One London, 1879 Fog clung to the Thames like a lightskirt to a rich patron. Here and there, gaslight gleamed, flashing will-o’-the-wisp in the shrouding pea soup mist. It was the perfect night not to be seen. Will Carver loped across rooftops and gables, leaping across an alley and coming to a halt behind a chimney near Brickbank. A man landed lightly on the tiles beside him, breathing hard from the exertion. He wore black leather from head to toe, and the only weapons he carried were a pair of razors, tucked in his belt. “Bloody ’ell. You tryin’ to run me to death?” Blade muttered. The words were quiet, but the sound carried in the still night. Will’s lip curled, and he glared at his master. “They won’t be listenin’ for us, bucko.” Blade straightened, staring at the ruddy pillar of smoke ahead of them. “Not with that burnin’. And none of ’em ’as your hearin’.” A column of red glowed against the night sky ahead, barely muted by the fog. Every time Will breathed he could taste the ash in the air. Ahead, a massive brick gate and wall blocked the way into the city. A company of metaljackets paced in front of the gate, gaslight gleaming off the shining steel plates of their armored chests. With the flamethrower appendages in place of