The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

“I’m here to explain your initial assignment. I remind you—since you seem to have cloth in your ears—that you are not to begin active duty until February, after your period of convalescence,” she said. “Clear?”

  Her tone rankled, but there was no point in arguing with this woman. And I wanted to hear what she had to say.

  “Clear,” I said.

  “First, you should know the raison d’être of the Domino Program,” Ducos said. “We are a network of intelligence agents, mostly from the free world, working within the Republic of Scion.”

  As I took a seat, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My cheeks and nose were pink. “How long has this network existed?”

  “Domino was founded after the end of the Balkan Incursion— Scion’s first use of military force, which claimed five nations in less than two years. Our primary objective is espionage, but we are now authorized to destabilize the republic from within, and to lay the groundwork for future conflict.”

  “Are there plans in place for total war with Scion, then?”

  “We share information on a need-to-know basis.”

  “So I can’t ask how big the network is.”

  “All I can say is that we work in pièces, or sub-networks, of two to twelve individuals.”

  “And my sub-network is Mannequin,” I said.

  “Yes. Mannequin currently has six agents, including the two of us.” She opened her briefcase. “I’m told you have the required skillset for the job and are at least conversationally fluent in French. Je suppose que vous l’avez appris à l’école. Vous n’avez jamais été en France auparavant.”

  “Non, mais je parle couramment. C’est ma troisième langue,” I said. “Interrogez mois si vous voulez.”

  Ducos fired a few questions at me, each faster and more complex than the last. I answered with ease.

  “You speak very well,” she concluded. “A pleasant surprise. As you know, English is compulsory in all territories of the Republic of Scion, but some of our contacts prefer to use French. We must adapt to all situations.” She reached into her briefcase and passed me a tube. Inside was what looked like bunched-up cling film. “This is called a dissimulator, a technology unknown to Scion. You will be unrecognizable while you wear it.”

  Scarlett Burnish had worn one when she helped me escape. “Seems more like magic than technology.”

  “Welcome to the new decade.” Next was a dropper bottle, full of inky fluid. “This will darken your eyes for an hour. One drop in each eye.”

  Two more containers appeared from the briefcase. One held a pistol with a built-in suppressor, the other a fountain pen. Unscrewing the barrel revealed a three-inch blade.

  “To be used in a crisis,” Ducos said. “I take it you don’t need a lesson in how to use a gun.”

  “I won’t lie,” I said. “I’ve never been a crack shot. I’d be marginally better with a revolver.”

  Ducos eyed me with fresh interest. “I can request one,” she said. “I understand you were a gang-affiliated criminal in London. I assume you used a revolver to further your . . . activities.”

  “Just to take out the odd kneecap, you know. Nothing fancy.”

  I kept a straight face. Without comment, Ducos removed two identical vials from her briefcase.

  “This is a stimulant.” The first one she passed me contained a circular white tablet. “And this is a suicide pill.”

  After a moment, I accepted the second vial. The capsule inside resembled a tiny bullet.

  “Please commit the difference between those pills to memory,” Ducos said. “Should Scion capture you again, bite down hard on the silver pill to break its coating, then swallow. Painless brain death occurs within a minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a nod, Ducos shut the briefcase and dug into her coat pocket.

  “Europe stands on the verge of war. The continent is a tinderbox, hungry for a spark.” She took out a steel case and removed a slim white cigarette. “The Domino Program is financed by sixteen free-world nations with concerns about the Republic of Scion. We have gathered enough intelligence to know that Scion aims to keep expanding its empire.”

  “You don’t need any special intelligence to know that. Frank Weaver declares it in his motto.”

  “The ongoing invasion of the Iberian Peninsula,” Ducos said, as if I hadn’t spoken, “has naturally raised concerns among our financiers that they could be next on the list of targets.”

  I remembered the scale of military preparation I had witnessed at the depot in Edinburgh. Just a taste of the force Scion could wield against other countries.

  “At this stage, further invasions seem inevitable.” Ducos fit the cigarette between her lips and lit it. “At the present time, they would likely succeed. Our imperative is to slow Scion down. To give these countries precious time to prepare, and to fortify their borders. It may give them a chance.”

  A younger, more naïve Paige died in that moment. The girl who had believed the free world held the key to defeating Scion. The girl who hoped those countries had only ever been biding their time.

  “An asset of extraordinary value was put at risk to save your life. It is time for you to prove that risk was justified.” Ducos blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth, away from me. “Georges Benoît Ménard, the Grand Inquisitor of France, has been avoiding contact with the government in England. Domino would like to know why.”

  I nodded slowly. “He never came at New Year. Didn’t show up for Novembertide, either.”

  “Despite the fact that England gave his imminent visits a great deal of publicity. Frank Weaver clearly wants to meet with him, and to display the strength of their relationship,” she said. “The question is: why is Ménard not accepting these overtures? Why avoid a fellow Scion leader?”

  My mind had been so full of the revolution, I had never really questioned those absences.

  “You are able to inhabit other bodies.” Ducos examined me through a haze of smoke. “A unique ability, as I understand it. There are no others like you.”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then let us hope you are up to the task.” She never took her gaze off me. “You will infiltrate L’Hôtel Garuche—the official residence of the Grand Inquisitor of France—and extract the information we require by possessing his spouse and chief representative, Luce Ménard Frère. You will use her influence to find out what England has done to rankle him.”

  Luce Ménard Frère. The woman who had smiled at the prospect of my death, told me she was glad their children would grow up in a world without me in it.

  “That’s out of the question,” I said. “For one, I can’t perform long possessions. Not without life support.”

  “I am aware.” Ducos tapped her cigarette over the hitherto-unused ashtray. “A ventilator will be delivered to a safe house near L’Hôtel Garuche.”

  “For another, Frère will clearly become suspicious if she keeps losing hours of memory.”

  “Over time, perhaps, but not if you are quick. I’m told you’re resourceful. Frère may also be reluctant to report any symptoms that smell of unnaturalness.”

  “Ménard would hardly put his own spouse on the guillotine, would he?”

  “Don’t underestimate his commitment to Scion.” Ducos handed me a dossier. “This is everything we know about Frère, as well as the staff of, and regular visitors to, L’Hôtel Garuche.”

  “And you just want to know the reason Ménard won’t see Weaver.” I leafed through the dossier. “Why?”

  “Because if there is tension between them, we can use it to sow discord within Scion. And when the time is right, we can fan the flames of that discord. To weaken internal unity.”

  “And when do you want this done?”

  “Ideally, in the first week of February. The sooner we have this information, the sooner we can act on it.”

  Ever since I had discovered the truth behind Scion, the underworld had been my arena. I had fought to effect change fro
m below. This was a grander stage—the world stage.

  “This period of peace—if we can call it peace—is fragile. One misstep on your part could push us into all-out war,” Ducos said. “We set fires in the Domino Program, but only fires we can control. Interfere in any unauthorized manner, and there will be severe repercussions. You are only to extract information pertaining to Benoît Ménard and Frank Weaver. You are not to use our support, money, or equipment for any other purpose.”

  “I get a salary, then.”

  “Not for your first assignment.” She eyed my clothes. “I don’t believe you went to the river today. You’re covered in chalk. I suspect you found a way into the carrières.”

  I elected not to answer.

  “I suspect that a woman like you—a woman used to giving, not following, orders—has found her own ends to pursue in the citadel,” Ducos said. “Cease and desist, Flora Blake. Domino has given you sanctuary. Domino pays for this apartment, your food, your medicine. On top of that, you owe us a life debt. This assignment is how you pay it.” She crushed her cigarette into the ashtray. “Enjoy your last few days of convalescence. I’ll be in touch.”

  With that, she picked up her briefcase and left without a backward glance.

  The front door closed. I tilted into the cushions and curled up, catlike, on my side. My temples ached. Arcturus walked into the parlor and took the seat Ducos had vacated.

  “And now to sleep for a thousand years.” I tucked a folded arm under my head. “Did you hear all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Domino thinks Ménard and Weaver are at odds. And they want to know why,” I said. “I don’t suppose Alsafi told you anything useful on that front?”

  He considered.

  “As I told you in the colony, Benoît Ménard was invited to the Bicentenary. The guest of honor,” he said. “During the event, he was to sign the Great Territorial Act—that is, the agreement that Sheol II would be founded in France.”

  “Remind me why he didn’t show?”

  “According to his representatives, he could not travel due to illness. Nashira was both displeased and unconvinced by his excuse. In October, she apparently lost patience and sent a Rephaite emissary to Paris for his signature and seal. The emissary disappeared without a trace.”

  Interesting. “But Ménard did eventually sign?”

  “Yes, in December. Luce Ménard Frère brought the signed document to England on his behalf—Alsafi confirmed this before he severed contact. Clearly Ménard could delay no longer.”

  “Then we already know the source of the tension. The Great Territorial Act,” I said. “Ménard didn’t want Sheol II in his country. What we don’t know, and what Domino needs to know, is why.”

  Without the distraction of movement, I could feel every step I had taken. A deep, relentless ache. All I wanted was to sleep, but first I needed to wash the chalk off. The thought kept me on the couch.

  “Working with Domino could allow us to escalate the revolution,” Arcturus said. “Are you willing, Paige?”

  “Right now, I don’t have much choice. This assignment is how I pay off my life debt, and it seems like we only have this hideout for as long as I keep working for them.” I shifted my weight off a bruise. “And there could be all manner of useful secrets in the Hôtel Garuche.”

  He said nothing, but the golden cord stirred.

  “What is it?” I asked. He glanced away. “Go on. If you have something on your mind.”

  Some time passed before he spoke.

  “I wonder if you were entirely frank with me about how far you intended to go today,” he said. “If you always meant to follow each lead to its end, even in the face of jeopardy.”

  Tiredness blurred my thoughts. It took me a moment to absorb what he was saying. “You think I misled you?”

  “I prefer to prepare for all potential outcomes.” He avoided the question. “To guard you to the best of my ability, I would know the conceivable extent of your plans in future.”

  “I told you what I planned to do this morning.”

  “Yes. You also stated that you would not do anything strenuous,” he said. “Perhaps you feared I would not support you if I knew how far you meant to go.”

  “I had every intention of taking it slow,” I said coolly. “Then I adapted. You know I strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Yes, Paige,” came his quiet reply. “I am well aware.”

  “You might not like it, but it got rid of Senshield.” As I spoke, I braced my ribs with one hand. “Maybe the Ranthen don’t know how to adapt. Maybe that’s why you need help from humans to make any actual progress.”

  “Perhaps so,” Arcturus said. “In fact, I believe we complement one another in that regard. My rigor, your inclination to play for high stakes—these make for a well-balanced alliance.”

  “Fine. We’re on the same page. So what’s your problem?” When he fell silent again, I rubbed my raw eyes. “Arcturus, I’d really like to get some rest. Are you steering for a point?”

  “Rest. We can speak tomorrow.”

  “No.” My headache was thickening. “Just . . . say your piece.”

  “As you wish.” Arcturus looked me in the face. “We were ill-prepared in the carrières. It was dangerous and unfamiliar territory that placed us both at the mercy of strangers.”

  “And if we hadn’t taken the chance to go down there, we’d have no idea about the gray market being in Paris. That ignorance could have put us in danger further down the line.”

  “The grands ducs could have trapped and assassinated you. Even I might not have been able to protect you from all of their followers.”

  I huffed an incredulous laugh. “I’ll thank you to remember that you’ve put me in danger yourself in the past. More than once,” I said, “when it served your purposes, blood-consort.” His eyes flared. “Yes, you heard me.”

  It was too far. As we stared ice at one another, I was distantly aware that I should quit while I was ahead, but I had said it now, and I couldn’t unsay it.

  “You chose to risk my life,” I heard myself say, “when you chose me as the human face of your rebellion. If you hadn’t made that choice, I wouldn’t have been tortured into a shell. And my father would still be alive.” Each breath scissored into my chest. “You helped set me on this path. Don’t you ever tell me how to walk it.”

  Arcturus looked away, jaw set like cement. I forced myself up and made for the bathroom.

  “I’m going to bed.” My voice cracked. “Find someone else to lecture.”

  ****

  By the time I reached the bathroom, I was aware of my own skeleton—its joints, its marrow—in a way I had never been in my life before now. I shut the door a little too hard and came face-to-face with my reflection. Against the chalk that covered me, my dark circles seemed even darker.

  He was maddening sometimes. Immovable, sanctimonious carving, too set in his ways to bend in the wind. No wonder his side had lost the civil war, if he needed advance notice every time we fine-tuned our approach.

  Even as I had the thought, I knew it was unfair. I pressed my temples and willed the headache down.

  Turning the taps hurt my fingers. Peeling off my sweater hurt my back. I ran a shallow bath, just deep enough to cover my hips.

  It took an age to climb into it. I gripped the edges and told myself over and over that I was in control, that no one was going to shove my head under. I wiped the dirt away with a cloth, then carefully soaked my hair and worked apple-scented shampoo through it. At last, when the water ran clear, I pressed my forehead to the lip of the bath and tried to govern my breathing.

  He had said I had stated my intentions not to do anything strenuous. In fact, I had promised him.

  I got out and pulled on a nightshirt. Combed my hair, too drained to do any more than towel-dry it. I carried my clothes to the washing machine, bundled them inside, and ate a plate of leftovers from the fridge.

  Arcturus had retired for the ni
ght. Aching from head to toe, I brushed my teeth and retreated to my own room. The heating had been off all day, yet when I crawled into my bed, I found it warm. He had still left me a heat pad.

  Shame cooled the last embers of frustration. Feeling worse than I had in a couple of weeks, I turned down the lamp, towed the duvet and blankets over me, and pressed the heat pad to my chest.

  Though I was physically and mentally spent, sleep refused to come. Each breath raised brutal pain. My skin was so sensitive it almost hurt. I was hot and cold. On top of that, remorse lay heavy in my stomach.

  Blood-consort.

  Calling him that had been inexcusable. That was the title he had endured against his will for two centuries while he was trapped in a betrothal to Nashira, mocked and judged by his fellow Rephaim. I had known how it would make him feel. Tiredness was no excuse.

  By half past ten, my cough was back with a vengeance. At wits’ end, I stumbled to the bathroom in search of relief. A spoonful of cough syrup cushioned my chest and finally let me sleep.

  It never lasted. Not for long. At some point, my hand strayed above my head, finding its old position on the waterboard, and I jerked awake, nightshirt plastered to my skin.

  I stared at the ceiling for a long time. When it was clear I would never get back to sleep, I took a long cardigan from the bedpost, drew it on, and crossed the parlor to knock on his door.

  “Come in.”

  I took a moment to collect myself before I entered.

  Except for the position of the bed, his room was almost identical to mine. Arcturus lay on his side, a book open on the sheets in front of him. A lamp penciled shadows across the high ceiling.

  He looked up. I had seen him bare-chested before, but this was the first time I had really noticed that he had no navel. His sarx —the warm gold of brass—was taut and seamless over slabs of muscle, limned by the dim light from the lamp.

  “Paige,” he said, his tone questioning.

  I realized I was staring like a gamal at him.

  “Sorry,” I said, face warm. “You just don’t have—” I indicated my own abdomen. “But you wouldn’t, I suppose.”

  Rephaim were not born. He had never been tethered to a womb, nor grown inside someone else. When he had first emerged, alone, he had looked exactly as he did now.