Whitechapel Gods Read Online Free PDF Page B

fist over the scraggly whiskers on his cheeks. “Strange for you to be praising the Englisch, I think. Your partnership with Nicholas Ellingsly was legend in the penny magazines—always rivals for the bigger game.”
    “The Englisch consider such contests the height of sportsmanship, Herr von Herder.”
    “A silly people, to confuse friends with opponents.”
    Bergen scanned the tables and racks in the rear of the workshop. “Is it ready?”
    “Of course! How unprofessional of me to waste time on blather.” Von Herder swiveled slightly on his stool and called for his two assistants to bring up the steam rifle. As one they dipped behind the far table and rose again straining and grunting. They carried the weapon up and set it on von Herder’s table with tremendous strain.
    “Thank you, my lads,” von Herder said. He ran his hands over the length of the rifle with an almost loving touch. His eyes slowly fell closed.
    Bergen surveyed the weapon from barrel to boiler: fully five feet in length, with a barrel the breadth of a man’s fist, a coal furnace and boiler in the place of a breech, and a padded stock that allowed the butt end of the weapon to rest atop the shoulder. It had been polished precisely, and shimmered like a mirror in some places.
    “It is a different colour,” Bergen said.
    “Yes, I replaced most of it with a new alloy. Much stronger so less can be used, which should lighten it a bit. I’ve also installed a new boiler.” He indicated each section as he spoke, dancing his fingers over the components, checking fit and sturdiness. Then he gestured for Bergen to pick it up. “Test it. Test it.”
    Bergen bent and hefted the monstrous weapon from the table. The stock fit perfectly to his shoulder. He gripped its two handles, one perpendicular to the barrel on the inside, the other parallel on the outside. He experimentally thumbed the trigger on the outside handle.
    “It is much lighter. My compliments, Herr von Herder.”
    “It will still be a heavy load to carry through the downstreets.”
    Bergen smiled. “Africa has touched me, sir. It will be as nothing.”
    Von Herder grinned back, displaying gums shrivelled by age. “I am told the sunsets are magnificent there.”
    “There are few greater pleasures, sir.” Bergen placed the rifle back on the table. He retrieved its special holster and a band of ammunition and tossed them in a canvas shoulder sack. Bergen surveyed the rack of breech-loading rifles and air rifles and considered whether Pennyedge should be armed.
    The boy would be useless against the creatures of the downstreets with just his knife, and yet Bergen felt some hesitancy at arming a boy who was under orders to kill him. The essential question was, did giving the boy a firearm make him more dangerous than he already was?
    “You were from Stuttgart, weren’t you?” von Herder asked.
    “Hm?” Bergen murmured, breaking out of his thoughts.
    “If I recall, you are from Stuttgart.”
    “That is correct.”
    Von Herder tapped two fingers absently on the table. “It is puzzling me, because you do not sound like you are from Stuttgart.”
    Bergen paused, wondering just how much the blind man’s ears could reveal. He chose his words carefully. “I have not been back to the fatherland for years, Herr von Herder. Perhaps you are hearing some tribal variation I have acquired.”
    “Of course,” said von Herder. “I’d forgotten.”
    Bergen selected one air rifle and a bandolier for the boy. “Do you have any paper, Herr von Herder?”
    “I haven’t much use for it,” von Herder said with a chuckle. “But Andrew is learning his letters.” He called back for the boy to bring up some paper and a pen.
    The assistant appeared, carrying a slip of paper dark around one edge with spilled ink, and a small bit of charcoal.
    “Beg pardon, sir, but me pen’s been leakin’ terrible of late.”
    “Well then, fix it,” von Herder snapped. “How can I let you lay your hands on