By the day of our journey, my fever was down, though I still had a cough. I rose late in the afternoon and forced myself into the shower, but the knowledge of what I had to do was oozing through my pores and my hair, bedded deep under my nails, and no amount of scrubbing would remove it.
Knowledge is dangerous, Liss had told me once. Months after her death, I finally understood.
You are to eliminate the Scion official known as the Grand Overseer.
I dressed in a thick-knit sweater and the waterproof trousers I had worn to Calais. I leaned over the sink and trimmed my hair so it fell almost to my shoulders, the way I preferred it. I pulled on a pair of socks and buckled the holster for my revolver and stiletto. The slender blade was perfect for piercing a kidney or a heart. I checked my backpack, which contained food, a canteen of water, three doses of adrenaline, the stimulant Ducos had first given me, and a box of medicine with instructions from Cordier.
For the first time, I also decided to carry the silver pill. I slipped the vial into one of my trouser pockets and zipped it shut. Domino might have given me strict orders about how to kill Jaxon, but if it came to it, I would choose my own end.
Arcturus was leafing through the Daily Descendant in the kitchen. I headed straight for the fridge.
“Hi,” I said to him as I passed.
“Paige.”
We hadn’t spoken about the assignment. Each time I tried to come to terms with it, a ringing filled every crevice of my skull.
“How is your fever?” Arcturus asked as I took out a carton of milk.
“Down a bit.” I brushed the backs of my fingers across my cheek. Still too warm. “I’ll manage.”
“We could ask the perdues to postpone the journey.”
“It’s fine.”
I poured the milk into a pan and set it over the stove. While it heated up, I took my first dose of medicine in capsule form.
“I never did say how impressed I was,” I said.
“Hm?”
“That you made the link between the perdues and Versailles. I would never have realized the significance of the silver chandelier or the jewelery. You did.” I shot him a glance. “I said we’d make a decent syndie of you. Didn’t take you long to prove me right.”
“I credit my mentor.”
I smiled.
The sun threw a copper-backed glow through the windows. I cooked a square meal for the journey. Ivy emerged with a yawn at five, wearing leggings and another sleeveless top, and spooned a couple of poached eggs from the pan I had left simmering. She wore a delicate chain around her neck.
“Paige,” she said, “you’re going to boil in that thing.”
I frowned down at my sweater. “It was cold in the carrières.”
“This is a mining tunnel, though. It could be warm. Maybe wear layers?”
“I’ll do that. Help yourself.” I slid a rack of buttered toast in her direction. “Ready for this?”
“Yeah. Kind of looking forward to it, actually.”
“That makes one of us.”
“I liked being underground,” Ivy admitted. “I was terrified at first, but I came to like it. Mostly I was out with the mudlarks on the riverbank, but even when I was in the storm drains, it was sort of exciting. Scavenged a lot of interesting stuff.” She pulled the chain from her neck and showed me the thin gold band on it. “This is my favorite. Sixteenth-century posy ring.”
“Oh, that’s gorgeous.”
She handed it over. The initials E and S were scored inside, along with an inscription too faded to make out. I showed it to Arcturus, who leaned in to examine it over my shoulder.
“You find them now and again on the riverbank. They have little poems or inscriptions carved on their insides, though you can’t usually read them,” Ivy said. “They’re love tokens.”
Arcturus studied the ring. Without looking at him, I knew his expression would be the same as it was when he played the organ or listened to the record player—a soft, open curiosity, overlaid with intense focus. When I returned the posy ring to Ivy, she looped its chain back over her head.
“There were lots of things like that, from a time before Scion. I loved finding them,” she said. “When I first got out, it was the world above that seemed more frightening.” She tucked the ring under her top. “Not that there aren’t dangers underground. And I doubt it’s much fun on your own. The toshers always work in pairs, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“The stuff of nightmares, surface dweller,” she purred. “Beware the wild swine of the sewers, glutted on the flesh of innocents—and rats just as big, runnin” in swarms that’ll strip a laggard bare as a pulled tooth.”
Her grin made me smile. I had never seen her this light-hearted. “I’ll watch out for those, then.”
We finished our food and prepared to leave. I found a thin black shirt to go under my sweater, then pulled my oilskin over my layers, laced on a pair of steel-capped boots, and secured my wrist brace. Lastly, I clipped the tiny camera to the collar of my sweater, so it could almost pass as a button.
The world beneath the streets had transfigured Ivy. It had taken the clay of her and fired it into sturdy ceramic. I already knew it would have the reverse effect on me.
Arcturus waited by the door in his usual attire. “Shouldn’t you wear something waterproof ?” I asked him.
“The cold and damp do not affect me.”
I sheathed my stiletto. “If you say so.”
Ivy stepped into the parlor, now clad in fishing waders and her oilskin, a waterproof pack slung over her shoulder. A crowbar hung at her side. She looked quizzically at Arcturus.
“Is that what you’re wearing, Warden?”
“Just had that chat with him,” I said.
“You can’t talk.” She nodded to my boots. “You’ll get sump foot in those.”
“The perdues said they’d have spare equipment.” I zipped my oilskin up to my chin, hefted on my backpack, and tightened the straps. “All right, then. Time to head back to hell.”
There was a long and brittle silence between the three of us. After everything we had done to escape Sheol I, all the suffering that had followed, we were making our way back into the belly of the beast. I opened the door and stepped outside before I could lose my nerve.
Ivy had lived as a fugitive for months. As we made our way southwest, I never had to warn her to watch out for cameras or keep her face hidden—those instincts were etched into her. The glow of the streetlamps mixed like watercolor with the sunset, staining the snow lilac.
We were to access the tunnels through an underground parking garage. By the time we arrived at dusk, four of the perdues were already in a far corner, choosing items from a pool of supplies. None of them wore masks tonight. They looked more like hikers than criminals.
“Ah, Underqueen,” Renelde called. “You made it.” She shone her lamp toward Ivy. “Who is this?”
“A friend,” I said. “Ivy.”
Renelde eyed her with misgiving. “Le Prince Creux will not like this.” She spoke in French. “We have some supplies for you. Mal guessed your size, so if the boots pinch, blame him.”
I took the waterproof pair she indicated and pulled them on. A perfect fit. Malperdy gave a satisfied nod. At his behest, I gloved my hands and padded my calves with gaiters.
Ivy already had what she needed. I donned a headlamp and moved my supplies into a waterproof backpack. The faces around me were rendered strange and hollow by the light.
Le Bateleur had frothing gray hair. I guessed he was about seventy, each year scored deep into weathered skin. Malperdy—a redhead with a sharp nose, about my age—resembled a fox even without his mask. Finally, there was a moon-faced soothsayer in his forties, bald as a spoon and built like a keg. His huge arms bore reflected tattoos of a scythe.
“This is Ankou.” Renelde smiled. “Don’t ever try to arm wrestle him.”
She flashed her headlamp twice, and Ankou looked up at her
with raised eyebrows. Renelde pointed to me, swept her right hand in a nosedive, then skirted one finger across her throat, left to right. His eyebrows jumped higher.
“Can you sign?” Renelde asked me. “Ankou is deaf. He can try to read your lips at close quarters, but that has its limits.”
“I can’t. Warden can, though.”
Arcturus stepped into the flashlight and presumably introduced himself. Ankou stared at him with a furrowed brow—I remembered all too well how surreal it was to see a Rephaite for the first time—before he slowly laid down what he was holding and answered, blunt fingers moving at speed. He had a short exchange with Arcturus, then looked back to me.
“I’m honored to meet you at last, Underqueen,” Renelde translated, watching him. “We hoped you might visit us, after the stories from London. I look forward to finding out if they are true.”
“All good, I trust,” I said with a smile. When Renelde signed it, Ankou let out a stentorian chuckle, nodded, and mirrored the motion with one fist. “Will you thank him for coming?”
She did, and his smile widened into a toothy grin. He went back to sharpening a deadly-looking sickle.
“Where is the entrance?” I asked Renelde. She nodded to a crack at the bottom of a wall, just large enough to fit through. I crouched and shone my headlamp into the dark, revealing chunks of rubble.
Le Bateleur leaned down and grasped my shoulder. “Underqueen,” he said, “I am only here to see you off and to introduce you to your guide. He is here.”
I looked.
A very pale man had just walked into the parking garage. He was about the same age as Renelde, lean, and—incredibly—nearly as tall as Arcturus. His hair was bone-white, as was his scruffy beard. He wore a tight black shirt, trousers with capacious pockets, and a utility belt. A dark jacket was slung over his shoulder. Everything about him exuded authority. I was surprised he was only a mollisher.
“Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said when the man had reached us, “allow me to introduce Le Prince Creux, compagnon d’armes to Le Vieux Orphelin.”
“Prince,” I said.
Le Prince Creux ran a cool gaze over me before he extended a hand. “Underqueen.” His lashes were barbs of frost, his eyes a light blue, with the keyhole pupils of a full-sighted voyant. “Léandre will do.”
“Paige will be fine, too.” I touched three fingers to my brow. “Generous of you to guide us.”
Expressionless, he returned the salute, then gave Arcturus a cursory look. “I assume you are the Rephaite bodyguard.”
Arcturus returned his nod. “You may call me Warden.”
“Warden. Fine.” Léandre twitched his anvil of a chin toward Ivy. “Who is that?”
“Ivy,” I said. “One of my allies from London.”
“The passages are unstable,” Léandre said, eyes flinty. “I had not accounted for seven people.”
“She has experience of working underground.”
The corners of his mouth pinched as he pulled on his jacket. I took that as a reluctant agreement.
When everyone was ready, Le Bateleur gathered us all together in front of the entrance. Léandre waited for a long beat before he spoke.
“There are certain rules to follow underground,” he said. “I will not hesitate to leave you behind if you break them.”
Ivy gave me a blank look. “Ivy doesn’t speak French,” I said to Léandre. “Could we use English?”
Léandre stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“We must hope we do not encounter anyone,” he continued in English, “since the grands ducs are on the hunt for all of us. Do not stop. Do not speak to anyone. If you can, do not speak at all. A single raised voice could set off a cave-in.” He was going to love my cough. “Le Passage des Voleurs is a very deep section of the carrières, beginning at the bottom of a mining shaft we call Apollyon. It will lead us to Versailles, but it is slow. A journey that would take a few hours above ground will last at least two days.”
Two days without any daylight.
“If you get lost, you sit and wait for one of us to find you. If you are afraid, you sit and wait for us to return for you. And make no mistake,” Léandre said, “you will be afraid. When we reach the bottom of the earth.”
With that, he adjusted his backpack and disappeared so smoothly it was as if the wall had swallowed him whole. I let Renelde and Ankou go after him before I crouched myself.
“Good luck to you, Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said. I slid my legs into the gap and dropped onto a mound of rubble. As soon as I had my balance, a hand caught my arm. Léandre had waited for me.
“There is one more rule,” he said in an undertone. “You may be queen in London—but here, in la ville souterraine, I am king.”
“Of course,” I said. “Your turf.”
He seemed to weigh my sincerity before he strode ahead, to the front of the line. As I followed, I double-checked the outer pocket of my backpack for the stimulant from Ducos.
In silence, we ventured into the dark. Arcturus walked close behind me, Ivy in front, with Malperdy bringing up the rear. Their presence, and the nodding beams of our headlamps, made it easy to stay in the present. I let my gift sleep so I could focus on the placement of my boots and head.
When we reached a half-flooded gallery, Renelde signaled for us to keep quiet. We picked our way between stepstones that jutted like teeth from the flood. Not a single drop touched my skin, but the smell of it—stagnant, lurking water—was enough to unsettle me. I used my sleeve to stifle my coughs.
At the end, Léandre steered us left, into a tunnel so low I had to dip my head. Arcturus must be bent double behind me.
The air was already too close for my liking. Straight ahead, Ivy moved fluently, used to these conditions. The silence was a bellows, smothering me even as it opened space for thoughts to prey.
I thought of the last time I had seen Jaxon, living in opulence while I was tortured. I thought of piercing his heart with the stiletto, of burying a bullet in that ever-ticking brain. I imagined how it would feel to watch the light in his eyes disappear for the last time.
I should want to see it. After everything he had done, I should wish him dead. I should want to be the one to kill him.
Just then, the æther fluted a warning. I overtook the others—difficult in the confined space—until I reached Léandre.
“There are people coming.”
Léandre spared me a glance. “How do you know?”
“Marcherêve,” I reminded him.
I could have sworn he rolled his eyes. “Mettez vos capuches. Vite,” he said, signing into the flashlight for Ankou. He lifted his scarf over his mouth and raised his hood. “You keep your head down, marcherêve,” he added to me. “You are too conspicuous.”
I was getting the distinct impression that Léandre did not particularly like me.
The other voyants passed us at an intersection. Nods were exchanged, but none of them asked questions.
After that sole encounter, our group was alone. At times, we passed between tunnels using small holes in the walls. Ankou helped me through the first one, preventing me from falling through and cracking my skull on the floor. Once I had the knack for it, I could do it alone.
Monotony was setting in when the tunnels finally surprised me. One moment, Ivy was ahead of me; the next time I raised my headlamp, she was gone. So were all the others. Even though their dreamscapes had swerved left, all my light revealed was a dead end.
“In the corner.” Malperdy spoke around the bulk of Arcturus. “See where the walls don’t meet?”
My gloved hand found the opening. Like the entrance in the parking garage, it was so narrow that I felt a need to suck in my breath as I sidestepped into the tight space beyond. A beam of light shone just ahead of me. I followed, stale air congesting my throat, and imagined dust forming gray clumps in lungs.
At the end of the crevice, I emerged, weak-kneed, and found myself on an old iron staircase that corkscrewed out of sigh
t. When I stepped onto it, it creaked under my weight, joining other metallic groans from below. I gripped the thin handrail. Steps had rusted away here and there, forcing me to pin my attention to my boots. At the bottom, I looked up, neck aching.
Ahead, the ground was no longer smooth. For an absurd moment, I thought the fragments were debris from a cave-in. Next, they whittled themselves into serried pieces of wood, stored down here for some unknown purpose. It was only when the truth was the last remaining option—an option too ghoulish to contemplate—that I started to pick out the shapes in the clutter. An ear-shaped curve that could only be part of a pelvis. Cracked knurls of knuckle and spine. The scalloped edge of a sternum. Bones on bones, brown with age, lying unnamed in the depths of the citadel.
I had never feared human remains. As a mollisher, I had stumbled upon more than one corpse. I had polished skulls to a shine at the black market. Death was part of voyant life.
Yet higher in the carrières, there had been a sense of dignity, of acknowledgment. A sense that the bones mattered. They had been touched with care, carefully arranged, illuminated by candles and torches. These were wretched, broken skeletons, dumped on top of one another and forgotten for three centuries.
All of these fragments had once been people. They had laughed and loved, wept and dreamed. Now they were rubble.
“This is why no one else has ever found Apollyon. They dare not come through the ossuary,” Renelde muttered. She was just ahead, up to her ankles in bone. “Do you feel them?”
I swallowed before I spoke. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
Dust hung thick in the air. So did old, fermented spirits, enraged by their abandonment in this unhallowed ground. They were not at peace. When I took my first step into the cascade, bones cracked under my boot.
“Watch your step,” Malperdy said, voice strained. “The spirits will try to block our way if we disturb their bones.” He clung white-knuckled to the staircase. “I fucking hate this part.”
The tunnel was piled with bones. I had no choice but to step on the skeletons, to climb them where they clustered together, to snap them underfoot.
The Mask Falling Page 29
