“Ranthen-kith,” he said, “this is Paige Mahoney. It is to her that you owe my presence tonight.”
Terebell ignored this announcement. She went straight to Warden and pressed her forehead to his, murmuring to him in Gloss. They were almost of a height. The sight of it made something wrench behind my ribs.
“Hello, Terebell,” I said.
Terebell turned her head, but still didn’t speak. Her hand rested on Warden’s shoulder. She looked at me the way Jaxon looked at buskers.
“I have brought Paige here to speak with you about her plans,” Warden continued. “She has a request for us, as we have one for her.”
Errai and Pleione said nothing. Standing between them, Terebell slashed her gaze over me.
“Dreamwalker, this is Lucida Sargas.” She motioned to the stranger. “One of the very few with Ranthen sympathies.”
My hand flinched toward the pouch in my pocket. “Sargas?”
“Indeed. I have heard a great deal about you, Paige Mahoney.” Lucida had slightly more emotion in her features than the others; she looked almost curious. “From the tales told by my Sargas-kin.”
She had Nashira’s complexion—somewhere between silver and gold, more on the silver side—and thick hair, but it was loose and cut to her shoulders. An unusual style among Rephaite females in the colony, but all three of them had it here. She looked so much like her relatives, with those hooded eyes.
“What sort of tales?” I said, wary.
“They are calling you the great fleshmonger of London. They say the earth beneath your feet is scorched and rotten.” Her gaze slid down to my boots. “It looks decidedly undamaged to me.”
Fantastic. “And what do they say about you?” I let go of the pouch. “Do they know you’re Ranthen?”
“Oh, yes. I was fool enough to disagree with the violent colonization of Sheol I. Consequently, I was declared a blood-traitor by my dear cousin, Gomeisa. I have lived as a renegade ever since.”
“A Ranthen renegade.” Terebell paced past her. “I am sure you remember Pleione Sualocin.”
“Vividly,” I said.
She was the only one sitting, the first Rephaite I’d ever seen. The one who had sapped a voyant’s aura on my first night in the colony. Her hair was short now, too, thick curls of black that sat on her shoulders.
“Ah, yes. 40.” A low, purring voice that promised danger. “We have much to discuss with you.”
“So I’ve heard.” I perched on the back of a seat. Warden remained standing in the aisle. He held himself differently around them, straight-backed and unmoving. “You can drop the ‘dreamwalker,’ by the way. And the 40, while you’re at it. It’s Paige.”
“Tell me, dreamwalker,” Terebell said, ignoring me, “have you encountered any Rephaite hunters since we last saw you?”
My jaw flexed. “No,” I said, “but they’ll come sooner or later.”
“Then take care to conceal yourself. Red-jackets are hidden among the Vigiles.” Terebell paced past me. “We are at a critical stage in our plans. After several failed attempts to overthrow the Sargas family, we have taken our first step toward bringing about their downfall. But their grip on the corporeal world is strong, and it will only grow stronger as their empire expands. Sheol II’s location has been decided.”
“Where?”
“We know that it will be in France, but not the precise location,” Warden said. “Alsafiwill send word when he discovers it.”
“Nashira and Gomeisa form the heart of the Sargas doctrine. You will have noticed that Gomeisa was able to ward off four of us in the Guildhall,” Terebell continued, with no hint of shame. “That is no natural strength. We had planned to eliminate Nashira quietly, but it seems that opportunity has been snatched.” Her gaze drifted towards Warden. “Before we can strike them, it is essential that we dismantle the network they have built in the human world.”
“Scion,” I said.
“The key purpose of the penal colony was never to fend off the Emim,” Warden said, “but to indoctrinate humans. The red-jackets, most of whom were successfully brainwashed, will act as human agents of the Sargas when they reveal their presence to the world.”
“You mean the Sargas are going to tell everyone they’re here?” I looked between them and found only straight faces. “They’re mad. The free-world would declare war on Scion.”
“Unlikely. If it came to war, Scion could raise a vast army. It would deter any declaration of war from the countries of the free-world, whose alliances are troubled, at best.”
“From our last reports, many of them are closing their eyes to Scion’s unsavory practices in order to maintain peace,” Terebell said. “President Rosevear, for example, is leaning toward a policy of non-intervention. Scion has also managed to conceal a great deal of their brutality from free-world surveillance.”
As a student in a Scion school, I’d dreamed of the free-world coming to their senses. I’d dreamed that, when hard evidence got out of Scion’s crimes, the superpowers would raise their banners against my enemy—but it had never been that simple. Free countries were invisible on classroom maps, but through osmosis at the black market and talking to Zeke and Nadine, I’d grasped bits and pieces about how the Americas were governed. Rosevear was a respected leader, but she had her own problems to handle: swollen oceans, toxic waste, financial burdens, countless problems on her own shores. For now, we were on our own.
“We must start with London,” Terebell said—a statement, not a suggestion. “If we can destroy the nerve center, the other citadels may begin to crumble. We understand from Arcturus that the Underlord was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Evidently,” Errai said, “it was a Rephaite assassin. Situla Mesarthim, perhaps. She is fond of decapitation.”
“It seems likely,” Pleione agreed.
Lucida was still watching me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “And what do you think, dreamwalker?”
Arms folded, I cleared my throat. “It’s possible,” I said, “but all the evidence is pointing toward a mime-lord called the Rag and Bone Man. The same mime-lord that captured Warden.”
“Then there is no clear heir to the crown,” Terebell said, and I shook my head.
“We’re holding a competition to choose a new leader.”
“And do you intend to participate?”
“Yes. I have to win if I’m going to get the word out. I’ve already had this produced.” I took out my spare copy of The Rephaite Revelation and handed it to Errai, who looked at my hand as if it were a dead rat. “Once it’s distributed, everyone in the citadel will know about you.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a penny dreadful. A horror story.”
Terebell snatched it. Her eyes grew hotter as she read the front page. “I have heard of these. Cheap, sordid entertainment. How dare you belittle our cause with this mockery?”
“I didn’t have time to write an epic poem, Terebell. And if I’d tried to tell people without proof—”
Errai actually hissed at me, a sound like water being thrown on a fire. “Do not speak to the sovereign with that tone. You had no right to expose us without permission. You should have waited for us to advise you.”
“I didn’t realize I needed your advice, Rephaite,” I said coolly.
He spat something at Warden in Gloss, and a spirit fled from the hall. With a glance at me, Warden sent a soft tremor across the cord, something that felt a little like a warning.
Lucida took the pages from Terebell. “I do not think this idea so crass,” she mused, flipping through the pages. “It will make our movements in the citadel more difficult, but may save arduous explanations when the time comes for us to reveal ourselves.”
“The denizens of this citadel fear the onset of unnaturalness,” Warden said. “They have no wish to see visions of giants, and if they did, they would certainly not go to the authorities about them.”
There was a short silence before Terebell leaned down to my level. I
wasn’t sure if it was intended to patronize me or not. “If you win this ‘scrimmage,’” she said, “then you will have overall command of the London syndicate. We wish to know if you will join your forces with ours.”
“I doubt that would work,” I said. “Don’t you?”
“Explain your meaning.”
“You’re visibly sickened by my presence. Aside from that, the syndicate’s a mess. Getting it organized will take time.” I looked her in the eye. “And money.”
There was a silence, during which the hall turned cold, as if a sudden draft had blown in.
“I see.” Terebell rested her gloved hands on the back of a seat. “Money. The dark obsession of the human race.”
Errai turned up his nose. “Material possessions cannot last, yet they fight over them like vultures. Disgusting greed.”
“Fruitless greed,” Pleione said.
“Okay, stop.” I held up a hand, irritated. “If I’d wanted lectures, I would have gone to the University.”
“I am sure.” Terebell paused. “And what, dreamwalker, if we do not provide you with money?”
“Then I won’t be able to remodel this syndicate. Even as Underqueen. First, I’ll have to give the mime-lords and mime-queens a financial incentive to become my commanders,” I said. “Then, if we can start the revolt, I’ll need more to keep it going. Buying weapons, feeding voyants, patching them up when Scion fights back—all of it will cost more than I could hope to earn in a lifetime. If you agree to fund me, I can help you. If not, you should ask someone with fuller pockets than mine. There are plenty of rich criminals around.”
They all looked at one another. Errai turned around, his muscled back heaving as he growled to himself.
I wouldn’t let them recreate the penal colony in London. The syndicate voyants wouldn’t be their red-jackets, with me as their Overseer. I had to assert myself as their equal, not their lackey.
“Bear in mind that our reserves are not infinite,” Terebell said, studying my face. “At any moment, our agent in Scion could be discovered and the bank account closed. We do not have the resources to fund an extravagant lifestyle for an Underqueen, and at the first sign of careless spending, we will withdraw our support.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Then you have our word that if you win the scrimmage, we will fund the reorganization of the London syndicate. We will also, where possible, provide natural resources from the Netherworld to contribute to the war effort. It is the place from which both essence of amaranth and Emite blood are harvested.”
“What use is Emite blood?”
“It has many properties,” Warden said, “the most useful of which is masking the aura. A small dose will corrupt its appearance, so the nature of the gift cannot be determined. Naturally, harvesting the blood is a perilous venture, and tasting it, a deeply unpleasant one.”
It sounded priceless. My aura was the one thing that almost always gave me away in London. “When you say ‘mask,’” I said, “do you mean from other voyants?”
“Yes.”
“And Senshield scanners?”
“Perhaps. We have not yet had the opportunity to test that theory.”
“And soon enough, when word reaches the last strongholds of the Netherworld, we will also be able to provide soldiers of our own,” Terebell said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Word of what?”
“The amaranth in bloom,” Errai said, looking as irritated as Rephaim could look. “It is the Ranthen’s call to arms, that which will persuade our old allies to return to us. Why do you think we never acted before now? We were waiting for the true sign. For an opportunity to revive what has faded.”
My head was whirring. I tucked my hands into my pockets and took in a long, deep breath.
“We do not have time for you to ponder this proposal,” Terebell said. “Answer me now, dreamwalker: will you ally your forces with mine?”
“It’s not as simple as ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If I win, I’ll do my best to persuade the London voyants that taking down Scion is a good idea, but it won’t be easy. They’re thieves and con artists with no military training whatsoever. The money should convince them to help us, but I can’t guarantee it.”
“As you cannot guarantee it, we will have to impose our own guarantee.” She indicated the nearest two Ranthen. “In order for you to win the scrimmage, you will submit yourself to our training. Errai, Pleione, you will instruct the dreamwalker to ensure she is up to standard.”
From the look Errai gave me, you’d have thought she’d asked him to lick the floor. “I will not,” he said.
“I will,” Pleione said, with a note of menace.
“It would make more sense for me to train with Warden. I’m used to his training style,” I said, trying to sound offhand. The thought of these two training me was not a pleasant one.
Tension crept into Terebell’s jaw. “Arcturus has other duties. He is no longer your keeper.”
“It will save time. We don’t have a lot of it.”
Her eyes grew hotter. You could almost see her mulling it over, weighing up the pros and cons of leaving the great Arcturus Mesarthim on his own with an upstart human. She turned to Warden and spoke to him in Gloss, her whole body held up as if by a taut rope. He looked at me for a while.
“Paige is right,” he said. “It will save valuable time. For the Ranthen’s sake, I will do this.”
Terebell’s features were rigid. “So be it.” She reached into her coat and handed me a thick envelope. “Be grateful for this patronage, dreamwalker. And know that if you do not succeed in the ring, I will make you sorry you were ever born.”
She spoke to the other three in Gloss, and the four of them left the auditorium without another word. Only Warden remained behind. I tucked the envelope into my coat, out of the reach of pickpockets.
“They’re so friendly,” I said.
“Hm. And you are a talented diplomat.”
“Dreamwalker.” Terebell was still on the stage, looking out from behind the curtain. “Before you begin, a word.”
My pulse quickened. I glanced at Warden, who said nothing; then I followed her, up the steps and on to the stage. She seized my arm and pulled me behind the curtain, where she slammed me into the wall. My spirit reared up inside me.
“The Sargas have spread a message through the Netherworld. Every chol-bird is singing that Arcturus Mesarthim degrades himself with humans.” Terebell forced up my chin. “Is this true, girl?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her grip tightened. “If one more lie falls from your tongue, it will rot to the root. The golden cord may have helped you find him, but its mere existence implies an intimate relationship. I will not allow you to—”
“Rephaim don’t consort with humans.” I cut her arm away. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t touch him.”
My tongue, as it happened, did not rot to the root. “Good,” Terebell said softly. “I may have agreed to fund your revolution, and I may have saved your hide in the colony. But do not cease to remember your station, Paige Mahoney, or I will see you fall as a crop falls to the scythe.”
She let go of my arm. I marched toward the door, more shaken than I dared to show. Fuck her training. Fuck the lot of them.
Outside, it was starting to rain. The Punisher hadn’t returned. He was fortunate; at that moment, I probably would have killed him.
With my hands balled into fists in my pockets, I walked away from the music hall, blowing out slow breaths to cool my anger. I’d always known what of Rephaim thought of humans, but I never imagined that Warden would care what others thought about him. I had to be impervious, like they were. Let it all run off me, like water.
“Paige.”
His voice was close, but I kept walking. “I don’t think we should talk,” I said, not looking at him.
“May I ask why?”
“I can think of several reasons.”
“I have plenty of time
to hear them. Eternity, in fact.”
“Fine. Here’s one: your so-called allies are treating me like filth on their boots, and I don’t like it one bit.”
“I did not think you could be so easily rattled.”
“Let’s see how rattled you are when I start talking about what cruel, tyrannical bastards you Rephaim can be.”
“By all means,” he said. “They would benefit from a lesson in humility.”
I stopped beneath a streetlamp and faced him. The rain was already picking up, plastering my hair to my face—and for once he looked as human as I did, standing in the downpour on this London corner. “I don’t know what their problem is, or what they know about the Guildhall,” I said, “but they need to get over it if we’re going to work together. And you need to decide how many of Terebell’s orders you’ll follow if we go ahead with this alliance.”
“What I do is my prerogative, Paige Mahoney. Thanks to you, I am my own master.”
“You told me once that freedom was my right.” I held his gaze. “Maybe you should do something with it.”
A furnace roared to life behind his eyes. It had come out sounding like a challenge.
Was he a gambler, too? And was the gamble worth it, when neither of us could win? I thought of the patronage, of the money and support I needed. I thought of Jaxon, watching the clock, waiting for me to return from my tryst.
“The sovereign-elect orders us to train,” he said, “but she did not specify the manner in which I should train you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“You will have to trust me.” He turned back to the music hall. “Do you?”
19
Ciuleandra
The music hall was empty when we returned, though I still checked for dreamscapes. Warden closed the doors behind us. I sat down on the edge of the stage and brought one knee up to my chest.
“How do you know Lucida isn’t a double agent?”
He barred the doors. “Why do you ask that?”
“She’s a Sargas,” I said.
“Did you agree with your father on everything, Paige? Your cousin?”
“No,” I said, “but the Mahoney family aren’t tyrants who specialize in brainwashing.”
The Mime Order Page 30
