Read The Hangman's Revolution for Free Online Page B

Otto can hardly be blamed if you once had a fortune then lost it. Fifty percent is due nonetheless.”
    The High Rammity swigged once more from his parasol flask, then spat into the aisle. “Magnanimous as I am, I waive the past. Present fortunes only.”
    Riley bowed. “You are too kind.”
    Otto sat bolt upright. “Sauce? You are giving me sauce? P’raps my terms is too lenient, then? You could be catching a bullet before the magic show. Sixty percent if you insist on lip, O Great Savano.”
    Catching a bullet, thought Riley. How clever of King Otto to refer to the most anticipated trick in my repertoire: the bullet catch.
    Fifty percent, sixty. It made no difference. Riley was to be a slave at Malarkey’s pleasure, and he knew it.
    “So, to continue,” said Farley, “sixty percent of whatever the Orient brings in. If she brings in nothing, then we sell her lock, stock, and we plump the coffers with the proceeds. If the Great Savano makes a go of it, then we seed the crowd with dippers and do a side trade in the three w’s.”
    The three w’s: wallets, watches, and nose wipers.
    Disaster.
    Even if the Orient did well, the pickpockets would drive Johnny Punter away. Riley knew well how this tale played. He would end up working for the rest of his life to pay off some dreamed-up debt while his half brother moved away from him in the world. Best to cut loose before the Rams sniffed out the diverse buried boxes in which Garrick’s blood-tainted sovereigns were stashed. He would change his professional moniker and go on the circuit, maybe tart up an old wagon and tour the county fairs.
    “You is mine, lad,” Otto was saying. “You are my soldier. And I will have my due as sure as old Horatio is on his column in Trafalgar Square. And when this place has been squeezed, I will put you to work for me in the Hidey-Hole, pulling rats from hats.”
    Oh no, thought Riley. Not me. I’ve been to the future and back. I’ve learned a dodge or two. The Great Savano does not enter into servitude for men in powdered wigs.
    “As Your Majesty commands,” he said, bowing low once more. “But allow me the opportunity to negotiate.”
    Inhumane stopped mouth breathing long enough to comment. “ ‘Negotiate,’ ’e says. Negotiate. We is Rams, lad. Negotiating ain’t a condition which…the other side…of the…Rams we be…”
    It was hopeless; the sentence had gotten away from him, and so Inhumane fell silent, working it out on his fingers, chewing on the phrases.
    “I agree with my brother in sentiment if not delivery,” said Otto. “No negotiations. It’s a question of rules. Rules is like hearts. Once you break them, they stay broke.” He waved his parasol in Farley’s direction. “Get that, did ye? It was a good one.”
    The tattooist dipped his nib in an ink bottle, which was perched birdlike in his breast pocket.
    “All preserved for future kings,” he said, moving his pen across the page in quick scratches.
    “Good.” Malarkey returned his attention to the stage. “So, negotiating? There will be none.”
    “Hear my proposal, King Otto,” said Riley. “It’s for the benefit of the enterprise. Our joint enterprise.”
    In truth, Riley had less interest in negotiation than Malarkey did. He knew it was fruitless, but appearing to have an interest in a wrangle for terms made it seem as though he had accepted the proposition in general. It was classic misdirection.
    Otto stretched his legs and hooked his pirate boots over the stage lip.
    “I’m entertained,” he said. “I admit it. And so long as I am entertained then I am inclined to listen. So proceed, Riley boy, but take a care to be entertaining.”
    Riley bowed once more. “As you wish, Your High Rammity,” he said, the calmness of his tone belying internal turmoil. Tonight’s performance was forfeit; he would use the illusions already set up to spirit himself away from the stage into the bowels of the Orient, where Garrick’s treasure was