Nick opened his mouth to protest, but I stood on his foot.
‘I promised Wynn anything for opening the Neckinger, but I cannot allow you to enter our network if I fear my people may be harmed by yours,’ Styx said. ‘Syndies have never been kind to those of my profession, even when we co-existed. Yet the water-folk were here long before your syndicate. Mudlarks combed the Thames in the days of Queen Victoria. Toshers crawled beneath the streets before London knew the word unnaturalness. You’re the youngest criminals in this citadel, yet you brutalised us.’
‘And I don’t expect you to forgive us for it,’ I said. ‘I can only swear to you that it will not happen again on my watch. We’d be indebted to you. We don’t know how to navigate the Beneath.’
‘No. And it is deadly without a guide.’ Styx leaned on his spear. ‘I’m inclined to believe you, knowing you released the vile augurs. Our friends. There are many sorts of outcasts in the Beneath . . . but the risks to us are great.’
‘It wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement,’ I said. ‘I only need asylum for my voyants for as long as it takes me to damage ScionIDE.’
‘And you have a plan to do that?’ He sounded sceptical, as well he might.
‘Yes.’
It was almost true. I had the pieces of a plan, even if I had yet to slot them together.
‘Styx,’ I said, wading closer, ‘I don’t have time to argue or bargain with you. Every minute we spend debating brings ScionIDE closer.’ My voice shook with the effort of staying calm. ‘I need to get my voyants to safety – not tomorrow, but now. Today. I’m asking you, one outcast to another, to let my people into the Beneath, so they won’t have to face what’s above. There are good people among them for every one that’s done wrong. If money’s what you want—’
‘I’ve no use for money. We make enough from the blessings of Old Father Thames.’
‘What can I offer you, then?’
‘A life.’
I frowned. Sunken eyes stared back at me.
‘A mudlark was slain by syndies in 1977. Cruelly slain, and tortured before. We require a life for the one that was stolen.’
‘You want to execute one of mine for a crime committed almost a century ago?’ Despite my efforts, my voice cracked. ‘You’re not serious.’
For the first time, Styx grinned, showing rotten teeth. ‘Much as I’d be curious to see if you would make that sacrifice,’ he said, ‘I’m not as much of a tyrant as some of your leaders. No, we claim one syndie as a resident of the Beneath.’
‘To do what?’
‘That’s my business.’
Whatever it involved, it would be a life of darkness. A life in the filth of the underground tunnels. One person condemned to that.
One life to save many.
‘Agreed,’ I said, softly. ‘You have one of mine, and you let all of my voyants into the Beneath, until the streets are safe again.’
The toshers’ king took a long knife from his pocket and held out a hand. Slowly, I offered mine. He sliced open my palm, then lowered both our hands into the brownish water. The cut stung ferociously. Rough skin pressed mine, squeezing my blood into the Fleet.
‘The river witnesses this settlement,’ Styx said. ‘This day, after many days, our communities are reunited. Should you go back on your word, or should your people do any injury to mine during their time here, we will drive you out, whether the anchor will hurt you or not.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good.’ We rose, and he let go of my hand. ‘The Beneath has many doors, doors to which Scion no longer has keys. You will be safe with us, so long as you obey our orders.’
‘Just tell us what to do,’ I said.
We met up with Maria and Eliza at the Old Spitalfields Market. Hundreds of amaurotics milled around the stalls, trying to get provisions before ScionIDE could send them all inside. For all they knew, it could be days before they were permitted on the streets again. Eliza was carrying an enormous rucksack, while Maria was handing out waterproof clothes and torches to the voyants who would be coming with us, people who worked in her section.
‘The toshers’ king has allowed our entrance,’ I said to her. ‘We’re good to go.’
‘Fabulous.’ Maria tossed me an oilskin. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. Where’s the entrance?’
‘I-4,’ Wynn said.
A few rickshaws were still offering rides, albeit for sky-high prices. We hailed a pair and clambered into one with half of the group. The PA system was repeating Weaver’s announcement on a loop between periods of droning from the sirens, adding that all denizens should clear the roads for military vehicles. The shops that hadn’t closed already were full to bursting, their automated doors pried open by those waiting outside. White Scion cabs were thick on the streets, ferrying people to their homes, but our driver wove a path between them.
The soldiers’ marching dreamscapes were on my radar now. Too close for comfort. They might not fire at will in the capital, but we couldn’t take chances.
The rickshaw dropped us off close to the Holborn Viaduct, a flyover bridge that crossed a main road, where our group would enter the Beneath. Cars were jammed bumper-to-bumper. Pedestrians scampered around them, fleeing from the mourning of the sirens. Wynn gathered us beneath the bridge and took a strange sort of key from her belt.
‘The entrance is that manhole over there.’ She pointed out a stretch of pavement. ‘We can’t let anyone see us go underground. Eliza, you come with me to help lift the cover. When I signal, Paige and Nick, you follow.’
‘No. Jos and Ivy first,’ I said.
She paused before saying, ‘Very well.’
I checked for cameras or obvious scanners, but there were none. Wynn and Eliza dashed across the street. Their heads dipped out of sight as they crouched beside the right manhole. When Wynn stood again and beckoned, Maria nudged Ivy and Jos forward.
Jos was swamped by his oilskin and mittens. He put on a brave face as Ivy pulled his hood over his brow and hurried him across the road. Those two had been on Scion’s radar for as long as I had. Wynn waited for them to climb into the shaft, then followed.
My sixth sense was trembling. While Wynn vanished into the pavement, cars began to reverse and swing into frantic U-turns, their wheels mounting the kerb. Others veered away from the centre of the road, the way they did when an ambulance or fire engine needed to get through. I didn’t need to feel their dreamscapes to work out what was coming.
‘Go, go, we need to move,’ Nick barked. I found myself running into the snarl of traffic, just missing a Scion cab as it smashed into the front of a lorry. Horns screamed in protest. Our boots pounded. I saw the manhole, its open lid, the ladder inside it. I tried to push Nick in front of me, but somehow my legs were in the shaft, and my shoulders were following. My hands collided with the ladder. My boots slipped, then found purchase. I clambered down, rung after rung, foot after foot, until I hit solid ground.