The workers had been up since dawn, trying to stay ahead of his wrath, but by the time Peter Aylen walked onsite, they knew they were doomed. The houses were all in terrible condition, half-built frames littered with trash and bottles and drunks from the night before. They tried to look busy, tried to stay out of his line of sight, there was nowhere to hide in the unfinished row of broken promises.
“It’s nearly September!” Aylen boomed, kicking over a ladder and sending a worker sprawling. “These fine folks have been waiting eight months on you lot, and you’ve still just barely started!”
He found the nearest man holding a hammer, pointed a warning finger at him. “If the Corkstown refugees don’t have a roof of their own by first frost, neither will you.”
“Aye, Mr Aylen,” whimpered the worker. “Understood, sir.”
Aylen paused by a partygoer from a nearby tavern, covered in vomit, passed out in the corner. “I swear to God Almighty,” he snarled. “If you use this land as your hangover spot one more time…” He stomped on the man’s leg over and over again: “I…will…end you!”
The man woke with shrieks of pain as his knee cracked sideways. The second he saw why, he crawled for the exit, sputtering apologies through his tears.
Aylen was just about to go back into the fray when he saw one of his assistants climbing through the wooden frame, a thick ledger under his arm. In an instant, Aylen’s mood changed from delirious anger to unhappy impatience.
“The river again?” he asked. “How many this time?”
“Two rounds,” said the assistant. “Wright’s runners wouldn’t budge, but we did pick up some of the others. I just…” He looked very much like he didn’t want to finish his sentence, which only incensed Aylen more.
“Just what? What else?”
“I can’t help but get the feeling, Mr Aylen, that the reason Wrightstown runners are so willing to defy you, sir, is that—”
Aylen’s jaw tensed. “Bowen’s playing both sides.”
“Yes, sir,” sighed the assistant. “Charging you for bribes taken, and charging them for protection from extortion. I can’t see any other reason they’d defy you.”
Aylen glanced down at the ledger. “How much is it costing us? How much by the end of the season?”
The assistant clutched the book a little tighter. “As compared to last year, sir, a ten percent increase, give or take.”
“And if Bowen weren’t a lying son of a—”
“Twenty-five,” said the assistant. “If we secured all the business he promised us, you would have seen a twenty-five percent increase, year over year.”
Aylen’s face went stone cold. He gave the assistant a very slight nod, by way of dismissal, which the assistant took without hesitation.
All around, the workers kept hammering and sawing like they hadn’t just heard what they’d heard. They knew better than to mind Aylen’s business, or even seem like they knew it was going on. But the longer he stood there, frozen, the harder it got to deny his presence.
Finally, he started for the exit, eyes locked on some unknown target as he stalked his way to the street again, and—
He paused near the exit, finding a sledgehammer lying in a pile of trash and vomit. He bent down and righted it, leaning it against the door frame like it was meant to be.
And then he picked it up with both hands and started pounding at the wood, smashing it apart, and then apart again, and then going back for more. The front of the house was hanging by a thread, cracked and ruined, when Aylen wound back and threw the hammer clear across the street. It smashed into the building there, clattering to the ground.
Sisk leaned in, saw Aylen’s breathless state, and grinned. “You’re meant to be buildin’, not breakin’.”
Aylen snarled at him. “Bowen’s at it again.”
Sisk shook his head, but there was an element of self-satisfaction to it. “I keep telling you, we’re better off just cutting his—”
“No,” said Aylen. “I will not have you starting a war with the British army.”
“It’d only be a war if he survived.”
Aylen sneered. “Given your track record of late, that is not as reassuring as it could be. No, we need to find a way around Bowen, not through him. If he’s providing protection to Wrightstown, we need to show his word’s not worth a damn.”
Sisk scratched at his ratty cheek. “I’ve seen soldiers by the river edge,” he said. “If they’re providin’ cover, ain’t much we can do without raising a fuss.”
“So raise a fuss,” said Aylen. “But carefully. Quietly. Strategically. I cannot risk giving Bowen another reason to come ‘cross the water.”
“So about that…” said Sisk, leading Aylen further down the street, and away from the sledgehammer. “Had another incident last night.”
Aylen froze. “For God’s sake…”
“Up off York. Two lads, good kids, taken right down by a man in a mask.”
“Anything more? Anything at all this time?”
Sisk shrugged. “Headin’ over to see them now. All I know is he came outta nowhere, hit ‘em as they were on their way to the tavern.”
Aylen looked all around himself, at all the new houses being put up all around Bytown. They were growing fast—maybe too fast—and the change was dizzying. He should have been happy, but instead, it was like his old problems just kept changing, getting worse, cropping up in new areas.
“Lawlessness, Mr Sisk, cannot be allowed to take hold. Whatever you need to do, do it. Just do it quietly. If I have redcoats crawling up my arsehole because of this, yours will be the first name on my lips.”
The big man opened his eyes to the most peculiar feeling…like a pinprick was crawling along his cheek. His vision was blurry, but as it cleared, he was able to focus on a figure sitting next to him…and he jerked away.
“Mr Sisk!” he gasped, putting a hand to his cheek and coming back with blood. It was then that he noticed the knife in Sisk’s hand, which had been dragging along his skin. “I…I…”
“You were sleeping so soundly, I thought we might have some fun,” said Sisk, leaning back on the chair between the two beds. Behind him, the wolf lay fully unconscious, broken so badly it was hard to tell if he was still alive.
The big man’s arm was broken, wrapped in a splint, and his leg, too. But still, he seemed to be trying to climb back through the wall to escape a man who should have been his ally. The sight of it made Sisk smile.
“The man last night,” he said. “What did he look like?”
The big man shook his head like he might be able to knock the memories free. “I…I don’t know. He wore a mask. A black mask—”
“How tall? Taller than me?”
“I…I don’t know, sir. I—”
“Here, come on,” said Sisk, taking the man by his broken arm and pulling. “This is important.”
The big man bit back cries of agony as Sisk forced him to his feet—his one good foot—and stood in front of him, hands on his shoulders. Sisk was a head and a half smaller, but still the more intimidating of the two. Especially with the tip of his knife pointed at the big man’s neck. By chance, of course.
“Taller than me?” asked Sisk.
“Mr Sisk, I—”
“You’re standing crooked,” said Sisk, and shoved the man down on his broken leg. He cried out, sucking back sobs as Sisk kept the pressure up. “There, that’s better. Now tell me: taller, or shorter?”
“T-taller…” said the man. “A little taller.”
“Good,” said Sisk, and shoved the man back down into the bed. His leg went crack again, and he doubled over, cradling it with his one good hand.
Sisk sat back down, playing with his knife like he’d never really noticed its shape before. “Why were ye down that way? That’s Canadien territory, an’ I know you know it.”
The big man looked terrified to answer. “We were just—”
“Say something about a tavern, and you’ll have no good legs left at all.”
A long pause, and then: “There was a girl.”
“Ah, good. All this for a woman. So he was defending her. Did he speak? Do you speak French at all?”
“No, sir.”
“No you don’t speak French, or no he didn’t speak?”
“No, sir, he didn’t speak French. He was English.”
Sisk frowned, leaned forward, the knife getting too close for comfort. “Irish?”
“No, sir, Mr Sisk. I mean English. He s-s-said we d-don’t own this domain. He said they do…”
“Who? Who does?”
The man pointed off in the direction of Uppertown, and Sisk snarled.
The day was in full swing, with merchants and labourers rushing to an fro, all around Bytown, trying to make the most of the too-long days. The seasons were merciless in this town: winter for half the year, bookended by muck and misery…with only a tiny slice of time to build, to thrive, to live. What had started as a few little cottages had turned into a profitable lumber town in just a few short years, but those years were a great deal of hunkering down, punctuated by productive chaos. And the chaos got more chaotic, the closer they got to autumn.
Sisk stood at the south side of Rideau Street, arms crossed over his chest, eyeing the changing state of his adopted home. They were building further east, further north. Some of the construction was even halfway respectable, like someone had snuck over Sapper’s Bridge and taken note of what a town ought to look like, and done their best to copy it.
Of course, it was all just an illusion. A facade overtop the same old structure. The Shiners owned Lowertown, no matter what kind of pretty face you put on it.
The Shiners owned Lowertown.
But an Englishman thought otherwise.
It wasn’t that it was an Englishman that grated on Sisk, nor that a sole Englishman had bested two of his stronger enforcers. It was the knowledge that once he went to Aylen and told him this, he would be told to back off. Without a doubt, that accent would move this from the realm of justice to the domain of civilized negotiation. And that was something Sisk could not bear.
He stared off again, frown deepening the further he went, back into his town. Because it was his town, as much as Aylen’s. Men nodded respectfully at sight of him, women looked away at the thought of him. Children were held back, told to be quiet as he went by. If that wasn’t power, it was a damn close facsimile.
An Englishman in his town. An Englishman breaking Shiners in his town.
Sisk stopped in the middle of the street, face twitching with fury. He was too angry, he knew. He would make rash decisions like this. Hurt people in ways that wouldn’t help him. He had to be smarter than that. More careful than that.
He saw, from the corner of his eye, a familiar little house, tucked into the mess. The Crowley residence. And in the upstairs bedroom, window wide open, curtains blowing in the wind.
He had to be more careful. He had to be smart.
He walked on over, eyes locked on that open window.
The door opened without a fuss, creaking ever so slightly as he closed it back up. He paused in the entrance, listening for the sounds of old man Crowley—or his ghost, more like—lurking about, looking for revenge. But there was no ghost, and there was no revenge, so Sisk crept down the wall toward the staircase, feet touching so softly it was like he wasn’t even there.
Up on the second floor, all the doors were closed but one. The one that faced the street, and he could see the bright light shining through. He could feel the breeze from the hallway.
He heard the sound of a woman humming, singing a lonely tune in a lonely key, on a hot and humid afternoon. She sounded melancholy and tired.
He slipped off his jacket.
He stepped into the room, setting his jacket on the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves. On the bed, arm over his face to block out the light, was Colleen Crowley, wearing her nightgown and drenched in sweat, humming her cares away. Or what was left of her cares.
“Ms Crowley,” said Sisk, and she jerked to attention, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, voice empty and distant. “Is it still today?”
He grinned at her. “It’s still today.”
She sat up part way—as far as she could manage—swaying a little like the breeze held her hostage. “Did you find it? Did they have more?”
He smiled at her, slipping a little vial from his pocket and giving it a shake for her amusement. “Best laudanum this side of the St Lawrence,” he said. “And all for you.”
She reached for it like a child begging for candy, and for a moment it looked like he was going to give it to her. But then he pulled it back, a wry grin on his face. “Where’s my thank you?”
She sighed, taking hold of his shirt and using it to pull herself up to his level. Her eyes were struggling to stay aligned, her head in danger of tipping over, but she forced herself. Forced herself.
She kissed him, hands moving up to tangle in his greasy hair, and pulled him down into the bed with her.
“Kill me,” she whispered as his lips brushed her skin.
And Sisk replied, as his hands undid her gown: “Not yet.”