The source of the smell was a large square room with a hole cut into the corrugated metal roof to let out smoke and steam. I sat down in a dark corner, trying not to draw attention to myself. The meat was being served in wafer-thin slices, still pink and tender in the middle. The performers passed around plates of meat and vegetables and scooped cream from silver tureens. People were fighting over the food, stuffing it into their mouths, licking the hot juices from their fingers. Before I could ask, a voyant pressed a plate into my hands. He was scrawny, dressed in little more than rags. His thick glasses were scratched all over.

“Is Mayfield still in the Starch?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mayfield?”

“Yes, Abel Mayfield.” He sounded it out in syllables. “Is he still in the Archon? Is he still Grand Inquisitor?”

“Mayfield died years ago.”

“Who is it now?”

“Frank Weaver.”

“Oh, right. You haven’t got a copy of the Descendant, have you?”

“They confiscated everything.” I glanced around for somewhere to sit down. “Did you really think Mayfield was still the Inquisitor?” It was impossible not to know the Inquisitor’s identity. Scarlett Burnish excluded, Weaver was the heart and soul of Scion.

“All right, don’t get on your high horse. How was I supposed to know? We only get news once a decade.” He grabbed my arm, leading me to a corner. “Did they ever bring back the Roaring Boy?”

“No.” I tried to free my arm, but he clung.

“Is Sinatra still blacklisted?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. What about the Fleapit? Did they ever find it?”

“Cyril, she’s just arrived. I think she’d like something to eat.”

Someone had noticed my predicament. Cyril rounded on the speaker, a young woman, with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up. “You are an absolute stinking bloody curmudgeon, Rymore. Did you pick up ten of swords again today?”

“Yeah, when I was thinking about you.”

With a glower, Cyril snatched the plate and scarpered. I made a grab for his shirt, but he was faster than a flimp. The girl shook her head. She had small, quick features, framed by matted black ringlets. Her red lipstick stood out like a fresh wound against her skin.

“You had your oration last night, little sister.” Her voice carried a burr. “Your stomach wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I ate yesterday morning,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh at being called little sister by this tiny girl.

“Trust me, it’s the flux. It’s janxed your brain.” She glanced around the room. “Quick. Come with me.”

“Where?”

“I have a crib. We can talk.”

I didn’t much like the idea of following a stranger, but I had to talk to someone. I went after her.

My guide seemed to know everyone. She touched hands with various people, always keeping an eye on me to make sure I was still behind her. Her clothes appeared to be in better condition than those of the other performers: a flimsy bell-sleeved shirt, trousers too short for her legs. She must be freezing. She drew back a ragged curtain. “Quick,” she said again. “They’ll see.”