The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  “I’m offering you a partnership. We are two age-old underworlds. You would be our esteemed allies. Join us.”

  “And how does Paris benefit?” Le Latronpuche inquired. “What do we gain, Underqueen?”

  “Freedom, in the fullness of time. For now, I think there are a number of ways we can help one another,” I said. “Perhaps you’d like to share in the proceeds of our black market, the most lucrative in Europe. Or perhaps you could use soldiers.” I raised my eyebrows. “I hear your Grand Inquisitor is a little more assiduous than ours. That Ménard is true anachorète. He sings in the language of the guillotine, the blood lottery. Perhaps it’s time for you to sing back.”

  “Oh, the Butcher of Strasbourg is no threat to us.” Le Latronpuche waved an idle hand, as if he were swatting a slow-moving fly. “His blundering Vigiles will never find us here. They have tried, many times. And their friends have tried to find their bodies. And their friends have tried to find their bodies, and so on. Meanwhile, we are never found.”

  “But what if someone else finds you?” I asked. “A voyant. One of your own.”

  “Of whom do you speak?”

  “Before I became Underqueen, I discovered the existence of a trafficking ring in London,” I said. “Mime-lords and mime-queens were selling their own voyants to the Rephaim.” La Reine des Thunes stiffened. I pretended not to notice. “I have reason to believe this so-called gray market has moved here, to Paris. It’s run by a voyant called the Rag and Bone Man, who fled London when his involvement was expo—”

  “Madelle,” Le Latronpuche cut in, “I’m afraid you are telling us what we already know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I grant it.” His blue eyes were fixed on me. “You see, we are familiar with the Rag and Bone Man—or the Man in the Iron Mask, as he calls himself now. He came to see us when he arrived here in November. And we came to an arrangement.”

  I turned numb.

  “An arrangement,” I repeated.

  “Yes. He offered us a deal, which we accepted.”

  Without a word, Arcturus came to stand just behind me. I fought to maintain my composure.

  “What sort of deal?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “A simple one. Any clairvoyants among us who breach the peace, our new friend can . . . remove. And he pays handsomely.”

  I swallowed the first two words I wanted to spit at them.

  “You hold with the trafficking of voyants?” I said. “And you accept money from Scion?”

  “We accept money from the Man in the Iron Mask. We really care nothing as to its source,” Le Latronpuche said. “He assured us that the voyants receive a home. And a purpose.” He inspected his nails. “Understand that we only alert him to those who richly deserve to be swept from our streets. Murderers. Sadists. Vicious traitors to our syndicate. We take the coin to protect worthier voyants while Inquisitor Ménard does his level best to eradicate us all.”

  “You don’t consider this treachery, then,” I said coldly. “Collusion with the anchor.”

  “With a fellow clairvoyant. In exchange for much-needed funds.” He was shameless. “Can you offer us more favorable terms?”

  Alsafi was gone, and with him, our financial security. Even if I had been able to match whatever Jaxon was paying, I would not have given tuppence to this pair of traffickers.

  “You should know that I have personal experience of the gray market,” I said. “I was sold on it by the late Underlord, Haymarket Hector. Not because I was violent. Not because I betrayed the syndicate. He did it to settle a score with my mime-lord. And because he was greedy.”

  “So we heard,” La Reine des Thunes said. “Hector abused the market. We will not make the same mistake.”

  “We are very sorry, of course, that you suffered,” Le Latronpuche added. “But be assured, we are careful in our selection. Careful and objective.” He grasped the arms of his throne. “To many of our clairvoyants, you are a hero. A martyr of the revolution. If you find that you can accept our arrangement with the Man in the Iron Mask, we might find ourselves in a position to offer the hand of friendship to the Mime Order. We will not fight alongside you— there is no desire for war here—but we could give sanctuary to you and yours.”

  I longed with every twine and sinew of my being to tell them where to shove their friendship.

  “We have miles of empty carrières,” La Reine des Thunes said. “With coin from the gray market, we could make them habitable, Underqueen.”

  I thought of Glym and Eliza, ruling London in my stead. Even with Senshield deactivated, Scion would smoke the Mime Order out eventually. When the spies undermined it and the soldiers descended in force—and they soon would—how long could it last?

  “And if I don’t respect your arrangement?” I said, as calmly as I could. “If I decide to interfere with the gray market?”

  “That would be a pity. Close as our two countries are,” Le Latronpuche said softly, “you are still very far from home.”

  The threat hung like vapor in the stale air. Le Latronpuche shot me a last, dead-eyed smile.

  “We hope you enjoy your stay in our citadel, Underqueen. And that you will respect the peace we have worked so hard to maintain,” he said. “Do return to see us soon. Until then, farewell.”

  Behind him loomed Jeanne of Arc, unseeing. I turned my back on the grands ducs and left.

  ****

  Le Trouvère led us out of the carrières, taking a different path from the one Mélusine had used. I had hoped to strike an alliance today. Instead, I had found another corrupt underworld. The grands ducs had all the voyants in Paris under their control, on the streets and far beneath. They could hinder me at every turn.

  My muscles scorched with the effort of walking. Just when I thought the nightmare would never end, we half crawled up a final passage and emerged into the fading daylight.

  We were under a bridge that crossed what could only be the Petite Ceinture, the derelict railway south of the river. Dead weeds jostled for space between its sleepers. The entrance to the carrières was the narrowest of openings in the ground, impossible to stumble upon by chance.

  “Thank you, Underqueen, for gracing our Empire of Death.” With a flourish, Le Trouvère handed back my knife. “Should you wish to return, you need only come to this door. Someone will find you.”

  He favored me with a bow and marched away. I waited for him to get well out of earshot before I let my fury rip into a rust-bitten fire bin, which crashed onto its side. The kick burned up the last of my strength, and I slid to the ground, my back against the nearest wall.

  Snow formed curtains on either side of the bridge. Arcturus came to sit beside me.

  “After everything we did to get the gray market out of London, the Rag and Bone Man just flees the country and starts again under a new name. And now he has another syndicate to feed on.” I closed my eyes. “Jaxon arranged this. His bony fingers are all over this mess.”

  “You think he is involved in this branch of the gray market,” Arcturus inferred. “Despite the fact that he now serves the Sargas.”

  “I don’t just think it. I know it.”

  “He wrung money from Nashira for years, forcing her to pay exorbitantly for clairvoyants of interest, all while concealing himself in the underworld. She would never support its return.”

  “Oh, I don’t think for a moment that she knows about this Parisian branch. In fact,” I said, “I’ll wager that as soon as Jaxon found out Sheol II would be in France, he planted seeds here, so he’d have a new base of operations if anything happened to the first market. He might even have met Le Latronpuche in London years ago and identified him as a potential marketeer.”

  Arcturus seemed to digest this.

  “He had to shut the first one down. Not just because we exposed it, but because he couldn’t be too closely involved when he lived right under Nashira’s nose,” I went on. “But when I last saw him, he told me he was being sent to France—away
from her—to oversee Sheol II. It must be ready to receive prisoners. And Jaxon must be ready to profit from their misery again.”

  “It would still be a grave risk now he works for Scion. Jaxon does not strike me as a brave man.”

  “That’s because what he did to you wasn’t brave. He stabbed you in the back and ran,” I said, “but trust me, he can find his spine when he wants something. And he always wants coin.”

  “On the subject of coin,” Arcturus said, “there is a missing link in your theory.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Rag and Bone Man is paying for voyants, possibly with money from Jaxon. This time, however, they cannot sell their victims onto Nashira. How, then, do they profit from this enterprise?”

  He had a point.

  “Either I’m wrong,” I said, “or someone else is involved. And I don’t think I’m wrong.” A headache was building. “I’d say Benoît Ménard, but I don’t see why he’d cough up any amount of money for voyants. He captures enough of us without help from the gray market.”

  The wind threw a flurry of snow in our direction. I crammed my icy hands into my pockets.

  “This missing duc. Le Vieux Orphelin,” I forced out. Even my jaw shook with cold. “I’d bet my last penny he found out about their deal and threatened to expose it.”

  “So they sold him to the Rag and Bone Man,” Arcturus finished. “To silence him.”

  “Exactly.”

  He glanced toward the hidden entrance to the carrières.

  “This knowledge puts us in considerable danger,” he said. “I imagine Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes considered killing us, but some of their voyants had seen us arrive. And needed to see us leave. I suspect you are too popular to murder in plain sight.”

  He nodded to the opposite wall, which was smothered in graffiti. In the morass of tags and caricatures, spray-painted messages shone out in yellow, each with a black moth behind it.

  LONG LIVE THE BLACK MOTH

  AVENGE THE UNDERQUEEN

  il est temps de voler ce qui nous appartient

  Le Latronpuche had said that some of the Parisian voyants considered me a hero. Here was evidence.

  “We need to find out who wrote those,” I said.

  “Another time.” Arcturus stood. “Night Vigiles will be on duty soon.”

  The sky was the deep blue of a bruise. When he offered a hand, I grasped it and let him pull me up. “Better find a cab, then,” I said. “Do you know where the nearest arch is?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloping walls flanked the railway. Our boots ate into deep snow. Now we were out of the darkness, I was conscious of my bruises, old and new.

  Under the fatigue, my sixth sense trembled, and I looked up to see a silhouette at the top of the wall to our right. When a second figure appeared, my stomach turned. Arcturus had clocked them, too.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “The grands ducs have either told these clowns to kill us, or to knock us out so they can sell us on the market.”

  “Your advice, Underqueen?”

  “Keep moving.”

  A service ladder took us up to Rue des Plantes, where the wind scourged my cheeks and the tips of my ears. I had never wanted to be inside more. When we reached the end of the street, we stepped up the pace. So did our pursuers.

  As soon as the illuminated arch came into view, we crossed the road and strode toward it. Two painted cabs loitered nearby.

  “Go.” Arcturus pressed some money into my hand. “I will distract them.”

  “Wait.” I kept hold of his wrist. “The cabbies might report to the grands ducs. I see a better option.”

  On the other side of the arch, a man in a suit had just climbed out of an expensive-looking car. I watched him shove the key into his pocket. He was almost shouting into a phone, too absorbed in his argument to notice his surroundings.

  This had to be the easiest mark in the citadel. With my lenses in place, I marched toward him and braced myself.

  We collided hard enough to set off my bruises like a row of mines. “Pardonnez moi,” I wheezed. “C’était un accident.”

  My hand was already out of his pocket. He batted me away, oblivious to the loss of his key. I waited until he had rounded a corner before I unlocked his car. Arcturus went to the passenger side.

  “So,” he said, “we are choosing larceny.”

  “Always so surprised when his criminal friend commits crimes.” I opened the door. “Relax. Scion has far more nefarious things to do than go after a couple of small-time car thieves.”

  I climbed inside and fit the key into the ignition, lighting up the dashboard. Arcturus sat in the other seat.

  “Bonsoir, Laurent,” a cool voice intoned. “Gloire à l’ancre. J’espère que vous avez passé une journée productive au travail.”

  “Oh, perfect. Just what I’ve always wanted.” I reached for my seat belt. “Propaganda on wheels.”

  I locked the doors, put my foot down, and swerved off the pavement. Arcturus gripped the armrest.

  “Not a car fan?” I asked as I checked the rearview camera. The anormales were starting to run.

  “I do not enjoy vehicles.” He fastened his seat belt. “In general.”

  “Noted.”

  My hands were clammy on the wheel. Nick had taught me to drive, but I had only attempted it a handful of times, and had never got my license. I preferred the rooftops. Still, I held my nerve as I drove away from our pursuers. They kept running after the car.

  “We need to avoid main roads and cameras. Guide me.” I took a sharp corner a little too fast. “I’ll try not to kill us.”

  Arcturus seemed to welcome the distraction. He directed me down a long street to put distance between us and the anormales, who soon gave up. After that, it was a winding course through the backstreets to avoid surveillance. We abandoned the car a good distance from the safe house and walked the rest of the way.

  “Do you not have vehicles in the Netherworld?” I asked him as we strode through the snow.

  “Not of that sort.”

  I was grateful to see the safe house. Even with gloves, my hands were so cold that it took me a few tries to get the door open. Once inside, I sank onto the hallway stairs, threw my coat over the banister, and unbuttoned my boots.

  “There you go,” I said, between shallow breaths. “Your first step up from cake theft.”

  Arcturus secured the latch. “And what is the next step?”

  “Well, if you can stretch yourself to robbing banks, that would solve a few problems.” As I pulled off my boots, the æther resonated, raising the fine hairs on my arms. “Someone else is here.”

  We looked at one another through the gloom. “No sign of forced entry,” Arcturus said. “Domino.”

  Of course they had turned up on the same day we decided to leave the safe house. Of course.

  “I’ll speak to them.” I got back up. My legs trembled under my weight. “You keep out of sight.”

  I went upstairs with one hand curled around the handle of my knife, too weary for fear. When I entered the parlor, where a single lamp glowed, I thought at first that my sixth sense had been wrong. There was no one there. Then my nape prickled, and I turned to see a woman step from the shadows to my right, as silent as if she had never touched the floor.

  “Hello, Flora,” she said coolly. “I trust you have had a pleasant evening.”

  5

  Domino

  The stranger was tall and amaurotic, sharp in a tailored coat and trousers. Dark hair gusted around her face. Equally dark eyes took me in, from my knotted curls to the filthy knees of my trousers.

  “Fine, thanks,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Just went for a quick—”

  “We can dispense with the pleasantries.” She sounded Parisian. “You were instructed to remain in this safe house until your briefing, but you took it upon yourself to leave. Why?”

  Except for the crow’s feet around her eyes, her brown skin was impeccably smooth. Co
smetic enameling. At a push, I would have guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties.

  “You’ll have to explain how it’s any of your business,” I said.

  “Because your life is in my hands.” She stripped off her gloves. “Isaure Ducos. Domino Program.”

  “Paige.”

  “Flora. Your name is Flora Blake, and you are now a member of sub-network Mannequin.”

  Isaure Ducos walked to the nearest window. She was a striking woman, yet her every move was so precise, so silent, that she must have been able to pass unnoticed in any room. I imagined that she had never so much as knocked a glass over without intent.

  “Now we are acquainted, Flora, I will ask you again,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “To the river.”

  “From your appearance, I can only assume you swam in it.”

  “I needed some air. I’ve been indoors for weeks.”

  “Because you are the most wanted fugitive in the Republic of Scion. If you were in such dire need of air, you might have considered inhaling.” No smile. “Leaving the safe house without consulting the network was reckless and foolish. Reckless fools are dangerous in this line of work. Ignore a direct order again, and you will be deemed a rogue agent.”

  “What happens then?”

  “Guess.” Ducos snapped the shutters closed. “Where is your associate?”

  “Still at the river.”

  “Naturally,” she said under her breath. “Since he is not an agent, I have no choice but to overlook it.”

  “What is he, if not an agent?”

  “He is your auxiliary. A support role. Usually, auxiliaries are trusted contacts, or agents drawn from elsewhere in the network. Then again . . . nothing about your employment is usual, Flora.” She looked me up and down. “How is your recovery progressing?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “Our medical officer will examine you in due course. Until then, you should rest as much as possible.”

  She sat in the armchair and set a briefcase on the coffee table. The lamplight touched on sharply etched cheekbones and heavy brows.