The Mime Order

by Samantha Shannon

  A headache was already surging above my eye. He crouched down in front of me, his cheeks brushed with a hint of pink.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, don’t be coy, Paige.”

  “That’s it. Really.” I forced a smile. “Your turn.”

  “My gift is nowhere near as fascinating as yours, O my lovely, but I suppose I did promise.”

  Jaxon took a seat beside me. “What can you do with the spirits?” I said. I’d always been curious about his gift. “When you say ‘control,’ what do you mean?”

  “My boundlings are free to wander within the confines I set for them. Most of them are simply commanded to stay in I-4 and behave themselves. When I need them, however, I can use them in spirit combat.”

  “In the same way you’d use other spirits?”

  “Not quite. When the average voyant spools the average group of spirits, they simply aim them in the direction of an opponent and hope for the best. The spirits push terrible images into the dream-scape of the enemy, but they’re easily driven away by their defenses. But my boundlings carry my strength with them. Unlike the common wisp, which can only produce hallucinations, boundlings can manipulate the fabric of a clairvoyant’s dreamscape.”

  “Can they kill?”

  I tried to sound casual. Jaxon looked at the starling with no expression. His lips moved quickly, and the æther shifted as a spirit shot from inside the den. The bird flinched as it approached, then gave a horrible jerk as the spirit cut through its tiny dreamscape, shattering its silver cord.

  A moment later, the starling was dead.

  “My boundlings can be almost as powerful as you, darling. Some have the power to push weak spirits right out of their dreamscapes.” He gave the little corpse a push, and it rolled off the edge of the bench, on to the white stone floor of the courtyard. My stomach turned at the sight of its dead beads of eyes. Bloodless murder. “You see?” he said. “Life, for all its wonders, is rather flimsy in the end.”

  Flimsy. Like a moth.

  Jaxon leaned across the bench and gave me a peck on the cheek. “We will win,” he said. “We will triumph, darling. And all will be as it should be.”

  ****

  The citadel was teeming with Vigiles, all out on a voyant-hunting spree, but I had to leave the den before I suffocated. Once Jaxon was locked in his office, I took off down Monmouth Street and slipped down the tunnel that led to Chateline’s. Without ordering anything, I took up residence at my favorite table, away from the windows, and dropped my head into my hands.

  Jaxon could kill me in the scrimmage. There would always be foul play—I’d expected that—but I’d never thought that murder in the ring would be an acceptable practice.

  The transmission screen in the corner showed the great stone arch of the Lychgate, as it often did on weekdays nowadays. NiteKind must be going out of fashion. Perhaps the amaurotic elite didn’t want painless punishment for the citadel’s unnaturals anymore. I made myself watch as the executioner led two prisoners out on to the lead roof.

  The nooses were cast over the heads of the condemned. You could just hear one of them pleading for clemency, his voice ampli-fied so all of London could hear his cowardice. His shift was stained, his face swollen and bruised. His hands were trembling as the masked Grand Executioner cuffed them. The second man stood with his hands behind his back, waiting for the plunge.

  Before they could die, the screen flicked to the comedy channel. The patrons cheered.

  A silver tray was deposited in front of me. Chat folded his arms, his stump resting in the crook of his elbow.

  “That executioner’s a piece of work,” he muttered. “Cephas Jameson, his name is. Always leaves it as long as possible.”

  I rubbed my temple. “Did I order something, Chat?”

  “No, love, but you look like you need it. That’s quite a shiner you’ve got there.” He looked at the screen through his good eye. “I don’t know why they show it. Like we don’t know what they’ll do to us.”

  “Why don’t we do something?” The frustration almost choked me. “This has been going on for centuries, Chat. Why don’t we just—?”

  I gesticulated, like I could grasp the solution.

  “Apathy’s a killer. The way most people see it, we can survive like this if we stay out of the way.” Chat leaned against the table. “You know what they used to call the British Empire? ‘The empire on which the sun never set.’ That’s the very same empire Scion’s built on.” His mouth puckered for a moment before he said, “If it’s us against the sun, who wins?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  Chat returned to the bar, leaving the tray behind. Underneath the cloche I found a bowl of chestnut soup. As I picked up the spoon, I caught sight of my reflection in the tray. My black hair made my face looked pasty. Bags mushroomed out from under my eyes, along with the giant bruise.

  The door banged open, and a courier came rushing into the bar. One of Ognena Maria’s, wearing the symbol of the Spiritus Club. When he spotted me, he rushed up to my table, panting.

  “Are you the Pale Dreamer?”

  I nodded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Message for you, miss. From Grub Street.”

  He handed me a burner phone. Alfred must have heard back from Minty already. I held it to my ear, cupping my hand around the mouthpiece. “Hello?”

  “It’s me, dear heart. I thought the poor courier would never find you.”

  I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. “Did they like it?”

  “They loved it!” Alfred sounded jubilant. “Yes, they were all very impressed, even the booksellers. So long as the authors contribute a small amount to the cost of ink and short-notice distribution. We typeset the whole thing today, go to press tomorrow, and distribute as soon as you’ve paid.”

  “Oh, Alfred, that’s—” I dropped my forehead against the wall, my heart still thumping. “That’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  “I live to serve, dear heart. Now, regarding the delicate matter of money, Minty will need it from the writers before the pamphlet goes out. Tell the courier where she should leave the bill. I shall be far from London by tomorrow, but you must get in touch if you have any questions. The courier will leave you my number.”

  “Thank you again, Alfred.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  He hung up first. I tossed the courier the phone. “Tell Minty to leave the bill here, at Chateline’s.”

  In exchange, he handed me the slip of paper, which I pocketed. “Understood, miss.” He left.

  The delicate matter of money. Delicate indeed. Even if I committed every waking minute to following Jaxon’s orders, I wouldn’t make a quarter of what I’d need to cover such an astronomical cost—and it would be astronomical. I had no choice but to impress the Ranthen, to seek the patronage of Terebell Sheratan.

  “Chat,” I said, “I think I need a drink.”

  18

  The Patron’s Puppet

  That drink gave me a good night’s sleep, but it didn’t take away the problem. Until the Ranthen returned, I had no way to pay the Spiritus Club. As predicted, the amount they wanted was more than I made in a year with Jaxon. Minty’s rule was clear: no money, no distribution. I tried ringing Felix—maybe the fugitives had enough to help—but the hawker didn’t pick up.

  I tried the golden cord. Nothing. If Warden didn’t come back soon, I’d have to track him down.

  In the meantime, I threw myself into my work. The scrimmage was getting closer, and no matter what happened with the pamphlet, I had to be ready for it. Nick and I trained hard in the courtyard, both with weapons and without. Muscle hardened in my arms and legs. My waist and hips reclaimed their shape. I could lift and climb without breaking a sweat. Bit by bit, it was all coming back to me. How to be a mollisher, a fighter, a survivor.

  Four days after Alfred’s phone call, I knocked on Jaxon’s door. No answer. I balanced a tray on my hip and knocked again.
<
br />   “Jax.”

  A grunt came from somewhere inside. I went in.

  The room was dark and stifling, the curtains blocking any hint of sunlight. Everything smelled of the ends of cigarettes and unwashed skin. Jaxon lay spreadeagled on his back, long fingers clasped around a small green bottle with a cork stopper.

  “Fucking hell, Jaxon,” was all I could say.

  “Go away.”

  “Jax.” I put the tray down and grasped him under the arms, but he was heavier than he looked. “Jaxon, snap out of it, you lazy sot.”

  His hand came flying up, shoving me into the desk. An ink bottle toppled off the edge and bounced off the carpet, hitting him right on the forehead. A dull groan was his only reaction.

  “Fine.” I straightened my blouse, irritated. “By all means, stay there.”

  Curses tangled in his mouth. Out of pity, I shoved a cushion under his head and threw the mantle from the couch over his back.

  “Thank you, Nadine.” His words weren’t quite as crisp as usual, but he stopped just short of slurring.

  “It’s Paige.” I tapped my foot. “Did you speak to the Abbess about the hitmen?”

  Even drunk, he managed to sound irritated. “She’s looking into it.” His arm curled around the cushion. “Goodnight, Paignton.”

  At least he’d told her. If the Abbess hated the Rag and Bone Man as much as rumor suggested, she’d be happy to investigate. I pulled the mantle over his shoulders and left, closing the door quietly behind me. Jaxon had always liked a drink, but I’d never seen him like this. Paignton . . .

  Save for Nadine’s violin, playing a melancholy tune from the first floor, the den was quiet. We were all trapped indoors by Jaxon’s latest curfew. The front door was locked from the inside, and nobody knew where he’d hidden the key. Just to get some air, I went out to the courtyard and lay down on the bench beneath the blossom tree.

  London had too much light pollution for most stars to be seen, but a handful pierced through the artificial blue haze. Above the madness of the metropolis, the night sky put me in mind of the æther: a network of orbs, some bright, some dim, pinpricks in the endless folds of darkness that could have been full of knowledge or ignorance. Too much of it to see or comprehend.

  The golden cord gave a hard pull.

  I sat bolt upright. Warden was waiting behind the gate, in the darkness of the access passage.

  “You were away for a while,” I said, wary.

  “Regrettably. I was with the Ranthen, discussing the state of affairs in the Westminster Archon.” He could almost have passed for human tonight, with his eyes that dim. He wore a straight-cut coat, gloves and boots. “Terebell has summoned you.”

  “Where?”

  “She said that you would know the place.”

  The music hall. Part of me wanted to refuse the demand, but it was a small, bitter part, and I needed Terebell’s help.

  “Give me a minute,” I said.

  “I will meet you at the pillar.” He withdrew.

  I was careful not to make a sound on the stairs. In the bathroom, I set my hat over my hair, chalked my lips and pressed in my hazel contacts. It wasn’t enough. Unless I went under the knife, nothing could hide my face forever.

  There were two more weeks until the scrimmage. All I had to do was stay alive until then.

  When I opened the bathroom door, I found myself facing Nadine Arnett. Her eyelids were puffy, her bare feet raw with blisters.

  “Are you all right?” I said. We hadn’t spoken in some time. “You look exhausted.”

  “Oh, I’m just great. I’ve only been on the street for nine hours. I only had to run from the Vigiles twice.” She swung her violin case on to the floor. Deep, purplish grooves ran through her fingertips. “Going somewhere?”

  “Goodge Street. I’ve got a job to finish.”

  “Right. Does Jax know?”

  “No idea. Are you going to tell him?”

  “You know, the only reason he keeps you as mollisher is because you’re a dreamwalker. He told me, while you were gone. It’s your aura he wants, Paige. That’s the asset. Not you.”

  “All our auras are his assets. Did you think Jax liked our scintillating table conversation?”

  “I’m loyal. That’s why he chose me when you were gone. It had nothing to do with my aura,” she said, and I could tell by her face that she believed it. “You know what he thinks of sensors. He still chose me to be his mollisher.”

  “I’m trying to work, Nadine.” I pushed past her. “I’m not interested in a rivalry.”

  “Maybe you could do more work if you stepped down,” she said, almost biting out the words. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mahoney, but I know you’re up to something.”

  Eliza chose that moment to open the kitchen door, letting out the smell of allspice. She looked at us.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, and left Nadine to answer her questions. I snatched my coat and cravat from the rack and left through my bedroom window.

  Warden was waiting for me near the desecrated sundial pillar. He stood when I approached. The sight of him sent a tremor down my back.

  “We must move swiftly,” he said. “There are Vigiles nearby.”

  “It isn’t far.” I wrapped my cravat over the lower half of my face, checking three times that the knot was tight enough. “We’ll attract attention if we walk together.”

  “I will follow you.”

  I led him down the east-facing dial street, where cars and rickshaws rumbled past the pavement. I stayed close to the walls and shop fronts, keeping my face turned against my collar. There were no Vigiles that I could see, but every aura set me on edge. There could be Rag Doll spies in the district. A camera peered down from a rooftop, but the peak of my cap shielded me from facial recognition. I waved Warden to the other side of the street, nodding to it. It was madness to be outside with him. This citadel had eyes in every wall.

  Once we were both over the main roads, out of the way of the streetlamps, I let myself breathe again. Warden fell into step beside me. He took much larger strides than I did.

  “What does Terebell want?”

  “To treat with you.” He slowed down for me. “The time is ripe for you to request the money you require.”

  If she said no, it was the end of everything.

  We walked without speaking again until we reached the music hall. I slowed down when I sensed a dreamscape nearby.

  Standing in the middle of Drury Lane was a single voyant offi- cer, his masked face angled away from us. At first glance he looked like a night Vigile, but the uniform was different. A scarlet shirt with paned sleeves, showing hints of gold lining; a black leather gilet, stitched with the Scion anchor in gold; elbow-length gloves; and tall boots. A more sophisticated take on the old red-jacket’s uniform.

  “Is that a Punisher?” I whispered.

  Warden looked over my head. “Almost certainly.”

  Whatever this guy was, he was standing between us and our destination. I glanced up at the buildings, scanning for the right window. When I found it, I whistled out a signal, the first few notes of Scion’s anthem.

  Within seconds, three footpads were climbing from the window of the nearest night parlour. I nodded to the Punisher. They tied scarves over their faces before they ventured towards him. One of them swiped the baton from his belt and threw it to her companion, who leapt over a car and sprinted away. The Punisher watched in silence as they fled, then looked over his shoulder, red visor gleaming. I grabbed Warden’s shoulder, pulling him back into the shadows.

  For an instant, I was certain the Punisher would come to investigate. His fingers flexed over his radio. Finally, he strode in the direction the footpads had gone.

  That wasn’t normal Vigile behavior. That silence, the lack of immediate reaction when they’d snatched the baton. He’d be back in a minute.

  “Go,” I whispered.

  Moving quickly, we made our way round t
o the back of the theatre. I could sense four Rephaite dreamscapes inside, with their distinctive armor. Once we reached the stage door, Warden faced me under the streetlamp and grasped my upper arms. A shock flew down to my fingers, but my back tightened. It was the first time he’d touched me since the catacombs.

  “I will not often ask you to conceal the truth,” he said, his voice low, “but I ask it of you now.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “There is a reason I have been behaving the way I have. What happened between us in the Guildhall is common knowledge among Rephaim. Nashira has spent a great deal of time telling her people that I am a rotmonger and a flesh-traitor.” He looked me in the eye. “But you must deny it, repeatedly and emphatically if need be, to the Ranthen.”

  It was the first time he’d really acknowledged that the Guildhall hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. “I thought Terebell and Errai knew,” I said quietly. “They know about the cord.”

  “The cord does not always point toward physical intimacy.” His gaze flicked over my face. “I understand if you do not wish to do as I ask. But I ask it for your sake, not mine.”

  After a moment, I nodded. He released my arms, leaving goose-flesh beneath my shirt. I turned to face the door.

  “If she asks,” I said, “what should I say happened?”

  “Anything but the truth.”

  Because the truth must be too awful for Rephaim to wrap their heads around.

  I kept my distance from Warden as we sidled through the door, parted the dust-laden stage curtains, and descended to the auditorium, where the faded chairs and carpet were lit by several jack-lanterns. Terebell stood in the aisle with three other Rephaim. Warden stopped in the aisle.