My face broke into a smile.
“Well,” I said, standing, “how the tables have turned. Time for me to be your mentor.”
I turned down the lights and opened the shutters. Streetlamps shone along the quay, their lilac glow rippling on the Seine.
“First, you need to learn to see the underworld,” I told him. Arcturus came to stand beside me. “Think of it as a chain. You look for the people at one end, and they’ll lead you all the way up to the other.” I nodded to the street. “Tell me what you see.”
“Denizens.”
“Look harder. Look for outliers.” I pointed out a boy in a peaked cap. “What’s he doing?”
“Waiting for a guardian, perhaps.” When the child blended into the crowd, Arcturus narrowed his eyes. “No. A thief.”
“Good. His mark is the dark-haired woman in the pencil skirt, third in line at the coffee stand.” I watched her. “Not paying attention to her handbag.”
The bag was dusty pink silk, tempting as a cake in a window. The pickpocket snuck up to the owner, who was deep in conversation with the man beside her. With a deft cut, the boy liberated the bag from its strap and melted back into the crowd, leaving his mark none the wiser.
“There.” I had to grin at his nerve. “He’ll be taking that to the kidsman in charge of his gang. Follow him, and we’d get to the next link in the chain and bribe our way up.” I closed the shutters and sat on the sill. “That’s one way.”
“And the other?”
“We go straight to the top. That might be our only option, since neither of us has two pennies to rub together for bribes.”
“Do we not?”
“You’ve got a big pile of money lying around somewhere, have you?”
Arcturus rose and disappeared into his room. When he returned, he placed a brick-sized wad of banknotes on the table.
“You . . . do indeed have a big pile of money lying around somewhere,” I observed.
“The Ranthen would never have sent me abroad without my fair share of our assets.”
Slowly, I leafed through the crisp notes. “Arcturus,” I breathed. “What is this, ten grand?”
“Twelve. It is yours to use as you think best.”
“You’re giving me twelve thousand pounds. Just like that.” I looked between him and the notes. “Have I ever mentioned how deeply I treasure our friendship?”
“Hm. Call it another birthday gift.” He sat. “Perhaps we should begin our search in the Court of Miracles.”
I knew of it. Jaxon had spoken often and fondly of the slums where the outcasts of Paris met.
“All right.” I laid the money down with appropriate reverence. “Where?”
“The largest of the slum districts is north of the river. Or was,” he said, “when I last visited Paris.”
“And we can just walk in.” I was skeptical. “There’s no watchword, no need for someone to vouch for us?”
“I have never tried to enter it myself.”
“Right.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “How long to get there on foot?”
“Perhaps half an hour.”
“All right. We’ll go in the morning, to avoid the night Vigiles. And we’ll be careful,” I added. “I promise.”
“I still do not like this idea, Paige. I wish to make that known.”
“Noted.” I shot him a winning smile. “But I think we’ll make a decent syndie of you yet, Arcturus Mesarthim.”
****
The sky was cloudless in the morning. Sunlight striped the floors with gold.
Exhilaration crushed my hurts. I danced along to the record player. I wolfed some porridge with apple butter, then prepared for the Court of Miracles.
I was heading into a citadel I had dreamed of seeing since I was a child. Anticipation thrummed in every limb. For the first time in weeks, I was a live wire, raring to run.
The wardrobe was a room of its own. Domino agents must have stayed here in the past and needed a range of disguises. I chose a white blouse and a charcoal sweater, which I tucked into high-waisted trousers, and button boots with low heels. Smoked lenses hid some of my face. A peaked cap would hide a little more. I straightened my hair, scalding my neck and one hand in the process—I debated asking Arcturus to do the back for me—before I swung a green coat onto my shoulders and a scarf around my neck. I took the knife from under my pillow, wrapped it, and slipped it into my pocket.
On my way downstairs, I glanced at a mirror. My sleek auburn hair was off-putting.
Arcturus was in the hall, dressed from head to toe in black, as usual. His new overcoat suited him.
“Good morning.” He was pulling on his gloves. “I trust you slept well.”
“I did.” I turned on the spot. “Est-ce-que j’ai l’air suffisamment française?”
“Très française, petite rêveuse.”
His pronunciation was impeccable. “You’ve a cut of the money?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Watch out for pickpockets.” I belted my coat and drew on my own gloves. “We shouldn’t walk together. You go first. If the Vigiles get wind of us, we call it off, lose them, and meet here later.”
“Very well.” Arcturus took me in. “Are you certain you are ready for this?”
“Absolutely.”
In truth, my palms were slick. Before my capture, I had always been confident that if a Vigile spied me, I could climb and fight my way out of danger.
As soon as I opened the door, a breeze whipped my hair across my eyes. Arcturus strode out first. I checked no one was looking before I pulled on my cap and went after him.
My boots crunched into an ankle-deep snowbank. Once the door was locked, I walked up the four steps to the street and stepped out of the shadow of the safe house.
Paris roared its welcome.
The noise and light were overwhelming. At eight in the morning, cars and people thronged the Quai des Grands Augustins. A vintage moto rattled past, close enough for me to smell its exhaust. I blinked and looked east, to the twin bell towers of the Grande Salle de Paris. A place of worship in the monarch days, it was now used for some of the most significant events and ceremonies in France. I had to stop myself from staring at it. Beyond it lay two more natural islands of Paris—the Île aux Vaches, where many wealthy officials lived, and the Île Louviers, home to some of the most famous Parisian markets and arcades.
Arcturus had crossed the road. I followed at a distance, craning my neck to take in the sky. London was a vertical citadel, all ’scrapers and high-rise apartments, but Paris seemed far wider.
I looked down, to the stern gray waters of the Seine and the streets I had pored over in travel guides. Tearooms and boutiques and tiny chocolate shops. Florists with windows framed by winter-flowering blossom. Branches of the Bank of Scion France, white doors embellished with gold leaf, façades whittled from marble. Printers sold broadsides and mysteries beside children with red brooches on their lapels, marking them as official vendors of the Daily Descendant. Stalls with candy-striped awnings stood cheek by jowl, boasting penny toys, artwork, souvenirs (I resisted the compulsion to spend three pounds on a miniature Eiffel Tower), and all manner of curiosities. I spotted a snow globe with London inside it and felt a pang of longing.
Even though English was the official language of the empire, taught in schools before any other, France had clawed back some of its own—many of the establishments had French names, and the chapbooks were all printed in French. There was no trace of a Brekkabox from here to the horizon, but there would be one somewhere. No citadel could get away with not having a Brekkabox.
Paris was her own creature. She had her own underworld, lurking like crude oil beneath her surface. Somewhere very close to here, the River Bièvre slunk past a district of tanneries and shambles, licking up blood and dye as it went. Thieves conspired in slums. And perhaps—just perhaps—there were whispers of insurrection.
Arcturus turned his head a little. I spotted the camera and obscured my
face with one hand.
A transmission screen was mounted on the first bridge we passed. I slowed to watch the cycle of photographs. My face was no longer among them, but the other fugitives were still there. Nick Nygård. Ivy. Julian Amesbury.
I clenched my fist in my pocket. More than five months since I had last seen Julian, and I still had no idea if he was dead or alive. After the faces, a series of messages appeared.
WE MUST SAVE SPAIN FROM ITSELF
NOUS DEVONS SAUVER L’ESPAGNE D’ELLE-MêME
SUPPORT THE IBERIAN EFFORT
SOUTENEZ L’EFFORT IBéRIQUE
The white-hot flash and smoke of tankfire. Bloody hoofprints. Limbs entangled on the bridge. Bodies flung into the river. I walked on, faster, ears ringing, but the memories screamed after me.
The Iberian Effort, as it was known to the average denizen—or Operation Madrigal, as it was called behind the curtain. Scion had revealed it to the public on the twelfth of January. How much of Scion’s progress was propaganda, I had no idea, but its aim was to annex Spain and Portugal. If the operation succeeded, Scion would control eleven countries.
Arcturus waited by a streetlamp. We fell into step on our way down to the riverfront, where there were no cameras and not many people.
“What is it?” he said.
I glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead.
“Paris.” I cast my gaze over the river. “It’s magnificent. So much of Scion is. Isn’t that sick?”
“It is a beautiful mask, but all masks fall. In the end.”
“Not fast enough.” I thrust my hands into my pockets. “Spain and Portugal will be under the anchor soon. Not one month ago, they had emissaries in London, like they had a chance of stopping this.”
“They may be able to resist ScionIDE, as Ireland did.”
“Ireland was defeated on the day of the Dublin Incursion, when an army marched in and murdered hundreds of unarmed people,” I said, my tone clipped. “Scion does its worst in the early days. It goes straight for the soul. Everything after that is just . . . death throes.”
We walked beneath a bridge, past skeletal trees and moored barges, painted red and white and gold. Frost glittered on every surface.
“We may not be able to stop this invasion,” Arcturus said, “but we can keep building our own army. We can cooperate with Domino. We can make a difference.”
I tried to believe it. I had to believe it. When we reached the steps to a footbridge, Arcturus pulled ahead again.
A breeze dredged a heavy green smell from the Seine. Halfway across the bridge, I stopped and rested my elbows on the railing, giving him a chance to put some distance between us. Sunlight sparkled on the water. Despite the danger, I allowed myself to imagine that I was an ordinary woman, taking in the sights of a new country. It took my mind off war and blood.
The illusion shattered when I spotted two Vigiles at the other end of the bridge. I joined a long column of sightseers, who were gossiping in Swedish. Neither of the Vigiles spared us a glance. As soon as we were past them, I deserted the group and kept walking. Day Vigiles might be amaurotic, unable to see or sense auras, but it was best for them not to get a close look at my face. Smoked lenses and a coat of dye would only do so much.
The Swedish tour group bustled in the opposite direction. While vacationers still came from elsewhere in Scion, I realized it had been months since I had last seen any free-world tourists.
Outsiders had once been allowed to visit the Republic of Scion under strict conditions. It was how Zeke and Nadine had first come to London, on a tour for students. Zeke had later told me their phones and recording devices had been confiscated at the airport, and they were told not to leave their hotel without a Scion-approved guide, presumably to stop them seeing any evidence of executions. Of course, they had found ways to break that rule.
That was when Scion had cared about foreign relations. Now it seemed Nashira was starting to cut ties.
I followed Arcturus up one street for what felt like an eternity. Stabbing pain echoed my breaths. By the time we met beneath a red plaque reading rue des forges, my brow was clammy.
“The Court of Miracles.” Arcturus nodded to a crumbling brick archway. The smells of sizzling grease and woodsmoke oozed through it. “It would appear it still exists.”
Too winded to do anything but nod, I leaned against the wall and pressed a hand flat to my chest.
“We can turn back,” Arcturus said.
“No.” Taking the deepest breath I could manage, I straightened. “Time to make some friends. Or enemies, knowing my luck.”
No one stopped us from passing through the archway. The street beyond was unpaved, wet with snowmelt. From the first step, there was evidence of hardship—shedding paint, broken windows, families sleeping rough.
The Court of Miracles was not the cauldron of decadence Jaxon had promised. The reality was quieter. Rubbish was strewn across Rue des Forges, where the vagabonds of Paris talked and dozed and cooked beneath tarpaulins. None of them were dressed for snow. One group was split between two mattresses, sharing a few bags of chips. Over the largest of several pit fires, a muddy stew bubbled in a pot.
I knew from the map that the shantytown hooked around a block of flophouses. As I followed the path, I remembered what Jaxon had told me about the people who had lived here in the past, the malingreux. They had crafted the appearance of disease in the hope of earning more generous alms from the public, but once they returned to the slums, their rashes and sores evaporated. That was how these pockets of deprivation had first earned their name.
There was only one miracle I could see here now, and that was voyants and amaurotics sharing one cramped street in peace, with the rotties clearly aware of the unnaturals in their midst. They spoke in a mix of French and English, switching seamlessly and often.
Two women danced while a whisperer played an air on a fiddle. In the middle of one cluster of people, a hydromancer stirred a pail of murky water, watched with interest by several amaurotics. Everyone seemed to be getting on like wick and flame.
“This isn’t the syndicate,” I muttered to Arcturus. “Not enough voyants.”
Still, it was worth taking a look around this place. Nobody protested as we picked our way through the slum. We had no valuables on show. A few people eyed Arcturus, intrigued by his appearance or his aura.
Definitely not the syndicate. Outsiders would have been challenged by now.
The sound of a lullaby caught my attention. It came from one of the few voyants here—a seer, hunched and shivering. A shew stone glinted in her lap. Her cheeks were windburned, her hands almost swallowed by heathered arm-warmers, and she sang to a newborn in the crook of her arm:
“J’ai fait un rêve horrible, mon cher,
Lorsque je fus dans l’ancien jardin de mon père.
Je rêvais qu’il y eut une ancre sur la tour,
Et que des tyrans envahirent notre cour.”
I stepped close enough to draw her attention. She took one look at Arcturus and screamed. Shock jerked my hand to my knife, though I just stopped myself drawing it. The seer scrambled into her shelter, the baby and the stone clasped to her chest.
“It’s him, it’s him!” She stabbed a finger at Arcturus. A tiny cry split the air. “L’Homme au Masque de Fer. Il est venu m’enlever—”
“Ta gueule,” a woman barked at her. “Enough of your raving, Katell. And shut your brat up, before I drown it.”
There were muttered agreements before everyone returned to what they had been doing, but glances kept darting back to us, some hooded with suspicion. We needed to be gone before they got too interested.
I crouched in front of the seer. She peeked at me from behind a tuft of black curls, showing a bruise on her cheekbone, stark against her light brown skin.
Katell was a Breton name. Even though the people of Brittany had never mounted any major rebellions against Scion, all Celtic regions had been tarred with the same brush as Ireland. With that
name, this woman had probably never been able to secure full-time work.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Katell,” I said. “Neither is my friend. I think you might have mistaken him for someone else.”
Her face was careworn, gnawed by hunger, but I thought she was about my age. She stared up at Arcturus, who seemed to sense that getting any closer would spook her.
“Yes,” she finally said. “This man is taller, I think.”
“L’Homme au Masque de Fer,” I said. “That’s who you thought he was. Who is that, Katell?” When she retreated farther into her lean-to, I lowered my voice a little more. “Maybe we can help each other. I need information. If you can provide it, there’s coin in it for you.”
Katell shushed her grizzling baby and glanced over her shoulder. Her collarbone jutted.
“Not here,” she said, so only we could hear. “I will meet you in Rue de Ponceau. You know it?”
Arcturus gave me a subtle nod. “Yes,” I said.
As I stood, I made a point of pursing my lips, as if I’d tried and failed to wring something from Katell. Arcturus led me straight out of the slum.
“Interesting development,” I said.
“Indeed. Do you intend to investigate?”
“Naturally.”
A short walk brought us to Rue de Ponceau. It was a foul-smelling alley, starved of sunlight and paved with cobblestones. Katell soon came, her baby asleep and tucked into a sling.
“Hello, Katell,” I said.
She gave Arcturus a wary look. “What is it you want to know?” she asked me.
“A few things,” I said, “but first, tell me about this . . . Man in the Iron Mask. You piqued our curiosity.”
It was starting to snow again. Katell wrapped some of her shawl around her baby.
“He took my spouse, Paul Caron,” she said. “I saw the mask he wore—made of metal, with bars over the eyes. Others have seen the same figure. I have heard whispers of his name.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks.”
“And he took Paul?”
“He and his followers. I ran after them, but they hit me with something, and when I woke, they had disappeared. No one believes me.” Katell stepped forward then and clasped my hand. “Madelle, do you work for Le Chevalier des Deniers? Have you come to help me find Paul?”
The Mask Falling Page 4