The Mime Order (44 page)

The
train waiting on the line was unusual in that it only came up to my waist, more of a cart than a carriage. The ends were painted red, the central parts in rusted black. REPUBLIC OF ENGLAND POSTAL SERVICE was stamped in gold paint along the side. I vaguely remembered something about this from school. Back in the early twentieth century, in an age before computers, a postal railway had been established to carry the new republic’s secret messages across the citadel. It had long since been abandoned once mail could be sent electronically, but they must have left its skeleton to rot.

My heart thumped like a fist against my ribcage. The last thing I wanted to do was climb aboard this train to an unknown destination, but this had to be where the fugitives had been taken.

At one end of the train was a bright orange lever. There was more dried blood here, rusty fingerprints on the side of the train. A few days old, by the looks of them. I hunkered down in one of the tiny carts, swearing under my breath, and pulled the lever down with both hands. I was starting to hate trains.

With a low rumble, the train skimmed along the track, through tunnels so dark I couldn’t see a thing but my watch. Nick was going to kill me when I got back.

Minutes passed. The darkness pressed on me, forcing blood into my head. I told myself over and over that this train wasn’t going to the penal colony—it was too small, traveling too slowly—but it didn’t stop the pounding in my ears. I kept an eye on my watch, my only source of light, cradling my wrist against my chest.

After half an hour, the train emerged in an illuminated tunnel and came to a gradual stop. Eyes burning, I climbed up on to another platform, as nondescript and narrow as the last. A single light flick-ered above me. Treading softly, I crept into another passage that took me up a steep, straight incline. More blood smeared the floor. I had to be a good few miles away from Camden by now, but the journey had only taken half an hour—given the size of London, I
could
still be in the central cohort. I climbed up a short ladder, into a tunnel that was so low I had to duckwalk. Finally, I could see light. Warm, indoor light.

There were dreamscapes nearby, fifteen of them. I recognized Ivy’s, dim and quiet and broken. The fugitives must be here, but surrounded by guards. I moved on to my hands and knees to stop my boots squeaking. When I reached the end of the passage, I found myself looking through a series of thin slats, the sort you might find on a wardrobe door. Between them, I could see the back of a chair, with hands grasping its sides, and a head with short green hair.

Agatha
.

She was sitting bolt upright, facing away from me. I didn’t move.

Inside the firelit room was an enormous canopy bed, piled with shot-silk bedspreads, white sheets, monogrammed pillows and sleek cerise bolsters. Heavy curtains fell around it, glistening with delicate gold patterning. A polished nightstand held up a glass vase of pink aster flowers. High-backed velvet armchairs, a rosewood coffee table and a cheval mirror decorated the space around the fireplace, all positioned on a mint-green carpet.

When a door creaked open, Agatha’s head snapped around. I withdrew into the shadows.

“There you are,” she rasped. “Been waiting long enough.”

It was a few moments before someone replied. “May I ask what you’re doing here, Agatha?”

My gut lurched. I knew that voice, low and smoky. When I looked through the slats, even the memory of warmth drained from my body.

It was the Abbess.

21

Symbiosis

They connect with the æther by Means of their own Bodies, that of the Querent, or that of an unwilling Victim. Due to many of their Claims to use bodily Filth in their Work, they are the Pariahs of our clairvoyant Society. A large Community of Vile Augurs is known to thrive near Jacob’s Island, the great Slum of II Cohort. It is my strong Advice to the Reader to avoid this Section of the Citadel, in case he or she should fall victim to their base Practices.

—An Obscure Writer,
On the Merits of Unnaturalness

****

“I’ve come for my payment.” Agatha’s mouth was still lacquered with green. “Half of what they promised you.”

“I’m aware of our agreement.” The light from the slats shifted. “I suppose this is about the shop. You do understand why we had to close it, don’t you?”

This had to be her night parlor. “The entrance to the tunnel is behind two hidden doors,” Agatha rasped. “I made good money in that shop.”

“
It was a necessary precaution, my friend. The Pale Dreamer has an unfortunate habit of worming her way into hidden places.”

You have no idea
, I thought.

The Abbess tossed her jacket away, leaving her in a high-waisted skirt and a ruffled blouse, and unpinned the top hat from her scalp. Her hair cascaded down her back, thick and glossy, curled into delicate spirals at the tips. Framed by firelight, she took a seat in the upholstered armchair opposite Agatha, right in my line of sight.

“Did the Jacobite wake?”

“She did.” The Abbess said, pouring two glasses of rosé wine. “We have the information we require. It took some . . . coaxing.”

Agatha grunted. “Serves her right for leaving my service. Dragged her up from the gutter, I did, and she repays me by running off to work with your master.”

“Be assured, I serve no master,” was the cool reply.

“Then tell me,
Underqueen
, why does he never appear? Why does he hide while the little people do his dirty work?”

“Those ‘little people,’ Agatha”—the Abbess lifted her glass—“are all leaders of this syndicate. Your leaders. He and I have many friends. In the days to come, we will have many more.”

A desiccated chuckle. “Many pawns, more like. Well, I won’t be one. I might be losing my voice, but I’m no fool. If your little endeavor makes enough to keep you in those kinds of dresses, you can put some in my pocket now.”

She held out a hand. The Abbess took another sip of her wine, not taking her eyes off her.

All leaders of this syndicate. Endeavor.
I committed the words to memory, my blood racing with adrenaline.
Dirty work. Jacobite.
Whatever was going on, it went deeper than I’d ever imagined. Another dreamscape was drawing closer to the room, approaching from a lower floor.

“
I spent good coin on those fugitives. Feeding them. Clothing them.” Agatha’s rasp was getting worse. “I had to get rid of two of them, mind. Screaming in their sleep, crying about monsters in the trees. I know broken dreamscapes when I see ’em. Useless. You don’t know what I had to pay the local hirelings to dispose of them while the other four slept.”

The boy and the girl, the other two survivors. Rage made me tremble. I’d taken them from one hell to another.

“We will settle your grievances soon, my friend. Ah,” the Abbess said, smiling. “Turn around, Agatha. Here’s your money.”

“Good.” The chair was pushed back with a groan of wood on wood. “There you are, boy. It’s about—”

A gun went off.

The noise was so sudden, and so close to my hiding place, that I almost gave myself away with a scream. I threw myself against the floor of the wardrobe, my fist stuffed over my mouth. Through the slats, I could still see the two chairs in the gloom. Agatha’s body rolled on to the floor, empty as a glove without a hand.

A shadow blocked the light. “She talked too much,” a voice said, deep and male.

“She played her part.” A bare foot pushed the corpse away. “You have everything ready?”

“Downstairs.”

“Good.” She massaged one side of her neck with her fingers. “Take my case to the car. I must . . . ready myself.”

The man walked past my hiding place, his hands behind his back, and stepped over the body on the carpet. If the cowl was anything to go by, it was her mollisher, the Monk. “Do you need lithium?”

“No.” His mime-queen closed her eyes, her chest expanding. “No lithium. Our symbiosis is much stronger now.”

“Your body isn’t getting any stronger. The last time exhausted
you,”
her mollisher said gruffly. “They must be able to find someone else with your gift. All this risk, for what? For
him
?”

“You know very well what it’s for. Because they know my face, not his. Because I made the mistake.” Her fingers flexed around the stem of her glass. “Last time it was eight armed thugs—strong, albeit drunk. This time it’s a single mollisher. By tonight, Cutmouth will no longer pose a threat.” She rose, emptying the rest of the wine on to Agatha’s corpse. “I want twice the number of Rag Doll guards around Agatha’s shop. Until we receive our payment, it should be sealed shut.”

After a pause, the Monk said, “It will be done.”

I breathed as softly as I could.

“I will need some time to . . . engage him. Knock three times on the door and wait for my order before you come in.”

The light shifted again as the two of them left. I withdrew into the tunnel until their dreamscapes had retreated, then crawled forward on my elbows and pushed at the wardrobe door. Locked from the other side. I threw my weight against it, but the lock held. I rattled it in frustration before I slumped against the side of the tunnel.

If I broke the door down, she’d know someone had been here and move the fugitives somewhere else. They were here, somewhere in this building.

She was going after Cutmouth.

This was too much to take in. The implications of the interim Underqueen doing this . . . but it made no sense. She’d been Hector’s friend . . . I had to work this out.
Symbiosis
.
Lithium
. I shook my head, my teeth clenched.
Think, Paige, think!
The Abbess was a physical medium.
Symbiosis
. . . I cursed myself again for not bringing Eliza. She would understand what it had meant.

Think
. My brain was overheating, picking through the broken clues and words, trying to slot them together.

I
could beat the Abbess to Cutmouth’s hideout. Ivy had grown up with Cutmouth, she’d said—in the same community—but where? Agatha had found Ivy in the gutter in Camden. She must have been abandoned, or running from something . . .

Wait.
My pulse was racing. There was one link between the two of them. Both of them were vile augurs: Cutmouth a haematomancer, Ivy a palmist.

And where had all the vile augurs been imprisoned after
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
? Where were they taken if syndies saw them on the streets? Where were their children born?

Tell me where Ivy Jacob is hiding.

I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, staring into the gloom. There was only one place they could have grown up together; one place where she could shut herself off from the outside world. One place she could have hidden from the people who had murdered her mime-lord. I launched myself back down the tunnel, back toward Camden.

Cutmouth was in Jacob’s Island.

****

It took me fifteen minutes to get back across the citadel on the cart—shoving the lever kicked it up a gear—then ten minutes at a dead sprint through the passages to reach the bolthole. When I wriggled through the basement window, I gulped down the fresh air like it was water, trembling all over. No time to stop, not even for breath. I sprinted across the market and back to Hawley Street, where I threw myself in front of a buck cab and slammed my hands down on the bonnet. The driver leaned out of the window, red-faced with anger.

“Hey!”

“Bermondsey.” I swung myself inside, drenched in sweat. “Please, I need to go to Bermondsey. Quickly.”

“You want to get yourself killed, girl?”

I
had to grit my teeth to stop my spirit coming out. The effort forced a drop of blood from my nose. “If you’ve got a problem,” I panted, “talk to the White Binder. He’ll pay you for your haste.”

That got him driving. I dialed the I-4 phone booth with my free thumb. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“I-4.”

“Muse?” Good. She’d made it back. “Muse, listen, I have to go somewhere, but—”

“Dreamer, you have to calm down and tell me what the hell is going on. You’ve been gone for an hour. Where are you?”

“On my way to II-6.” I scraped back my damp hair. “Can you meet me in Bermondsey?”

A crackle. “Not now. Binder’s curfew. Look, I’ll try, but it might have to wait until he sends us somewhere.”

“Fine.” My throat tightened. “I have something to tell you.”

On my own again. I hung up and clung to the door as the cab swung around another corner.

Jacob’s Island, a cluster of streets at a bend of the river, was the worst of the SciLo slums. It was less than a mile long, written off as an irremediable dreg of the monarch days. Jaxon had discovered it as a boy. He must have thought it the perfect prison for the vile augurs, the pariahs of voyant society. With the exception of chiro-mancers, whose study of palms wasn’t considered unsavory, they weren’t a particularly popular bunch. Not when some of them were rumored to use entrails in their work.

After
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
had been distributed, forty-three vile augurs had been murdered, and the rest imprisoned here. I didn’t know much about what was inside the slum, but I did know that its inhabitants were never allowed to leave. They would have had children since their imprisonment, children who had never seen the world beyond this corner of Bermondsey. Everyone who was born there took the family name
Jacob
.