Rowan realized that he was going to be late. Which was bad. If he came around too late at the New Docks, the usual pressgangs would have already picked their choices in labourers for the day, and he’d be left with the bad jobs. Or worse, no job at all.

So, he started to jog across the streets. He left the small maze of alleys for the large thoroughfares crossing London, heading toward the eastern parts.

A shadow fell over him. He looked up, and smiled automatically, looking at the sky behemoth that was slowly crossing London’s sky.

Like everyone else, he’d gasped two weeks ago, when HMS Skyforge was unveiled, floating against the city’s heavens. While people had fainted or run for cover, Rowan had heard the town criers announcing the new marvel of the modern age, the first skyship commissioned by his majesty George III for his 80th anniversary. So, on that day at least, he was proud to be a British subject, alive in the heart of the greatest of the empires Earth had ever known.

Even without the floating marvel sliding over London, sights of the exploding modernity were everywhere. The avenue was starting to get crowded by the usual buggies and delivery vans, but here and there, Rowan could spot one of the horseless carriages that were multiplying across the city. As he ran past, a fountain powered by a crystal-fuelled pump gurgled with water as women drew buckets to carry back.

However, modernity was not going to help Rowan very much if he didn’t make it to the Docks. As he turned the corner and started toward the Isle of Dogs wharves, he made an internal grimace. There was no way he’d be in time for the first jobs. His best hope would be a busy day and plenty of honest work for all comers.

The West India Dock was busy, but not that busy. The crowds were still there, full of hopeful lads like himself trying to get a job, but it already looked like most had been picked for their day’s work. Rowan made it to the northeast corner, where he usually tried to get picked by the shippers. Even with the modern age coming, there were always ships coming to the greatest port the world had ever known, and they needed unloading and loading fast. Rumours of crystal-powered lifters had been around for years since Rowan started coming to the docks, but none had been seen, and thus, young men like him were used in droves to carry the fruits of Empire into its heart.

“George! George!”

Rowan waved, trying to get the attention of the gang organizer across the milling crowd of labourers. He knew George liked him enough and would direct him to the best gang offers.

But when George noticed him, his shoulder shrug told Rowan that he was too late indeed. Unless another shipper or cargo arrived late, he was out of luck with George’s offers. Rowan cursed.

“Balls!”

He drifted away and looked across the wharf. A handful of lesser-known gang recruiters had lifted small banners to attract people. Rowan tended to avoid those. Sometimes, they shat on their recruits, reneging on payment and vanishing. Sometimes you simply had backbreaking work in the most dangerous conditions for less than half of what honest shops like George did.

Alas, since he’d missed the main call for today, and the previous days had seen fewer jobs than usual, he was becoming quite despondent. Rent was due. The French might have done their usual harassing across the Channel, making travel hazardous and delaying the ships which might account for the lack of dock work. But, for a young man like himself with no great skills and no apprenticeship, that was the best he could do. Fixed jobs were usually worse than ship unloading.

As he crossed the wharf, looking for a gang offer that would allow him to wait out the day, he spotted a most unusual banner. Banners would be plain cloth, barely clean. But this one not only had pure white cloth but had a crossed sword and staff picture, almost like a noble’s crest. A lot of people milled around, taking the banner as an indication of some wealthy company.

Rowan snorted. As if a wealthy company was going to pay them more than it could get away with. He guessed that the wealthy didn’t get there by paying one shilling more than they could.

The recruiter had an assistant with him, behind a small stand. An ink well and a ledger completed the scene, while the assistant looked suitably bored. The astonishing part was that this assistant was a woman. She wore a laced leather jacket, a heavy skirt and a strange broad hat with a flattened round top that looked out of place on a woman. Or a man.

Meanwhile, the recruiter was dealing with the press of people, with the help of four tough-looking men, one of which was mildly familiar to Rowan.

“ONE AT A TIME. YOU PUSH, YOU GET KICKED!” bellowed one of the guards. To illustrate his words, he did, in fact, push back one particularly scrawny fellow that had slid between two others in an effort to get noticed.

Rowan joined the crowd. After all, he had got nothing to lose. He’d turned back toward George’s corner, but the man appeared to have left, a sure indication that no job would be forthcoming on that side.

The crowd shuffled forward. Rowan had no idea what the man was there for, but it looked he had strict criteria for his workers. He kept turning away everyone. As Rowan neared the end of the queue, he saw better what was happening, which immediately struck him as odder than hell.

The man was holding a contraption of gears and crystals in his hand. As each would-be labourer approached, he’d made a pass with it from head to toe, the gears would whirr, he’d look at something in the middle of the device, and wave away the hapless candidate. Most shrugged and moved out, but a handful tried to negotiate.

“But I’m good. Dedicated. I work hard, I don’t slack. I never complain!”

“You’re not qualified. If I say you’re not qualified, I don’t want you. Get lost.”

“But…”

At that point, usually, one of the toughs would grab the guy, drag him out and kick him in the shins. Most of the candidates learned from that, a few didn’t.

At last, Rowan arrived in front of the man. He had chiselled features, smooth lines on his face, and clean, strong hands. He looked more like a noble himself rather than someone you’d send to recruit at the Docks.

Like all the previous people, he started to pass across Rowan’s body. However, unlike the previous people, he stopped mid-point, came back up and moved more slowly, then made a pass from side to side, something Rowan hadn’t seen him do before. The man looked at his device, frowned, and turned toward the assistant.

“Amelia! Got one. Looks like an 18 natural STA, with a side of 17-plus FOR.”

Rowan blinked. The sentence didn’t even make sense.

“You there. What’s your name?”

“Rowan, m’lord.”

“Ok, go to Amelia. She’ll explain the offer. NEXT!”

Rowan moved to the side, bemused. The recruiter didn’t seem to ask any questions, only use his device. Whatever that contraption did, it was the one doing the selection, not the guy.

“Hey, dummass. Come here.”

“Sorry, m’lady.”

He found himself looking into piercing green eyes. Those eyes and freckles probably denoted someone from the Emerald Isle. The woman’s expression managed to convey a casual annoyance at Rowan as if him being selected was an affront and a waste of her precious time. As for Rowan, he didn’t care. If he got a job, he was good for the day. Hopefully, it would pay enough to make him not worry about whether or not tomorrow would be good as well.

The woman… Amelia… turned a page on her ledger, pulled a mechanical quill, plunging it into the ink bottle and appeared to steel herself.

“Name.”

“Rowan, m’lady.”

“I heard you telling that to Sirius. Full. Name.”

“Rowan Rivers, m’lady.”

“Stop m’lady me every time. It’s going to be bothersome.”

“Yes, m’l…” he stopped himself in time as Amelia’s eyes narrowed.

“Age?”

“I’m 18…” he managed not to start again ladying.

“Birthplace?”

“Southwark Christchurch.”

The questions were strange. Why would they ask so much for a day job? What had his birthplace to do with his capacity to work?

“Family?”

“M’sisters are dead. Father’s dead from war against the French. An older brother. My mother…”

“No immediate family? Wife, children, dependents?”

“None, m…”

“Got your letters?”

“Was taught to read, per his Majesty’s new Order.”

She reached to the side of her desk and brought up another contraption of gears and crystals, not too dissimilar with the portable one that the man had used. She turned it to face Rowan and clamped a pair of wires. A small whine started and Rowan began to move away.

“Don’t move. If you stand still, this will work faster.”

The portable device hadn’t done him any harm, but Rowan was quite worried about this one. One of the problems of the modern era was that you never knew what the Empire’s tinkerers would make next.

Amelia peered at her side of the device for minutes, jotting down a few notes. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, and she folded back the contraption to the desk side.

“Ok, Rowan. I’m going to be brief. You take it, or you get the hell out of my face.”

Rowan blinked. The woman had the face and grace of a noblewoman, but the swear words and crude expressions didn’t match that impression.

“You qualify for a Profession. So I’m going to make you an offer. We are not interested in a day job. We are looking for people on a permanent basis.”

“You the army?” interrupted Rowan.

Amelia looked at him darkly.

“Let me talk, or get out already. We want you to work on a full-time basis, but not in London. You’d get leave maybe from time to time. And no, it’s not the King’s army. But it pays. 3 pounds per month.”

Rowan stared. That wage was a fortune. He’d be happy to make 4 shillings a week, but 3 entire pounds a month? That meant a catch, didn’t it?

“And what would I be doing?”

“At the start? A kind of bodyguard. Depending on how you shape up, maybe more.”

She pulled out a paper, already pre-filled and handed it to him.

“Read this and sign.”

Rowan slowly read the short document. It appeared to be a contract between something called the Artefact Hunting Company and someone, blank name, for a minimum duration of 2 years, based on satisfactory performance. The contract stipulated that the company would provide lodging, gear and training for ‘appropriate tasks’ and a 3-pound monthly wage, with a bonus for ‘extraordinary achievements’. Leave, one week per year. If he defaulted before the two years, he would need to repay his entire wages back, including the unworked part.

The clause that attracted his attention the most was that, in the event of unpreventable death, his wage until the day would be reverted to his heirs, if any.

“Sounds mighty dangerous.”

“Yes, but the march of Empire requires mighty dangerous work. And no, again. We’re not the King’s Army. They might want you. In fact, they’d be happy to get you. But we’ll pay more.”

Rowan hesitated. But the lure of steady work, high pay, and no need to worry if he got picked every day…

“Sign or get out. We don’t need wafflers.”

“I don’t know how to write…”

“You never signed? These days, you put your thumb in that inkwell and at the bottom of the paper. It’s harder to fake than a seal, and everyone’s got a different one. Even your twin if you have one couldn’t fake your thumb.”

Rowan put his finger at the bottom of the document.