The Mime Order

by Samantha Shannon

  My laugh was a tad sour. “Of course. The mindless moths, drawn to the flame of your wisdom.”

  “I do not think like Gomeisa Sargas.” His eyes were cold, but that was nothing new. “Or his relatives. I took no pleasure in the degradation and misery of the penal colony.”

  “No. You just went along with it.” I turned my head away. “Seems like some of the Ranthen should just join the Sargas. I find it hard to believe they want to look after us poor defenseless humans.”

  “You are right to suspect that motive. Most Rephaim cannot abide living here, as half-things, and many bitterly resent the Sargas for forcing them to stay.” He returned to his seat beside me. “To a creature of sarx, Earth can seem . . . unpleasant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything here is dying. Even your fuels are made of decomposed matter. Humans use death as a means of sustaining life. To most Rephaim, that is an unpleasant thought. They see that as the reason why humans are so bloodthirsty, so violent. Most Ranthen would leave if they had the choice. But the Netherworld is broken, too. Decaying, like the Emim. And so we must stay.”

  Another chill. I picked up a ripe pear from the fruit bowl. “So to you,” I said, “this is rotten.”

  “We see the rot before it rises.”

  I tossed it back into the bowl. “That’s why you wear gloves. So you don’t catch mortality. Why did you want to work with me?” Or kiss me, I thought, but couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  “I do not believe in Sargas lies,” he said. “You are alive until your dying day, Paige. Do not let their madness into your mind.” Warden didn’t break my gaze. He was in there somewhere, behind those hardened features. “The Ranthen believe, unlike the Sargas, that humans stole our lifeline from us inadvertently—but they do not see humans as their equals. Many of them blame human violence and vanity for their own suffering.”

  “You helped me.”

  “Do not labor under the illusion that I am a bastion of moral goodness, Paige. That would be a dangerous venture.”

  Something snapped inside me. “Trust me,” I said, “I’m not under any illusions about you. You went through my private memories and took things from me that I’d never told anyone. You also kept me captive for six months so I could start a war for you. And now you’re acting like a cold bastard even though I dragged your sorry hide out of a cell.”

  “I am indeed.” He inclined his head. “Knowing that, are you willing to continue our alliance?”

  At least he didn’t make excuses. “Do you want to explain why?”

  “I am a Rephaite.”

  As if I could have forgotten. “Right. You’re a Rephaite,” I agreed. “You’re also Ranthen, but you talk about the Ranthen as if you’re not one of them. So what the hell is it that you want, Arcturus Mesarthim?”

  “I have many aims. Many desires,” he said. “I aim to bring about a settlement between humans and Rephaim. I aim to restore the Netherworld. But above all, I aim to end Nashira Sargas.”

  “You’re taking your sweet time with that.”

  “I will be frank with you, Paige. We do not know how to overthrow the Sargas. They seem to draw their power from a deeper well than ours,” he said. I’d expected as much, or they would have dispatched the Sargas years ago. “Our original plan was to extinguish both blood-sovereigns and scatter their supporters, but we are not yet strong enough to do this. Instead of toppling their leaders, we must infiltrate their major source of power: Scion.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  He leaned back. “We cannot dismantle Scion alone. As you may have noticed, we Rephaim are not particularly generous with our passions,” he said. “We cannot inspire insurrection in the hearts of your people. But a human could. Someone with an intimate knowledge of both the syndicate and the Rephaim. Someone with a powerful gift and a taste for revolution.” When I said nothing, his voice softened. “I do not ask this of you lightly.”

  “But I’m the only choice.”

  “You are not the only choice. But if I could choose anyone on earth, it would still be you, Paige Mahoney.”

  “You chose me to be your prisoner, too,” I said coldly.

  “To protect you from having a keeper as cruel and violent as Thuban or Kraz Sargas, yes. I did. And I know it is no excuse for the injustices I did you,” he said. “I know that no matter what explanation I offer, you can never truly forgive me for not letting you go when I had the chance.”

  “I might be able to forgive you. Provided you never give me an order again,” I said. “I can’t forget.”

  “As an oneiromancer, I have infinite respect for memory. I would not expect you to forget.”

  I brushed my hair behind my ear and crossed my arms, prickling with goose bumps. “Let’s say I do become your associate,” I said. “What will I get in return, apart from your contempt?”

  “I have no contempt for you, Paige.”

  “You could have fooled me. And getting respect is one thing, but I could have all the respect in the world and no money to buy weapons or numa or food.”

  “If you require money,” he said, “that is all the more reason to align yourself with the Ranthen.”

  I looked up at him. “How much do you have?”

  “Enough.” His eyes glowed. “Did you think we had planned to go against the Sargas without a penny to our names?”

  My heart began to pound. “Where have you kept it all?”

  “There is an agent working for the Ranthen within the Westminster Archon, who holds the money in a private bank account. An associate of Alsafi, who deemed it best that their name was known only to him. If you can persuade Terebell that you are capable of handling it, and if you promise her your support, she will be your patron.”

  I sat back, stunned. All that scraping for coins could be a thing of the past.

  “If I become Underqueen,” I said, “we might be able to rally the London voyants. But I’ll be up against every mime-lord and mime-queen in this citadel with half an ego and a head on their shoulders.”

  “I take it they are all like Jaxon Hall.”

  “What, bloodthirsty peacocks? Almost uniformly.”

  “Then you must win. They are feasting on their own corpses, Paige. If the syndicate is properly governed, I believe it could pose a great threat to the Inquisitor, and to the Sargas. But with a leader like Jaxon Hall, I foresee only blood and revelry—and in the end, destruction.”

  Liss’s last card sprang to my mind. I would never know what image had burned in that little fire, and whether it had pointed to victory or defeat.

  “I suppose I should not leave the Ranthen waiting.” He rose to his full height. “Do you have another candle?”

  “In the drawer.”

  Silently, he set up the séance table. When it began, he knelt in the light of the candle and murmured in his own language. Gloss had no discernible words, just a long, flowing series of sounds.

  Two psychopomps drifted through the walls. I held very still. They were cryptic spirits, rarely seen outside burial grounds. Warden made a soft sound in his throat. They both flew through the candle flame and took off again, leaving the windows and the mirror covered with a light frost.

  “Terebell will meet with me at dawn.” Warden put out the candle. “I must go alone.”

  “That’s how your séances work?”

  “It is. The psychopomps’ original duty was to guide spirits to the Netherworld, but now that function is obsolete, they do what they can to assist us on this side. They seldom interact with humans, as you may have noticed.”

  Jaxon certainly had; he’d been trying to get close to psychopomps for years so he could complete his next pamphlet.

  He wasn’t leaving. We watched each other for a minute, not speaking. I remembered the rhythm of his heart against my lips. His naked, callused hands sweeping over my body, cradling me close until the kiss was deep and hungry. Looking at him now, a small part of me wondered if I’d imagined it.
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  With the light switched out, all I could hear was my own quiet heartbeat. He was silent as stone. I thought he’d move to the bed, but he stayed where he was. I turned on to my side and rested my head on a cushion. Just for a few hours, I would sleep outside of Jaxon’s grasp.

  “Warden.”

  “Hm?”

  “Why did the amaranth bloom?”

  “If I knew,” was his reply, “I would tell you.”

  17

  Gambler

  I hid the red handkerchief in my pillow at the den. I couldn’t be caught with such an incriminating object, but something made me want to hold on to it.

  With the Rephaim back in the citadel, it was time to put another piece in motion. To let people know what they were up against. The next day, I went back to Grub Street for the first time since I’d fled with Alfred.

  Considering its distinguished position as the only voyant publishing house in London, the Spiritus Club, founded in 1908, was a shabby affair. It considered itself to be the stronghold of creativity among voyants, the beating heart of non-violent mime-crime. Tall and narrow, crammed between a poetry lounge and a printing press, it boasted mock-Tudor half-timbering and a buckled beak of roof, with a heavy green door and dirty bow windows.

  I checked the æther yet again, making sure I hadn’t been followed, before I pressed a finger to the doorbell. Somewhere in the building, a bell clanged. After two more rings and a knock on the door, a woman’s voice fluted from a speaker on my right.

  “Go away, please. We’ve enough poetry collections to paper every house in London.”

  “Minty, it’s the Pale Dreamer.”

  “Oh, not you. I’ve had enough trouble with booklice without a fugitive on my doorstep. This had better not be a ploy to get more of my elegies for the White Binder.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m looking for Alfred,” I said. “The psycho-scout.”

  “Yes, I know who he is. We are not hiding multiple Alfreds in here, I assure you. Have you been invited?”

  “No.” I rattled the handle. “It’s freezing out here, Minty. Will you just let me in?”

  “Wait in the foyer. Wipe your feet. Don’t touch anything.”

  The door swung open. I stamped my boots on the doormat and waited in the hallway.

  It was quaint inside. Flower-patterned wallpaper, sconces, a little rosewood desk on a deep burgundy carpet. The symbol of the Spiritus Club—two fountain pens inside a circle, joined to create the hands of a clock—was carved on to a shield above the mantelpiece. That symbol was printed in the top right corner of every illegal pamphlet and chapbook in the citadel.

  “Alfred!” a voice shouted from somewhere above me. “Alfred, get down to the foyer!”

  “Yes, yes, Minty, wait a tick . . .”

  “Now, Alfred.”

  I sat on the edge of the desk to wait, keeping a tight grip on my messenger bag.

  “Ah, the Pale Dreamer returns to Grub Street!” Alfred thumped his way down the staircase, a smile breaking his lips and teeth apart. When he saw my face, it plummeted. “Oh, dear. What happened?”

  The hitman’s punch had left a terrific shiner under my right eye. “Just training. For the scrimmage.”

  He shook his head, squinting at the bruise. “You ought to be more careful, dear heart. But to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I wondered if you might be free for a few minutes.”

  “But of course.” He extended an arm, which I took, and we walked up to the landing, stepping over gold stair rods with decorative brackets. “I say, you could almost be Jaxon’s daughter with that hair. Clever of you to dye it.”

  Another woman came flying down the stairs, wild-haired and bespectacled, one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Minty Wolfson, in any case. She looked as if she was still in her nightclothes. “Who on earth are you?” she demanded, as if I had some nerve to be on earth at all.

  “Why, this is the White Binder’s esteemed mollisher.” Alfred placed his hands on my shoulders. “Currently the most wanted person in London, which makes her very welcome in our midst.”

  “Bloody troublemaker, from what I’ve heard. I hope you know where you are, young lady. The Spiritus Club is the finest voyant publishing house in the world.”

  “It’s the only one, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Ergo, it is the finest. We were built on the glorious foundations of the Scriblerus Club.”

  “Indeed we were. All great satirists, the Scriblerians. Passionate in their pursuit of dullards.” Alfred ushered me through a door. “Be a dear and make us some tea, Ethel. My poor guest is thirsty.”

  I could have sworn the ruffles of her dress quivered with outrage. “I am not a waitron, Alfred. I do not have time to serve cups of tea to some Dublin doxy. I have work to do—work, Alfred. Definition: exertion or effort directed to produce or accomplish something—”

  Alfred, sweating, shut the door before she could continue.

  “I apologize sincerely for my colleague’s conduct. The north will seem peaceful after this lunacy.”

  I lowered myself into the opposite chair. “You’re going north?”

  “In a few weeks, yes. I’ve heard of a very talented psychographer in Manchester.” He pushed a tier stand of biscuits toward me. “I must say, I’m very glad to see you made it back to Seven Dials after our last encounter. Close shave, wasn’t it? I usually have better luck with bribing them.”

  “I’m the most wanted person in Scion. A numen was never going to help.” I nodded to a monochrome photograph in an elaborate brass frame, propped up on a highboy behind his desk. “Who’s that?”

  Alfred looked over his shoulder. “Ah, that’s my late wife. Floy, she was called. My first, short-lived love.” His fingers caressed the frame. The woman inside it was perhaps thirty. Thick, straight hair fell past her shoulders. She looked straight at the viewer with her lips parted a little, as if she’d been speaking when the photograph was taken. “She was a good woman. Distant, perhaps, but kind and talented.”

  “Was she voyant?”

  “Amaurotic, as a matter of fact. An odd match, I know. She died very young, unfortunately. I’m still trying to find her in the æther, to ask her what happened, but she never seems to hear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, dear heart, it’s hardly your fault.” For the first time I noticed the ring on his finger, a thick gold band with no adornments. “Now, how can I help you?”

  I opened my bag. “I hope you won’t think I’m being presumptuous,” I said with a rueful smile, “but I have a proposal for you.”

  “I confess myself intrigued.”

  “You said you were looking for something controversial. I have some acquaintances who’ve written a penny dreadful together, and I was wondering if you might like to have a look at it.”

  He grinned. “You had me at ‘controversial,’ dear heart. Let’s take a look.”

  I fanned the pages out across the desk. With a puzzled smile, Alfred reached for his pince-nez and peered at the title.

  THE REPHAITE REVELATION

  Being a true and faithful Account of the ghastly Puppet

  Masters behind Scion, and their Harvest of clairvoyant Peoples

  “My word.” He chuckled. “I suppose you did say ‘controversial.’ Who are these imaginists?”

  “There’s three of them, but they want to remain anonymous. They’re identifying themselves with numbers.” I pointed to the bottom of the page. “All part of the story.”

  “How splendidly meta.”

  I let him leaf through it for a while. Occasionally he murmured “ah, yes” and “good” and “eccentric.” A shiver trailed along my spine. If Jaxon found out I was doing this, he would boot me out of Seven Dials and leave me to my fate. Then again, he wasn’t exactly happy with me now.

  “Well, Paige, it could use some work, but the idea is quite terrifying.” Alfred pressed his index finger against the first page. “You rarely see literature that t
alks openly about Scion’s corruption. It does something to challenge their authority, implying that their minds are weak enough to be controlled by outside forces.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Jaxon will be furious if he finds out that I was involved in this, but I always was a gambler.” He rubbed his hands together. “Not all writers come through me.”

  “There is one catch,” I said. “The writers need it to be out by next week.”

  “Next week? Gracious. Why?”

  “They have their reasons,” I said.

  “No doubt, but it isn’t just me they have to convince. It’s the fastidious Grub Street booksellers, who then have to allocate a certain amount of money to pay the Penny Post. They are the bookshop—a living, mobile bookshop, made up of thirty messengers,” Alfred explained. “It’s how Grub Street has kept itself out of Scion’s way for all these years. It would be far too dangerous to sell forbidden stories in one place.”

  There was a knock on the door before a thin, trembling man tottered in with a tray. His aura almost shouted what he was: psychographer.

  “Tea, Alfred,” he said.

  “Thank you, Scrawl.”

  Scrawl put the tray down and stumbled back out, muttering to himself. Seeing my expression, Alfred shook his head. “Not to worry. Poor fellow got himself possessed by Madeleine de Scudéry. A prolific novelist, to put it lightly.” He chortled into his teacup. “He’s been scrawling away for a month.”

  “Our medium sometimes paints for days without sleeping,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, the Martyred Muse. Sweet girl. Mediums do get the short end of the stick in this business, don’t they? Speaking of which, I must ask—are your friends psychographers? Writing mediums?”

  “I’m not sure.” I stirred my tea. “Will that affect the Club’s decision?”

  “I shan’t lie to you, dear heart. It may well do. With the exception of Jaxon, they’ve always believed that unless a story is written by someone whose link to the æther is sustained by writing, it’s a story not worth telling. Elitist claptrap, if you ask me, but my opinion only goes so far around here.”

  “Do you think they’d need proof?”