The Bone Season

by Samantha Shannon

  I woke a few hours later.

  I could tell from the silence that the room was unoccupied. The bed was made. The sheets had been replaced. The drapes were tied with embroidered sashes, waxing the walls in the light of the moon.

  Warden was gone.

  The windows dripped with condensation. I went to sit by the fire. I couldn’t have imagined the whole encounter; not unless I was still having flux flashes—but I had taken the antidote. My blood was clean. So that meant Warden, for whatever reason, had left again.

  There was a fresh uniform laid out on the bed, along with a second note. Written in the same bold hand, it simply read:

  Tomorrow.

  So he hadn’t passed away in his sleep. And my training was delayed for yet another day.

  The gloves were gone. He must have taken them. I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands with hot water. I changed into my uniform, popped the three pills from their packets, and washed them down the sink. I would find out more today. I didn’t care what Liss said—we couldn’t just accept this. I didn’t care if the Rephs had been here for two hundred years or two million: I would not let them abuse my clairvoyance. I wasn’t their soldier, and she wasn’t their lunch.

  The night porter signed me out of the residence. I headed into the Rookery and bought a bowl of porridge. It tasted as bad as it looked—like cement—but I forced myself to eat it. The performer whispered that Suhail was on the prowl; I couldn’t sit down to eat. Instead I asked her whether she knew where I might find Julian, describing him in as much detail as I could. She told me to check at the central residences, giving me their names and locations before she returned to her paraffin stove.

  I stood in a dark corner. As I ate, I watched the people milling around me. They all had the same dead eyes. Their bright clothes were almost offensive, like graffiti on a headstone.

  “Makes you sick, doesn’t it?”

  I looked up. It was the whisperer who was detained with me that first night. She wore a filthy bandage on her arm. Looking ahead, she sat down beside me.

  “Tilda.”

  “Paige,” I said.

  “I know. I hear you ended up at Magdalen.” She had a roll of paper in her hand. Smoke wafted thickly from the end, smelling of spice and perfume. I recognized the bouquet of purple aster. “Here.”

  “I don’t, thanks.”

  “Come on, it’s just a bit of regal. Better than tincto.”

  Tincto—laudanum—was the favored vice for those amaurotics willing to risk altering their mental state. Not all of them liked Floxy. Occasionally an amaurotic would be arrested on suspicion of unnaturalness, only for the NVD to discover they’d been poisoning themselves with tincto. It didn’t do much for voyants; it wasn’t strong enough to dent our dreamscapes. Tilda must use for the sake of it.

  “Where did you get it?” I said. I couldn’t imagine the Rephs allowing the use of ethereal drugs.

  “There’s a gallipot in here who sells it by the donop. Says he’s been here since Bone Season XVI.”

  “He’s been here forty years?”

  “Since he was twenty-one. I got talking to him earlier. He seems all right.” She offered her roll. “Sure you don’t want a smolder?”

  “I’ll pass.” I paused to watch her smoke. Tilda had the dab hand of an aster junkie, or courtier, as they called themselves; only they would call a pound a donop. She might be able to help me. “Why aren’t you training?”

  “Keeper’s gone somewhere. Why aren’t you training?”

  “Same reason. Who’s your keeper?”

  “Terebell Sheratan. She seems like a bit of a bitch, but she hasn’t tried to slate me yet.”

  “Right.” I watched her smoke. “Do you know what’s in the pills they give us?”

  Tilda nodded. “The little white one is a standard contraceptive. Surprised you haven’t seen it before.”

  “Contraceptive? What for?”

  “To stop us breeding, obviously. And bleeding. I mean, would you want to punch out a sprog in this place?”

  She had a point. “The red one?”

  “Iron supplement.”

  “And the green one?”

  “What?”

  “The third pill.”

  “There’s no third pill.”

  “It’s a capsule,” I pressed. “Sort of olive green. Tastes bitter.”

  Tilda shook her head. “No idea, sorry. If you bring me one I can take a look at it.”

  My gut clenched. “I will,” I said. She was about to take a mouthful of fumes when I interrupted: “You went with Carl, didn’t you? At the oration.”

  “I don’t associate with that turncoat.” I raised an eyebrow. Tilda exhaled lilac smoke. “Didn’t you hear? He’s turned nose. That palmist, Ivy—the one with blue hair—he caught her sneaking food from a rottie. Blew to her keeper. You should see what they did to her.”

  “Go on.”

  “Beat her. Shaved her head. I don’t want to talk about it.” Her hand shook, just a little. “If that’s what you have to do to survive in this place, then send me to the æther. I’ll go quietly.”

  Silence stretched between us. Tilda tossed away her roll of aster.

  “Do you know which residence Julian is at?” I said after a while. “26.”

  “The bald guy? Trinity, I think. You can have a look through the gates at the back; that’s where the rookies have been training, on the lawns. Just don’t let any of them see you.”

  I left her to light another roll.

  Aster was a killer. Possibly the most abused plant on the streets. Addiction was rife in places like Jacob’s Island. Its flowers came in white, blue, pink, and purple, each of which had a different effect on the dreamscape. Eliza was addicted to white aster for years; she’d told me all about it. In comparison with blue, which restored memories, white aster produced an effect we called whitewashing, or partial memory loss. For a while she’d forgotten her own last name. Later she got hooked on purple, saying it helped with her art. She’d made me swear never to touch any ethereal drug, and I saw no reason to break that promise.

  It chilled me to discover that I had an extra pill. Unless Tilda was unusual to have two. I’d have to ask someone else.

  The Residence of Trinity was guarded on the street side. I skirted round the edges of the shantytown, using my limited knowledge of the city to work out where the back of the residence would be. I ended up outside the palisade that enclosed its massive grounds. Tilda had been right: there was a group of white-jackets on the lawn, directed by a female Reph. Julian was among them. They were using flanged batons to push spirits through the air, working by the light of green gas lamps. At first I thought they were numa: objects through which the æther could flow, from which soothsayers drew their power, but I’d never seen objects being used to control spirits.

  I let my sixth sense take over. The dreamscapes of the humans were all clustered together in the æther, with the Reph acting as a sort of linchpin. They were drawn to her like insects to a hanging lantern.

  The Reph chose that moment to pick on Julian. She swiped her baton, sending an angry spirit hurtling toward him. He crashed to the ground on his back, stunned.

  “On your feet, 26.”

  Julian didn’t move.

  “Stand up.”

  He couldn’t do it. Of course he couldn’t—he’d just been hit in the face by a furious spirit. No voyant could just stand up after that.

  His keeper delivered a hard kick to the side of his head. The white-jackets all stumbled back, as if she might turn on them next. She gave them a cold look before she swept away to the residence, her black dress billowing behind her. The humans exchanged glances before they followed. Not one of them stayed to help Julian. He lay on the grass, curled into the fetal position. I tried to push the gates open, but they caught on a heavy chain.

  “Julian,” I called.

  He twitched, then raised his head. When he saw me, he pushed himself back up and walked to the gates.
His face glistened with sweat. Behind him, the lanterns went out.

  “She likes me really,” he said. His mouth tweaked in a half-smile. “I’m her star pupil.”

  “What kind of spirit was it?”

  “Just an old ghost.” He rubbed his raw eyes. “Sorry, still seeing things.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Horses. Books. Fire.”

  The ghost had left an impression of its death. It was an unpleasant aspect of spirit combat.

  “Which Reph was that?” I said.

  “Her name’s Aludra Chertan. I don’t know why she volunteered to be a keeper. She hates us.”

  “They all hate us.” I looked at the lawn. Aludra hadn’t returned. “Can you come outside?”

  “I can try.” He raised a hand to his head, grimacing. “Has your keeper fed on you yet?”

  “I’ve barely seen him.” Something told me not to mention what had happened the night before.

  “Aludra fed on Felix yesterday. He couldn’t stop shaking when he came round. She still made him train.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “Terrified. Couldn’t feel the æther for two hours.”

  “They’re insane to do that to a voyant.” I looked over my shoulder, checking for guards. “I won’t let them feed on me.”

  “You may not have a choice.” He unhooked a lantern from the gate. “Your keeper has quite the reputation. You say you’ve barely seen him?”

  “He always leaves.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea.”

  Julian looked at me for a long time. This close, I saw that he was full-sighted, like Liss. Half-sighted people could switch their spirit sight on and off, but Julian was forced to see the little threads of energy all the time.

  “Let me come outside,” he said. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. Evening. Whatever.”

  “Can you get permission?”

  “I can ask for it.”

  I watched his shadow disappear into the residence. It occurred to me that he might never come out.

  I waited for him near the Rookery. I was about to give up when a flash of white tunic caught my eye. Julian emerged through a small doorway, his hand over his face. I beckoned him.

  “What happened?”

  “The inevitable.” He sounded congested. “She said I could have food, but I wouldn’t be able to smell it. Or taste it.”

  He took his hand away from his face. I drew in a sharp breath. Thick, dark blood seeped down his chin. Bruises were beginning to form under his eyes. His nose was red and swollen, shot with broken vessels. “You need ice.” I pulled him behind a plywood wall. “Come on. The performers will have something to treat it.”

  “I’m all right. I don’t think it’s broken.” He touched the bridge of his nose. “We need to talk.”

  “We’ll talk with food.”

  As I made my way through the Rookery with Julian, I searched for any sign of a weapon. Even something crude would do: a sharp hairpin, a shard of glass or metal. Nothing jumped out at me. If the performers really were unarmed, they had no way to defend themselves if the Emim were to breach the city. The Rephs and the red-jackets were their only protection.

  Inside the food shack, I forced Julian to eat a bowl of skilly and some toke, then slipped my remaining numa to a soothsayer in exchange for a stolen pack of acetaminophen. He wouldn’t tell me who he’d stolen it from, or how he’d done it, and he vanished into the crowd as soon as the needles were in his hand. He must be a real acultomancer. I moved Julian to a dark corner.

  “Take these,” I said. “Don’t let anyone see.”

  Julian didn’t say anything. He popped two capsules and washed them down. I found a cloth and some water in an empty shack. He used it to mop up the drying blood.

  “So,” he said, a little thickly, “what do we know about the Emim?”

  “Nothing on my end.”

  “I’ve been finding out a bit about how this place works, if you’re interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested.”

  “The white-jackets go through the basics for a few days. Mostly spirit combat—showing you can make spools, that kind of thing. Then you get your first test. That’s when you have to verify your gift.”

  “Verify it?”

  “Prove it’s useful. Soothsayers have to make a prediction. Mediums have to incite a possession. You get the picture.”

  “What do they count as useful?”

  “You have to do something to prove your loyalty. I spoke to the porter at Trinity about it. He didn’t want to say much, but he said his prediction got somebody else brought into Sheol I. You have to show them what they want to see, even if it puts another human in danger.”

  My throat tightened. “And the second test?”

  “Something to do with the Emim. I guess you get to be a red-jacket if you live.”

  My gaze wandered across the shack. There were one or two yellow tunics among the performers. “Look,” Julian said, keeping his voice low. “The one in the corner. Her fingers.”

  I followed his line of sight. A young woman was scooping up her skilly, talking to a sickly looking man. Three of her fingers were stumps. When I looked around the room again, I noticed other injuries: a missing hand, bite marks, clawlike scars on arms and legs.

  “Guess they do have a taste for human flesh,” I said. Liss hadn’t lied.

  “Looks like.” Julian offered me his bowl. “You want to finish this?”

  “No, thanks.”

  We sat in silence for a while. I didn’t look, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the injuries these people had sustained. They’d been gnawed on like chicken bones, then thrown out with the rubbish. They were always at risk in this miserable, unprotected slum.

  I didn’t want the Rephaim to know what I was. To pass the first test, I’d have to show them.

  Did I want to pass these tests? I ran my fingers through my hair, thinking. I’d have to wait and see what the Warden expected me to do when he returned. He had so much control over my fate.

  After a few minutes of watching the performers, I spied a familiar face: Carl. There was a hush. The performers cleared a path for him, their gazes cast down. I craned over their heads and saw what they were looking at: his pink tunic. What was he doing in the Rookery?

  “Tilda told me he passed his first test,” I said to Julian. “What do you think he had to do? Just dob Ivy in?”

  “He’s a soothsayer. He probably just had to find his dead aunt in a teacup,” he said.

  “That’s augury. And aren’t you a soothsayer?”

  “I never actually said I was a soothsayer.” He gave me a faint smile. “You’re not the only one with a deceptive aura.”

  That gave me pause for thought. Soothsayers were considered the lowest class of voyants; certainly the commonest—he might find the label insulting. Or maybe I wasn’t as good at identifying voyants as Jax had claimed I was.

  Jax. I wondered what he was doing. Whether or not he was worried about me. But of course he was worried about me—I was his dreamwalker, his mollisher. How he would find me, I didn’t know. Maybe Dani or Nick could work it out. They had Scion careers. There must be a database of prisoners somewhere, hidden by the Archer.

  “They’re trying to bribe him.” Julian watched two performers. They were holding out numa to Carl, talking to him. “They must think he has sway over the Rephs now.”

  It did look that way. Carl waved them off, and they retreated.

  “Julian,” I said, “how many pills do you get?”

  “One.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Round and red. Think it’s iron.” He swallowed his skilly. “Why, how many do you get?”

  Of course. Scion did produce an injection for male contraception, but it made no sense to sterilize both sexes. I was saved from answering the question by Carl.

  “So then I looked into the stone,” he was saying to a white-jacket, watched by several
harlies, “and I decided to scry for her desires. Turns out she’s very keen on finding this White Binder, and of course, as soon as I saw his face, I knew precisely where he was. Apparently he’s the mime-lord of I-4.”

  A deathly cold swept over me. That was Jaxon.

  “Paige?” Julian said.

  “I’m fine. Won’t be a second.”

  Before I knew it, I was walking straight toward Carl. His eyes popped when I grabbed his tunic and dragged him into a corner.

  “What did you see?”

  My voice came out as a hiss. Carl stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “What?”

  “What did you tell her about the White Binder, Carl?”

  “It’s XX-59-1.”

  “I don’t care. Tell me what you saw.”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours.” He eyed my white tunic. “You don’t seem to have progressed as quickly as everyone thought you would. Did you disappoint your special keeper?”

  I moved my face so it was about two inches away from his. He looked even more like a rat at this proximity.

  “I’m not playing games, Carl,” I said, my voice low. “And I don’t like turncoats. Tell me what you saw.”

  The nearest lanterns flickered. Nobody seemed to notice—the performers had already turned their attention to other things—but Carl did. There was a glint of fear in his eyes. “I didn’t see exactly where he was,” he admitted, “but I did see a sundial.”

  “You scried it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she want with the Binder?” My grip on his tunic tightened.

  “I don’t know. I just did what she said.” He pulled away from me. “Why are you asking all this?”

  Blood roared in my ears. “No reason.” I let go of his tunic. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous about the tests.”

  Carl softened, flattered. “That’s understandable. I’m sure you’ll get your next color soon.”

  “And what happens after that?”

  “After pink? We join the battalion, of course! I can’t wait to get my hands on those filthy Buzzer bastards. I’ll be red in no time.”

  He was already under their spell. Already a soldier, a killer in the making. I forced a smile and left.