Page 54 of The Bone Season

Duckett had made his nest in the very heart of the Rookery. His shop was two adjoining shacks, one of which had been transformed into a modest house of mirrors. He sat on a battered leather armchair, gazing into the glass. The mirrors betrayed his speciality: catoptromancy.

When I entered, he raised a monocle to one eye. He had the misty stare of a voyant who had scried too much.

‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,’ he remarked. ‘In my mirrorsormy shop.’

‘I arrived a few days ago,’ I said.

‘Ah, the Bone Season. Who owns you?’

‘Arcturus Mesarthim is my keeper,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you mean.’

I was already sick of that name – hearing it, saying it.

‘My word.’ The seer lowered his monocle. ‘Soyouare his mysterious tenant.’

‘I’m not that mysterious,’ I said. ‘You’re Duckett, are you?’

‘My number is 10.’ His face was deeply lined, his hair grey and receded. ‘But yes, the performers – my assistants – call me Duckett. I no longer remember whatever name I had before.’

‘10.’ I paused. ‘What’s the rest of your number?’

‘XVI-19-10.’

It took me a moment to parse the code. ‘You’ve been here forty years?’

‘Oh, yes. I am the oldest human resident of this city. Once I was a soldier, and then I was an acrobat. Alas, these bones are too frail now.’

‘Why did you become a performer?’

‘Now, now. Beyond introductions, I give nothing away for nothing.’

‘Fair enough.’

His stock was displayed on shelves and a table. I was briefly reminded of the black market in Covent Garden, which offered all manner of wares: numa, moonshine, trinkets from the free world, anything outlawed by Scion.

There were some numa here, but Duckett sold other ways to survive. Not just things a voyant needed, but what any human did. There were clean sheets, plump cushions, matches and tweezers, rubbing alcohol, soap, paraffin, canned heat, bandages, sewing kits, tools and nails, toothbrushes – even prescription medicine.

No weapons, of course. Not even a penknife or a pair of scissors.

‘Quite a stockpile,’ I said. ‘Where did you get all this?’

‘Here and there.’

‘I presume the Rephs don’t know about it.’ I picked up an old tinderbox. ‘You’re clearly not in need of numa. What do you trade in, Duckett?’

‘Favours,’ he said. ‘In exchange for what you need, I might ask you to fetch more supplies for my shop, or carry a message, or run some other errand. A simple and beneficial exchange.’

I cast my eye over the antibiotics. Some of those could be lifesaving. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘What would I have to do for information?’

‘That depends on the information you seek.’

I put the remaining half of the green pill on the table.

‘I hear you grow the regal they’re smoking out there. I assume you know a fair amount about drugs,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me what this is?’

Duckett rose to look. He used his monocle to peer at it, then picked it up, his thick fingers shaking. ‘For this,’ he finally said, ‘I will give you anything you like from the shop, free of charge.’

‘You want to keep it?’

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