Bone Season 01: The Bone Season: A Novel (16 page)

“I don’t have any clothes.”

“That is because you were due a new uniform.” He held up a pink tunic. “Congratulations, Paige. You have been promoted.”

That was the first time he used my name.

9

Variety

I had to get out of this place. That was my first thought when I stepped into the bitter cold. Sheol I looked just the same as it did before, just as if Seb had never walked its streets—but I looked different. Instead of white, I wore a pale pink tunic. On my new gilet, the anchor was the same sickly pink. I was stained.

I couldn’t take another test. I couldn’t. If they’d killed a child in the first, what would they do to me in the second? How much blood would be spilled before I was a red-jacket? I had to leave. There had to be some way out, even if I had to dance around land mines. Anything was better than this nightmare.

As I found a path through the Rookery, my right leg weak and heavy, an unfamiliar cold spread through my gut. Each time a performer looked at me, their expression changed. Their features went blank. Their heads went down. My tunic was a warning: turncoat, traitor. Stay away. I am a killer.

I
wasn’t
a killer. Nashira had killed Seb, not me—but the performers didn’t know that. They must despise anyone who wasn’t a white-jacket. I should have just stayed at Magdalen for the night. But then I would have had to be with Warden, and I couldn’t bear to spend another moment in his company. I limped through the claustrophobic passages. I had to find Liss. She could help me out of this nightmare. There had to be a way.

“Paige?”

I stopped, my leg shaking. The effort of walking was exhausting. Liss was looking out of her room. She took one glance at my pink tunic and stiffened. “Liss,” I started.

“You passed.” Her face was dark.

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

“Who did you get arrested?”

“No one.” When she looked disbelieving, I realized I had to tell her. “They tried to make me kill—Seb. The amaurotic.” I looked down. “And now he’s dead.”

She flinched.

“Right,” she said. “See you later, then.”

“Liss,” I said. “Please listen. You don’t—”

She yanked the curtain across her door, cutting me off. I slid down the wall, drained. I wasn’t one of them.

Seb
. I said his name in my head, trying to coax his spirit from wherever they’d hidden it, but there was nothing from the æther. Not even a twinge. Even with his surname, there was nothing; I had to be missing a name. The boy that had been so dependent on me, so certain that I would save him, was still a stranger to me in death.

The curtain seemed to glare at me. Liss must think I was pure scum. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the dull ache in my thigh. Maybe I could find another pink-jacket to exchange information with—but I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t trust them. Most of them
were
murderers. Most of them
had
turned somebody in. If I wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t a turncoat, I had to prove to Liss that she could trust me. With an effort that left me coated in sweat, I pulled myself up and headed for the food shack. I might find Julian there. Not that he’d want to talk to me, either, but he might give me a chance.

A light caught my eye. A stove. A group of performers were smoking in a tiny lean-to, slumped on their sides, snatching at the air. Aster again. Tilda was among them, her head propped on a cushion, her white tunic filthy and crumpled, like a used tissue. I groped in my gilet for the green capsule I’d taken. I had the pill with me. Minding my leg, I knelt beside her.

“Tilda?”

Her eyes cracked open. “What s’matter?”

“I brought the pill.”

“Hold on. Still reigning. Give me a minute, doll. Maybe two. Or five.” She rolled onto her stomach, racked with silent laughter. “Dreamscape’s gone all purple. Are you real?”

I waited for the aster to wear off. Tilda spent a solid minute laughing, flushed to the roots of her hair. I could sense the wildness in her aura, the way it jerked and shifted with the drug. The other voyants showed no sign of wanting to wake up. With shaking hands, Tilda rubbed her face and nodded.

“Okay, I’m dethroned. Where’s the pill?”

I handed it to her. She looked at it from every angle. Ran her finger over it, testing the texture. Split it in half. Crushed one half between her fingers. Smelled the residue, tasted it.

“Your keeper’s out again,” I said.

“She’s out a lot.” She handed me the remnants of the pill. “It’s herbal. Couldn’t tell you which herb.”

“Do you know anyone who could tell me?”

“There’s a jerryshop in here. The guy that sold me the aster might be able to tell you. Password’s
specchio
.”

“I’ll see him.” I stood. “I’ll leave you to your aster.”

“Thanks. S’later.”

She collapsed back onto the cushion. I wondered what Suhail would do if he found them.

It took me a while to find the jerryshop. The Rookery had many rooms, most of which were occupied by groups of two or three. They spent their days in cramped shacks, huddled around a paraffin stove, and slept on sheets that reeked of damp and urine. They ate what they could find. If they found nothing, they starved. They stayed together for two reasons: because there was no room for them to do otherwise, and because of the bitter cold in the city. There were no hygiene facilities and no medical supplies, except for what they obtained through theft. This was where you came to die.

The jerryshop was hidden behind a series of thick curtains. You had to know where to look; I only found it after interrogating a harlie for its whereabouts. She seemed reluctant to tell me, warning me of blackmail and high prices, but pointed me in the right direction.

Guarding the shop was the julker boy I’d seen at the oration. He sat on a cushion, playing with dice. No sign of his white tunic. He must have failed his test. What use did the Rephaim have for a julker?

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi.” A pure, sweet note. A julker voice.

“Can I see the pawnbroker?”

“What’s the password?”

“
Specchio
.”

The boy stood. His right eye was thick with paste. Infected. He pulled the curtains aside, and I went through.

London jerryshops were usually small, unlicensed places in the bad parts of the central cohort. There were lots in the Chapel, over in II-6. This was no different. The pawnbroker had set up shop in a kind of tent, made from the sort of drapes Liss used in her performances. Lit by a single paraffin lamp, half the space had been turned into a house of mirrors. The pawnbroker sat on a battered leather armchair, staring into the spotted glass. The mirrors betrayed his speciality: catoptromancy.

He was a gray-haired man with too much of a full stomach to be a performer. When I entered, he raised a monocle to one eye and looked at my reflection. He had the misty eyes of a seer that had seen too much.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. In my mirrors
or
my shop.”

“Bone Season XX,” I said.

“I see. Who owns you?”

“Arcturus Mesarthim.”

I was sick of that name: hearing it, saying it.

“My, my.” He patted his stomach. “So
you’re
his tenant.”

“What’s your name?”

“XVI-19-16.”

“Your real name.”

“I no longer remember it, but the performers call me Duckett. If you prefer to use
real
names.”

“I do.”

I bent to look at his stock. Most of the items were numa: cracked hand mirrors, glass bottles of water, bowls and cups, pearls, bags of animal bones, cards, and show stones. Then there were the plants. Aster, briar, sage, thyme, other burning herbs. There were more practical items, too, essential for survival. I looked through the pile. Sheets, limp cushions, matches, a pair of tweezers, rubbing alcohol, aspirin and oxytetracycline, cans of Sterno, a dripper bottle of fusidic acid, bandages, and disinfectants. I picked up an old tinderbox. “Where did you get all this?”

“Here and there.”

“I presume the Rephs don’t know about it.” He smiled, just slightly. “So how does this illegal shop work?”

“Well, say you were an osteomancer. You would require bones to supplement your clairvoyance. If the bones were confiscated, you would have to find more.” He indicated a bag marked
COMMON RAT
. “I would give you a task to do. I might ask you to bring more supplies, or to carry a message for me—the more valuable the item you needed, the more dangerous the task. If you managed it, I would give you the bones to keep. For a limited loan, you would have to bring me a certain number of numa, which I would return to you when you returned the item. A simple, but effective system.”

It didn’t sound like a conventional jerryshop, which loaned money in exchange for pawned items. “What do you charge for information?”

“That depends on the information you seek.”

I put the remaining half of the pill in front of him. “What’s this?”

He peered at it. He dropped his monocle, picked it up. His thick fingers were shaking. “For this,” he said, “I will give you anything you like from the shop. Free of charge.”

I frowned. “You want to keep it?”

“Oh, yes. This is
very
valuable.” He placed the half in his palm. “Where did you get this?”

“Information costs, Mr. Duckett.”

“If you bring me more of these, I will never charge you anything. Take whatever you like. One item per pill.”

“Tell me what it is or no deal.”

“Two items.”

“No.”

“Information is dangerous. One can’t put a price on it.” He held the pill near the paraffin lamp. “I can tell you that it is an herbal capsule, and that it is harmless. Is that enough?”

Two items in exchange for the pills. Items like these could save lives in the Rookery.

“Three,” I said, “and we’ve got a deal.”

“Excellent. You are a shrewd businesswoman.” He steepled his fingers. “What else are you?”

“Acultomancer.”

It was my standard lie. A test of competence, in a way. I liked to see whether or not they’d believe me. Duckett chuckled. “You’re not a soothsayer. If I were sighted, I think you’d be on the other end of the spectrum. Yours is a hot aura. Like embers.” He tapped his fingers on a mirror. “We might have another interesting season this year.”

I tensed. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just talking to myself. Best way to keep one’s sanity after forty years.” A smile tempted his mouth. “Tell me—what do you think of the Warden?”

I put the tinderbox back on the table.

“I’d have thought it was obvious,” I said.

“Not at all. There are a variety of opinions here.” Duckett ran his thumb over the lens of his monocle. “The blood-consort is considered by many to be the most attractive of the Rephaim.”

“Maybe you think so. I find him repulsive.” I held his gaze. “I’ll take my items.”

He sat back in his seat. I picked out a Sterno can, a few aspirin, and the fusidic acid. “Nice doing business with you,” he said, “Miss––?”

“Mahoney. Paige Mahoney.” I turned my back on him. “If you prefer to use real names.”

I walked out of the den. His eyes stung my back.

Those questions had felt like an interrogation. I hadn’t said anything wrong, I was sure. I’d said exactly what I thought about Warden. Why Duckett wanted me to say anything otherwise, I had no idea.

On my way out, I tossed the fusidic acid to the julker. He looked up at me with a tilted head.

“For your eye,” I said.

He blinked. I kept on walking.

When I reached the right shack, I rapped my knuckles on the wall outside. “Liss?” No reply. I knocked again. “Liss, it’s Paige.”

The curtain was pulled back. Liss was carrying a small lantern. “Leave me alone,” she said, her voice thick and embittered. “Please. I don’t talk to pinks or reds. I’m sorry, I just don’t. You’ll have to find other jackets, okay?”

“I didn’t kill Seb.” I offered the Sterno and the aspirin. “Look, I got these from Duckett. Can I just talk to you?”

She looked from the items to my face. Her forehead creased, and her lips pursed. “Well,” she said, “you’d better come in.”

I didn’t cry when I told her about the test. I couldn’t. Jax hated tears. (“
You’re a ruthless street trasseno, darling. Do act like one, there’s a good dolly.
”) Even here, where he could never get to me, I felt that he watched my every move. Still, the thought of Seb’s broken neck made me sick. I couldn’t forget the shock in his eyes, the scream of my name. I sat in silence once I’d told the story, keeping my stiff leg stretched out in front of me.

Liss handed me a steaming glass.

“Drink this. You’re going to have to keep your strength up if you want to avoid Nashira.” She sat back. “She knows what you are now.”