‘Alsafi.’
‘Blood-sovereign,’ he said evenly. ‘I have come from the tower. The Grand Commander is critically injured, and Senshield is destroyed.’ He must have been using English consciously, allowing me to follow the conversation.
‘I am more than aware of Senshield’s destruction.’ She didn’t raise her voice, but something in it terrified me. ‘The Archon’s medical staff will attend to Vance. Bring 40 to the basement at once.’
I started to tremble. Alsafi remained where he was, and I felt, rather than heard, the deep breath he took. When Nashira turned back, he lifted his gaze to look her in the eye.
‘Is something wrong, Alsafi?’
His muscles were tensing. Nashira took a step towards him.
‘I must confess,’ she said, ‘I did think it extraordinary that one human, especially one who is in Inquisitorial custody, should be able to cause so much destruction in such a short period of time. 40 has done many things she should not have been able to do. She was able to escape from London as martial law was being implemented. She was able to travel between citadels without detection. She was able to reach the core of Senshield.’ Another step. ‘She could not have done any of it without a contact.’
Alsafi didn’t hesitate. He gathered me close and ran.
Red carpet. Wood-panelled walls. Pain all over my body, tiny sunbursts of pain. His hand tore away a tapestry, turned a key, opened a panel; thrust me into the pitch-black tunnel beyond. My left side crashed against a wall, and a shard of glass penetrated deep into my arm, drawing a scream that seared my throat. Sobbing in agony, I pressed my hands against the door.
‘Alsafi, don’t!’
A key card came spinning into the tunnel. ‘Run,’ Alsafi barked. I dragged myself back to my feet. There was a spy-grate in the door; through it, I saw him draw a sword from underneath his cloak. Nashira’s came to meet it. ‘Go, dreamwalker!’
‘Ranthen,’ Nashira whispered.
Their swords clashed. Iridescent blades, like shards of opal. I leaned heavily against the wall, unable to take my eyes from the grate. Spirits were rushing to join the wardance of the Rephaim. Immobilised by the fire in my arm, I watched Alsafi Sualocin fight Nashira Sargas.
I could see at once that Nashira was faster. She moved like spindrift around Alsafi, as fluently as Bra?oveanu had danced her death ballet. Alsafi used sharper swings, and stayed rooted to one spot, but he was no less elegant. The blades chimed like bells as they collided. Quick as she was, he parried each of her strokes, never changing his expression. I had seen Rephaim fight before, in the colony, though never with swords. I remembered the way their steps resonated through the ?ther; how the proximity of two rival Rephaim drank all the warmth from the air around them. As if the ?ther understood their hatred, intensified it, nurtured it.
They circled each other like dancing partners. Alsafi let out a low growl, while Nashira was silent. She struck again, faster and faster, until I could hardly see her movements; just the glint of her hair, the flash of the sword. When it caught Alsafi’s cheek, and ectoplasm seeped from the cut, I flinched.
She was toying with him.
Alsafi’s next swipe was harder, and he broke from his position. His blade slashed down, across, up, but never touched her.
Nashira raised her open hand. The rest of her fallen angels came to her from wherever they had been wandering, drawn back to her tarnished aura.
Alsafi spat at her in Gloss. For a long time, neither of them moved.
When the poltergeist attacked him, a tear streaked down my cheek. Slashes appeared across his face, the marks of an unseen knife. He lashed out with the sword, making the thing recoil, before all of the spirits converged on him. Alsafi let out an eldritch sound – a sound of pain – as they tore at his aura like a flock of birds. As his blade clattered to the flagstones, Nashira lifted her sword high. I caught sight of his eyes for a last time, afire with hatred, before she sliced straight through his neck.
I turned away, one hand over my mouth. The heavy thud was all I needed to hear.
Nashira stared down at the corpse for a moment – it must have been a moment, but it lasted for ever – before her head whipped around, and hellfire flooded her eyes again. And I knew, I knew from that look on her face that she would dog my footsteps for the rest of my days, even if I could escape her tonight. A decade could pass from this moment; a lifetime – but she would not stop hunting me. She would not forget. I snatched the key card from the floor and ran.
Dark stars erupted in the corners of my vision. Hot jolts came shooting through my feet as I hobbled across stone, breathing in bursts. I tasted salt and metal on my lips. The throbbing in my arm was making me retch. My legs gave way again, and I curled in the darkness, listening to my fitful heartbeat.
‘Rise from the ashes,’ I whispered to myself. ‘Come on, Underqueen.’
When I rose, my hands left red prints on the walls. I couldn’t take much more of this. I would die before I reached the Inquisitorial Office.
Then I saw it. Frank Weaver’s Inquisitorial maxim was printed above the doors: I SHALL CAST OUR BOUNDS TO THE EDGES OF THE EARTH. THIS HOUSE FOREVER GROWS.
There was one dreamscape inside. Dewdrops of sweat were forming on my brow. Blood soaked my shift, I was light-headed, and black gossamer was spidering across my vision. I wouldn’t stay conscious for much longer. I fitted the card into the lock and shouldered the door open.
The Inquisitorial Office was an ornate room, watched over by portraits of previous Grand Inquisitors. An oak desk, which housed a wooden globe, sat before a floor-to-ceiling bay window. Weaver himself was nowhere to be seen. Silently, I stepped across the carpet.
Someone was standing beside the bookshelf. Red hair flowed down her back, red as the blood that plastered my skin. When she turned, I swung up the pistol. In the faint light from the citadel outside, her skin was waxen.
‘Mahoney.’
I didn’t move.
Scarlett Burnish stepped away from the bookshelf and raised a hand slightly. ‘Mahoney,’ she said, her cool blue eyes seeking mine, ‘put down the gun. We don’t have much time.’
Those were the lips that told their lies.
I had threatened the Grand Inquisitor once. Now it was the Grand Raconteur who stood before me, at the mercy of my bullet. Back then it had been about leverage, but I didn’t need that now. This was about self-preservation.
Burnish lifted her other hand, as if to surrender, and said:
‘Winter cherry.’
At first, I didn’t understand. It made no sense for her to be using the language of flowers. But then—
Winter cherry.
Deception.
Alsafi’s contact.
Scarlett Burnish, the face and voice of ScionEye, who had read the news since I was twelve years old. She was Alsafi’s contact in the Archon. Scarlett Burnish, a Ranthen associate. A professional liar. The perfect double agent.