Authors: Samantha Shannon
Golden bowls glinted here and there, brimming with red wine. Plates of lavish food steamed on burgundy tablecloths. Vast meat pies, drizzled with thick gravy; sandwiches with vintage cheese and walnuts; brisket of beef, boiled with onions and spices. Sponge cakes, as light as you please, layered with whipped cream and strawberry jam. Clearly someone had a cookshop waitron on their side. People were already finding seats, stuffing their faces with plum pudding and flummery and fragile brandy snaps.
“This is grotesque,” Nick said as we walked toward our table. “There are buskers starving out there, and we’ve found money to waste on a party.”
“Thanks, Nick,” Danica said.
“What?”
“I’ve been searching for a long time for someone who is more boring than me. I’m so glad to have found you.”
We stopped at the drinks table. While most of the others chose wine, I scooped my glass through a bowl of blood mecks. Real alcohol could get me killed tonight. I sipped the spiced fruit syrup, scanning the vault.
A wide chalk line separated the seating area from where the fight
would
begin. And there was the Rose Ring, the old symbol of unnaturalness. Dark crimson rose-heads, one for each participant, had been carefully arranged in a circle that spanned thirty feet. Ash had been poured into it to soak up any blood we spilled. We wouldn’t have to fight within its confines for the whole event, but the Rose Ring would hold all of us at close quarters at the beginning, giving us a chance to strike a devastating first blow.
Eliza came to stand beside me, carrying a glass. “Are you ready?” she said softly.
“No.”
“What are you going to do if—?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,” I said.
Voyants were everywhere. All the dominant gangs and more. Some were trailing guardian angels or wisps; there was even a single brooding psychopomp in one corner of the vault. Jaxon returned and whispered in my ear: “Do you see the spirit?” He pointed with his cane. “That is a rare thing: a psychopomp. It has been present at every scrimmage since the first.”
“Where did it come from?”
“No one knows. After the final round, it escorts the vanquished candidate’s spirit to the last light. A final kindness from the syndicate. Isn’t that delicious?”
I looked at the place where the spirit was floating and wondered if it had once served the Rephaim. Why it had chosen to serve the syndicate now.
“And there’s Didion.” Jaxon had the look of a lion sizing up prey. “Do excuse me.”
He kissed my hand and strode away. My sixth sense was jostled by the endless crackle of people and spirits. Warden’s emotions came across the cord as relatively calm; clearly nothing had changed on his end yet. As I took a seat at the I-4 table with the others, Danica tapped my shoulder and leaned in close.
“
I finished the mask.” She took a slim pouch from her pocket and tugged out a coil of tubing, so delicate it was hardly visible. Uncoiling the tube with her thumb, she grasped my wrist and wrapped it in a bulky cuff. “The tank is concealed in here, but it also monitors your pulse. Feed the tube through your sleeve and over your ear, so it’s right by your mouth. The second you leave your body, your heart will stop and this will start.”
“Danica,” I said, “you’re a genius.”
“You say that like I don’t know.” She sat back and folded her arms. “The tank is small, so don’t go overboard.”
I pushed the tube past my wrist and hooked it over my right ear, then pulled my sleeve over the cuff. If anyone noticed the tube, it would pass as an unusual earpiece.
It took time for them all to arrive: the mime-lords, mime-queens, mollishers and mobsters of the Scion Citadel of London. These people weren’t particularly concerned about timekeeping.
After what seemed like hours, the seats were filled and rivers of illegal alcohol were flowing. A petite psychographer walked into the middle of the ring, her collar pale against her intensely dark skin. Her coiled black hair was pinned up with a fountain pen.
“Good evening, mime-lords and mime-queens, mollishers and mobsters,” she called over the noise. “I am Minty Wolfson, your mistress of ceremonies for the evening.” She touched three fingers to her forehead. “Welcome to the Camden Catacombs. We extend our thanks to the Rag and Bone Man for allowing us to use this space for our proceedings.”
She motioned to the silent figure on her right, dressed in a greatcoat. A cautious patter of applause welcomed the mime-lord of II-4. He wore a yellowed mask of cloth over his face, with a thin slot for him to see through, and a flat brown cap on top. The Abbess turned her head away as if the very sight of him repelled her.
I
sensed he was watching me through that mask. Not taking my eyes off him, I raised my glass.
Soon, you faceless coward.
He looked back toward Minty. It was then that I realized why he chilled me: I couldn’t read him.
Panic flickered through my gut. I glanced at a nearby voyant, reading them at once: soothsayer, specifically a cyathomancer. But the Rag and Bone Man . . . I could feel his dreamscape—a guarded one—but the most I could say about his aura was that he had one.
He wasn’t a Rephaite. The hollowness reminded me of a Buzzer, but he couldn’t be one of those, either. Apart from that, I couldn’t say a thing about his gift.
Minty gave a tinny cough. “As a long-standing patron of Grub Street, I am delighted to tell you that pamphlets will be provided when you leave tonight, free of charge—including the popular and ghastly new penny dreadful,
The Rephaite Revelation
. If you haven’t yet read this story, prepare to be charmed by the tale of the Rephaim and the Emim.” Cheers. “We have also been granted a glimpse of the first pages of the long-awaited new pamphlet from the White Binder,
On the Machinations of the Itinerant Dead
, which we all look forward to perusing.”
There was a tumult of applause, and a few voyants clapped Jaxon on the back. He winked at me. I forced a smile.
“I’ll now hand you over to the Abbess, who has acted as interim Underqueen during this time of crisis.”
Minty took a respectful step away from the floor. There she was. The Abbess cut an imposing figure against the stage curtains, dressed in a black crepe suit with white cuffs and high boots. It was only now that I realised both she and Minty were in mourning attire.
“Good evening, one and all,” the Abbess said. Her smile was just visible below her birdcage veil. “It has been a pleasure to serve as your Underqueen following my dear friend Hector’s death. We were
deeply
saddened, three days past, to hear of his mollisher Cutmouth’s demise. She was discovered in a squalid hut in Jacob’s Island, her throat cut from ear to ear.”
Murmuring from the crowd.
“Ostensibly, she was murdered at the hand of the vile augurs of Savory Dock. We mourn her loss. We mourn for a competent, intelligent young woman and what could have been her prosperous reign as Underqueen. And we condemn, with one voice, the actions of her murderers.”
What an actress. The woman could give Scarlett Burnish a run for her money.
“I will now read out the names of all participants who have put their names forward for the scrimmage; as I say each one, the named participant should step forward and take their place in the Rose Ring. I call for silence from the present company at this time.” She opened the scroll. “From VI Cohort: the Hare, of VI-2, and his esteemed mollisher, the Greene Manne.”
Jaxon chuckled as the two of them went forward. One wore a hideous hare mask, complete with ears; the other had painted himself green from head to toe. “What’s funny?” Eliza’s smile was nervous.
“Every mime-lord outside the central cohort, my lovely. Suburban amateurs.”
The Rag and Bone Man had detached himself from the crowd. I stood. Jaxon looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Are you going somewhere, Dreamer?”
Nadine watched me over the rim of her glass. “Don’t be long. You’re up in a minute.”
“Good thing I’ll only be a minute, then.”
Leaving them to watch the parade of combatants, I followed the masked man into the corridor. There would be enough pomp and ceremony for a quick word with him.
The
route to the labyrinth had been blocked with wire fences, and each one had a Rag Doll guard. As I passed the foul-smelling alcove that served as a lavatory, a gloved hand grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall.
My muscles seized up. The Rag and Bone Man loomed over me, his mask fluttering against his breath. It fell down to his upper chest, disguising his face and neck.
“Go back, Pale Dreamer.”
The stench of sweat and blood was on his coat. His voice sounded strange, too deep, as if it had been mechanically altered. “Who are you?” I asked softly. A muffled
thud
hammered at my ears. “Are you going to confess that you had Hector and Cutmouth killed, or let someone else take the blame for it?”
“Do not interfere. I will cut your throat, as a pig’s for the slaughter.”
“You, or one of your puppets?”
“We are all but puppets in the anchor’s shadow.”
He let go of my wrist and turned his back on me. “I’m going to stop you,” I said as he walked away, into the darkness of the tunnel. “And your gray market. You may think you’ve won this, Rag and Bone Man, but you won’t be the one wearing the crown.” When I tried to follow, two Rag Dolls blocked my path. One of them shoved me away.
“Don’t try it.”
“What’s he hiding in there?”
“Do you want me to deck you, brogue?”
“If you don’t mind me decking you back.”
She took a revolver and leveled it at my forehead. “Can’t shoot me back, though, can you?”
I gave her a heavy nosebleed before I turned away.
By the time I got back to the table, it was almost our turn to stand. Jaxon seemed deathly calm. As he smoked, he grasped a
heavy
ebony cane with a solid silver pommel at the top, shaped like a disfigured, scarred head. Danica had modified it with a mechanism that enabled the blade to be fully withdrawn or shot out of the end, delivering a lethal, spring-loaded stab before it retracted.
“From II Cohort: the Wicked Lady, and her esteemed mollisher, the Highwayman, of II-6.”
Cheering. The Wicked Lady was a favorite among gamblers. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she took her position behind one of the roses.
“Remember, Paige,” Jaxon said, “this is a show. I know you could kill them in a heartbeat, darling, but don’t. You must
grandstand
. You are a debutante at your very first ball. Show them the whole spectrum of a dreamwalker’s talents.”
Then the Abbess was calling us to the ring: “Our favorites from I Cohort: the White Binder, and his esteemed mollisher, the Pale Dreamer, of I-4.”
There was thunderous applause and stamping from the I Cohort tables, even from some of the others. Nick touched a hand to my back. I stood and followed Jaxon to the ring. The joints in my legs felt motorized. I took my place on Jaxon’s left side, keeping the rose between my boots.
“And lastly,” the Abbess said, “the three independent candidates. First, the Maverick Medium. Second, the Bleeding Heart.” Both the newcomers took their places, to a smattering of applause. “And last, but by no means least, the Black Moth.”
Silence. The Abbess turned to the crowd.
“Black Moth, please step forward.”
The silence continued. One rose remained.
“Oh, dear. Perhaps the moth has flown away.” Murmurs from the audience. A Grub Street hireling darted out to get rid of the last rose. “Now that we have our candidates, twenty-four in all, I formally open the fourth scrimmage in the history of the London syndicate.”
She
took hold of a heavy golden hourglass and turned it on its head. “When the hourglass is empty, I will call out ‘begin.’ Until you hear this command, please do not move.”
Every pair of eyes in the room settled on the hourglass.
Directly opposite me was the Bully-Rook, Nell’s mime-lord, who wore a rudimentary plastic mask with holes punched out for his eyes and mouth. Automatically, my body pulled into the posture Warden had taught me. I imagined myself on a string, being lifted, unshackled, throwing off the quick flesh that enclosed me. But my body was distracting me tonight: heart clapping, ears ringing, every inch of bare skin chilled with fear.
Which of these combatants did the Rag and Bone Man and the Abbess want to win?
Most of the competitors were soothsayers and augurs, dependent on a numen. They wouldn’t be too difficult to overcome. But there were six, Jaxon included, that could pose a real challenge.
Five seconds. I imagined the vials pouring. My vision flattened and diluted as the æther took over.
Three seconds.
One second.
“Begin,” the Abbess roared.
****
As soon as the last grain of sand had slipped through the hourglass, I ran toward the Bully-Rook. The audience roared their approval as the first few combatants clashed. At last, the mime-lords and mime-queens had emerged from their dens to do battle in the heart of Scion’s empire. My spirit was like an enraged animal in a cage, but I had to control it. There would be nothing noble, admirable, or entertaining about an Underqueen who’d killed her opponents with a flick of her spirit.
The
Bully-Rook was a good six feet tall, lean and powerful. All he carried was a silver chain. I thrust my fist straight toward his throat, but he caught it in his hand and twisted me around, like he was spinning me in a waltz. A heavy boot kicked me in the back, and I went sprawling. I rolled back to my feet and turned to face him again, my fists raised. The audience’s focus wasn’t solely on me, but the nearest voyants jeered.
It wasn’t a good start. Compared to some of these combatants, I was frail. The urge to use my spirit on the lot of them was overwhelming, but I had to show that I was strong.
My radar was alert to other dreamscapes. I sensed someone behind me and leapt out of the way. The Knife-Grinder stumbled as he missed his mark. An enormous machete glinted in his hand, big enough to cut through my neck in one swing.
Macharomancer
. That was his numen, the one that made him lethal.