The Canticle of Whispers (25 page)

Ben turned her back on the woman, her shoulders tense, but Miss Devine's reaction was the last thing Mark was expecting. She laughed. A hard, bitter sound.

“I'm afraid not, Miss Benedicta,” she said. “Mr. Crede is dead.”

There was a long pause. Suddenly, all of the things that they had seen on their way here seemed to make sense—the feeling of boiling anger, the outright war between receivers and rioters. Crede had been dangerous, but he was also a leader, a way to focus all the anger he stirred up. But with Crede gone …

“How did it happen?” Mark asked, barely taking it in. Miss Devine crossed her arms, and for a moment, she seemed lost in thought.

“It began five days ago,” she said, keeping her voice low, but without drama. “It was extraordinary news—everyone was talking about it. Chief Inspector Greaves had announced that he wanted to meet with Crede, to negotiate an end to the riots. Some thought it was a trick, while others, your friends in the Temple Almshouse included, believed he really was willing to offer a deal to stop the violence in the streets.” Miss Devine shrugged. “Few thought it would succeed, but Crede did agree to a public meeting, an hour before sunset that same day.”

“Was it a trap?” Mark asked. Miss Devine's look was inscrutable.

“That is what Crede's supporters say, but I doubt that Greaves is capable of such ruthlessness. I went to see the meeting; of course, there would be no customers at such an exciting time, and I am interested in public events.”

“Yes, I thought you might be,” Mark muttered, remembering Miss Devine's presence in Crede's meetings. If the emotion seller heard him, she gave no indication.

“By the time I arrived,” she continued, “the plaza was full. I had to watch from the Sagittarius Bridge. Even so far away, I could see that the debate was already…” she chose her word carefully, “intense. They had set up two of the Agora Day podiums, so they could talk without getting too close, and to stop their supporters from coming to blows. They were supposed to be alone on their platforms, but both had a few friends with them. Mr. Nick wasn't with Crede, but Miss Cherubina was,” Miss Devine's lip curled for a fraction of a second. “She looked quite a firebrand. Greaves had Poleyn with him, of course, to keep the receivers on his side of the plaza under control. Not a tactic that was likely to be successful.”

“I doubt you did anything to help,” Benedicta said sourly. Miss Devine ignored the comment.

“At first, the event was predictable. Greaves offered empty words of understanding, and Crede made his usual speeches, denouncing everything the Directory stood for. The crowd was on his side. But I must admit, as time went on, Greaves became more convincing. He talked about honor, and trust. About going forward as equals. That seemed to strike a chord with Crede. But the crowd was not so easily swayed. They began to argue among themselves.” Miss Devine began to talk a little faster, getting into her story with unpleasant relish. “Fights broke out, scuffles between debtors and the elite servants became larger, and more violent. Then things started to fly through the air. Little objects—bottles, cloth bags, even vegetables. Some of the traders were making a good living fueling that argument.

“And then, someone threw a cobblestone.

“It wasn't large, but it soared straight toward Crede's platform. I don't know if it flew wide, or if it struck its target. But I know this—Crede fell in an instant.”

Mark felt the blood drain from his face.

“Did he…?” he began to ask, but Miss Devine cut him short.

“Crede died in Miss Cherubina's arms,” she reported, dispassionately. “The crowd's fury was something to behold. Greaves barely escaped with his life, and several receivers didn't make it. The first riot went on all night—it seems like both sides had made plans in case this happened. The fighting simmered down a couple of hours after dawn, but by then there was a barrier stretching all the way across the city.” Miss Devine gestured out at the empty street. “And we, Mr. Mark, are in the part of the city that is full of rebels demanding blood for their leader's murder.”

The three of them stood in silence. All Mark could picture in his mind's eye was a single image—Cherubina cradling Crede, a dreadful wound on the side of his head, the crowd raging all about them. And in the background, the looming shadow of Nick, Crede's right-hand man, just as Mark had seen him last—a big cobblestone clenched in his fist.

To one side, they heard the sound of wrenching metal. Mark realized that it was coming from the door of the temple—the sound of a key turning in a rusty lock.

“Well,” Miss Devine observed, “it seems that your knocking attracted the attention of your friends after all—perhaps they feel it is safe enough to open their doors again.” Miss Devine turned away, a cold smile on her face. “I'm not certain that it is wise.”

She went back into her shop, shutting the door behind her.

Dumbly, Mark and Ben stared at each other. This was too much to take in; they needed a moment to adjust, a moment to prepare themselves for facing their friends.

They didn't get one. The door to the temple inched open.

“Who's there? We're not open, we…” the voice emerging from the temple stopped with a gasp, and the door was flung wide open.

“Theo!” Verity called, delighted. “It's Mr. Mark and Miss Benedicta! They're safe!”

Through the door Mark could see Theo, making his way toward them with a look of joy and hope. And behind him, there was a whole crowd of frightened people, waiting for some good news. He attempted a smile.

Verity looked past them, still beaming.

“And Lily? Is she with you?” she asked.

Mark's smile vanished as quickly as it had come. It looked like it was now his turn to tell a story.

“Well,” he began, “She might be a little longer…”

 

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Believing

I
T WAS NATURAL LIGHT,
Laud was sure of it.

He urged his aching legs to keep climbing. This winding stone staircase had seemed endless at first, but now he could see something that was almost like daylight, filtering down from above.

His throat was parched, and his stomach ached. He had finished the last of the food some time ago, though how long ago he couldn't say. He had slept a couple of times since then, but he had taken to sleeping whenever the chatter of the Cacophony lulled for a few moments, rather than keeping to any sort of schedule. He must have been wandering the tunnels for days, but sometimes, it felt like years. Or hours.

He realized that he was muttering to himself, counting the stone steps as he climbed them. That had started fairly quickly once the lantern oil ran out. He preferred hearing his own voice to the endless echoes in the pitch-black caverns.

What will come? Why? Which? Where? Whom? Wherefore?

“One thousand, five hundred and fifty-eight…” Laud muttered to himself. He had lost count of the steps a while back, but anything was preferable to listening to the voices. At the moment they were asking questions, which wasn't too bad. But sometimes they whispered secrets that made him blush, or screamed abuse and threats. At one point, when he had been negotiating his way through a tunnel lined with fiercely sharp spears of rock, they had done nothing but prattle inane greetings, so that he felt as though an army of idiots was following him, just out of reach, and impossible to shut up.

But all of that he could take. He knew that the voices, however loud, were nothing but sound. The trouble was, sometimes the sound was familiar.

He had expected that hearing Lily's voice would be the worst. And it was true that he could always pick it out of all the others, however distorted. But in a way, that gave him hope. Even if she was crying or raging, she was still alive. It kept his weary, blistered feet moving on.

No, the worst parts were the old echoes. The sounds he hadn't heard since he was tiny.

Sometimes they were so simple. The call of the nut seller who had lived across the street. The sound of his friends, playing. Yes, he remembered. There was a time when he'd played and he'd had friends. Before his parents had been taken from him and he'd had to go and work. Before he'd seen what the city was really like.

Still, it could have been worse. He could have heard Gloria, his dead sister. The Cacophany could have summoned her voice—just a little too bright, as she tried to take over from their mother. It could have found her last words to him, promising to give up taking the bottled emotions she needed to get through the day.

He heard those words often enough in his dreams.

So many people had left him. And now he'd left. Benedicta, the last of his family, was far away. In the tunnels, surrounded by empty echoing words, there was no companion but himself. And he didn't know himself well enough to be comfortable with that.

He'd expected some great revelation, some profound truth. But all he found was that his need to keep going grew even stronger. He couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it away or turn it into a pithy one-liner. He simply couldn't let Lily slip through his fingers again.

He looked up. Yes, that was definitely light up there—a jagged opening, just around the next twist of the steps, growing wider by the second. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, and noticed for the first time that his fingers were raw and scratched, reminders of the number of times he had fallen in the dark tunnels. He risked a look down. His breeches were torn, his boots nearly worn out. He pushed a few strands of lank red hair out of his eyes. By the time he finally reached Lily, he wouldn't be a particularly comforting sight.

Still, he thought as he reached the top of the steps, that might be an advantage. If any trouble came his way, one look at his wild face would convince anyone that he meant business.

He grasped the edge of the opening, hauling himself out from the shattered remains of something that looked like a tomb. He blinked in the sudden light, streaming down from an opening in the roof to this stone chamber, far above. It almost looked like some kind of crypt …

He felt the tip of a blade press into his back.

“What business have you here, dweller in darkness?” a raspy voice said, close to his ear.

Without stopping to think, Laud spun around, catching the unseen man off guard. The knife clattered from his assailant's hand, and Laud put his foot on it. Then he focused on the man. He wore a russet red habit, the hood up, cowling his face.

“Is this how you greet all your guests?” Laud asked, his sarcasm covering his nerves. He didn't know if this man was alone, and he darted a look around the circular chamber. The man stood back, warily.

“You are not welcome at the Cathedral,” he said. “We have sealed the path to the lands below. Only the Judges may pass.”

Laud studied the man. He didn't look much of a threat, especially considering how easily Laud had disarmed him. But he couldn't afford to be delayed.

“It's a good thing that I'm one of the Judges, then,” he said, keeping his voice entirely matter-of-fact. “My name's Mark; I'm the Protagonist.”

The red-robed man's attitude changed instantly, and he threw back his hood to get a closer look. Despite himself, Laud flinched. The man's face was covered with so many thick, livid scars that he barely looked human. He reached out to Laud with equally ravaged hands.

“Thank the stars,” he exclaimed. “I've been waiting for you. Wolfram said that you had been captured, but I knew that the Protagonist would never be imprisoned, and after Miss Lily emerged from the tomb, I was certain…” He stopped, and his ruined face shifted into something like a frown. “I thought that Wolfram said you were blond?”

“Has Lily come this way?” Laud interrupted, hastily. The man immediately nodded.

“Yes, but you should know—”

“Where is she?” Laud interrupted.

The man raised his hands.

“I tried to stop her,” he said. “I could see she was in distress, poor child. She can't have eaten for days…”

Laud grabbed the front of the man's robes.

“Where. Is. She?” he asked, with menace.

The man calmed down.

“In the marshes,” he said. “But you mustn't go after her. You should rest, prepare yourself…”

“Do I have time to rest?” Laud asked, not letting go. “Do I really have that choice? Will Lily be safe if I delay?”

Even beneath the scars, it wasn't hard to see the guilt.

“No, but I can't let you both go out there. One of you should be ready…” he stopped. Laud wasn't quite sure what the expression on his face was, but if it conveyed even a fraction of his thoughts, he wasn't surprised that the man had stopped protesting. He felt within seconds of snapping.

“I'll show you to the door,” the man said, quietly.

*   *   *

Outside, the fog formed a thick, choking blanket, though the cold air was still welcome after weeks in the tunnels.

The man, who called himself Honorius, the porter of the Cathedral, had warned him to take care on the path down to the marshes, but Laud found himself running along, jogging stones off the pathway.

Honorius had warned him that he should rest. That if he needed to come back, not to return to the shining Cathedral, but to find his way to the sanatorium, on the other side of the headland. There were soft beds waiting there for him and Lily. But Laud only ran faster as he reached the bottom of the cliff.

And, above all he had warned him to be careful. Not to venture into the heart of the treacherous swamps, where something called the Nightmare reigned.

Laud wasn't good at following advice.

The instant he stepped into the marshes, he felt it. A sense of being watched, like a pressure in his head. He had experienced something like it, back in the throne room of the Oracle—but there it had been hidden, at the edge of his thoughts. Here, its presence pressed in on all sides.