Page 18 of The Song Rising

“There’s discontent in the syndicate, Paige,” he said. “They’re not pleased with the outcome of the trial.”

Surprise, surprise. “Hector gave them a taste for bloodshed,” I said, “but they don’t have a right to it. Ivy needs protection, not more punishment.”

“I’m glad you weren’t hard on her. I’m just warning you that some of your voyants aren’t.”

“Well, if they could handle Hector’s decisions, and heaven knows they were piss-poor, then they can handle mine.”

“Your piss-poor decisions?”

I gave him a look. He smiled a little, the first genuine smile I had seen from him in days.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not funny. When’s Dani back from her shift?”

“About one,” Eliza said.

I checked my watch. Half past eleven. The chances that Danica had been able to find anything out were minuscule, but she was the only one of us on the inside; and if anyone had the willpower to find out where the power source of Senshield was, it was Danica Panic.

“Errai spoke to me after the trial,” Nick said. “He said that Terebell wants to see you tonight—at midnight. I’ll go with you.”

“Great. I can’t wait to be belittled for an hour.” Among other things, I would have to ask Terebell for money. “Do you have the accounts?”

Eliza unearthed the ledger and pushed it across the table. I scanned our streams of income. More like trickles, except for Terebell’s lump sums and syndicate tax. The only reason Hector had been effortlessly rich, I imagined, was because the gray market had raked in so much extra income.

I closed the ledger. “Let’s make ourselves presentable. Eliza, can you check that the Unnatural Assembly have all handed over their taxes on the syndicate rent?”

“Sure.”

Terebell wanted to meet us at an abandoned building in Wapping. One of our local moto drivers picked us up from the corner of the street. We didn’t get far before the screens across the citadel came to life; an announcement from our glorious Inquisitor was imminent. I called for the driver to stop, and the moto swerved to the side of the road. Across the river, Frank Weaver appeared on the transmission screens.

“Denizens of the citadel, this is your Inquisitor,” he said. “For security reasons, due to a threat that cannot be discussed at this time, a curfew will be imposed in the capital from eightP.M.to fiveA.M., effective immediately. Scion employees on night duty are exempt but must be in uniform and in possession ofIDwhen they travel. We ask you to trust that this extraordinary measure has been put in place for your protection, and we thank you for your co-operation. There is no safer place than Scion.”

He vanished, replaced by the anchor on a white background. All I could hear was my breath inside the helmet.

“We’re going back,” Nick said. “Now.”

As the moto drove away, I could see people on the streets pointing at the screens, anger etched on to their faces, but they gradually began to trickle back to their homes.

Our driver returned us to the docklands. My mind whirred like an overworked machine, drilling out every potential consequence of this announcement. Coupled with the hidden scanners, a curfew could do a lot of damage to the Mime Order’s ability to function.

Eliza looked up from the taxes as we burst in.

“What’s happening?”

“Official curfew,” I said. “Eight to five.”

“Oh, no. They can’t have—” She bolted the window. “Aren’t you supposed to be with the Ranthen?”

“It’ll have to wait.”

We set about locking down the building, with Nick doing the final check. Once he had secured the doors, he joined us at the table, where the enormity of the setback kept us all silent, lost in our own thoughts.

As we sat there, I tried to devise ways we could work around a curfew. It would be especially difficult if Jaxon was advising Scion on our movements. He was aware of most secret routes, at least in the central cohort. I could send out scouts to seek new tunnels, paths he had never found, but there wouldn’t be many. His knowledge of London, built up over decades, was far greater than mine.

The best way to get about would be through tunnelsunderthe citadel, but the mudlarks and toshers would stop us from going too far underground. They were homeless Londoners, mostly amaurotic, who made their living by scouring the lost rivers, drains and sewers of the citadel for trinkets and artifacts to sell. They claimed most of the tunnels under London as their territory, treating the manholes on the streets as their doors, and there was an unspoken agreement that it was their realm. No syndies would venture down there.

Someone or something hammered on the front door. We snapped to our feet, spools quavering around us.

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