Page 212 of The Bone Season

In August, David had seen Michael entering the House. He had offered to help with whatever we were plotting – an offer I had summarily refused. At least he seemed to have kept his suspicions to himself.

As we waited for two Rephs to enter, the æther prickled, and I shot a glance over my shoulder. Two women came rushing from Cornmarket, carrying rolls of fabric. They slipped out of sight, into Carfax Tower.

They were stowing more tinder.

Julian had been the one to propose burning more than just Balliol, to distract both the Rephs and Vigiles from our escape. He had taken well and quickly to strategy. He and some of the performers would set the fires, clearing the way for others to head north. To avoid detection, they would try to use the unlit paths.

In Magdalen, Michael had helped me craft fire bottles, converting the wine cellar into an armoury. Those bottles were stashed around the city, along with matches and paraffin and other supplies. I had got that idea from dead drops, used in the syndicate to hide items or messages.

As for guns, I had been able to improvise two from old plumbing scraps. Terebell had skimmed another three from the House. One was for Julian, and the other for Crina Nistor, leader of the amaurotics. The third was for me, waiting in a drop on Bear Lane.

Warden had brought me all the pollen he had stored in his glasshouse. Terebell had sent two boxes of darts. Over the course of a few days, Gail and I had carefully dismantled them, poured out the corrosive acid, and filled each chamber with a mix of water and pollen. We had stored everything in the Old Kitchen.

Magdalen might not escape the imminent devastation, but I had requested that Julian try to spare the Founders Tower. I wanted it to remain, as proof that all of this had happened. A monument to a memory.

Oxford would burn after all, in the end.

Thousands of candles lit the main chamber of the Guildhall. The façade was from the eighteenth century, but the interior was Victorian, with a gallery and a domed ceiling of intricate white plasterwork. A polished floor reflected the warm light of the chandeliers.

The emissaries were easy to clock – mostly in black suits and red ties, with gold cufflinks. The amaurotics were serving them drinks and bites to eat.

A steward rang a bell and called out:

‘Lord Arcturus, Warden of the Mesarthim, consort to the Suzerain!’

Hundreds of curious glances came in our direction. From what I understood, only the Grand Inquisitor and a select few trusted officials had seen the Rephs until tonight. Now Frank Weaver had sent most of his staff from the Westminster Archon, as well as representatives from equivalent headquarters elsewhere in Scion.

Warden released my hand. Behind us, Pleione and Alsafi were announced.

‘I must show my face to Nashira. I imagine there are people you would like to see,’ he said. ‘There is a trap room under the stage. I will be there at half past ten. If you can slip away, I would speak to you.’

I nodded.

High overhead, Liss was on the silks with her understudy, Nell. The chandeliers lit them both, casting their shadows on the ceiling. The emissaries gazed up in wonder as Liss struck an elegant pose.

She was hanging up there with no safety net, relying solely on her strength and talent.

Julian was too new to performing to be allowed into the Guildhall. He was content with that. It left him free to pave the way.

Warden strode off, leaving me on my own. Fortunately, Michael appeared with a platter, offering me a glass of hot mecks.

‘Well done,’ I said under my breath. ‘They should start feeling it by eleven.’

Michael smiled. We stood close together, surrounded by the din of conversation.

‘Are unnaturals allowed in the gallery?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘Shame. I was hoping for a decent look at all these sycophants.’ I glanced at him. ‘You’re going back for Faz and Gail, aren’t you?’

He nodded.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Just get to us before midnight. It sounds like we can’t hold the train.’

Holding the platter in one hand, Michael reached into his sleeve with the other, passing me a note. I subtly opened it and read.

I got your backpack from Trinity. It’s waiting with your boots – those shoes are too small. I hope you don’t die. It was nice to meet you.

I closed the note, touched.

‘And you, Michael,’ I said quietly. ‘Go on. Let’s not raise suspicions.’

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