Page 66 of The Song Rising

Tom’s brow was deeply furrowed. I remembered the factory in his dreamscape, the gloom and the dust.

“They’ve started beatings since the quotas were introduced. If you don’t meet your target, you’ll know about it in the morning.” Hari nodded to where a squadron of Vigiles was escorting several gray-clad workers. “Even the kids don’t escape it.”

I tensed. “They have children working in there?”

“Kids are cheaper. And small enough to clean under the machines.”

Child labor. It wouldn’t be tolerated in London, though enough unwanted children washed up on the streets there and ended up working for kidsmen for no money.

“Since you want to find out more about SciPLO, you could try and get one of the workhands to talk—if the Scuttling Queen gives you permission to do your investigating, that is—but it won’t be easy.” Hari pushed his glasses up his nose. “Might be an idea to visit Ancoats. A lot of factory workhands live in that district. Mostly Irish settlers.”

I watched the factory until it was out of sight.

We crossed a bridge over the River Irwell. Below us, dead fish rolled like balloons on the water.

After a while, the factories and foundries gave way to warehouses. Soon enough, we were stepping off the train and down a stairway to the street below. As my boot hit a manhole, I thought again of the Mime Order, and the people who were relying on me. I needed to persuade Roberta Attard that we presented no threat to her; that she should let us conduct our investigations in peace; that she should help us, even. Didion Waite had once described me as an “ill-mannered, jumped-up little tongue-pad” when I tried to sweet-talk him, which didn’t seem to bode well for our meeting, but Attard and I were both leaders of our respective communities. That had to count for something.

In the shadow of the track, letters on an archway declared this district to be the Old Meadow. The “meadow” in question was little more than a scuff of grass, encircled by a wrought-iron fence. In the feeble glow of a streetlamp, a group of children kicked a ball to one another, watched by a greyhound. One of them whistled as we came closer.

“You here to see the lady?”

Hari pocketed his hands. “Tell her I’m here, will you?”

She threw the ball and took off across the grass. “Give us a fiver, Hari,” one of the boys wheedled. He was missing his front teeth and a chunk of fire-red hair. “Just for some grub.”

Hari opened his wallet with a long-suffering sigh. “You ought to be at the factory, you. You’ll starve.”

“Ah, sod the factory. I’ve done enough scavenging.” The boy held out a hand. Half of his index finger was missing. “Do us a favor, mate. I don’t want to be crawling under those machines again.” When Hari threw a coin, he caught it with a laugh. “You’re a good bloke, Hari.”

“Get that dog some grub, too. Where’d you even find him?”

“The McKays’ house, where the chimney fell. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

As the boy knelt to pet the greyhound, Tom shook his head. “Poor weans,” he muttered. “Just look at them.”

“Yeah,” Hari said sourly. “Just look at how much of my hard-earned money I give them.”

“Are they all orphans?”

“Yep.”

I watched the scene through my respirator. In London, I had never seen a child with missing fingers. Dockland workers and syndies, but never children.

Soon enough, the girl was back. “Come on, then,” she said to us. “The lady will see you now.”

11

A Tale of Two Sisters

Our guide led us into the pits of the district. I had walked in the worst slums of London, but they always hit me hard. This one was devoid of all but silent life. A nightwalker lolled like an abandoned doll on a step, his mouth a ruddy smear, while two elderly women swept ash from the pavement—a Sisyphean task if ever there was one. Tom’s face grew tighter with every step.

“She’s never in one place,” Hari told us. “She has a few retreats, and you never know which one she’ll choose.”

She was sane, then. That was a decent start.

We passed under a great plane tree, which had somehow endured the pollution for long enough to grow to a remarkable size. It still wore a few brown seed-balls, but the flaking bark was blackening, losing its hard-fought battle with the air. In the next street, ramshackle houses were jammed together like teeth on a jaw. The girl pointed at a door with a tarnished keyhole, which was opened by a sensor when Hari knocked. Sunshine-yellow cloth covered his nose and mouth. We followed him into a tiny parlor, where a fire burned low, illuminating a mattress and the woman staring into the hearth.

Six feet tall and broad-shouldered, Roberta Attard, the Scuttling Queen, was a formidable presence. Her aura marked her as a capnomancer. Must be useful to have smoke as your numen in these conditions.

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