LITMIR.BIZ

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the barman began, his tone evasive.

      “Tell him,” Varanus snapped. “Now.”

      The barman looked at her and his face went pale. He slowly set down the rag he was using to clean the glasses and edged away before dashing into the back room. He was back only a minute or two later, looking even paler than before.

      “This way,” he said, jerking his head toward the back room.

      Varanus turned to Luka and said, “Stay here. Keep an eye on things for me.”

      “What?” Luka asked. “Out of the—” He stopped and shook his head. “Very well. Kindly remain alive.”

      “Don’t be dull, Luka,” Ekaterine said. She took Varanus by the arm and began walking toward the back. “Come along,” she said. “Let’s go meet nice Mister Jones.”

      “Sounds delightful,” Varanus said, her tone flat. “I’m simply brimming with excitement.”

      Ekaterine laughed and said, “Perhaps he will give us some ice cream.”

      * * * *

      Luka watched them depart, still uncertain about letting them go off alone. Varanus was Shashavani—living Shashavani—and Ekaterine had decades of training. But it was Luka’s job to worry about people under his charge. They were scholars like Lord Iosef. Luka was a soldier. It felt wrong to let them go off into uncertain danger alone.

      When the barman had returned, Luka went to the bar and rapped his knuckles against the wood to get his attention. The barman, distracted, looked at him quickly. The man’s face was pale. Varanus had frightened him.

      No surprise there.

      “A pint of lager,” Luka said. Might as well try to blend in, he thought.

      When it was brought, he took his glass and drank while he waited. As the minutes wore on, he cast about for something to do to relieve the monotony. He saw a group of men playing cards at a nearby table. Crossing to them, he pulled over an empty chair and asked:

      “Room for another?”

      The men looked up at him and gave him a looking over. Shrugging, the dealer said, “If y’ave money, sit.”

      Luka sat and tossed a purse full of coins onto the table. The other men looked at one another and exchanged shrugs. One of the men next to Luka—a big fellow with noticeably bad teeth—leered at him unpleasantly, but said nothing.

      As the cards were dealt, Luka took out his pipe and began packing it with tobacco. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit the pipe, enjoying the flavor of the smoke. If there was one thing that could keep him company in a strange place, it was a good pipe.

      As he studied his hand of cards, he noticed the big fellow looking at him. Luka eyed the man.

      “What?” he asked.

      “Give us a smoke,” the man said, his words slurring in his mouth.

      Luka looked at him and gave a firm “No” before returning to his cards.

      Without another word, the big man reached out and pulled the pipe from Luka’s mouth. Luka’s first instinct was to lash out, but he kept his temper reined in and turned to face the man, eyes alight with anger.

      “Give that back to me,” he said.

      “No,” the man said. He grinned and placed the end of the pipe in his mouth. “What you gonna do about it?”

      Luka took a deep breath and smiled.

      * * * *

      Varanus followed the barman into a small office at the back of the pub. There was a table facing the door, cluttered with glasses and mugs and all manner of papers. An inkwell and a collection of pens sat beside a large ledger. There were even a few books on law and finance sitting on a little shelf. This was the abode of a serious businessman, not some common footpad. The fellow seated behind the desk was certainly a man of the streets, dressed in weathered clothes, his nose broken, scars on his hands and face. But his eyes were keen. He knew his business, and it was more than burglary and pimping.

      There were four other men in the room: big fellows with hard expressions and meaty hands. One was cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Another drank some sort of homemade alcohol from a glass beaker. None of them looked pleased at the interruption.

      “Boss,” the barman said, “these ’ere ladies say they know—”

      “We know what happened to your missing men,” Varanus said, cutting him off.

      The man behind the desk eyed her for a moment and nodded to the barman. Exhaling quickly, the barman retreated from the room and closed the door behind him. One of the ruffians in the room stood and crossed to it, standing behind Varanus and Ekaterine, barring their retreat.

      “Well,” the man behind the desk said. “Ain’t this interestin’?”

      “I take it you are Mister Jones,” Varanus said.

      “Aye, that’s me.” The man behind the desk—Jones—smirked a little. “And who are you, miss?”

      Varanus approached the desk and said, “I am Doctor Hippolyta Sauvage. I—”

      “You’re the one that runs that hospital over in Osborne Court,” he said.

      “Clinic,” Varanus corrected.

      “Whichever,” Jones said. “I don’t care. What I do care ’bout is what happened to my boys. So you say you know?”

      Varanus looked back at Ekaterine, who smiled brightly and nodded. Varanus turned back toward Jones and said:

      “Yes. I killed them.”

      The men all stopped what they were doing and stared at her. The man with the knife began laughing, but his voice slowly died out when Varanus’s expression did not change.

      “You killed ’em?” Jones asked, speaking each word in turn as if uncertain which one to emphasize. “You?”

      Varanus knew that it would be wrong of her to take all the credit.

      “My friend helped,” she said, nodding to Ekaterine.

      The men all exchanged looks. They appeared uncertain as to whether they should believe her or not. Certainly, the suggestion was absurd, but Varanus’s tone and expression.…

      The man with the knife began to laugh again. Ekaterine shot him a look and snapped:

      “Stop that! It’s becoming irritating.”

      Jones chuckled a little. His voice sounded bitter and uncertain, but his eyes kept their hard stare.

      “Why’d you kill ’em?” he asked.

      “They assaulted one of my patients,” Varanus said. “A prostitute. A girl named Sally.” She saw Jones’s eyes widen a little. Because Sally was in the London Hospital, it must have seemed that she had vanished like the ruffians. “I believe that she was formerly in your employ.”

      “Formerly?” Jones demanded. “What you mean ‘formerly’?”

      “Sally will not be serving you anymore,” Varanus said. “Nor will any of your prostitutes. What is more, I expect you and your gang to depart Spitalfields at once. You have two days to clear out.”

      Jones’s face went red with anger. He cleared his throat and rose from his seat. His mouth was twisted in a scowl, and his eyes studied Varanus’s with uncertainty.

      “I don’t know if you’re tellin’ me the truth,” he finally said. “I know I don’t believe it. But I don’t like you comin’ in here and tellin’ me my business.”

      “I expect you wish me to leave,” Varanus said, unable to conceal the disdain in her voice.

      “You ain’t leavin’,”

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