Page 64 of The Song Rising

“I guess he knows what he’s talking about. Jax never wrote that much about oneiromancy.”

It occurred to me for the first time that Jaxon might have learned about oneiromancyfromWarden, by observing him. It wasn’t mentioned in the original edition ofOn the Merits of Unnaturalness—but it had appeared in later ones. He must have done plenty of research on the new kinds of clairvoyance he encountered in the colony. Never a man to waste an opportunity.

“Warden’s . . . interesting, isn’t he?”

“That’s one word for him,” I said.

“You must have ended up getting quite close to him. Living with him for six months.”

I shrugged. “He’s a Rephaite. There’s only so close you can get.”

She was watching my face intently. When I didn’t elaborate, she said, “Paige, why did you choose Glym to be interim Underlord?”

“I thought he was the right person for it.”

“Okay, but shouldn’t it have been Nick? He’s mollisher supreme. Or . . . me, if not him.”

I had broken with another syndicate tradition, and I hadn’t even thought about it. Of course, the mollisher supreme always took over from the leader. Now I understood why Glym had been surprised. It must have seemed as if I didn’t trust the competence of my own mollishers.

“I didn’t mean to snub you,” I said. “Glym will be fair, but hard. It’s what they’ll need in the Beneath.”

“You don’t know what my approach would have been. I started off in the pits of the syndicate; I know how hard it can be, how tough you have to be. Don’t underestimate me, Paige—and don’t underestimate my loyalty to you.” I looked away. “You don’t know what it took me to leave Jaxon at the scrimmage. You and Nick were always together, from the moment you arrived. Jax was all I had.

“I still left him. You made me see that he was just like the dealers who used me as their runner. I saw that you wanted justice for everyone with an aura, not just those you considered superior. So I chose you.” Her eyes were full. “Don’t you dare take that for granted.”

She must have had to muster a lot of courage to say this. I tried to think of something, anything to say.

“Eliza,” I said, “I am sorry. I’ve just—”

“It’s okay. Look, I know how much you have on your shoulders. I just want you to know that you can trust me. With anything.”

I could see from her face that she needed me to understand this, to acknowledge it, but I did trust her; I always had—I had just never thought of telling her so. Maybe I had spent too much time around Rephaim, forgotten how to show what I was feeling. Before I could say anything in answer, Hari appeared in the doorway.

“The Scuttling Queen will see you tonight,” he said. “Seems like she might just move at your pace, Underqueen.”

I needed to look presentable. Not polished, but presentable. I brushed past an automatiste as I made my way to the shower, but he didn’t seem to be interested in small talk, which suited me just fine.

The bathroom was an icebox. I washed in a hurry, stepping in dirty water, then dressed in gray trousers, a rib-knitted black jersey with a roll neck, and a body-warmer. My hair was a lost cause, a knotted brier after hours in the wind, and I knew from experience that brushing it would cause mayhem. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Hari elbowed his way through the door with a paper bag in hand.

“Ah, good.” He shut the door with his heel. “Here’s something to eat. You must be starving after that walk.”

I followed him into the kitchen, which was small and dim, like all the rooms.

“Sorry it’s so cramped. I’ve got one guy staying—you probably saw him—he’s wanted for painting a caricature of Weaver on the Guildhall.” Hari snorted with laughter as he set down several cartons. “Rag pudding.” He slid one across the table. “It’s not pretty, but it’s good.”

Inside was a gravy-soaked meat parcel, a spoonful of mushy peas, and thick-cut chips, cooked in beef dripping. It was only when I smelled it that I realized I was famished. As we ate, I noticed a pamphlet under his elbow.

“The Rephaite Revelation.” I brought it across the table, tracing the illustration on the front. The pamphlet I had written to warn the syndicate about the Rephaim and Emim, which the Rag and Bone Man had edited to work to the Sargas’s advantage. “I didn’t know it had made it up here.”

Hari gulped down his mouthful. “The voyant publishers in Withy Grove got hold of a copy and printed their own. People loved it. Then they reviewed it in theQuerent, and since then—”

“The what?”

He swept aside some unopened mail and presented me with a saddle-stitched booklet with a coffee ring on the cover. “It’s a voyant newsletter. Scion is trying to stop it spreading, but it keeps coming back.”

The headline was printed in the old black-letter script.SECOND VIGILE REVOLT ON THE HORIZON AFTER SHOCKING ORACULAR IMAGES FROM THE MIME ORDER, it blared. In smaller print:THE QUERENT SAYS NO TO KRIGS IN MANCHESTER! NO TO SENSHIELD IN OUR CITADEL!

“SecondVigile revolt,” I read out. My pulse sharpened. “There was a first one?”

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