The Canticle of Whispers (28 page)

“We have to keep going, Rita,” Theo said, firmly.

“No, we don't,” Verity replied. “Maybe we can still treat their illness, but we can't feed them. We don't have enough for ourselves. We didn't want this revolution; it didn't happen in our name, or Lily's. It wasn't anything to do with the temple. Why should we…?” she trailed away, all her energy deserting her. “Why do we have to keep fighting?”

Mark stared at her. He wanted to give an answer, but he was too tired, and too confused himself, to think of one.

The doctor took Verity's hands.

“Because they look to us,” Theo said, with absolute conviction. “Because this temple, this almshouse, has become their only guiding light. And leaders, no matter how unwilling, have to try to lead, or every single person who falls is our fault.”

Verity nodded, quietly, and Mark breathed a huge sigh of relief. He thanked the stars that Theo was here. For the first time in several weeks, he felt almost peaceful.

The door slammed open, shattering the moment. Mark turned his head.

Ben stood in the doorway. She was flushed and panting hard, as though she had been running.

“Ben! What are you…?” Theo began, but Benedicta shook her head.

“No time. They're probably already there.” She wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “It's Nick, and his revolutionaries. I tried to get back as fast as I could, but…”

“Slow down, slow down,” Theo said, clearing a pile of blankets off one of the pews. “Are they coming here? Surely not; we've treated so many of their men.”

“You don't understand,” Ben gasped. “They're launching another attack. I heard it from one of their people, but it's already going ahead. We might be too late…”

“What are you saying?” Mark said, alarmed. “You think we should try and stop it? The receivers can look after themselves. You're talking about a hundred people at most…”

He trailed away. Ben knew all this; she wasn't stupid. So why had she come back to warn him? She stared him straight in the eye.

“It's the prison, Mark. They're attacking the prison. They want to free all the inmates. That means the jailers are standing in their way.”

Mark froze.

“Dad…” he said. Then he grabbed his jacket.

“Mark, think about this,” Verity said, trying to stop him. “You don't know if your father is there; you can't face down an angry mob on your own…”

“Let him go, Rita,” Theo said, softly. He touched Mark's arm. “Hurry. I'll stay and watch over our charges. Someone has to care for those who get left behind.”

Mark nodded, grateful, then turned to Ben.

“Let's go.”

*   *   *

They smelled the fires before they saw them. The smoke spiraled into the hot, dry air. Mark, already sweating from the run, felt their heat as they neared the prison.

“The prison's right next to the receiver barracks; it's mad,” Mark shouted as they ran.

“The receivers are all over the city—the barracks are practically deserted!” Ben replied, swerving around a corner. “That's why they're striking now.”

Mark groaned. He hadn't seen his father since he had returned—they were on opposite sides of the barricades, but a few letters had been smuggled through. Mark had comforted himself with the thought that it was safer for his father on the upriver side of the city. It didn't look particularly safe now. The barricade here was smashed down, and the streets beyond were almost deserted, but they showed signs of many footsteps passing, breaking up the dry mud. Here and there, a frightened face peered out from a side street, but until they came to the prison itself, they saw no trace of the mob.

But they heard it, growing clearer every second—the roaring chant of anger, magnified a hundred times. Mark had heard that sound before, back in a Gisethi village, when the rage of years had erupted. It wasn't a sound he had ever wanted to hear again.

By the time he and Ben could see the crowd, louder than they could have imagined, their eyes stung from the smoke. It looked like the rioters had burned their way through the doors. The few receivers who were still conscious huddled together, guarded by a gang of thugs.

But Mark barely gave them a second glance. His eyes were drawn to the scaffold.

A rope noose swung in the breeze. Nick stood beside it on a newly erected wooden platform, holding the other end of the rope. And there, next to him, was Pete.

Mark launched himself forward, crashing into a wall of backs. He clawed at the crowd, but they were packed so tightly they shrugged him off with ease. He sprawled back, and felt Benedicta grab him and haul him to his feet.

“Let go!” he shouted, barely audible above the roar of the crowd. “That's my dad up there!”

“Shhh…” said Benedicta, the relief clear in her face. “It's not what we thought. Look again.”

Mark stared up.

She was right. It wasn't quite as bad as it had looked. His father was there, certainly, along with one or two other jailers. But they weren't there to be executed. They were escorting one of the prisoners—thin and dirty, his head covered with a sack. As they watched, Nick secured the noose around his neck, and stood him on a barrel. Mark saw his father close his eyes. He heard the crowd's shouts build to fever pitch.

The barrel was knocked away. The prisoner kicked at the air a few times. Then nothing.

Mark turned away, sickened, as the mob roared their pleasure.

“Feed the beast,” a voice whispered, nearby.

Mark turned, looking down.

It took him a moment to recognize the old man who crouched beside him. He was gaunt and ragged—wearing the tattered coat of a once-rich prisoner. But his loose old skin had once been full of flesh. And he recognized the smell—rotting flowers. Even in prison, he had still used that oil.

“Ghast?” he said, amazed. His old prison mate, the one-time lawyer with dark ambitions, had not taken well to prison. When Mark had left his cell, nearly two years ago, Ghast had already lost his senses. In the time since, he appeared to have grown worse. He crouched on the ground, peering up at Mark with sunken eyes.

“They came to set us free,” he said, grinning. His teeth were still good, after all this time. They made quite a contrast. “Free! How could I be free? The shadow has me at every turn. He has them, too, all of them. The shadow's always one step ahead.”

Mark shivered. “The shadow” was the name that Ghast gave to Snutworth. Everyone knew that he was the Director, by now, but no one had any idea what he was planning to do about the revolutionaries—and the receivers were hardly likely to tell. Whatever it was, though, Mark couldn't believe that letting them storm the prison would be on his list.

Ghast poked him in the ribs with one bony finger.

“You should rejoice, little star,” he muttered. “The beast has eaten your enemy. That bluecoat guard with the poisoned mind. What's his name?” Ghast shook his head. “He cast a pall over everything—said the world was a lie, said everything was a madman's dream…”

“Pauldron?” Ben interrupted. “Is that who you mean?”

Ghast turned his eyes to her.

“That's him, red angel. He called Agora a beautiful dream. Well, maybe he's woken up now. Or maybe he sleeps forever.” He pointed at the scaffold, where Nick was cutting down the swinging corpse. “An enemy of the new order, as much as the old,” he said, more calmly than before.

Mark looked back at Ben. There was a small, disturbing part of his mind that was pleased. He could see that same guilty look in Ben's eyes, and he could hardly blame her. That mad receiver had murdered her sister, and scarred her brother. And yet …

“He kept saying that Agora wasn't real,” Ben said, reflectively, watching as Pauldron's body fell to the ground. “And in a way, it isn't. At least, that's what the Oracle said.” She frowned. “I suppose we never really knew what was going through his mind.”

“Too late now…” Ghast laughed, clapping his hands in delight. “But that was just the starter. The beast won't be satisfied with just one. Aha! Here comes the main course.”

The buzz of the crowd grew more heated. Mark craned his neck, trying to see who was being led onto the scaffold now.

It was a haughty old man, his iron gray hair loose and unkempt, his once-good clothes arranged in as dignified a way as possible. But despite the change, Mark realized that he had seen this man before, though rarely out of his wig and chain of office.

“Lord Ruthven,” he breathed.

“He had your cell, little star,” Ghast said, rubbing his hands in glee. “So proud, so sure of his destiny. Well, here it is. Enemy of the people, enemy of all.” Ghast grew louder. “Death to him! Death to the traitor!”

The crowd around began to pick up the chant. And above it all, Nick pointed to the former Lord Chief Justice, and began to recite a list of his crimes. The big man's voice was deep, and slow, but Mark could hear every word.

“This man was a leader of the old regime,” Nick said, above the growing shouts of the crowd. “He must be punished for opposing the people, for leading the receivers, for upholding laws that led to starvation, and for threatening Lily, great symbol of our revolution.”

There was a cheer. It was a sound that yearned for blood.

“No,” Mark said, quietly.

“What?” Ben asked, turning sharply.

“No, this isn't right,” Mark said. He felt his chest tighten. Everything about this felt wrong. He looked into the crowd. There were little children, sitting on their parents shoulders, cheering. There were old men and women waving and shouting with rage and joy. And up above his father, his movements slow and sad, was readying the noose.

“Mark?” Ben asked, alarmed. “What are you thinking? You aren't going to…?”

But Mark moved before she could stop him, before he could let himself realize what madness this was. Everyone was mad today, so why should he be any different?

This time, the crowd was huddling around Pauldron's body, leaving the path to the scaffold a little clearer, and Mark found it wasn't too difficult to fight his way through. He pushed past waving arms and thickly packed bodies until, unseen, he was at the base of the scaffold.

Benedicta emerged from the crowd behind him, panting.

“Don't do it,” she said. “It's madness, suicide, it's…” She met his gaze. He hoped that some of his determination showed in his face. She sighed. “Why do I bother?” she said, and knelt down. “I'll give you a boost.”

Mark managed a tight smile as he stepped onto her interlaced hands. She was surprisingly strong.

The crowd were so focused, that for a moment or two, they didn't notice the newcomer on the rickety platform. Only Pete turned, and his eyes widened as his son approached.

“Mark! What are you doing?” he whispered.

“I'm here to stop this,” Mark said, simply. He felt strangely calm. He was already in as much danger as he could possibly be; there wasn't anything else to do but get on with it. Without explaining any further, he reached up to take down the rope.

A huge hand closed over his.

“What do you think you're doing, boy?”

Nick's face was inches from his own. Mark looked up. Crede's former assistant really was a giant of a man. The crowd had gone utterly silent.

Mark stared up at Nick, unblinking. He was tired of being scared.

“I'm taking down this noose,” he said, loud and clear. “It's not needed anymore.”

It worked. Nick was so surprised that his grip faltered. Mark freed his hand and continued. The knot began to loosen in his hands.

Nick took hold of his jacket.

“I don't know what you're planning, boy, but—”

“Mark,” Mark replied, calmly. “My name is Mark. One of Lily's friends.” He raised his voice loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. “You're really going to threaten me, the last person in Agora to see Lily?”

This time, it was enough to send a buzz through the crowd. Nick frowned, but didn't let go.

“You use her as your symbol, Nick,” Mark continued. “Do you think that she'd want this? Did you ever actually meet her? Because I remember
his
trial.” Mark jabbed a finger down at Pauldron's crumpled form. “I remember that she was offered his life. And she turned it down. She wanted to heal, not destroy.” With every sensible part of his mind screaming at him, Mark turned back to the noose, ignoring Nick, but making sure his voice carried across the whole square. “She'd have done what I'm doing now.”

He finished untying the knot. The noose unraveled, becoming a single length of rope. The crowd gasped, a hundred conversations breaking out—curious, confused, tense. All this time, Mark didn't move. On the surface, he probably looked calm. But inside, he was panicking. Inside, he was remembering Nick, a cobblestone clenched in his hand, and much later, Crede, felled by a similar stone.

“But you didn't know Crede, Mark,” said a voice from the crowd.

It was a cold voice, and hard—it sounded nothing like it once had. But Mark recognized it. And now, he looked.

Cherubina had kept the ringlets. Everything else had changed—the frills and gowns had been exchanged for a simple working dress, the look of exaggerated sweetness for a dark stare. But the ringlets were still there, still golden.

“We want our due,” Cherubina said, her voice cracking with emotion. “They killed Crede when he was trying to make peace. They hate us. All they want is to see us back under their control.” She clenched her fists—so like a little girl having a tantrum, had it not been for those hooded, furious eyes. “I say it's time for justice. It's time for them to feel the will of the people, the will of us
all
.”

Mark felt his blood freeze. He had heard those words before, too. He had seen the result—the ruin, the graves, the savagery of the mob. He opened his mouth to protest, to try and calm them down.