Authors: Samantha Shannon
The mime-lords and mime-queens of London had gathered on a tiled floor where a deep pool had once been. The vast majority hid their identities, wearing all sorts of disguises, from simple hoods and scarves to threatening iron masks and stolen Vigile visors. It was illegal to wear decorative masks in public—most syndicate members only wore them at gatherings like this one—but many people did. The fashion had cascaded down from industrial citadels like Manchester, where most denizens wore respirators.
Jaxon had never worn any kind of disguise; he seemed to rely on his silver tongue to get him out of trouble. I still wore my red cravat beneath my eyes out of habit, though thanks to Didion, it wouldn’t do much good.
Auras jumped at my senses. Despite years of prejudice against the lower orders, the gang leaders displayed a wide range of gifts.
Most
fell somewhere on the middle of the spectrum: mediums, sensors, guardians, with the odd fury or soothsayer in the mix.
Ognena Maria was among those gathered here, talking in a low voice with Jimmy O’Goblin, the clumsy drunkard who ruled II-1. Their mollishers stood on either side of them like bodyguards, both hooded, faces shrouded with colored silk. Then there was the brutal Bully-Rook and his mollisher Jack Hickathrift; the Wretched Sylph, pale and mournful; the elderly Pearl Queen in her finery, the only one to have come alone. I knew most of the others by sight, but had rarely dealt with them.
Ten feet above us in the stalls, the Abbess of I-2, interim Underqueen until the scrimmage, was lounging against the railings in a tailored velvet suit that must have cost her a small fortune. Beneath her hat, her hair fell in sculpted waves down one side of her neck. The Monk and two of her nightwalkers, including the redhead that had been at the Juditheon, were sitting behind her. Her associates were properly called the Nightingales, though they had numerous names on the streets.
“Well, what do you know?” The green-eyed Glass Duchess examined us through a haze of smoke. A smirk crept up one side of her wide mouth. “Assembly, behold! The recluse has emerged from his cave.”
“Well met,” said her twin and mollisher, the Glass Dell. They were identical except for the wiry brown curls under their bowler hats; the Dell’s were long, the Duchess’s short. “We haven’t seen you in a summer, Binder.”
“And how we have missed his presence. Welcome, White Binder,” the Abbess called, beckoning us with a warm smile. “And you, Pale Dreamer. Welcome.”
Heads turned to look at us: some with curiosity, others with outright loathing. As I looked at the Abbess, I tried to read her aura. Definitely a medium. A physical medium, from the feel of it. Quite
a
rare gift. She had the sort of dreamscape that called out for spirits to seize control of her.
Jaxon ignored the other mime-lords and mime-queens, but touched his hand to his chest in half a bow. “My dear Abbess, what a great pleasure to see you again. It’s been too long.”
“So it has. You ought to visit me in the parlor once in a while.”
“I have no particular uses for a night parlor,” he said, making the Glass Dell choke on her aster, “but perhaps I shall stop by in I-2.”
“Binder, you rancid old codger,” the Glym Lord boomed, slapping Jaxon on the back so hard he almost dropped his cane. Better known as Glym, he was almost as big as a Rephaite, straining all over with muscle and coarse hair. Matted locks fell down to his waist, restrained by a thick band. “How are you?”
“How’s life?” Tom the Rhymer appeared over his other shoulder, clapping down a liver-spotted hand. He was almost the same size as Glym; an old Scottish soothsayer with curtains of blue-rinsed hair beneath his hat. He was the only other jumper in the room. “You know, next time somebody paints a tarot deck, they should stick you on the Hermit card.”
I smiled behind my silk. As if he sensed it, Glym gave me a grin that made his eyes glister, his teeth white against dark, leathery skin. Jaxon’s eye twitched.
“Leave him be, you pair of monsters. I hope you’ll forgive the dismal surroundings, my friends,” the Abbess called out to all of us, waving a half-gloved hand toward the ceiling. “I felt it would be inappropriate to meet in the Devil’s Acre, given the sad circumstances. Alas, we must convene in places Scion has left to rack and ruin.”
It was true. Most of the syndicate’s hideouts were derelict places: abandoned buildings, closed stations, sewer chambers from a time long past. We gathered in the under, the hidden, the forgotten.
The minutes ticked on. The Heathen Philosopher arrived in a
cloud
of perfume and white powder and greasepaint, trailing a sour-faced mollisher. Two footpads had to keep Didion Waite from entering, and we were treated to his pompous voice piping out arguments for ten minutes (“I may not be a mime-lord, but I am a
valued
member of this community, Madam Underqueen!”). When the doors swung open again, the Wicked Lady came marching in with the Highwayman. She was the brutal mime-queen of this section, presiding over three of the most notorious slums in the citadel: Jacob’s Island, Whitechapel, and the Old Nichol, as well as the docklands. A burly Ripper hunter in her thirties, half her mollisher’s height, with a klaxon voice and lips purpled by aster. Above us, the Abbess waved her to a seat on her right.
“My dear friend,” she said. “Thank you for allowing us to use this space for these proceedings.”
“Oh, doesn’t bother me.” With a snort, the Wicked Lady sat down and crossed her legs, tossing her ash-blonde curls over her shoulder. “Half this bloody section is derelict.”
“It has a dark past, as we all know,” the Abbess said. She looked at us all, her slender eyebrows lifting. “I asked for all Assembly members from I and II Cohorts to report to this meeting as a matter of urgency. Where is Mary Bourne?”
“She sends her apologies, madam,” said a whey-faced courier, curtseying low. “She has a fever. Her mollisher is tending to her.”
“We wish her well. And Ark Ruffian?”
“Intoxicated, madam, the wretched bloody scoundrel,” Jimmy O’Goblin slurred, waving a finger. “As is his mollisher. We all shared a merry glass last night. In Hector’s memory, you understand. I said to him, ‘Now, Ark, you know very well that Madam Abbess has called our names in her hour of need, perhaps you oughtn’t to drink another,’ but I tell you, lady, all he said was—”
“Yes, thank you, Jimmy. I suppose I was optimistic to expect him. Congratulations on arriving so clear-headed.” The Abbess’s smile
faded,
and her hands tightened on the railing. “And where, I ask, is the Rag and Bone Man? Does he consider himself too fine for these proceedings?”
A long silence followed her words. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him,” Madam Speaker said.
“He lurks beneath the ground, as always,” the Lord Costermonger said. “I hear his mollisher, La Chiffonnière, rules Camden in his name.”
“A sloven, as ever. The Rag and Bone Man has always preferred to skulk in his squalid lair, in the company of rats and rot, than answer the call of the syndicate.” Something like anger tainted her voice. “No matter. The room will smell a little less foul without his presence. Please, all of you, be seated.”
She lowered herself into a chair, as did some of the Unnatural Assembly. I sat beside Jaxon and tried to look calm.
“You will all know by now that Haymarket Hector, my dearest friend, was murdered. It now falls to me to command the syndicate before the scrimmage.” A heavy sigh went through her. “As part of my duties as interim Underqueen, to uphold the strength of the Unnatural Assembly, I must investigate the circumstances that led to Hector’s death. Pale Dreamer, would you present yourself to the floor?”
I glanced at Jaxon. He gave me the barest nod.
“One of my glym jacks reported that you were present on the night of Hector’s death,” the Abbess said gently as I walked to the middle of the room. “Is this true?”
My legs turned to columns of ice. “Yes. They were all dead when I arrived in the Devil’s Acre. Hector was beheaded. The rest died from cut throats, by the looks of it.”
“Disgraceful,” the Pearl Queen groused. “In his own parlor, of all places . . . I hope you will hand out the death sentence for this crime, Underqueen. It makes a mockery of our laws.”
“
I assure you, justice will be dealt in due course.” The Abbess turned back to me. “May I ask what you were doing in the Underlord’s territory, Pale Dreamer?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” the Bully-Rook said, giving me a nasty look.
“I was sent there on my mime-lord’s orders.”
“Sure you didn’t just sneak in and kill him?” the Glass Duchess asked, to murmurs of agreement. “You were seen arguing with Hector’s mollisher at the black market, Pale Dreamer.”
“I don’t deny it,” I said coolly.
“My mollisher is trustworthy.” Jaxon stood and placed both hands on his cane. “I’m afraid Hector, for all the good work he did for this citadel, was attempting to blackmail me. On the night he was murdered, he stole a valuable painting from I-4’s flagship booth at the Garden. I sent my mollisher to negotiate its safe return. Unfortunately, this meant that she was the first to stumble across his corpse. I can vouch absolutely for her good conduct in this matter.”
Behind me, Tom the Rhymer chuckled. “You would, though, wouldn’t you?”
“May I ask what you’re insinuating, Tom?” The veiled courtesy in Jaxon’s voice was unsettling. “That I would
lie
to the Assembly?”
“Stop.” Above us, the Abbess raised a hand. “I will hear no more of this. We trust in your word, White Binder.”
Tom muttered a few choice words, but shut up when Glym gave him a warning look. There were murmurs of assent from most members of the Assembly, though the Pearl Queen didn’t take her pale eyes off me for a long while. They wouldn’t question me while I had the protection of the interim Underqueen.
When silence had fallen again, the Abbess motioned to the two nightwalkers behind her. “My Nightingales noted that Cutmouth was not present at the scene of the crime. Can you confirm this, Pale Dreamer?”
“
There was no sign of her,” I said, “and no spirits, either. All of them had left the Acre.”
“Even the London Monster, Hector’s protector?”
“Yes, Underqueen.”
The Glass Duchess shook her head. “Don’t know why he kept that thing shackled to his side. Useless.”
“Not entirely useless,” the Heathen Philosopher drawled, stroking his ample chin. “The London Monster leaves a very distinctive mark, a black ‘M’ on the skin. If we can find this mark, it will be easy to track down Hector’s killer.”
My fist clenched behind my back. Above us, the Abbess rested her hands on the railing again. Bluish marks stained the skin under her eyes, making her look gaunt with exhaustion.
“I would ask that all of you order your voyants to keep an eye out for this mark. Maria, my dear,” she said, “as you run a market specializing in amaurotic trinkets, I want you to search for the origin of the red handkerchiefs that were found with the body, which would appear to be the only solid lead.” Ognena Maria nodded, though she didn’t look too pleased with being called
my dear
. “In the meantime, we will begin the process of searching out Cutmouth. Does anyone have any idea where she may have fled?”
Nobody spoke. Before I knew it, I was taking another step forward. This could be my chance.
“Abbess,” I said, “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but there’s something the Unnatural Assembly desperately needs to hear. Something that—”
“—I should have announced at the beginning of this meeting,” Jaxon interrupted. “Foolish of me to let it slip my mind. Despite my attempts to keep her off my turf, Cutmouth was a patron of several gambling-houses and night parlors in Soho. Perhaps it would be sensible to begin the search there.”
Anger boiled in my gut. He knew very well what I wanted to say.
After
a moment, the Abbess said, “Do I have permission for my hirelings to enter I-4 for that purpose, Binder?”
“Of course. We would be delighted to host them.”
“You are too kind, my friend. If there are no other points to raise, I shall let you return to your sections in peace. I hope to see you all at the scrimmage.” When the Abbess stood, the rest of the Unnatural Assembly followed suit. “Grub Street will organize the ledger of contestants and keep you informed as to the location. Until then, may the æther keep you in these troubled times.”
There were a few farewells before they all began to leave. As she passed, the Abbess gave me a soft smile. I glanced three fingers off my forehead and followed Jaxon down the passageway.
“You see?” He took my arm again. “Safe and sound. You have nothing to fear now, O my lovely.”
While we waited for another cab, Jaxon lit a cigar and watched the sky. I leaned against a streetlamp. “Jax,” I said quietly, “why did you interrupt me?”
“Because you were about to tell them about the Rephaim.”
“Of course I was. They need to know.”
“Try to use your common sense, Paige. Our focus was to ensure that you weren’t strung up for murder, not to tell tall tales.” All the warmth in his face had drained away. “Don’t try that again, darling, or I may have to show the Abbess this little piece of evidence.”
He tapped my arm with one finger.
The threat shocked me into silence. He held up a hand, and a rickshaw braked across the road.
So long as I was with him, I was safe. So long as I was his dutiful Pale Dreamer, my name would be just clear enough for the Unnatural Assembly to quell their suspicions about me. But if I ever struck out on my own, he would expose the dirty secret underneath my sleeve.
Jaxon had never meant to use this meeting to protect me. He’d used it to trap me. To ensure that I would never rise above him.
“
Now, back to I-4.” With a dashing smile to the driver, he climbed up the folding steps of the rickshaw and took a seat. “The others will meet us in Neal’s Yard.”
Blackmailing, devious
bastard
. I could hardly get the words out. “To do what?”
“Break our fast,” he said, with a private sort of smile. “Every revolution begins with breakfast, darling.”