Page 30 of The Mask Falling

“You have been talking to our anormaux,” he said.

“A few.”

“You have made yourself very much at home here, then, Underqueen. And now you come to our court with questions. I hope you will forgive us for asking one or two in return.” Intelligence crouched in his fishy eyes. “For instance, I should very much like to know how you survived a bullet to the abdomen. Many of our subjects witnessed the broadcast.”

“It was a rubber bullet,” I said, “likely coated in a fast-acting anaesthetic that induced a coma. Scion wanted to interrogate me before my execution.”

“Dreadful business. How did you escape?”

“I had some help.”

“Yes, you do seem to inspire loyalty. Not initially, perhaps—betraying your own mime-lord, tut tut, I’m surprised no one carved your throat for that—but now we hear tell of a very popular young queen. A queen who sacrificed herself for the dream of revolution.”

“And now you come to us.” La Reine des Thunes spoke quietly. “Why?”

Something was off here. Every instinct told me so. Still, I had come this far.

“The Mime Order faces a serious assault by Scion, codenamed Operation Albion,” I said. “Scion has reclassified my syndicate as a terrorist organization, acknowledging the threat we pose.”

“As well it should.” Le Latronpuche muffled a yawn. “We hear it is because of the Mime Order—because of you—that Senshield will never threaten Paris. We hear that you are on your way to refining your thieves and murderers and bully-rooks into a formidable army.”

“It could be more formidable. With your support, we might stand a chance of achieving our purpose.”

“And what is your purpose, Underqueen?”

“To overthrow Scion.”

At this, Le Latronpuche offered the sort of smile one might use to indulge a petulant child.

“Underqueen,” La Reine des Thunes said, “it is a noble purpose, but Scion has endured for more than two centuries. In the words of the Gray Queen, your ambition is . . . un beau rêve. Voilà tout.”

“Voyants don’t dream. And in the Mime Order, we strive for more than petty treason. We act,” I said. “In less than a year, we’ve shut down a penal colony where voyants were being brutalized and indoctrinated. We’ve deactivated Senshield and stopped the Grand Commander. We have no intention of slowing down. We can defeat our enemy, but only if we have enough soldiers to call upon in the war we mean to bring to Scion. And only if we have enough allies.”

“Ah. That is what you want,” La Reine des Thunes said. “For us to open our carrières to anyone who flees from London.”

“I’m offering you a partnership. We are two age-old underworlds. You would be our esteemed allies. Join us.”

“And how does Paris benefit?” Le Latronpuche inquired. “What dowegain, Underqueen?”

“Freedom, in the fullness of time. For now, I think there are a number of ways we can help one another,” I said. “Perhaps you’d like to share in the proceeds of our black market, the most lucrative in Europe. Or perhaps you could use soldiers.” I raised my eyebrows. “I hear your Grand Inquisitor is a little more assiduous than ours. That Ménard is true anachorète. He sings in the language of the guillotine, the blood lottery. Perhaps it’s time for you to sing back.”

“Oh, the Butcher of Strasbourg is no threat to us.” Le Latronpuche waved an idle hand, as if he were swatting a slow-moving fly. “His blundering Vigiles will never find us here. They have tried, many times. And their friends have tried to find their bodies. Andtheirfriends have tried to findtheirbodies, and so on. Meanwhile,weare never found.”

“But what if someone else finds you?” I asked. “A voyant. One of your own.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Before I became Underqueen, I discovered the existence of a trafficking ring in London,” I said. “Mime-lords and mime-queens were selling their own voyants to the Rephaim.” La Reine des Thunes stiffened. I pretended not to notice. “I have reason to believe this so-calledgray markethas moved here, to Paris. It’s run by a voyant called the Rag and Bone Man, who fled London when his involvement was expo—”

“Madelle,” Le Latronpuche cut in, “I’m afraid you are telling us what we already know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I grant it.” His blue eyes were fixed on me. “You see, we are familiar with the Rag and Bone Man—or the Man in the Iron Mask, as he calls himself now. He came to see us when he arrived here in November. And we came to an arrangement.”

I turned numb.

“An arrangement,” I repeated.

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