The Bone Season

by Samantha Shannon

  Without pausing, I made for a set of shelves and slotted myself behind them. Just in time: the key fell from the lock, and two Rephs walked in.

  I should have expected this. My exit was blocked. If I crawled to the window, I would have to expose myself, and everybody knew my face. I looked between the shelves.

  Thuban.

  He said something in Gloss. I leaned closer to my peephole, trying to identify his companion. That was when Terebell Sheratan stepped into my line of vision.

  Neither of us moved. I couldn’t feel my heart. I waited for her to call Thuban, or to drive a blade into my gut. My fingers twitched toward the pollen, hidden in my gilet, but I thought better of it. Even if I took Terebell down, Thuban would disembowel me.

  But Terebell surprised me. Instead of acknowledging me, she shifted her gaze toward the guns. “Amaurotic weaponry is intriguing,” she said. “No wonder they destroy each other so often.”

  “Are we speaking the fell tongue now?”

  “Gomeisa has told us to maintain our fluency in English. I see no harm in a little practice.”

  Thuban snatched the crossbow from the wall. “If you wish to foul our tongues with it, very well. We can pay homage to the days when you had power over me. What a long, long time ago that was.” He ran his gloved fingers over the lathe. “The dreamer should have killed Jaxon Hall while she had the chance. It would have been kinder than the death he will have now.”

  My throat closed. “I doubt he will be killed,” Terebell said. “Besides, Nashira’s interest is in Carter.”

  “She will have to hold Situla back.”

  “No doubt.” She ran her fingers over a blade. “Remind me: what was in this room before the armaments?”

  “With your blasphemous interest in the fell world, I would have thought you would know exactly where all the resources were kept.”

  “I think ‘blasphemous’ is a little melodramatic.”

  “I do not.” He picked up a handful of throwing stars. “What was in here before, you ask? Medical supplies. Plant extracts. Salvia, aster. Other stinking leaves.”

  “Where were they moved?”

  “Have you forgotten everything in the last few minutes, miscreant? You’re as stupid as the concubine.”

  You had to hand it to Terebell: she was either immune to his attitude, or very good at hiding her emotions. If she had any.

  “Forgive my curiosity,” she said.

  “My family does not forgive. The scars on your back should remind you of that on a daily basis.” His eyes were full of Ivy’s aura. “That’s why you want to know. You’re trying to steal amaranth—aren’t you, Sheratan?”

  Scars.

  Terebell’s face was hard. “Where were the resources moved?”

  “I don’t like your interest. I suspect it. Are you plotting with the concubine again?”

  “That was almost twenty years ago, Thuban. A long time by human standards, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I do not care for human standards.”

  “If you hold the past against me, that is one thing. But I do not think the blood-sovereign would appreciate your attitude toward her consort. Or your questionable descriptions of his role.”

  Her voice was harder now. Thuban took a blade from the wall and swung it toward her. It stopped an inch from her neck. She didn’t flinch. “One more word out of you,” he said, his voice a whisper, “and I will summon him. And this time he will not be so temperate.”

  Terebell fell silent for a moment. I thought I saw something in her face: pain, fear. They must be talking about one of the Sargas. Gomeisa, perhaps.

  “Yes. I believe I remember where the supplies are.” Her voice was low. “How could I forget Tom Tower?”

  Thuban barked a laugh. I absorbed the information, like blood absorbing flux. “No one could forget it.” He breathed the words against her ear. “Nor the sound of its bell. Does it ring in your memories, Sheratan? Do you remember how you screamed for mercy?”

  My limbs were beginning to ache, but I didn’t dare move. Thuban was inadvertently helping me. Tom Tower must be the one that stood above the entrance, the bell tower.

  “I did not cry for mercy,” Terebell said, “but for justice.”

  A harsh snarl escaped his throat. “Fool.” He raised a hand to strike her—then stopped dead. He sniffed.

  “I sense an aura.” He sniffed again. “Search the room, Sheratan. It smells human.”

  “I don’t sense anything.” Terebell stayed where she was. “The room was locked when we arrived.”

  “There are other ways to enter a room.”

  “Now you sound paranoid.”

  But Thuban didn’t seem convinced. He was walking toward my hiding place, nostrils flared wide, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth. A sickening thought occurred to me: that he was a sniffer, able to smell spiritual activity. If he sniffed me out, I was worse than dead.

  His fingers moved toward the box that hid me. In the distance, in another room, something exploded.

  In an instant, Thuban took off down the corridor. Terebell followed, but she turned at the door.

  “Run,” she said to me. “Get to the tower.”

  And she was gone.

  Not waiting to question my good fortune, I pulled on my backpack and vaulted up onto the windowsill. I almost fell down the ivy, scraping my arms and hands.

  Blood thumped through my veins. Every shadow looked like Thuban. As I ran through a set of cloisters, heading for the main quadrangle, I tried to pluck some rational thoughts from my mind. Terebell had been helping me. She’d concealed me. It even looked like someone had caused a distraction for me. She’d known I was coming, known what I was after, and she’d only started to speak English after seeing me. She was one of them. The scarred ones. I needed to find out more about their history, to work out what was happening—but first I had to break into Tom Tower, grab the goods, and get back to Warden.

  The explosion had brought a group of bone-grubbers running from the entrance, away from the bell tower. I halted in a dark archway. Just in time—they came running into the cloisters, exactly where I’d been about to run out. “28, 14, secure the Meadow Building,” one of them called. “6, you’re with me. The rest of you, cover the quads. Get Kraz and Mirzam.”

  I didn’t have much time. I got to my feet and sprinted toward the main quad.

  The House was vast, linked together by a series of closed- and open-air passages. Rat in a maze. I didn’t dare stop. I secured the straps of the backpack around my torso. There had to be a way to get inside Tom Tower. Was there a door by the main entrance? I had to be quick: Kraz and Mirzam were Reph names, and the last thing I needed was four Rephs, at least three of whom were hostile, in the House and on my tail. I doubted Warden had many friends like Terebell.

  I stopped at the edge of the quadrangle. It was vast, with an ornamental pond in the center. A statue stood in the middle of the pond. I had no choice but to expose myself. Speed would have to come above stealth.

  I broke into a sprint across the grass. My ribs twinged. When I reached the pond, I ran through the shallow water and crouched behind the fountain. I hunkered down low, so the water came up to my waist. When I looked up, I recoiled. Nashira was staring back at me. Nashira, cast in stone.

  There was no one on the quadrangle. I could sense an aura, but it was too far away to be a threat. I jumped out of the fountain and ran toward the bell tower. I spotted the narrow archway at once. This must lead to the bell. I shot up the steps, praying that no Rephs would appear—the passageway was so narrow, I’d have no chance. When I got to the top, I gazed up at the sight.

  It was a treasure trove. Glass jars sparkled from hundreds of shelves, dappled in sunlight. I was reminded of hard-boiled sweets: bright, glassy colors, glistening like stars. There were iridescent liquids, brilliantly colored powders, exotic plants wrapped in liquid—all beautiful and alien. The room was full of smells: some sharp, some bad, some sweet and fragrant. I scoured th
e shelves for medical supplies. Most bottles were labeled with the Scion symbol, written in English, but some bore strange glyphs. There were numa, too, probably confiscated. I caught sight of a show stone, various sortes—and a single pack of cards. Those were for Liss. I flipped through them quickly, assessing the illustrations. It was a Thoth deck—a different design to the one Liss had before—but it could still be used for cartomancy.

  I stuffed the deck into my bag. I took Silvadene and paraffin and antiseptic. There was another door, probably leading to the bell, but I didn’t go through it. This would be my last contraband: the bag was almost too heavy to lift. I hauled the straps over my shoulders and turned toward the steps—only to lock gazes with a Reph.

  All my life functions seemed to stop. Two yellow eyes smoked at me from underneath a hood.

  “Well, well,” he said. “A traitor in the tower.”

  He made toward me. I dropped the bag and climbed the nearest shelves in a heartbeat.

  “You must be the dreamwalker. I am Kraz Sargas, blood-heir of the Rephaim.” He gave me a mock bow. I could see Nashira in his features; in his thick, brassy hair and hooded eyelids. “Did Arcturus send you?”

  I didn’t say a word.

  “So he lets his tribute to the blood-sovereign go wandering off by itself. She will not be pleased.” He held out a gloved hand. “Come down, dreamwalker. I will escort you back to Magdalen.”

  “And we’ll just pretend this never happened?” I stayed where I was. “You’ll take me to Nashira.”

  His patience vanished. “Don’t make me crush you, yellow-jacket.”

  “Nashira doesn’t want me dead.”

  “I am not Nashira.”

  Now I was in for it. If he didn’t kill me, he’d drag me straight to the Residence of the Suzerain. My gaze settled on a jar of white aster. I could wipe his memory.

  No such luck. With a single flex of his arm, Kraz brought the whole bookshelf crashing to the ground. Bottles and vials smashed against the floor. I rolled to avoid being crushed, slicing my cheek on a shard of glass. A cry leaped from my lips. My cracked ribs seared.

  I wasn’t on my feet fast enough. My injuries slowed me down. There were no spirits in here; nothing I could use to repel him. Kraz picked me up by my gilet and smashed me into the wall. I almost blacked out. My ribs were tearing from my chest. Kraz gripped my hair in his hand, pulled my head back, and inhaled—deeply, like he was trying to breathe more than air. I realized what was happening when blood filled my eyes. I kicked and clawed and twisted, gasping for the æther. It was already slipping out of reach.

  Kraz was famished. He was going to snuff out my glow.

  My right arm was pinned, but my left was free. In the grip of adrenaline, I did what my father had always taught me to do: stabbed Kraz in the eye with my finger. As soon as he let go of my hair, I pulled out the vial in my pocket. Red flower.

  Kraz clamped his hand across my throat, his teeth bared. If I tried to attack his mind, my body would be damaged beyond repair. I had no choice. I smashed the vial against his face.

  The smell was atrocious. Rot. Sweet, burning rot. Kraz let out an inhuman scream. The pollen had gone straight into his eyes. They were blackened and dripping, and his face was turning an ugly, mottled gray. “No,” he said. “No, you—not—”

  His next words were in Gloss. My vision lurched. Was this an allergic reaction? Bile jerked into my throat. I groped in my backpack, took out the revolver, and raised it to his head. Kraz fell to his knees.

  Kill him.

  My palms were slick. Even after what I’d had done to the Underguard on the train, the very crime that had landed me here, I had no idea if I could do this. If I could take another life. But then Kraz pulled his hands away from his face, and I knew he was beyond saving. I didn’t even flinch.

  I pulled the trigger.

  24

  The Dream

  I ran over the roofs, past the old church, and down the long road toward Magdalen. As I reached the residence an arm swung out from a window and snached me inside.

  Warden. He’d waited for me. Without a word, he pulled me through a door. Back toward the east courtyard. Into the empty passages. Through the cloisters, up the steps. I didn’t dare speak. As soon as we were in the tower, I slid to the floor by the fireplace. My fingers left black pollen on the rug. It looked like soot.

  Without stopping, Warden locked the door, turned off the gramophone, and drew the drapes on both sides of the chamber. He watched through a gap at the east window for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the street. I let the backpack drop to the floor. The straps had cut into my shoulders.

  “I killed him.”

  He glanced at me. “Who?”

  “Kraz. I shot him.” I was shaking all over. “I’ve killed a Sargas—she’s going to kill me. You’re going to kill me—”

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “A Sargas is no loss to me.” He looked back at the window. “You are quite sure he is dead.”

  “Of course he’s dead. I shot him in the face.”

  “Bullets cannot kill us. You must have used the pollen.”

  “Yes.” I tried to slow my breathing. “Yes, I did.”

  He didn’t speak for a long time. I sat there in the evidence, my lungs fit to burst. “If a Sargas has been killed by a human,” he finally said, “the last thing Nashira will want is for word of it to get out into the city. Our immortality must not be questioned.”

  “You’re really not immortal?”

  “We are not indestructible.” He crouched in front of me, looked me in the eye. “Did anyone see you?”

  “No. Wait, yes—Terebell.”

  “Terebell will keep your secret. If she was the only one, we have nothing to fear.”

  “Thuban was there, too. There was an explosion.” I looked up at him. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “I sensed you were in danger. I had someone standing by in the House. They caused a distraction. All Nashira will hear is that a candle was left too close to a gas leak.”

  The news did little to comfort me. That was three lives I’d taken now, not counting the ones I’d failed to save.

  “You are bleeding.”

  I glanced into the bathroom mirror, visible through the open door. A long, shallow cut crossed my cheek. Just deep enough to bring blood welling to the surface. “Yes,” I said.

  “He hurt you.”

  “It was just some glass.” I touched the smarting cut. “Will you find out what happened?”

  He nodded, still looking at my cheek. There was something in his eyes that struck me: a darkness, a tension. He was thinking of something else. He wouldn’t meet my gaze; the wound transfixed him.

  “This will scar if it is not treated.” His gloved fingers held my jaw. “I will bring something to clean it.”

  “And you’ll find out about Kraz.”

  “Yes.”

  Our gazes met for the briefest instant. My brow creased, and my lips formed a question.

  In the end I didn’t ask it.

  “I will return as soon as I can.” He stood. “I recommend you clean yourself. There are clothes in there.”

  He indicated the armoire. I glanced down at my uniform. The gilet was covered in pollen: damning evidence of my transgressions. “Right,” I said.

  “And keep that wound clean.”

  He was gone before I could respond.

  I got to my feet and approached the mirror. The laceration was a livid shock against my skin. Did it bother him to see me like this, even after what Jax had done? Did he see my face and think of his own scars—the ones on his back, the ones he kept hidden?

  A cloying smell sifted from my hair. The pollen. I locked the bathroom door, kicked off my clothes, and ran a steaming bath. My legs shook. I’d skinned my knee while climbing. I sank into the hot water and washed my hair. Old bruises throbbed under my skin, while new ones formed on top of them. I took a few minutes to soak th
e warmth into my rigid muscles, then picked up a fresh cake of soap and scrubbed away the sweat and blood and pollen. My sallow, battered frame looked no better for the attention. Only once the water had drained did I start to feel calm.

  Should I talk to him about the train? He might try and stop me. He’d brought me back when he could have let me go. On the other hand, I needed to know whether or not the train was guarded, and whereabouts on the meadow I would find the entrance. I didn’t remember anything from the training session—no hatch, no door. It must be hidden.

  When I returned to the chamber I found the clean yellow uniform in the armoire. The pollen had been swept off the carpet. I sank onto the daybed. I’d dispatched Kraz Sargas, blood-heir of the Rephaim, with a single shot between the eyes. Until that moment I’d thought they were too strong to kill. It must have been the pollen—the bullet had just finished him off. By the time I’d left the tower, the corpse had been rotting before my eyes. A few grains of pollen had putrefied him.

  When the door opened, I started. Warden was back. His face held all the shadows in the room.

  He came to sit beside me. He took a swab, dipped it in a jar of amber liquid, and dabbed the blood from my cheek. I looked at him in silence, waiting for his judgment. “Kraz is dead,” he said, betraying no emotion. My cheek gave a hot twinge. “He was heir apparent to the blood-sovereignty. You would be publicly tortured if they found out. They know about the missing supplies, but you were not seen. The day porter has been whitewashed.”

  “Does anyone suspect me?”

  “Privately, perhaps, but they have no proof. Fortunately you did not use your spirit to kill him, or your identity would be obvious.”