the list of the guilty. And the prince quietly supplied a few inconvenient names, people standing rather too high on the social ladder for even the heir apparent to shake without consequence.

All that chaos of chases and skirmishes passed me by. Quite unexpectedly, I found myself acting as little less than the director of the newly formed orphanage. There was a catastrophic shortage of fighters and workers, at least among clan members, and Bryce did not trust the task to outsiders. The tent camp in the square required constant attention. I had several platoons of soldiers at my disposal, supposedly to maintain order, but I refused that approach. The shouting had only just died down in the camp, and here and there my ear would catch the sound of carefree children’s laughter. So I sent the soldiers to Peter, who could swear better than any sergeant and knew exactly how to keep them occupied.

The architect redrew the building plans in record time and, on the same foundation, raised a three-storey shell in four days, with a slightly altered internal layout. He promised to complete the entire house within a fortnight, provided funding and manpower were not cut. Uncle Bryce grumbled that the place was turning into solid gold, but agreed it had to be finished as quickly as possible — it was a matter of the clan’s prestige and honour.

The reason was simple: Uncle Gordon, having joined the negotiations with the prince, had, on behalf of the clan, presented the heir with a mansion that did not yet even exist on paper, and secured a promise that, from now on, whenever the prince visited Farnell, he would stay exclusively in that residence. It was to be built beside Bremor House, instantly elevating not just the quarter, but the entire district. Land prices in the area were soaring so rapidly that the clan could have made unprecedented profits from selling alone, but if I knew Uncle Gordon at all, there would be no selling. Only construction and leases of no less than fifty years.

For four days I was worked off my feet, yet somehow managed to reorganise my schedule to make room for both training and study. Rest was another matter entirely, it had been replaced with copious amounts of rich, thoroughly unhealthy food: fried eggs and potatoes cooked in lard for breakfast, roasted pork ribs for dinner, and mashed potatoes with butter and cutlets for supper. Not to mention three or four teas with pies and buns in between, taken on the run.

The work itself was not particularly difficult. I had already built up a certain reputation among the street children, and at times a single stern look was enough to maintain it. A harder face, a colder gaze — and they obeyed. Those who did not were treated to a petrification spell straight to the forehead. Few cared to stand like statues in the middle of the camp, but that was not even the worst punishment. What truly frightened them was being barred from lessons.

The gifted among the ragamuffins I had identified were also handed over to me by Albert, on the grounds that there was no one else, and that I had once helped my grandfather drill the clan’s youngsters.

All five of mine turned out to be flawed, in other words, the development of their energy nodes had not come from internal growth, but from external influences, and far from beneficial ones. One wild lad, a local ringleader who was overjoyed simply to be eating properly, had let the spirit of a small kitten, his late pet, into his spiritual heart. They had formed a strong bond while the animal was still alive. Logan had a similar bond with his spirit, but my cousin’s wolfhound had been old, and his spiritual heart well developed, which made him one of the clan’s most promising young shifters.

Two of the girls had damaged third eyes, much like Cap, hardly enough to make them wizards, but sufficient to let them see all sorts of unpleasant things that were plentiful in the slums. Another boy had an injury to his spiritual heart, while a sullen girl possessed a malfunctioning elemental source, in which a spark of mist would flare up and die out again.

My lessons with these magically impaired children drew enormous interest from all the street urchins. The others wouldn’t let the five study in peace, constantly trying to extract some universal method that would make each of them powerful, never mind what kind of power, so long as it was quick. I couldn’t bring this chaos under control, so I decided to lead it instead. Training in the development of energy nodes became compulsory, but access to it required progress in other subjects and participation in communal work.

Dame Kerry and her assistants took on the task of teaching the children reading and writing, while Knuckles and his lot handled mathematics. It came as a revelation to me that the entire gang was literate. That said, Clint’s strict focus on engineering showed: the lads sometimes read haltingly, syllable by syllable, but cracked simple arithmetic problems like squirrels cracking nuts.

There was no shortage of physical work either: the kitchen, the bakery, the laundry, the carpentry workshop — fetch this, carry that, wipe something over there. And if anyone somehow found themselves idle, they were handed a broom and told to sweep until dinner. In short, my charges suddenly found themselves no less busy than I was. Dame Kerry even came to complain about it, so I had to grant the children a couple of hours of free time.

Even so, I could take some pride in it. In four days, the open-air orphanage had begun to run like clockwork. Conflicts were stamped out at once, lessons were underway, the children were constantly occupied, and we even had a modest influx of newcomers. Poor and struggling families tried to foist their children on us, while street urchins surrendered themselves before the newly invigorated police could shove them into state institutions. I even had to turn some away.

On the evening of the fourth day, just as Clint and I were about to head back to the Anvil, Simon dropped by. Baronet Kettle looked fresh, lively, clean-shaven, and was wearing an even more brazen grin than usual. The presence of children, before whom I was trying to maintain the air of a strict gentleman, did not trouble him in the slightest.

“Knuckles, I’m inviting you to the wedding. Duncan — I need a best man!”

Knuckles, now accustomed to being addressed as Mr Sparrow, grimaced, while I offered a philosophical: “And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’? You’re the only decent fellow I know who fits the role! Help me out, brother!”

He sounded sincere, but I could feel in my bones that Ellie would be the bride’s maid of honour. I had no intention of avoiding her, but I did want to be sure this invitation wasn’t some attempt at manipulation meant to push us back together.

“Let’s not discuss it here,” I said. “How about Mo’s? I haven’t been in a while.”

“I could suggest somewhere far more respectable,” the baronet objected.

“None of them serve blood sausages like Mo’s,” I countered.

“In that case, we’ll need to call Sunset. I was going to invite him anyway.”

“Will this take long, gentlemen?” Knuckles asked. “I’ve still got work at the garage.”

“Off you go, Mr. Sparrow,” I allowed.

Simon widened his eyes, since when had Knuckles become Mr. Sparrow? I gave a subtle glance towards a couple of lads nearby who were shamelessly eavesdropping. Kettle understood at once, but couldn’t resist a jab: “The wedding’s on the eighteenth of July, Mr. Sparrow. Do be so kind as to clear your schedule in advance.”

I inclined my head reproachfully, but Simon only laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Come along, Lord Loxlin,” he said. “Let’s go for sausages.”

Once we were in his motorcar, and I was sure the children couldn’t hear me, I said: “You do have a peculiar way of asking favours. I hope I won’t have to repair my reputation with the street urchins after that little performance.”

“Scaring them with snobbery?” Simon laughed.

His good humour proved unexpectedly infectious.

“Mock all you like, it’s remarkably effective. No one causes trouble, no one fights, they all try to outdo one another with disdainful looks.”

“Good Lord!” Kettle exclaimed, steering the motorcar onto the road. “I don’t know what’s worse — hooligans and criminals these children might have grown into, or a whole crowd of little snobs just like you.”

“Have you seen those ‘snobs’? Some of them are built like oxen, and that’s on half rations. Give them proper food and they’ll outgrow me in no time.”

“I don’t mean the older lads or their size, they won’t have time to grasp the true essence of snobbery. I mean those little brats who were eavesdropping on us, hanging on your every word. Give them a couple of years of that, and the city will be flooded with your arrogant duplicates!”

“Oi! I may be a snob in places, but I’m not arrogant. And I’m far more polite than most. Including you.”

“Oh, certainly,” the baronet agreed. “Polite! Only you can call a man ‘my dear sir’ in such a way that no one doubts you think him complete rubbish.”

“Listen here, my dear sir, you’re rather lively today. Already had a pint or two, or something stronger?”

Simon raised his right hand solemnly.

“Dry as the African soil!”

“They do have rainy seasons there.”

“Do they? I didn’t know that.”

Trading jests, we left the slums of Smuggler’s Bay behind, passed Haves Bay and the railway station, and arrived in Pubset, where the Fourth Precinct was located. We stopped by to see Sunset, but the inspector, like every other copper in the city, had been racing about for four days straight, unravelling chains of criminal connections. Because of all this chaos, Mo’s was unusually quiet. The place was mostly doing takeaway, delivering straight to the station across the road, and those officers who did make it in looked ready to fall asleep face-first into their porridge.

I ordered sausages and a pint of lager purely to tease Simon about his ‘dryness’, but the baronet showed unexpected concern for my health.

“You’ve taken to drinking?” he asked, alarmed.

“It’s just a pint,” I said, taking an exaggerated sip.

“Yes, but you, and a pint… and of your own accord… Perhaps breaking up with Ellie has affected you more than you think?”

I set the glass down a little too sharply, sloshing some beer over the rim.

“Drop it. I know you and Finella are trying to push us back together. Your dear fiancee simply can’t leave things alone, can she?”

“Well… she does feel a bit guilty…”

“She ought to feel guilty!”

“Easy, she’s pregnant.”

“And? Does that give her the right to meddle in other people’s lives?”

“No, Duncan… I just wanted the wedding to be perfect, like Logan and Jenny’s.”

“Perfect?” I stared at him. “Have you forgotten there was a full-blown war with werewolves going on?”

“To hell with the war!” Simon burst out. “They had a loving family around them, friends ready to die for their happiness. No grudges, no guilt! I don’t want you holding anything against Finny.”

I wanted to say I didn’t, but that would have been a lie. It might have comforted Simon, but I suspected that wasn’t what he really needed.

“Let’s be honest,” I said. “Finella is a hot-headed fool who can’t keep her nose out of other people’s affairs.”

“She…”

“Let me finish!” I snapped. “She messed things up because she stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. Ellie and I settled everything, and we’re both satisfied with how it turned out. If your fiancee thinks she knows better than we do what we need, remind her that she thought the same that evening, and it didn’t end well.”

Simon looked disheartened, but I had no intention of softening it. If Finella learned this small lesson, life would be easier for everyone. Still, to take the edge off, I told him a little about family, strange as that might sound coming from an orphan.

“A perfect wedding doesn’t guarantee a perfect life. Logan and Jenny have already had three proper rows, and made up each time. And Chris got so drunk before his wedding that Sally nearly told him to go to the devil. Barely talked her round.”

Simon gave a faint smile and admitted: “You were right about her plans. Ellie will be maid of honour. Should I find another best man?”

“No. Just keep your red-haired menace on a short leash.”

“I’ll speak to James, he’ll knock some sense into her,” Simon promised.

After I’d finished with the sausages and beer, which left me in a considerably better mood, Kettle offered to drive me back to the Anvil. I declined. Lately I’d had little time to myself. The evening was pleasant, and a walk through the city would do me good. For most townsfolk, the distance between the Anvil and the eatery would have seemed considerable, but not for someone raised on forest paths. Besides, the streets were thick with constables, and any criminals who hadn’t fled the city had burrowed themselves deep into hiding.