The Bone Season

by Samantha Shannon

  “I see.” Warden looked into the empty hearth. “So you withheld information from Nashira, but you have been given a red tunic.”

  “You recommended it.”

  “I did, but I did not know if she would agree. I suspect she has ulterior motives.”

  “I have an external assignment tomorrow.”

  “The citadel,” he conjectured. “That is surprising.”

  “Why?”

  “After all the effort she expended to procure you from the citadel, it seems strange that she should send you back.”

  “She wants me to lure out one of the London gangs, the Seven Seals. She thinks they have a dreamwalker, that I can recognize one of my own.” I waited, but he didn’t react. Did he suspect me? “We leave tomorrow night with three red-jackets and one other Rephaite.”

  “Who?”

  “Your cousin.”

  “Ah, yes.” He pressed his fingertips together. “Situla Mesarthim is Nashira’s most trusted mercenary. You and I must be cautious around her.”

  “So you’re going to treat me like your slave again.”

  “A necessary, but temporary situation. Situla is no friend of mine. She will have been assigned to keep an eye on me.”

  “Why?”

  “Past transgressions.” He caught my look. “It is better that you know nothing about it. All you should know is that I do not kill unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  Past transgressions. Old wounds. That could only mean one thing, and we both knew it—but it still didn’t guarantee he could be trusted now. Even if he was a scarred one.

  “I need to get some sleep,” I said. “We meet at her residence tomorrow at dusk.”

  Warden nodded, not looking at me. I picked up my boots and went to my room, leaving him to drink his remedy.

  For most of the day, while I should have been asleep, I thought of every possible scenario that could occur when we reached London. The plan, according to the post-dinner briefing, was to wait until Carter reached the base of Nelson’s Column, where she would meet with a representative from the Seals. We would surround them, then strike with everything we had. She seemed to think we’d just walk in there, shoot Carter, grab some prisoners, and waltz back to Sheol I in time for the day-bell.

  I knew better. I knew Jax. He protected his investments. He would never send a lone representative to meet Antoinette—the whole gang would be there. Vigiles staked out the streets during the night, and they knew how to use basic spirit combat. We would also have the public to contend with, and with voyants on the street, we could end up with a very big fight on our hands. A fight in which I would be dressed for one side, but rooting for the other.

  I turned over, restless. This was my chance to escape, or at least to get word out. Somehow I had to reach Nick, if he didn’t kill me first. Or blind me with his visions. It was my one and only window of opportunity.

  I gave up on sleep in the end. I went to the bathroom, splashed my face, and pulled my hair into a psyche knot. It had grown a few inches, down to my shoulders. Rain pounded at the windows. I dressed in the same uniform, the red traitor’s tunic, and went down to the chamber. The grandfather clock told me it was close to seven. I took a seat by the fire. When the hour struck, Warden appeared at the door, his hair and clothes drenched with rain.

  “It is time.”

  I nodded. He let me through the door, locked it, and walked with me down the stone steps.

  “I never thanked you,” he said as we went through the cloisters. “For your silence.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.”

  The streets were silent. Melting hailstones crunched beneath my boots. When we reached the residence, two Rephs escorted us to the library where Nashira was waiting. She and Warden reenacted their ritual greeting: his hand on her stomach, her lips to his forehead. This time I noticed things. The rigidity of his movements, how he never met her eyes, how she ran her fingers through his hair, not looking at him. It put me in the mind of a dog and its mistress.

  “I am pleased you could both join us tonight,” she said. Like we had a choice. “40, this is Situla Mesarthim.”

  Situla was almost as tall as Warden. You could see the family resemblance: same ash-brown hair, same honey skin, same strong features and deep-set eyes. She nodded to Warden, who was still kneeling.

  “Cousin.” Warden inclined his head. Situla turned her eyes on me. Blue. “XX-59-40, you will treat me as your second keeper this evening. I hope that is understood.”

  I nodded. Warden stood and looked down at his fiancée. “Where are the other humans?”

  “Getting ready, of course.” She turned her back on him. “You ought to do the same, my faithful one.”

  His aura clouded over, like a storm was brewing in his dreamscape. He turned and walked toward a heavy set of crimson drapes. An amaurotic girl hurried after him, carrying a bundle of clothes.

  “You will be paired with 1,” Nashira said to me. “The two of you will go with Arcturus. Situla will take 30 and 12.”

  David emerged from behind the drapes, wearing trousers, boots, and a lightweight vest of body armor. The sight of him made me start. He looked exactly like the Overseer on the night he shot me.

  “Evening, 40,” he said.

  I kept my mouth shut. David smiled and shook his head, as if I were an amusing child. An amaurotic approached me. “Your clothes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Without looking at David, I took my bundle to the drapes. Behind them was a tent, a dressing room of sorts. I shucked my uniform and donned the new one: first a long-sleeved red shirt, then the armor—marked with the red anchor, like the gilet—and a black jacket with a red band on one sleeve. Next came glovelettes and trousers, both made of a flexible black fabric, and my sturdy leather boots. I could run, climb, fight in this attire. There was a syringe of Adrenaline in the jacket—and a flux gun. For hunting voyants.

  Once I was kitted out, I returned to where the other three humans had gathered. Carl gave me a smile.

  “Hello, 40.”

  “Carl,” I said.

  “How are you finding your new tunic?”

  “It fits, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I mean, how are you finding being a red-jacket?”

  All three of them were staring at me now. “Great,” I said, after a pause.

  Carl nodded. “It is great. Maybe they were right to give you so many privileges.”

  “Or maybe they were wrong,” 30 said, pulling her thick hair from her collar. She was taller than me, wide in the hips and shoulders. “We’ll find out on the streets.”

  I took another look at 30. From her aura, I guessed she was probably a soothsayer—but a less common one, maybe a type of cleromancer. Not particularly rare. She must have clawed her way up the ranks.

  “Yes,” I said. “We will.”

  She sniffed.

  Warden’s return had a stunning effect on 30’s demeanor. She bobbed a delicate little curtsy, murmuring “blood-consort.” At her side, Carl swept into a bow. I just stood there with my arms crossed. Warden glanced at his fan club, but didn’t acknowledge either of their tributes. Instead he looked across the room—at me. 30 looked chagrined. Poor old 30.

  New clothes had transformed my keeper. In place of the old-fashioned Rephaite regalia, he wore the clothes of a wealthy Scion denizen, the sort no clever thief would try to fine-wire.

  “You will be taken to I Cohort in two collection vehicles,” Nashira said. “Traffic will be cleared for you. You are expected to return here before the day-bell rings.”

  We four humans nodded. Warden shrugged on his coat and turned toward the door. “XX-40, XX-1,” he called.

  Carl looked like Novembertide had come early. He ran after Warden, shoving his flux gun into his jacket as he went. I was about to follow him when Nashira caught my arm in her gloved hand. I held very still, resisting the urge to pull away.

  “I know who you are,” she said, close to my face. “I know wh
ere you come from. If you do not bring back a dreamwalker, I will assume that I am correct, and that you are the Pale Dreamer. That realization will have consequences for us all.” With a look that made me cold, she turned her back on me and walked toward the door. “Have a safe journey, XX-59-40.”

  Two blacked-out vehicles were waiting on the bridge. They blindfolded all four of us before they locked us in. I sat in the darkness with Carl, listening to the engine. They must have a nagging fear that we’d learn the route out of the colony.

  A team of Vigiles had been dispatched to escort us through the borders, but the procedure for letting people out of Sheol I was complicated. The city was a penal colony, and it was just as much hassle as if prisoners were out on parole. We had tracking chips shot under our skin at one of Scion’s outer city substations, just in case we tried to make a run for it, and our fingerprints and auras were examined. They took a tube of my blood, leaving a smudge of bruise at the crease of my elbow. Finally we crossed the last border, and we were back in Scion London. Back in the real world.

  “You may remove your blindfolds,” Warden said.

  I couldn’t get rid of mine fast enough.

  Oh, my citadel. I traced the glass, the blue lights glowing into my eyes. The car was rolling through White City in II-3, past the mammoth shopping complex. I never thought I’d miss the dirty gunmetal streets, but I did. I missed bidding on spirits and playing tarocchi and climbing up buildings with Nick to watch the sun sink. I wanted to get out of the car and throw myself into London’s poisoned heart.

  Carl had been jittery for the journey, bouncing his knee and fiddling with his flux gun, but he’d dropped off to sleep on the motorway. He’d told me that 30 used to be called Amelia, and that her keeper was one Elnath Sarin. As I’d guessed, she was a cleromancer, with a particular gift for dice. It took me a while to remember the exact word: astragalomancer. I was getting rusty. Jax had once examined me daily on the seven orders of clairvoyance.

  I looked again at Carl. His hair needed a wash. From the circles etched under his eyes, I knew he was as tired as I was—but there were no bruises. More betrayals must have earned his safety. As if he sensed me looking, he opened his eyes.

  “Don’t try and escape.”

  He whispered it. When I didn’t answer, he shifted up to me.

  “They won’t let you go. He won’t.” He glanced at Warden through the glass screen. “Sheol I is safe for us. Why would you want to leave?”

  “Because we don’t belong there.”

  “It’s the one place we do belong. We can be clairvoyant there. We don’t have to hide.”

  “You’re not an idiot, Carl. You know it’s a prison.”

  “And the citadel isn’t?”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  Carl looked back at his gun. I looked back at the window.

  Part of me knew what he meant. Of course the citadel was a prison—Scion kept us locked in there like animals—but we didn’t stand by in the citadel and watch other people get beaten up, or let people die on the streets.

  I pressed my head against the glass. That wasn’t true. Hector did. Jaxon did. Every mime-lord and mime-queen in the citadel did. They were no better than the Rephaim. They only rewarded those who were useful. The rest were thrown out to rot.

  But the gang were like my family. I didn’t have to bow to anyone in the citadel. I was mollisher of I-4. I had a name.

  Soon we were in Marylebone. As Warden looked out at the unfamiliar territory of the citadel. I wondered if he’d been to London before. He must have, if he’d met previous Inquisitors. It chilled me that Rephs had been on the streets at the same time I was. They’d been in the Archon. Even in I-4.

  The driver was a silent, robust man in wire-framed spectacles and a suit, with a red silk pocket square and tie. He wore a Dictaphone on his left ear, which beeped every so often. It was morbidly fascinating to see how organized it was. Scion had all its bases covered: nobody could find out about Sheol I. It was a city under lock and key.

  Warden motioned for the driver to stop on a street corner. The man nodded and ducked out of the car. When he returned, he was carrying a large paper bag. Warden passed it to me through the hatch. “Wake him.” He nodded to Carl, who was asleep again.

  Inside the bag were two hot cartons from Brekkabox, the citadel’s favorite fast-food joint. I prodded Carl. “Rise and shine.”

  Carl came round with a jolt. I opened my box and found a breakfast wrap, a serviette and a pot of porridge. I caught Warden’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he gave me the barest nod of acknowledgment. I looked away.

  The car passed into Section 4. My section. My scalp prickled with sweat. My father lived only twenty minutes from here, and we were getting close to Seven Dials—too close. I half-expected to receive something from Nick, but there was total silence in the æther. Several hundred dreamscapes pressed against mine, distracting me from meatspace. When I focused on the nearest few, I sensed nothing unusual, no fresh waves of emotion. These people had no inkling of the Rephaim or the penal colony. They didn’t care where unnaturals went, just as long as they were out of sight.

  Our car stopped in the Strand, where a Vigile was waiting for us. The ones they put on duty all looked pretty much the same: tall, broad-shouldered, typically mediums. I avoided the man’s eyes as I stepped from the car, leaving the empty breakfast cartons under the seat.

  Warden, being huge and formidable, was not in the least bit nervous. “Good evening, Vigile.”

  “Warden.” The Vigile touched three fingers to his forehead, one at the center and one above each eye, then raised his hand in a salute. It was an official sign of his clairvoyance, of his third eye. “Can I confirm you have Carl Dempsey-Brown and Paige Mahoney in your custody?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Identification numbers?”

  “XX-59-1 and 40, respectively.”

  The Gilly made a note of it. I wondered what had made him turn his back on his own kind. A cruel mime-lord, perhaps.

  “You two should remember that you are in custody. You are here to assist the Rephaim. You will be sent straight back to Sheol I when your assignment is complete. If either of you attempts to broadcast Sheol I’s location, you will be shot. If either of you attempts to make contact with the general public, or with any member of the syndicate, you will be shot. If either of you attempts to harm your keeper, or a Vigile, you will be shot. Do I make myself clear?”

  Well, he’d made it pretty damn clear that whatever we did, we were going to be shot. “We understand,” I said.

  But the Vigile wasn’t quite finished. He unpacked a silver tube and a pair of latex gloves from his supply belt. Not another needle. “You first.” He grabbed me by the wrist. “Open your mouth.”

  “What?”

  “Open. Your. Mouth.”

  I wanted to look at Warden, but I knew from his silence that he had no objections to this procedure. Before I could comply, the Gilly prized my mouth open. I wanted to bite the bastard. He scraped the plastic nib over my lips, coating them in something cold and bitter.

  “Shut it.”

  With no other choice, I closed my mouth. When I tried to open it again, I couldn’t. My eyes widened. Shit!

  “Just a spot of dermal adhesive.” The Gilly pulled Carl toward him. “Wears off after two or three hours. We’re not taking any chances, seeing as all you syndies know each other.”

  “But I’m not—” Carl started.

  “Shut up.”

  And at last, Carl was forced to shut up.

  “XIX-49-30 isn’t glued. Look at her for orders,” the Gilly said. “Otherwise, stick to your objectives.”

  I pushed my tongue against my lips, but they wouldn’t budge. This Gilly must love having one over on ex-syndicate members.

  Having sealed our mouths, the Gilly saluted Warden before he returned to the stern gray building he’d emerged from. There was a plaque outside: THE SCION CITADEL OF LONDON—NVD COMMAND POST—I COHOR
T SECTION 4, with a map of the area covered by that post. I could make out a marker for the shopping center in Covent Garden, the pot under which the black market bubbled. If only I could get there. Maybe I still could.

  Carl swallowed. Even though we had been seeing these plaques for years, they were still daunting. I looked up at Warden. “Situla and her humans will approach the square from the western side,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  I don’t know how he expected us to answer. Carl nodded. Warden reached into his jacket and procured two masks.

  “Here,” he said, handing one to each of us. “These will disguise your identities.”

  These were no ordinary masks. They had blank, uniform features, with small eyeholes and slots for air below the nose. When I fitted mine to my face, it bonded to my skin. It wouldn’t earn a second glance from busy Scion denizens, but it would also stop the gang from recognizing me, and with my lips sealed, I couldn’t call for help.

  How clever it all was.

  Warden looked at me for a moment before he put his own mask on. Eerie light burned in the eyeholes. For the first time, I was glad I was fighting on his side.

  We walked toward Nelson’s Column. Like the Dials, the Monument, and most other columns, it turned red or green depending on the security situation. Currently it was green, as were the fountains. A team of Gillies was on patrol, stationed at regular intervals down the Strand, probably having been ordered to back us up if necessary. They shot us guarded looks as we passed, but none of them moved. They all carried M4 carbines. The NVD didn’t broadcast their true purpose in the city, but everyone knew they were more than police. You didn’t approach a night Gilly with a complaint, not like you might an SVD officer. You approached only in dire circumstances, and never if you were voyant. Even amaurotics didn’t like to go near them. After all, they were unnaturals.

  Carl kept flexing his fingers in his pockets. How could I get out of this without killing any of my gang? There must be some way I could show them who I was. I had to warn them, or they’d join me in the penal colony. I couldn’t let Nashira get them.