The Scion system was used by nine European countries, including England. Unlike England, however, the rest of them had nowhere to send their clairvoyants. Still, all nine governments had sent emissaries. Even Dublin, the youngest and most controversial Scion city, had sent a delegate: Cathal Bell, an old friend of my father. He was a nervous, indecisive man, crumpled by the duties of his role. A thrill shot through my chest when I first saw him—maybe he could help us—but then I remembered: he hadn’t seen me since I was five or six years old. He wouldn’t recognize me, and I had no name here. Besides, Bell was weak. His party had lost Dublin.

The Guildhall looked spectacular. It had an ornate plasterwork ceiling, hung with chandeliers, and a vast stretch of open floor. The dark flickered with candlelight and Chopin. The delegates were afforded every courtesy. They were free to gorge themselves on all manner of delicious foods, or talk to one another over mecks. Their amaurosis was a privilege, a right. They were served food by the amaurotic slaves, including Michael, who had been made to look like willing participants in the rehabilitation program. The other amaurotics must have been too undernourished to appear.

High above some dancers was Liss, hanging from the silks, striking poses like an airborne ballerina. She was relying solely upon her own strength to keep from falling to her death.

I cast my eye around the room, trying to locate Weaver. He was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was late. Other countries would be excused for not sending their Inquisitors, but not England. I could see a few other recognizable Scion officials, including the Commander of Vigilance, Bernard Hock. He was a huge man with a bald head and overdeveloped neck muscles; very good at sniffing out voyants—in fact, I’d always suspected he was a sniffer. Even now, his nostrils were flared. I made a note to kill him if I could.

An amaurotic offered me a glass of white mecks. I refused it. I’d just spotted Cathal Bell.

Bell had a glass in his hand, and he kept straightening his tie. He was trying to make conversation with Radmilo Arežina, Deputy Minister of Migration for Serbia. I smiled to myself. Arežina had authorized Dani’s transfer to London foolishly. I walked toward them.

“Mr. Bell?”

Bell jerked, spilling his wine. “Yes?”

I looked at Arežina. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Minister, but may I speak with Mr. Bell for a moment?”

Arežina looked me up and down. His upper lip arched.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bell,” he said. “I should return to my party.”

He moved off to the safety of his party. I was left facing Bell, who was dabbing the red stain from his jacket. “What do you want, unnatural?” He was stammering. “I was having a very important conversation.”