Page 65 of The Bone Season

Once we were past Amaurotic House, Warden continued along the same wide path, ignoring a brighter one to our left. The red-jackets kept to their posts and said nothing.

‘Walton Street is the only illuminated way to the training grounds,’ he told me. ‘While you are a pink-jacket, you are not to use any other path without me.’

I looked over my shoulder at it. ‘Why aren’t we taking it now?’

‘To familiarise you with the city. When you are a red-jacket, you will be expected to know the streets well enough to patrol them.’

Warden led me well beyond the lamplight. The moon was new, leaving us with nothing but the lantern. As we neared the outskirts, the buildings started to look derelict. Scion must not have wanted to spare the money to look after them.

He turned left on Observatory Street. It was lined with old terraced houses, all crumbling. From the look of it, this district had been a slum when the Rephs took the city. I sensed ghosts nearby, along with a pair of weak poltergeists. Warden showed no fear.

By that point, we had been walking in silence for a while, giving me no distractions from the many aches in my body. My breath smoked from between my lips.

‘I don’t suppose,’ I said icily, ‘I could have a coat at some point?’

‘They are not provided in the spring.’

‘This is not a normal spring.’

‘If you say so. I feel little cold myself.’

The quilted doublet and cloak must help. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets.

Keeping us cold must be meant to weaken us, like depriving us of food. If you were cold and hungry, you had no room to develop notions.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t seem as if Scion has too much respect for your consort, letting half this city go to rack and ruin.’

‘It would be a waste of resources to maintain the outskirts,’ Warden said. ‘A modest central district is easier to preserve and defend.’

‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’

‘I sleep by day.’

He was still expressionless. I wondered what, if anything, made him tick.

The training ground stretched ahead of us. Oaks and pines grew up to its boundary, needled with rime, blocking any glimpse of the outside world. That must be the edge of Gallows Wood.

A fence surrounded the meadow, at least thirty feet high, topped with coils of barbed wire. I read the rusted notice on the sally port:

PORT MEADOW – FOR TRAINING ONLY

USE OF DEADLY FORCE IS AUTHORISED

The deadly force in question seemed to be a Reph. His pale face reminded me of white gold, while his hair – smoothed into a ponytail – was more like brass in tone. In both ways, he resembled Nashira.

Ivy stood a short way from him, stooped and shivering. The buttons had been removed from her tunic, forcing her to hold it shut against the bitter cold. Her shorn head was bowed, her lip split.

Warden approached the sally port. A moment later, I went after him. When we were close, the other Reph swept into a bow.

‘Behold the concubine,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘What brings you to Port Meadow?’

‘I am here to instruct my tenant,’ Warden said. ‘The blood-sovereign should have informed you, Thuban.’

‘Patience, concubine.’ Thuban Sargas wore a cloak, but no livery collar. ‘What is its number?’

‘XX-59-40.’

‘Is it sighted?’

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