The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  “Of course.” I swallowed my pride. “In truth, I’d be grateful for a bed. I just lost the place I was staying in.”

  “You are always welcome with us.”

  Voices resounded nearby. Ahead, two rusted doors were drawn apart for us, and we stepped into a dark and sonorous hall, which years of neglect had distorted into a bizarre dreamscape. Thick pipes swam in and out of the walls. A concrete staircase ended in midair. Rubble had formed a cairn beneath a vast hole in the roof. Past the haze of ochre light from the tower, the night was clear. The ceiling was a yawning mouth that rattled with a thousand stars.

  At least a hundred voyants had gathered, their puffs of breath drifting up to the rafters. These must be the patrones and other influential members of the syndicate, along with well-chosen witnesses.

  Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes had not yet arrived.

  “Ignace,” I said quietly, and sensed him turn. “When did you decide to put the mask on for good?”

  After a pause, he answered. “When there was too much inside me that I could no longer hide.”

  I was grateful, then, for the frozen lips of my own mask. They covered the tremor in mine.

  Ducos came to my side. I melted into the back of the crowd with her, while Le Vieux Orphelin ascended a creaking set of stairs and stepped onto a platform, where everyone could see him. Léandre stood behind him.

  “Friends,” Le Vieux Orphelin called, “good evening. It has been some time since I last set foot on this island.”

  Absolute silence descended on the hall.

  “How good it is to see you again,” he said. “How long it has been since we gathered like this. We grands ducs spend much of our time among the bones, concealed from Scion. Not all of you can afford to hide with us in the dark. You have mouths to feed. You have coin to earn, often in the face of extraordinary danger. Or perhaps you wish to live in the sun. Not the shadows.”

  Every face was raised, every gaze intent.

  “We, your leaders, may seem complacent and distant to you. You may even have asked yourselves if we notice the hardships of life in the Republic of Scion France. My friends, I have noticed. I have seen. I have walked among you as often as I can, and I have witnessed the need for justice. Since I was a child, I have fought back against our enemy. And I have waited for the opportune moment to turn that fight into a war.” He paced his stage. “I have summoned you here to what I believe will be the cradle of that war.”

  Mutters.

  “First, however, it falls to me to turn the knife inward. Though it hurts me, I must reveal the enemy within. Only then can we turn to those who threaten us without,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Four years ago, you elected me one of your grands ducs, and I vowed that I would never leave Paris; that I would never abandon the anormaux of this citadel. I vowed that I would always work for their good, for their betterment—and to do that, I had to live alongside them.” His forefinger snapped up. “This year, I was forced to break that vow.”

  “What is he talking about?” someone whispered near me.

  “He has gone mad.”

  From her expression, Ducos agreed. Nonetheless, she was listening.

  “I have seen many wrongs in my time in Paris. But never had I thought that it was possible for this family—our family—to turn against itself,” Le Vieux Orphelin went on. “For several long weeks, I was a prisoner of Scion.” The whispers turned to mutters. “Because I was betrayed. Betrayed by the very people who swore to protect you from the anchor. Instead, they sacrificed you to it.”

  He had their attention. Fortunate, because a cluster of dreamscapes was approaching, two of them familiar.

  “Tonight, I would like you to help me bring them to justice,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “by bearing witness to a trial.” He looked toward the doors and raised a gloved hand. “Bring them in.”

  Two voyants heaved the doors open again. Beside me, Ducos drew in a long breath.

  “Is this likely to end in bloodshed?” she said to me in an undertone.

  I watched the doors. “Not if they accept the charges.”

  Footsteps broke the tense silence. Several flashlightes flicked toward the doors just as Le Latronpuche stepped through them.

  His wig was tied back with ribbon and covered by a buckled hat, and a fur-lined cape swept from his shoulders. Beside him, La Reine des Thunes had abandoned her musty gown in favor of a frock coat. Eight armed voyants flanked them.

  At the sight of the vast gathering, both of them stopped dead. Some of their voyants reached for their weapons, only for La Reine des Thunes to still them with a small motion.

  “Beloved siblings-in-chaos,” Le Vieux Orphelin greeted, his tone pleasant. “Welcome.”

  “How did—” Le Latronpuche stared up at him, open-mouthed, a startled trout. A moment later, he slapped a smile over his disbelief. “My dear brother! What a great relief to see you alive.”

  “Indeed,” La Reine des Thunes agreed, clearly just as stricken. “An immense relief.” Even in this gloom, her diamonds glistened. “We . . . feared we would never see you again.”

  “Doubtless,” Le Vieux Orphelin agreed. The doors squeaked closed, and a voyant secured them. “I am so glad you could both accept my invitation to this little gathering.” Pause. “Or were you under the impression that you were meeting someone else tonight?”

  La Reine des Thunes said nothing more. One of her hands strayed toward the pocket of her coat.

  “You have heard of the Man in the Iron Mask, the spectre of the slums,” Le Vieux Orphelin said to his audience. “Some of you may have lost friends and family to him. I tell you now that Le Latronpuche struck a bargain with this monster. I was a victim of that bargain, as were eight others. Paul Caron, whose songs brought joy to our darkest streets, who leaves behind a spouse and child. His crime was to sing a ballad that mocked Le Latronpuche.

  “Sylvie Lambriquet, the most gifted pickpocket in Grenelle, who dared to sell her prizes without paying tax to the grands ducs. Simon Cleutin, who insulted Le Latronpuche by asking him for a little coin to save his family from starvation.” The muttering again, like a kicked hive. “How gravely he suffered for that mistake. He was a burden, you see. They were betrayed, sold, and left to the mercy of Scion, while Le Latronpuche pocketed a handsome fee.”

  “This is absurd. The ravings of a power-hungry fool,” Le Latronpuche snapped. “What is this—a court of piepowders, to try us on the spur of the moment?” He raised his voice. “Treachery and avarice. I have maintained for years that he wants Le Nouveau Régime for himself, and here is the proof !”

  The crowd rippled. Le Latronpuche took a bold step forward.

  “Have you any evidence of this so-called bargain, Ignace,” he demanded, “or is that another secret you hide behind that mask?”

  “I thank you for asking that question, mon frère,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Rest assured, I have evidence to prove your corruption. A ledger that belonged to the Man in the Iron Mask.”

  He held up the object in question. Every gaze was pinned to him as he opened it and skimmed a finger down the page.

  “There is my name,” he said softly. “And the names of our lost friends, all anormaux who have not been seen since the listed dates. Their sponsor—the person who betrayed them—is listed as one P. Waite.” He showed it to them all. “This is your true name. Is it not?”

  “I deny it.” Le Latronpuche mustered a grin. “You would make a poor lawyer, Ignace, to bring nothing but ink to a trial—ink from a pen that could have been yours. In fact, if that ledger does belong to the Man in the Iron Mask, one might wonder how you obtained it. Are you in league with him?” He whirled to face the witnesses. “Are there no others who can verify your story, give credence to your forged document? Anyone not from your own pack of sycophants?”

  “I can.”

  Every head turned. It took me a moment to realize that the voice that had broken the silence was mine.

  “Hello again, Latronp
uche.” I moved toward him, parting the crowd. “I know I promised I wouldn’t interfere. As it turns out, we can both lie between our teeth.”

  When I was close enough for him to see me in the dimness, I removed the mask. At once, the mutters turned to high-strung chatter. I walked past Le Latronpuche and joined Le Vieux Orphelin on the platform.

  “Anormales of Paris,” I said to them, “I am Paige Mahoney, Black Moth, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London. With his brave perdues at my side, I retrieved Le Vieux Orphelin from the clutches of Scion, and from its masters, the Rephaim. And I hereby accuse Le Latronpuche of treason, of collusion with the anchor, and of human trafficking.”

  Le Latronpuche appeared to have frozen in place. His gaze darted from one face to another, drinking in the reactions to my appearance. He conjured another of his smiles and stepped toward me.

  “Underqueen,” he said in a honeyed tone, “this is a terrible misunderstanding. Of course, as I said when we last met, you are most welcome in Paris—”

  “The Underqueen was alive, and you knew?” an augur shouted. “For how long?”

  “Did you plan to sell her, too?”

  “—but,” Le Latronpuche shouted over the din, “whatever you believe you saw, whatever lies Le Vieux Orphelin has told you, it had nothing to do with me.” His voice hardened. “There is no evidence that I have ever conspired with Scion.”

  Our gazes locked. The slippery bastard was right.

  That was when the æther rang. For the first time in days, a smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.

  “Actually,” I said, “I have a witness. A witness who would be deemed credible in any court of law, be it voyant or amaurotic. Someone who knows you better than anyone.” While Le Latronpuche looked baffled, I motioned to the voyants at the back of the hall. “Open the doors.”

  They obeyed. Not half a minute later, a lone figure in a tailcoat marched inside, his wig aquiver.

  Last I had seen him, he had been pounding a street with his fists as his auction house burned to the ground. Jaxon had always dismissed him as an incompetent fool. He might be a terrible binder and an even worse poet, but I had never been more pleased to clap eyes on anyone.

  “Oh, for the love of Nostredame and the fear of Hades,” Le Latronpuche said wearily. “Please. Not like this.”

  “Mister Waite, welcome to Paris,” I called across the hall. “Thank you for answering my urgent summons.”

  “You are very welcome, Underqueen.” Didion was ruddy-cheeked, panting as if he had run all the way from London. “Any question I can answer, any service I can provide, it would be my pleasure and my privilege.” He spoke at great speed in French. “Ask, and I shall deliver.”

  Ivy slipped into the hall behind him. She gave me the smallest nod.

  “Thank you,” I said, with a smile at Didion. “First, would you be so kind as to introduce yourself ?”

  “Friends, I am Didion Waite,” he declared, in his element at last. “Binder, auctioneer, curator of rare spirits, and renowned author of illicit literature, including Bring Forth the Smelling Sa—”

  “Thank you, Mister Waite,” I cut in, before he could list all one hundred and forty-seven of his published works. “I only have two questions, if you’d be so kind.” I pointed at Le Latronpuche. “Who is this man?”

  “His name,” Didion said, almost slavering in triumph, “is Pantaléon Waite.” He took his time over each syllable. Le Latronpuche looked as if he had just aged twenty years. “It was given to him by our late mother. You see, Underqueen, this man is my elder brother.”

  “Half brother ,” Le Latronpuche said under his breath.

  “Thank you again, Mister Waite,” I said. “And may I confirm that this”—I took the ledger from Le Vieux Orphelin—’is his signature, to the best of your knowledge?”

  Didion came up the steps to accept it. In the silence that followed, not a single breath was drawn.

  “Oh, yes.” He snapped it closed. “Pantaléon published several works of his own in London,” he added, with a sly look at Le Latronpuche. “I took the liberty of bringing some of his many rejected manuscripts with me, written in his own hand. Perhaps you would like to compare them.”

  “You truly have thought of everything,” I said. “Thank you kindly, Mister Waite.”

  He bowed to me with a flourish and stepped back. Le Latronpuche gritted his gray teeth.

  “Have you anything to say?” I asked him.

  “I do not, Underqueen. I am going,” he said, lip curled, “but I will not brook this miscarriage of justice. You shall hear from me again in due course. Mark my words, there will be—”

  “Yes. You are going, Latronpuche,” I said, toneless. I fitted the mask back over my features. “Into a cell. A very small one. For quite some time.”

  I gave no order. And yet thirty-odd voyants moved, half of them blocking the door and the others coming up behind him. Le Latronpuche shouted in incoherent rage while his own voyants towed and shoved him toward another room, there to await a stronger prison. La Reine des Thunes hovered in nervous silence.

  “Douceline,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. She flinched. “I know you were a part of this, but since I have no evidence against you, I cannot banish you. Join us, and you may find a path to forgiveness.”

  La Reine des Thunes barely hesitated before she removed the diamonds from her ears and the pearls from her neck.

  “You gave these to me, mon frère.” She pressed them on him with trembling hands. “Sell them. For the revolution. Everything I have, I offer to the revolution.”

  Le Vieux Orphelin beheld the diamonds. They were priceless contraband, representing more provisions and weapons than I could imagine.

  “As do we,” he said. “The Underqueen and myself.”

  All eyes turned to me again. I remembered standing in front of another syndicate, soaked in blood, with a crown twisted from numa on my head.

  “I was no one,” I said. “Just a child in Ireland when Scion came. When I almost lost my life to their violence. When I saw hundreds die.” I spoke louder: “I was nineteen when they came again. When they took my name. When they tried to warp me into their weapon. That day, I resolved that I would not rest until no one in this world lives in the shadow of the anchor. Until clairvoyants can live wherever they choose, without fear and without shame.”

  Watched by them all, I walked to Le Vieux Orphelin. At the back of the room, I glimpsed Ducos.

  “I have found a like-minded leader here in Paris. Together, we pose a far greater threat to Scion, and to their benefactors, the Rephaim. It is time to choose a side,” I stated, “because war is coming. And there can be no middle ground against enemies like these.”

  “From this day forth, if you stand with us, Le Nouveau Régime and the Mime Order will be one army,” Le Vieux Orphelin called. “By your grace, my friends, we will unite our two syndicates. Let us bridge the sea. At the dawn of this new decade, let us teach the anchor what it is to be afraid.”

  For a long time, there was silence. I took in their faces, waiting, my nerves tuned to every subtle change in their expressions.

  Then someone took a step forward. Katell, the woman who had opened this syndicate for me, her baby in a sling. She crossed her thumbs, pressed her fingers together, and fanned them outward, so they looked for all the world like wings.

  Then came a muster of raised voices, and hands lifted, and then there were fifty of them, a hundred, more. An eclipse of moths—a storm, an army, soaring from the depths of night.

  ****

  In the end, after everything, the coup had been bloodless. A far quieter victory than the scrimmage in London. I had never expected Didion Waite to be the key—but if there was one thing I had learned in the last year, it was that in a puppet empire, everyone had their role to play.

  Le Latronpuche might swing from the old gibbet at Île Louviers, or be handed over to the Vigiles, or granted a second chance. I would have no part in that decision. I had not come
here to rule. Le Vieux Orphelin would see to his people, and I would see to mine. But we would lead them with a common goal.

  The gray market was gone. So was Sheol II. Domino would collaborate with the Mime Order. It was more than I could ever have asked from my time in this citadel, where my father had promised we would go one day.

  Never had victory felt so cold.

  The patrones disappeared back into the citadel. Soon, only a few of us remained on the island. Still wearing her dissimulator, Ducos stood at the riverbank, where I joined her, and together we drank in the immensity of the tower that speared high above us, into a hood of cloud.

  “There is a transmission station at the top of it,” she said. “For emergency broadcasts.” Fog unfurled from her lips. “There have been rumblings from my contacts in the network.”

  “What kind of rumblings?”

  “Something to do with the fall of Spain.” Her gaze was distant. “They never tell us very much. Not even supervisors. But the execution of a royal family, thinly concealed though it was . . . it has caused ripples. Scion may have gone too far this time.”

  “They went too far when they marched on Dublin,” I said. “Our Taoiseach called for aid. No one ever came.”

  We stood side-by-side for a long while. Ducos reached into her coat and handed me a phone.

  “Keep this close. I’ll call you,” she said. “Until then, Paige, don’t get yourself killed.” A breeze teased her short hair across her face as she turned to face me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Mannequin thanks you for your service. As does the Domino Program.”

  She walked until the darkness of the tunnel swallowed her. I gazed at the Eiffel Tower for a long time after she was gone, until footsteps broke my trance and Le Vieux Orphelin took her place.

  “To Passy, then, Underqueen?”

  It was a moment before I answered.

  “Yes.” My voice sounded distant. “Throughout all of this—every step we have taken to get here—we’ve just been sowing the seeds. Now our pieces stand ready. So does the enemy. It’s time we tear open this war.” I looked at him. “And I think I know where we need to start.”