The Canticle of Whispers (29 page)

He heard someone beside him laughing. Slow, and mocking—without a trace of humor.

Lord Ruthven stepped forward.

“Justice?” he said, addressing the crowd with contempt. “You have no concept of justice. Crying and whining because your lives aren't fair, when every person in Agora starts the same way—with nothing but their skill and ambition. I was a wigmaker's son, and I rose to be Lord Chief Justice. But because I did my job, because I upheld the laws and traditions that keep this city great, you see me as your enemy?” He stood straight and haughty, his voice never wavering. “Well, I am. I was the enemy of your conman prophet. I was the enemy of Lily, and all her disruptive ideas. I am the enemy of your weakness, and your desire to ruin everything that could have made you worthy. So string me up if you will, and call it justice. You'll still be nothing more than children, breaking their toys because they lost the game.”

A roar of fury emerged from the crowd. Nick shoved Mark away from the rope, and began to retie it. Mark staggered, the wind knocked out of him.

“Crede was no conman,” Nick growled. “He was everything to us.
Everything
.”

It was genuine, Mark was sure. He could hear the shake of grief beneath that anger. For a split second, he inwardly apologized to Nick for ever thinking him guilty of Crede's murder—whatever he was, he was loyal. But that same loyalty was about to lead him into a terrible mistake.

“Don't listen to Ruthven!” Mark shouted, to Nick and the crowd. “Don't let him tell you what you are; you're more than that!”

“So we should listen to you instead?” The voice of Cherubina, loud and clear. “Why are you trying to save him? He tried to have you killed! Why do you care about that
thing
?”

“I don't!” Mark shouted. This was so unexpected that the crowd was silenced. Cherubina looked like she was about to speak again, but Ben had worked her way through the crowd, and grabbed her hand, distracting her. It was long enough for Mark to gather his thoughts.

“I don't care about him,” he repeated. “I wish I could say that I did, but you're right. I think the city would probably be better off without him.” He gestured out at the crowd. “But I do care about
you
. You've been scared your whole lives, I know. So have I. Because this city demands it—it makes you force yourself to the top, or lie in the gutter in fear. Now the city's falling apart! People are starving in the streets, worse than ever before. And you're cheering because you think you have a victory. But really, what's happening here?” He pointed to Lord Ruthven. “When you take away all the revenge, all the politics … One pathetic madman is already dead, and one more helpless old man is going to be killed in front of you.” He bit his lip. In a moment, all his resolve would desert him, and he'd have to run. But just for now, he had them. “Just think for a moment,” he pleaded. “Would Crede want this? He dreamed of change, but striking at those who can't fight back sounds like business as usual to me.” He lowered his voice. “Would Lily want this? You say you fight for her vision. As I remember, human life was what she fought for above everything else.”

“Lily's dead,” said Cherubina.

She wasn't raising her voice anymore. Despite the huge crowd, despite Nick's threatening presence, it felt more and more like a private conversation. For a second, Mark remembered the old times, when they had taken tea together, and never mentioned anything more serious than cake. And now, Cherubina was standing at the head of a lynch mob, looking at him with something between fury and desperation.

“We all know Lily's nothing but a symbol,” she said. “Her ideas—we all dream of them. I wish I'd known half of what I do now, the one time I met her. But this isn't her city. She's gone. It's our city now.”

“No,” Mark replied. “She's alive. But you're right; it's our city. Our future. And it's up to us to find our own way.” He looked around at the crowd, trying to reach all of them. “I didn't like Crede, but when he died, he gave you all a chance to fight. And you want to begin it by lynching a harmless old man?” He glanced at Ruthven, standing stiff and proud, and glared. “He isn't worth our attention.”

Lord Ruthven moved faster than Mark would ever have thought possible from a man of his age. The blow wasn't strong, but it was so unexpected that Mark reeled back.

“How … how
dare
you!” Ruthven spat at Mark, his face contorting in fury. “I was the Lord Chief Justice! I am the most important prisoner here! I ruled the Libran Society … I was … I was…”

Mark did nothing. Just looked at him. Desperate, Ruthven turned to the crowd.

“I know such secrets … such power, the likes of which you cannot conceive! I was nearly Director! I matter! I'm important … you can't … you can't ignore me…”

But already, the crowd was beginning to talk among themselves, to turn away.

Nick flung the rope to the ground.

“We have achieved much today,” he shouted. “The strongest fighters should secure the barricade again, before more receivers arrive. The rest of you, come, there is food back at the Wheel.”

He passed Mark as he left the scaffold, giving him only a single look. Strangely, it seemed to contain a hint of respect. Mark, for his part, waited until he was sure most of the mob was looking away, before staggering, all of the tension that had been keeping him going leaving his body. His father appeared behind him, to help him steady himself.

“Dad,” he said, quietly, “never let me do that again.”

“I thought you didn't want me to tell you what to do?” Pete said, relief and pride flooding his voice.

“Yes, and look where that gets me,” Mark replied, realizing that his legs were shaking. Pete laughed a little.

“I don't think it's quite over yet,” he said, pointing.

Mark followed the line of his father's finger. Past the former Lord Ruthven, kneeling slumped beneath where the rope had once hung, crushed and silent. Out into the thinning crowd.

He saw Benedicta, smiling and waving. And beside her, Cherubina, looking straight at him, with an expression of fury.

*   *   *

Later, much later, Mark and Cherubina got a chance to talk.

If Mark had thought that the crowd would just dissipate peacefully, he was wrong. The revolution had been looking for someone to focus on ever since Crede's death, and suddenly Mark had stepped into the spotlight.

It was as if half the city had suddenly remembered that the Temple Almshouse had started everything. They were besieged with offers of help, not to mention offers of violent assistance in breaking through the barricades.

That was the last thing they wanted; there was far too much else to do. Theo was organizing teams to scour the worst districts and find out who was starving. Nick was corraling his supporters. Even Miss Devine, as quiet and private as ever, had allowed them to fill her shop with bedrolls without a murmur, and was distributing a little of her own food and drink. Not that this surprised Mark—she was a woman who knew what was good for business. One or two of the louder supporters had already ventured back to her shop for a cheap sample of bottled calm.

So it wasn't until that evening, when the sun was only a reddish line over the edge of the buildings, that Mark had a chance to sit down. Pete, Verity, and Benedicta were still out, calming down those who had expected more fighting. So in the end, Mark, Theo, and Cherubina collapsed onto a beaten, chipped pew, with nothing between them but a desperately needed pitcher of water.

For a long moment, they didn't say anything, just relishing the chance to relax. But Cherubina never took her eyes away from Mark. He sloshed his water around in its little wooden cup, untasted. Theo threw his back in an instant, thirsty after his hours of work, and went to pour another, holding out the pitcher to Cherubina. Cherubina shook her head, tightly, without once taking her eyes away from Mark.

“Well?” Mark asked at last, too tired to play games.

“You ruined it,” she said. Her voice was small, but still with a whiff of danger. “We could have kept on. One big victory, that's all we needed.” She looked down at her hands. “We could have reached the Directory.”

“You couldn't have,” Mark replied, wearily. “You think that Snutworth would leave the Directory unguarded?”

“It would not have been worth the struggle,” Theophilus added gently, filling his cup. “As it was, today you had a great moral victory. A lot of people's faith has been restored in the fight. There may yet be a chance for peace…”

“Peace!” Cherubina replied with scorn. “I was going after peace the only way it's ever going to happen. That's what Crede would have done—he'd have stormed on, overthrown the Director with his last man. That's all I wanted. To get something done.”

“No,” Mark said, interrupting her. “You wanted revenge.” He stared into her eyes. She no longer looked like a child. “You wanted to punish Snutworth for all that time you were his wife,” he continued. “I understand. It must have been worse than we could imagine. But you can't lead thousands of people to their deaths for that.”

Cherubina scowled, but she did not reply. Mark didn't know what to say. Despite everything, he didn't want to be her enemy. She had been pushed into different roles her entire life—pampered daughter; obedient wife; Crede's symbolic crusader. He didn't want to stop her thinking for herself. But there were too many people's lives at stake. They had stopped one bloodbath today, but he didn't think that this could end without one.

Theo put down his cup and stood up, reaching over to take one of Cherubina's hands.

“Miss Cherubina,” he said softly, his thin, tired face full of compassion, “we do understand. I'm quite certain that every person in that crowd had a real grievance that made them want to punish someone. But can't you see? For as long as anyone can remember, everyone in Agora has been alone—battling against friends and strangers alike to pull themselves to the top of the heap. But now, through division, we're united!” Theo wiped his forehead, getting into what he was saying. “People are helping each other, banding together. And through some accident of fate, they are looking to us to give them leadership.” He paused, shaking his head, blearily. “We mustn't turn this opportunity into senseless violence, not when we can make a real difference. Not when…” he faltered, “not when we can finish what Lily started, and turn this revolution into something good … not when…” he blinked, harder, “not when the future could be…”

He fell to his knees. For a moment, Mark thought that he was overplaying the drama of his speech, and began to smile. Until he saw the sudden pallor that was creeping over Theo's face.

“Theo?” he asked, suddenly alarmed. “Theo, are you all right?”

Theo looked wildly from one to the other, grasping Cherubina's hand so tightly that his knuckles whitened. She looked down, scared, not sure what to do.

“Mark, what's happening?”

Mark looked up at her.

“Quick! Go get Benedicta; she's the best nurse we have.”

Cherubina nodded, not offering a single objection, and forced her way through the suddenly interested and alarmed crowd.

“Theo? Theo!” Mark shouted. “What's happening? What should I do?”

But Mark could only watch, helpless, as Theo's eyes rolled up into his head, and he fell, convulsing, to the ground.

By the time Benedicta had been found, he was lying still, his breathing shallow.

“Is it one of the diseases?” Mark asked as Ben examined him. “Should I get some medicine?”

“It—it isn't like any disease I know,” Ben said, her face pale. “Mark, there's this smell on his breath; I've only smelled it once before…” She turned to him, beckoning him close, so the crowd couldn't hear.

“Mark, I think he's been poisoned.”

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Voyaging

L
ILY NEVER MISSED
the sunset.

In her first weeks at the sanatorium, it had been her one sure way of counting the days. She usually missed sunrise. Her sleep had been troubled, full of terrible dreams, both natural and Nightmare-inspired, and Honorius had insisted that she needed her rest, even if she had to sleep until noon.

But sunsets were another matter. She found them soothing. Even in her half-addled state, she liked the way the sky slowly faded through comfortable pinks and reds, as though the day were breathing out, letting its troubles blow away, until the sun itself sank gratefully into the rippling depths of the sea.

The timbers creaked beneath her, and she shifted her weight. She remembered her first sight of the sanatorium—a great wooden edifice floating on the sea, behind the Cathedral. It was like a riverboat but far larger, with tall, wooden masts rising above it, and vast sails of red cloth bundled tightly around each one. Back then, as Laud half-carried her across the marshes, she had been so tired, and her mind so clouded, that she had not even questioned it. It was only later that Honorius had told her it was an ocean-going ship, the last ever to arrive from the lands across the sea, its cargo hold full of the coins that now decorated the Cathedral of the Lost. It had been left to rot, moored behind the headland at the edge of the marshes, but when Honorius had come to the Cathedral, banished from Agora like her, he had found a use for it. Officially, he was nothing more than the scarred porter of the Cathedral. But his true vocation lay here, attempting to heal the minds of those who escaped the clutches of the Nightmare.

He was a good healer. He had nearly been claimed by the Nightmare himself, once, and he had never forgotten that pain. There were only a few other patients, but he worked tirelessly with them, making sure each had a private cabin, where their nighttime screams and wails would not disturb the others. For the past three months, this long forgotten ship had been her home. Laud stayed in the Cathedral; he said that the roll of the water beneath the ship made him ill, but it had never bothered Lily. She had far too many other things to trouble her mind.