Page 117 of The Mask Falling

“You did that. With help, perhaps.”

“Fine. It’s a crime syndicate,” I conceded, “trying to become a militia.” Ducos nodded. “My aim is to convert it into an organization capable of guerrilla warfare with Scion, at the very least. In Ireland, large rebel bands—the laochra scátha—were able to maintain the upper hand in Munster and Connacht for several years after the invasion.”

Scion had mockingly called themluckscores, belittling their victories. County Tipperary had been one of their main bases of operation.

“The Mime Order could do that,” I said, “but with the right support, it could be capable of more. Sabotage, for example.”

Ducos nodded again, slower.

“Sabotage is one of our projected strategies, should the anchor declare war on any of our benefactors. Damaging railways, lines of communication, ordnance factories, and so on.” She drank. “Coordinating local rebellions, too.”

“We can do that.” I leaned forward. “I’ll be straight with you: we lost our main source of income in December, and Scion is doubling its efforts to destroy us. Without support, we could fall apart.”

Ducos finished her coffee.

“Domino might well be able to work with your organization,” she said. “But I wonder—will you want to return to your old life, or remain an agent?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked. “Do they silence anyone who wants to leave the network?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Usually, if you were to be deemed unsuitable and discharged, you would have to submit to memory erasure by means of white aster. Once your memories are gone, Domino cuts all ties. No more supplies. You would lose this safe house.”

White aster. Supplies of it were held mostly by Scion, though some of it had trickled into London.

“If you were a recognizedassociateof the network, however, they might make an exception,” Ducos said. “I will inquire.”

I nodded. It was a moment before I spoke again: “Tell me what my next assignment is.”

Ducos drummed her fingers on the table.

“In your last report, you spoke of a city, built on the instructions of the English. A prison for clairvoyants on the site of Versailles,” she said. “Domino would like you to infiltrate it.”

I took a slow drink of coffee. “Interesting.”

“Yes. Cordier was of the opinion that you should be allowed to convalesce for a month. Command disagreed. Your medicine is the very best at our disposal. My superiors are confident you will be fit for a stealth-based assignment in a few days.”

“Does Domino have a way to get me to Versailles?”

“No. Demonstrate your resourcefulness and find your own way there,” she said. “Once you reach the city, you are to take one action, and one only. You are to assassinate the official in charge of it.”

“The official in charge of it,” I echoed.

“Yes. You are to eliminate the Scion official known as the Grand Overseer.”

That title sent a hook into my gut. I schooled my face. Ducos must not see my disquiet.

“Why?” I finally said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why do they want this particular official dead?”

“To continue to undermine the relationship between England and France. The Grand Overseer is a representative of England, a close associate of the Suzerain. His death in France—a death under suspicious circumstances—will inflame the wound between Ménard and Weaver.”

“I see.” I cleared my throat. “Am I to kill him with my gift?”

“Under no circumstances. What they want,” Ducos said, “is for you to make the assassination look like a scheme by Benoît Ménard.” She took something from her briefcase. “A small gift, since you requested it. One double-action revolver.”

She held out the weapon. It gleamed in the lamplight. The revolver I had used in London had been a rusted old barking iron, which Danica had restored for me. This one was sleek as quicksilver.

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