Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (52 page)

He pointed. My backpack, packed with medicine, sat under the gallery benches. I couldn’t take it now, but the harlies knew it was here if they needed it. It was one of many stashes of supplies.

“Paige,” Charles said, “what time will the flare go up?”

“I’m still waiting to hear. I’ll set one off as soon as we find a path.”

Charles nodded. I looked down at the hall again.

So many people were about to risk their lives. Liss, who’d been so afraid. Julian, who’d done so much to help me. The harlies. The white-jackets.

And Warden. I understood now what it meant for him to trust me. If I betrayed him, like the last human, he wouldn’t just be scarred—he’d be slaughtered. This was his last chance.

But we had to act now, while there was still a flicker of compassion among the Rephaim. If the scarred ones perished, that hope would be lost.

The door to the gallery crashed open. Suhail loomed in the doorway. He grabbed Charles by the tunic and hauled him back to the stairs. “The blood-sovereign does not like to be kept waiting, runt,” he said to me. “You are forbidden from the gallery. Get downstairs.”

As quickly as he’d come, he left. Michael glanced at the door. “It’s time,” I said. I squeezed his hand. “Good luck. Remember, keep low and look for the flare.”

Michael nodded.

“Live,” was all he said.

I kept my head down as I crossed the ground floor of the Guildhall. Nobody noticed me come in.

The Scion system was used by nine European countries, including England. Unlike England, however, the rest of them had nowhere to send their clairvoyants. Still, all nine governments had sent emissaries. Even Dublin, the youngest and most controversial Scion city, had sent a delegate: Cathal Bell, an old friend of my father. He was a nervous, indecisive man, crumpled by the duties of his role. A thrill shot through my chest when I first saw him—maybe he could help us—but then I remembered: he hadn’t seen me since I was five or six years old. He wouldn’t recognize me, and I had no name here. Besides, Bell was weak. His party had lost Dublin.

The Guildhall looked spectacular. It had an ornate plasterwork ceiling, hung with chandeliers, and a vast stretch of open floor. The dark flickered with candlelight and Chopin. The delegates were afforded every courtesy. They were free to gorge themselves on all manner of delicious foods, or talk to one another over mecks. Their amaurosis was a privilege, a right. They were served food by the amaurotic slaves, including Michael, who had been made to look like willing participants in the rehabilitation program. The other amaurotics must have been too undernourished to appear.

High above some dancers was Liss, hanging from the silks, striking poses like an airborne ballerina. She was relying solely upon her own strength to keep from falling to her death.

I cast my eye around the room, trying to locate Weaver. He was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was late. Other countries would be excused for not sending their Inquisitors, but not England. I could see a few other recognizable Scion officials, including the Commander of Vigilance, Bernard Hock. He was a huge man with a bald head and overdeveloped neck muscles; very good at sniffing out voyants—in fact, I’d always suspected he was a sniffer. Even now, his nostrils were flared. I made a note to kill him if I could.

An amaurotic offered me a glass of white mecks. I refused it. I’d just spotted Cathal Bell.

Bell had a glass in his hand, and he kept straightening his tie. He was trying to make conversation with Radmilo Arežina
,
Deputy Minister of Migration for Serbia. I smiled to myself. Arežina had authorized Dani’s transfer to London foolishly. I walked toward them.

“Mr. Bell?”

Bell jerked, spilling his wine. “Yes?”

I looked at Arežina. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Minister, but may I speak with Mr. Bell for a moment?”

Arežina looked me up and down. His upper lip arched.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bell,” he said. “I should return to my party.”

He moved off to the safety of his party. I was left facing Bell, who was dabbing the red stain from his jacket. “What do you want, unnatural?” He was stammering. “I was having a very important conversation.”

“Well, now you can have another one.” I took his glass and sipped from it. “Do you remember the Incursion, Mr. Bell?”

Bell stopped dead. “If you mean the Incursion of 2046, then yes. Of course I do.” His fingers shook. The knuckles were purpled, swollen with arthritis. “Why are you asking? Who are you?”

“My cousin was arrested that day. I want to know if he’s still alive.”

“You’re Irish?”

“Yes.”

He peered at me. “What’s your name?”

“My name doesn’t matter. My cousin’s does. Finn McCarthy. He was at Trinity College. Know him?”

“Yes.” The reply was immediate. “McCarthy was at Carrickfergus with the other student leaders. He was sentenced to hang.”

“And did he?”

“I—I wasn’t privy to the details, but—”

Something dark and violent rose inside me. I leaned close to him and breathed into his ear: “If my cousin was executed, Mr. Bell, I will hold you personally responsible. It was
your
government that lost Ireland. Your government that gave up.”

“Not me,” Bell gasped out. His nose was beginning to bleed. “Don’t hurt me—”

“Not you, Mr. Bell. Just your kind.”

“Unnatural,” he bit out. “Get away.” I melted into the crowd, leaving him to stanch his bloody nose.

I felt myself shaking. I snatched another glass of mecks and threw it back in one gulp. I had always thought Finn must be dead, but some small part of me had clung to his memory, to the idea that he might still be alive. Maybe he was, but I wouldn’t find out from Cathal Bell.

I caught sight of Nashira, standing below a podium. Beside her was Warden, engaged in conversation with a Greek emissary. After the right bell he’d received his first amaranth in months; a few drops had transformed him. He wore black and gold, with jacinth at his throat, and his eyes were bright as lamps. I recognized the people closest to Nashira: her elite guard. One of them spotted me—Amelia’s replacement—and from the movement of her lips, I guessed she’d informed her boss.

Nashira looked over the heads of her guard. A soft laugh escaped her. Hearing it, Warden turned around. His eyes grew very hot, very fast.

Nashira beckoned me. I approached, handing my empty glass to an amaurotic.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” she said to those assembled around her, “I would like to introduce XX-59-40. She is one of our most gifted clairvoyants.”

There was a murmur from the delegates: intrigued, repulsed.

“This is Aloys Mynatt, Grand Raconteur of France. And Birgitta Tjäder, Chief of Vigilance in the Scion Citadel of Stockholm.”

Mynatt was a small man, stiff in posture, with no distinguishing features. He nodded.

Tjäder just stared at me. She was in her mid-thirties, with thick blond hair and eyes like olive oil. Nick had always called this woman the Magpie—her reign of hell in Stockholm was notorious. I could tell she couldn’t stand to be near me: her pale lips were pulled tight over her teeth, as if she was about to bite. I wasn’t exactly relishing her presence, either.

“I don’t want her near me,” Tjäder said, confirming my suspicions.

“But would you not rather they were here, with us, than on your streets?” Nashira said. “They can do no harm here, Birgitta. We do not let them. Once Sheol III is established, you will never have to look at a clairvoyant again.”

A
third
penal colony? Did they have plans for Stockholm, too? I didn’t want to think about a Sheol III with the Magpie as its procurer.

Tjäder didn’t take her eyes off me. She had no aura, but I could read the loathing in every inch of her face.

“I can’t wait,” she said.

The pianist stopped playing, prompting a round of applause. The dancing couples separated. Nashira glanced up toward a large clock. “The hour draws near.”

Her voice was very soft. “Excuse me,” Tjäder said. She turned and marched back to the Swedes, leaving an open space between Warden and me. I didn’t dare meet his eyes.

“I must address the emissaries.” Nashira looked at the stage. “Arcturus, stay with 40. I will need her in due course.”

So she did plan to kill me in public. I looked between the two of them. Warden inclined his head. “Yes, my sovereign.” He took me roughly by the arm. “Come, 40.”

Before he could lead me away, Nashira’s head whipped around. She grabbed my wrist, pulling me back toward her.

“Did you hurt yourself, 40?”

The Steri-Strips on my cheek were long gone, but there was still a hairline scar from the broken glass. “I struck her.” Warden kept a tight grip on my arm. “She disobeyed me. I punished her.”

I stood like a rag doll, one arm in each of their hands. They looked at each other over my head. “Good,” Nashira said. “After all these years, you are learning what it means to be my consort.”

She turned her back on him and walked into the crowd, parting the emissaries.

The musician, whoever it was, began to play some well-chosen piano chords, accompanied by ghostly vocals. I was sure I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t place it. Warden led me to the side of the hall, to the long space underneath the gallery, and leaned down to look at me. “Is everything ready?”

I nodded.

The musician really did have a beautiful voice, a kind of wispy falsetto. It brought on another vague surge of recognition. “My companions and I performed a séance last night,” Warden said, his voice barely audible. “There will be spirits to command. Human spirits, the victims of Bone Season XVIII. They will side with you before the Rephaim.”

“What about the NVD? Are they here?”

“They are not permitted in the Guildhall unless they are called. They are stationed by the bridge.”

“How many?”

“Thirty.”

I nodded again. The emissaries all had at least one bodyguard, but they were SVD. They didn’t want unnaturals protecting them. Fortunately for us, the SVD couldn’t use spirit combat.

Warden looked up to the ceiling, where Liss was climbing the silks. “Liss seems to have recovered.”

“Yes.”

“Then we are even. All is settled.”

“All debts are paid,” I said. The threnody. It made me think of what was still to come. What if Nashira succeeded in killing me?

“All will go to plan, Paige. You should not give up hope.” He looked at the stage. “Hope is the one thing that might still save us all.”

I followed his gaze. The bell jar and the lifeless flower stood on a covered plinth. “Hope for what?”

“Change.”

The music drifted to a close, and applause rang out from the edges of the dance floor. I wanted to look, to find out who had been playing, but I couldn’t see over the heads of the emissaries.

A red-jacket stepped onto the stage. 22. His lopsided gait said just how much of Duckett’s mix he’d had. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the—the great Suzerain, Nashira Sargas, blood-sovereign of—the Race of Rephaim.”

He staggered down. I bit back a smile. That was at least one less red-jacket less to deal with.

Nashira stepped up to the podium, to continued applause from her audience. She looked at us. Warden looked back at her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, never breaking his gaze, “welcome to the Scion capital of Sheol I. I would like to extend our thanks for your attendance at our celebration tonight.

“It has been two hundred years since our arrival to Britain. We have come a long, long way since 1859. As you can see, we have done our utmost to make our first control city into a place of beauty, respect, and above all,
compassion
. Our rehabilitation system allows young clairvoyants to enter our city and receive the best possible quality of life.” Like animals in a menagerie. “Clairvoyance, as we know, is not the fault of its victims. Like a disease, it preys on the innocent. It afflicts them with unnaturalness.

“Sheol I celebrates two hundred years of good work today. As you can see, it has been a successful venture, the first of many seeds we wish to plant. In exchange for your understanding, we have not only provided a humane means of removing clairvoyants from ordinary society, but prevented hundreds of Emite attacks on the citadel. We are a beacon to which they are drawn—like moths to a flame, as the saying goes.” Her eyes were their own beacons in the gloom. “But the Emim’s number grows greater every day. This colony will no longer be a sufficient means of protection. Emim have been sighted in France, Ireland, and, more recently, Sweden.”

Ireland
. That was why Cathal Bell was here. That was why he looked so nervous, so frightened.

“It is paramount that we establish Sheol II, that we light another flame,” Nashira said. “Our method has been tried and tested. With your help, and your cities, we hope that the flower of our alliance can finally bloom.”

Applause. Warden’s jaw was set. His expression was terrible to see. Angry. Brutal. Murderous.