The Mime Order (42 page)

Part III

The Monarch Days

I use this Afterword to express my fond Hope that my Research has enlightened all those Clairvoyants who have never thought to distinguish themselves from the great Mass of us that roam the Citadel. It has been an arduous Decade, but in this Pamphlet, my Wish for a more hierarchical and organized Society may yet be granted. We must fight Fire with Fire if we are to survive this Inquisition.

—An Obscure Writer,
On the Merits of Unnaturalness

Interlude

Ode to the Underworld

The monarchy had long since been dismantled, torn up from the root by blood and blade. Under cover of night, new kings and queens wore masks over their faces, gliding in the shadow of the anchor.

The violinist played a sweet sonata, lonely on a street bejeweled by rain. The voices of the dead were in her bow.

A boy without words looked up at the moon. He sang in a language he should never have known.

The man who was like snow saw the world begin to change, and his head burst with a picture of tomorrow.

The cuckoo clock is ticking in the room.

The lamp-eyed creatures dwelt in the bones of the citadel, their fates now bound to Paige Mahoney and the ring of roses.

These days end with red flowers on a tomb.

The hand without flesh lifted the silk, laying it down on the woman with two smiles and a fractured heart.

All
across the citadel, the little lights stirred. Fingers skimmed a crystal ball’s smooth surface, and wings beat deep within it. Wings, dark wings on the horizon, putting out the stars.

20

Misprints

On Thursday the thirtieth of October,
The Rephaite Revelation
, the first anonymous piece of fiction to be released by Grub Street in a year and half, hit the streets of London like a firework. The Penny Post was all over the citadel, telling the macabre tale of the Rephaim and the Emim, selling booklets like freshly baked spice cakes in every corner of the underworld.

I was out in I-4 when I saw a finished copy for the first time. As the others were all busy, Jaxon had sent me out with Nick on some local errands, though we’d been instructed to stay well within Seven Dials. The bell rang as I pushed my way into Chateline’s.

“Chat, I’ve come for your rent for next month,” I said, resting my arms on the bar. “Sorry.”

There was no reply. I did a double take. Chat’s face was hidden behind his reading material. When I saw the title, a shiver trickled down my back.

“Chat,” I repeated.

“Oh—” Looking embarrassed, he put it down and took off his reading glasses. “Sorry. What was that, love?”

“
Rent. November.”

“Right.” A deep ruck appeared at the center of his brow. “Have you read this?”

I took it, trying not to look too interested. Grub Street usually printed in black and white, but they’d added red to this one, as they had for
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
.

“No,” I said, handing it back. “What’s it about?”

“Scion.”

In a bewildered sort of silence, he went out to the back. I ran my fingers over the cover, a slight smile on my lips.
Thank you, Alfred
. Beneath the heavy print, a Rephaite and an Emite were locked in mortal combat. The Emite had been drawn as a hideous, melting corpse, with limbs that looked as if they’d been stretched on a rack and white orbs of eyes. Beside it, the androgynous Rephaite was a work of art, all sinew and alliciency—but terrible, too, wielding a great sword, with a shield bearing Scion’s anchor.

“Here, love.” Chat returned with a roll of notes in his hand. “Send Binder my regards.”

I pocketed the money. “Are you doing all right, Chat? I can always wait a few more days.”

“Fine. Trade’s good.” He flipped to the right page again. “Just imagine if this was what had really happened . . . I wouldn’t put it past Scion, you know, even if all this rubbish about monsters isn’t true.”

“Some people think clairvoyants aren’t real, in the free-world. We don’t know what’s out there.” I lifted my silk over my mouth. “Bye, Chat.”

He grunted, still staring at the pages.

I walked out of the shop, into the watery October sunshine. Nick was waiting for me outside, sitting on a bench with his face tipped up into the lukewarm rays. He looked up at me.

“Got it?” he said.

I nodded. “Let’s head back.”

We
made our way out of the yard, walking close together. A unit of Vigiles had came marching through Seven Dials the afternoon before, asking questions at random shops and coffeehouses, forcing us to flee to Soho through the bolthole. Fortunately, they hadn’t broken in to the den. “Chat’s got a new penny dreadful,” I said. “Anonymous authors, apparently. New to the scene.”

“Oh, really? I need some new reading material,” Nick said, smiling. Probably at the relative normalcy of this conversation. “What’s it called?”

“
The Rephaite Revelation
.”

He stared at me. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Pai—Dreamer! Binder will go spare if he thinks you’re muscling in on his pamphleteering. He’ll guess right away that it’s you.” His eyes were round as bottle tops. “What were you trying to achieve?”

“It tells people what they’re up against. I’m tired of the world not knowing,” I said coolly. “Nashira’s counting on it being a secret until they choose to announce themselves. I want to hear
Rephaim
on the street and know that we’ve exposed them, undermined them. Even if it’s just through gossip.”

“Jaxon’s like a lie detector. He’ll know.” He heaved a sigh and took the courtyard key from his pocket. “We should train before we go back in.”

I followed him. Warden had armed me with a little more knowledge of my spirit, but I still needed to work on my strength and speed.

Warden
. His name sent an odd, warm feeling through my bones. It was pointless to entertain a daydream, but I wanted to finish the conversation we’d started in the music hall.

In the courtyard behind the den, Nick dropped his coat on the bench and stretched his arms above his head. His smooth blond hair glinted in the sun. “How are you feeling about the scrimmage?”

“
As good as you
can
feel, knowing you’re about to fight twenty-odd people in public.” I flexed my fingers. “My wrist might be a problem. I broke it in the colony.”

“You can wrap your hands.” He took up a defensive stance, a grin lifting his face. “Come on, then.”

I pulled a face before I raised my fists.

He kept me in the courtyard for an hour, punching and dodging, feinting and ducking, making me do pull-ups on the blossom tree. At one point he pulled a spirit out of nowhere and flung it in my face, throwing me off my feet and sending both of us into fits of laughter. By the time he let me off, I was aching all over, but pleased with my progress. My arms weren’t as weak as they’d been in the penal colony. I sat down on the bench to catch my breath.

“Okay,
sötnos
?”

I flexed my hand. “Fine.”

“You’re doing well. Remember, be quick. That’s your advantage,” he said, folding his arms. He’d barely broken a sweat. “And keep eating. We need you back to full strength for this fight.”

“Okay.” I wiped my upper lip. “Where’s Zeke?”

“Doing errands, I think.” He glanced up at the windows. “Go on. You should give Jax that money.”

Sweat soaked my blouse. I ran up to the stairs to the bathroom and doused myself in water before changing into fresh clothes. Leaving my hair wet, I knocked on Jaxon’s door.

“What?” was the tense reply.

I walked in and held up the envelope. “I got Chat’s rent.”

Jaxon was lying on the couch, his hands folded on his chest. He swung himself into a sitting position and hunched over, hands clasped between his knees like a bridge. For once he wasn’t drunk, but in his lounging robe and striped trousers, he looked small and exhausted in a way I’d never thought possible for my mime-lord. I
took
out the cash—eight hundred pounds, a good chunk of Chat’s monthly profit—and laid it in his bejeweled money-box.

“Take half for yourself,” he said.

“It’s eight hundred.”

“Yes, Paige.” He lit a cigarillo and held it delicately between his back teeth on one side of his mouth.

Usually he made a big show of our pay packets, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had that much money from my work. I took half the notes and tucked them back into the envelope, then stowed it away in my jacket before he could change his mind. “Thanks, Jax.”

“Anything for you, O my lovely.” He held up the cigarillo, studying it. “You know I would do
anything
for you, don’t you, darling?”

My back tensed.

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

“Of course. And when I have risked my neck, my section and my Seals to come to your rescue, I do not expect you to disobey my orders.” His pale hand reached for his reading material. “Something was delivered to me this morning, while I was enjoying my breakfast in Neal’s Yard.”

I tried to look interested. “Oh?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, dear.” He shook out the penny dreadful, his face stiff with disgust. “
The Rephaite Revelation
,” he read out. “
Being a true and faithful Account of the ghastly Puppet Masters behind Scion, and their Harvest of clairvoyant Peoples
.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the cold hearth. “From the quality of the writing I’d think it was one of Didion’s rags, but Didion Waite is about as inventive as a sack of potatoes. And however offensively this hack forms his or her words, it certainly stretches the imagination to breaking point.” In the space of three seconds he was inches from my face, his hands gripping my arms. “When did you write it?”

I stood my ground. “I didn’t write it.”

His nostrils flared. “Do you take me for a fool, Paige?”

“
It was one of the other fugitives,” I said. “She was talking about writing a pamphlet. I told her not to do it, but she must have—”

“—asked
you
to write it?”

“Jax, I couldn’t write something like that to save my life. You’re the pamphleteer.”

He eyed me. “True.” Smoke curled from his mouth. “You are still in contact with these fugitives, then.”

“I’ve lost track of them now. Not all of them have wealthy mime-lords, Jax,” I said. “They need some way to make money.”

“Of course.” The anger seeped out of him. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it. It will all be dismissed as fanciful nonsense, mark my words.”

“Yes, Jax.” I cleared my throat. “Could I have a look at it?”

Jaxon gave me a withering look.

“Next I’ll be catching you reading Didion’s poetry on the sly.” He waved me away. “Off with you.”

I fished the pamphlet from the hearth and left. He would find out about my involvement. He was probably calling Grub Street whenever he had a spare minute (which seemed to be every minute), demanding to know the identity of the author. I wanted to trust Alfred, but he’d been Jaxon’s friend for a very long time, longer than I’d been alive. In the end, the secret would come out.

The first thing I noticed in my room was that several things had been moved since I’d left it. The Lanterna Magica. My box of trinkets. Someone had been snooping around in here, and I sensed it wasn’t an intruder. I checked my pillowcase and found the stitches untouched. Just to be safe, I tucked the red handkerchief and the envelope of money into my boot.

Jaxon really was overstepping the mark. What did he think I was hiding? I took the penny dreadful to my bed and flicked through to the twelfth chapter, wherein Lord Palmerston was faced with his terrible choice.

When
in the morning Palmerston rose and made his way to the Octagon Hall, there the creature stood again, decked in her finery, a perfect queen in all but name. “Bright one,” he said, “I fear your request will not be granted. Though I have tried to persuade the high lords of your good nature, they think my brain addled by laudanum and absinthe.”