War has often been called a game, with good reason. Both have combatants. Both have sides. Both carry the risk of losing.
There is just one difference.
Every game is a gamble. Certainty is the last thing you want when you begin. If you are guaranteed to win, there is no game at all.
In war, however, we crave certainty. No fool ever went to war without the cast-iron belief that they could win, that they would win; or at least, that the likelihood of losing was so small as to make the bloody price of every move worthwhile. You don’t go to war just for the thrill, but for the gain.
The question is whether any gain, any outcome, can justify the way you play.
27 November, 2059
In the heart of its financial district, London was burning. On Cheapside, Didion Waite, poet of the underworld and bitter rival of Jaxon Hall, was howling over the remains of a derelict church. Once a fixture of the capital, it was now a mass of charred and smoking rubble.
In his powdered wig and tailcoat, Didion was eye-catching even by Scion London standards, but everyone was too engrossed in the drama to take notice of one madman – everyone but those of us who had answered his call. We stood at the mouth of a lane, masked and shrouded, taking in what was left of St Mary-le-Bow. According to reports from local voyants, an explosion had obliterated its foundations around midnight. Now several of the nearest buildings were on fire, and graffiti had been sprayed across the street.
ALL HAIL THE WHITE BINDER
TRUE UNDERLORD OF LONDON
A sunset-orange flower had been painted beside it. Nasturtium. In the language of flowers, it meant conquest, or power.
‘Let’s get the poor man out of there,’ said Ognena Maria, one of my commanders. ‘Before Scion does.’
I didn’t volunteer to help. Didion had demanded that I come here in person, but I couldn’t risk speaking to him, not when he was in this state. He must expect me to compensate him for the damage from the Underqueen’s coffers, and I knew from experience that he would have no qualms about exposing me to the whole street if I refused. Better not to let him see me at all, for now.
‘I’ll go.’ Eliza checked that her hood was fastened. ‘We’ll take him to Grub Street.’
‘Be careful,’ I said.
She hurried towards Didion, who was now pounding the cobbles with his hands and screaming incoherently. Maria followed, motioning to her hirelings to come with her.
I stayed behind with Nick. We had taken to wearing the winter hoods that had come into fashion in recent weeks, which could be worn so they covered most of the face, but by now I was so recognisable that even that might not protect me.
After the scrimmage – when I had fought Jaxon Hall, my own mime-lord and mentor, for the right to rule the clairvoyants of London – Nick had quit his job with Scion and vanished from their view, only staying long enough to steal a few cases of medical supplies and take as much cash from his bank account as he could. Within days, his face had appeared on the screens alongside mine.
‘You think this was Jaxon?’ He nodded to the wreck of the church.
‘His loyalists.’ The heat of the fire baked my eyes dry. ‘Whoever’s leading them is starting to gather a following.’
‘It’s a tiny group of troublemakers. Not worth your time.’
His tone was reassuring, but this was the third assault on a syndicate landmark in as many days. The last time, they had raided the Old Spitalfields Market, scaring the traders and looting stalls. Those responsible considered Jaxon to be the rightful Underlord, despite his conspicuous absence. Even after I had told them the facts, they refused to believe that the White Binder, the glorious mime-lord of I-4, could be involved with Scion.
In the grand scheme of things, this was a minor nuisance; the majority of voyants did support me. But the message this attack sent was clear: I had not yet won all of my subjects’ hearts. That came with the territory, I supposed. My predecessor, Haymarket Hector, had been widely despised. Those who had obeyed him had done so out of fear, or because he paid them well.
Didion wailed as he was hoisted to his feet and led away by Maria and Eliza. He was drowned out by the siren of a Scion fire engine. It might be able to douse the neighbouring buildings, but anyone could see that the church was beyond saving – as was the Juditheon, the auction house beneath it. We retreated, leaving another part of our history to be swept away.
Once I might have mourned. I had whiled away many an hour at the Juditheon, shelling out extortionate amounts of Jaxon’s money for spirits Didion had no right to sell – but since the revelation of Jaxon’s true nature, all of my memories of life as his mollisher had gained a taint, a film of scum that smeared their surface. All I wanted was to scrape them all into a pit, close the earth on top of them, and build again on the new ground.
‘Nearest safe house is Cloak Lane,’ Nick said.
We slipped into another backstreet, away from the ring of heat around the church. I kept us clear of other people. Nick checked for security cameras. Since the scrimmage, we were no longer just unnatural criminals, but nascent revolutionaries, with ever-growing bounties on our heads. Even if we hadn’t yet made a move against Scion, they knew our objective.
I had to wonder how much longer we could survive in the capital. It was dangerous for us to be out this late at night, but when Didion had sent for me, I had wanted to come; to convince him that we were on the same side. He was, after all, Jaxon’s long-time adversary, which now made him a potential ally.
The Cloak Lane safe house was a studio apartment rented by an ex-nightwalker, who was keen to help the Mime Order in whatever way she could. Unlike most of our buildings, it had heating, a fridge, and a proper bed. The warmth was a relief after a long night on the streets. Over the last few weeks, the temperature had plummeted and snow had fallen almost every day, leaving London as thickly iced as a birthday cake. I had never experienced a winter so ruthless. My nose and cheeks were almost always a raw pink, and my eyes streamed every time I stepped outside.
When I refused it, Nick dropped on to the bed. He, at least, got a few hours’ rest. A hint of moonlight shone on his pale face, drawing out the crease that pinched his brow even in sleep. I lay on the couch in the dark, but I was too restless to close my eyes for long. The image of the burning church, a promise of devastation, was scorched on to my mind. A reminder that while Jaxon Hall was gone, he wasn’t yet forgotten.