Minty raised an unsteady hand. ‘I’m afraid force isn’t an option,’ she said. ‘The Beneath is the territory of the mudlarks and the toshers, beyond debate. It was agreed in 1978 that the deep parts of London would be theirs, and theirs alone. Their right to the Beneath is enshrined in syndicate law. And as you say, Maria, they protect it fiercely.’
‘There must be some way to convince them,’ I snapped. ‘It’s our only way out of this. ScionIDE won’t think to look there; even Jaxon will have no inkling. If we stay below the streets, we can move around the citadel without activating the scanners. If the Mime Order can go where Vance’s soldiers can’t follow—’
Wynn cleared her throat.
‘If I might finish speaking,’ she said, ‘I happen to know how we can access the Beneath, without force and with the toshers’ permission.’
Every head turned in her direction. Maria was good enough to look slightly embarrassed.
‘Several years ago, the toshers came to us – the vile augurs – with a plea,’ Wynn went on. ‘They needed access to a lost river, the Neckinger; I believe there was treasure there. The entrance sat on Jacob’s Island, our land. We allowed them access and to plunder the treasure. In return, their king promised each vile augur a favour. It so happens,’ she said, ‘that I never claimed mine.’
I didn’t dare to hope.
‘Wynn,’ Nick said, ‘are you saying you might be able to get us into the Beneath?’
Wynn stared hard at each of them in turn, then at me.
‘Know this, Paige Mahoney,’ she said. ‘If you had punished Ivy at all during that trial, if you had even touched a hair on her head, I would have left you all to rot, and done it gladly.’
The silence was absolute. When I could speak again, I said, ‘Send word to the syndicate. We’re going underground.’
7
The Great Descent
1 December, 2059
We sent out an alert to the Unnatural Assembly: prepare to evacuate. Stand by for instructions. There was to be no discrimination – everyone from mime-lords and mime-queens to buskers and beggars, would be taken. They were to bring with them only what was essential, and enough food for at least a week.
Scarlett Burnish, the Grand Raconteur, had already appeared on the screens to soothe the nation. Despite her telling them to stay indoors, people were out in force on the streets, seeking answers from the Vigiles, who held their guns close and ignored all questions. Burnish was on every screen: her pale, oval face with its perfect features, framed by blood-red hair – the face that brought them news and announcements, that now asked all denizens to remain in their homes and await further instruction. So few were listening. These were Londoners – they had never experienced the ruthlessness of ScionIDE. They had spent their lives under a thin carapace of superficial freedom, with no idea that any protest, violent or otherwise, could be viewed as treason by the soldiers.
While the others were coordinating the evacuation, Wynn brought Nick and me to what had once been known as Blackfriars Bridge. We followed her down the steps, out of sight of the main road.
‘Wynn,’ Nick said, ‘where are you taking us?’
‘To the mouth of the River Fleet.’
‘The what?’
Wynn clicked her tongue. ‘A lost river. Buried over the years, as London was piled on top of it.’ She kept marching. ‘Scion won’t be looking down there for criminals. Not for a while, in any case.’
She glanced over a low balustrade, down to where water swashed against an outcrop of ice. ‘Low tide. Good,’ she said, and hitched up her skirts. Then she was climbing over, on to a service ladder. ‘Paige, wait for a whistle. When you hear it, come down and join me.’
‘Where the hell are you going?’
She grabbed me by the collar and pulled me forward, so I had to fold over the balustrade. ‘Look.’
I looked. Nick switched on his torch, but it took my eyes a moment to find the narrow entrance to a tunnel, hidden beneath the bridge. ‘Wynn,’ I croaked, ‘we can’t put the voyants in a river for months.’
‘This is only part of the toshers’ network. They use the Fleet and its storm drains to cross the citadel – just as we must, if we mean to evade Vance.’ She began to climb down. ‘Wait there.’
It didn’t take her long. We watched her cross the shingle on the riverbank and disappear into the tunnel.
Darkness. That was what the syndicate now faced under my rule. Days, weeks, maybe even months of being buried alive in deep, forgotten places. I had known that something like this would happen one day, ever since Senshield’s first prototype was installed; even when I had only been Jaxon’s mollisher, I had feared it – but I had never expected it to happen so soon.
‘This could work,’ Nick murmured. ‘If the mudlarks and toshers can survive down there, so can we.’
The wind lashed my face. ‘It’s our only chance.’
The transmission screen across the river was static. Vance was a shadowy figure, rarely appearing before cameras; most denizens would have no clear impression of what she looked like. She hid behind Weaver and Burnish – Burnish, especially, would be able to lull people into accepting martial law, with her pleasant tone of voice and gentle smile.
Perhaps that was a tactic, a way to frighten us. If Vance remained faceless, communicating only through her soldiers’ brutality, she would be imagined as something more than human.
The whistle came sooner than I expected. I clambered down the ladder, Nick hot on my heels, and we ventured under the bridge, our footsteps splintering ice.
Beyond the archway was utter darkness. Marbled water washed around our boots.
Two dreamscapes were here. One belonged to Wynn, the other to an amaurotic. Nick shone his torch, revealing a stock-brick chamber. The far wall was taken up by sealed iron doors. I never failed to marvel at how many parts of London had been left to rot in the vaults of history; how many of them existed beneath its people’s feet, unseen and unknown.
Wynn’s eyes reflected the torchlight. The amaurotic who stood beside her was unshaven and defiantly filthy. Grime was embedded in the creases of his face. He wore an oilskin coat, a helmet, gloves and hip-high gumboots, winched up by metal clips on his belt. He carried a long pole, which must serve as both walking-stick and spear.
‘This is the Fleet’s outfall chamber,’ Wynn said. ‘And Paige, this is Styx, the toshers’ elected king. Styx, I give you Paige Mahoney, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London.’
We regarded each other. He didn’t look much like a king, but then, a nineteen-year-old with a pinched face probably wasn’t most people’s idea of a queen.
‘Wynn tells me that you wish to move the clairvoyant syndicate into the Beneath,’ he said throatily. ‘I see no reason why I should grant this request. If not for Wynn, I wouldn’t even be considering it.’
I glanced towards Wynn. All she did was raise her eyebrows.
‘Because there are soldiers in our citadel. And if you don’t,’ I said, ‘my voyants’ blood will be on its streets today.’
‘I wouldn’t mourn. Your syndicate has long been a festering wound on the face of London,’ he said, ‘almost since the first Underlord died. And it seems to me that you have brought martial law upon yourselves.’