Chapter Text
The London springtime is pretty, sure. Flowering vines creeping up strand walls. Parks filled with families and children taking advantage of the new warmth. Jacob found it lovely, watching them have fun with each other. It reminded him why his work was important. Why maybe his work as an Assassin would never be done.
He sat on someone’s roof overlooking St. James’ park. His coat sat in a heap beside him, easily accessible. It was too warm to be wearing the thing, but he wasn’t stupid enough to be going anywhere unarmed. So when he heard tiles shifting gently behind him, his hand darted to the throwing knife pouch hanging off his belt.
“It’s just me, Jacob,” said a gentle voice. Evie’s voice. He relaxed and threw her a grin over his shoulder.
“Care for a seat, dear sister?” He asked, patting a spot on the tiles beside him. Evie nods and takes a seat. She pulled out a bottle of lemonade, popped the cork off and offered it to him. He grabbed it and took a sip. Evie was smiling more than she would on another day. The smile she has when Greenie is talking about his flowers and she thinks Jacob isn’t watching her. There were even small flowers littering her braids. He gestured to the bottle and in her general direction, placing the lemonade on the roof. “What’s the occasion?”
“This.” Evie beamed, pulling a new, very small braid from a sheath on her thigh. It was too small to be used as anything other than a throwing knife.
“A throwing knife?” He regarded it suspiciously, as if it had done something wrong. The handle twisted innocently, marked with the small triangles he always thought were thorns. He recognised that pattern. “Greenie’s throwing knife.” The knife was certainly over-kept, polished to a shine, with a small pink gemstone embedded just under the blade. The blade was useless for throwing, the gemstone would have thrown off it’s balance entirely. “It’s useless now.”
“It’s a marriage proposal.” Evie was practically glowing, despite whacking Jacob on the arm. Jacob huffed a laugh. There’s no way she was serious. The two of them had been courting for almost a year now and Jacob wasn’t sure how much of their tooth-aching sweetness he could take. “Half of his marriage proposal. He gave me a bouquet of flowers, then the knife. It’s an old Punjab tradition, presenting the woman you want to marry a knife you protected her wi- Jacob you’re squishing me!”
Indeed he was. He’d reached over and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. There was the warmest feeling in his chest and he couldn’t help but laugh in his joy. Evie elbowed him in the ribs, forcing him to let her go.
“When?” he asked, the joy still evident in his voice. He glanced back at the knife, raising an eyebrow. It was way too small to really protect anyone. And horribly unbalanced. “And when did he protect you with that?”
“He proposed this morning, on the train. After I went home from breakfast this morning. He gave me the bouquet and the knife. Asked me to marry him.” She trailed off, gazing lovingly at the weapon. She twirled it in her fingers then slid it back into its sheath. “It’s the knife he threw at Starrick, to distract him. He had it polished and set later.”
“And I’m left to wonder if I get a proposal,” Jacob joked, leaning back to soak up the sun.
“Well I’m sure if he knew you had a taste for men, you’d get one too.”
Jacob knew that when he told her he worked out he was attracted to men she wouldn’t mind. He wasn’t as sure she would be as open to hearing his first experience of homoromanticism was Maxwell Roth.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Darling.
Don’t think about Roth.
“We’d like to get married in India. December or January.” Evie mused. Jacob’s happiness soured.
“Before Christmas?” His smile had dropped and he sincerely hoped he wasn’t pouting like a child. The disappointment certainly made him feel like a child. The two of them had never missed a Christmas together. Last year they even had Freddie make it. Evie looked at him quizzically.
“You want us to stay for Christmas?”
“Of course.” Evie’s mouth pinched to one side, looking thoughtful.
“Nothing is set in stone just yet. Jaya hasn’t had his banishment revoked so we have a lot of waiting to do.”
“Jaya?”
“Mister Green. His name is Jayadeep.”
Jacob nodded slowly. He’d have to get used to that. Before he could respond, he heard a bell chiming somewhere. Shit. He grabbed his watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. He was going to be late. He hurriedly grabbed his coat and shoved the watch back into his pocket. Pulling the coat on along with his gauntlet, he stood himself up.
“Where are you off to?” Evie asked, standing with him.
“Wynert told me he has something exciting to show me. We have a meeting at one o’clock.” He adjusted his hat and patted himself down. He didn’t want to leave anything behind.
“You? On time? Are you sure you’re my brother?”
“I’m just doing what I’m told. Thanks for the lemonade.” He grinned at her one more time before ziplining off into the streets.
---
There are two surefire ways to annoy Ned Wynert. One is to climb into his office through his window. The second is to disorganise the books on his shelf.
The latter had cost Jacob an afternoon filled with completely reorganising the bookshelf and a lecture from Wynert.
He was never doing that again.
Jacob popped out of a cart of leaves like a daisy in the spring, startling a few women crossing the street. He darted past them and toward the warehouse on the opposite corner.
Wynert Transit Company.
Jacob snorted at the name. Even though some of Wynert’s business was legal, he always found the name a bit obnoxious. For a thief.
He crossed the courtyard and grabbed onto the wall. Waving to a gaggle of rooks calling to him, he grabbed the side of the wall and began to climb. Wynert’s office was on the third floor and laughably easy to climb to. The pattern of jutting bricks was practically a ladder. He was surprised the Bobbies hadn’t tried getting up this way yet. He perched underneath one of the four windows and peered inside.
It was a fairly large office, well-furnished with pretty furniture. Things Jacob thought he’d expect to see in a gentleman’s club. Wynert was behind his desk, doing something Jacob couldn’t see. He knocked on the window, making the American looked up from his desk. He scanned the windows for the sound, certainly on edge. Upon seeing Jacob, he looked back down at his desk. Jacob could almost feel him rolling his eyes. He only grinned and knocked harder. This time, Wynert’s chest rose and fell in what could be a heavy sigh. He pushed away from his desk and crossed the room. The window screeched on its runners as it was pushed up for Wynert to stick his head out the gap.
“I swear to God Frye, if I didn’t need this window for quick getaways, I’d put bars up,” he reprimanded, stepping away to let Jacob in. The Assassin ducked in through the frame and stowed his hat in his coat. What? His grandmother raised him properly.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Wynert. My day’s been lovely, how was yours?”
“Why can’t you use the door and tell Julie-Anne you’re here?” He rounded Jacob and walked to the door, sticking his head out of it. “Julie? Jacob Frye’s here, I’m gonna lock the door.” Julie said something inaudible, and the door closed with a click.
“It’s easier to climb.” Wynert had plopped down into his chair, moving some papers around. Jacob hovered, taking a look around the room again. The desk sat in the best lit part of the room. It was surprisingly cluttered, papers strewn about it in no real order. Usually, Wynert’s desk was the picture of cleanliness. It probably made him look more legitimate than he already did. There was a wall of bookshelves by the door, full of neatly arranged—Jacob tried his hardest not to shudder—books on all sorts of subjects. There was an open music box sitting on a pretty cabinet. A low table was set in the room’s centre surrounded by two lounges and holding a glass decanter full of amber liquid. The place seeped with class, and Jacob always found it funny how this place was in a Southwark warehouse.
“You just think Julie has a crush on you.” the American said. Jacob started, pivoting to face the desk. Wynert gestured for him to sit and he obliged, swivelling the chair to face him and straddling it. “I’ll make this quick; tax collectors are up my ass.”
“When did you pay taxes?” Jacob gave him a bemused grin. Wynert didn’t look up from his rifling of papers.
“I have a legitimate business, Frye. I pay taxes.”
Jacob chuckled at the claim, but kept quiet. Whatever Wynert had planned sounded intriguing and Jacob didn’t want to give that up by being an ass. He also liked Wynert and didn’t want to piss him off. Much.
“I’ve come across—c’mon where is it? Ah! Here. I’ve come across some correspondence between a Mr. Carleton and a Mr. Friskley,” He reached over the table to hand Jacob a printed piece of paper. A train timetable, written with that new writing machine. Typewriter? He didn’t know.
“A train robbery?” He smoothed it out on his knee, giving it a quick scan. Postal trains, by the looks of it. He placed it back on the desk.
“Exactly. I want you to find whatever you can addressed to these two gentlemen. Some of their letters mistakenly turned up in my mailbox, so I took the liberty of reading them—”
“How rude”.
“—And they have something I want. Something I could make a great deal of money from.”
“Selling back to them?”
“And then selling it myself. They mention some sort of recipe and production in India.”
“You have no idea what it is.”
“I’m working on that part.”
“And if it turns out like Soothing Syrup?”
“Then I’m burning those factories myself.” Ned waved his hand in a shooing motion. “You should be getting gone, Frye,” Wynert probably tried to sound nonchalant about it, but the man was practically bouncing out of his seat with anticipation. The excitement was infectious apparently. Jacob was getting the same jittery feeling that he got whenever something excited him. He stood from the chair, already headed to the window.
“When does the train get to Cannon Street?” Jacob asked, pushing the window up. Wynert gestured at the timetable but ignored it regardless.
“Ten minutes, can you make that?
“Easy.” Jacob popped his hat back out, placed it on his head and vaulted out the gap. He was already halfway down the wall when Wynert yelled at him to close the damn window.
---
Jacob caught that train. Easily. If you call a face full of soot easily. At least he didn’t have to run after it this time. He dropped onto the end car from the station’s rafters and took a moment to balance.
Deep breath in.
Jacob let the colours of the world wash away and the greyness take over. His eyes wandered up the length of the train. 5 carriages. Two red silhouettes standing in the middle car. No gold though. It was either the wrong train or the envelope was too small to see. He’d just have to look the long way. He sighed and blinked the greys away, focusing his gaze on the two silhouettes in the centre car. He’d start there.
He darted across the first two cars and dropped down onto the joiner platform of the third. A typical “reinforcement” style secured car, heavy dark iron doors with an equally heavy lock. Nothing terribly difficult to pick. Unless there was a bar drawn across the door inside. He pulled out his lock picks and slid them into the padlock. A small amount of feeling around later and it was open. He pulled it off and kicked the door in.
That’d be his red figures. Two blighters, startled by the ruckus and already drawing some sturdy knives from wherever they kept them.
“‘Ello boys.” He engaged, walking into the car with the same amount of snark as a strutting peacock. “You wouldn’t have any stray mail, would you? I’m afraid I’ve mislabeled my letter.”
Apparently not. One of them started stalking toward Jacob, hands up and on the defensive. The Assassin rolled his eyes. Grabbing him by the scruff of his collar, he acquainted his knee with the other man’s stomach. Hard. The blighter hit the deck groaning. Jacob kicked his knife away and wheeled on Blighter Number Two. “No mail to a Mr. Carleton? Or a Mr. Friskley?”
A sword came whooshing toward him. He ducked out of its way. Knuckles on, he punched the man square in the chest. There was a definite crack. He joined his mate on the floor. Jacob crouched to look them in the eye, even going as far as grabbing Blighter One’s face to get a good look at him. He put on a grave expression, loosely lacing his fingers together.
“Now, I really should kill you, but I’m a bit pressed for time. Where’s the letter?” One of them—the one with the broken ribs—simply spat in his face. “Charming.” He wiped the saliva off his cheek and the world washed grey once again. Being closer to his target usually helped see it better. His gaze swept over the drawers mounted into the wall. It would be best if the blighters in the train car meant the envelope would be here, but it was probably just coinc—there.
A small golden rectangle nestled among the white. He straightened up and stepped over the blighters toward the drawer. Thankfully it wasn’t locked and slid open fairly easily. He pulled the envelope out to check the address on the front, after returning the colour to his vision.
Mr Frederick Carleton, 5 Baker Street, Westminster, London.
He smirked in satisfaction, pocketing the letter. Hearing the sound of the knife being picked up off the ground, he sidestepped just in time to avoid a knife to the back. He grabbed the man by the back of the head, flicked out his hidden blade and drove it into his neck. The dead man dropped onto him, allowing Jacob to heft him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He regarded the poor sod with the broken ribs. They’d heal if he gave them time. He stepped over the man and out onto the connection platform, throwing the body onto the tracks. Some poor arse was likely to pick him up, but Jacob would be long gone by then.