The Bone Season

23 Antiquary

I didn’t sleep for hours. I could hear him at his desk, writing away, hidden from me only by the drapes.

My eyes and nose were raw, my throat tight as a fist. For the first time in years, I wanted everything to vanish. I wanted everything to be back to normal, like it was when I was little, before I’d been ripped open by the æther.

I looked up at the canopy. No matter how much I sometimes wanted it, there was no normal. There never had been. “Normal” and “natural” were the biggest lies we’d ever created. We humans with our little minds. And maybe being normal wouldn’t suit me.

It was only when he turned on his gramophone that I started to get drowsy. I hadn’t been in his dreamscape long, but I’d done it without life support. I drifted into a doze. The crackling voices blurred together.

I must have slept for a while. When I woke, the drip was gone. In its place was a small plaster.

The day-bell tolled. Sheol I slept during the day, but it seemed I wasn’t going to sleep. There was nothing to do but get up and face him.

I hated him so much it hurt. I wanted to smash the mirror, to feel the glass break under my knuckles. I should never have taken those pills.

Maybe it was the same as what I did. I spied on people, too—but I didn’t look into their pasts. I only saw what they imagined themselves to be, not what they were. I saw flashes of people: the edges and the corners, the faint glow of a distant dreamscape. Not like him. Now he knew everything about me, every little bit of me I’d tried to keep concealed. He’d always known I was one of the Seven Seals. He’d known from the very first night.

But he hadn’t told Nashira. Just as he’d kept the butterfly and the deer from her, so he’d kept my true identity. She might have guessed that I was part of the syndicate, but she hadn’t got it from him.

I pulled the drapes apart. Golden sunlight poured into the tower, glinting on the instruments and books. Near the window, Michael—the amaurotic—was setting out a breakfast spread on a small table. He looked up and smiled.

“Hi, Michael.”

He nodded.

“Where’s Warden?”

Michael pointed at the door.

“Cat got your tongue?”

He shrugged. I sat down. He pushed a stack of pancakes across the table. “I’m not hungry,” I said. “I don’t want his guilt breakfast.” Michael sighed, wrapped my hand around a fork, and stabbed it into the pancakes. “Fine, but I blame you if I throw it all back up.”

Michael grimaced. Just to please him, I sprinkled the pancakes with brown sugar.

Michael kept a sharp eye on me as he puttered around the room, tidying the bedclothes and the drapes. The pancakes awakened a punishing hunger. I ended up eating my way through the whole stack, along with two croissants with strawberry jam, a bowl of cornflakes, four slices of hot buttered toast, a plate of scrambled eggs, a red apple with crisp white innards, three cups of coffee, and an ice-cold pint of orange juice. It was only when I could eat no more that Michael handed me a sealed manila envelope.

“Trust him.”

It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Do you trust him?”

He nodded, cleared the breakfast table, and was gone. And even though it was daytime, he left the door unlocked. I split the wax seal on the envelope and unfolded the sheet of thick paper inside. It was bordered with swirling gold. Paige, it began:

I apologize for upsetting you. But even if you resent me, know that I sought only to understand you. You can hardly blame me for your refusal to be understood.

Some apology this was. Still, I continued to read:

It is still day. Go to the House. You will find things there that I cannot supply.

Be swift. If you are stopped, tell the guards you are collecting a fresh batch of aster for me.

Do not judge too quickly, little dreamer.

I scrunched the letter into my hand and threw it into the hearth. Just by writing it, Warden was flaunting his newfound trust in me. I could easily take it straight to Nashira. She would recognize his handwriting, I was sure. But I didn’t want to help Nashira in any way whatsoever. I hated Warden for keeping me in this place, but I needed to get into the House.

I went to the upper floor and dressed in my new uniform: yellow tunic, yellow anchor on the gilet. A bright, sunshine yellow, visible from a mile off. 40 the coward. 40 the quitter. In a way I liked it. It showed I’d gone against Nashira’s orders. I’d never wanted to be red.

I went back to his chamber—slowly, thinking. I still didn’t know if I wanted to organize a prison break, but I did want to leave. I would need supplies for the journey home. Food, water. Weapons. Hadn’t he said the red flower could hurt them?

The snuff box was on the table, the lid propped open. Inside were samples from several plants: sprigs of laurel, sycamore and oak leaves, mistletoe berries, blue and white aster, and a packet of dry leaves labeled SALVIA DIVINORUM. His numen. Below it, a sealed vial of soft, blue-black powder was tucked into the corner of the snuff box. The tag read ANEMONE CORONARIA. I pulled off the cork, releasing a pungent smell. Pollen of the red flower. These sweet little grains might just keep me safe. I closed the vial and tucked it into my gilet.

There must be guards stationed outside during the day, but I could slip past them. I had my ways. And no matter how Nashira Sargas had classified me, I was no yellow-jacket. I was the Pale Dreamer.

It was time to show her.

I spun a line about collecting aster for my keeper, and to take it up with him if there were any problems. The new day porter wasn’t too hot on that idea: he almost threw me onto the street when he read in the ledger who my keeper was. He didn’t even mention the backpack on my shoulders. Nobody wanted to piss off Arcturus Mesarthim.

It was strange to see the city in daylight. I sensed the Broad would be empty—there were none of the usual sounds and smells—but I needed to do something before I reached the house. I walked through the passages of the Rookery. Water drizzled through every crack and seam, the aftermath of a passing storm. I found the right shack and moved the tattered drape aside. Julian was asleep, his arm around Liss, keeping her warm. Her aura was burning down, like a candle at the end of its wick. I crouched beside them and emptied my backpack. I tucked a package of breakfast food into the crook of Julian’s free arm, where no passing guard could see it, and covered them both with clean white blankets. I left a box of matches in the chest.

Seeing their squalor made me sure I was doing the right thing. They needed more than what I’d scoured from the Founder’s Tower. They needed what was in the House.

Spirit shock was a slow process. You had to fight your way through it, fight with every inch of yourself. Only the strong survived it. Save for a few fleeting moments of lucidity, Liss hadn’t regained consciousness since her cards had been destroyed. If she didn’t recover soon, she’d lose her aura and succumb to amaurosis. Her only hope was to reunite with a pack of cards, and even then, there was no guarantee that she’d connect with them. I would scour the House until I found some for her.

There were no guards visible on the street, but I knew they would have lookouts. Just to be safe, I climbed up one of the buildings and found a path across the rooftops, using ledges and pilasters to slink across the city. I watched my footing as best I could, but it was slow going: my right arm was mannequin-stiff, and most of my body still throbbed with bruises.

The House was visible from a mile off. Its two spires rose through the mist. I dropped into an alley when I was close; the distance to the next wall was too great to jump. Over that wall was the one residence where only Rephaim were permitted.

I looked at the wall for a long time. Warden was in too deep to betray me now. For some reason he was helping me—and for Liss’s sake, I had to accept it. Besides, if I got into trouble, I could always send him a message through the golden cord. If I could work out how. If I could bear it. I climbed the wall, swung my leg over the top, and dropped down onto overgrown grass.

Like many of the residences, this facility had been built around a series of quadrangles. As I crossed into the first one, I compiled a mental list of things I needed to cross No Man’s Land. Weapons were crucial, given what lurked in the trees, but medical supplies would be an extra asset. If I put a foot wrong on the minefield, I would need a tourniquet. And antiseptic. It was a horrific thought, but I had to face it. Adrenaline was valuable: not only could I use it to get my energy up and dull pain, but it could also be used to revive me if I had to leave my body. More anemone pollen might be helpful, and any other substances I could find: flux, aster, salt—maybe even ectoplasm.

I went past a few buildings, but none of them were suitable to search. Too many rooms. It was only when I wandered away from the central courtyards, to the very edge of the residence, that a better target caught my eye: a building with large windows and plenty of footholds. I walked through an archway and viewed it from the other side. Red ivy grew in swaths across its facade. I walked around the building, trying to find an open window. There were none. I’d have to break in. Wait—there was one—a small window, open just a crack, on the first floor. I hauled myself onto a low wall, and from there I took the drainpipe. The window was stuck fast, but I forced it open with one arm. I lowered myself into a tiny room, probably a broom cupboard, thick with dust. I cracked open the door.

I found myself in a stone corridor. Empty. This excursion to the House couldn’t have gone any better. As I examined the doors, looking for some sign of what might be behind them, I tensed. My sixth sense shivered: two auras. They were behind a door directly to my right. I stopped dead. “. . . know anything! Please—”

There was a muffled noise. I pressed my ear to the door.

“The blood-sovereign will not hear your pleas.” The voice was male. “We know you saw them together.”

“I saw them once, once in the meadow! They were just training. I didn’t see anything else, I swear!” This voice was high-pitched with terror. I recognized it: Ivy, the palmist. She was almost choking the words. “Please, not again, not again, I can’t stand it—”

An awful scream.

“There will be no more pain when you give us the truth.” Ivy was sobbing. “Come now, 24. You must have something for me. Just a little information. Did he touch her?”

“He—he carried her out of the m-meadow. She was tired. But he was wearing gloves—”

“You’re sure?”

Her breathing quickened. “I—I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Please—no more—” Footsteps. “No, no!”

Her pitiful cries twisted my stomach. I wanted to flush out the spirit of her torturer, but the risk of being caught was too great. If I didn’t get these supplies, I couldn’t save anyone. I clenched my jaw, listening, shaking with anger. What was he doing to her?

Ivy’s screams went on and on. My stomach heaved when she stopped.

“No more, please.” Ivy was choking on her sobs. “It’s the truth!” Her tormentor was silent. “But—but he feeds her. I know he feeds her, and she—she always looks clean. And—people say she can possess voyants, and he must be—must be keeping it from the b-blood-sovereign. Otherwise she would have been d-dead by now.”

The silence was damning. After that was a soft, heavy thump, then footsteps and a closing door.

For a long time I was paralyzed. After a minute I pushed the heavy door open. There was a single wooden chair inside. Its seat was stained with blood, as was the floor.

My skin grew slick and cold. I ran my sleeve across my upper lip. For a while I crouched against the wall, my head in my hands. Ivy had been talking about me.

I couldn’t think about it now. Her torturer might still be in this building. Slowly, I stood and faced the nearest room. The key was in the door. I looked inside. Weapons lined the walls: swords, hunting knives, a crossbow, a slingshot with steel ammunition. This must be where they stored arms to distribute to the red-jackets. I grabbed a knife. An anchor gleamed near the hilt. Scion-made. Weaver was sending weapons here while he and his ministers sat in the Archon, far from the ethereal beacon.

Julian was right. I couldn’t just leave. I wanted to make Frank Weaver afraid. I wanted him to know the fear of every voyant prisoner he’d ever transported.

I closed the door and locked it. When I looked up, I found myself facing a large, yellowed map. THE PENAL COLONY OF SHEOL I, it read. OFFICIAL TERRITORY OF THE SUZERAIN. I scanned it. Sheol I was built around the large central residences, tapering off to the meadow and the trees. All the familiar landmarks were there: Magdalen, Amaurotic House, the Residence of the Suzerain, the Hawksmoor—and Port Meadow. I peeled the map from the wall and studied it. The printed letters next to it were mangled, but I made them out.

Train.

My fingers tightened on the edges of the map. The train. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. We’d all been brought here by a train—why couldn’t we leave on it?

My brain was in overdrive. How, how had I not thought of it? I didn’t need to cross No Man’s Land. I didn’t need to walk for miles, or pass the Emim, to reach the citadel. All I had to do was find the train. I could take people with me—Liss, Julian, everyone. The average Scion train could hold nearly four hundred people, more if they were standing. I could get every single prisoner out of this city and still have room for more.

We would still need weapons. Even if we all snuck to the meadow by daylight, moving in small groups, the Rephaim would come after us. Besides, the entrance might be guarded. I reached for a sheathed knife and stowed it away in my backpack. Next I found a few guns. The palm pistol, a similar model to mine, would come in handy: it was small, easy to conceal, and I knew how to use it. I shifted some illegible paperwork from the top of a metal case. Nick had tried to shoot Warden in the citadel, to no avail. Bullets would work on loyal red-jackets, but we’d need more than guns to take down Rephs. I was reaching for a box of bullets when the sound of footsteps drifted to my ears.

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 the 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.