“And lastly,” the Abbess said, “the three independent candidates. First, the Maverick Medium. Second, the Bleeding Heart.” Both the newcomers took their places, to a smattering of applause. “And last, but by no means least, the Black Moth.”
Silence. The Abbess turned to the crowd.
“Black Moth, please step forward.”
The silence continued. One rose remained.
“Oh, dear. Perhaps the moth has flown away.” Murmurs from the audience. A Grub Street hireling darted out to get rid of the last rose. “Now that we have our candidates, twenty-four in all, I formally open the fourth scrimmage in the history of the London syndicate.” She took hold of a heavy golden hourglass and turned it on its head. “When the hourglass is empty, I will call out ‘begin.’ Until you hear this command, please do not move.”
Every pair of eyes in the room settled on the hourglass.
Directly opposite me was the Bully-Rook, Nell’s mime-lord, who wore a rudimentary plastic mask with holes punched out for his eyes and mouth. Automatically, my body pulled into the posture Warden had taught me. I imagined myself on a string, being lifted, unshackled, throwing off the quick flesh that enclosed me. But my body was distracting me tonight: heart clapping, ears ringing, every inch of bare skin chilled with fear.
Which of these combatants did the Rag and Bone Man and the Abbess want to win?
Most of the competitors were soothsayers and augurs, dependent on a numen. They wouldn’t be too difficult to overcome. But there were six, Jaxon included, that could pose a real challenge.
Five seconds. I imagined the vials pouring. My vision flattened and diluted as the æther took over.
Three seconds.
One second.
“Begin,” the Abbess roared.
****
As soon as the last grain of sand had slipped through the hourglass, I ran toward the Bully-Rook. The audience roared their approval as the first few combatants clashed. At last, the mime-lords and mime-queens had emerged from their dens to do battle in the heart of Scion’s empire. My spirit was like an enraged animal in a cage, but I had to control it. There would be nothing noble, admirable, or entertaining about an Underqueen who’d killed her opponents with a flick of her spirit.
The Bully-Rook was a good six feet tall, lean and powerful. All he carried was a silver chain. I thrust my fist straight toward his throat, but he caught it in his hand and twisted me around, like he was spinning me in a waltz. A heavy boot kicked me in the back, and I went sprawling. I rolled back to my feet and turned to face him again, my fists raised. The audience’s focus wasn’t solely on me, but the nearest voyants jeered.
It wasn’t a good start. Compared to some of these combatants, I was frail. The urge to use my spirit on the lot of them was overwhelming, but I had to show that I was strong.
My radar was alert to other dreamscapes. I sensed someone behind me and leapt out of the way. The Knife-Grinder stumbled as he missed his mark. An enormous machete glinted in his hand, big enough to cut through my neck in one swing. Macharomancer. That was his numen, the one that made him lethal.
His head tilted, making the light shine on his silver mask. As soon as he regained his balance, he flicked two stilettos from his sleeve and tossed them at me with one hand. They went whipping past my right ear, one after the other, nicking my face as they went. He came at me with the machete again, slashing and stabbing in equal measure, trying to wear me down. I threw out a hand to protect myself, and he sliced across all four of my fingers, leaving shallow cuts. I pushed with my spirit, just enough to disorient him, before I took a running dive into a roll and kicked him in the stomach as hard as I could, shoving him into the Maverick Medium.
Someone else took hold of me before I could so much as take a breath. Arms wrapped around my waist, pinning my elbows to my sides. I knew from the smell of clove and orange that this was Halfpenny, Bloody Knuckles’s mollisher and an excellent sniffer. He often rubbed oils on to his wrists to keep the stink of spirits from his nostrils. I cut the side of my hand into his groin again and again until he released me, then smashed the back of my skull into his face. Twisting at the waist, I punched him between the eyes, breaking his nose. The impact sent a shock from my knuckles to my elbow, but it knocked him down hard enough to daze him.
The Bleeding Heart was there next, one of the independent candidates, with veins tattooed all over his face. I felt his aura shift to the right and avoided his fist with a neat spin, as Warden had taught me to do. He sent a feeble spool toward me, woven together from wisps, so frail I didn’t know why he’d bothered. They didn’t even make it to my dreamscape. I spooled a few of my own—stronger spirits, plucked from the farthest corners of the vault—and launched all six at him. With no sound, he flopped like a boneless fish on to the ash. Definitely playing dead. He was too afraid to fight, and with killers in the ring, I didn’t blame him.
A muscular arm locked across my chest. With a snarl, I gripped the Bully-Rock’s elbow and shoved it upward, trying to writhe my way free of his hold. My spirit burst into his dreamscape like a firework. As soon as he let go of me, I drove my right elbow into his solar plexus, pulled his arm out as far as I could and struck the back of the joint. There was a crack of bone, and he lurched away.
“Go on, Dreamer,” Eliza shouted, clapping.
My knuckles gave a throb, but the pain rushed away on a wave of adrenaline. This competition wasn’t about strength. Speed and skill could overcome muscle. I spun on my heel and deflected one of the Knife-Grinder’s spools, sending it straight back into his dreamscape. The force of it knocked him over. Bloody Knuckles leapt over him and hurled a complex string of spools at me, each made from several kinds of spirit. I threw myself into a roll under his arm and scissored my legs around the Knife-Grinder’s ankles when he got back up. I forced pressure from my dreamscape to deflect the spools, making the nearest ten people’s noses bleed. As he sprinted past us, Jack Hickathrift delivered a swift blow to the Knife-Grinder’s nape, finishing him off before he had the chance to grind a single knife. He grinned at me before he took on Bloody Knuckles.
At my feet, Halfpenny was rising again. I slashed with my spirit, shoving him into his midnight zone. Pain gripped my skull, but I could control it. Some of the audience must have seen the tell-tale flicker of my spirit in the æther—they shouted out “Pale Dreamer!,” and Jimmy O’Goblin threw a rose at me. I picked it up and curt-seyed low, and the volume of the shouting jolted higher. More roses flew from Ognena Maria and a group of I-4 footpads.
My moment of glory was cut short when Jenny Greenteeth grabbed my shoulders. Her teeth sank into my shoulder, puncturing skin, and a choking scream escaped me. At the same time, the Hare took hold of my ankles. They were pulling me in opposite directions. Did they want to rip me in half? The crowd’s cheers were for Jenny now. Taking a chunk out of I-4’s famous mollisher—who wouldn’t be impressed with such a shocking tactic? With a growl, I kicked out at the Hare. The toe of my boot caught his chin, snapping his head back. A glimpse of throat flashed beneath the mask. When he grasped my knees, my heels pushed against his chest, forcing Jenny Greenteeth backward, right off her feet. I rolled free of her arms and hurled my dagger at the Hare with one hand. He caught it in one hand and lumbered towards me, panting out vile threats through the thin slot in his mask.
I didn’t have time to think before his fist closed around my collar. As he angled the blade towards my face, a slither of steel came flashing from behind him. It sliced downward, ripping muscle from muscle, rending bone. Half a pallid arm flopped to the ground.
The Hare curled over with a howl of agony, staring at the blunted limb. Blood disgorged from the clean stump at his elbow. Behind me, a collective breath was drawn.
“Binder, you—what have you done—?”
“Hush, foul hare,” Jaxon sneered, and stabbed him through the eyehole of his mask.
I made an involuntary sound of disgust as the mime-lord slumped on to his front. Blood l
eaked through the eyehole and pooled around his head. His spirit fled without waiting for the threnody.
Jaxon twirled his cane, laughing. The VI Cohort tables booed and bellowed at him, but they were drowned out by the united roar of approval from the centrals. The first real blood of the night had been spilled, and it was all over my boots. At the front, Nadine was standing with her fellow Covent Garden buskers, cheering for him at the top of her lungs. It was Jaxon’s turn to take a bow.
I couldn’t watch for long. Jenny Greenteeth was back with red on her pearly whites, clawing and scratching at my legs. She was a hydromancer, but there was no water here for her to use against me. She was only as good as physical combat. I held her back with my bare hands, my teeth clenched with the effort, but she was gaining a few inches with every passing moment. VI Cohort’s crowd were screaming for her to rip out my gullet. They couldn’t stand centrals like me. Spittle dripped from Jenny’s cracked lips, frothing like suds between her teeth as she screamed obscenities in my face. Drenched in sweat, I forced her back with my arms, farther and farther, until I could wedge my heel against her chest.
I couldn’t be rescued by Jaxon again. Once was acceptable, a display of loyalty between mime-lord and mollisher, but twice would be unforgivably weak. I booted Jenny Greenteeth in the abdomen, hard enough to wind her. As soon as she was on the floor, I jumped out of my body.
It was harder to be quick this time. I fought with her dream-form in her sunlit zone, which took the form of a bog in the mist that fastened itself to my ankles like quicksand. When I finally forced her into a darker ring of sanity, I returned to my body—only to find myself falling toward the ashes in the ring. My palms swung out just in time, and oxygen hissed from my tank. Beside me, Jenny gave a twitch.
The clumsy end to my jump didn’t seem to daunt the crowd. They’d never seen the White Binder’s dreamwalker in action before. His best-keep secret and his greatest weapon, she would be the brightest jewel in the Underlord’s crown. A chorus of buskers started to chant.
Pale Dreamer, the jumper, just look at her leap!
The wrath of the dreamwalker will make you weep
She’s got poor sweet Jenny and Halfpenny, too
Watch out for her, Bully, she’s coming for you!
The chant ended in a cheer that reverberated through the vault. A few more roses soared toward me. This time I took a sweeping bow. They wouldn’t follow someone who didn’t play into their charade. Nick was clapping along with them, wearing a reluctant smile. Behind him, Eliza punched the air with a shout of “PALE DREAMER!,” joined by the rest of I Cohort. I found myself smiling back as I straightened, electrified by the spectacle. For once, these voyants, divided for so many years by the hierarchy and by gang wars, were united—in their love for the syndicate, in their passion for the wonders of the æther; even in their bloodlust.
As I caught my breath, I scanned the vault. There were still a good number of participants fighting. Redcap, the youngest of the mime-queens, was standing nearby. Her aura was restless and unstable, impossible to miss—a fury’s aura. Beneath her crimson beret, her eyes were obscured by shadow. Her adversary was the Swan Knight, a mollisher with a head of brilliantly white hair, wearing a purple cloak over her black attire.
“Don’t think I won’t kill you, brat.”
“Please,” Redcap said, “try.”
The Swan Knight raised her sword. Redcap took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and screamed.
The scream was so unearthly that glasses and bottles burst on the tables. In a whirl of rage, Redcap clawed her foe across the face. Her own face was flushed and contorted, and the screams pouring from her mouth were appalling. Spirits were reeling around her, lifting her limbs, snapping them into impossibly fast moves. The Swan Knight stood no chance.
As soon as her opponent was out of action, Redcap flew toward the next opponent, giving no sign that she might slow down. “Cool off,” someone bellowed at her from the ring. “Control it, Red, control it!” But she kept going, hitting and clawing and howling out that awful noise, her cheeks turning puce. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Half the combatants stopped to watch as she fought with Jack Hickathrift, all fists and grinding teeth—but she was staggering now, drunk on æther, out of control. She knocked him off his feet with a single blow to his knee. He flung up his arms to shield his face, his eyes squeezed shut above his mask.
Then, quite without warning, Redcap fell to the floor. Her head smacked against the ring, but her limbs began to tremble violently. Jack Hickathrift scrambled out of the way. A footpad rushed to her side and held her skull between his spade-sized hands. Once she stopped twitching, he carried her from the floor.
Boos and cheers jarred against each other. The initial performance had been impressive, but she had no staying power. I’d never seen clairvoyance manifest itself like that before. She must have overstepped her bounds. I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that.
Redcap’s display had halted the fighting, but two mime-lords were exchanging blows a few feet away. The brawl was short: both buffeted each other about with spools for a while, swearing and snarling, then the London Particular knocked his opponent flat with a massive fist. Groaning and booing ensued. Boring, they were saying.
“Behind you, darling,” Jaxon shouted at me, and spun to meet the fallen mime-lord’s mollisher.
The Wicked Lady was closest, with no one attacking her. I spun a throwing knife into my hand and held it by the blade. She caught sight of me and grinned, holding out her arms. The sight made me hesitate, but I hurled the knife a moment later, aiming for her forearm. A non-lethal injury, just enough to put her in pain so I could knock her senseless with my spirit.
In a blur, someone else threw themselves between me and the Wicked Lady. Bramble Briar was my next rival, an axinomancer with roses threaded through her golden hair. The knife buried itself in her shoulder. She screamed in pain before she tore it out, throwing it into the audience. A courier caught it. Before I could register what had happened, she swung back her arms, and with incredible strength, hurled her broad-axe across the ring. I pulled to the right and threw myself backward, my feet sweeping over my head, my knees tucked against my chest. Cheers rose from the crowd. As soon as I landed, I found myself face-to-mask with Faceless. Dressed in silks that blazed with sunset colors, she wore a shell of porcelain that wiped out all her features. No eyeholes, or even a gap to breathe through.
On my right, Bramble Briar was closing in on her axe. And there was the Bully-Rook, charging toward me yet again, and Bloody Knuckles on my left. I took up a defensive position, my throat clenched like a fist.
All of them were closing in on me. With a quick movement, I pulled out another knife and threw it at the Wicked Lady. Bloody Knuckles swung out his arm, knocking it out of the way.
Were they protecting her?
Jaxon was fending off a single mollisher with his cane, hardly breaking a sweat, while I was fighting a mime-queen, two mime-lords and a mollisher. When Jaxon saw them all converging on me, his pale eyes widened. Once they killed me, they would probably target him.
I twisted to look over my shoulder. The Rag and Bone Man was watching from the corner of the vault.
He wanted to see me die, here in this eddy of hot blood and adrenaline, where my death would be applauded, not investigated or questioned.
Murmuring names under her breath, Faceless began to gather spirits to her sides. She was a summoner. Her palms turned inward, forming a cup. I stayed absolutely still, waiting for her to let go of the spool that formed between her hands. She was a living lodestone, drawing spirits from all over the citadel and into the pocket of æther between her palms. The Bully-Rook swung his blood-slick chain like a pendulum. Bramble Briar retrieved her broad-axe and lifted it. Bloody Knuckles raised his fists. Knuckledusters were hooked over his fingers, each topped with a lethal spike.
They all struck together. Faceless hurled her spool at me. One of them was a breacher: an archangel or a p
oltergeist, hard to tell. The pendant deflected it back at her with such force that I stumbled. She was lifted off her feet, into the audience, in a flurry of orange silk. Two of her spirits shot into my dreamscape, but I catapulted them straight back out. My defenses had grown stronger. I ducked a hard punch from Bloody Knuckles and whipped my spirit across his dreamscape.
Blinking away images, I ran toward Bramble Briar. Her expression slid from murderous to shocked when I ducked under her arm, but her broad-axe was already swinging, too heavy to stop. It struck the Bully-Rook instead. The blade lodged in his upper chest with a meaty whack. As soon as I heard it, I snatched the rope from his hand and slung it around Bramble Briar’s neck, pulling her towards the floor. She let go of the axe and scrabbled at her throat, wide-eyed. The Bully-Rook fell to his knees and took hold of its haft, his mouth open in a silent scream, but his clothes were already smothered in vital blood. No amount of wrenching would exhume that blade. The audience were cheering and shouting, baying for it, like amaurotics did in front of their TVs. Like they must have cheered when my cousin was hanged at Carrickfergus.
When had we made a show of death?
“Rotten ploy, girl,” Bramble Briar retched out.
“This isn’t,” I said into her ear. I nudged her into her twilight zone and she keeled over, unconscious.
The Bully-Rook wouldn’t last much longer. Bloody Knuckles was crawling, clutching his head. The Maverick Medium danced past and rammed a blade through his skull.
Lights punched at the edges of my vision, but I shook them away. Fifteen combatants were either dead or out of action, leaving eight with a chance of winning, including Jaxon and me. Jaxon himself unzipped the hapless London Particular’s stomach, to howls of appreciation from the crowd and a scream of horror from a woman near the front. He beckoned to me, and I ran to him.
The Mime Order Page 41
