“What happened?”

“The rottie got beaten. The voyant she was feeding got four days of sleep dep. He was raving by the time they let him out.”

Sleep deprivation. It was a novel punishment. Voyant minds functioned on two levels: life and death. It was tiring. Being kept awake for four days would drive a voyant mad. “Who brings the food into the city?”

“No idea. Maybe the train. It runs from London to Sheol I. Nobody knows where the entrances to the tunnel are, obviously.” She shifted her feet closer to the stove. “How long did you think the brain plague lasted?”

“Forever.”

“It was five days. They let the rookies go through hell for five days before they give them the antidote.”

“Why?”

“So they learn their place as quickly as possible. You’re no more than a number here unless you earn your colors.” Liss helped herself to a bowl of broth. “So you’re at Magdalen.”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably sick of hearing this, but consider yourself lucky. Magdalen is one of the safest residences for a human.”

“How many are there?”

“Humans?”

“Residences.”

“Oh, right. Well, each residence is a small district. There are seven for humans: Balliol, Corpus, Exeter, Merton, Oriel, Queens, and Trinity. Nashira lives at the Residence of the Suzerain, where you had your oration. Then there’s the House, a little way south, and the Castle—the Detainment Facility—and this dump, the Rookery. The street is called the Broad. The street that runs parallel is Magdalen Walk.”

“And beyond that?”

“Deserted countryside. We call it No Man’s Land. It’s rigged with mines and trap-pits.”

“Has anyone ever tried to cross it?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders were tense. I took another sip of skilly.

“How was the Tower?”

I looked up at her. “I didn’t go to the Tower.”

“Were you born on a boon or something?” When I frowned, Liss shook her head. “They collect voyants for each Bone Season over ten years. Some of them are in the Tower for a decade before they get posted here.”

“You’re kidding.” That explained the poor sap that had been there for nine years.

“Nope. They’re pretty cokum when it comes to keeping us tame. They know all our weak points. How to break us. Ten years in the Tower would break anyone.”

“What are they?”

“No idea, except they’re not human.” She dabbed some bread in the skilly. “They act like gods. That’s how they like to be treated.”

“And we’re their worshippers.”

“Not just their worshippers. We owe them our lives. They never let us forget they’re protecting us from the Buzzers, and that slavery is ‘for our own good.’ We’d rather be slaves than dead, they say. Or victimized outside by the Inquisitor.”

“Buzzers?”

“The Emim. That’s what we call them.”

“Why?”

“We’ve always called them that. Think the red-jackets came up with it. They’re the ones that have to fight them off.”

“How often?”

“Depends on the time of year. They attack a lot more in winter. Listen out for the siren. A single blast summons the red-jackets. If the tone starts to change, get inside. It means they’re coming.”