Page 69 of The Song Rising

“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. “Areyouall 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.”

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