‘Naturally,’ I said. ‘Any useful information about him?’
‘He’s bald, amaurotic, and always wore a rag over his face. That’s all. Helpful, I know.’ She squeezed into the booth next to Eliza. ‘I asked about the SciPLO factories. Apparently there are seventeen of them altogether, of varying sizes, all focused on munitions. And there’s no reason Scion should have spent the last year mass-producing munitions, not unless they’re planning another incursion.’
‘Or they’re trying to arm all their soldiers with the scanners,’ I pointed out.
‘I highly doubt you need seventeen factories to do that. Either way, we should stay here and take them out.’
‘The factories?’ Tom said. ‘All seventeen?’
‘Yes, the factories. All seventeen. Get rid of them.’
‘Right,’ I said, deadpan. ‘And how do we do that?’
Maria flicked on her lighter. ‘I’m a pyromancer, Paige.’ She beckoned a spirit, and it carried the flame to the end of her cigarette. ‘I promise you, I can manage a little arson.’
Eliza yanked down her hand. ‘Maria, there are rotties in here,’ she hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nobody cares, sweet. Look.’
She motioned to a nearby table, where a seer was sitting with a crystal ball beneath her hand. GENUINE UNNATURAL, a sign proclaimed. OUTCOMES OF ALL ICECROSSE GAMES REVEALED. The unnatural in question was surrounded by eager amaurotics, none of whom appeared to be reporting her.
The conversation paused while a waitron laid out our food and glasses of hot chocolate. ‘What I’m saying,’ Maria continued, when he left, ‘is that if we can’t get into the factories—’
‘We’re not burning anything down,’ I said. ‘If we destroy the factories, we destroy the trail that could lead us to the core.’
‘You have any better ideas, kid?’
I surveyed the room again. ‘We have to track down this Cassidy. Dani wouldn’t have given me his name if she didn’t think he could help.’
‘We could also contact Catrin Attard,’ Maria said.
Eliza tilted her head, and I explained: ‘Roberta’s sister, condemned to hang. If she helped the Vigiles revolt, she’s clearly willing to resist Scion.’
‘The Scuttling Queen warned us against communicating with her sister.’ Tom looked over his shoulder. ‘We shouldn’t disrespect her wishes on that front. This is her turf.’
‘We can’t quibble over turf any more, Tom,’ I said tersely, and he grunted.
‘She could drive us out if she finds out we’re poking around. Besides, by all accounts, Catrin is under Scion’s lock and key.’
I massaged my temple. If we were going to enter SciPLO without dying in the attempt, it would have to be carefully planned.
‘I have an idea about where we can find Cassidy,’ I said. ‘It’s a long shot, though.’
‘This whole revolution is a long shot,’ Maria reminded me.
‘Hari mentioned a district called Ancoats. He said a lot of Irish workers live there.’
Eliza frowned. ‘So?’
‘Cassidy is the anglicised form of an Irish surname.’
Her expression cleared. ‘Like yours.’
‘Exactly.’ Mahoney was the one part of our heritage my father had clung on to. ‘If he’s hiding in Ancoats, the people there might reveal his location to one of their own.’
‘Good thinking,’ Maria said.
I finished my drink. ‘While I’m gone, we need to pursue other angles. Tom: I want you to try speaking to some of the factory workhands. Ask what they do in there, see if anyone’s likely to talk. Maria, Eliza: find out if Catrin Attard is still alive and where she’s being held. And make sure you don’t attract attention from Roberta or the Scuttlers.’
Between all these lines of investigation, we had to find something that could nudge us a little closer to unlocking the secret of Senshield. If we didn’t, and I returned to London empty-handed, I doubted I would be Underqueen for long.
12
Fortress
I allowed myself to be persuaded to go back to Hari’s for an hour’s sleep, a decision I soon bitterly regretted. Shortly after our return, a friend of Hari’s called to say an inspection of the nearest SciPLO factory was underway, meaning increased government activity for the next few hours. Hari categorically refused to let any of us leave until they were gone.
I found myself pacing around the attic as the morning wore on, consumed by frustration. The clock became a source of mockery. Every second was another second the Mime Order was trapped, and so far our mission had gone nowhere. I couldn’t imagine how Nick was holding up.
At noon, I lost patience and knocked on the door to Hari’s room. ‘Hang on a mo,’ he called, but I was already through.
‘Hari, we really have to—’
I trailed off, and my eyebrows shot up.
The curtains in the room were closed. Hari was sitting up in bed with his arm around Eliza, whose head rested on his shoulder. Both were dishevelled and heavy-eyed. When she saw me, Eliza let out a yelp of ‘bloody hell, Paige’ and clawed the sheets around her bare shoulders. I cleared my throat.
‘Underqueen.’ Hari fumbled for his glasses. ‘Sorry. Uh. Is everything all right?’
‘Spiffing. If you’re . . . finished,’ I said, ‘would you mind checking to see if we can leave?’
‘Yeah, course.’
I retreated sharpish. Behind me, Eliza let out a mangled groan that sounded like ‘never live this down’.
I should have learned years ago not to barge through closed doors. That habit had landed me in hot water plenty of times while I was collecting money for Jaxon.
Jaxon . . . I envisioned him smoking a cigar in the Archon, chuckling as the army brought London back to heel.
In the kitchen, I piled on layers of clothing while I waited for the others to emerge. Hari hurried in after a couple of minutes, wearing a fresh shirt and a sheepish expression.
‘The inspection just ended,’ he said. ‘You can go now, if you like.’
‘Good.’ I fastened my jacket. ‘We should be back in a few hours.’
‘I’ll be working. Come to the counter when you get back and I’ll give you the key.’
Maria and Eliza joined me in the hallway – the latter with pink cheeks – and we left for the monorail station together, walking through a drizzle. While we waited for our respective trains, Eliza whispered, ‘Sorry, Paige.’
‘You don’t need to apologise. I’m not the sex patrol.’
She bit down a grin. ‘No. But I shouldn’t get distracted.’ Water dripped from her hairline. ‘It’s just . . . been a while.’
‘Mm-hm.’ I blew on to my hands.
‘Don’t do anything reckless while you’re out of our sight.’ She elbowed me as my train appeared. ‘You have a bad habit of not coming back when you get on a train.’
‘When do I ever do anything reckless?’
She gave me a sceptical look. I stepped on to the train before she could answer.
The sky must never be blue above Manchester. I watched the citadel through the window, taking in the flickers of activity beneath the monorail track. When the train rounded a corner and jounced past another SciPLO factory, I leaned forward until my breath misted the glass. A small group of workers were gesturing angrily at the Vigiles beyond the gate.
This place was on a knife-edge.
As the train pulled away again, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Warden. I hadn’t felt the cord since just before we had left London. I had thought at first that he had broken it somehow, but it was there – just still. I must not be able to feel him while he was in the Netherworld, working his way through the ruin of that realm beyond the veil.
It was strange to remember the distant, shadowy dealings of She’ol, embroiled as I was in human affairs. They would be searching for Adhara Sarin, to persuade her that I was capable of leading the Mime Order against the Sargas. Perhaps they had already found her. But when she
asked for evidence of my skill as a leader, Warden would have nothing to give her. Not yet. He believed in me so utterly, and I had given him so little in return.
Thinking of him made a sharp pain flare behind my ribs. The silence on his side of the cord was unsettling, as if I’d lost one of my senses.
The district of Ancoats slumped in the shadow of the largest SciPLO factory in the citadel. I descended from the monorail and trekked through the snow, my head stooped against the wind, grateful for the protection of the respirator. As I wandered past back-to-back dwellings – infested with dry rot, so small that I could have reached up and touched their roofs – I passed a scrawl of orange writing on the stonework: MAITH DÚINN, A ÉIRE. Seeing the Irish language in Scion jarred my nerves, then filled me to the brim with homesickness for the place I hadn’t seen since I was eight.
The people here moved like sleepwalkers. Most wore threadbare factory uniforms and blank expressions. Others sat in doorways, wrapped in filthy blankets, their hands outstretched for money. A young woman was among them, her arms wound around two small boys. Her cheeks were blotched with tearstains.
I asked for Jonathan Cassidy at several small businesses in the district: a coal merchant, a shoe-shop, a tiny haberdashery. I was met with averted eyes and mumbles of ‘not here’. Almost as soon as I had left the haberdashery, a sign reading CLOSED appeared in its window. It was tempting to take off my respirator and prove I wasn’t trying to track him down for Scion, but there was no guarantee that I would be safe here.
My search soon brought me to a cookshop Hari had mentioned, which was perched on the corner of Blossom Street. Its narrow door had no window or handle. Shrivelled paint named it Teach na gCladhairí – House of Cowards. A yellow-bellied eel twisted on its sign.
A wilted bouquet of must and cigarettes awaited me inside. Paintings of tempestuous landscapes cluttered the walls, which were covered by peeling floral paper. I drew my hood down and sat at a round table in a corner. A bony, sour-faced amaurotic barked at me from the bar.
‘You want something?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Coffee. Thanks.’
She stormed off. I replaced my respirator with my red cravat. Within a minute, the waitron had banged down a cup in front of me, along with a dish of soda bread. The coffee looked and smelled like vinegar.
‘There you go, now,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I wonder if you could help me. Do you have a patron by the name of Jonathan Cassidy?’
She gave me a dirty look and stalked back to the bar. Next time I should show my wallet.
There were several other patrons nearby, all sitting on their own at small tables. Somebody must know where this guy was hiding. For appearances’ sake, I picked up the greasy menu and scanned it.
‘You should try the stew.’
I glanced at the bearded amaurotic who had spoken. He had come in after me, and had just been served. ‘Sorry?’
‘The stew.’
I eyed it. ‘Is it good?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s grand.’
It was tempting, but I couldn’t linger. ‘Not sure I trust the cook, to be honest,’ I said. ‘The coffee smells like it should be on chips.’
The man chuckled. Most of his face was obscured by a peaked hat. ‘You from Scion Belfast?’
‘Tipperary.’
‘That’s quite an accent you’ve got. You must have left a long time ago.’
‘Eleven years.’ I could hear my lilt thickening just talking to him. ‘You from Galway?’
‘I am. Been here two years.’
‘And I suppose you don’t know anyone called Jonathan Cassidy, either.’
‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘I’ve left him behind.’
I looked away, then back, as I realised what he was implying. He extended his free hand.
‘Glaisne Ó Casaide.’ After a moment, I shook it. The palm was thickly callused. ‘Changed the first name completely when I came here, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut all ties. I’m sure you know the feeling, Paige Mahoney.’
I sat very still, as if even the slightest flinch could make him reveal my identity to the rest of the district. This man might be a fellow fugitive, but there wasn’t always honour among thieves. ‘How did you know?’
‘A Tipperary woman with a scarf over her face, seeking out someone wanted by Scion. Doesn’t take a genius. But I won’t tell.’ He turned to look out of the window. ‘We all have our secrets, don’t we?’
When I saw the other side of his face, I only just kept my expression in check. The cheek around his jaw had rotted away, showing blackened, toothless gums and absent teeth.
‘Phossy jaw. You get it working with white phosphorus,’ he said. ‘Can’t go to a hospital. One of the many downsides of not having the correct Scion settlement paperwork, along with the poor wages. And they wonder why I started a little business on the side.’
As he spoke, more of the inside of his mouth showed. I glimpsed the pink flesh of his tongue.
‘I heard a young woman was asking about me. Supposed you must have good reason,’ he said. ‘When my friend the haberdasher pointed you out, I followed you in here. So, what do you want?’
This was my chance. With a quick glance around the room, I joined him at his table.
‘I know you worked for SciPLO. That you stole from them. I was told that portable Senshield scanners are being manufactured in one of those factories,’ I said under my breath. ‘Is it true?’
It was a long time before he gave me a single nod.
‘That’s correct. In the one called SciPLO Establishment B. That’s the only place they make them,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, you won’t get an eye-witness account, if that’s what you’re after. When you’re assigned to that place, it’s a life sentence. The workhands eat, sleep and die behind its walls.’
‘They never come out?’
‘Not since a year ago. It’s a fortress. Few are fool enough to apply to work there, so the workhands have to be forcibly drafted from other factories, usually without warning.’ He spooned stew into his mouth. ‘No one goes in or out. Even the venerable Emlyn Price rarely emerges, though I’ve no doubt he’s free to come and go. He’s based in there.’
The Minister for Industry himself. This reeked of military secrecy. Now we were on to something. ‘If nobody comes out, how do you know that’s where they handle Senshield?’
‘We just do. All of us.’
‘Have you ever heard anything about how the machines work – or how Senshield itself works? How it’s powered, for example . . .’
He laughed hoarsely. ‘If I had that information, I would have sold it already. Thanks to Price, that secret is locked inside Establishment B. Even the Scuttlers can’t claim to know exactly what goes on in there, and they know most things that occur in Manchester.’
I frowned. ‘How do you know about the Scuttlers? You’re—’
‘Can’t avoid knowing them. Roberta doesn’t cause trouble with us, but she doesn’t care much for those who aren’t unnatural. She minds her own. Her sister, on the other hand . . .’
Disgust oozed into every crease of his face.
‘I take it you’re not fond of Catrin,’ I said.
Ó Casaide used the soda bread to mop up the last of his stew. ‘She’s a nasty piece of work. They say it didn’t sit well with her when she wasn’t chosen by their late father to rule, so she makes up for it by terrorising those she considers weak.’
She would have fitted in well in the age of Haymarket Hector.
‘We’re one of the districts she preys on. If I had a penny for every time she turns up to demand money for “protection” from the same thugs she employs to torment us . . .’
‘Does she pick on people randomly?’
‘Usually, but she has a particular grudge against us. She had a long rivalry with a Scuttler from Dublin. Catrin won the final confrontation, but he got in a good swing before she stabbed him in the gut. Scuttlers u
se their belts to fight, you know.’ He made a snapping motion with his hands. ‘Since then, she’s punished us for the man who scarred her face.’ His brow darkened. ‘She’ll be hanged at Spinningfields tomorrow, and good riddance.’
What disturbed me most was that, in spite of this new knowledge, I wasn’t ruling out this woman’s help.
The waitron thundered past with a bowl of gruel. ‘I saw some workhands protesting earlier outside one of the factories,’ I said. ‘Do you know who leads them? Are there any other key players here but the Attards?’
He shook his head. ‘Those are just random outbreaks. They’ve been happening more often since that bastard Price introduced the quotas.’
‘Price sounds like the root of the misery here.’
‘He is. Things were bad before him, but not this bad.’
Emlyn Price. I thought hard. Roberta Attard had said that he had become Minister for Industry a year ago, which coincided with increased munitions production and the acceleration of Senshield. If he was responsible for making sure Manchester’s production was on schedule, he was key to Vance’s success.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
I had got what I had come for. I was almost on my feet, ready to return to the others and tell them that Establishment B was our target, when I found myself sinking back into my chair.
‘You left Ireland two years ago.’ I kept my voice low. ‘What has Scion done there since I left?’
Ó Casaide pulled the peak of his cap slightly lower. ‘You got out a long time ago. I’m thinking you remember it as it used to be. The Emerald Isle.’ He barked out a laugh. ‘What a load of shite.’
‘I saw the Molly Riots. I was in Dublin.’
He was silent for some time.
‘You left around 2048, I take it,’ he finally said.
I nodded slowly.
‘Just in time. After they hanged the last of the riots’ leaders, the remaining rebels went to one of four massive labour camps, one in each of the provinces of Ireland. Then they were joined by anyone with a strong back – anyone who wasn’t necessary to keep the country running in other ways. I was in the Connacht camp for four years, cutting down trees for nothing but bread.’