The Mime Order (39 page)

“What does Terebell want?”

“To treat with you.” He slowed down for me. “The time is ripe for you to request the money you require.”

If she said no, it was the end of everything.

We walked without speaking again until we reached the music hall. I slowed down when I sensed a dreamscape nearby.

Standing in the middle of Drury Lane was a single voyant offi- cer, his masked face angled away from us. At first glance he looked like a night Vigile, but the uniform was different. A scarlet shirt with paned sleeves, showing hints of gold lining; a black leather gilet, stitched with the Scion anchor in gold; elbow-length gloves; and tall boots. A more sophisticated take on the old red-jacket’s uniform.

“Is that a Punisher?” I whispered.

Warden looked over my head. “Almost certainly.”

Whatever this guy was, he was standing between us and our destination. I glanced up at the buildings, scanning for the right window. When I found it, I whistled out a signal, the first few notes of Scion’s anthem.

Within
seconds, three footpads were climbing from the window of the nearest night parlour. I nodded to the Punisher. They tied scarves over their faces before they ventured towards him. One of them swiped the baton from his belt and threw it to her companion, who leapt over a car and sprinted away. The Punisher watched in silence as they fled, then looked over his shoulder, red visor gleaming. I grabbed Warden’s shoulder, pulling him back into the shadows.

For an instant, I was certain the Punisher would come to investigate. His fingers flexed over his radio. Finally, he strode in the direction the footpads had gone.

That wasn’t normal Vigile behavior. That silence, the lack of immediate reaction when they’d snatched the baton. He’d be back in a minute.

“Go,” I whispered.

Moving quickly, we made our way round to the back of the theatre. I could sense four Rephaite dreamscapes inside, with their distinctive armor. Once we reached the stage door, Warden faced me under the streetlamp and grasped my upper arms. A shock flew down to my fingers, but my back tightened. It was the first time he’d touched me since the catacombs.

“I will not often ask you to conceal the truth,” he said, his voice low, “but I ask it of you now.”

I didn’t speak.

“There is a reason I have been behaving the way I have. What happened between us in the Guildhall is common knowledge among Rephaim. Nashira has spent a great deal of time telling her people that I am a rotmonger and a flesh-traitor.” He looked me in the eye. “But you must deny it, repeatedly and emphatically if need be, to the Ranthen.”

It was the first time he’d really acknowledged that the Guildhall hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. “I thought Terebell and Errai knew,” I said quietly. “They know about the cord.”

“
The cord does not always point toward physical intimacy.” His gaze flicked over my face. “I understand if you do not wish to do as I ask. But I ask it for your sake, not mine.”

After a moment, I nodded. He released my arms, leaving goose-flesh beneath my shirt. I turned to face the door.

“If she asks,” I said, “what should I say happened?”

“Anything but the truth.”

Because the truth must be too awful for Rephaim to wrap their heads around.

I kept my distance from Warden as we sidled through the door, parted the dust-laden stage curtains, and descended to the auditorium, where the faded chairs and carpet were lit by several jack-lanterns. Terebell stood in the aisle with three other Rephaim. Warden stopped in the aisle.

“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.”