That gave me pause. “Why?”
“Just between you and me, I think he’s been slipping it into his absinthe. I can’t work out what’s wrong with him lately. He’s going to smoke and drink himself to death.”
Whatever it was he wanted to forget, he wouldn’t tell us. “We won’t be shopping. The whole district’s in lockdown,” I said, then paused. “Actually, I could use your help. If you’re free.”
“What are we doing?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.” I beckoned to her. “Bring a knife. And a gun.”
****
I got a local buck cabbie to drop us off at the quiet, residential northern end of Hawley Street, as near as she could get to the Stables Market. “The Rag Dolls won’t let us get any closer to the markets,” she said to me. “Couriers, unlicensed cabs, any underworld folk who operate from outside the district. Don’t know what’s got into them. You’ll have some trouble getting in, I’ll wager.” She held out a hand. “And that’ll be eight pounds forty, please.”
“The White Binder will reimburse you,” I said, already halfway out of the cab. “Put the bill in the I-4 dead drop.”
As she drove away, I climbed up some scaffolding. Eliza followed me, but she didn’t look happy.
“Paige,” she said, exasperated, “do you want to explain what the blistering hell we’re doing here?”
“I want to check up on the other fugitives. Something’s wrong.”
“And you know this how?”
I couldn’t answer without letting it slip that I was involved with the penny dreadful. “I just know.”
“Oh, come on.” She hopped to the next rooftop. “Even voyants don’t get to say that sort of shit, Paige.”
I took off at a run across the flat rooftops. When I reached the building at the end of the street, I crouched down at the edge of the roof and examined the scene below. Chalk Farm Road was already wide awake, its shops pulsing out lights and music, the pavement awash with amaurotics and voyants. If we could cross the street without being seen and get over the wall we’d be in the Stables Market, minutes from the boutique.
Auras flickered whenever a voyant passed. There was a Rag Doll slouched against the wall, blue-haired and armed with two pistols, but she was too far away to pick up on my aura. With Eliza shadowing me, I climbed down the other side of the building and made a dash across the street, elbowing an amaurotic out of the way as I went. A quick jump took me to the top of the wall. Eliza scrambled after me, but her legs were shorter. I grabbed her under the arms and hauled her over to the other side.
“Are you off the cot?” she whispered to me angrily. “You heard what the cabbie said!”
“I heard.” I was already walking. “And I want to know what the Rag Dolls have got to hide from the rest of us.”
“Who cares what the other sections do? Your shoulders aren’t big enough for the whole of London’s problems, Paige . . .”
“Maybe not,” I said, “but if Jaxon wants to be Underlord, his shoulders need to get a little wider.” I kept a hand on my knife. “By the way, has Jax had a good rummage through your room, or is it just mine?”
She glanced at me. “I did notice a few things had been moved. You think it’s Jaxon?”
“It has to be.”
The market was busy at this time of the afternoon, when Scion’s working day came to an end. Moribund sunlight glinted off racks of jewelry. I traversed the enclosed tunnels of the market, making my way between stalls and beneath chandeliers, keeping a constant lookout for Rag Dolls. Any of these people could be working for them. Every time I spotted a voyant, I ducked out of sight until they passed, pulling Eliza with me. By the time I reached the right place, I’d seen two large groups of Dolls and countless loitering voyants, no doubt in their employ.
Agatha’s Boutique was locked up, with a CLOSED FOR RENOVA- TION sign on the door. Every piece of jewellery had vanished from the window displays. The door was guarded by a cluster of armed Rag Dolls. One of them—a bearded medium with wiry, pale green hair—had a carton of food balanced on his knee. The others were all alert, watching the nearest traders setting up their stalls.
“Eliza,” I said, and she leaned in closer, “you think you can distract them?”
“You can’t go in there,” she hissed. “Imagine if someone tried to sneak into one of our buildings. Jaxon would—”
“—beat them senseless, I know.” These guys wouldn’t just do that; they’d kill me. “Just get them away from the shop for five minutes. I’ll meet you back at the den in an hour or two.”
“You’d better pay me for this, Paige. You owe me two weeks’ wages. Two years’ wages.”
I just looked at her. With a few whispered curses, she crawled out from under the table. “Give me your hat,” she said, holding out a hand. I took it off and tossed it to her.
If they had six guards posted to watch the shop, there must be something in there worth seeing. The fugitives might still be in the cellar, chained up like Warden had been in the catacombs.
I waited, watching the shop. Eliza had been a member of the Seven Seals for longer than I had, and a thief from her early childhood. She was a master of distraction and quick getaways, even if she hadn’t done much street work since Jaxon had employed her.
After a minute, I sensed her again, approaching from my right. She came out of a shop wearing a stolen pair of cinder glasses, her ringlets crammed into my hat, looking like someone who didn’t want to be seen. As soon as the Rag Dolls caught sight of her, they stiffened. One of them rose to her feet.
“Hey.”
Eliza sped up, keeping her head down, and made toward the nearest passage. A Rag Doll with violet hair made a grab for her gun. “You, stay here,” she said. “I don’t like the look of her.”
The others stood with her. The man looked up from his food for long enough to roll his eyes. “It’s not like there’s anything to steal in here.”
“Well, if there is, and it goes missing, you’ll be the one explaining things to Chiffon. And she’s not in the best mood these days.”
Eliza broke into a run, and the Rag Dolls took off after her. As soon as they were gone, I walked straight past the remaining guard, who didn’t so much as glance at me, and made my way to the back of the shop. There had been a basement window, I recalled. After a minute of searching, I found it and kicked it in, sending glass pattering down on to the floorboards. It was a tight squeeze, but I just about got myself through the gap.
The bolthole was empty. To the outside eye, it was nothing but a cellar for an empty shop.
I stayed there for a while, crouched among the broken glass. It glistened in the dim light from outside. My first guess was that the fugitives had been taken to the Camden Catacombs, but that hiding place was compromised now. There had to be something here . . .
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, my finger traced a smear of dry blood across the floorboards. It disappeared under an empty bookcase, made of dark, smooth wood.
Agatha had said that her boutique was the bolthole of II-4. A bolthole wasn’t just a hiding spot, but a way out of the district. Ours led from Seven Dials to Soho Square. Hector’s had given him a means of escaping under the fence that surrounded his slum. If they’d been trying to move the fugitives without anyone noticing, it would make sense to do it underground.
The entrance to this cellar was concealed from Vigile inspections by a curio cabinet in the shop above, and I was willing to bet that the bookcase was secret door number two. I dug my fingers in behind it and pulled with all my might, sweat standing out on my brow as my arms burned. With a hollow click, it finally swung open on well-oiled hinges, hardly making a sound. Beyond it was a narrow stone passage, too low for me to stand up straight. Cold, musty air drifted out, unsettling my hair.
A sensible part of me told me to wait until I had backup, but listening to that voice had never got me anywhere. I switched on my flashlight and walked inside, leaving the bookcase ajar behind m
e.
****
It was a long, long walk. The passageway started small and nondescript, with barely any space for me to extend my elbows beyond my ribcage, before it widened enough for me to breathe in the dank air without wheezing. I had to keep my head down and my shoulders hunched to keep from knocking myself out on the low ceiling, which looked to be made of cement.
Soon I found myself peering into the Camden Catacombs through an air vent. It was too dark to make out much, but I could see enough to know that I was looking into Warden’s cell.
I was starting to suspect that Ivy’s trust in her old kidsman had been misplaced. Agatha had been the gatekeeper of the Rag and Bone Man’s den—and something else, from the looks of it. The passageway continued in another direction. I took a deep breath and pressed on.
Another ten minutes passed before my flashlight gave a flicker and went out, leaving me in absolute darkness. Shit. I tapped my watch, and the Nixie tubes inside it glowed faintly blue. I was starting to wish I’d brought Eliza with me, if only for someone to talk to. I hoped on hope that she’d escaped the Rag Dolls, or she’d be the next person to vanish without a trace. If I didn’t disappear first, of course. My only comfort was that if I got lost down here, Warden would be able to sense where I was.
Using my hands to navigate, I kept going, bumping my head every few paces, until I emerged into a passage with the distinctive, rounded ceiling of the London Underground. I drew back at once, reaching for my revolver, but the tunnel was unoccupied. Another lost station, by the looks of it, like the one under the Tower.
The train waiting on the line was unusual in that it only came up to my waist, more of a cart than a carriage. The ends were painted red, the central parts in rusted black. REPUBLIC OF ENGLAND POSTAL SERVICE was stamped in gold paint along the side. I vaguely remembered something about this from school. Back in the early twentieth century, in an age before computers, a postal railway had been established to carry the new republic’s secret messages across the citadel. It had long since been abandoned once mail could be sent electronically, but they must have left its skeleton to rot.
My heart thumped like a fist against my ribcage. The last thing I wanted to do was climb aboard this train to an unknown destination, but this had to be where the fugitives had been taken.
At one end of the train was a bright orange lever. There was more dried blood here, rusty fingerprints on the side of the train. A few days old, by the looks of them. I hunkered down in one of the tiny carts, swearing under my breath, and pulled the lever down with both hands. I was starting to hate trains.
With a low rumble, the train skimmed along the track, through tunnels so dark I couldn’t see a thing but my watch. Nick was going to kill me when I got back.
Minutes passed. The darkness pressed on me, forcing blood into my head. I told myself over and over that this train wasn’t going to the penal colony—it was too small, traveling too slowly—but it didn’t stop the pounding in my ears. I kept an eye on my watch, my only source of light, cradling my wrist against my chest.
After half an hour, the train emerged in an illuminated tunnel and came to a gradual stop. Eyes burning, I climbed up on to another platform, as nondescript and narrow as the last. A single light flick-ered above me. Treading softly, I crept into another passage that took me up a steep, straight incline. More blood smeared the floor. I had to be a good few miles away from Camden by now, but the journey had only taken half an hour—given the size of London, I could still be in the central cohort. I climbed up a short ladder, into a tunnel that was so low I had to duckwalk. Finally, I could see light. Warm, indoor light.
There were dreamscapes nearby, fifteen of them. I recognized Ivy’s, dim and quiet and broken. The fugitives must be here, but surrounded by guards. I moved on to my hands and knees to stop my boots squeaking. When I reached the end of the passage, I found myself looking through a series of thin slats, the sort you might find on a wardrobe door. Between them, I could see the back of a chair, with hands grasping its sides, and a head with short green hair.
Agatha.
She was sitting bolt upright, facing away from me. I didn’t move.
Inside the firelit room was an enormous canopy bed, piled with shot-silk bedspreads, white sheets, monogrammed pillows and sleek cerise bolsters. Heavy curtains fell around it, glistening with delicate gold patterning. A polished nightstand held up a glass vase of pink aster flowers. High-backed velvet armchairs, a rosewood coffee table and a cheval mirror decorated the space around the fireplace, all positioned on a mint-green carpet.
When a door creaked open, Agatha’s head snapped around. I withdrew into the shadows.
“There you are,” she rasped. “Been waiting long enough.”
It was a few moments before someone replied. “May I ask what you’re doing here, Agatha?”
My gut lurched. I knew that voice, low and smoky. When I looked through the slats, even the memory of warmth drained from my body.
It was the Abbess.
21
Symbiosis
They connect with the æther by Means of their own Bodies, that of the Querent, or that of an unwilling Victim. Due to many of their Claims to use bodily Filth in their Work, they are the Pariahs of our clairvoyant Society. A large Community of Vile Augurs is known to thrive near Jacob’s Island, the great Slum of II Cohort. It is my strong Advice to the Reader to avoid this Section of the Citadel, in case he or she should fall victim to their base Practices.
—An Obscure Writer, On the Merits of Unnaturalness
****
“I’ve come for my payment.” Agatha’s mouth was still lacquered with green. “Half of what they promised you.”
“I’m aware of our agreement.” The light from the slats shifted. “I suppose this is about the shop. You do understand why we had to close it, don’t you?”
This had to be her night parlor. “The entrance to the tunnel is behind two hidden doors,” Agatha rasped. “I made good money in that shop.”
“It was a necessary precaution, my friend. The Pale Dreamer has an unfortunate habit of worming her way into hidden places.”
You have no idea, I thought.
The Abbess tossed her jacket away, leaving her in a high-waisted skirt and a ruffled blouse, and unpinned the top hat from her scalp. Her hair cascaded down her back, thick and glossy, curled into delicate spirals at the tips. Framed by firelight, she took a seat in the upholstered armchair opposite Agatha, right in my line of sight.
“Did the Jacobite wake?”
“She did.” The Abbess said, pouring two glasses of rosé wine. “We have the information we require. It took some . . . coaxing.”
Agatha grunted. “Serves her right for leaving my service. Dragged her up from the gutter, I did, and she repays me by running off to work with your master.”
“Be assured, I serve no master,” was the cool reply.
“Then tell me, Underqueen, why does he never appear? Why does he hide while the little people do his dirty work?”
“Those ‘little people,’ Agatha”—the Abbess lifted her glass—“are all leaders of this syndicate. Your leaders. He and I have many friends. In the days to come, we will have many more.”
A desiccated chuckle. “Many pawns, more like. Well, I won’t be one. I might be losing my voice, but I’m no fool. If your little endeavor makes enough to keep you in those kinds of dresses, you can put some in my pocket now.”
She held out a hand. The Abbess took another sip of her wine, not taking her eyes off her.
All leaders of this syndicate. Endeavor. I committed the words to memory, my blood racing with adrenaline. Dirty work. Jacobite. Whatever was going on, it went deeper than I’d ever imagined. Another dreamscape was drawing closer to the room, approaching from a lower floor.
“I spent good coin on those fugitives. Feeding them. Clothing them.” Agatha’s rasp was getting worse. “I had to get rid of two of them, mind. Screaming in their sleep, crying about monsters in
the trees. I know broken dreamscapes when I see ’em. Useless. You don’t know what I had to pay the local hirelings to dispose of them while the other four slept.”
The boy and the girl, the other two survivors. Rage made me tremble. I’d taken them from one hell to another.
“We will settle your grievances soon, my friend. Ah,” the Abbess said, smiling. “Turn around, Agatha. Here’s your money.”
“Good.” The chair was pushed back with a groan of wood on wood. “There you are, boy. It’s about—”
A gun went off.
The noise was so sudden, and so close to my hiding place, that I almost gave myself away with a scream. I threw myself against the floor of the wardrobe, my fist stuffed over my mouth. Through the slats, I could still see the two chairs in the gloom. Agatha’s body rolled on to the floor, empty as a glove without a hand.
A shadow blocked the light. “She talked too much,” a voice said, deep and male.
“She played her part.” A bare foot pushed the corpse away. “You have everything ready?”
“Downstairs.”
“Good.” She massaged one side of her neck with her fingers. “Take my case to the car. I must . . . ready myself.”
The man walked past my hiding place, his hands behind his back, and stepped over the body on the carpet. If the cowl was anything to go by, it was her mollisher, the Monk. “Do you need lithium?”
“No.” His mime-queen closed her eyes, her chest expanding. “No lithium. Our symbiosis is much stronger now.”
“Your body isn’t getting any stronger. The last time exhausted you,” her mollisher said gruffly. “They must be able to find someone else with your gift. All this risk, for what? For him?”
“You know very well what it’s for. Because they know my face, not his. Because I made the mistake.” Her fingers flexed around the stem of her glass. “Last time it was eight armed thugs—strong, albeit drunk. This time it’s a single mollisher. By tonight, Cutmouth will no longer pose a threat.” She rose, emptying the rest of the wine on to Agatha’s corpse. “I want twice the number of Rag Doll guards around Agatha’s shop. Until we receive our payment, it should be sealed shut.”
The Mime Order Page 33
