The Song Rising

‘However, all is not lost. Thanks to a recent development in Radiesthesic Detection Technology, we were able to use Mahoney’s own unnaturalness to recalibrate our Senshield scanners.’ No. No, no, no. ‘Four of seven types of unnaturalness are now detectable.’

  ‘Vance,’ I whispered.

  It was her. Weaver might be the one speaking, but I sensed her face beneath his, her fingers knotted in his strings.

  They had made the announcement before I could, and they had laid the blame at my door. If the syndicate believed it, they would never forgive me.

  I should have insisted on speaking to the Unnatural Assembly hours ago, curfew or otherwise . . .

  ‘To ensure that Senshield is used with the greatest possible efficiency, and to support internal security forces at this time,’ Weaver continued, ‘I have no choice but to execute martial law, our highest level of security.’

  Warden lifted himself on to his elbows.

  ‘A division of ScionIDE, our loyal army, has been recalled to safeguard this citadel. They are led by Grand Commander Hildred Vance, who is determined to restore our capital to its former state of safety before the new year. Upon the arrival of the First Inquisitorial Division in the capital, martial law will be effective in the Scion Citadel of London until Paige Mahoney is in Inquisitorial custody. All denizens should remain indoors until further notice. There is no safer place than Scion.’

  The broadcast ended, leaving the anchor to spin on the screen.

  Martial law. We had guessed it was coming, yet hearing it from Weaver made it truly real.

  The short-lived warmth was torn away from me, like rind off fruit. I snatched my blouse from the floor and left the pocket of heat in the room, needing air, needing the cold to shock me back to reality. When I flung open the front door, the night hit my body like a shout hits the ears. I leaned against the door frame, clutching my blouse around me. The wind scalded my legs and cheeks.

  Something was straining in my dreamscape. I could hear things I hadn’t heard since I was six years old. Gunfire and screaming. Hoofbeats. My cousin’s tortured cries.

  Warden stood in the doorway to the parlour. I took deep breaths.

  ‘I need to see the commanders, now. The syndicate won’t survive martial law for long.’ I towed the cold into my lungs, as if it could freeze the fear. Ice was spreading through my core, forking out to every limb. ‘You get the Ranthen. Find me as soon as you can.’

  I strode past him, back into the parlour. As I searched for my phone, I didn’t make eye contact with him. I dug the burner out from behind the couch, where the shapes of our bodies were pressed, and buckled on my coat and boots while Warden prepared for the séance.

  Neither of us spoke, even when I left.

  In case of emergency, our meeting place was always Battersea Power Station, which was close enough to the safe house for me to go on foot. I didn’t allow myself to think as I ran, weaving past squadrons of Vigiles, urging my legs through freshly piled snow. Soon I was squirming under the fence that surrounded the derelict – the skeleton of a massive, coal-fired power station that had long since fallen out of use. Stars glistened above its four pale chimneys.

  A few sets of footprints had already spoiled the snow. I found Glym, Eliza and the Pearl Queen waiting inside, all with grave expressions. Behind them, Maria was slumped over a control panel. Her hair flamed against her pallid brow, and she was strangling a bottle with one hand.

  Memories gathered like crows in my mind. None of them were clear, but I had the sense of being surrounded. Suffocated.

  Tom and Nick arrived. Next was Minty Wolfson, whose dress, hands and face were spattered with ink. ‘Where the hell is Wynn?’ Maria bit out.

  ‘She’s coming,’ I said.

  When Wynn arrived, she stood apart from the others. For the first time since I had met her, she was armed. I could see the leather strap of a holster where her coat fell open.

  ‘Have all the cells been informed that everyone is to stay indoors, as agreed?’ I asked. Nods. ‘We need to act quickly to get our voyants to safety. ScionIDE is coming to crush the Mime Order. With Senshield, they’ll root us out in days, and they won’t be anywhere near as easy to avoid as the Vigiles.’

  ‘We might have a chance if we stay on the move. Or go to ground here as best we can.’ Maria drank from the bottle again. ‘The First Inquisitorial Division has spent years stationed on the Isle of Wight. We know these streets. They don’t.’ She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. ‘This could be fine.’

  She didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘It won’t work. We can’t hide in plain sight any more,’ I said quietly. Her face crumpled. ‘Senshield would have pushed us into hiding in the end. This just . . . forces us to take action earlier than we expected.’

  The silence that followed was almost painful, heavy with shock and grief. Never, in all of syndicate history, had voyants been forced to leave their districts, their sections, the streets that were their homes. What I was proposing – what I was ordering – was an evacuation.

  I was suddenly conscious of the æther; my sixth sense swamped the others. Nick touched my arm, jolting me back.

  ‘Paige?’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, and ran from the control room.

  Scaffolding had been left to rot on one side of the power station where property developers had been defeated by its age. I clambered up it, ignoring their calls for me to wait. A mass of dreamscapes was approaching from the south, moving past us at a steady pace. Regimented.

  Nick was in pursuit, navigating the vertical labyrinth. When I reached the top, I ran to the base of one of the four chimneys and grasped the rungs of a ladder. Behind me, Nick heaved himself off the scaffolding.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I need to see.’ I tested the ladder with my boot. ‘Something’s coming.’

  ‘Paige, that thing has to be three hundred feet.’

  ‘I know. Can I use your binoculars?’

  His lips pressed together, but he handed them over. I slung them around my neck and climbed.

  I moved like clockwork past concrete scabbed with paint. When I thought I was high enough, I turned to behold the starfield of blue streetlamps – London in the dead of night. I could see the illuminated skyscrapers of I Cohort in the distance and the bridges closest to the power station, two of many that reached over the river. The nearest was for trains, but the one beyond would normally be weighed down with traffic, even in the small hours. I took one hand off the ladder and lifted the binoculars.

  A convoy of black, armoured vehicles was thundering across the bridge, coming from a main road close to here. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the tanks among them. Each vehicle was flanked by armed foot-soldiers. I couldn’t see the end or the beginning of the convoy; there must have been hundreds, thousands of them on their way into the heart of the capital.

  My heart climbed into my throat. I pressed myself against the ladder when a helicopter rushed over. A helicopter emblazoned with SCIONIDE.

  I descended as quickly as I could. When he saw my face, Nick didn’t need to ask. Wordlessly, we scrambled back down the scaffolding. The others were waiting for us at the bottom.

  ‘They’re here,’ I said. Minty lifted a hand to her mouth. ‘A massive convoy. We need all of our voyants from the first four orders evacuated now – into every available hideout – maybe some of the abandoned Underground stations—’

  ‘Jaxon knows those places.’ Eliza was holding her own arms. ‘We need somewhere he’s never been.’

  ‘Damn it, think,’ Maria barked. ‘Where can we go?’

  ‘There’s always the Beneath.’

  It was Wynn who had spoken. She was standing by the window, her hands in the pockets of her coat. As one, we all turned to look at her.

  ‘The underground rivers. The deepest tunnels. The storm drains and the sewers,’ she said. ‘The lost parts of London.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Wynn, don’t be an idiot,’ Maria bu
rst out. Wynn raised her eyebrows. ‘The Beneath is the mudlarks’ and the toshers’ territory. We all know the sewer-hunters have no interest in dealing with syndies. They protect their kingdom of shit like it’s a river of gold. Any time we’ve ever tried to push too far underground, they’ve driven us off with spears.’

  ‘Ruffians,’ the Pearl Queen said.

  ‘Can we not force our way in?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Fighting them would end in deaths. I’m not going to slaughter one community to protect another,’ I said sharply. Yet going deep underground could protect us from Senshield, and from Vance.

  Minty raised an unsteady hand. ‘I’m afraid force isn’t an option,’ she said. ‘The Beneath is the territory of the mudlarks and the toshers, beyond debate. It was agreed in 1978 that the deep parts of London would be theirs, and theirs alone. Their right to the Beneath is enshrined in syndicate law. And as you say, Maria, they protect it fiercely.’

  ‘There must be some way to convince them,’ I snapped. ‘It’s our only way out of this. ScionIDE won’t think to look there; even Jaxon will have no inkling. If we stay below the streets, we can move around the citadel without activating the scanners. If the Mime Order can go where Vance’s soldiers can’t follow—’

  Wynn cleared her throat.

  ‘If I might finish speaking,’ she said, ‘I happen to know how we can access the Beneath, without force and with the toshers’ permission.’

  Every head turned in her direction. Maria was good enough to look slightly embarrassed.

  ‘Several years ago, the toshers came to us – the vile augurs – with a plea,’ Wynn went on. ‘They needed access to a lost river, the Neckinger; I believe there was treasure there. The entrance sat on Jacob’s Island, our land. We allowed them access and to plunder the treasure. In return, their king promised each vile augur a favour. It so happens,’ she said, ‘that I never claimed mine.’

  I didn’t dare to hope.

  ‘Wynn,’ Nick said, ‘are you saying you might be able to get us into the Beneath?’

  Wynn stared hard at each of them in turn, then at me.

  ‘Know this, Paige Mahoney,’ she said. ‘If you had punished Ivy at all during that trial, if you had even touched a hair on her head, I would have left you all to rot, and done it gladly.’

  The silence was absolute. When I could speak again, I said, ‘Send word to the syndicate. We’re going underground.’

  7

  The Great Descent

  1 December, 2059

  We sent out an alert to the Unnatural Assembly: prepare to evacuate. Stand by for instructions. There was to be no discrimination – everyone from mime-lords and mime-queens to buskers and beggars, would be taken. They were to bring with them only what was essential, and enough food for at least a week.

  Scarlett Burnish, the Grand Raconteur, had already appeared on the screens to soothe the nation. Despite her telling them to stay indoors, people were out in force on the streets, seeking answers from the Vigiles, who held their guns close and ignored all questions. Burnish was on every screen: her pale, oval face with its perfect features, framed by blood-red hair – the face that brought them news and announcements, that now asked all denizens to remain in their homes and await further instruction. So few were listening. These were Londoners – they had never experienced the ruthlessness of ScionIDE. They had spent their lives under a thin carapace of superficial freedom, with no idea that any protest, violent or otherwise, could be viewed as treason by the soldiers.

  While the others were coordinating the evacuation, Wynn brought Nick and me to what had once been known as Blackfriars Bridge. We followed her down the steps, out of sight of the main road.

  ‘Wynn,’ Nick said, ‘where are you taking us?’

  ‘To the mouth of the River Fleet.’

  ‘The what?’

  Wynn clicked her tongue. ‘A lost river. Buried over the years, as London was piled on top of it.’ She kept marching. ‘Scion won’t be looking down there for criminals. Not for a while, in any case.’

  She glanced over a low balustrade, down to where water swashed against an outcrop of ice. ‘Low tide. Good,’ she said, and hitched up her skirts. Then she was climbing over, on to a service ladder. ‘Paige, wait for a whistle. When you hear it, come down and join me.’

  ‘Where the hell are you going?’

  She grabbed me by the collar and pulled me forward, so I had to fold over the balustrade. ‘Look.’

  I looked. Nick switched on his torch, but it took my eyes a moment to find the narrow entrance to a tunnel, hidden beneath the bridge. ‘Wynn,’ I croaked, ‘we can’t put the voyants in a river for months.’

  ‘This is only part of the toshers’ network. They use the Fleet and its storm drains to cross the citadel – just as we must, if we mean to evade Vance.’ She began to climb down. ‘Wait there.’

  It didn’t take her long. We watched her cross the shingle on the riverbank and disappear into the tunnel.

  Darkness. That was what the syndicate now faced under my rule. Days, weeks, maybe even months of being buried alive in deep, forgotten places. I had known that something like this would happen one day, ever since Senshield’s first prototype was installed; even when I had only been Jaxon’s mollisher, I had feared it – but I had never expected it to happen so soon.

  ‘This could work,’ Nick murmured. ‘If the mudlarks and toshers can survive down there, so can we.’

  The wind lashed my face. ‘It’s our only chance.’

  The transmission screen across the river was static. Vance was a shadowy figure, rarely appearing before cameras; most denizens would have no clear impression of what she looked like. She hid behind Weaver and Burnish – Burnish, especially, would be able to lull people into accepting martial law, with her pleasant tone of voice and gentle smile.

  Perhaps that was a tactic, a way to frighten us. If Vance remained faceless, communicating only through her soldiers’ brutality, she would be imagined as something more than human.

  The whistle came sooner than I expected. I clambered down the ladder, Nick hot on my heels, and we ventured under the bridge, our footsteps splintering ice.

  Beyond the archway was utter darkness. Marbled water washed around our boots.

  Two dreamscapes were here. One belonged to Wynn, the other to an amaurotic. Nick shone his torch, revealing a stock-brick chamber. The far wall was taken up by sealed iron doors. I never failed to marvel at how many parts of London had been left to rot in the vaults of history; how many of them existed beneath its people’s feet, unseen and unknown.

  Wynn’s eyes reflected the torchlight. The amaurotic who stood beside her was unshaven and defiantly filthy. Grime was embedded in the creases of his face. He wore an oilskin coat, a helmet, gloves and hip-high gumboots, winched up by metal clips on his belt. He carried a long pole, which must serve as both walking-stick and spear.

  ‘This is the Fleet’s outfall chamber,’ Wynn said. ‘And Paige, this is Styx, the toshers’ elected king. Styx, I give you Paige Mahoney, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London.’

  We regarded each other. He didn’t look much like a king, but then, a nineteen-year-old with a pinched face probably wasn’t most people’s idea of a queen.

  ‘Wynn tells me that you wish to move the clairvoyant syndicate into the Beneath,’ he said throatily. ‘I see no reason why I should grant this request. If not for Wynn, I wouldn’t even be considering it.’

  I glanced towards Wynn. All she did was raise her eyebrows.

  ‘Because there are soldiers in our citadel. And if you don’t,’ I said, ‘my voyants’ blood will be on its streets today.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mourn. Your syndicate has long been a festering wound on the face of London,’ he said, ‘almost since the first Underlord died. And it seems to me that you have brought martial law upon yourselves.’

  Nick opened his mouth to protest, but I stood on his foot.

  ‘I promised Wynn anything for opening the Neckinge
r, but I cannot allow you to enter our network if I fear my people may be harmed by yours,’ Styx said. ‘Syndies have never been kind to those of my profession, even when we co-existed. Yet the water-folk were here long before your syndicate. Mudlarks combed the Thames in the days of Queen Victoria. Toshers crawled beneath the streets before London knew the word unnaturalness. You’re the youngest criminals in this citadel, yet you brutalised us.’

  ‘And I don’t expect you to forgive us for it,’ I said. ‘I can only swear to you that it will not happen again on my watch. We’d be indebted to you. We don’t know how to navigate the Beneath.’

  ‘No. And it is deadly without a guide.’ Styx leaned on his spear. ‘I’m inclined to believe you, knowing you released the vile augurs. Our friends. There are many sorts of outcasts in the Beneath . . . but the risks to us are great.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement,’ I said. ‘I only need asylum for my voyants for as long as it takes me to damage ScionIDE.’

  ‘And you have a plan to do that?’ He sounded sceptical, as well he might.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was almost true. I had the pieces of a plan, even if I had yet to slot them together.

  ‘Styx,’ I said, wading closer, ‘I don’t have time to argue or bargain with you. Every minute we spend debating brings ScionIDE closer.’ My voice shook with the effort of staying calm. ‘I need to get my voyants to safety – not tomorrow, but now. Today. I’m asking you, one outcast to another, to let my people into the Beneath, so they won’t have to face what’s above. There are good people among them for every one that’s done wrong. If money’s what you want—’

  ‘I’ve no use for money. We make enough from the blessings of Old Father Thames.’

  ‘What can I offer you, then?’

  ‘A life.’

  I frowned. Sunken eyes stared back at me.

  ‘A mudlark was slain by syndies in 1977. Cruelly slain, and tortured before. We require a life for the one that was stolen.’

  ‘You want to execute one of mine for a crime committed almost a century ago?’ Despite my efforts, my voice cracked. ‘You’re not serious.’