Arcturus sank into a crouch. “Look at me,” he said. I did. “This is not the waterboard. You are not trapped. I will be with you all the way.”
“It’s all over m-me.”
“You are not going to drown, Paige Mahoney. You are a dreamwalker,” he told me, “and you know how to go without breath.” I clung to the side like a limpet. “Would you like me to go first?”
“No. Don’t leave.” I closed my eyes. “I n-need you to come straight after me. Promise.”
“You have my word.”
He joined me in the water and held my elbows, keeping my shoulders above the surface. The stretto of my breathing filled the tunnel.
If I waited any longer, our guides would think we had lost our nerve. It was now or never.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Arcturus let go. I counted down from three, took a breath that stoked fire in my chest, and kicked off the side of the pool.
A bubble stoppered my throat at once. My headlamp kept working, but the water was almost opaque. Chest bucking, I scrabbled for purchase, using the crags of the tunnel as handholds.
Something knocked against my cheekbone. Shock made me inhale. My nose burned, my eyes stung, and then I was back in the dark of the basement, arms chained above my head, stomach bloated with foul water, and there was no light and no escape and no one was coming—
A hand plunged through the whiteness and took hold of my arm. Next thing I knew, I was back on solid ground, my vision furred with black.
“Bravo,” the polyglot said.
Behind me, Arcturus broke the surface. The voyants traded glances as I tried to get my cough under control, and as Arcturus lifted himself from the pool. He knew not to help me stand.
My fingers curled into a fist. I was shaking violently, my heart pounding. If I could survive the swim, I could get back on my feet. I braced my hands on my thighs and rose.
There was no more water after that. Soon we were dripping our way through dry tunnels. My clothes were soaked and smudged with chalk, and blood seeped from a graze on my cheek.
At last, we entered a long cavern, warm and dimly lit. A gauze of sand covered its floor. Numa were tucked into every nook and alcove, stashed beside all manner of personal effects: toothbrushes and combs, board games, ornaments. Voyants cooked over stoves and conversed in low voices. Some were enveloped in sleeping bags. Perhaps this was the only place they could rest, far below the surface, in a place where Scion remained blind.
Art mediums worked together to paint a mural across one wall, all with the blank expressions of the possessed. Their brushes trailed surreal patterns. People bathed and floated on their backs in another flooded passage. Beside a column, a cartomancer studied a tarot deck with the eye not concealed beneath a patch. He suddenly looked up at me, took me in, and crooked a finger. The urge to go to him was terrible.
When Liss Rymore had performed a reading for me in the colony, the final card had been lost. Part of me wanted to know the end of my story—except there was no time, and we were too conspicuous. Stares and whispers followed us across the cavern. Over and over, I heard the same word: Réphaïte.
Our escorts stopped beside a beaded curtain. “They followed me down here,” Mélusine said to the others. “They are my responsibility. I will introduce them to the grands ducs.”
None of them protested. When they were out of earshot, Mélusine turned back to me. “So.” She folded her muscular arms. “Are you really the Underqueen?”
“In the flesh,” I said.
“We thought you were dead.” A weighted pause. “I will . . . announce you to the grands ducs.”
“Just say that someone’s here to see them, if you would. I’d prefer to introduce myself.”
“As you decree, Underqueen.”
With that, she went through.
Water sloshed in my boots. My nose ran. I wrung out my hair, which was already curling again, and draped my sodden coat around my shoulders like a cape.
When it came to amicable relations with other syndicate leaders, my track record was spotty. In Edinburgh, I had forged a good alliance with the Spaewife—it helped that Liss had been her niece— but the Scuttling Queen had not welcomed me in Manchester. The grands ducs might not open their arms to a fellow clairvoyant ruler.
“Tell me I look regal,” I said to Arcturus. “This isn’t the grand entrance I imagined.”
In answer, he cupped one side of my face and brushed his thumb across my damp cheekbone, smoothing back the wisp of hair that had been stuck there.
“Thank you,” I said.
He let go. “You are trembling.”
“I’m all right.”
With a last, scrutinizing look at my face, he turned his attention to the curtain. When I followed his line of sight, I realized. What I had thought were beads were, in fact, teeth. Hundreds of human teeth. Before I could think better of this audience, Mélusine returned.
“They are not pleased,” she said, “but you may enter. They are bored today.” She held back the curtain. “Tread carefully, Underqueen, or your blood will be their entertainment.”
4
An Empty Throne
A cavern loomed before us, far larger than the first. Its ceiling had been smoothed into a dome and decorated with breathtaking skill. The chandelier illuminated the twenty-two scenes of the Major Arcana, the trumps of the tarot.
The painting was an illusion, designed to make the ceiling appear higher than it was. A sky beneath the earth. Among the clouds I saw the Hermit with his lantern, and the Wheel of Fortune, and Justice with her sword and scales. There was the Devil—its staring eyes followed me—and there were the Lovers, torn to opposite sides of the assembly, reaching for each other.
The Devil and the Lovers. Those had been the third and fourth cards in my reading. In Edinburgh, the Spaewife had warned me of their meaning: Follow the path of the Lovers. Stay close to the person you think the card might represent, and make sure you’ve identified that person correctly. If you stray from whoever it is, I suspect you’ll be vulnerable to the Devil.
Jaxon had often waxed lyrical on clairvoyant life and history in France. There was some debate about whether the ring of fortune-tellers involved in the seventeenth-century Affair of the Poisons should be considered the first French syndicate, or whether that honor should be given to a secret society founded later by a cartomancer named Louise Gilbert. In 1782, she had attracted the interest of a lady-in-waiting at the French court, who had invited her to read for the Queen of France. Seeing bloodshed in the cards, Gilbert had not been able to keep the dread from her face, and the Gray Queen, in turn, had started to fear her.
Having earned the disfavor of the Queen, Gilbert had made a swift return to Paris. By the time the French Revolution began, she had befriended a younger cartomancer, Marie-Anne Lenormand, whom she took under her wing. Together, they had resolved to take advantage of the chaos and make themselves indispensable to key figures of the Revolution—after all, never was a clairvoyant more useful than when the future was both dangerous and uncertain. The pair had founded a secret circle of influential voyants, which had evolved into the present Nouveau Régime. That must be why this ceiling venerated the art of cartomancy.
Three thrones of raw crystal stood before us, raised on a dais enshelled by stacks of polished bones and skulls. Behind these thrones loomed a statue representing Jeanne of Arc, a medieval oracle. She was clad in armor, had chin-length hair, and raised a sword and shield in defiance. The shield was emblazoned with a message.
je trouverai
le chemin libre
A paunchy binder, who I guessed was in his seventies, was draped across the throne beneath her sword. Rouge smeared his pasty cheeks. Despite his posture, he was stately, crowned with an abundant gray wig that belonged in the courts of the monarch days. Plump feet hung over the right arm of the chair, clad in a pair of steel-buckled shoes.
Beside him, a younger cryomancer picked at a bowl of sweets. Thin as a f
lute and with dark circles to rival mine, she had umber skin and black hair that rippled to her collarbones. Her gown was a wash of pale blue satin and lace. She wore a diamond brooch, shaped like two interwoven ribbons, and matching diamond bows in her ears, each of which supported a teardrop-shaped pearl. More pearls hung around her neck.
The third seat was empty. That must belong to the missing grand duc.
“Who dares stand uninvited before the rulers of Paris?” the binder drawled. “Who disturbs the lords of misrule?” He peered down at us. “Oh, Nostredame deliver us, a pair of panhandlers. Begone, or I shall have you both thrown into the ossuary. Drip your destitution all over someone else.”
I schooled my face into a smile. With a smart flourish, I bowed to them.
“Grands ducs de Paris,” I said, “merci de nous avoir reçus.”
“A courteous vagrant.” The cryomancer rolled a dark, sugar-dusted sweet between her fingers. “La Cour des Miracles earns its name again.”
The binder guffawed.
“We are not from the Court of Miracles.” I stood tall, hands tucked into my pockets, boots a shoulder width apart. “I would have appeared before you in something more befitting of your court, but I’m afraid I left all my finery in England. Along with my crown.”
They both did a double take so abrupt it was almost comical.
“Crown,” the rouged binder spluttered. “Crown! Who are you, rogue?”
“Paige Mahoney, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London. I’m here to forge an alliance between our two syndicates.” I cast a cool gaze over the scene. “If you’re not too busy, of course.”
The cryomancer dropped her sweet. Beside her, the binder swung his legs from the arm of his chair.
“Paige Mahoney. What a notion,” he scoffed. “Raise your head and let us see you, imposter.”
I did, so the candlelight could reach my face. He stuck a peevish lip out.
“You look nothing like Paige Mahoney. Nothing,” he said, and all of a sudden his accent was not quite French. “The Underqueen is in the æther.” He peered at me again. “And yet, I do believe I hear a charming Irish lilt. And I do see a red aura. Red as a rosy-fingered dawn.”
“Forgive me,” I said, “but are you from London?”
“Gracious, no, but I did live there for fifteen years. How the accent clings,” he sighed. “I only meant for it to be a holiday. Alas, it is so very easy to find oneself anchored in London.”
“May I ask why you left?”
“Oh, you would have abandoned ship if you’d had to wither away under that utter bore of an Underlord, Jed Bickford. Getting himself skewered in the kidney was the first noteworthy thing he did.” He rubbed the corner of his eye. “My half brother stayed behind. Didion.”
“Didion.” My lips twitched into a smile. Surely not. “Your brother is Didion Waite?”
“Half brother,” he stressed. Improbable though it was, I could see a resemblance. “He always was a vexation. And a ghastly poet. Dire.” He squinted at me. “If you truly are Black Moth, you will understand that we really must have some proof of your identity, Madelle.”
“What proof can I offer?”
“The Underqueen was said to have been a dreamwalker. A marcherêve. Your aura, while unusual, could be that of an oracle.” He clapped. “Come. Possess one of us! We would relish a display of your talents. To feel the power of a dreamwalker must be a most exciting sensation.”
I kept my smile nailed in place.
“Such displays are only suitable for my enemies,” I said. “I’d hate to leave either of you with permanent damage.”
The cryomancer lifted a fine-boned hand to her lips, showing off yet more diamonds, this time confined to a ring on her finger.
“Perhaps I can offer you some other evidence of who I am,” I said. Turning my face, I indicated the scar on my jaw. “A mime-queen gave me this at the scrimmage, when—”
“Common knowledge,” the binder interrupted. “That scar could be self-inflicted. Part of a grand deception.” He leaned forward a little. “But the Underqueen is said to have another scar. On the back of her shoulder, always concealed. The mark of a Scion brand.”
First he had wanted me to make a spectacle of my gift, as if it were a parlor trick. Now he wanted me to take off three layers of clothing and show him my bare skin.
At this point, the cryomancer stood with a rustle of silks. The light sparked off her brooch and earrings as she descended from the dais, making her glitter like moonlight on ice.
“We cannot expect a fellow ruler to compromise her dignity, mon frère. If this is the Underqueen, it does not set a good precedent,” she said. A beauty mark perched to the left of her mouth. “Must you always be such a disciplinarian?”
“I’m afraid I must insist, ma chère sœur.” The binder tapped the arms of his throne. “The mark.”
The cryomancer pouted.
Silence descended in the chamber. Slowly, I reached for the top button of my coat, maintaining eye contact with the binder. In a minute, I would be half-dressed, exposing my scar—my scars—to two strangers. They would see how bruised and brittle I still was. That was all they would ever see.
“Allow me to serve as your evidence,” Arcturus said.
My fingers stilled as he came to stand beside me. “And who is this . . . individual?” the binder said delicately.
“My bodyguard.” I had already slotted my hands back into my pockets. “Just a precaution, you understand.”
“Of course. He has a mesmerizing aura,” the binder remarked, a glint in his eye. “Perhaps your bodyguard would care to explain why he serves as confirmation of your identity.”
I looked up at Arcturus, realizing.
“Because he’s a Rephaite,” I said. “I assume you know of them, and my alliance with them. Your voyants certainly do.”
They both stared, mouths ajar. Arcturus stared right back at them with those inhuman eyes.
“Yes,” the binder admitted. “We had heard. But I never imagined—”
He looked Arcturus up and down again, searching for evidence of a trick, finding none. I could empathize. I had never imagined, either.
“Very well.” The binder regarded me as if for the first time. “I bid you welcome to the Scion Citadel of Paris, Underqueen. I am Le Latronpuche, and this is my sister-in-chaos, La Reine des Thunes.”
“Enchantée,” La Reine des Thunes said. “You are most welcome on our streets, Votre Majestée.”
Arcturus stepped back. “Thank you, Vos Altesses,” I said, hoping it was an acceptable way to address them. With a nod to the empty throne, I added, “I understood that there were three grands ducs.”
“Oh, Le Vieux Orphelin seldom joins us down here.” Le Latronpuche settled deeper into his seat, while La Reine des Thunes returned to hers. “He and his perdues prefer the pleasures of the surface.”
Deep within me, instinct drummed. “I see,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, two or three days ago, or thereabouts. Time is so difficult to reckon here among the bones.”
“Strange. I heard he went missing around New Year.”
La Reine des Thunes stroked the pearls around her neck and shot a look toward Le Latronpuche, who intertwined his fingers on his stomach and looked down his nose at me.
“You have been talking to our anormaux,” he said.
“A few.”
“You have made yourself very much at home here, then, Underqueen. And now you come to our court with questions. I hope you will forgive us for asking one or two in return.” Intelligence crouched in his fishy eyes. “For instance, I should very much like to know how you survived a bullet to the abdomen. Many of our subjects witnessed the broadcast.”
“It was a rubber bullet,” I said, “likely coated in a fast-acting anaesthetic that induced a coma. Scion wanted to interrogate me before my execution.”
“Dreadful business. How did you escape?”
“I had some he
lp.”
“Yes, you do seem to inspire loyalty. Not initially, perhaps—betraying your own mime-lord, tut tut, I’m surprised no one carved your throat for that—but now we hear tell of a very popular young queen. A queen who sacrificed herself for the dream of revolution.”
“And now you come to us.” La Reine des Thunes spoke quietly. “Why?”
Something was off here. Every instinct told me so. Still, I had come this far.
“The Mime Order faces a serious assault by Scion, codenamed Operation Albion,” I said. “Scion has reclassified my syndicate as a terrorist organization, acknowledging the threat we pose.”
“As well it should.” Le Latronpuche muffled a yawn. “We hear it is because of the Mime Order—because of you—that Senshield will never threaten Paris. We hear that you are on your way to refining your thieves and murderers and bully-rooks into a formidable army.”
“It could be more formidable. With your support, we might stand a chance of achieving our purpose.”
“And what is your purpose, Underqueen?”
“To overthrow Scion.”
At this, Le Latronpuche offered the sort of smile one might use to indulge a petulant child.
“Underqueen,” La Reine des Thunes said, “it is a noble purpose, but Scion has endured for more than two centuries. In the words of the Gray Queen, your ambition is . . . un beau rêve. Voilà tout.”
“Voyants don’t dream. And in the Mime Order, we strive for more than petty treason. We act,” I said. “In less than a year, we’ve shut down a penal colony where voyants were being brutalized and indoctrinated. We’ve deactivated Senshield and stopped the Grand Commander. We have no intention of slowing down. We can defeat our enemy, but only if we have enough soldiers to call upon in the war we mean to bring to Scion. And only if we have enough allies.”
“Ah. That is what you want,” La Reine des Thunes said. “For us to open our carrières to anyone who flees from London.”
The Mask Falling Page 7