The narrow, damp recesses of the Southwark catacombs spread out like a maze around Quill Kipps, and though it wasn't as bad as the sewers, he could think of a dozen places he'd rather be taking new trainees to get some experience under their belts. A house, maybe, or a train depot. At least until they were less trembling and nervous.
Dank, dark, narrow catacombs, though?
And it wasn't that he was turned around, exactly - the small silver-garbed red-head had spent enough time in catacombs and sewers to have a solid sense of where he should be - it was simply that corralling the children around him hadn't gone quite as smoothly as anticipated. The five of them were - charitably - a disaster.
Davis, Tillman, Green, Lewis, Lang, and they were all so small and wide-eyed he could hardly tell them apart.
Still, he was fairly sure he was going the right way. They had to be.
The five trainees following him ranged from eleven down to eight, and not a one of them had a lick of common sense. They were untested and untrained, no matter what their teachers had said.
Well-trained agents followed orders, followed protocols. Well-trained agents knew their Fittes manual, and their fencing. Well-trained agents didn't move without a plan, following their hunches and feelings willy-nilly.
It didn't matter, though. Orders were orders, and his were clear: supervise them in dealing with a Lurker in the catacombs.
It wasn’t a glamorous job, but at least it wasn't delivering death notices, or tackling a joint project with Bunchurch. No, this was preferred to that. And with just one Lurker to deal with, it would be an early night.
After a week of losses - three, in rapid succession - he needed that. The early night. The reprieve. The chance to sink into his mattress and rest his bones, before the exhaustion building up ate so deep he made a mistake.
Of course, maybe it was too late for that. Because - charitably - they were lost.
"Well?" Kipps asked, when the children stood, looking back at him, at a junction. Which was it? Left or right? "Lewis," he said. "Which path?"
The kid looked up at him, her big brown eyes filling with tears. "I- I-" She shook her head, unable to form words. Clueless as a kiwi bird.
"Right." He at least sounded confident, though the small hand clutching the rapier at his waist didn't inspire confidence.
"Left, Sir." He was as timid as Lewis, voice trembling along with the rest of him. "I'm sure of it."
Lurkers had that effect, sometimes. The anxiety, the fear. But they'd taken care of it, easily enough. Their nerves should have fled with the sealing of the source.
Unless it wasn't the Lurker they were scared of, but Kipps himself, perhaps. He hadn’t exactly been jovial all night. No, he’d been impatient, and unimpressed.
Unfortunately, for the life of him, Kipps couldn't remember which path they'd come down. He'd been too busy focusing on keeping all five children going the same way - on remembering which was Lewis, or Davis, or Lang. There really was nothing for it but to send agents down each path, confirm their location. It had to be one of them - left, or right. There were only so many paths to take.
"If you cannot agree, you know what you have to do." Kipps' words were firmer than he intended. But it was the sort of thing that happened when you were working with trainees. Accidents. Mistakes.
"Davis, to the right - down to the end and back. Tillman, to the left. Down and back. Calm, even steps. One of you will see the exit. Call back, and we'll come join you once the other catches up to us." It was protocol, after all.
The two agents followed the orders, each moving with slow, nervous steps.
Had he ever been that frightened? Even as six-year-old, he'd had more discipline - more confidence. Besides, the catacombs were well-searched, already almost entirely cleared. It was just a training exercise, Fittes agents had already seen to the more serious haunts.
Still, Kipps was uneasy. Splitting the group was always dangerous. And his attention was torn three ways. He needed more eyes. But that was why they traveled in teams. And he had five sets, along with his own. Not that his did much good - at least at spotting ghosts.
"Harper, watch Davis. Lang, keep an eye on Tillman. Green, watch our backs."
It didn't occur to him that maybe rather than being new and unseasoned, the children sensed something. Something worse than the Lurker they'd already cleared way. It might have, were he less bone-weary from a particularly relentless barrage of cases. If he hadn’t been to three funerals in the last month.
It didn't, though, until Davis let out a shriek at the end of the path and vanished from view. It was too fast - a blink, and Kipps had entirely missed it.
Tillman called down from the end of his path, "this way's out!"
And for a moment, Kipps was torn. He looked down the long path toward Davis. Took a few steps. But Lang broke into sobs, and Harper... The kid was green. So green, he might puke. Greener than Green, whose tiny face was fixed in equal parts confusion and terror.
"Fall back to the entryway," he commanded them. And though his own sight had long since gone, he drew his rapier, prepared to dive down the hall. "Harper, Green, Lang, move!" They didn't, though. They looked up at him like a pack of ducklings, searching for their mama. Like children, instead of the agents they were supposed to be.
He looked down at them, then back up the tunnel toward Davis.
He had to go help. Had to --
But he didn't have the sight to fight back on his own. No, his talent had already left. And without a well-trained team, he'd be swinging at empty air all alone. And if he left, the other four wouldn't just be lost ducklings - they'd be sitting ducks.
The Fittes Manual didn't leave room for heroics. Or for wasted manpower.
The Fittes Manual was clear about what came next. And it killed something deep inside him, but Quill Kipps was one to follow orders.
He grabbed Lang's arm, and pushed Harper forward, nudged Green toward the exit. A shepherd, with a flock of stricken sheep.
"We can't help if we're dead," he told them, forcefully. "We retreat, when the manpower isn't there and the ghosts are worse than anticipated. And we call for back-up."
It was a failure. A loss. And he'd wear the black band showing the loss on his arm for a month. Not in mourning, or because he'd particularly liked Davis. But because he'd made a mistake. He hadn't paid enough attention. And he deserved to be punished for that, even if he had been following orders.
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