The Mime Order

  —Paige

  14

  Arcturus

  When he woke the next afternoon, he did not find himself chained to a pipe in an underground cell. He did not find himself in the custody of the Rag Dolls, starved and beaten at their pleasure. Instead he found himself on a box-spring mattress that wasn’t quite long enough for him, with his neck supported by a wilted pillow and a vase of plastic geraniums on the nightstand.

  “Well,” I said, “this feels familiar.”

  He looked up at the ceiling: the branching fractures in the plaster, the damp that stained the corners.

  “This place does not,” he said.

  His voice was exactly as I remembered it, dark and slow, rising up from the depths of his chest. A voice that was felt as well as heard.

  “You’re in I-4, in a doss-house.” I struck a match. “Not exactly Magdalen, but it’s warmer than the streets.”

  “Indeed. Certainly warmer than the desolate tunnels of Camden.”

  As I lit the tall candle on the table, Warden pushed himself on to his elbows and flexed his shoulders. All the bruises had faded in the hours he’d been asleep. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Four in the afternoon. You’ve been dead to the world.”

  “I did wake for long enough to read your note. Touché,” he said. “May I ask where you went?”

  “Seven Dials.”

  “I see.” Pause. “You have returned to Jaxon’s service, then.”

  “I had no choice.”

  We looked at each other for a long time. So much had happened in the weeks since the escape. We’d never met on neutral ground before.

  Over time I’d grown used to his appearance, but now I forced myself to look at him as if for the first time. Irises like flame behind stained glass, pupils of a black that caught no light. The lines of him, hard yet soft: the bow of lips, the cut and curve of jaw. Brown, uncombed hair that brushed the top of his spine and fell over his forehead, oddly human. He hadn’t changed at all, except for a slight loss of radiance.

  “I take it there’s danger,” I said.

  “Indeed. I planned to be the first to warn you, but it seems the Grand Inquisitor has made the peril clear.” His gaze darted over my face. “London suits you.”

  “Regular meals do wonders.” I cleared my throat. “Drink? Wine’s in short supply, but there’s delicious tap water.”

  “Water would be welcome. My captors were not as liberal with their supplies as I would have liked.”

  “I had your clothes laundered. They’re in the bathroom.”

  “Thank you.”

  I focused on pouring water into glasses as he rose. Considering how prudish the Rephaim had been in the colony, with their gloves and high collars, he seemed quite blasé about nakedness. When he returned, in the plain, black clothes of an amaurotic trader, he sat down on the couch opposite me, keeping the table between us. A re-enactment of Magdalen, minus our colony uniforms. His shirt hung open, exposing the hollow of his throat.

  “I confess myself impressed that you found the catacombs,” he said. “I did not think it likely that I would be discovered.”

  “The golden cord helped.” I nodded to the candle. “Terebell wants to know where you are. You can do a séance here.”

  “I would like some time to speak with you first. Once the Ranthen know that you have freed me, it will be difficult for us to be alone together without arousing suspicion.”

  “ ‘Suspicion,’” I repeated.

  “Do not think that the masquerade ends here, Paige. We have merely exchanged one style of dance for another. It is not only the Sargas that fear any prolonged contact between Rephaim and humans.”

  “They know about the golden cord.”

  “They know that you started the revolt. Terebell and Errai know about the golden cord. And they know of a Sargas rumor of something more between us.” His gaze held mine. “That is all they know.”

  My heartbeat stumbled.

  “I see,” I said.

  I handed him a glass. Even here, far from the penal colony, this simple exchange felt taboo. “Thank you,” Warden said. With a nod, I sat back on the couch and pulled my knee to my chest.

  “Are the Sargas looking for you?”

  “Oh, I imagine Situla Mesarthim is tracking me as we speak. I am a flesh-traitor. A renegade,” he said, indifferent as ever. “All Rephaim have been told of my disloyalty.”

  “What does being a flesh-traitor entail?”

  “It is to be denied access to the Netherworld for all eternity. To be non-Rephaite. A blood-traitor betrays the ruling family, but the flesh-traitor betrays all Rephaim. To earn these punishments, I committed one of the very highest flesh-crimes. I consorted with a human.”

  With me. “You knew that was the consequence.”

  “I did.”

  It was quite a statement, but he delivered it as though he were commenting on the weather.

  “Nashira is pressuring the Grand Inquisitor to pour all his resources into finding the fugitives. She already has two survivors of the escape in the interrogation rooms.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Alsafiis one of ours. He is still with Nashira, feeding us information. I do not know the names of the prisoners, but I will endeavor to find out.” A shadow crossed his face. “Is Michael safe?”

  Michael had been loyal to him long before I had. “We were separated at the Tower,” I said. “The Guard Extraordinary killed most of the people who took the train.”

  His knuckles strained against his gloves. “How many are left?”

  “Twelve escaped. Five left that I’ve seen, including me.”

  “Five.” A hollow chuckle rolled from his throat. “I had better abandon the business of sedition.”

  “It was never your aim to save voyants. It was mine.” I studied him for a long time. I’d forgotten how he looked at me. As if he could see straight into the heart of my dreamscape. “I have so much to ask you.”

  “We have time,” he said.

  “I can only spend a few more hours here. Jax will be back from his meeting by midnight. He’ll ask questions if I’m gone again.”

  “Then I will ask one first,” Warden cut in. “Why escape Nashira only to give yourself back to Jaxon?”

  That got my back up. “I haven’t given myself to anyone. I’m staying in his good graces.”

  “I heard you tell him on the meadow that you had had enough of slavery. This is a man who threatened to kill you if you did not return to his employ. Tell me, why should he not beg for your good graces?”

  “Because I’m not the mime-lord of I-4. Because I’m the Pale Dreamer, Jaxon Hall’s mollisher. Because without Jaxon Hall I am absolutely nothing. And I need status like you need glow.” I was biting out each word. “I can’t leave Jaxon. That’s just the way it is.”

  “I did not think you had such respect for the status quo.”

  “Warden, my face is all over this citadel. I needed protection.”

  “If you have gone to him only out of necessity,” he said, “I take it you are thinking of some way to gain your independence.”

  “I could rob the Bank of Scion England and become the richest woman in London, but I have no good weapons and no soldiers to help me. Revolution isn’t quite as easy as treason.” When he said nothing, I sat back. “I do have one idea. The Underlord was murdered. If I can win the scrimmage to replace him, I’ll be Underqueen.”

  “The Underlord chose a portentous time to die.” He raised his glass to his lips. “I take it you do not know the identity of the murderer.”

  “Not exactly. The man who captured you might have something to do with it. Did you overhear anything in the catacombs?”

  “Nothing of use, but we know Nashira has a vested interest in disbanding the syndicate. How was the Underlord killed?”

  “Beheaded in his own parlor. His gang had their throats cut and their faces disfigured, Ripper-style. It wasn’t just a hit,” I said, with
certainty, “or the killer would have taken everything valuable. Hector had a solid gold pocket watch. That was still on the body.”

  “A statement, then.” Warden drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a habit of his. “Decapitation is the favored execution style of the Sargas dynasty in the corporeal world. It signifies the removal of the dreamscape. It is quite possible that a Rephaite did it. Or a human in the thrall of the Sargas.”

  “One human couldn’t have taken down eight people,” I said.

  “But a Rephaite could,” he said. I hadn’t considered it before. It would have been painfully easy for someone of Warden’s size and strength to murder eight drunk voyants. “You seem to know a great deal about the scene of the crime.”

  “I found the bodies. Jaxon sent me to pacify Hector. He was about to expose a part of our trading network.”

  Warden clasped his hands. “Have you thought, then, that Jaxon himself might have been involved?”

  “He was at Seven Dials the whole time. I’m not saying he wasn’t indirectly involved, but I could say that about anyone.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m the prime suspect on the streets. And I need to clear my name if I’m ever going to win the voyants’ respect.”

  “I see.”

  The blaze in his eyes set me on edge. I had to wonder how much he trusted me, after everything. His arms were still in a sorry state, blackened and lustrous from the elbow down.

  “What do you need?” I nodded to them. “Blood and salt?” He wasn’t having my blood again, but Nick could procure a pack from Scion.

  “Salt should suffice. The half-urge remains on the surface.”

  There was a small cupboard in the corner, filled with odds and ends for tenants to cook their own meals. I emptied what was left of a salt cellar into a glass and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” Warden hauled one heavy arm on to his lap.

  “Do you have any more amaranth?”

  “No. Unless the Ranthen have more, it will have to be harvested from the Netherworld. In any case,” he said, “amaranth is no remedy for the half-urge. It heals spiritual injuries.”

  “Thank you for the vial. It came in handy.”

  “I thought it might. You seem to attract injuries in the manner that a flower attracts bees.”

  “Comes with the crime.” Without thinking, I touched the scar on my cheek. “The ectoplasm showed me the cord.”

  “Yes,” he said. His attention was focused on his arm now, measuring out saline. “Ectoplasm heightens your sixth sense. Mine in particular allowed you to see the link between us.”

  “Yes,” I said. “The Mysterious Link Between Us.”

  He glanced up at me. The necrosis in his arms was already melting away. It was almost disturbing how quickly they healed.

  “The fugitives have written a kind of instruction manual about how to fight off Rephaim and Emim,” I said. “I’m going to try and sell it to Grub Street.”

  “More Rephaite hunters will begin to appear in the citadel before long, and they will need to feed. I suppose it would be wise for your people to know.” He put down the glass. “Tell me, what manner of techniques for Rephaite-slaying are written in this manuscript?”

  “Use pollen of the poppy anemone and go for the eyes.”

  “It is illegal to possess seeds of the poppy anemone in any Scion citadel. The only supply I know of was grown in the greenhouses of Sheol I.” He dabbed salt on to his wrist. “It seems they are being il legally cultivated in London, too.”

  “We’ll have to find out where. I brought this for you, by the way.” I placed a bottle of brandywine on the nightstand. “From Jaxon Hall’s cabinet of prohibited beverages.”

  “You are too kind.” He paused. “I will return to the substation when I am stronger.”

  “You’re not going anywhere near it,” I said.

  “Where, then?”

  I didn’t hesitate before I said, “Here.”

  Warden looked at me, assessing my features. I sometimes wondered if Rephaim had to work hard to gauge the meaning of human expressions. They had so little expression themselves.

  A knock on the door brought me back to myself. Warden’s gaze flicked to the wall, then to me, before he stood and concealed himself behind the bathroom door. There was no guarantee that we hadn’t been followed here. I eased the door open.

  “Nick?”

  Sweat coated his brow. He was still in his Scion uniform, shaking all over, so pale he looked ill.

  “Jag kunde inte stanna,” he said faintly. “Jag kan inte göra det här . . .” “What’s wrong?” I guided him towards the couch. “What’s happened?” “SciSORS.” Shallow breaths passed his lips. “I can’t work for them for another day, Paige. I can’t.”

  A gradual stillness came over him. I sat on the arm of the couch, keeping a gentle grip on his shoulder.

  “They got one of the Bone Season prisoners. Ella Parsons. They called my entire department to watch when they brought her in.”

  My skin prickled. “Watch what? Nick, what?”

  “Watch them test Fluxion 18.”

  “I thought they were still trying to work out the formula.” It was one of the last snippets of information I’d gleaned from my father about the project.

  “They must have sped it up to arm the Vigiles for Novembertide.” His fingers pressed against his temples. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was vomiting blood, clawing at her hair, biting her fingers. The two senior developers started asking her questions. About you. About the colony.”

  A circle of doctors around the gurney. An operating theatre, the spectators in white coats. The anger I felt wasn’t the red, unstable sort, but cold as broken glass.

  “Nick,” I said, “did Ella recognize you?”

  He hung his head. “She reached out to me before she passed out. They asked if I knew her. I said I’d never seen her before. We were sent back to our labs, but I left early.” Sweat seeped from his hairline. “They must have guessed. I’ll be arrested next time I set foot in that place.”

  His shoulders were shaking now. I wrapped an arm around him. Scion were stepping up their game.

  “Did you know her?” His voice was thick. “Did you, Paige?”

  “Not well. She never got past her white tunic. We need to make a plan to get you out of there.”

  “But all those years—all that work—”

  “How much use are you going to be to anyone when you’re the one on the waterboard? On the gallows?” My breath caught. “That—that wasn’t what your vision was about, was it? With the cuckoo clock?”

  “No. I’d have sensed it coming by now.” His hand clinched mine. “I have to get a sample of that drug. I have to know what they put in it. Figure out an antidote.” He took a breath. “There’s more. They’re not just going to target public transport when they introduce Senshield. They’re going for essential services, too. Doctors’ offices, hospitals, homeless shelters, banks. All of them will be equipped with the scanners.”

  The news turned my stomach and boiled my blood. Using homeless shelters had always been risky for voyants, but the sheer scale of this attack was appalling. Come the New Year, the vast majority of voyants wouldn’t be able to access basic medical services. With the banks no longer an option, most would have to give up their double lives. The streets would be overrun with gutterlings. I closed my eyes.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Oh, they told us.” He let out a hollow laugh. “They told us, and you know what we all did, Paige? We gave them a round of applause.”

  Hatred bubbled in my gut. They had no right to do this. No right to steal away our rights.

  Nick’s head came up when an aura registered on his radar. Standing in the bathroom doorway was Warden. Even weak and tired, he appeared redoubtable. Nick rose to his feet, his face tight, and drew me closer to him.

  “I don’t think I ever introduced you two,” I said.

  Nick’s grip tightened. “You didn’t.”
r />   “Right.” I cleared my throat. They’d met once before in the colony, but not for long. “Nick, this is Arcturus Mesarthim, or Warden. Warden, this is Nick Nygård.”

  “Dr. Nygård.” Warden inclined his head. “I am sorry not to meet you in a better state. I have heard a great deal about you.”

  Nick nodded stiffly. His eyes were rimmed with red, but hard. “All good, I hope.”

  “Very.”

  There was a pregnant silence. I had a feeling Nick wouldn’t be too happy if he learned how much Warden knew about him—how many of my memories he’d stolen. I had shown him the last one of my own free will, the one that had bared Nick’s soul as well as my own.

  “Give me a minute,” I said. “I need my contacts.”

  Nick nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes off Warden. I went into the tiny bathroom and pulled on the light cord, leaving the door ajar so I could eavesdrop. The contact lenses sat in liquid on a shelf above the sink. The silence continued for a while before Nick spoke.

  “I’ll just come out and say it, Warden. I know you let Paige out of the colony in the end, but that doesn’t mean I have to like or trust you. You could have let her go in Trafalgar Square. I had her in my arms and you took her.”

  At least he cut to the chase. I found myself listening for Warden’s response, waiting to see how he would answer the charges.

  “Her presence in the old city was necessary,” was the quiet reply. “Paige was my only chance of creating turmoil.”

  “So you were using her?”

  “Yes. The human insurgents would not have responded to a Rephaite leader, with good reason. Paige has a fire of rebellion in her gut. I would have been a fool to overlook it.”

  “Or you could have let her go. For her sake. If you cared about her, you would have.”

  “Then I would have been forced to use another human for a cat’s paw. Would that have been any more ethical?”

  Nick huffed out a laugh. “No. But I don’t think you people are too good with ethics.”

  “All ethics come in gray, Dr. Nygård. In your profession, you should know.”

  “Meaning?”

  This wasn’t going well, and I wasn’t sure I liked being talked about. I went back into the room before Warden could answer, silencing them both.