The Mime Order (19 page)

“Well, I collected you. Dr. Nygård sent me an image of your location. It seems the æther finally sent him something useful.”

“Where is he?”

“At that dratted Scion job of his. Into a buck cab I leaped, only to
fi
nd my own mollisher in a heap of leaves, covered in blood.” He knelt beside me, sweeping Eliza aside, and dipped a cloth in a bowl of water. “Let’s have a look at this injury.”

He washed away the poultice. The sight of the wound made me sick to my stomach. It was a collection of slices in a rough “M” shape, surrounded by splaying, blackened veins, with a glistening inkwell where the two middle lines met. Jaxon studied it. His colo-bomata swelled, heightening his spirit sight.

“This is the London Monster’s work.” He touched a finger to the mark. “A very distinctive phantom blade.”

Sweat poured off my forehead, and the stiff tendons in my neck strained with the effort of not making a noise. His touch was like liquid nitrogen on the wound; I half-expected it to steam. Eliza risked a closer look. “There’s a
blade
in there?”

“Ah, this is a much more sinister weapon. I trust you are all familiar with the concept of a phantom limb?” Nobody answered. “It’s the sensation of something existing where it does not. It often happens to amputees. They might feel an itch in a severed arm, or pain in a pulled tooth. A phantom blade is a purely spiritual phenomenon, but similar in theory—poltergeists can inflict their own phantom sensations, usually something they specialized in when they were alive. It’s a particularly nasty breed of
apport
, the sort of ethereal energy commanded by breachers, which allows them to affect the physical world. A strangler might leave phantom hands around a victim’s neck, for example. It is, in essence, a supernumerary phantom limb.”

“Just so I understand,” Zeke said, touching a hand to my good shoulder, “she has an invisible knife in her arm. Right?”

“Correct.” Jaxon tossed the cloth back into the bowl. “Did Hector set the creature on you?”

“No,” I said. “He’s dead.”

The word hung in the air. “What?” Nadine looked between us. “Haymarket Hector?”

“
Dead,” Jaxon repeated. “Hector Grinslathe. Hector of the Haymarket. Underlord of the Scion Citadel of London. That particular Hector?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Deceased.” His words were slow, as if each syllable was gold and he was weighing it. “Departed. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Silver cord forever severed. Lifeless. No longer. Is that correct, Paige?”

“Yes.”

“Did you touch the blade? Did anyone touch the blade?” His nostrils flared. “What about his spirit?”

“No. And not there.”

“Pity. I would have loved to bind that miserable curl of slime.” A cruel chuckle escaped him. “How did he meet his end, then? Drink himself senseless and fall into the fireplace, did he?”

“No,” I said. “He was beheaded.”

Eliza raised a hand to her mouth. “Paige,” she said, her voice weak with dismay, “please don’t tell me you killed the Underlord.”

“No.” I stared at her. “They were dead when I arrived. All of them.” “The whole
gang
is dead?”

“Not Cutmouth. But the others.”

“That would explain the generous amount of blood on your coat.” Jaxon traced his jaw with his thumb. “Did you use your spirit?”

“Jax, are you listening to me? They were already dead.”

“Convenient.” Nadine was lounging in the doorway. “What was that you were saying earlier, about Hector deserving to be killed by his own people?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have
actually
—”

“Whose blood was it, then?”

“It’s theirs,” I bit out, “but the poltergeist—”

“I do hope you are not the responsible party, Paige,” Jaxon said. “To murder the Underlord is a capital offense.”

“
I didn’t kill him.” My voice was quiet. “I would never kill anyone like that. Not even Hector.”

Silence. Jaxon brushed an invisible mark from his shirt. “Of course.” He took a long drag from his cigar, his eyes oddly vacant. “This dilemma must be rectified. Did you destroy the painting?”

“I dumped it in Caxton Street.”

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No one but Grover. I checked the æther.”

“Ah, yes. The glym jack. Zeke, Eliza: go to the Devil’s Acre and make sure there is no trace of Paige’s presence. Hide your faces. If you’re caught, say you were supposed to give Hector a message. Then take the painting from Caxton Street and destroy it. Nadine: I want you to spend the rest of tonight in Soho and monitor the gossip. No doubt that wretched glym jack is already chaunting from the rooftops that the Underlord is dead, but we can discredit any mention of Paige. Our witness is an amaurotic. We can find some way to sully his reliability. ”

The three of them made for the door.

“Wait.” Jaxon raised a hand. “I hope this is glaringly obvious to you all, but if any of you ever lets slip that we knew of Hector’s death before its official announcement, we will all be under suspicion. We will be dragged before the Unnatural Assembly. People will come forward from the market and tell them all about the painting debacle. You will find that loose tongues oft lead to loose necks.” He looked at all of us. “Do not boast of it. Do not joke of it, speak of it, whisper of it. Swear it on the æther, O my darlings.”

It wasn’t a request. Each of us said “I swear” in turn. When he was satisfied, Jaxon stood.

“Go, you three. Hurry back.”

They others left, all giving me different looks. Zeke was worried; Eliza, concerned; and Nadine, mistrustful.

When the door closed downstairs, Jaxon came to sit beside the
chaise
longue. He stroked a hand over my damp hair. “I understand,” he said, “if you felt you couldn’t tell the truth in front of them. But tell me, now. Did you kill him?”

“No,” I said.

“But you wanted to kill him.”

“There’s a difference between wanting to kill someone and killing someone, Jax.”

“So it would seem. You’re certain Cutmouth wasn’t there?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Fortunate for her. Not so fortunate for us, if she makes her claim to the crown.” His eyes were jewel-bright, and two spots of color glowed on his cheekbones. “I have a way to deal with this. Cutmouth’s absence is conspicuous. All it would need is a whispered rumor that she did the deed, and the sheer weight of suspicion will force her to flee for her own safety. And you, darling, will be out of the firing line.”

I shifted onto my elbow. “Do you think she really could have done it?”

“No. She was devoted to him, the poor fool.” He looked thoughtful. “Were they all beheaded?”

“The Underbodies weren’t. They looked like they’d been ripped. And all of them were holding a red handkerchief.”

“Intriguing.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “There’s a message in the murder, Paige. And I don’t think it’s simply a reference to Hector running around like a headless chicken for the last eight years.”

“Mockery,” I ventured. “He was getting too big for his boots. Acting like a king.”

“Quite. A very Bloody King.” He sat back and tapped his knee. “Hector needed to die, no question of that. We have been quivering in his shadow for almost a decade, watching him turn the syndicate to a vague association of lazy rogues and low criminals, but no
more.
Oh, I remember when Jed Bickford was Underlord, when I was still a gutterling. You would get more morals from a rock than from Jed Bickford, but he wasn’t idle.”

“What happened to him?”

“They found him in the Thames with a knife in his back. His mollisher was dead by dawn the next day.”

Nice. “Do you think Hector killed them?”

“Unlikely, though he naturally favored blades. He wasn’t clever enough to kill the Underlord without anyone noticing. But he was clever enough to win the ensuing scrimmage. And now”—his smile widened—“well, if Cutmouth does flee, someone must be clever enough to win the next one.”

Only then did it sink in.

A new Underlord. We were getting a new Underlord.

“This could be our chance,” I said. “If someone else takes Hector’s place, we could change things, Jax.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps we could.” In the ensuing silence, Jaxon leaned over to his cabinet and procured a slim crutch. “The wound may weaken you, and your muscles will be stiff for a few hours.” He pressed the crutch into my hands. “You won’t be running for a while, my injured lamb.”

A mollisher knew when she was dismissed. I left with my head high. As I opened the door to my room, I stopped dead.

Jaxon Hall was laughing his head off.

PART II

The Rephaite Revelation

For the Merits of Unnaturalness are many, and ought to be known throughout our Underworld, from the Devil’s Acre and the Chapel to the brave Stronghold of I Cohort.

—An Obscure Writer,
On the Merits of Unnaturalness

Interlude

Ode to London Under the Anchor

The Cheapside steeple was pale against the sky, and all across the citadel the homeless were scattering dirt on their pit fires. Night Vigiles were returning to their barracks after twelve long hours of hunting and harrowing. Those that hadn’t filled their arrest quotas would be beaten black and blue by their commandants. Still they seemed no closer to finding Paige Mahoney.

At the Lychgate, three corpses swayed in the breeze. An urchin stole the laces from their shoes, watched by crows with bloody beaks.

On the banks of the Thames, the mudlarks crept from their sewers and dug their fingers into the dirt. Prayed for a glint of metal in the silt.

A handful of buskers checked their watches and set off for the Underground, hoping for change from heavy-eyed commuters. They were trading cash for coffee, plucking the
Daily Descendant
from a vendor and looking at the faces on the cover without seeing them. Deep in the financial district, with their own silk nooses
pinned
to their shirts, they would count out the coins that would pay for the cycle.

And the homeless were still homeless, and the corpses still danced. Puppets on a hangman’s string.

10

Ding Dong Bell

In the darkness before dawn, the voyants of I Cohort waited for the sign. Bow Bells would ring for one reason, and one only. To acknowledge the death of the Underlord.

A single chime rang out. Traditionally, one brave voyant would steal into the church at dawn and ring the bells for as long as possible before the Vigiles arrived. One of the Abbess’s people had been chosen to do the deed.

Eleven chimes later, sirens keened from the Guild of Vigilance. Other voyants had climbed up buildings and trees to watch the courier’s climb, but they soon began to leave.

Three of us had camped out on the roof of the old tower on Wood Street, part of yet another former church. Once we’d climbed it, the night had been spent waiting for the dawn, watching the stars, laughing at old memories of Jaxon.

It was rare for me to spend such a long time with Zeke, and I found that I was glad he’d come with us. Sometimes it was easy to forget that we were all friends, despite the bizarre circumstances. It hadn’t been so easy to forget that today I would face the Unnatural Assembly.

The
courier’s silhouette darted away across the rooftops of Cheapside. Nick, who’d been watching Bow Bells in silence, sat down and poured three flutes of sparkling rose mecks. “Here’s to Haymarket Hector, friends,” he said in a grave tone, raising one towards the church. “The worst Underlord the citadel has ever seen. May his reign be swiftly forgotten by history.”

With a long yawn, Zeke sat down and helped himself to a flute. I stayed where I was.

Two days after the killings, a letter had appeared in our dead drop, along with a sprig of hyacinth. The mistress of ceremonies had called for anyone with knowledge of the murder to come forward and give evidence. After four days, another notice had been sent out, giving Cutmouth three further days to present herself to the Unnatural Assembly and clear her name before she could claim the crown. Finally, a third letter had appeared to announce the date of the scrimmage.