Page 137 of The Song Rising

The Inquisitorial Office was an ornate room, watched over by portraits of previous Grand Inquisitors. An oak desk, which housed a wooden globe, sat before a floor-to-ceiling bay window. Weaver himself was nowhere to be seen. Silently, I stepped across the carpet.

Someone was standing beside the bookshelf. Red hair flowed down her back, red as the blood that plastered my skin. When she turned, I swung up the pistol. In the faint light from the citadel outside, her skin was waxen.

“Mahoney.”

I didn’t move.

Scarlett Burnish stepped away from the bookshelf and raised a hand slightly. “Mahoney,” she said, her cool blue eyes seeking mine, “put down the gun. We don’t have much time.”

Those were the lips that told their lies.

I had threatened the Grand Inquisitor once. Now it was the Grand Raconteur who stood before me, at the mercy of my bullet. Back then it had been about leverage, but I didn’t need that now. This was about self-preservation.

Burnish lifted her other hand, as if to surrender, and said:

“Winter cherry.”

At first, I didn’t understand. It made no sense for her to be using the language of flowers. But then—

Winter cherry.

Deception.

Alsafi’s contact.

Scarlett Burnish, the face and voice of ScionEye, who had read the news since I was twelve years old.Shewas Alsafi’s contact in the Archon. Scarlett Burnish, a Ranthen associate. A professional liar. The perfect double agent.

Scarlett Burnish, a traitor to the anchor.

Golden light flared into the office. In a movement so fast I almost missed it, Burnish had the letter-opener from Weaver’s desk in her hand. It whistled past my head and punched through the Vigile’s visor, splintering red plastic. The handle jutted grotesquely from his forehead. Blood wept down the bridge of his nose. He teetered before his dead weight thumped to the floor.

In the clock tower, the bells struck one. The æther heaved with the reverberations of another death.

“Quickly, Mahoney,” Burnish said. “Follow me.”

More dreamscapes were already closing in. Something made me look up at the surveillance cameras. Deactivated. Burnish pressed the back of the bust behind her, that of Inquisitor Mayfield, opening a gap in the wall. “Hurry,” she said, and chivvied me into the space beyond it. She had barely closed the wall behind us before more Vigiles thundered into the Inquisitorial Office. Her hand clamped over my mouth.

We waited. Muffled orders could be heard through the wall for some time before their footsteps retreated.

Burnish uncovered my lips. Acracksplit the silence, and her face was illuminated by a tube of light, making her red hair shine like paint against her skin. Wordlessly, I followed her through a long, unlit passage, just wide enough for us to move in single file.

She hurried me down a winding flight of steps. At the bottom, she held her light toward my face.

“Who do you work for?” I rasped. “The Ranthen? Which—which government, which organization?”

“Good grief, Mahoney, the state of you . . .” She ignored my question, taking in the streams of blood, the glistening crystals lodged in my arms. “All right, stay calm. I can give you medical attention. Where’s Alsafi?”

“Nashira.” I couldn’t control my breathing. “I told him to leave me, I told him . . .”

“No.” She started back up the stairs, then seemed to think better of it. Her fist struck the wall, and her face contorted in frustration. “That son-of-a-bitch—” The rest of her thought was lost as she seized me by the shoulders. “Did he mention me? Did he implicate me?”

Her grip was like iron. “No,” I said. “No. He didn’t even tell me.”

“Did she capture him, or destroy him?”

“He’s gone.”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Damn it.” One long breath, and she was back to business. “We have to be quick.” She whipped off her silk scarf and used it to stanch the flow of blood from my arm, careful not to push the shard in any farther. “Weaver’s bloody whiskers, you’re freezing,” she bit out, but pulled my other arm around her neck. “You had better be worth all this, Underqueen.”

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