The Mime Order (27 page)

“I’m looking for someone.” I pushed my icy hands into my pockets. “Where are the others?”

“
Ivy’s at the bolthole. I think Felix is out working, too. Nell said she’d meet me to get dinner—she gets wages for doing the silks now,” he added, “but she didn’t show up.”

“Why does Nell need to buy you dinner? Is Agatha not feeding you?”

“She gives us rice milk and bloaters.” Jos looked sick at the thought. “I give the bloaters to her cat. I know it’s better than what the Rephs gave us, like Ivy said, but I’m sure she could afford something else. She has a huge slice of pie and a whole spice cake every night.”

Bloaters were awful. Nasty little fish from the canal, all guts and eyeballs. He was right: Agatha must be able to feed them something better than that, given all the coin they gave her.

Jos walked with me through the market, tipping his hat to the odd gutterling. I tried the golden cord again, but it was trembling now, difficult to pin down. All I knew was that Warden was close.

“Where are you going to look for this person?” Jos asked.

“I don’t know yet.” I scanned the nearest buildings. “How’s Agatha treating you, aside from the food?”

“She’s kind to Ivy, but she’s quite strict with the rest of us. If we don’t bring back fifty pounds a night, we don’t have supper. Most of the soothsayers are too scared to busk now, thinking they might be arrested.”

If only I had more money, I could get them all out of there. “How’s the writing going?”

“We’re nearly finished. Nell is brilliant,” he said. “She could be a psychographer.”

“What’s the story about?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s sort of our story. About a Bone Season and all the humans escaping and the Rephaim coming to hunt them, but a few of them helping us, too.” His dark eyes peeked up at me. “We made Liss the main character. As a tribute. Do you think that’s okay?”

A tight knot pushed into my throat. Liss, the unsung hero of the
slum,
who had got me through those first few weeks. Liss, who had suffered every wrong with dignity. Liss, whose life had been cut short before she could break free.

“Yes,” I said. “I think it’s okay.”

Jos looked better for the reassurance. As we walked, I cast my eye toward the beggars of this district, huddled in doorways with their threadbare blankets and half-empty tins.

Jaxon must have been like that once. Perhaps he’d spent his nights in Camden, lingering around the costermongers, hoping for a bite of hot food or a coin to buy a drink. I could almost see him: a thin, pale boy with hair he cut himself, angry and bitter, loathing himself and what circumstance had done to him. A boy who begged for books and pens as often as he did for coin. A boy with arms torn to ribbons by fingernails, plotting his escape from poverty.

But he’d made a name for himself in the end, unlike the beggars died on his streets. Any empathy he’d had for them—if ever—was gone.

In the Stables Market, I spent a few pounds on a cup of saloop, a hot penny pie, and a wedge of spice cake for Jos. He ate voraciously as we walked, hardly speaking. I thought of what Jaxon would say if he knew I was spending my wages on spice cakes for fugitive street singers (“What an abysmal waste of good coin, O my lovely”), then decided I didn’t care.

I grasped the cord again. It was pointing to an enormous building that loomed over the market. A derelict, by the looks of it, though the red brick was in good condition.

“You said you were looking for someone,” Jos said quietly. “Is it one of the other survivors?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I nodded to the building. “What’s that place for?”

“It’s called the Interchange. Nobody’s been allowed in there since I’ve been in II-4.”

“
Why?”

“I’m not sure, but Agatha’s gutterlings think it’s the Rag Dolls’ den. There’s a door to get into it, but they always have a guard. Nobody goes in the Interchange except them. You won’t try and break in there, will you?” Jos said, looking worried. “Nobody’s allowed. The Rag and Bone Man’s orders.”

“Have you ever seen this famous Rag and Bone Man?”

“No. The Rag Dolls tell the district what to do.”

“How?”

“They call all the kidsmen and the séance-masters to a meeting and get them to spread the word. They send the dates with their gutterlings. My friend Rin said she had to take a reply from Agatha to their ringleader once. Chiffon, her name is, short for La Chiffonnière. She’s the one who gets the orders from Rags.”

“His mollisher,” I said, remembering the Unnatural Assembly’s meeting. The Lord Costermonger had said that La Chiffonnière ruled this district.

“I think so.”

Interesting.
La chiffonnière
sounded French, but it wasn’t a word I’d come across at school. “I might have a word with this Chiffon if I see her,” I said. “How do I reach the door?”

Jos pointed. “Just go through the market and up the set of steps. There’s a big sign. Another lot of steps on your left will take you to the door. The gutterlings dared someone to sneak down to it once. They never saw him again.”

“Great.” I took a deep breath. “I need to go, Jos. You should try and find Nell.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I can help. Agatha will only send me out to sing again.”

“You’re still under Scion’s radar,” I said. “Do you want your face to be all over London?”

“You’ve stayed out of their way, haven’t you? And you need
someone
to keep a lookout while you’re searching,” he said earnestly. “What if the Rag and Bone Man comes?”

My instinct told me to say no, but he had a point. “You have to do exactly as I say. Even if I tell you to leave me behind if there’s danger,” I said. “If I tell you to go, you run for it and find Nell. Promise me, Jos.”

“I promise.”

****

The arching sign must once have spelled out a name, but the years had picked the words apart. Instead of CAMDEN INTERCHANGE, it now read CA N I T CHANGE. A graffito of an inverted Scion anchor cut through the middle, and a question mark had been added at the end. Jos and I walked around the side of it until we reached the back.

“You never told me who you were looking for.” Jos stepped lightly, hardly making a sound. “It’s the Warden, isn’t it?” When I nodded, he grinned. “The others won’t be happy.”

“We need some Rephaim on our side. He helped Liss,” I reminded him. “He’ll help us, too.”

“I think he helped a lot of people. We just didn’t see it.”

He was right on that. Warden had certainly helped me, bringing me food and refusing to raise a hand to me, at great risk to his position.

The yard was deadly quiet. A few abandoned cars were parked on the cobblestones outside the Interchange: a derelict building, shaped like an upside-down “T,” that overlooked a quiet part of the market. The whole place was boarded up; planks had even been hammered over the doors. There was no light whatsoever. Even if I somehow wormed my way inside, the interior might be fitted with alarms to prevent squatters.

“
This is it,” I said.

“It doesn’t look like anyone lives there.”

“They might just have the lights turned off.” I gave him a nudge toward it. “I need you to climb up as high as you can and keep an eye out. If you see anyone coming, make a noise.”

“I can use this.” He held up a tiny silver crescent of metal. “Bird warbler. It’s loud.”

“Good idea. Just be careful.”

He ran toward the building and started to climb, using windowsills and protruding bricks to steady himself. I sat by a wall and reached for the golden cord again.

Yes, he was here. I could feel his dreamscape now, an unsteady gleam.

I skirted round the edges of the building until I reached a flight of concrete steps. There were two dreamscapes at the bottom: one animal, one human. I crept down a few steps and peered into the shaft. A woman sat on a crate, smoking with one hand and adjusting a portable radio with the other. An enormous dog slept beside her, curled up in the warmth of a small bin fire. Behind the pair was a black door, daubed with a line of unintelligible red graffiti.

The woman was unreadable. Clever mime-lord. Nothing could affect her mind, not even my spirit. I could try possessing the dog and making a fuss, but the door was padlocked. The guard would only panic and run off with the key.

I retreated back to the yard and looked up at the building again. There were no other entrances. Unless . . . well, if you couldn’t go over, you could usually go under.

Close to my feet was a drain. I crouched down, dropped a small stone through the gap and heard it
ping
against a solid floor.

This was no drain. It was a vent. There was open space under the Interchange, right beneath my boots. I’d heard of such passages before, of course—there was a lower world of sewers and passages
beneath
the streets of London, built during the monarch days—but I’d never heard of a tunnel system in Camden. I dug my fingers into the slats and pulled, but the plate wouldn’t budge.

I still had no idea how to use the golden cord to communicate, but I could guess. I thought of an image, like an oracle might create
khrēsmoi
. I pictured the grille, down to the very smallest details: the cast-iron metalwork, the granite sett paving, the seams that ran between metal and stone. And as I held the image in my mind’s eye, I felt him again—and this time, it was more than a sting at my senses. The lantern of his dreamscape flared to life, as if he’d woken from a deep sleep. The image I received in return was dark at the edges, like a frame from a silent film. A cell with bars. A chain. A guard with an orange aura.

I was seeing through Warden’s eyes. Against all odds, I’d found him.

Jos jumped down from a ledge and ran over. “Nobody’s coming. Did you find anything?” he said.

“Something.” I straightened, my eyes aching. “What’s on the other side of the Interchange?”

“The canal, I think.”

“Let’s have a look.”

We climbed over a set of railings, then a brick wall, and dropped on to a towpath. A bridge curved over the dirty water, right next to the Interchange building. Jos hopped across the roofs of several narrowboats and perched on the other side of the canal.

“Look,” he called, pointing. “Look from this side.”

I joined him. When I faced the towpath bridge again, I saw what he meant. There was a yawning space underneath it, like the mouth of a cave, where the water disappeared under the building.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Dead Dog Hole, the old canal basin.” He crouched, squinting at it. “You think that’s the entrance?”

“
I do.” There was a stack of flotsam by the nearest boat. “And I think I’ve got a way in.”

Between us, we got a piece of wood into the water. It looked like part of a crate, large enough for one person to sit on. I’d have to find another way to get Warden out. Jos kept an eye on our surroundings, watching for passers-by as he handed me a plank to serve as a paddle.

“Should I keep watch again?” He clung to the railings with one hand. “What if the Rag and Bone Man comes?”

“I’ll handle it.” I grasped the sides of the wood. “You keep watch and whistle if you see them.”

“Okay.”

“Jos.” He gave me an expectant look. “Do
not
be seen. Watch from somewhere safe. At the first sign of trouble, you run back to Agatha and pretend I was never here. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He watched from the edge as I pushed off on my makeshift raft, into the absolute darkness of Dead Dog Hole.

The silence was broken only by echoing drips. Once I was out of sight of the path and the streetlamps no longer reached me, I switched on my flashlight. Riveted columns ran from the ceiling and vanished into the black water. The walls on either side of me were the red brick of the warehouse, though thick with algae and dirt. They couldn’t have taken Warden this way.

Through two archways was what looked like a passage. I tossed my backpack on to the ledge. As I shifted my weight to my feet, ready to leap after it, the wood capsized. My fingers caught the stone, but most of my body plunged into freezing water. A gasp of shock escaped me. I hauled myself into the passage, my arms shaking with the effort. My wet clothes were a second skin. The toes of my boots pushed at the wall, lifting my legs clear of the canal.

I crawled a few feet and grasped two corroded iron bars. There was just enough space between them for my head and body to slip
through.
I peeled off my soaking jacket and tied the sleeves around my waist. My fingers were already stiffening, and my clothes reeked of whatever slime and dirt was in the water.

Why would the mime-lord of II-4 be holding a Rephaite in his compound? He had to have known what he was doing, or he would never have been able to capture one. As soon as I was through the rusted bars, I sensed the two dreamscapes. One was Warden—I recognized the arc of his mind—but the other was unfamiliar. Human. Voyant. The guard with the orange aura. Whoever had trussed Warden up down here, they didn’t want to leave him alone—with good reason. I’d never seen him kill, but if he could fight the Emim, his strength must be immense. I reached into my boot for my hunting knife.

If I was discovered in a rival mime-lord’s den, his hirelings would be well within their rights to drag me to the Unnatural Assembly. Or just kill me, so long as they told Jaxon about it.

My boots were soft leather; they hardly made a sound. I walked until I found myself in a man-made tunnel, a remnant of an age of mines and steam and railway wagons. The walls were tangled with chicken wire. Naked, broken bulbs hung in cages from loose wires. I moved into the blackness, avoiding the brooding spirits that drifted past. Just wisps. Nothing dangerous. Jos’s dreamscape was somewhere above me. He must have climbed up to the warehouse roof.

It soon became apparent that this place was something like a maze. Perhaps it hadn’t been built for that purpose, but with only the occasional glint of light to indicate where you were, it was disorientating. I took note of what was in each vault: barrels of alcohol, mattresses and lanterns, rubble and junk. Decades of accumulated scrap. A den for the Rag Dolls. It must have once have been a basement under the warehouse, but it stretched beyond the Interchange, too.