The Bone Season

by Samantha Shannon

  “Go ahead.”

  “Where do I get food?”

  “The Warden left a note about that.” She poured a handful of blunted needles, cheap tin rings, and thimbles into my palm. “Here. They’re numa. The harlies always need them. You can exchange them for food in the stalls outside—there’s a sort of squatter settlement, you know—but it’s not very good. I’d wait for your keeper to feed you.”

  “Is he likely to do that?”

  “Maybe.”

  Well, now that was cleared up. “Where is the settlement?” I said.

  “On the Broad. Take the first right out of Magdalen, then the first left. You’ll see it.” She turned to a new page in her ledger. “Remember, you mustn’t sit down in public areas without permission, or enter any of the residences. Don’t wear anything apart from your uniform, either. Oh, and you absolutely must be back here by dawn.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, the Rephs sleep by day. I assume you know that spirits are easier to see when the sun goes down.”

  “And that makes training easier.”

  “Exactly.”

  I really didn’t like this girl. “Do you have a keeper?”

  “Yes, I do. He’s away at the moment, you know.”

  “Away where?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s for something important.”

  “I see. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a nice night! And remember,” she added, “don’t go beyond the bridge.”

  Well, someone was brainwashed. I smiled and took my leave.

  As I left the residence, my breath already clouding, I began to wonder what I’d got myself into. The Warden. His name was whispered like a prayer, like a promise. Why was this one different from the others? What did blood-consort mean? I promised myself I would look into it later. For now I would eat. Then I would find Seb. At least I had somewhere to sleep when I returned. He might not have been so lucky.

  A thin fog had descended. There seemed to be no electricity in the city. To my left was a stone bridge, set on both sides with gas lamps. This must be the bridge I couldn’t cross. A line of red-clad guards blocked the route between the city and the outside world. When I didn’t move, all ten of them pointed their guns at me. Scion weapons. Military grade. With all ten sights trained on my back, I set off to find the little town.

  The street ran alongside Magdalen’s grounds, separated from the residence by a high wall. I passed three heavy wooden doors, each guarded by a human in a red tunic. The wall was topped with iron spikes. I kept my head down and followed 33’s directions. The next street was just as deserted as the first, with no gas lamps to light my way. When I emerged from the darkness, my hands raw with cold, I found myself in something like a city center. Two large buildings towered on the left. The nearest had pillars and a decorated pediment, like the Grand Museum in I Cohort. I walked past it, onto the Broad. Tealights shone on every step and ledge. The sound of human life strained through the night.

  Rickety stalls and food booths had been constructed down the center of the street, lit by dirty lanterns. They were skeletal and gloomy. On either side of them were rows of rudimentary huts, shacks, and tents made of corrugated metal and plywood and plastic—a shantytown in the center of a city.

  And the siren. An old mechanical model with a single, gaping horn. Not like the hive-like electrical clusters on NVD outposts, designed for use in a national emergency. I hoped I never heard the sound that swelled up from its rotors. The last thing I needed was some flesh-eating killing machine on my tail.

  The smell of roasting meat drew me toward the shantytown. My stomach was tight with hunger. I walked into a dark, close tunnel, following my nose. The shacks seemed to be linked by a series of plywood tunnels, patched up with bits of scrap metal and cloth. They had few windows; instead they were lit by candles and paraffin lamps. I was the only person in a white tunic. These people all wore filthy clothes. The colors did little for their sallow complexions, their lifeless bloodshot eyes. None of them looked healthy. These must be the performers: humans who had failed their tests and been condemned to amuse the Rephaim for the rest of their lives, and probably their afterlives. Most were soothsayers or augurs, the most common kinds of voyant. A few people glanced at me, but they soon moved on. It was like they didn’t want to look for too long.

  The source of the smell was a large square room with a hole cut into the corrugated metal roof to let out smoke and steam. I sat down in a dark corner, trying not to draw attention to myself. The meat was being served in wafer-thin slices, still pink and tender in the middle. The performers passed around plates of meat and vegetables and scooped cream from silver tureens. People were fighting over the food, stuffing it into their mouths, licking the hot juices from their fingers. Before I could ask, a voyant pressed a plate into my hands. He was scrawny, dressed in little more than rags. His thick glasses were scratched all over.

  “Is Mayfield still in the Starch?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Mayfield?”

  “Yes, Abel Mayfield.” He sounded it out in syllables. “Is he still in the Archon? Is he still Grand Inquisitor?”

  “Mayfield died years ago.”

  “Who is it now?”

  “Frank Weaver.”

  “Oh, right. You haven’t got a copy of the Descendant, have you?”

  “They confiscated everything.” I glanced around for somewhere to sit down. “Did you really think Mayfield was still the Inquisitor?” It was impossible not to know the Inquisitor’s identity. Scarlett Burnish excluded, Weaver was the heart and soul of Scion.

  “All right, don’t get on your high horse. How was I supposed to know? We only get news once a decade.” He grabbed my arm, leading me to a corner. “Did they ever bring back the Roaring Boy?”

  “No.” I tried to free my arm, but he clung.

  “Is Sinatra still blacklisted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shame. What about the Fleapit? Did they ever find it?”

  “Cyril, she’s just arrived. I think she’d like something to eat.”

  Someone had noticed my predicament. Cyril rounded on the speaker, a young woman, with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up. “You are an absolute stinking bloody curmudgeon, Rymore. Did you pick up ten of swords again today?”

  “Yeah, when I was thinking about you.”

  With a glower, Cyril snatched the plate and scarpered. I made a grab for his shirt, but he was faster than a flimp. The girl shook her head. She had small, quick features, framed by matted black ringlets. Her red lipstick stood out like a fresh wound against her skin.

  “You had your oration last night, little sister.” Her voice carried a burr. “Your stomach wouldn’t have taken it.”

  “I ate yesterday morning,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh at being called little sister by this tiny girl.

  “Trust me, it’s the flux. It’s janxed your brain.” She glanced around the room. “Quick. Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “I have a crib. We can talk.”

  I didn’t much like the idea of following a stranger, but I had to talk to someone. I went after her.

  My guide seemed to know everyone. She touched hands with various people, always keeping an eye on me to make sure I was still behind her. Her clothes appeared to be in better condition than those of the other performers: a flimsy bell-sleeved shirt, trousers too short for her legs. She must be freezing. She drew back a ragged curtain. “Quick,” she said again. “They’ll see.”

  It was dim beyond the curtain, but a paraffin stove kept the shadows at bay. I sat down. A pile of stained sheets and a cushion made a rudimentary bed. “Do you always take in strays?”

  “Sometimes. I know how it is when you arrive.” The girl sat down by the stove. “Welcome to the Family.”

  “I’m part of a family?”

  “You are now, sister. And it’s not the cult kind of family, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a fami
ly formed for protection.” Her fingers worked at the stove. “I’m guessing you came from the syndicate.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I didn’t. The centrals didn’t need my sort.” A faint smile touched her lips. “I came here during the last Bone Season.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten years. I was thirteen.” She extended a callused hand. After a moment, I shook it. “Liss Rymore.”

  “Paige.”

  “XX-59-40?”

  “Yes.”

  Liss caught my expression. “Sorry,” she said. “Force of habit. Or maybe I’m brainwashed.”

  I shrugged. “What number are you?”

  “XIX-49-1.”

  “How do you know mine?”

  She poured a little methylated spirit into the stove. “News travels fast in a city this small. We can’t get any word from outside. They don’t like us to know what’s going on out there in the free world. If you call Scion ‘free.’” A blue flame leapt up. “Your number is on everyone’s lips.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Arcturus Mesarthim has never taken a human to his residence. He’s never shown interest in humans at all, in fact. It’s big news here, sad to say. Happens when you can’t get the penny papers.”

  “Do you know why he chose me?”

  “My best guess is that Nashira has got her lamps on you. He’s the blood-consort—her fiancé. We stay out of his way. Not that he ever leaves that tower.” She attached a billycan onto the stove. “Let me get you something to eat before we talk. Sorry. It’s been years since we’ve eaten at tables, us harlies.”

  “Harlies?”

  “It’s what jackets call the performers. They don’t like us much.”

  She heated up some broth and poured it into a bowl. I offered her a few rings, but she shook her head. “On the house.”

  I took a sip of the broth. It was odorless and translucent, and it tasted vile, but it was warm. Liss watched as I scraped the bowl clean.

  “Here.” She passed me a hunk of stale bread. “Skilly and toke. You’ll get used to it. Most of the keepers conveniently forget that we need to eat on a regular basis.”

  “There’s meat in there.” I gestured to the central room.

  “That’s just to celebrate Bone Season XX. I made this skilly from the juices earlier.” She poured herself a bowl. “We rely on the rotties to keep us from starving. This junk is all from the kitchens,” she said, nodding to the stove and billycan. “They’re only meant to cook for red-jackets, but they sneak us food when they can. Having said that, they’ve been less willing to help us since one of the girls was caught.”

  “What happened?”

  “The rottie got beaten. The voyant she was feeding got four days of sleep dep. He was raving by the time they let him out.”

  Sleep deprivation. It was a novel punishment. Voyant minds functioned on two levels: life and death. It was tiring. Being kept awake for four days would drive a voyant mad. “Who brings the food into the city?”

  “No idea. Maybe the train. It runs from London to Sheol I. Nobody knows where the entrances to the tunnel are, obviously.” She shifted her feet closer to the stove. “How long did you think the brain plague lasted?”

  “Forever.”

  “It was five days. They let the rookies go through hell for five days before they give them the antidote.”

  “Why?”

  “So they learn their place as quickly as possible. You’re no more than a number here unless you earn your colors.” Liss helped herself to a bowl of broth. “So you’re at Magdalen.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re probably sick of hearing this, but consider yourself lucky. Magdalen is one of the safest residences for a human.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Humans?”

  “Residences.”

  “Oh, right. Well, each residence is a small district. There are seven for humans: Balliol, Corpus, Exeter, Merton, Oriel, Queens, and Trinity. Nashira lives at the Residence of the Suzerain, where you had your oration. Then there’s the House, a little way south, and the Castle—the Detainment Facility—and this dump, the Rookery. The street is called the Broad. The street that runs parallel is Magdalen Walk.”

  “And beyond that?”

  “Deserted countryside. We call it No Man’s Land. It’s rigged with mines and trap-pits.”

  “Has anyone ever tried to cross it?”

  “Yes.”

  Her shoulders were tense. I took another sip of skilly.

  “How was the Tower?”

  I looked up at her. “I didn’t go to the Tower.”

  “Were you born on a boon or something?” When I frowned, Liss shook her head. “They collect voyants for each Bone Season over ten years. Some of them are in the Tower for a decade before they get posted here.”

  “You’re kidding.” That explained the poor sap that had been there for nine years.

  “Nope. They’re pretty cokum when it comes to keeping us tame. They know all our weak points. How to break us. Ten years in the Tower would break anyone.”

  “What are they?”

  “No idea, except they’re not human.” She dabbed some bread in the skilly. “They act like gods. That’s how they like to be treated.”

  “And we’re their worshippers.”

  “Not just their worshippers. We owe them our lives. They never let us forget they’re protecting us from the Buzzers, and that slavery is ‘for our own good.’ We’d rather be slaves than dead, they say. Or victimized outside by the Inquisitor.”

  “Buzzers?”

  “The Emim. That’s what we call them.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ve always called them that. Think the red-jackets came up with it. They’re the ones that have to fight them off.”

  “How often?”

  “Depends on the time of year. They attack a lot more in winter. Listen out for the siren. A single blast summons the red-jackets. If the tone starts to change, get inside. It means they’re coming.”

  “I still don’t understand what they are.” I tore up some bread. “Are they anything like the Rephaim?”

  “I’ve heard stories. The red-jackets like scaring us.” The firelight played across her face. “They say the Emim take on different forms. Just being near them can kill you. Some say they can rip your spirit straight out of your body. Some call them rotting giants, whatever that means. Others say they’re walking bones that need skin to cover themselves. I don’t know how much of it is true, but they definitely eat human flesh. They’re addicted to it. Don’t be surprised if you see a few missing limbs out there.”

  I should have been sickened; instead I was numb. It just didn’t seem real. Liss reached over to adjust the curtain, concealing us from the people outside. A stack of colored silk caught my eye.

  “You’re the contortionist,” I said.

  “Did you think I was good?”

  “Very good.”

  “That’s how I earn my flatches here. Lucky for me I picked it up quickly—used to busk near the penny gaff.” She licked her lips clean. “I saw you with Pleione last night. Your aura was a talking point.”

  I didn’t say anything. It was dangerous to talk about my aura, especially when I’d only just met this girl.

  Liss studied me. “Are you sighted?”

  “No.” That was true.

  “What were you arrested for?”

  “I killed someone. An Underguard.” True.

  “How?”

  “Knife,” I said. “Heat of the moment.” False.

  Liss looked at me for a long time. She was full-sighted, typical of soothsayers. She could see my red aura as clearly as my face. If she’d read up on the subject, she’d know which category I fell into.

  “I don’t think so.” Her fingers drummed on the floor. “You’ve never spilled that much blood.”

  She was good, for a soothsayer.

  “You’re not an oracle,” she s
tated, more to herself than to me. “I’ve seen oracles. You’re too calm to be a fury, and you’re definitely not a medium. So you must be”—recognition dawned in her eyes—“a dreamwalker.” Her gaze returned to mine. “Are you?”

  I held her eye contact. Liss sat back on her heels.

  “Well, that solves it.”

  “What?”

  “Why Arcturus took you on. Nashira has never found a walker, and she really wants one. She’ll want to make sure you’re protected. Nobody will touch you if you’re his human. If she thinks there’s the slightest chance that you might be a walker, she’ll do you right down.”

  “How so?”

  “You won’t like this.”

  I doubted anything could surprise me now.

  “Nashira has a gift,” Liss said. “Did you notice that weird aura coming off her?” I nodded. “She doesn’t just have one ability. She walks several different paths to the æther.”

  “That’s impossible. We all have one gift.”

  “You know reality? Forget it. Sheol I has its own rules. Accept that now and everything will be easier.” She pulled her battered knees up to her chin. “Nashira has five guardian angels. Somehow she gets them to stay with her.”

  “Is she a binder?”

  “We don’t know. She must have been a binder once, but her aura’s been corrupted.”

  “By what?”

  “By the angels.” When I frowned, she sighed. “This is just a theory. We think she can use the gifts they had when they were alive.”

  “Not even binders can do that.”

  “Exactly.” She glanced at me. “If you want my advice, you’ll keep your head down. Give no inkling of what you are. If she finds out you’re a walker, you’re bones.”

  I kept my expression neutral. Three years in the syndicate had inured me to danger, but this place was different. I would have to learn to duck new threats. “How do I stop her finding out?”

  “It’ll be hard. They’ll test you to expose your gift. That’s what the tunics mean. Pink after your first test, red after the second.”

  “But you failed your tests.”

  “Luckily. Now I answer to the Overseer.”

  “Who was your keeper?”

  Liss looked back at the stove. “Gomeisa Sargas.”