The Mime Order (14 page)

Under the Rose

“Do I hear one hundred?”

A single white candle burned in an alcove, the only light in the underground crypt. Wax dripped as the flame swayed in a draft, watched by a stone cherub with stumps where its wings had been. My boots were propped up on a velvet footrest, my arm slung over the back of the upholstered chair. A few moments passed before a paddle was raised.

“One hundred to IV-3.” Didion Waite cupped a hand around his ear. “Do I hear two hundred?”

Silence.

“Can I tempt you with one hundred and fifty, my mollishers and mobsters? Your mime-lords and mime-queens will be thrilled with this one, truly. Ask the sergeant for his secrets, and you might just bag yourself a Ripper lady. And if you bag yourself a Ripper lady, who knows? You might just bag yourself a Ripper.” Another paddle went up. “A believer! One hundred and fifty from VI-5. You’ve come a long way to claim this prize, sir. Anyone for two hundred, ladies and gentlemen? Ah, two hundred? No,
three
hundred! Thank you, III-2.”

Auction
by candle was always tedious; the damn thing never seemed to burn down. I picked at a loose thread on my blouse. When Didion called for four hundred, I raised my paddle.

“Four hundred to—” Didion twirled his gavel. “I-4. Yes. Four hundred to the Pale Dreamer. Or perhaps we should call you
Paige Eva Mahoney
?”

A few people gave me curious glances. My back stiffened.

Had he just . . . ?

“Will we be auctioning you off next, madam,” he continued, plainly enjoying himself, “given your current status with Scion?”

Murmurs blew from ear to ear. My skin prickled.

Didion Waite had just unmasked me.

Although the Pale Dreamer was well known, her face and real name were not. Some syndicate members had abandoned their legal identities, giving themselves wholly to the underworld, but the other half still held on to respectable jobs in Scion, forcing them to hide behind masks and aliases. I’d always been one of those who led a double life. Given my father’s position, and my desire to stay in touch with him, Jaxon had always made me wear a red cravat over my lips and nose when I carried out my duties as his mollisher. I recovered quickly enough to call out, “Only if you’ll bid on me, Didion.”

Laughter rose from the front rows, making him bristle.

“Well, I shall have to pass on that option, being utterly committed to the memory of my Judith. You look like your mime-lord’s doppel-gänger, madam,” he said, his face florid. “Is the White Binder so in love with his own reflection that he’s painted it on to his mollisher?”

My hair had been dyed black and cut so it was level with my chin, baring the length of my neck. The contact lenses were hazel rather than Jaxon’s pale blue, but Didion wouldn’t have noticed that.

“Oh, no. I’m sure Binder knows that one of him is quite enough for you, Didion,” I said, cocking my head. “You’ve already lost one pamphlet war against him, after all.”

Nobody
bothered to suppress their snickering. Spring-heel’d Jack let out such a hoot of mirth that the Pearl Queen started in her seat, and Didion turned from pink to puce. “Order,” he snapped, then muttered: “And I am working on a new pamphlet, madam, thank you very much—one that will wipe that rag
On the Merits
from the pages of history, you mark my words . . .”

Jimmy O’Goblin, who was sitting next to me, shook with laughter as he drank from his hip flask. A tap on my shoulder made me turn my head. A courier whispered in my ear, “You’re really the girl Scion’s after?”

I crossed my arms. “No idea what he’s talking about.”

“Do I hear five hundred?” Didion asked, with dignity.

I forced myself to pay attention, trying to ignore the looks and whispers. It was rare for a syndicate member to be publicly unmasked. Didion had seen my face once, about a year ago. He must have loved giving me away like that, but his spite had made me twice as vulnerable.

The spirit up for grabs was one Edward Badham, a police sergeant of the famous H Division. They’d been the law enforcers of the monarch days, specifically those assigned to the Whitechapel area. It was only after Queen Victoria had died and her son had been ousted as an unnatural that V Division, the blueprint for Scion’s clairvoyant police force, had been founded by Lord Salisbury. Any spirit with a connection to H Division could provide an excellent Ripper lead. I could see Spring-heel’d Jack, Jenny Greenteeth, and Ognena Maria at the front, throwing their paddles up at every opportunity. On the other side of the room was the Highwayman, the hard-faced mollisher of II-6. I’d never heard of him missing a Ripper-related auction.

As the candle burned, the price of Sergeant Badham’s essence climbed. Soon there were only six of us bidding. Jaxon was probably the richest mime-lord in the citadel, but in Juditheon auctions, the candle kept things fair. I watched for the tell-tale burst of light
before
it died. When it happened, I raised my paddle—and a split second later, so did someone else.

“Five thousand.”

Heads turned. It was the Monk, mollisher of I-2. As always, his face was shadowed by a black hood.

“Five thousand! A clear winner,” Didion proclaimed. Presumably that would keep him in powdered wigs and ill-fitting trousers for a while longer. “The candle is extinguished, and the spirit of Sergeant Edward Badham belongs to the Abbess of I-2. Commiserations to everyone else!”

Groans and curses filled the crypt, along with bitter mutterings of those from poorer sections. I pursed my lips. Waste of time. Still, at least I’d been able to leave the den for a few hours.

The enormous Highwayman stood, knocking his chair to the floor. Silence fell at once.

“Enough of this charade, Waite.” His voice boomed. “That spirit is the property of II-6. Where did you get it?”

“This spirit came into my keeping
legally
, sir, like all my spirits do.” Didion bristled. “If you really believe that all the spirits of II-6 want to stay there, why do I keep finding them in my territory, sir?”

“Because you’re a macer and a crook.”

“Can you prove these allegations, sir?”

“One day,” was the dark reply, “I will find the Ripper, and you will prove it with your life.”

“I hope that is not a threat against my person, sir, verily I do.” The auctioneer was all of a quiver. “I shall not endure that sort of talk in my wife’s very own auction house, sir. Judith would never have allowed such wanton verbal abuse, sir.”

“Where’s your wife’s spirit?” a medium shouted. “Shall we auction her off, too?”

Didion purpled like a bruise. You knew things were getting serious when Didion Waite ran out of
sirs
.

“
Enough.” One of the mime-queens stood. Her short, bright auburn hair was slicked in a pompadour style, and she spoke with a light Bulgarian accent. “The candle is to blame, Highwayman, not the one who lit it. Look to your own streets for your bloody Ripper.”

With a snarl of anger, he stormed from the crypt. Spring-heel’d Jack ran off as well, laughing to himself in that insane way of his, and Jenny Greenteeth growled as she left. As I picked up my jacket and satchel, Didion rushed towards the Monk, but he was already halfway up the steps.

“I’ll take it,” a young woman said. Her red hair was worn in a braided bun, with a fan-shaped comb to hold it in place.

Didion handed her a binding bond. “Of course, of course.” He kissed her hand, which bore a long gold ring. “Tell the Abbess to send her binder when she pleases.”

The girl gave him a gracious smile and pocketed the bond. “I’ll see to it that you have your money within a few days, Mr. Waite.”

The Abbess was certainly flush with cash these days. Most of the central gang leaders were wealthy, but I wasn’t convinced that many of them had five grand to throw at a spirit.

“Pale Dreamer?”

A mime-queen had stopped in the aisle in front of me, the one with auburn hair. I touched three fingers to my forehead, as was expected around members of the Unnatural Assembly. “Ognena Maria.”

“You look different. I was about to say I hadn’t laid lamps on you in a while, but your face has been all over London.”

“Broke out of the Tower.” I pulled the strap of my bag on to my shoulder. “I didn’t know you were a Ripper hunter.”

“I’m not. I just desperately need more spirits, and the Juditheon seemed like the best place to get them.”

“You could have chosen one that
wasn’t
from H Division.”

“
I know, but I like a challenge. Not that I’m rich enough to win.” She held out an arm. “Heading up?”

There was nothing more to do down here. I knew I should be hightailing it outside—Jaxon was waiting on the street—but what she’d said was curious. “You must have plenty of spirits,” I said as we walked up the steps. The brooches on her jacket clinked. “Why this one?”

“We had quite a few of them leave I-5 recently. They seem to be repelled by one street in particular. I can’t see anything wrong with it, unless someone’s botched a séance in one of the houses.” A line creased her forehead. “It worries me more than I’ll admit to my voyants. I don’t suppose you’ve had the same in I-4?”

“Binder would have said.”

“Oh, Binder’s so far off the cot he’s in the grave. I really don’t know how you work for him.” She worried at her nail ring. “I don’t suppose he’d be interested in renting a pitch in Old Spitalfields?”

“I can ask him.”

“Thank you, sweet. He’s better off than I’ll ever be.” Maria pushed open the trapdoor.

“Should I tell him about your problem?”

“He won’t care, but you can try.”

The panel took us up into the shell of what had once been a church. Shafts of pale sunlight sliced in through the broken roof of Bow Bells, one of the few churches in London that hadn’t been gutted and repurposed as Vigile stations. It had been disfigured in the early twentieth century, of course, like all things associated with the afterlife and the monarchy—the wings struck off the cherubim, the altars destroyed by republican vandals—but its bells still hung in the tower. The whole place reminded me of Sheol I. A vestige of an older world.

I pushed the cover of the crypt back into place. Another woman was standing near the altar, talking to the Monk and the courier. She
was
tall and slim, dressed in a tailored suit, and a top hat was pinned over thick furls of chestnut hair.

The Abbess herself had turned up to meet her mollisher. Mime-queen of I-2, founder of the largest night parlor in London.

“Maria!” She clapped her hands. Her voice put me in mind of a match being struck. “It is you, isn’t it, Maria?”

“Congratulations, Abbess,” Maria said stiffly. “What a dazzling prize.”

“You’re very kind. I don’t have as fine a collection of spirits as some, but I do occasionally like to bid. Tell me, how are you coping with the red zone?”

“Well enough. You know the Pale Dreamer, don’t you?”

The Abbess studied me through a birdcage veil. I could just make out her light brown skin, long nose, and a red feather of a smile. “Of course I do. The White Binder’s prodigy. What joy.” She took my chin in her lace-clad hand. “Oh, but you’d make a lovely nightwalker.”

“She’s a little busy being Weaver’s quarry.” Maria sniffed. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve a market to manage.”

“I want a word.” The Abbess released me. “Either we talk now, Maria, or we talk tonight.”

“I only leave my voyants once each red day.”

“Tomorrow, then. I’ll send one of my couriers to arrange it.”

With a terse nod, Maria walked on. I followed.

“Bloody madam.” She flung open the doors. “Glad someone’s got time for chin music.”

“What do you think she wants?”

“Probably more nightwalkers. I told her, none of my voyants are interested. Doesn’t stop her asking.” Maria turned up the collar of her coat against the wind. “You keep safe, sweet. There’s always a place for you in I-5, you know, if you ever fancied moonlighting.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She walked briskly in the direction of Bank station. I’d been
approached
with offers of work before, as had Eliza—poachers often trekked between the sections, trying to bribe skilled voyants into moonlighting for a different boss—but I’d turned them down every time. Jaxon paid enough, and it was risky to work a second job. Most mime-lords would consider it a betrayal worthy of banishment, if not a death sentence.

But Maria had looked genuinely concerned about the loss of spirits, about the possible threat to her voyants’ welfare. She might make a useful ally, if only I could get the word out. And if I didn’t scrape some money together, moonlighting might be my only choice.

A buck cab was waiting for me on the corner. “Binder said you’re to go to the Garden,” the driver said.

“Really?”

“Really. Hurry up, will you?” She wiped at her neck with a handkerchief. “Risky enough taking a fugitive in my cab without her dragging her feet.”

I climbed in. Eliza must have finished a painting.

SciLo was still in the red, with security higher than Old Paul’s spire. Underguards at station barriers round the clock, military vehicles patrolling the central cohort during the day, Vigiles armed with double the weapons. As the cab passed a transmission screen, my face flashed up for the thousandth time. To a stranger, this face would look hostile: unsmiling, too proud for pity, with chill gray eyes and the pallor of a corpse. It was not the face of an innocent. She was unnaturalness incarnate, this woman on the screen. Her eyes held death and ice. Just as Warden had said.

Warden
. While I was in the citadel, hiding from my own reflection, my Rephaite collaborator was a fugitive as well. I pictured him in the Netherworld, harvesting amaranth, using its essence to soothe his scars. Looking over his shoulder for the Sargas. I didn’t know what the Netherworld looked like, but I imagined it as a dark, glorious realm, teeming with half-living things. And Warden with his black-
handled
blade, tracking the blood-sovereign as she fled her kingdom, like Edward VII before her. Warden in the heat of the hunt. The image shook me to the core, saturating my blood with adrenaline.