Page 71 of The Bone Season

With a defeated look, she led us into the backstreets.

In a doorway, two more red-jackets were crouched beside one of their own, a cryomancer in his forties. His hand had been ripped and twisted from his arm, as if it had been caught in a machine. One of the other men was trying to stem the blood with his tunic.

‘Shit,’ I murmured.

Warden surveyed the scene. ‘What happened?’

‘We split up to look for the Buzzer. He found it in Wheatsheaf Yard.’ The woman dashed sweat from her brow. ‘The other companies have already chased it back to Gallows Wood.’

‘Why have you not taken him to Exeter?’

‘He ran, my lord. A few people saw him,’ one of the men said. ‘He’s already been yellow twice, but he shouldn’t have been on his own. It’s our fault. We were just … working out what to do.’

Warden seemed to consider.

‘Nembus will evict him,’ he concluded. ‘Nonetheless, he has been loyal.’

They all waited. The injured man was trembling, his face slick with sweat.

‘Take him to Oriel. The porter there may be able to help,’ Warden said. ‘But you cannot hide this from your keepers. By dawn, you must report to Exeter and inform Nembus.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The three of them lifted their friend from a pool of blood. Together, they started moving him towards the nearby Residence of Oriel.

‘He needs a paramedic,’ I said. ‘Can’t you call your outpost?’

‘Nembus will not deem a coward worthy of treatment,’ Warden said.

‘As charming as the rest of you, then.’

He answered me with a chilling look. I desisted.

Warden left the backstreets. I shadowed him, trying to tamp down the migraine and the fresh disquiet. I had seen maimings in London, but nothing like what had befallen that cryomancer.

‘What have we here?’

We stopped. Two men had just emerged from Catte Street.

‘Ah, 40. What a pleasure to see you again,’ one called, his voice tinged with amusement. ‘The pink tunic suits you very well.’

When he came into the light, it took me a moment to recognise him. The medium who had led my arrest, the one who had chased me across the rooftops. He wore thick greasepaint now – red mouth, black eyebrows, chalky face – and carried that same pistol in a leather holster on his belt. I clenched a fist at my side.

The other man was the oracle. He had a shaved head and mismatched eyes – one dark and piercing, one hazel. His tunic was the same colour as mine.

‘Congratulations,’ the medium said to me. ‘I knew you were a diamond in the rough. We all follow your progress with great interest.’ He flashed me a smile. ‘Allow me to formally welcome you to the city. I am the Overseer.’

‘You vile bastard.’ I started towards him. ‘If you hurt my father—’

‘Stand down,’ Warden cut in. ‘And hold your tongue.’

I stopped about a foot away from the Overseer, who smirked. ‘I understand your father works directly for the anchor,’ he said. ‘I do hope he won’t face too harsh a judgement for your nature.’

My fist tightened. Even if Scion spared my father, his career would be in shreds. That had been his only protection. There was no room in London for an Irish man with an unnatural daughter.

‘This is 12, a new tenant at Merton.’ The Overseer drew the younger man forward. ‘As you can see, he is as quick a study as 40. Earlier this evening, he was confirmed to be a talented oracle.’

Warden glanced at me, then back at the young man. It didn’t surprise me that the other jumper had also been fast-tracked.

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