Our guide led us into the pits of the district. I had walked in the worst slums of London, but they always hit me hard. This one was devoid of all but silent life. A nightwalker lolled like an abandoned doll on a step, his mouth a ruddy smear, while two elderly women swept ash from the pavement—a Sisyphean task if ever there was one. Tom’s face grew tighter with every step.
“She’s never in one place,” Hari told us. “She has a few retreats, and you never know which one she’ll choose.”
She was sane, then. That was a decent start.
We passed under a great plane tree, which had somehow endured the pollution for long enough to grow to a remarkable size. It still wore a few brown seed-balls, but the flaking bark was blackening, losing its hard-fought battle with the air. In the next street, ramshackle houses were jammed together like teeth on a jaw. The girl pointed at a door with a tarnished keyhole, which was opened by a sensor when Hari knocked. Sunshine-yellow cloth covered his nose and mouth. We followed him into a tiny parlor, where a fire burned low, illuminating a mattress and the woman staring into the hearth.
Six feet tall and broad-shouldered, Roberta Attard, the Scuttling Queen, was a formidable presence. Her aura marked her as a capnomancer. Must be useful to have smoke as your numen in these conditions.
“Hello, Hari.” Her voice made me think of sawdust. Without looking at me, she added, “You must be the Underqueen.”
She garnished the title with a hint of contempt. When she turned to face me, I saw that her skin was the sepia of shadows in old photographs, her lips mulberry red. A bevy of tight black curls erupted from beneath a cap, which was angled to allow her bangs to cover most of her left eye. At first glance, I would have said she was in her early thirties. I removed my respirator.
“And you must be the Scuttling Queen,” I said.
“Two queens of thieves in one citadel. Scion must be petrified.”
There was a moment of sizing each other up. She studied my face, lingering on my jaw. Her cheeks were a patchwork of thin scars. She was only a little taller than me, but she was taking full advantage of the three-inch difference and looking down her nose as she addressed me.
“Who are your friends?” she said.
“These are two of my high commanders. Tom the Rhymer and Ognena Maria.”
Tom took off his hat. “I’ve heard a tale or two of your father, Scuttling Queen,” he said warmly. “It’s an honor.”
“Cheers,” she said.
There was nowhere for us to sit, so we all remained standing. Attard pushed herself away from the mantelpiece. Her muscular legs were covered by soot-smeared white trousers. The boots beneath were brass-capped, with wooden soles. She wore a sea-blue neckerchief, and several belts hung about her hips, each with a polished buckle and sheaths for her many knives.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for demanding a meeting,” she said. “I had a feeling you’d be on the move after that . . . vision.” She closed her eyes briefly, as if the pictures were still unfolding in front of her. “Didn’t realize you’d come to humble Manchester, though. Let’s cut to the chase—what do you aim to do while you’re in this citadel?”
“We’re here to investigate Senshield,” I said. “With the view to destroying it.”
Attard huffed a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“I didn’t travel two hundred miles to tell jokes.”
“You’re still a fool,” she said.
“We could use allies while we’re here,” I said calmly. “I’d be grateful if you could ask your people to accommodate us as best they can, and to provide assistance if we need it.”
“You sent the vision to scare us into helping you, then?” Without letting me reply, she said, “Well, you’re out of luck. ScionIDE might come here, but from what I can tell, they’re in Britain for the sole reason of snuffing out the movement you started. They’d only move into this region if they found any trace of that movement here. If you were spotted here. By helping you, we’d be signing our own death warrants.”
“No,” I said. “They’re cracking down on voyants and any voyant activity, and that’s going to be a nationwide problem before long. Scion wants to eliminate organized clairvoyance, and here, in its heartland, we might be able to stop it succeeding. The first thing I want to do is stop Senshield.”
“Good for you.”
“Oh, come on. You’ll have it on your streets within a year,” Maria cut in. “It detects four orders now. It’s expanding. Are you just going to wait for it to catch you? You and I are both augurs. We know the risk.”
Attard stiffened. It was clear she wasn’t accustomed to people speaking to her as equals. “There’s no sign that they’re going to build them here,” she said. “If they do, we plan to map their locations and avoid them. That’s how my father always did it. Stay out of Scion’s way.”
“How do you plan to stay out of the way of the portable scanners they’re making?” I asked. “The ones they’re making in this citadel?”
Her lips parted, then pursed. For some time, she stared at the fire with a tensed jaw.
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” she said.
“I have evidence that they’re building a handheld version of Senshield in the SciPLO factories,” I said. “I need to see them for myself; to work out how they’re being powered, if possible. If we can locate and neutralize the core—”
“Where is this evidence you have?” she asked. “I’ve not heard of portable scanners being built.”
“I have an insider in my employ.”
“Unless I see evidence, I’m not buying it,” was the brisk reply. I had the feeling she wouldn’t accept Danica’s crumpled note as proof. “Either way, my voyants aren’t going near those factories. SciPLO has round-the-clock security. Nobody in this citadel would be stupid enough to try a break-in, not even with your visions scaring them. These people already know fear. They live and breathe it every day at work.”
“The factory bosses,” Tom murmured.
Attard nodded. “The overseers. Most of all, Emlyn Price, head of said overseers. The Ironmaster, we call him. He became Minister for Industry last year,” she said. “He usually lives in London in his fancy townhouse, but he’s been up here for months now. Even brought his spouse and kids with him. They stay in a gated community in Altrincham.”
“And the people working under him don’t want to fight back?” Maria demanded. “They don’t want to stop living in this hell?”
I had always liked Maria for her willingness to give anyone a tongue-lashing, but I could sense she was riling Attard.
“I wouldn’t know,” the Scuttling Queen said, staring her out. Maria folded her arms. “None of my Scuttlers work in the factories. That’s exactly why my family created the network: so voyants could stay out of them. So they wouldn’t get so desperate for money that they were forced to be workhands. We steal our money. We earn it with our gifts.”
“I understand, Scuttling Queen,” Tom said gently. “I used to work in a cotton mill myself, in Glasgow. I ken what it’s like.”
“It’s worse than you remember.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “But surely we should at least investigate what the Underqueen suspects. If it’s true, it has implications for us all.”
“I disagree. And I’m not letting you to do this.” She thumbed the buckle of one of her belts. “You’re not going to break into a factory, potentially bringing hell on us all, on the off-chance that you might be able to find out how Senshield works. I won’t have my people die for a pipe-dream.”
“People like your sister?” I said.
“Do not talk to me about my sister.”
Her tone was razor-edged. I glanced toward Hari, who shook his head.
“Are you saying you won’t allow us to stay?” I said.
“Oh, you can stay, Underqueen.” She laughed a little. “Stay as long as you like. Just don’t try getting into one of those factories, or I’ll send my Scuttlers after you. And you won’t much like that.”
I tried to think of how someone else would handle this situation. Nick would ask her questions, try to get to the root of her reluctance to fight, but I didn’t have time for that. Wynn would demand to know why she was refusing her duty of care to her people, but that would get her back up. Warden was both soft-spoken and forthright in a confrontation, which, coupled with a pair of chilling eyes I didn’t have, tended to get people to listen to him.
In the end, I could only do things my way.
“Freedom of movement in your citadel will eventually be crushed if we don’t act. Sooner or later, the Scuttlers will be forced into hiding.” I stepped forward. “Help us. Let us do what we need to do here. Just one soldier, with one portable Senshield device, could devastate your community.” I was about to snap. “My syndicate has been forced underground, unable to move for fear of detection. It will get worse, and soon, if we don’t fight back now. We never thought it would happen to us. We ignored it for months, and now we’re paying for it.”
Attard drew in a breath.
“You’re a leader. It’s your responsibility to protect the Scuttlers,” I said softer. “Do you want to see them buried alive?”
Her head turned sharply. “Don’t you swan up here and question my ability to lead, Londoner.” She fixed a hard stare on me. “I mean to protect them. I mean to protect them as my father did, by keeping them out of harm’s way. If we don’t get involved, Vance won’t come.”
Maria sighed. “Try to stop lying to yourself.”
“You’re the one lying to yourself if you think provoking Vance is going to bring you peace.” She cast a scathing glance over Maria. “You sound Bulgarian. How did rebelling turn out for you?”
Maria shut her mouth, but the look she gave Attard was murderous.
Was everyone in the world in denial? Everything we knew was changing, washing away the safety of tradition, and her solution was to stand and wait for it to pass. She would be waiting her whole life.
“Cause any trouble on my turf, and you’ll live to regret it,” Attard finished, turning away. “And don’t contact my sister, either. She can’t help you.”
I inclined my head and made for the stairs. “Then I guess we’re done here.” No point wasting any more time at a dead end.
Roberta Attard said nothing as we left.
“She’s just like Hector,” I seethed. “Does she really think the trouble’s going to stay in London?”
Maria blew cigarette smoke out of the train window. “There were hundreds like her in Bulgaria. Some people believe that if they keep their heads down and stick to their safe routine and trust that nothing bad will befall them, then it won’t. They see things happening to others, but they think they’re different; they’re special; it could never happen to them. They believe that nothing can get better, but also that nothing can get worse. They’re cowards, in one way, because they won’t fight, but they’re also brave, because they’re willing to accept their lot in life. Glupava smelost, we called it. Foolish courage.”
My boot tapped out a furious rhythm. Part of me didn’t blame Attard for wanting to avoid Vance, but I couldn’t listen to it.
“Hari,” I said, “there must be someone else who can help us get into a SciPLO factory.”
“She’s right about the security, you know. You’d be mad to try and get into one of those places.”
“I am mad.” I sought his gaze. “You work for Roberta. Would you help me if I kept trying?”
Hari sank deeper into his jacket. “I do work for her,” he admitted, “but not exclusively. She just gives me the odd bit of money to run the safe house, like I said.”
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
It was a while before he said, “I was told to help you however I could.” Another pause. “I guess what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Maria patted his shoulder. “Good man.”
The Red Rose was thick with customers by the time we got back to Hari’s district. The place had a homely smell of gravy and nutmeg and coffee, tinged with the pervasive stench of factory smoke, which clung to the patrons’ clothes as they entered. A whisperer with braided hair was serving the food, calling out orders in a musical voice. Sensing her aura stiffened my resolve. If she were in London, she would be at risk of detection.
We found a peaky Eliza sipping cola in the safe house. “How was it?” she croaked.
“Useless,” I said.
She frowned. Without another word, I went up to the attic and sat on the windowsill.
Sallow gray mist swirled past the glass. I stared into it, allowing my mind to wander.
When you dream of change, it shines bright, like fire, and burns away all the rot that came before it. It’s swift and inexorable. You cry for justice, and justice is done. The world stands with you in your fight. But if there was one thing I had learned in these last few weeks, it was that change had never been that simple. That kind of revolution existed only in daydreams.
Someone knocked on the door. Tom the Rhymer’s grizzled head appeared a moment later.
“Everything all right, Underqueen?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t blame yourself, lass. She’s a fool.” He stepped inside, his weight listing on to his good leg. “Hari’s got some business in the citadel, somewhere where the less savory folk of Manchester gather. Thought we could go along. Try asking after this Jonathan Cassidy that Danica mentioned.”
“Okay.” I got up. “Are you all right?”
“Still a wee bit tired after the séance. It took a lot out of me.” He hesitated. “I—I still don’t understand how it was possible. I felt—well, forgive me, Underqueen, but I felt like there was more to it than Warden was telling us.”
I sighed. “Tom, if there’s one thing I can tell you about Rephaim, it’s that there’s always more to it than they see fit to tell you.”
Hari’s den of criminals turned out to be a supper room called Quincey’s. It was a slender building on a street corner, with a dirty terracotta façade and windows that fluttered with candlelight. It must have been close to dawn, but if the silhouettes were anything to go by, the place was packed. A gaunt costermonger was selling bread rolls and soup from a cart nearby.
Inside, the walls were dark and tiled, and an amaurotic was playing “The Lost Chord,” a blacklisted parlor song I had always liked, on a piano. Each note strained to be heard above the chatter. Somebody threw a handful of nails at the performer—tough crowd—but he sang on.
It was warm enough to make the windows sweat. Hari took us up a floor, shepherded us into a booth, and held out a wad of cash.
“Courtesy of the Scuttling Queen. A token of her gratitude for your, uh, co-operation.” I was about to decline, but Maria snatched it. “Now, I’ve got to speak to one of my suppliers—keep your heads down.”
The others unmasked, but I kept my respirator on. I wasn’t fool enough to bare my features here, criminal retreat or not.
Maria stood. “I’m starving. I’ll get us something to eat.” I caught her wrist.
“See if you can find anything out about Cassidy,” I said. “Just be subtle about it.”
“As if I’m ever anything but.”
She elbowed her way to the bar while I sat with Eliza and Tom, considering our surroundings. A transmission screen above us was broadcasting a local game of icecrosse, Scion’s national winter sport. Jaxon had never allowed us to have the games on in the den, due to their “frivolity,” but Nadine would often sneak out to the nearest oxygen bar to watch them. Icecrosse was an amaurotic obsession in London; many of those watching here, however, were voyant. When the Manchester Anchors scored a point, half the spectators slumped over the bar while the others shouted in triumph and pounded each other’s backs.
“Paige,” Maria said, when she returned (I could barely hear her over the commotion), “the guy at the bar said Cassidy was known for stealing weapons and selling them to black-market traders. His employers at SciPLO eventually caught him red-handed. He escaped on the way to the gallows and is rumored to be in hiding, but no one knows where.”
“Naturally,” I said. “Any useful information about him?”
“He’s bald, amaurotic, and always wore a rag over his face. That’s all. Helpful, I know.” She squeezed into the booth next to Eliza. “I asked about the SciPLO factories. Apparently there are seventeen of them altogether, of varying sizes, all focused on munitions. And there’s no reason Scion should have spent the last year mass-producing munitions, not unless they’re planning another incursion.”
“Or they’re trying to arm all their soldiers with the scanners,” I pointed out.
“I highly doubt you need seventeen factories to do that. Either way, we should stay here and take them out.”
“The factories?” Tom said. “All seventeen?”
“Yes, the factories. All seventeen. Get rid of them.”
“Right,” I said, deadpan. “And how do we do that?”
Maria flicked on her lighter. “I’m a pyromancer, Paige.” She beckoned a spirit, and it carried the flame to the end of her cigarette. “I promise you, I can manage a little arson.”
Eliza yanked down her hand. “Maria, there are rotties in here,” she hissed. “What are you doing?”
“Nobody cares, sweet. Look.”
She motioned to a nearby table, where a seer was sitting with a crystal ball beneath her hand. GENUINE UNNATURAL, a sign proclaimed. OUTCOMES OF ALL ICECROSSE GAMES REVEALED. The unnatural in question was surrounded by eager amaurotics, none of whom appeared to be reporting her.
The conversation paused while a waitron laid out our food and glasses of hot chocolate. “What I’m saying,” Maria continued, when he left, “is that if we can’t get into the factories—”
“We’re not burning anything down,” I said. “If we destroy the factories, we destroy the trail that could lead us to the core.”
“You have any better ideas, kid?”
I surveyed the room again. “We have to track down this Cassidy. Dani wouldn’t have given me his name if she didn’t think he could help.”
“We could also contact Catrin Attard,” Maria said.
Eliza tilted her head, and I explained: “Roberta’s sister, condemned to hang. If she helped the Vigiles revolt, she’s clearly willing to resist Scion.”
“The Scuttling Queen warned us against communicating with her sister.” Tom looked over his shoulder. “We shouldn’t disrespect her wishes on that front. This is her turf.”
“We can’t quibble over turf anymore, Tom,” I said tersely, and he grunted.
“She could drive us out if she finds out we’re poking around. Besides, by all accounts, Catrin is under Scion’s lock and key.”
I massaged my temple. If we were going to enter SciPLO without dying in the attempt, it would have to be carefully planned.
“I have an idea about where we can find Cassidy,” I said. “It’s a long shot, though.”
“This whole revolution is a long shot,” Maria reminded me.
“Hari mentioned a district called Ancoats. He said a lot of Irish workers live there.”
Eliza frowned. “So?”
“Cassidy is the anglicized form of an Irish surname.”
Her expression cleared. “Like yours.”
“Exactly.” Mahoney was the one part of our heritage my father had clung on to. “If he’s hiding in Ancoats, the people there might reveal his location to one of their own.”
“Good thinking,” Maria said.
I finished my drink. “While I’m gone, we need to pursue other angles. Tom: I want you to try speaking to some of the factory workhands. Ask what they do in there, see if anyone’s likely to talk. Maria, Eliza: find out if Catrin Attard is still alive and where she’s being held. And make sure you don’t attract attention from Roberta or the Scuttlers.”
Between all these lines of investigation, we had to find something that could nudge us a little closer to unlocking the secret of Senshield. If we didn’t, and I returned to London empty-handed, I doubted I would be Underqueen for long.