His voice was smooth, molten. It lacked the velvet quality I had noticed in other soft-spoken people, like Arcturus—that subtle edge of roughness, like a match being struck.
“Yes, Marianne carries the anchor well. And yet, we are also revolutionaries here in France. We do not brook tyrants for long. I hear the old cry like a drum in my head—liberté, égalité, fraternité. We have none of these now. No vote or voice. Only the impression of safety.”
A brief silence pealed.
“Le Vieux Orphelin,” I said. “Ignace Fall.”
The mask tilted. “May I ask where you heard that name?”
“I read it. In a ledger belonging to the Man in the Iron Mask.”
“Ah.”
He rested his elbows on the edge of the spring. His fingers were long, one adorned with an unusual silver ring.
“Le Vieux Orphelin. The Old Orphan,” I said. “Tu ne me parais pas particulièrement vieux.”
A short, rich laugh. “Ankou told me you spoke French. A welcome surprise,” he said. “Nevertheless, I would prefer to hold this conversation in English, the language of our mutual enemy. I would enjoy plotting their downfall in the tongue they compel us both to speak.”
“If you like.” My nape was slick with sweat. “I didn’t know there were any hot springs in Paris.”
“Only this one, buried deep under the district of Passy. I discovered this small quarry with Renelde. There was never much trust between myself and my fellow grands ducs, so I thought it wise to have a hideout. I was right.”
We fell into silence for a time. Carefully, I tipped my head back into the water to soften my hair.
“Elegant.”
I looked back at him. “What?”
“Your neck. Tell me,” he said, “when you set out to defy the anchor, did you ever imagine what a neck would look like without a head upon it?”
“I didn’t need to imagine,” I said. “I’d seen it on the screens before.”
“You saw it recently, I know,” he said, “when your own father was murdered with the Wrath of the Inquisitor. A sword with a gilded blade, to show there is glory in the death of a traitor. Scion does like its symbols. In that, the republic is not so different from a monarchy.”
I watched the mask.
“The rulers of old wore crowns and jewels to proclaim their divine authority. They believed these trinkets would protect them, and for a long time, they were right. Until their trinkets became their downfall, and their subjects saw them for what they were beneath. Mummers. Frauds. Mortals dressed as gods.” His voice rang in the gloom. “I understand that under Haymarket Hector, the mime-lords and mime-queens of London fell prey to the same weakness for . . . trappings.”
“Theatrics went too far under my predecessors,” I agreed, “but I’m not above using greasepaint myself. It can be a weapon. A disguise.”
“Oh, yes. But props must be wed to decisive, committed action. When I was told about the speech you made when you became Underqueen, I thought we might share that sentiment.”
I decided not to reply. Best not to seem too eager.
“This first meeting of ours is unusual, but promising,” he remarked. “Here in this spring, Underqueen, we have no crowns, no jewels, no costumes. No means to disguise ourselves.”
“Says the man in a mask.”
“I hope you will indulge that small hypocrisy.” He lifted his fingers to the edges and gave a pull. “It cannot be helped.”
It must be surgically attached to him. The thought was like a hand around my throat.
“Le Basilic threatened to remove it in the colony. He went into some detail about the ways he would attempt it,” he said. “Fortunately, Underqueen, you came before he could.”
I waited for him to continue, strangely fascinated.
“A mask allows a person to transcend the limits of one body, one face,” he said. “I have built a reputation in Paris. It is inevitably disappointing to find that the subject of any legend is no more than a man. So while Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes showed their faces to our subjects, I became my mask, my costume, and it became me. I made them whisper. I made them wonder. And when you make people do that, they start to tell their own stories.” His skin gleamed in the warmth. “I trust your wounds are healing now.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It is the least I can do to thank you. Hard though it is that we lost poor Malperdy, he will be remembered.” The mask was still. “I want you to know that I have spoken to Léandre about his decision to direct most of the prisoners to the Forêt de Meudon. Much as it pains me to admit it, he acted reasonably. Had any more of them joined us, it would not have been you alone who was swept into the flood.”
I looked away.
“I was in a similar colony,” I said. “We left people behind then, too. It was difficult for me to accept.”
“I understand. As does Léandre.” He reached up to an alcove and removed a bottle. “An eighteenth-century vintage. Saved from the ruins of the last wine estate razed in the Médoc. Would you care to taste it with me?”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I don’t care for wine.” I needed a clear head for this.
“Very well.”
He retrieved a goblet. As he stretched, I noticed a wound had been sutured under his left pectoral.
“The candles in my appartements privés are kept alight through pyromancy. Noonday—one of my perdues—recently mastered a new talent. Once, she could only glimpse the future in the flames. Now she can command spirits to carry them.” He lowered himself back into the pool. “I have witnessed the rise of this phenomenon in Paris. Voyants unlocking their abilities. Our power grows with every sunrise.”
“I saw the same in London.”
Le Vieux Orphelin poured some of his priceless wine.
“Underqueen,” he said, “my only experience of the Rephaim is as their prisoner. I wonder if you will tell me your story, share what you know of them. I should like to know their aims.”
“Where shall I begin?”
“The beginning,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “though of course, that is never where one thinks it is.”
For the next half an hour, I told him most of what had happened to me over the past year. My imprisonment. The rebellion. Senshield. The Ranthen. I also told him the truth about the Emim. By the time I was finished, my fingertips had creased. I had omitted my work for Domino—I still meant to protect the network—but most of my life was laid bare.
Le Vieux Orphelin ruminated for a long while.
“So,” he concluded, “the curtain is drawn back at last. Scion is no republic, but a puppet empire for a monster.” He topped up his goblet. “Here in Paris, we honor cartomancy as a high art. One card has appeared in most readings. L’Impératrice. Always inverted.”
The Empress. A woman in a crown of stars. Upright, it was a hopeful card, of abundance and growth. Inverted, it spoke of a suffocating presence. Something that moved against nature.
“We are ruled by gods,” Le Vieux Orphelin mused. “Now, it seems, we must go to war with them.”
“We are already at war,” I said. “Portugal has fallen. Spain will follow. Nashira Sargas wants our world, and I mean to stop her claiming it.”
“I believe you. I sent eyes to your citadel when I heard a scrimmage would be held,” he said. “When they told me about you—a former mollisher who wanted to turn a rabble of thieves into an army—I sensed the winds of change had blown on London.” He cradled his goblet in one hand. “I share your vision of a world without Scion. We have both borne witness to the Rephaim.”
“And you understand the need to work with the Ranthen,” I said. “I know it might be hard to stomach, after the colony.”
“Au contraire. My experience there convinced me that help from their side is necessary. Such is Rephaite power, and our fragility.”
“Would you consider a temporary alliance with anyone from Scion?” I
asked. “If they shared our desire to stop Nashira.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Benoît Ménard.”
His mask tilted up. “Ménard,” he said softly.
“Yes. I happen to know that he despises the Rephaim,” I said. “He thinks of them as just as unnatural as us. He planned to eventually use Sheol II to imprison them, as well as anormales.” He was silent. “You two have a history. You met about twelve years ago, in Lyon, during a period where his public record is suspiciously vague. I presume you wouldn’t be amenable to the idea of cozying up to him, but I have to ask.”
Le Vieux Orphelin fell into a deep silence. So deep I thought he must have washed his tongue down with the wine.
“Ménard is a vicious and fanatical individual,” he said at last. “His hatred of our kind runs very deep. I think he would burn us at the stake if he did not want the smell of melting flesh on his streets.”
“And yet,” I said, “he is willing to work with anormales, under certain circumstances.”
“How do you know this, Underqueen?” he asked quietly. “When did you cross paths with the Butcher of Strasbourg?”
“I infiltrated his mansion to find Sheol II. When he caught me red-handed, I thought he would kill me,” I said. “Instead, he offered me an alliance, of sorts, until the Rephaim have fallen.”
“You are fortunate to have survived that experience. What was your opinion of his offer?”
“I still haven’t formed one. I’d like to hear yours,” I said. “I don’t know whether a truce with him is a wise idea. Everything in me recoils from the thought. All I know is that he despises the Rephaim. For him, we are a means to an end—and we could use him the same way.”
“It does not surprise me that he hates them,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Knowing what Ménard is, I confess, I would find it exceedingly difficult to tolerate him in any capacity. I also doubt he would be willing to work with me.” He swilled his wine. “Let us . . . give this matter some thought, and return to it later. For now, will you permit me to explain my proposal?”
“Of course.”
“There is one step we must take before all others, and that is to eliminate the Man in the Iron Mask. I think it best for a small group of four or five of us to catch him unawares. Once he is in custody, my perdues can emerge from hiding without fear of his followers.”
I nodded.
“I will then gather the syndicate on the Île des Cygnes—an old refuge—where I will have summoned the other grands ducs. I can think of some convincing pretext. Once they arrive, I will accuse them of treachery. It will be easiest if they confess. If not, we may have a fight on our hands.”
“And that’s where you need me.”
“Yes. I need you at my side. That will carry weight among the anormaux, which I will need to defeat Le Latronpuche, since he has many of them in his pocket. Unless we can prove there is a trail between him and Scion, I have no proof of his dealings.”
“I have proof,” I said. “Proof that Le Latronpuche was involved in the gray market. The same ledger I mentioned earlier.”
“Intriguing. May I see it?”
“Certainly. It’s on the surface.”
“Thank you. It will help me to build a case against Le Latronpuche.” He drank. “Underqueen, I know about Operation Albion. I know your friends and supporters are in considerable danger. If the Mime Order is to survive, it must double in strength. I offer you a way for it to do that. If you agree, I can announce our alliance to the syndicate on the Île des Cygnes.”
The voyants of London and Paris, bridged at last, after over a century of estrangement. This might be the most important alliance I ever made, and I had no intention of running into it in haste.
“I promise you soldiers for your army,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “and coin for your cause.”
“And in return, I give you my backing, and you usurp Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes?”
“As you usurped the White Binder, your own mime-lord,” he said. “Not for selfish gain, but for the sake of all anormaux. For the sake of humankind.”
The mask denied me his expression, but his tone rang with sincerity and conviction.
“The thought of an alliance between our two great syndicates is a very compelling one.” I allowed myself a brief smile. “I need to return to the surface to . . . consult with my network, but I’ll give you an answer as soon as I can.”
He nodded.
“We should take another day to recover before we attempt to find the Man in the Iron Mask,” I said, rising from the hot spring and enveloping myself in a towel. “I don’t know about you, but I think I need it.”
“Of course. Your fever was severe,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “I was captured on Rue de Grenelle, near L’Hôtel des Invalides. Perhaps we should begin our search for the Man in the Iron Mask there.”
“Actually, I think you were the exception. He usually hunts near the Court of Miracles. There’s a symbol he uses,” I said. “A skeletal hand.”
“I will send messages to my eyes on the surface,” he said. “Let us meet at the Métro station of Sentier, then—on Sunday, at half past eleven in the evening. If you need me before then, you may find me here.”
“Very well.”
“Before you leave, Underqueen,” he said, “I hope you will permit me to present you with a gift. It comes with no conditions.” He climbed from the spring and reached into another alcove. “This is simply a small token of admiration, from one revolutionary to another.”
With a towel around his waist, he walked toward me. I took the wooden box he offered and tipped open its lid.
Bedded in silk was a white mask. Its lips were crimson, and an ornate black moth spread its wings over the cheeks, with holes cut out for my eyes. The white sections were latticed with very fine cracks, imitating the way paint looked after aging. It was a work of art.
“Stunning.” I ran my fingertip over the nose, the lips. Someone had studied my face before creating this. “Who made it?”
“I did. It is a passion of mine. I crafted masks for all of my perdues, telling their stories,” he said. “Sometimes theatre is necessary to earn an audience, Underqueen. And the revolution needs that audience. But if our roles are to be more than trappings—more than cheap distractions—then we must occupy them. Live and breathe them. I have done that for eleven years, since the day I first covered my face with this mask.”
I glimpsed his eyes, dark and incisive. I wondered who he was, and what had driven him to resist.
“If you and I are to fight the gods, we must become mythic ourselves,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “With this, whenever you desire, you can conceal Paige Mahoney—all her fears, all her sorrow, all her rage—and inhabit Black Moth. You can write her story. You can sing it to the streets of Paris. And I promise you, this citadel will call eternally for more.”
I had never had a costume. In the scrimmage, I had fought as the Pale Dreamer, the mirror of the White Binder, even when I had declared myself as Black Moth. Perhaps it was time.
“Thank you.” I closed the box. “You can call me Paige. In private, of course.”
“Paige.” He inclined his head, and I returned the gesture. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
He took his leave. I set the box down by the pool and began to dress, keeping the mask in view. It was the only proof that the meeting had been any more than a heat-induced hallucination.
****
The clothes I had been left were well-made and warm. By the time I returned to my sickroom, someone had lit a stove. I sat beside it until my hair dried.
My backpack sat in the corner. The camera was safe inside. I hoped the photograph had survived—but the water had reduced my dissimulator to mush.
I moved about, restless, folding the sheets into the corner, rolling the rug I had lain on for days. I was so distracted, I didn’t notice him until he spoke.
“Paige.”
My head snapped up. Arct
urus was standing at the threshold.
Seeing him snatched the breath from me. He was here. He was fine. I wanted to go to him, but sudden trepidation stopped me.
“You’re back,” I said.
“Yes. And you are awake.”
“At last.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “Nadine said you were with me the whole time.”
“Hm.”
He let the drape fall across the entrance, silencing the muffled conversations in the rest of the appartements privés. Now that we shared the same firelit space, I could hardly think for wondering if he had heard my confession as the water closed in. If the golden cord had carried it to him.
I wanted you. I wanted us.
“I was just with Le Vieux Orphelin,” I said. “We laid the groundwork for an alliance between the syndicates. In the bath. Which is . . . very normal.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” His flaming gaze rested on mine. “It is done, then. Sheol II is no more.”
“Yes.”
The magnitude of it settled over us. Together, we had struck another blow against Scion.
“Domino might cut us off for what happened,” I said. “Ducos told me that discharged agents have to take white aster, to erase their memories of the network. Then again, blue aster could undo that, if we can find it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Blue aster.”
“Yes. Scion uses it,” I said. “They feed blue aster to the subject and it lets them see recent memories.”
“That is a lie, doubtless planted to frighten voyants. Blue aster can make memories clearer, but only an oneiromancer can see them.”
“Oh.” Scion had really hoodwinked the syndicate there. “I see. Could you restore my memories?”
“In theory, I could reverse the effects of white aster, though I have never attempted it. Memory is complex. And fragile.”
There was a brief silence. In that silence, I remembered the fire. The taste of the smoke when I had asked if he still wanted me. The smoke, and what had come before it.
The Mask Falling Page 38