The Mime Order

by Samantha Shannon

  I sat down in the opposite chair. “I didn’t have you down as a botanist, Jax.”

  “Not botany, darling. Custom. Each participant in the scrimmage chooses three flowers to send to Grub Street with their application. They still use the language of flowers as a tribute to the first Underlord’s mollisher, who was, legend has it, a talented antho-mancer.” Each of the flowers had a small label. “Here are the ones I’ve chosen. Forsythia, to tell them how much I’m looking forward to the fight.” That flower was small and yellow. “Ragged-robin, of course, for wit.” A second bloom came spinning into my lap, its petals mauve and spidery. “And lastly, monkshood.”

  “Isn’t that poisonous?”

  “It is. Symbolically, it can either mean ‘chivalry’ or ‘beware.’ Nadine doesn’t think I should send that one.”

  “No,” Nadine said, not looking at him. “I don’t.”

  “Oh, come now. It will be fun.”

  “Why would you send it?” I said. The last flower was a shapeless sort of bloom, deep soothsayer’s purple in color.

  “To be different, darling. Most mime-lords send begonia as a warning, but I rather like monkshood.”

  “If I was the one receiving it,” I said, “I might think you were threatening the organizers.”

  “Thank you,” Nadine sighed.

  “Damn you, dullards. There really is not a whit of wit between you.” With careful fingers, he tied a length of ribbon around the flowers and held them out to me. “Take these to the dead drop. Nadine and I have something to discuss.”

  Nadine dropped her chin, and her hand balled into a fist on the arm of the chair. It was tempting to stay and listen in, but my better side told me not to.

  Rain spat down from a layer of cloud. I checked the street for Vigiles and ducked out of the doorway, pulling a hood over my hair. Book Mews was a deserted alley just north of Seven Dials, the perfect place for a dead drop. It was only a quick run from the den, but with Scion’s increased security, even a short journey could get me killed. When I caught sight of Giles’s Passage, I broke into a sprint and vaulted over the fence at the end. As soon as I reached the dead drop in Book Mews, I crammed the envelope and the posy behind a loose brick and shoved it back into place.

  Two dreamscapes—armored, Rephaite dreamscapes—converged on me.

  In a heartbeat, there was no air in my lungs. It clogged in my throat, almost choking me. Blood siphoned itself from my skin, toward my vitals, leaving a terrible cold in its wake. Even my dream-scape was reacting to it, throwing up barriers, thickening its defenses. Shit. They must have been waiting for me to leave the den alone. Now they were blocking my route back to it. If these two were in the thrall of the Sargas, I was already dead.

  I wouldn’t go back to the penal colony. That was all I knew, all I could think. They could take me in a body bag. I pulled two knives from my jacket before metal touched my neck.

  “Put them down.” There was nothing warm in that voice. “They will not help you.”

  “If you’re thinking of taking me to Sheol I”—it came out through clenched teeth—“you can cut my throat first, Rephaite.”

  “Sheol I no longer serves as our penal colony. No doubt the blood-sovereign would find somewhere else to store you, but fortunately for you, I am no friend to her.”

  The face above me was concealed by one of Scion’s exorbitant masks, the sort that reshaped the features with such subtlety it was hard to tell there was a mask at all. When a gloved hand lifted it, a chill of recognition scampered along my spine.

  In the penal colony the Rephaim had always been touched by candles or torchlight, or the glow of the late evening. Always radiant, but half in shadow. By daylight, Terebell Sheratan looked almost drained. Deepest brown hair lay on her broad shoulders, and a long, elegant nose swept down from between slightly upturned eyes. Both her lips were spare, making her look disapproving. As with any Rephaite, it was impossible to tell how old or young she was.

  If you’d looked closer, you would have seen that her skin was a blend of silver and copper, and her irises were full of fire. Beautiful wasn’t the right word for her, nor for the male at her side. He was as tall as Warden, lean as a knife, with a hairless head and a complexion like argent satin. His wide-spaced eyes were the dim chartreuse of a Rephaite who had gone without feeding for a while. A long growl quaked from his throat.

  “How did you find me?” I said.

  Terebell swung her blade back into her belt. “You will be pleased to hear that you were difficult to find. Arcturus told us of your den’s location.”

  Slowly, I put the knives away. “I haven’t sensed your dreamscapes since you turned up at the bar.”

  “We have our ways of staying hidden. Even from dreamwalkers.”

  My hand strayed to the revolver in my jacket. “Do not make a fool of yourself,” Terebell said, seeing it. “Without the red flower, you will find that we are quite immune to bullets.”

  Both Rephaim were wearing elbow-length, buttoned gloves. They didn’t dress like monarchs any longer, but like denizens: long woolen coats, sturdy winter boots, tailored trousers. How they’d found threads that fit them so well, let alone passed through this district without attracting a Vigile, I had no idea.

  “Who are you?” I said to the male.

  “I, dreamwalker, am Errai Sarin. You may not have seen my kin at all during your time in the old city,” he said, looking at the wall. “None of us volunteered as keepers for your Bone Season.”

  “Why not?” I raised a hand. “I’m here, by the way. Not hiding behind the wall.”

  Two hot eyes stared down at me. “Our duties,” he said, “did not lie in keepership. I had several tenants from the previous season, but I seldom saw them. Myself and ten of my cousins are aligned with the Ranthen.”

  “That is the true name of the ‘scarred ones,’ ” Terebell said. “I don’t believe I ever formally introduced myself, dreamwalker. I am Terebellum, once Warden of the Sheratan, sovereign-elect of the Ranthen.”

  So she was their leader. I’d always assumed it was Warden. “I didn’t realize there were more of you,” I said.

  “There are other Rephaim with Ranthen sympathies, though not a quarter as many as there are with blind loyalty to the Sargas.”

  “Alsafiand Pleione,” I said, thinking back. “Were they the only others in the colony?”

  “There was one more, who was . . . lost to us during our escape from the colony.” Her irises dimmed. “Other than that, they were thralls of the Sargas.”

  Errai scanned the alleyway. “We ought to speak inside, Sovereign.”

  “We’re not in Sheol I any more,” I said. “You won’t find fancy rooms and chambers in London. Just slums and ’scrapers.”

  “We do not require tribute. Only secrecy,” Terebell said.

  “It’s private enough here. And with all due respect, I don’t want to be in an enclosed space with you until I know what you want.”

  “Yes, I have observed that you climb out of all such spaces, like a spider. You scuttle. I often wonder why Arcturus chose you as his human underling.”

  “We didn’t have much choice but to scuttle. We’d been starved and beaten for months.”

  “You do not have that excuse now, fed and watered as you are.” She turned her back on me. “We will speak inside. You are beholden to me for shielding you from the Sargas, and I do not forget when I am owed a debt.”

  There was a short silence, during which I fought down my pride. These two might have news of Warden, and I wanted that more than I could ever admit to them. More than I’d admitted to myself.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  It would be a risky walk to Drury Lane. The irises of my companions were dim enough to pass as human, but their height and bearing pulled in curious looks, setting me on edge. I kept my distance and my hood pulled over my eyes. One busker dropped her tin of money when she saw them.

  The abandoned music hall was another hideaway for the homeless
in the winter. Scion had shut down many such establishments during the reign of Abel Mayfield, conqueror of Ireland, who had often proclaimed that all art propagated dissent. Give them paint, he’d raved during one speech, and they will paint over the anchor. Give them a stage, and they will shout out treason. Give them a pen, and they will rewrite the law.

  I checked the æther, then pulled myself up to an open window. The two Rephaim watched with empty expressions, if they could be called expressions. Once I was inside, I opened the stiff door to let them in.

  In the hall, all was still. Sepulchral, even. Walnut tables and chairs had been left abandoned, some overturned by squatters and others modestly dressed with dust sheets. The stage curtains sighed with years of dust, but the architecture was still largely intact. An old flyer clung to the threadbare carpet.

  On Wednesday, 15th May 2047

  Witness THE MADNESS OF MAYFIELD

  in “BEYOND THE PALE”!

  A new comedy on recent happenings in Ireland

  My vision clinched to a narrow window. I’d had no idea that Scion denizens had been chuckling away in their music halls while we fought for our freedom from Dublin to Dungarvan. It made me think of my cousin Finn and his fiancée Kay for the first time in months. Their passion, brighter than the low sun on the Liffey. Their rage against the shadow of the anchor. To them, nothing in the world had been more important than keeping Scion out of Ireland.

  Twelve years this piece of paper had been here. When I looked up, the evidence of Scion’s retribution glinted back at me. Scorches on the stage curtains and carpets. Rusty stains. Chips missing from the paneled walls. Only the stupid had dared make fun of Mad Mayfield, whether amaurotic or voyant.

  “This will suffice,” Terebell said in a clipped tone. That patina of its history was invisible to her. “A great deal of this citadel is derelict, it seems.”

  “You look a bit run down yourself, Terebell,” I said.

  “We did not have a luxury train to take us under No Man’s Land. Be grateful that we did not draw any Emite hunters to your door.” Terebell held my eye contact without blinking, a disconcerting Rephaite mannerism. “Nashira is determined to reclaim you. She is in the Archon even now, urging the Grand Inquisitor to increase the intensity of the hunt.”

  “She knows I live in I-4.” I took a seat. “Why hasn’t she found me yet? The section isn’t that big.”

  “As I said, you were difficult to locate. Nashira’s puppets will not want to create further panic by having any more of a Vigile presence on the streets. They may believe that you have left I-4 for your own safety, which would be the most logical course of action for you to have taken.”

  “So her deal with Scion is still on.”

  “Of course. Weaver will not question Rephaite rule while he fears the Emim.” She looked me over, like she was waiting for something fantastic to jump out at her. “You wish to destroy Nashira. So do we.”

  “Why can’t you destroy her by yourselves?”

  “There are a mere two hundred of us with Ranthen sympathies, and only a few on this side of the veil,” Errai snapped. “Against the thousands of supporters the Sargas has amassed, that is a feeble number.”

  “Thousands?” I stared at them. There had only been about thirty Rephaim in the penal colony. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Jokes are the declarations of fools.”

  “She will gather humans, too.” Terebell looked faintly revolted. “You are all so full of self-loathing, so enslaved to your guilt . . . I have no doubt the Sargas doctrine will appeal to certain humans.”

  The mere thought of thousands of Rephs brought tremors to my back.

  “Only the Ranthen stand against the might of the Sargas,” Errai said curtly. “And we want you to find the Warden of the Mesarthim for us.”

  I raised my head. “He’s alive?”

  “So we hope.” Terebell’s face was taut. “We failed to destroy Nashira and Gomeisa in the colony. The two of them barred themselves inside the Residence of the Suzerain, along with every loyal red-jacket that had not been killed, to wait out the destruction. Once it was clear that we would never reach them in that stronghold, Arcturus made for London to warn you of her hunt. He is an upholder of our dying movement,” she said. “He must be found.”

  “What makes you think I have the faintest idea where he is? I haven’t seen him since—”

  “The Bicentenary, yes. But you do know where he is.” She leaned down to meet my eyes. “You are fortunate that the Sargas have not yet heard of your golden cord with Arcturus. Breathe a word of it to any Rephaite but the two of us, dreamwalker, and I will cut out your tongue.”

  Warden had said that the cord had been formed when we’d saved each other’s lives, three times each. “May I ask why?”

  “You do not seem to understand our culture.” Errai dealt me a withering look. “Any intimacy between Rephaim and humans is forbidden.”

  “The cord,” Terebell said, “is undesirable, and a complication. Without it, however, it will take a long time for Errai and me to track him down. Perhaps too long. But you can, Paige Mahoney. You know where he is.”

  “He didn’t teach me much about the cord,” I said.

  “You do not need to be taught. You are not dull-witted, and you know at least a little of how the æther works.”

  I pushed my hands into my pockets. “When did you last hear from him?”

  “When he arrived in London, on the fifth of September. It was agreed that he would perform a séance as soon as he found you, but we never received word.”

  My mouth turned dry. “Are you sure Nashira hasn’t got him?”

  “She would have made it very clear if she had captured the flesh-traitor. More likely he has fallen prey to opportunistic humans.”

  “That doesn’t seem like him,” I said.

  “No. It does not.” There was a softness in her voice that caught me off-guard. “We may be known to you as slavers, but there is greed among humans, too. I will not see him sold like livestock to fill a callous trader’s pockets.” She straightened. “If you wish to see his loyalty, check the backpack you took from the colony.”

  “My backpack? Why?”

  Terebell didn’t dignify the question with an answer.

  To agree would be madness. I was being hunted, I hadn’t felt so much as a quiver from the golden cord, and London was too big to search alone. But there were so many questions that had gone unanswered; so much I still had to ask him. To tell him.

  “Fine,” I said quietly.

  Errai said nothing, but I glimpsed doubt in the way he looked at Terebell. She reached into her coat and handed me two large silk pouches.

  “The white contains salt; the red, pollen of the poppy anemone,” she said. “Use the red pouch sparingly.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked them both into my inside pocket. “How do I contact you?”

  Terebell peeled open the door, letting watered-down sunlight into the hall. “When you find Arcturus, he will send word through a séance. In the meantime, dreamwalker, see to it that you stay hidden. If there is one thing we Rephaim excel in, it is biding our time. Nashira has plenty. She will not stop hunting you until your face is fixed in plaster in her halls.”

  The death masks lined up in her residence. I could never forget those sleeping faces, taken from the victims of her reign. As Terebell replaced her mask and turned to leave, Errai caught her arm.

  “We must feed.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said.

  They looked at each other and left without another word. By the time I reached the street, they were nowhere to be seen.

  ****

  Trying to find one man in the Scion Citadel of London would be no mean feat, even if he was a Rephaite. It was a sprawling snarl of streets and jostling bodies, radiating out for miles in all directions, and there was almost as much of it underground as there was above. If Warden had been taken by opportunist traffickers—which was possib
le, if he’d been dressed well and traveling alone—then they might well already be plotting to nab themselves a few more Rephaim. They would see at once that he wasn’t human, that he might be worth a lot of money.

  Then again, Warden wasn’t exactly an easy target. He was nearly seven feet tall and muscled to match; he would have been difficult to catch and restrain. His captors must have gone prepared, which meant they’d been watching him. Someone out there knew about the Rephaim.

  That night, I sat high on the rooftops of Seven Dials, watching the sun set. This was the most beautiful time of the day, when the light shone through the gaps between the buildings and turned the skyscrapers to blades of gold.

  Jaxon and the others were all in the den, having spent the night feasting on real wine and smoked cheese to celebrate his application, but I couldn’t bring myself to join them. It would be too obvious that my mind was elsewhere. I’d dislocated my spirit, searching within my radius for any hint of Warden’s dreamscape, but he was nowhere to be found.

  In the distance, I could just see a transmission screen. It cycled through the list of fugitives three times before switching back to the Scion anchor. I pulled my knees up to my chin.

  I might just see him again. Arcturus Mesarthim, the mystery I’d never solved.

  Nick’s head appeared as he climbed on to the roof. “Paige?” he called out.

  “Here.”

  A smile lit his face when he saw me. “Party food for you.” He tossed me a package, wrapped in a cloth napkin, and sat down beside me. “He notices when you’re not there, you know.”

  I did know. All too well. “Nick, I need you to cover for me tonight.” I turned the package over in my hands. “Just for a few hours.”

  “Now?” He made a sound that was something between a sigh and a groan. “Paige, you’re a fugitive. The most wanted person in this citadel. You can’t keep going out at night.”

  Scion had taken many things, but they wouldn’t take the night from me. “It needs to be now,” was all I said.

  “At least let me know where you’re going.”