“I suppose it cannot hurt to try once more,” Alitz said in answer to an unspoken question. “Something a bit more challenging this time.”
Ilsa had no chance to object, because the room around her vanished into darkness.
It was like stepping under a spotlight; everything beyond was a void. Dread seized her like a hand gripping her throat; suddenly, completely.
“Fyfe?” Her voice echoed off walls that were far too close, but when she flung her arms out in panic they met with nothing on all sides.
Fyfe made no answer, but something was there. She could see it moving closer – black against black, vast, ethereal – and yet there was nothing to see. She could taste it – fear, rot, blood, static – and yet she tasted nothing at all.
And something else flickered in and out of existence, always in the corner of her eye, no matter where she looked: Pyval. If he was doing this to her, where was Fyfe? If none of this was real, why could she feel the air dance as the thing in the void surrounded her? She opened her mouth and heard a cry from far away.
And then the light rushed in. Hands were gripping her shoulders. Wide brown eyes were inches from her face. “Ilsa? Ilsa?”
Fyfe. The drawing room. The void was gone. The formless dread loosened its grip and Ilsa braced herself on Fyfe’s arm to stop from sinking to the floor.
“What the bloody hell—”
“Are you alright?” said Fyfe.
“I’m fine. No thanks to him.” Ilsa shot her best dirty look at Pyval, who gave no reaction. Alitz’s lips were a thin line as her eyes bore into her companion.
“You screamed. What did he do to you?” said Fyfe.
Alitz turned to them. “I apologise on behalf of Mr Crespo, Miss Ravenswood,” displeasure dripping from every word, “I don’t think it was necessary so startle you so. Not yet, in any case. But you’ve been gifted valuable insight nonetheless.”
“You can take your insight back for all I care,” snapped Ilsa, memories of the cold, peculiar dread still echoing down her spine.
Alitz’s lip quirked into a sardonic smile. “There’s no need for dramatics, Miss Ravenswood. We’re here to help you.” She turned to address the room, and Ilsa knew the subject was closed. “There are some weaknesses. I’m afraid an active imagination is inconvenient when it comes to resisting thought manipulation. The more varied the pattern of thought, the harder it is to notice anomalies. But we will address it in our lessons.”
“Lessons?” said Ilsa.
“I require all my students to acquiesce to hard work and daily practice. If you apply yourself, Miss Ravenswood, I think you can secure your mind in a fortnight or so. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Alitz gave a cordial goodbye and took her leave, Pyval behind her. As the man passed by, he slowed, and Ilsa caught his scent. Organic. Coppery. The dread rose up again, and she pushed it back and met his eye. He spoke just once as he left, his voice reedy, but every syllable precise.
“If you’re going to live in the world of Whisperers, you ought to be prepared for the worst of what our magic can do.”
17
It was late, and Ilsa was in the library. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair twisted into a long plait over one shoulder, and the Oracle girl’s riddle written out on the paper before her in her own wobbly, unenviable handwriting.
Lila had alluded to two worlds that Ilsa didn’t know, and a street that didn’t exist in the other London. Much to Ilsa’s dismay, when she consulted a map of the city, she discovered it didn’t exist here either. There was no Marin Street off Moorgate, nor anywhere else.
Not the street, the station, Lila had said. The only trouble being, Ilsa had scoured the map a dozen times and there wasn’t one of those either. There was no Metropolitan Railway in this London. The one thing Ilsa had recognised in this new London was the lay of the land; it was frustrating to find that even parts of that were unrecognisable.
The more she turned Lila’s riddle over in her mind, the more its meaning eluded her, until she let out a string of profanities, scrunched the paper into a ball, and threw it across the table, where it scattered the pieces of a chessboard like skittles.
“If one has an impulse to spend some violence,” said a smooth, resounding voice, and Ilsa looked up to see Aelius in the doorway, one hand resting on his cane and a smirk on his face, “there are plenty in this city who would be happy to oblige you.”
“I think I got it out of my system,” Ilsa replied with a weak smile, and the man chuckled.
She was unsure of Aelius. He was charming, quick to laugh, and had an amiable way with almost everybody, but something about him reminded her of a magician on the stage; all dazzling lies and misdirection.
“Cassia tells me you plan to help us find young Gedeon,” he said, coming into the room. As Aelius began leisurely righting the chess pieces, Ilsa retrieved the balled-up riddle and scooted it into her lap, out of sight.
She had kept her word to Eliot and not told anyone of the stolen vemanta or Lila’s incomprehensible claims. Ilsa still didn’t trust his motives, but having him on her side had been a help so far, and her instincts were telling her to keep the secret. In her experience, more harm was done by loose lips than by discretion.
“I take it you’re at a dead end?” said Aelius. “Learned that we’re not as incompetent as all that?”
“Competence got nothing to do with it,” said Ilsa, matching his condescending tone with her own. “I reckon you need a pair of fresh eyes, is all.”
Aelius smirked and pointed his cane past her shoulder. “Well, Ilsa my darling, if you mean to find out what we know, you ought to cast your fresh eyes right there.”
Ilsa followed the line of his cane to the window and peered into the gloom. In the garden, beyond the halo of light emanating from a lamp left aglow on the terrace, a black silhouette stood rigidly by the roses, looking out towards the park.
Cassia appeared so absorbed in her melancholy that the dark did not bother her, nor was she wearing a coat to ward off the nighttime chill.
“Actually, I got a question for you.”
“Delightful!” He settled himself in the chair across from her and toyed with one of the chess pieces like a cat toys with a mouse. “I will endeavour to be of the utmost use.”
“Cassia’s a Sorcerer, ain’t she? So, how come she’s with us?”
“The most excellent of questions,” Aelius said with mock seriousness. “You may find your mark after all with that sort of gumption. Our Miss Sims is Jupitus Fisk’s granddaughter. She may bat for the Ravenswoods, but she has loyalty to the Heart too, I assure you.”
Ilsa frowned. “Who’s Jupitus Fisk?”
Aelius grinned. He clearly liked being the one to hold all the cards.
“Allow me to set the scene,” he said, nodding at the chess-board. “Do you play?” Ilsa shook her head. “It’s a marvellous education, chess. And no coincidence your mother was both a masterful chess player and an effective leader. The game is defence and attack in perfect measure. This” – he picked up a piece from the centre of the white formation in front of Ilsa and held it up between a thumb and forefinger – “is the king. The deciding piece. The game is lost when he falls. His position informs every move one makes and yet, alone, he is helpless.”
Ilsa nodded, grasping the analogy. “He’s the alpha,” she said. Aelius smiled and replaced the king on the board. “And I s’pose these small ones all in a line are the wolves, right?”
“Right you are,” said Aelius. “The pawns. Often undervalued by less seasoned players, impossible to ignore at a crucial moment. A well-placed pawn can frustrate, agitate, distract, plug a weakness. But they demand a player astute enough to wield them to their full force.”
“Like Eliot?” Ilsa said. She had heard the way Aelius spoke of, and to, the former commander of the wolves. As she anticipated, his expression hardened at the mention of his name. “He was the player wielding the pawns in all this, weren’t he?”
&nb
sp; Aelius was still but for the hand twisting his cane as he no doubt contemplated the cleverest response. “Quillon’s father was a gifted strategist, may the stars keep him,” he said eventually. “It stands to reason he would pass some of that flare onto his son. It also stands to reason Gedeon would give as firm a friend as Eliot Quillon a position of such esteem, and that Hester would see fit to remove him from it. The lad is eighteen, lest we forget.”
Was there jealousy in his tone? Aelius was clearly ambitious, and leading the militia was a great deal of power.
“So who’s going to command the wolves now?” probed Ilsa, compelled by her hunch.
Aelius smiled convincingly, but then again, all his smiles were convincing. Ilsa doubted all of them were true. “With any luck, Hester will recognise that taming wolves and taming foxes is not so different.”
Is that why Hester had removed Eliot? To give the role to Aelius? Ilsa wasn’t convinced it was that simple. Something else hung between Eliot and her cousin.
“So which of these pieces are you and the other lieutenants?”
Aelius tapped the three pieces to the king’s right and named them in turn. “Bishop, knight, rook; the pieces that shape the game. They lay elegant traps. They move in beautiful and complex formations, always linked. They claim the victories in battle that win the king his war.” He flashed his wicked grin. “But don’t mistake me, even those pieces closest and most valuable to the king can be sacrificed when the game demands it.”
“Sacrificed by who?” she challenged, the double meaning of his words not lost on her. Was it a pledge to die for his faction and his alpha, or a willingness to give up his comrades for his cause?
“By the game, my darling.” He met her eye unwaveringly, in that way that told her he was assessing her reaction. That was the real game, Ilsa realised, so she refused to give him one.
There was a piece in the centre, next to the king, that Aelius had not yet mentioned. “And who’s that one?” she said, pointing to it.
“Ah. The queen.” Aelius picked up the piece and put it in the empty centre of the board. “That, dear girl, is Jupitus Fisk. The leader of the Sorcerers. When the Fortunatae massacred the Ravenswoods, Fisk was the one who stood at Hester’s side while she demanded merciless retribution for those who killed them. Every other faction was willing to face the other way as the Sage amassed support, and who could stop them? The Fortunatae took pains to keep their members anonymous. Hester Ravenswood may have cried that she watched a Wraith plunge a dagger into her father’s heart – but did she have a name, the North replied. Could she identify the Psi who cut her cousin Lyander’s throat, said the Underground. What were they to do?”
Had Hester really seen those things the night her family had been killed? Ilsa couldn’t bear to think about it. “So what did Fisk do?”
Aelius’s expression turned grim, but he couldn’t keep the glimmer from his eyes. “What he had to,” he said. “As with our recent troubles, the Sage had found support among rebel Sorcerers, so Fisk gutted his militia in search of the renegades. At Hester’s behest, he interrogated and executed any of his people with so much as a sympathy for the Fortunatae and their backward little philosophy. Meanwhile, Hester presented the other faction leaders with an ultimatum: follow Fisk’s lead, deal with their Fortunatae sympathisers in kind, or she would do it for them. And with the might of Fisk and the Sorcerers at her side there was nothing anyone could do to stop her.”
Ilsa smiled. “’Cause they’d just signed the Principles. Camden had a right to retaliate.”
Aelius pointed at her, white teeth flashing. “Precisely.”
“But why not let Hester deal with the Fortunatae herself?” said Ilsa. “What was in it for him?”
Aelius smiled slowly, eyes sparkling. “It seems you have the measure of this city already. Fisk’s ruthlessness put rebellion in the Heart to rest for seventeen years. He saw a convenient opportunity to flash his teeth at anyone who challenged the way he chose to rule, and bought himself a reputation. And reputation, ah, Ilsa. One wears one’s reputation either as armour or as chains. Remember that.” He chuckled. “It may be that Jupitus Fisk never truly cared for the plight of the Changelings, but the man was one of the best weapons Camden had in her arsenal.”
“Had?” said Ilsa.
Aelius flicked the queen and she toppled over. “He’s dead. He passed in his sleep at a highly respectable age, may the stars keep him. A man named Samuel Lucius has taken control of the Heart. And herein lies our recent problem.”
“Let me guess.” Ilsa reached across the board and picked up the black piece that matched her king. “He’s this fella.”
Aelius spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “That, even I cannot tell you. Sam Lucius, we might say, is not on the board.”
Ilsa frowned. “What d’you mean?”
“The man is an unknown. He has made vague overtures to continuing the Heart’s alliance with Camden, but when confronted with questions about how he plans to handle the rebels, he has no answers. Perhaps he is simply not the leader Fisk was. Perhaps he lacks the stomach for quashing dissent in the manner of his predecessor. Or” – Aelius leaned back and elegantly crossed one leg over the other – “perhaps the High Sorcerer is no longer the ally Camden needs. It is my ongoing project to find answers. I fear they are growing more pressing by the day.”
Ilsa looked at the chessboard; at the gaping hole next to the king, and the fallen piece in the centre. Sam Lucius might not be on their side, but the mastermind of their opposition – the king across the board – was the Sage. With fewer pieces, Camden needed to make cleverer moves.
“I can teach you, if you like,” said Aelius, watching her. “I wager there’s a sharp chess player in you.”
“P’raps I ought to learn. If it’s such an education. But you ain’t answered my question.” Aelius raised an eyebrow expectantly. “You ain’t explained why Cassia’s with us.”
A mischievous smile spread across his face. “Have I not?”
“Did Cassia work for her grandfather and the Zoo at the same time? Like a go-between?”
“One could say that. But even allies have their differences. It’s a complicated business, this diplomacy lark, and one can never know when one’s comrades are plotting to stab you in the back.”
His light brown eyes brimmed with mischief as he studied Ilsa’s frown and waited, unblinking.
“Cassia’s a spy?” she said eventually, and Aelius’s brows shot up in a show of happy astonishment.
“Well, aren’t you full of pleasant surprises? Your father was just as fiercely shrewd. You must get it from him,” he said, and he tapped the side of his nose.
Ilsa feigned her best shy smile, but she wasn’t fooled by his flattery. She had deduced only what he wanted her to; no more, no less. And if anyone asked about it later, Aelius had never said Cassia was a spy.
She tucked the scrunched-up riddle into her pocket and stood. “This don’t look nothing like diplomacy to me. In the Otherworld London, it’s street gangs what got territories and recruits and a hundred ways to get killed by their enemies. This ain’t nothing but criminal warfare.”
Aelius had no snide answer for that, but she could hear him chuckling as she turned on her heel and went upstairs to bed.
* * *
Ilsa had not closed her bedroom door behind her when a shout went up in the park. Then another. She peeked carefully through the curtains to see torches shining from the park, not far from the garden wall, and they were advancing. Cassia had apparently been roused from her reverie and was forming the wolves into a front line on the lawn; an array of snarling, clawing giant animals ready to defend the Zoo.
Ilsa’s bedroom door swung open. She spun, prepared to defend herself however necessary, but the one who stumbled in and grabbed her by the wrist was Eliot. His feet were bare, and his shirt was wrinkled and open at the collar. Did he sleep in his clothes? She was momentarily distracted by the image of Eliot sprawled acros
s tousled sheets, and before she knew it, they were hurtling down the corridor in the direction of Hester’s chambers.
“It’s the rebels again, ain’t it?”
“There are acolytes with them,” replied Eliot. “It looks like the Docklands have allied with the rebels. The enemy of my enemy, and so on.”
The sounds of fighting were coming from the garden; the raider-assassins had breached the wall. “Where’re we going?”
“Hester’s room. There’s a trick wall with a—”
Ilsa dug in her heels and brought them to a halt. “There’s no way I’m going in no hole in the wall.”
A window broke nearby, and Eliot drew her closer, but Ilsa was more afraid of this plan than another bout with the Oracles.
“I don’t want to go in no wall, Eliot,” she said again, louder, as he dragged her on. “Eliot—”
“Please, Ilsa.” He had the sense to look apologetic, but not enough to relent. They arrived at the door of Hester’s bedchamber and Eliot knocked. Several locks turned and Fliss appeared on the other side, looking harried.
“She won’t let me lift her,” she whispered as they passed.
Hester was sat on the bed, her fingers clinging to the sheets. A narrow door had been opened in one wall, and a lamp glowed inside. Ilsa’s chest tightened.
“This is my house,” Hester said through clenched teeth. “Take me downstairs so I can defend it.”
Eliot groaned and ran a tense hand through his hair. “You know, in a better moment, you approved of this plan,” he said as he approached the bed. Hester only glared. “You can’t defend us today, Hester, but you can stay alive. Please.”
Slowly, her fingers relinquished their grip on the sheets, and when she let out a relenting sigh, Eliot swept her up and placed her in the hidden space behind the wall.
Then it was Ilsa’s turn. There was a chance she would be sick.
“No. Eliot. Please don’t put me in there,” she rasped.
He and Fliss exchanged exasperated looks. Ilsa took a step towards the bedroom door, but Fliss shifted in front of it.
Witherward Page 20