For a moment Fam didn't understand why Bill made no move to fight.
He took a few steps closer and spied the dagger sticking out of a very specific spot in Bill's back.
Con had severed the gang leader's spine.
Something Bill had done more than once whilst they all looked on, a tactic the murderous bastard used to intimidate and keep the members of his gang in line.
Fam suddenly realized what came next. So did Bill.
"You can't," Bill rasped.
"Another mistake," Con replied. "You've taught me well.
" He knelt on the dock and turned Bill's face up into the moonlight.
The terror in his expression sent a delicious shiver through Fam.
"Ban's alive. We all are. But you'll see no mercy from me, Bill Green.
You deserve to rot in hell for what you did to my brother, for what you've done to all of us these two years.
Tell the devil I'll see him one day, but not today, you catamite's leavings.
Not today." He shoved Bill off the dock into the Thames.
Fam strode toward the splash and watched as the man who'd made their lives hell struggled, horrified, to keep his head above the fetid waters of the river. Con rose, and they stood together until Bill finally went limp, and his body disappeared beneath the gentle, undulating waves.
A horse whickered in recognition from the small stable behind the ragman's shop.
Con and Fam each stopped to stroke the nose that poked over the stall half-door.
They secreted several leather bags, heavy with Bill Green's blunt, into the feed box outside the stall.
By the time they reached the door at the back that led into the Kamish's kitchen, Hiram Kamish stood in the doorway waiting.
He took one look at them and nodded to the pump at the back corner of the shop-yard.
The ragman didn't say a word. He began to work the pump and Con and Fam made use of the water to rid themselves of the blood on their faces, on their hands, and in their hair.
The kitchen door burst open and Mister Kamish's short, round fortress of a wife bustled out with an armload of toweling.
"Bring them into the kitchen, Hiram, for pity's sake." She handed each of them a thick towel. "They'll catch their death out here. Come along, you two." She gave them little chance to dry themselves but grabbed each by the hand and dragged them into the warmth and light of her kitchen.
"Rachel," Mister Kamish said quietly, as he closed the door behind them.
In the glow of the lanterns and the fire in the hearth that spanned one end of the room, the bloodstains on Con and Fam's clothes shone like a beacon.
He exchanged a long look with his wife. She swallowed hard and turned to the boy of about ten or twelve years who sat at the kitchen table.
"Run upstairs and fetch two of your nightshirts, Judah."
"Yes, Mama."
She continued to hold her husband's gaze even as she spoke to Fam and Con. "Get out of those clothes and be quick about it. Wipe and dry yourselves good and proper."
Con started to say something, but Fam shook his head and began to unbutton his wet, stained shirt.
They placed their daggers and Sally's pistol on the table, along with Bill's keys.
While he and Con used the toweling to clean off what had soaked through their clothes Mrs. Kamish gathered every stitch they'd shed and tossed it into the fire.
They wrapped themselves up as best they could.
When she pointed at the bench before the fireplace, they went at once to sit and warm themselves.
"Are the others here?" Con asked, as he accepted a bowl of stew from her.
"They're in the room down there." Mr. Kamish pointed to a low-ceilinged corridor on the other side of the stove. "Warmer and easier to flee if necessary than a room upstairs."
Fam dug into the bowl of stew, suddenly more hungry than he would have believed after this night's work.
Like Sally, Missus Kamish always made certain he had something to eat.
Every time he came to visit, she insisted on feeding him as much as his belly could hold, though she and Mister Kamish were by no means wealthy.
He had scooped a generous spoonful into his mouth when the patter of feet gave him a second's warning before a heavy thump landed on his shoulder.
"Smudge," he cried, once he'd swallowed his stew. He reached up to rub the furry head that butted his over and over again.
"Jesus," Con said, with a hint of a smile. "What are you feeding him, Kamish? He's big as a bull terrier."
"Not quite," the ragman said. "You'd never get him through that hole in the wall at Missus Dyer's now, that much is certain. But I'm not the one who feeds him." He nodded at this wife, who huffed back at him indignantly.
"Eats what he kills, he does. That's all."
Mister Kamish rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Fan pulled the now hefty cat onto his lap where he settled and began to purr.
No matter what happened in the future, Mister Kamish would have his undying gratitude for whisking the kitten away the morning Ma Dyer had set for Smudge to die.
Fam's own blood, a bit of fur, a pile of chicken bones, and a hole in the wall had saved them both and fooled her.
A humble rag-and-bone man who knew how much that little scrap of fur meant to a starving boy had saved them both.
Judah came down and handed Con and Fam clean nightshirts, the first either of them had ever worn. They pulled them quickly over their heads. Judah spoke with his mother and hurried back up the stairs.
"I'm going to check on your brothers and sister," Missus Kamish said. "Don't keep them up too late, Hiram." She squeezed Con's shoulder and kissed the top of Fam's head before she picked up a loaded tray and went down the corridor.
"Brothers?" Fam asked as Smudge clambered back into his lap. "War's here too?"
"Miss Sally sent word for him to meet her here. By the time she arrived with the poor sick lad and your sister, young Warrick was already here."
"Your wife met Sally Big'uns?" Con finished his stew and pushed the bowl away.
Con, Fam, and Mister Kamish regarded each other and burst out laughing.
The laughter didn't last, but it helped.
The ragman stroked his greying beard. He picked up Con's dagger and used the toweling Con had dropped onto the bench to clean the hilt and crevices to which the last remnants of blood had clung.
"Bill Green," he said more than asked.
"And Sykes and Dawkins," Con replied.
"Both of you?" He stared hard at each of them as they nodded. "You'll stay here until the Runners lose interest. Won't take long. What will you do?" He directed his question to Con, knowing full well wherever Con led, the rest of them would follow.
"What do you think?" Con asked. Mister Kamish sighed and picked up the other dagger.
"Are you sure, my boy? 'Tis a hard life you're choosing, for yourself and the others."
"I don't think there's any going back now, do you? This is the only life we've ever known. When you've apprenticed in hell, you'd best be about playing the devil, don't you think?"
"Better to rule in hell?"
"Something like that," Con replied.
"They'll all be looking to take you down now, especially as young as you are. You'll have to watch yourselves." Mister Kamish handed Con his dagger. "And they'll be looking to hurt you through the others, Con."
"No one saw us," Fam said. "No one will know for sure it was us what done for Bill and the others."
"Unless you let it be known." The ragman stopped fiddling with the weapons and toweling and leveled both of them with a steely gaze. "There is power in people believing the worst about you. Never forget that, boys."
Con sat up straight in his chair and turned his gaze from Mister Kamish to Fam and back again.
An aspect of shiver-inducing determination came over his expression.
Not a new expression. No, Fam had seen this side of his brother before tonight, but never with the sort of steadiness that showed him to be more man now than boy. Mister Kamish saw the change as well.
"What is your plan, Mister Dyer?" the old man asked.
"We're going to take over," Con replied as if he were discussing the weather.
"All of it. We'll start with the whores and the pickpockets and the cadgers.
They'll come to us easy enough when they know we intend to treat them fair.
By Guy Fawkes night anyone who doesn't fall into line will be cast out or will burn in our bonfire. "
Mister Kamish reached for the six-pointed star pendant that he always wore around his neck. Con watched intently as the rag-and-bone man rubbed the talisman between his thumb and forefinger.
"Go check on the others, Fam." Con nodded toward the corridor behind the stove. Fam tucked Smudge under his arm, picked up a piece of hot buttered bread from the plate Missus Kamish had placed on the table, nodded to Mister Kamish, and walked toward the room where Ban, Nell, and Warrick waited.
When he awoke briefly a few hours later he saw Con sitting in a chair against the door, a large pistol in one hand and his dagger in the other.
"Go back to sleep, he said softly.
Fam turned over in the bed he shared with Warrick and closed his eyes. Smudge curled into a ball next to his head. For the first time in as long as he could remember he slept soundly. Their lives, for better or worse, were about to change irrevocably.