In the shadow of the track, letters on an archway declared this district to be the Old Meadow. The ‘meadow’ in question was little more than a scuff of grass, encircled by a wrought-iron fence. In the feeble glow of a streetlamp, a group of children kicked a ball to one another, watched by a greyhound. One of them whistled as we came closer.
‘You here to see the lady?’
Hari pocketed his hands. ‘Tell her I’m here, will you?’
She threw the ball and took off across the grass. ‘Give us a fiver, Hari,’ one of the boys wheedled. He was missing his front teeth and a chunk of fire-red hair. ‘Just for some grub.’
Hari opened his wallet with a long-suffering sigh. ‘You ought to be at the factory, you. You’ll starve.’
‘Ah, sod the factory. I’ve done enough scavenging.’ The boy held out a hand. Half of his index finger was missing. ‘Do us a favour, mate. I don’t want to be crawling under those machines again.’ When Hari threw a coin, he caught it with a laugh. ‘You’re a good bloke, Hari.’
‘Get that dog some grub, too. Where’d you even find him?’
‘The McKays’ house, where the chimney fell. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.’
As the boy knelt to pet the greyhound, Tom shook his head. ‘Poor weans,’ he muttered. ‘Just look at them.’
‘Yeah,’ Hari said sourly. ‘Just look at how much of my hard-earned money I give them.’
‘Are they all orphans?’
‘Yep.’
I watched the scene through my respirator. In London, I had never seen a child with missing fingers. Dockland workers and syndies, but never children.
Soon enough, the girl was back. ‘Come on, then,’ she said to us. ‘The lady will see you now.’
11
A Tale of Two Sisters
Our guide led us into the pits of the district. I had walked in the worst slums of London, but they always hit me hard. This one was devoid of all but silent life. A nightwalker lolled like an abandoned doll on a step, his mouth a ruddy smear, while two elderly women swept ash from the pavement – a Sisyphean task if ever there was one. Tom’s face grew tighter with every step.
‘She’s never in one place,’ Hari told us. ‘She has a few retreats, and you never know which one she’ll choose.’
She was sane, then. That was a decent start.
We passed under a great plane tree, which had somehow endured the pollution for long enough to grow to a remarkable size. It still wore a few brown seed-balls, but the flaking bark was blackening, losing its hard-fought battle with the air. In the next street, ramshackle houses were jammed together like teeth on a jaw. The girl pointed at a door with a tarnished keyhole, which was opened by a sensor when Hari knocked. Sunshine-yellow cloth covered his nose and mouth. We followed him into a tiny parlour, where a fire burned low, illuminating a mattress and the woman staring into the hearth.
Six feet tall and broad-shouldered, Roberta Attard, the Scuttling Queen, was a formidable presence. Her aura marked her as a capnomancer. Must be useful to have smoke as your numen in these conditions.
‘Hello, Hari.’ Her voice made me think of sawdust. Without looking at me, she added, ‘You must be the Underqueen.’
She garnished the title with a hint of contempt. When she turned to face me, I saw that her skin was the sepia of shadows in old photographs, her lips mulberry red. A bevy of tight black curls erupted from beneath a cap, which was angled to allow her fringe to cover most of her left eye. At first glance, I would have said she was in her early thirties. I removed my respirator.
‘And you must be the Scuttling Queen,’ I said.
‘Two queens of thieves in one citadel. Scion must be petrified.’
There was a moment of sizing each other up. She studied my face, lingering on my jaw. Her cheeks were a patchwork of thin scars. She was only a little taller than me, but she was taking full advantage of the three-inch difference and looking down her nose as she addressed me.
‘Who are your friends?’ she said.
‘These are two of my high commanders. Tom the Rhymer and Ognena Maria.’
Tom took off his hat. ‘I’ve heard a tale or two of your father, Scuttling Queen,’ he said warmly. ‘It’s an honour.’
‘Cheers,’ she said.
There was nowhere for us to sit, so we all remained standing. Attard pushed herself away from the mantelpiece. Her muscular legs were covered by soot-smeared white trousers. The boots beneath were brass-capped, with wooden soles. She wore a sea-blue neckerchief, and several belts hung about her hips, each with a polished buckle and sheaths for her many knives.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me for demanding a meeting,’ she said. ‘I had a feeling you’d be on the move after that . . . vision.’ She closed her eyes briefly, as if the pictures were still unfolding in front of her. ‘Didn’t realise you’d come to humble Manchester, though. Let’s cut to the chase – what do you aim to do while you’re in this citadel?’
‘We’re here to investigate Senshield,’ I said. ‘With the view to destroying it.’
Attard huffed a laugh. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I didn’t travel two hundred miles to tell jokes.’
‘You’re still a fool,’ she said.
‘We could use allies while we’re here,’ I said calmly. ‘I’d be grateful if you could ask your people to accommodate us as best they can, and to provide assistance if we need it.’
‘You sent the vision to scare us into helping you, then?’ Without letting me reply, she said, ‘Well, you’re out of luck. ScionIDE might come here, but from what I can tell, they’re in Britain for the sole reason of snuffing out the movement you started. They’d only move into this region if they found any trace of that movement here. If you were spotted here. By helping you, we’d be signing our own death warrants.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘They’re cracking down on voyants and any voyant activity, and that’s going to be a nationwide problem before long. Scion wants to eliminate organised clairvoyance, and here, in its heartland, we might be able to stop it succeeding. The first thing I want to do is stop Senshield.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll have it on your streets within a year,’ Maria cut in. ‘It detects four orders now. It’s expanding. Are you just going to wait for it to catch you? You and I are both augurs. We know the risk.’
Attard stiffened. It was clear she wasn’t accustomed to people speaking to her as equals. ‘There’s no sign that they’re going to build them here,’ she said. ‘If they do, we plan to map their locations and avoid them. That’s how my father always did it. Stay out of Scion’s way.’
‘How do you plan to stay out of the way of the portable scanners they’re making?’ I asked. ‘The ones they’re making in this citadel?’
Her lips parted, then pursed. For some time, she stared at the fire with a tensed jaw.
‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ she said.
‘I have evidence that they’re building a handheld version of Senshield in the SciPLO factories,’ I said. ‘I need to see them for myself; to work out how they’re being powered, if possible. If we can locate and neutralise the core—’
‘Where is this evidence you have?’ she asked. ‘I’ve not heard of portable scanners being built.’
‘I have an insider in my employ.’
‘Unless I see evidence, I’m not buying it,’ was the brisk reply. I had the feeling she wouldn’t accept Danica’s crumpled note as proof. ‘Either way, my voyants aren’t going near those factories. SciPLO has round-the-clock security. Nobody in this citadel would be stupid enough to try a break-in, not even with your visions scaring them. These people already know fear. They live and breathe it every day at work.’
‘The factory bosses,’ Tom murmured.
Attard nodded. ‘The overseers. Most of all, Emlyn Price, head of said overseers. The Ironmaster, we call him. He became Minister for Industry last year,’ she said. ‘He usually lives in Lond
on in his fancy townhouse, but he’s been up here for months now. Even brought his spouse and kids with him. They stay in a gated community in Altrincham.’
‘And the people working under him don’t want to fight back?’ Maria demanded. ‘They don’t want to stop living in this hell?’
I had always liked Maria for her willingness to give anyone a tongue-lashing, but I could sense she was riling Attard.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ the Scuttling Queen said, staring her out. Maria folded her arms. ‘None of my Scuttlers work in the factories. That’s exactly why my family created the network: so voyants could stay out of them. So they wouldn’t get so desperate for money that they were forced to be workhands. We steal our money. We earn it with our gifts.’
‘I understand, Scuttling Queen,’ Tom said gently. ‘I used to work in a cotton mill myself, in Glasgow. I ken what it’s like.’
‘It’s worse than you remember.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ he said. ‘But surely we should at least investigate what the Underqueen suspects. If it’s true, it has implications for us all.’
‘I disagree. And I’m not letting you to do this.’ She thumbed the buckle of one of her belts. ‘You’re not going to break into a factory, potentially bringing hell on us all, on the off-chance that you might be able to find out how Senshield works. I won’t have my people die for a pipe-dream.’
‘People like your sister?’ I said.
‘Do not talk to me about my sister.’
Her tone was razor-edged. I glanced towards Hari, who shook his head.
‘Are you saying you won’t allow us to stay?’ I said.
‘Oh, you can stay, Underqueen.’ She laughed a little. ‘Stay as long as you like. Just don’t try getting into one of those factories, or I’ll send my Scuttlers after you. And you won’t much like that.’
I tried to think of how someone else would handle this situation. Nick would ask her questions, try to get to the root of her reluctance to fight, but I didn’t have time for that. Wynn would demand to know why she was refusing her duty of care to her people, but that would get her back up. Warden was both soft-spoken and forthright in a confrontation, which, coupled with a pair of chilling eyes I didn’t have, tended to get people to listen to him.
In the end, I could only do things my way.
‘Freedom of movement in your citadel will eventually be crushed if we don’t act. Sooner or later, the Scuttlers will be forced into hiding.’ I stepped forward. ‘Help us. Let us do what we need to do here. Just one soldier, with one portable Senshield device, could devastate your community.’ I was about to snap. ‘My syndicate has been forced underground, unable to move for fear of detection. It will get worse, and soon, if we don’t fight back now. We never thought it would happen to us. We ignored it for months, and now we’re paying for it.’
Attard drew in a breath.
‘You’re a leader. It’s your responsibility to protect the Scuttlers,’ I said softer. ‘Do you want to see them buried alive?’
Her head turned sharply. ‘Don’t you swan up here and question my ability to lead, Londoner.’ She fixed a hard stare on me. ‘I mean to protect them. I mean to protect them as my father did, by keeping them out of harm’s way. If we don’t get involved, Vance won’t come.’
Maria sighed. ‘Try to stop lying to yourself.’
‘You’re the one lying to yourself if you think provoking Vance is going to bring you peace.’ She cast a scathing glance over Maria. ‘You sound Bulgarian. How did rebelling turn out for you?’
Maria shut her mouth, but the look she gave Attard was murderous.
Was everyone in the world in denial? Everything we knew was changing, washing away the safety of tradition, and her solution was to stand and wait for it to pass. She would be waiting her whole life.
‘Cause any trouble on my turf, and you’ll live to regret it,’ Attard finished, turning away. ‘And don’t contact my sister, either. She can’t help you.’
I inclined my head and made for the stairs. ‘Then I guess we’re done here.’ No point wasting any more time at a dead end.
Roberta Attard said nothing as we left.
‘She’s just like Hector,’ I seethed. ‘Does she really think the trouble’s going to stay in London?’
Maria blew cigarette smoke out of the train window. ‘There were hundreds like her in Bulgaria. Some people believe that if they keep their heads down and stick to their safe routine and trust that nothing bad will befall them, then it won’t. They see things happening to others, but they think they’re different; they’re special; it could never happen to them. They believe that nothing can get better, but also that nothing can get worse. They’re cowards, in one way, because they won’t fight, but they’re also brave, because they’re willing to accept their lot in life. Glupava smelost, we called it. Foolish courage.’
My boot tapped out a furious rhythm. Part of me didn’t blame Attard for wanting to avoid Vance, but I couldn’t listen to it.
‘Hari,’ I said, ‘there must be someone else who can help us get into a SciPLO factory.’
‘She’s right about the security, you know. You’d be mad to try and get into one of those places.’
‘I am mad.’ I sought his gaze. ‘You work for Roberta. Would you help me if I kept trying?’
Hari sank deeper into his jacket. ‘I do work for her,’ he admitted, ‘but not exclusively. She just gives me the odd bit of money to run the safe house, like I said.’
‘Is that a “yes”?’
It was a while before he said, ‘I was told to help you however I could.’ Another pause. ‘I guess what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’
Maria patted his shoulder. ‘Good man.’
The Red Rose was thick with customers by the time we got back to Hari’s district. The place had a homely smell of gravy and nutmeg and coffee, tinged with the pervasive stench of factory smoke, which clung to the patrons’ clothes as they entered. A whisperer with braided hair was serving the food, calling out orders in a musical voice. Sensing her aura stiffened my resolve. If she were in London, she would be at risk of detection.
We found a peaky Eliza sipping cola in the safe house. ‘How was it?’ she croaked.
‘Useless,’ I said.
She frowned. Without another word, I went up to the attic and sat on the windowsill.
Sallow grey mist swirled past the glass. I stared into it, allowing my mind to wander.
When you dream of change, it shines bright, like fire, and burns away all the rot that came before it. It’s swift and inexorable. You cry for justice, and justice is done. The world stands with you in your fight. But if there was one thing I had learned in these last few weeks, it was that change had never been that simple. That kind of revolution existed only in daydreams.
Someone knocked on the door. Tom the Rhymer’s grizzled head appeared a moment later.
‘Everything all right, Underqueen?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, lass. She’s a fool.’ He stepped inside, his weight listing on to his good leg. ‘Hari’s got some business in the citadel, somewhere where the less savoury folk of Manchester gather. Thought we could go along. Try asking after this Jonathan Cassidy that Danica mentioned.’
‘Okay.’ I got up. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Still a wee bit tired after the séance. It took a lot out of me.’ He hesitated. ‘I – I still don’t understand how it was possible. I felt – well, forgive me, Underqueen, but I felt like there was more to it than Warden was telling us.’
I sighed. ‘Tom, if there’s one thing I can tell you about Rephaim, it’s that there’s always more to it than they see fit to tell you.’
Hari’s den of criminals turned out to be a supper room called Quincey’s. It was a slender building on a street corner, with a dirty terracotta façade and windows that fluttered with candlelight. It must have been close to dawn, but if the silhouettes were anything to go by, the place was pack
ed. A gaunt costermonger was selling bread rolls and soup from a cart nearby.
Inside, the walls were dark and tiled, and an amaurotic was playing ‘The Lost Chord’, a blacklisted parlour song I had always liked, on a piano. Each note strained to be heard above the chatter. Somebody threw a handful of nails at the performer – tough crowd –but he sang on.
It was warm enough to make the windows sweat. Hari took us up a floor, shepherded us into a booth, and held out a wad of cash.
‘Courtesy of the Scuttling Queen. A token of her gratitude for your, uh, co-operation.’ I was about to decline, but Maria snatched it. ‘Now, I’ve got to speak to one of my suppliers – keep your heads down.’
The others unmasked, but I kept my respirator on. I wasn’t fool enough to bare my features here, criminal retreat or not.
Maria stood. ‘I’m starving. I’ll get us something to eat.’ I caught her wrist.
‘See if you can find anything out about Cassidy,’ I said. ‘Just be subtle about it.’
‘As if I’m ever anything but.’
She elbowed her way to the bar while I sat with Eliza and Tom, considering our surroundings. A transmission screen above us was broadcasting a local game of icecrosse, Scion’s national winter sport. Jaxon had never allowed us to have the games on in the den, due to their ‘frivolity’, but Nadine would often sneak out to the nearest oxygen bar to watch them. Icecrosse was an amaurotic obsession in London; many of those watching here, however, were voyant. When the Manchester Anchors scored a point, half the spectators slumped over the bar while the others shouted in triumph and pounded each other’s backs.
‘Paige,’ Maria said, when she returned (I could barely hear her over the commotion), ‘the guy at the bar said Cassidy was known for stealing weapons and selling them to black-market traders. His employers at SciPLO eventually caught him red-handed. He escaped on the way to the gallows and is rumoured to be in hiding, but no one knows where.’
The Song Rising Page 18