26
All the Devils
MARCH 7, 2060
The Grande Salle de Paris had never looked finer than it did tonight. A spectacular light show played across its façade. Guests from all over the Republic of Scion France were arriving in white limousines in front of the cathedral, all dressed in their best and wearing elaborate masks.
In the distance, red fireworks erupted. Across the citadel, revellers were out in force, drunk on the glory of the double conquest of Spain and Portugal.
Effigies swung from wrought-iron streetlamps. On a corner, a crowd launched another one onto a bonfire. It had straw for hair and wore a crown, and a sign was tied around its neck.
ça ira, ça ira, ça ira
les monarques à la lanterne
The execution of the King of Spain had ended all formal resistance. For trying to help a monarch escape, Pilar Brugués Olivencia had been stripped of her power and imprisoned. In Portugal, the Scion Citadel of Lisbon had been formally named. Madrid would be next.
The Republic of Scion held eleven countries. For all intents and purposes, and with the exception of any last-ditch rebellions, it had won total control of the Iberian Peninsula. From the tip of Scotland to the south of Spain, the anchor now presented an unbroken front to its enemies.
On the other side of the empire were its territories on the Balkan Peninsula, as well as Cyprus. Sweden loomed to the north. Slowly but surely, Scion was enclosing the remaining free countries of Europe.
Eleven would not be enough for its masters. The entire world now lay in the shadow of the anchor.
A blast of wind brought me back to the present. I was with Le Vieux Orphelin on the dimly lit Quai des Orfèvres, and his arm was linked through mine, sure and sturdy. He wore a cream doublet, its sleeves woven with gold thread, the cuffs long enough to cover his knuckles. Léandre walked a short way behind. His half mask was silver, cast in the likeness of a lion.
I had not been back to the Île de la Citadelle since the night the blood-consort betrayed me. Knowing he might be close sent a bolt into my stomach.
“There is every chance, of course, that Ménard will have you arrested on the spot,” Le Vieux Orphelin murmured. “I would not be surprised if he has erected a guillotine in there.”
“I’ll be fine.” I looked at him. “I never asked if he knows your mask.”
“Fortunately, no. I did not wear this mask in Lyon.”
“I suppose you don’t want to tell me what happened between the two of you there.”
The mask tilted up a little.
“I called myself Le Vieux Orphelin,” he said, “because I am a son of the æther, and because my family is this underworld. But orphelin has another meaning. Among the criminals and unfortunates of Paris in centuries past, the word could also refer to a goldsmith, or a jeweler. This strange life of mine began in a bookshop—and as you know well, Underqueen, stories hold more facets than jewels, and more worth than gold.”
Another carnival of fireworks lit the nearest rooftops.
“There is always a price to be paid for their telling,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “The story of myself and Georges Benoît Ménard . . . I am not yet ready to pay that price. Forgive me.”
I nodded. After all, he had never insisted I tell him what had happened between me and the blood-consort that night, in the place I now knew was called Sainte-Chapelle.
A limousine glided past us. I had thought it might be conspicuous to arrive on foot, but as we drew closer to the cathedral, more and more people joined us. Ordinary people who had won the ticket lottery.
Lamps and black-and-white ribbons festooned the arch over the main doors, which stood open. Candlelight glowed from between them like heat from a stove. We crossed the salted cobblestones in front of it, where the snow had been shoveled away, and joined the wending line of guests. After what felt like years, a day Vigile held out a hand for my invitation.
“Madelle Besson. Welcome.” She slotted the gilded card into a strongbox. “Monsieur?”
Le Vieux Orphelin presented his invitation. The Vigile gave it a cursory look and stood aside.
The real Marguerite Besson—a French consular assistant from the Embassy of Scion England—was unconscious with the perdues. I had dyed my hair chestnut brown to match hers. Two other invitees were sharing her cell. All of them would be released, unharmed, as soon as we had carried out our task.
Ivy was in charge of watching over them. Le Vieux Orphelin had invited her to join the perdues—an invitation she had accepted. She had yet to choose a new syndicate name, but at last, after so many trials, she could start to build a new life.
An attendant took our coats. As soon as we were inside, a pall of warmth draped over me, and I gazed upward, the breath leaving me.
Thousands of white candles lit the echoing interior of the Grande Salle. Some flickered on cast-iron chandeliers, which hung from the pointed arches that divided the aisles from the main chamber. Somehow the cathedral seemed even larger from the inside, cavernous as well as tall. Far overhead loomed a rib-vaulted ceiling, almost too distant for the candlelight to touch, so high I had to crane my neck to take it in. I had never beheld a place like this, which looked as if gods had raised it—and yet it was humans that had dreamed it into being, and built it from the ground up.
For days, I had felt as if I was sleepwalking, but the lambent splendor of the place finally woke me from my stupor. Arcturus would appreciate this. With a smile, I turned my head to see his reaction to its beauty.
I was looking at empty air. At darkness. The realization snatched the warmth from me again.
He had never cared for humankind. Not the music, not the art, not me. All of it had been a lie.
Ahead, a checkered floor stretched out like a never-ending chessboard. Couples waltzed across it, conducted by a violin consort. In the shadowed aisles, behind looming columns, knots of people laughed and talked, their voices merging into resonance. It was going to take a while to find one person in this labyrinth, even if he was the man of the hour.
“Madelle?”
A masked attendant offered me a platter. I took a steaming goblet of mulled blood mecks.
“Might as well enjoy ourselves,” I said to Léandre, who had materialized on my right. “Remember, keep your distance.”
“I must also keep watch. You’ll be hard enough to see in this gloom without a twenty-foot gap between us.”
“I will be able to sense you for a time.” Le Vieux Orphelin, who had caught up to us, refused a glass of mecks with a gesture. “Fear not. We will not lose sight of you.” He extended a long hand to Léandre. “Come, mon amour. It has been too long since we last danced.”
For the first time since I had met him, I swore Léandre almost smiled. Almost. A band seemed to constrict around my throat. I stepped into the shadowy aisle to the left.
It hurt to remember. Almost as much as it hurt to forget.
I shook myself and focused on my search. Even without the masks, it would have been hard to make out individual faces. I fine-tuned my sixth sense until the æther glittered around me. There were so many guests, creating such a crush of dreamscapes, that trying to isolate just one was like trying to pick a single crystal of sugar from a salt cellar. I stopped beside a column and took a sip from my goblet, giving me an excuse to observe my surroundings.
The place was thick with people. I was one among thousands of guests. But as I stood there, a group to my right noticed my mask. When I looked toward them, one man laughed in delight.
“Très audacieux, Madelle,” he called to me. The whole group lifted their goblets. “Bon débarras aux racailles terroristes.”
I raised my own goblet in acknowledgment. If they only knew who they were toasting.
Le Vieux Orphelin had paid a trustworthy amaurotic tailor to craft an outfit for me. Cut-off trousers, heeled boots, and a black dress that resembled a blazer, with long, ruched sleeves and gold buttons down the front. The overall look was elegant,
yet low-key. Inconspicuous.
It was the mask that drew attention. The mask with red lips that displayed a black moth. The faint cracks in the porcelain were meant to disguise what was beneath, not reflect it. The guests assumed it was my intent to mock a dead radical, an enemy of the anchor. A little near to the bone, perhaps, but commendably daring.
That was when I finally spotted the Grand Inquisitor of France. He was ensconced in the opposite aisle, surrounded by guests and laughter. I strode back the way I had come, murmuring apologies and accepting compliments on my mask as I went. I almost stopped when I spied Aloys Mynatt, the retired Grand Raconteur of France, who I had last seen in the first colony. He was hunched by himself in an alcove, gaunt and whey-faced.
Columns rushed past as I quickened my stride. From the look of him, Ménard was about to take his leave of this circle of guests. I would have to cut through the dancers, or risk losing him again.
I stepped out from the arches. Before I knew it, I had been spun into the arms of a familiar oracle.
“You shouldn’t be here.” A whisper at my ear. “I’ll ask you again. Do you have a death wish, dreamwalker?”
“Cade.” Instinctively, I grasped his shoulder. “Not the time. I need to reach Ménard.”
“In such a scandalous mask?” His right hand came to my waist. “Whose invitation did you steal to get in here?”
“Marguerite Besson.”
“I am astonished they bought that. From what I hear, she’s timid as a mouse.”
I glanced toward the aisle. Ménard had vanished again. As we glided seamlessly into the Waltz of the Anchor, I drew back a little to look Cade in the face. His mask was wooden, beautifully carved to resemble a bear. It left only his eyes and a little of his chin on show.
“A bear,” I said. “Because you’re less timid, I assume.”
“Well, that,” he conceded, amused, “but it’s a little nod to my inheritance, too.” He twined his fingers with mine. Though it was warm in the cathedral, he wore leather gloves. “Fitzours. It means son of the bear. Did you know that the name Mahoney is linked to bears, too?”
“Yes. Vaguely,” I said, after a pause. “Did you look that up?”
“Just something I know.”
We whirled deeper into the tumult of dancers. In Ireland, I had loved to dance with my cousin, but somehow, I had always gotten it wrong at my school in London. I had worked hard to convince my teacher of my grace, to no avail. Still, the steps came effortlessly now.
“It’s dangerous for you to be here, Paige,” Cade said. “Why risk coming back?”
“To do exactly what you wanted. Cut a deal with Ménard.”
“What kind of deal?”
“One he’ll like.”
“Well, he does need some good news. I assume it was you who burned down Sheol II.” When I was silent, he chuckled. “If you wanted to stir the pot, you succeeded. Weaver called Ménard the next day. I don’t know what they said to one another, but Ménard has been in a foul mood ever since, even with Luce. From the look of him, he hasn’t slept in a while.”
“Nashira is in the citadel. That might be why.”
The apple of his throat shifted. “I had no idea,” he muttered. “Now I’m worried. She might be planning to punish Ménard for Sheol II. She wouldn’t think twice about hurting Luce.”
I glanced toward the aisle, where Ménard was nowhere to be seen. “Speaking of Luce,” I said to Cade, “I haven’t seen her so far.”
“She isn’t here. Stomach bug,” he said. “Onésime stayed behind with her.”
That seemed unlike Frère. This was the greatest night of the year, the culmination of a long-awaited victory.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I said, seeing the tension in his jaw. “She has the best medical care in France.”
“Yeah, I know.”
The dance was drawing to a close. As soon as the music ceased and the applause broke out, Cade walked toward the aisle with me. “Ménard is due to make a speech in about half an hour,” he said. “If you insist on talking to him, I’d do it now, or you could be waiting all night.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“Yes.”
I followed him down another dark aisle. For a moment—just a moment—it became a tunnel, flooding with water.
Onésime might be keeping his mother company, but Mylène was the soul of the party, leading several well-dressed children in a game. A minder hushed a tearstained Jean-Michel, who clutched his blanket to his cheek. All of this was unfair to them.
Mylène was the same age as the murdered Spanish princess. She had died in a place like this.
Keeping hold of my hand, Cade led me from the aisle into the heart of the cathedral—between two of its rose windows, where a platform housed an illuminated lectern—and worked his way through a thicker swathe of the crowd. Long tables were laden with food from every nation in the empire, including a range of local specialities from the regions of France. All of this to celebrate the annexation of two countries that might now face a brutal reckoning.
When Cade touched my shoulder, I looked over it to see Ménard, much closer, deep in conversation with two of his ministers. His mask was gold, unadorned except for a small anchor etched into the brow. Leaving me by a column, Cade caught his attention and subtly nodded toward me.
Ménard raised his chin. He took his leave of the ministers and spoke to a suited woman behind him—one of his bodyguards, I assumed—before he walked back toward the front doors, Cade in his wake. I shadowed them.
It took some time for Ménard to make it out of the chamber, since everyone wanted to shake his hand and offer their good wishes. Eventually, however, he vanished through a door with Cade. I glanced over my shoulder to see Léandre, who gave me a nod from a dark corner.
Beyond the door was a flight of steps. Halfway up, another door stood ajar. Cade waited outside.
“Go in,” he said. “He wants me to stay here. To subdue you if you try to attack him.”
“And will you?”
“You’re not going to find out, because you’re not going to attack him. Are you?”
“No comment.”
I brushed past him. With an amused sigh, he closed the heavy door behind me.
Georges Benoît Ménard waited in the room beyond. A table and a single lamp stood between us, and his mask lay on the table.
“My guards expect me to return within ten minutes,” he said. “In my hand is a personal alarm.” His thumb was on it. “Should I activate it, you will not escape this room.”
“I’ve no intention of assassinating you, Inquisitor Ménard. And be aware that I have voyants outside, awaiting my return.” I made no move to take off my own mask. “Apologies for interrupting your party, but I didn’t think your personal secretary would be able to squeeze me in.” I moved farther into the room. “You must have known it was me who set the fire, yet you never seized the opportunity to blame the Mime Order.”
Ménard blew out a slight huff through his nose. “After I saw that you had broken into my office, I knew you must be responsible for it, even though I left no information as to the whereabouts of Sheol II,” he said. “I can only assume you were able to access my safe.”
“Correct,” I said. “Has the Suzerain been in touch?”
He clasped his hands on the table.
“She has,” he said. “France must make significant financial reparations to England for the loss, and Minister Auclair awaits execution for her failure to defend the colony. I hope you sleep well when you think of her six-year-old child, who will have no mother by next week.”
“I was six when Scion marched on Dublin. I doubt that keeps you up at night.” I took another step toward him. “You are now on very thin ice with the Suzerain, Inquisitor Ménard. If she decides to replace you with someone more unwaveringly loyal, you’ll never live out your fantasy of a Scion without its masters. You’ll either be dead, imprisoned, or stripped of your power and sent away to rot so
mewhere. You need leverage. A way to cling to your title.”
“And you can provide this?” Ménard spoke in a soft voice. “Have you reconsidered my offer?”
“I have one of my own,” I said. “The anormales of London and Paris have agreed to stand shoulder-to-shoulder against Scion. Le Vieux Orphelin is my partner in this endeavor.”
His face changed in a way that chilled me.
“You have struck an alliance with Ignace Fall,” he said, toneless. “He survived the fire, then.”
“He did. I ensured his safe return from Sheol II.”
“Good.” A faint smile. “I would hate to imagine that he had burned without my knowledge.”
“I confess, I was always surprised you don’t burn people. They used to do that to us, you know,” I said. “The witches and the warlocks. The people society blamed for their ills.”
“What happy days,” Ménard said.
I walked past his table, skirted my fingers along it. His dark gaze was nailed to my mask.
“Le Vieux Orphelin is alive and well. Together, he and I command a significant army of clairvoyants. Enough to fan our small flames of revolt into an open war against Scion,” I said. “Now, we could turn our attention to you first. Make public threats. Eliminate your supporters. Destroy any sense of internal safety in France. The French syndicate will certainly want that.” I stopped. “Or . . . you and I could come to an understanding, as you suggested when I was your guest. A temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Ménard did not break my gaze. It was like staring into a void.
“I am listening,” he said. “What is it that you propose?”
“A truce.”
The two words hung in the air between us.
“In the months and years to come, Le Vieux Orphelin and I want to dismantle Scion. If you like,” I said, “we can start at the nucleus—England. We can ensure that, for a time, our syndicates and allies are focused on overthrowing Frank Weaver. For the time being, we will not attack you, nor those Scion leaders who wish to stand against the Rephaim.”
The Mask Falling Page 47
