Authors: Samantha Shannon
When I reached the end of the street, a coffeehouse lurched up on my left, hardly visible in the thick fog. I stopped dead. The sign above the door read BOBBIN’S COFFEE.
My father was a man of habit. He always liked to have a coffee after his shift at work, and he almost always went to Bobbin’s. I’d been there with him once or twice myself when I was in my early teens.
It was worth a try. I could never approach him publicly again, but I had to know that he was alive. And after everything I’d seen, everything I’d learned about the world, I wanted to see a face from before. The face of the father I’d always loved, but never understood.
As always, Bobbin’s was crowded, the air dense with the smell of coffee. Glances came in my direction—sighted glances, assessing my red aura—but nobody seemed to recognize me. The voyants of Grub Street had always considered themselves to be a cut above syndicate politics. A thin, bruised girl was no immediate threat, even if she
was
some sort of jumper. I still chose a seat in the darkest corner possible, hidden by a screen, feeling as if I’d been stripped. I shouldn’t be outside. I should be behind curtains and locked doors.
When I was certain that no one had identified me, I bought some cheap soup with the handful of money Nick had left me, careful to use an English accent and keep my eyes down. The soup was made with barley and garden peas, poured into a hollowed loaf of bread. I ate it at my table, savoring each mouthful.
Nobody
in this coffeehouse had a data pad, but most people were reading: Victorian tomes, chapbooks, penny dreadfuls. I cast a glance at the nearest patron, a bibliomancer. Behind his newspaper, he was thumbing through a well-worn copy of Didion Waite’s first anonymous poetry chapbook,
Love at First Sight; or, the Seer’s Delight
. At least, Didion liked to think he was anonymous. We all knew who’d written the dreary collection of epics as he named every muse after his late wife. Jaxon was waiting on tenterhooks for the day he tried to write erotica.
The thought made me smile until a bell clanged above the door, diverting my attention from the book. Whoever had just come in had a familiar dreamscape.
An umbrella was hooked over his arm. He transferred it to the stand by the counter and stamped his boots on the doormat. Then he was walking past my table, waiting in line for a coffee.
In the last six months, my father’s hair had flecked itself with gray, and two faint lines cupped his mouth. He seemed older, but he didn’t have a torture victim’s scars. Relief came crashing into me. The voyant waitron asked for his order.
“Black coffee,” he said, his accent less noticeable than usual. “And a water. Thank you.”
It took all my willpower to stay quiet.
My father sat at a table by the window. I hid behind the screen, watching him through a swirling pattern of glass panes in the wood. Now I could see the other side of him, I noticed a purple welt on his neck, so small you’d think it was a shaving cut. My hand strayed to the matching flux scar on my lower back, gained on the night I’d been arrested.
Another clang, and an amaurotic woman came into the coffeehouse. She caught sight of my father and went to join him, swinging her coat from her shoulders as she went. Small and plump, she had brown skin, light eyes, and black hair in a loose braid. She sat down
opposite
my father and leaned across the table, her hands clasped in front of her. Ten delicate silver rings shone on her fingers.
A frown creased my brow as I watched them. When the woman shook her head, my father seemed to lose control of himself. He dropped his forehead into his hand, and his shoulders slumped and shook. His friend placed both her hands over his free one, which was balled into a fist.
Fighting down a sudden thickness in my throat, I concentrated on finishing my soup. The jukebox played “The Java Jive” when someone dropped a coin in it. I watched him take the woman’s arm and walk into the darkness.
“Penny for your thoughts, dear heart?”
The voice startled me. I found myself looking at the sinking face of Alfred the psycho-scout.
“Alfred,” I said, surprised.
“Yes, that tragic fool. I hear he’s far too old to approach beautiful ladies in coffeehouses, but he never learns.” Alfred examined me. “You look far too glum for a Saturday evening. In my many years of experience, that means you haven’t had quite enough coffee.”
“I’ve haven’t even had one.”
“Oh, dear me. You are clearly not of the
literati
.”
“Evening, Alfred.” The waitron raised a hand, as did some of the patrons. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hello, hello.” Alfred raised his hat, smiling. “Yes, I’m afraid the powers that be have been nipping at my heels. Had to pretend I had a real job, the muses forbid.”
A round of good-natured laughter went up before the voyants went back to their drinks. Alfred placed a hand on the chair opposite mine. “May I?”
“Of course.”
“You’re very kind. It can be absolutely unbearable to be surrounded by writers every day. Ghastly lot. Now, what can I get
you?
Café au lait
?
Miel
?
Bombón
? Vienna? Or perhaps a dirty chai? I do enjoy a spot of dirty chai.”
“Just a saloop.”
“Oh, dear.” He placed his hat on the table. “Well, if you insist. Waitron! Bring forth the beans of enlightenment!”
It was easy to see why he and Jaxon got on so well. They were both completely off the cot. The waitron almost ran to fetch the beans of enlightenment, leaving me to face the music. I cleared my throat.
“I hear you work at the Spiritus Club.”
“Well, I work in the building, yes, but they don’t employ me. I show them pieces of paper, and occasionally they buy them.”
“Fairly seditious pieces of paper, I hear.”
He chuckled at that. “Yes, sedition is my field of expertise. Your mime-lord is a fellow connoisseur. His Seven Orders system remains the one true masterpiece of the voyant world.”
Debatable. “How did you find him?”
“Well, it was really the other way around. He sent me a draft for
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
when he was about your age. A prodigy if ever I saw one. Possessive, too. Still goes into paroxysms whenever I take on a new client in the I-4 area,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s a talented man—fiercely imaginative. I wonder why he gets himself so worked up about these things.” He paused as the waitron delivered his tray. “Thank you, good sir.” The coffee was poured, thick as mud. “I knew there were risks in publishing such a pamphlet, of course, but I’ve always been a gambler.”
“You withdrew it,” I said. “After the gang wars.”
“A symbolic gesture. Too late by then, of course.
On the Merits
had already been pirated by every halfwit with a printer from here to Harrow, affecting voyants’ mindsets as it went. Literature is our most powerful tool, one Scion has never fully mastered. All they’ve
been
able to do is sterilize what they put out,” he said. “But we, the creative, must be very careful with seditious writing. Change a word or two, even a single letter, and you change the entire story. It’s a risky business.”
I stirred rosewater into my saloop. “So you wouldn’t publish anything like that again.”
“Oh, mercy, don’t tempt me. I’ve been a pauper since the withdrawal. The pamphlet is still alive and well, while the poor scout lives in squalor in his rented garret.” He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes. “Still, I do take a fair cut from every other pamphlet and chapbook that finds its way to the shelves, apart from Mr. Waite’s ‘romances,’ which are—and I think you’ll agree—no loss to me, or indeed, to literature.”
“They’re not exactly subversive material,” I agreed.
“No, indeed. No voyant literature is, really, apart from Jaxon’s. It’s only subversive in that it’s in a forbidden genre.” He nodded to a woman at the window. Her chin was tucked against her collar, her face tilted toward her lap. “Isn’t it wonderful, how words and paper can embroil us so? We are witnessing a miracle, dear heart.”
I looked at the penny dreadful she was hiding under the table; at the way the bibliomancer’s eyes were welded to the printed words, ignoring everything outside them. She wasn’t just paying attention. She was learning. Believing what would seem insane if you heard it on the street.
The transmission screen above the counter turned white. Every head in the coffeehouse came up. The waitron reached up and turned down the lamps, so the only source of light was from the screen. Two lines of black text had appeared.
REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING HAS BEEN SUSPENDED
PLEASE STAND BY FOR LIVE INQUISITORIAL BROADCAST
“
Oh, dear,” Alfred murmured.
An instrumental rendition of the anthem began to play. “Anchored to Thee, O Scion,” the hymn I’d been forced to sing every morning at school. As soon as it ended, the anchor disappeared—and then Frank Weaver took its place.
The face of the puppet. There it was, staring down at us. The coffeehouse fell silent. The Grand Inquisitor was rarely seen outside the Archon.
It was hard to tell how old he was. At least fifty, probably older. His face was an oblong, framed by greased sideburns. Hair the color of iron lay flat across the top of his head. Scarlett Burnish was poised and expressive; her lips could soften even the most dreadful tidings. Weaver was her polar opposite. His stiff white collar was fastened under his chin.
“
Denizens of the citadel, this is your Inquisitor
.” A cacophony of guttural voices boomed from every speaker in the citadel. “
It is with grave news that I waken you to another day in the Scion Citadel of London, the stronghold of the natural order
.
I have just received word from the Grand Commander that at least eight unnatural fugitives are at large in the citadel.
” He lifted a square of black silk and dabbed the spittle from his chin. “
Due to circumstances beyond the Archon’s control, these criminals escaped the Tower of London last night and vanished before the Guard Extraordinary was able to apprehend them. Those responsible have been relieved of their public duties.
”
It was thought that Weaver was a being of flesh, but no emotion touched his features. I found myself staring at him, fascinated and repelled by this ventriloquist’s dummy. He was lying about the time of the escape. They must have needed a few days to coordinate their response. “
These unnaturals have committed some of the most heinous crimes I have seen in all my years in the Archon. They must not be allowed to remain at large, lest they commit such crimes again. I call upon you, the denizens of London, to ensure that these fugitives are detained. If you suspect a neighbor, or
even
yourself of unnaturalness, you should report immediately to a Vigile outpost
.
Clemency will be shown
.”
Sensation drained away. The urge to run screamed through my blood, beating at my frozen muscles.
“
Only five of these criminals have been named at present. We will update the denizens of London once the others have been identified. For the foreseeable future, the Scion Citadel of London will be placed under emergency red-zone security measures while we hunt these fugitives. Please pay close attention to the following photographs. My thanks to you, and to that which keeps the natural order. We will purge this plague together, as we always have. There is no safer place than Scion
.”
And he was gone.
The slideshow of the fugitives was silent, except for a mechanical voice stating each name and the crimes committed. The first face was Felix Samuel Coombs. The second, Eleanor Nahid. The third, Michael Wren. The fourth, “Ivy”—no surname—with her old haircut, dyed brilliantly blue. That photo was against a grey background rather than the white of Scion’s official database of denizens.
And the fifth—the most wanted, the face of public enemy number one—was mine.
Alfred didn’t even pause for breath. He didn’t wait to read my crimes, or to check my face against the woman on the screen. He swept up both our coats, took me by the arm and led me toward the door. Everyone in the coffeehouse was talking by the time the door swung shut.
“There are voyants in this district that would sell you to the Archon in a heartbeat.” Alfred hurried me along, hardly moving his lips as he spoke. “Buskers and beggars and the like. Your imprisonment could buy them life. Jaxon will know where to hide you,” he said, more to himself than to me, “but reaching I-4 may present a challenge.”
“I don’t want to—”
I was about to say
go to the Dials
, but I stopped myself. What
choice
did I have? Scion would catch me within hours if I didn’t have a mime-lord’s protection. Jaxon was the only option.
“I can try the rooftops,” I said instead.
“No, no. I should never forgive myself if you were caught.”
This had Nashira’s gloved fingers all over it. Forcing myself to quash the volcano of anger, I buttoned my jacket to the chin and buckled it loosely to hide my waist. Alfred held out an arm. With little choice but to trust him, I let him drape half of his coat around me.
“Keep your head down. There are no cameras in Grub Street, but they will see you at once outside it.”
Alfred put up his umbrella and walked briskly, but with no outward sign of a hurry. Every step took us farther from the transmission screen and closer to I-4.
“Who’s that you got, Alfred?”
It was the augur who had been sleeping outside the coffeehouse. “Oh, er—just a pretty trinket, old girl.” He pulled me deeper into his coat. “I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry—but you’ll pop in for a cup of tea in the morning, won’t you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he kept on walking. I could hardly keep up with his strides.
We slipped under the archway, out of Grub Street and on to the streets of I-5. The night air was frigid. Yet all around us, London was stirring. Denizens spilled out of apartment buildings and oxygen bars in their hundreds to gather around the transmission towers. I didn’t need to feel their auras to tell which ones were voyant—there was terror in their eyes. They buffeted past us as they hurried toward the Lauderdale Tower, where the I-5 screen played the emergency broadcast on repeat. Frank Weaver’s face cast lights across the sky.