Page 65 of The Song Rising

“It was only small, to be honest. A handful of our night Vigiles turned on the factory overseers a few days ago. Didn’t last long—they were easily brought down. But there are rumblings that there will be more.”

“Why?”

“They heard about the Senshield expansion in London and thought they were going to lose their jobs. They won’t be needed if Senshield spreads. And if they aren’t needed . . .”

He drew a line across his neck. I handed back the newsletter. Warden had been right; the Vigileswereripe for revolution. Regardless of how long such a tense alliance would last, we might be able to call upon them while we were here without fear of betrayal—especially if we told them that Senshield was about to become portable. That would be the true death knell for their employment. And for them.

Tom came into the kitchen with Maria, who drew up a chair. Her hair was back in its usual pompadour style, and she had painted a ribbon of aquamarine across each eyelid.

“Interesting.” She gave the rag pudding a poke. “Hari, do tell us. Who is this mysterious Scuttling Queen?”

“Aye. Last I heard, it was a Scuttling King.” Tom cracked open a pudding box. In the gray light of morning, he looked his age, his face gaunt and speckled with liver spots. “Attard, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah—Nerio Attard. It’s an old family,” Hari said. “They’ve ruled the voyant community here for four generations. They tried to set up a Council of the North about thirty years ago, to bring more of us voyants together, but it didn’t last. Nerio got beheaded by Scion a couple of years back, but he had two daughters. Roberta is the one their father chose to take over in the event of his death—she gives me a bit of money to keep this place up and running. She’s the Scuttling Queen. Then there’s Catrin, the younger one, who’s sort of her muscle. She was detained a few days ago.”

“For what?” I said.

“She helped the Vigiles stage their uprising.”

That meant that if she wasn’t already dead, she would be soon. “If I needed Roberta’s help,” I said, “do you think she would be open to co-operating with me, even if it’s just by sharing information?”

Hari rubbed the back of his neck. “Really depends how you present yourself when you see her. She’s not keen on competition, but as long as you don’t show signs of wanting to take over as leader of the Scuttlers or anything, it’s a possibility.” He eyed his watch before shoveling in a few more mouthfuls of food. “We’ll go to the Old Meadow now. Better to be early than late.”

I looked to Maria. “Where’s Eliza?”

She pulled a face. “I think something possessed her. I heard noises. No answer when I called her, and the door’s locked.”

Eliza wouldn’t want to miss this meeting, but she would be confined to bed for a good few hours after a trance. “Let me check on her,” I said. “Do you have any cola, Hari? And the key to her door?”

“Ah, yeah.”

He passed me a glass bottle from the fridge. I took it up to the first floor and unlocked the room. Eliza was lying unconscious where the rogue spirit had dropped her, her lips tinged with the blue of spiritual contact. Finding no ink or paints to hand, the muse had made her scratch the beginning of a face into the wall with her nails, leaving them ragged and her fingertips bloody. I lifted her chin and checked her airways, as Nick had taught me to do if she experienced an unsolicited possession, before I cleaned up her hand and covered her with blankets. She murmured incoherently.

The æther takes as often as it gives, people said in the syndicate. It was true. My nosebleeds and bouts of fatigue; Nick’s migraines; Eliza’s loss of control over her body. We all paid a price for our connection to the spirit world.

“She all right?” Hari said when I returned.

“She’s fine. Your wall, not so much.”

He frowned slightly before handing me a full-face respirator.

I saw the world through glass eyeholes. The mask was uncomfortable, but it would keep me anonymous. I laced my feet into snow boots and zipped myself into a hooded puffer jacket with a thick fleece lining.

We followed Hari from the cookshop at a distance. Not one star could be seen through the smog. When we reached a main road, we squeezed into an elevator labeledMONORAIL OF SCION MANCHESTER, which winched us up to a station platform.

It took less than a minute for a train to arrive. It must have been sleek once, but now it was worn and soiled, and it rattled on the track. I stepped over the gap and took a seat in the deserted carriage. Maria sat beside me and picked up a copy of theDaily Descendant.

The others removed their respirators. Taking advantage of the invisibility afforded by mine, I took a good look at the people around us. Despite the late hour, none wore everyday clothing. One man was clad in the crisp red of those who worked in essential services, but he stood out—most were in slate-gray or black boiler suits. Black was for skilled personnel, but I didn’t know what gray signified. Only two of the passengers wore the white shirts and red ties that filled the Underground every morning in London. Hari nudged me and tapped the window.

“There.”

It took me a moment to see it in the darkness. Its walls were as black as the sky.

A factory.

It dwarfed the monorail track. Even in the train, the clangor from inside made my teeth vibrate.SCIPLOwas painted in towering vertical letters down one side of the building, with a white anchor beside it. Its employees, whose gray uniforms almost blended with the smog, filed in and out through titanic gates. Each pressed their finger to a scanner before entering or leaving. There were at least ten armed Vigiles at the gates, another six patrolling the street outside, and I had no doubt there would be more within those walls.

“Terrible life they have in there.” Hari shook his head. “The work kills you. They handle dangerous materials for long hours and not much money—plus, they get fined for the slightest thing. Most have to shave off their hair so it won’t get caught in the machinery.”

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