Who runs What

The dingy taproom of the Blackened Anchor was alive with the clamour of rough voices and clinking tankards.

Elara surveyed the rowdy scene, her senses assaulted by the mingled aromas of stale beer, pipe smoke, and unwashed bodies.

Despite her attempts to blend in, she knew her finely-bred features marked her as an outsider in this unforgiving demimonde.

"Keep your wits 'bout ye, dove." Nell's soft Cockney lilt pulled Elara from her reverie.The younger woman leaned in conspiratorially.

"Pay mind to who runs what territories. The East End answers to a maze of criminals and gangs, each jealous of their turf."

Nell nodded toward the alcove, where a pinched-faced man conducted shadowy dealings. "Take Sly Sam Hawkins - that wretched huckster has his fingers in every black market racket from here to the docklands. Slippery as an eel, playing all sides while staying beholden to none, so long as they keep lining his pockets."

Her expression turned grave. "Then there's the king o'vice hisself - Mad Jack McVitie. That maniac controls every opium den, gambling ring, and bawdy-house from Ratcliffe to Shoreditch. Rumour is, he slit more than a few throats to cement his grip on those territories." 

Nell swallowed a gulp of ale. "So keep your eyes peeled whenever Mad Jack's thugs come prowling any rookery you frequent. They'll be on the lookout for any upstarts encroaching on Sly Sam's domains and vice versa."

Elara furrowed her brow. "So this Mad Jack controls certain neighborhoods, while Sly Sam runs more discreet illegal operations? And there are...conflicts between their interests?"

Nell grinned toothily. "Quick study! Aye, that's the long and short of their bitter rivalry. Jack and Sam have been at each other's throats since Sam returned from his years at sea aiming to muscle in on Jack's rackets."

Taking another hearty swig, she eyed Elara slyly. "Smart dove like you could fetch a pretty penny from either of those brutes if they got a notion to recruit you into their ranks. Just a word to the wise." 

Elara paled at the implication. "I want no part of their criminal enterprises! I've fled from quite enough violence and—"

"Easy now!" Nell laughed, raising a placating hand. "Just having a bit of sport. I'm not recruiting you for any of their nastiness."

She leaned in with a wink. "Just offering a friendly heads-up on the lay of the land, so to speak. Mad Jack and Sly Sam may seem like a pair of irredeemable villains on the surface, but they're both savvy operators wise enough to maintain a certain detente with the right parties."

As Nell launched into another lengthy exegesis of criminal patois and local power dynamics, Elara settled in with a resigned sigh.

Clearly navigating the treacherous undercurrents swirling between the likes of Mad Jack McVitie and Sly Sam Hawkins would require full immersion into the East End's ruthless subculture of vice and violence.

Whether that baptism by fire would ultimately reform her shaken ideals and resilience, or irrevocably corrupt whatever tattered shreds remained of her former self was impossible to know.

The only certainty was the present need to drink deeply from Nell's tutelage on survival within this unforgiving demimonde.

"Now then," Nell said, gesturing toward the formidable woman holding vigil behind the bar, "whilst we're discussin' the big snoggers runnin' the rackets round these parts, wise to keep a weather eye on our Maggie out yonder."

Elara followed the younger woman's nod, taking in the landlady's stern countenance and powerful bearing as she maintained order over the unruly lot of dockside toughs and hardened prostitutes filling the benches.

While Maggie Doyle's face bore the lines of a life steeped in hardship, an undeniable aura of authority radiated from her imposing frame as she kept watch over her taproom domain.

"To the green 'uns plyin' their trades on these mean streets, Maggie's just the barged-up landlady holdin' court over this drab jakes," Nell said in a low conspiratorial tone.

"But to any slubbered chelter worth their salt, she's the true matranker of the whole bloody pucker."

Elara eyed the older woman with renewed interest, taking in the way the most brutal-looking rogues and wanton doxies instinctively averted their gazes under Maggie's baleful glare.

"What do you mean? She's more than just the owner of this tavern?"

"This dancin'-in ain't just some reized peckish warrener where any badblades or crowfeets can kick up their slumrigs." Nell shook her head adamantly.

"Nah, the Anchor is hallowed ground, a true fanchin' where even hard-mugs like Mad Jack and that gamey bawdybaskit Sam gotta play it snookered lest they draw Maggie's angle-angers."

The impish young woman knocked back another swig of her ale. "See, whilst those two bugalugs might spend every wakin' minute rubbishing on ways to slaughter each other's gullywhoppers, they know better than to bring any o' their ballam through this door. Ol' Mags is the true ballwatcher round these parts."

Nell leaned in closer, her hazel eyes gleaming with unvarnished respect. "Her gumbeys stretch from the shipyards to the sluicers up in the bridzers. She don't truck with no warnickers, mollblockers or badchi tough nuts neither. Cross the Matranker at your peril, I'm tellin' ye."

Frowning in concentration, Elara tried to decipher Nell's breathless torrent of slang.

"So...Maggie is a sort of...peacekeeper? Preventing all-out conflicts between the various criminal factions like Mad Jack and Sly Sam from erupting into open warfare?"

"Ding ding, clever clam!" Nell flashed another toothy grin. "That's just the scoremuckle of it. Yeah, Ol' Maggie's the wise 'un what bobs the pucker from collybudderin' inter a right slumping - keepin' the badbladdies and badgers from gettin' overly rabbish with their slangalours an' gullywhoppers."

Her expression turned more impish. "An' she ain't just some lilyswabbed wallbadge neither. Maggie's a proper rumbilliard with a whole mollblock of hardcases and necklers at her back, just waitin' for the downry to start their bungwallin' beneath her rumpstall."

The unmitigated admiration in Nell's tone was unmistakable as she rose fluidly from the bench.

"So do us both a bruck an' keep them peakies on-swank whenever Maggie starts glauncin' yer way, y'hear? Ain't too many liliths can hold their snoggers unslitched once they've sparked the Matranker's angle-angers."

With a parting wink, Nell sauntered off towards the bar, leaving Elara to ponder this latest revelation about the complex hierarchy and unwritten rules governing The Borough's squalid criminal underworld.

Clearly, while brutish kingpins like Mad Jack and Sly Sam may have wielded naked power through violence and intimidation, their authority only extended as far as the forbearance of women like Maggie Doyle.

As proprietress of the Blackened Anchor, the indomitable Maggie had carved out a neutral territory - a sanctuary amidst the chaos where even the most implacable of enemies were forced to abide by her iron decrees.

Such pragmatic adherence spoke volumes about the respect and fear she commanded amongst the East End's most hardened denizens.

Watching Nell trade laughing barbs with the older woman as if they were longtime friends, Elara felt a tentative reassurance take root.

Clearly, the street-wise young woman operated under Maggie's protection - which by extension meant she herself might find safe harbour here as well, at least for a little while longer. 

The vicious cult of criminality holding sway over the surrounding alleyways and dockside hells could be held at bay, so long as she remained within this eye of disciplined calm overseen by the indomitable Maggie Doyle.

What lurked beyond those stout oak doors and the older woman's steadying influence, however, was another terror entirely.

As if reading her mind, Nell rejoined Elara at their corner table, refreshed tankards in hand. "Don't get too cozy just yet, duckybird." She slid one brimming mug across with a sly wink.

"Maggie might be the smellin' salts that bobs the whole pucker from turnin' into a right slumrig, but her rumpstall only stretches so far."

Nell took a draught and set her tankard down with a dull thump. "Soon as you step backsy from the Anchor's jakes, you're back in the rungs and pudren' slips controlled by the likes of Mad Jack and that snickered huckster Sam."

Her expression turned more somber. "An' trust me dove, once you've drawn the angle-angers of one o' those badblades, ain't no fanchin' nor hallowed rumpstall can keep you dodged."

Unconsciously, Elara's hand went to the concealed blade tucked into her bodice - a reassuring weight and reminder of the skills she had been forcibly acquiring out of sheer self-preservation in this unforgiving demimonde.

"I'm no stranger to violence, Nell. I'll fight if I must to--"

"Easy now, birdie!" The younger woman grinned easily, cutting her off. "No need to get them ogles flarin' just yet."

She leaned in with a conspiratorial air. "Way I hear it, you've already gone a fair stretch survivin' gettin' dodged from the topside bridzers all the way down to our little pucker here in The Borough. Must've sparked the angle-angers of some right nacky badblades to earn a face-ａk from on high like that."

Nell's grin turned more wolfish as she gave Elara an appraising look. "An' from the way you're packin' that slangalour so snookered under them prinked-up taters, I'd hazard you've already slitched a gullywhoper or two in your dodge."

She laughed richly at Elara's barely concealed start of surprise. "What's a matter, dove? Thought us Eastlanders were just a bundle o' unalphabetters too thickheaded to notice the scruck a born britcher like yourself is narkin about?"

As Nell dissolved into further peals of laughter, Elara felt her cheeks burn hotly. So much for her attempts at maintaining a low profile amongst these bottommost dregs.

If this disarmingly irreverent girl could so easily deduce her battle-hardened past, it was only a matter of time before...

"Ain't no need to get them titterlies fluttered just yet, dove." Nell mercifully cut off her spiralling concerns with a reassuring wink.

"Your confidence is safe as kin with me an' mine. We all got are shadows, don't we?" Her hazel eyes twinkled mischievously. "An' trust me birdie, your thrillflats are lookin' a right sight chillier than some o' the snoggers I've knowed!"

Despite herself, Elara felt her panic recede under the younger woman's disarming charm and playful irreverence.

"I...appreciate your discretion, Nell. You're right, I've - I've had to do what's required to survive since...well, since my fall from a very different world." 

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