We set about locking down the building, with Nick doing the final check. Once he had secured the doors, he joined us at the table, where the enormity of the setback kept us all silent, lost in our own thoughts.
As we sat there, I tried to devise ways we could work around a curfew. It would be especially difficult if Jaxon was advising Scion on our movements. He was aware of most secret routes, at least in the central cohort. I could send out scouts to seek new tunnels, paths he had never found, but there wouldn’t be many. His knowledge of London, built up over decades, was far greater than mine.
The best way to get about would be through tunnels under the citadel, but the mudlarks and toshers would stop us from going too far underground. They were homeless Londoners, mostly amaurotic, who made their living by scouring the lost rivers, drains and sewers of the citadel for trinkets and artefacts to sell. They claimed most of the tunnels under London as their territory, treating the manholes on the streets as their doors, and there was an unspoken agreement that it was their realm. No syndies would venture down there.
Someone or something hammered on the front door. We snapped to our feet, spools quavering around us.
‘Vigiles.’ Nick was already moving. ‘We can—’
‘Wait,’ I said.
Two more crashes. Those weren’t human dreamscapes outside. Slowly, I released my clutch of spirits.
‘No. It’s the Ranthen.’
Nick swore.
I stepped across the hallway and cracked the door open, leaving it on its chain. Chartreuse eyes flashed – just before the chain tore away from the frame, and the door was flung wide.
The impact caught me hard in the shoulder. I had barely absorbed it before a gloved hand seized the front of my jacket and pinned me against a wall, making Eliza and Nick shout out in protest. For the first time since the scrimmage, my spirit snapped out like an elastic band – only to ping off an armoured dreamscape and slam back into my body. Red-hot pain streaked up one side of my face and burrowed deep into my temple.
‘I see now,’ Terebell Sheratan said, ‘that you were a poor investment, dreamwalker.’
Several of the Ranthen followed her into the hallway. Nick pointed his pistol at her hand. ‘Let go of her. Now.’
The ache was swelling uncontrollably. I tried not to let it show, but my eyes watered.
‘If you were a Rephaite, I might excuse your lack of punctuality, but you are mortal,’ Terebell said. I made myself look her in the face. ‘Every second chips away at your lifeline. Do not try to convince me that you cannot tell the time.’
‘There’s a curfew,’ Nick said. ‘In effect as of tonight. We had to turn back.’
‘It does not supersede your duty to meet me.’
‘You’re being unreasonable, Terebell.’
‘Rich words for a human,’ Pleione said. ‘Your species is the very definition of unreasonable.’
A storm of black flecks crossed my vision. As the iron grip tightened enough to leave bruises, I saw Warden come through the door. He hadn’t observed the scene for more than a second before the light in his eyes ignited, and he barked at Terebell in Gloss. She threw me, like I was nothing but a sack of flour, towards Nick, who caught me by the arms.
‘How dare you?’ Eliza said hotly. ‘Don’t you think she took enough punishment in the Rose Ring?’
‘You will not speak to the sovereign-elect in that manner,’ Pleione said.
Eliza bristled. I pressed my hands to my forehead, willing the pain to disappear.
‘Paige,’ Nick murmured. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Do not affect illness,’ Errai sneered.
‘Please, Errai, just give it a rest,’ I forced out.
‘What did you say to me, human?’
‘Stop, all of you,’ Warden said curtly. ‘This is not the time for petty disagreements. The curfew, along with Senshield, will seriously restrict syndicate activity if we cannot produce a solution.’ He closed the door. ‘The Mime Order is a union of both Ranthen and syndicate. We pose a far greater threat to them together than divided. If you cannot see that, then you are all fools.’
There was a tense silence. Every hair on my arms stood on end; I had never heard Warden speak with so much authority in the presence of the other Ranthen. Nick lowered his gun.
‘If everyone’s cooled off,’ I said, ‘perhaps we could begin the meeting.’
Terebell swept into the parlour, shadowed by the Ranthen. ‘Bring wine, dreamwalker.’
A flush crept into my face.
‘Paige, I’ll get it,’ Nick said, but I was already heading for the kitchen.
She wanted a reaction; I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure. I reached under the sink and plucked out one of the bottles she had left with us for safekeeping. I filled five glasses, sloshing red wine all over the counter, and took a few gulps from the bottle.
The alcohol scorched down my throat. In the hallway, Nick lurked like a security guard outside the parlour door. As we made to go in, Lucida Sargas barred our way.
‘Alone,’ she said.
Nick frowned. ‘What?’
‘The sovereign-elect wishes to speak to the Underqueen alone.’
Eliza squared up to her. No easy feat, as she was a foot shorter. ‘We’re Paige’s mollishers. What she needs to know, we need to know.’
‘Not if you want your revolution funded.’
‘Don’t you mean our revolution?’
I touched Eliza’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything later.’
Neither of them looked happy, but they stepped away. I held out a glass to Lucida.
‘I don’t partake,’ she said, with something that vaguely resembled a smile. ‘I escaped the scarring, you see. You will find that they become ill-tempered without wine to numb the pain.’
‘And I thought it was just their personalities,’ I said.
She tilted her head. ‘Is that a “joke”?’
‘Not really.’
Balancing the tray of glasses on my hip, I opened the parlour door. My head continued to hammer, and I swung on my feet. Usually, I had a chance to warm up before dreamwalking, but the shock of Terebell’s aura on mine had caused an involuntary jump.
Errai stood beside the window. Pleione was lounging on the couch (she never seemed to sit, Pleione; she lounged), while Warden was a statue in the corner, his back against the wall. There was also a stranger among them: a female with sarx of pure silver and a bald head, like Errai.
Terebell, who stood beside the fire with her usual ramrod posture, took a glass of wine and raised it to her lips.
‘Arcturus,’ she said, ‘you ought to drink.’
‘I will endure.’
I put down the tray a little too hard. Terebell emptied half her glass at a draught.
‘This is Mira Sarin,’ she said. ‘Another of our Ranthen-kith. She has been in exile for many years.’
I inclined my head briefly to the stranger, a gesture she returned. Her primrose eyes, which were wide-spaced and large, like Errai’s, betrayed her recent feed on a sensor.
‘I summoned you to inform you that we are leaving,’ Terebell said.
‘Leaving for how long?’
‘For as long as necessary.’