The Canticle of Whispers (31 page)

She ran into the woods, trying to follow the footprints. But the ground was dry here, away from the riverbank, and she didn't know enough to spot the signs of their passing.

Whoever they were.

Lily leaned back against a tree, her thoughts in a whirl. Her breath was coming in gasps; her head swam. She felt sick and furious, all at once. And in the depths of her mind, the Nightmare's madness stirred.
Yes
 … it said.
You left him alone. He'd never been in Giseth before, didn't know what to do, and you left him … and now he's gone … he's all alone … and the Nightmare will be back for you, with no one to stop it … Not unless you fight, and claw, and run wild to get him back …

She pressed her knuckles to her forehead. The Nightmare wasn't going to have her again. Not when Laud was depending on her.

She closed her eyes, focusing on Laud. His face came into her mind, clear enough to send a shock through her system, and get her brain working again. How was she going to find him? She couldn't track him. She could wander through the woods at random, but that was a sure way to get herself eaten by wolves.

She cursed aloud. Why couldn't she think properly? How had she survived these woods before?

Mark. She'd survived because she wasn't alone. Because every time she was stuck, Mark had seen another way, had another idea. She thought harder, pressing her hands against the rough bark of the tree. What would Mark do? What strange idea would pop into his head?

She wished she could see into his mind now. Just like when the two of them had dreamed together, and plunged into her memories.

Dreamed …

And in an instant, Lily knew what she had to do.

She found a good clearing a short way into the forest—filled with moss and bracken, soft enough to sleep on. She lay on it, glad that it was a warm evening, willing her tension to go away and let her sleep. It took a while, but as she drifted off, she asked every star in the sky to let her not be disturbed until morning.

For once, fate was on her side. By the time the sun rose, the only problem she had was the layer of dew covering her, soaking her clothes. But as she pushed herself up, blinking, she knew that she had been successful. She had spent the whole night taking control of her dreams—a technique she had learned the last time she had been in Giseth, but had been too scared to use again until now. She had pictured herself beside a lighthouse, sending out a message through the shadowy half-world of the Nightmare, focusing on the one person she knew would be watching, unable to resist that summons.

Now all she had to do was wait.

A few hours later, she had her response.

Lily didn't notice anything, until the newcomer had almost arrived. Then, a faint rustle in the bushes beyond the clearing gave Lily enough time to get to her feet, brush down her damp dress, and get ready.

The bushes parted, revealing a woman of middle years. She was beautiful, in an ethereal way, with long dark hair and green robes. In fact, the only thing marring this unearthly vision was her expression. She was staring at Lily with an expression of pop-eyed amazement.

Coolly, Lily looked the newcomer up and down, and raised an eyebrow.

“I'm glad you found me, Elespeth,” she said. “I think you owe me a favor.”

 

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

The Addiction

T
HEO WASN'T DEAD.
That was the best that could be said.

Sometimes he was well enough to speak. Whenever he did, he ignored any attempts by Mark and Ben to comfort him, insisting instead on giving instructions on medicines to prepare, and diagnosing any new illnesses that had come into the temple. He would sit up in bed, supported by an old, bundled blanket, and peer weakly at the latest line of patients. Then, all too soon, his health would fail him once again, and he would slip into unconsciousness. They had tried to find who might have poisoned Theo's water, but it was hopeless. There were too many people, and it wasn't as if they could report the crime to the receivers.

Verity cared for him most of the time, making sure that the curtains they had hung around his bed were secure—she didn't want anyone to know how ill the doctor was. But that left Mark and Ben in charge of an increasingly busy temple. Ever since Mark's speech at the prison, the temple had become the center of the revolution, besieged by the hungry and the desperate. Even Nick seemed to look to them for ideas, when he wasn't trying to keep order in the streets. Mark barely had time to sleep, organizing rationing and watching the barricades. So it was left to Ben to keep their makeshift hospital going.

She never deserted her duties, but it was taking its toll. When she finished for the evening, she took off her smile with her shawl. Ben was starting to look almost like her brother, though she relaxed into worry, rather than sarcasm.

But Mark couldn't let himself think about Laud, or Lily. There wasn't time.

It wasn't until the hottest day of summer, though, that his composure cracked. And it all began with a cooking pot.

Mark had already spent the morning helping to haul buckets of river water from the banks of the Ora, so he wasn't in the best of moods. Mark knew that giving the patients river water without boiling it first would be a death sentence, but the big cauldron was still holding that day's soup, and the smaller one, the one they used for water, was nowhere to be seen.

Grumbling, Mark began to search around. Trying to control his irritation, he poked his head through the curtains surrounding Theo's bed. Verity, sitting beside the bed, nodding off after her night-long vigil, sprung awake.

“Have you seen the small cooking pot?” Mark asked. She shook her head.

“I think…” she began, “didn't Miss Cherubina take it yesterday evening?”

Mark frowned.

“What does she need it for? I haven't seen her cook a thing since she arrived.”

That was certainly true. Cherubina worked when she had to, but generally she sat, sulky and bristling. Now that she was no longer Crede's emblem of charity, the revolutionaries had little time for her. Mark had barely seen her for the last few days. She refused to talk to him, or to anyone. Even Ben, everyone's friend, got only a frosty look.

Verity shrugged.

“Perhaps she's finally joining us in the spirit of change?” she said doubtfully. Mark grimaced. He wished that it could be true, but the chances weren't good.

Thanking Verity, he began to ask around. It wasn't too long before he heard that Cherubina had last been seen going into Miss Devine's shop, next door. This was doubly puzzling. Miss Devine had opened her shop for their use, of course, but still very few took the glassmaker up on her offer. No one could easily forget her other trade, how she had drained their friends dry of emotion in exchange for food that her half-dead customers no longer truly wanted.

Still, he needed that pot. So, he steeled himself, pushed his way out of the temple, through the throngs of desperate and dying, and faced the thick curtain that served as Miss Devine's front door. In the blistering late summer light, the shards of glass set into the wall shone with painful brightness, making the curtain all the darker, like a slice of night.

Mark shook himself. He knew all about Miss Devine's kind of business. He'd bought from her, back in his old life. Her shop held no fear for him.

Even so, as he stepped into the gloomy little room beyond, he couldn't help feeling that the sudden chill wasn't entirely to do with coming in out of the sun.

Inside, the racks and shelves of tiny glass vials glittered back at him, lit from the sunlight streaming through the doorway. The liquids shimmered and squirmed as if alive. Perhaps they were. Who knew how emotions really behaved when siphoned out? As he got his bearings, the woman herself entered from the back room. She raised an eyebrow, and rested her long, thin fingers on the counter in front of her, but otherwise, she displayed little emotion.

“Can I do something for you, Mr. Mark?” she asked, in a tone that gave nothing away. “I wouldn't have thought that the leader of Downriver Agora would have time to visit.” Mark didn't rise to the bait. He never thought of himself as a leader, though he supposed that people saw him as one.

“Is Cherubina here?” Mark asked. Miss Devine steepled her fingers, and looked at him sharply.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But if she is, she doesn't want to see you.”

“So, she is,” Mark deduced. “I just need to see her for a moment.” Miss Devine's mouth twitched.

“Is that an order?” she said. Mark glared at her.

“Are you going to let me see her or not?” he said, his temper flaring. Miss Devine leaned back, her arms folded. She didn't move. “Fine,” Mark said, hotly. “I'll just have to find her myself.” Without another word, he barged past Miss Devine, throwing aside the curtain that led to the back room.

“Very well, Mr. Mark,” Miss Devine called out, not following him. “See for yourself what welcome you will receive.”

The short corridor beyond was even darker than the main shop, and Mark had to squint as he entered a chamber lit only by one narrow window, high up in the wall.

The light fell slantwise across a tangle of glass tubes, snaking around the room, and gathering above a sturdy leather chair. It was Miss Devine's famous emotion distiller, and on any other occasion, Mark would have been impressed. But this time, he was far more concerned with the figure sitting on the ground at the foot of the chair.

Cherubina didn't look up as he entered. Her head was bowed, her ringlets falling over her face. She was stitching furiously, with long, dark thread, at something that lay crumpled at her feet. Surely that was too big to be a doll?

Mark came a little closer, and saw what it was.

“It's a good likeness,” he said, aloud.

Cherubina didn't look up. Under her hands, the life-sized effigy of Snutworth was nearly complete. It was just as good as the dolls she used to make—she really did have a talent.

“You don't need to do this,” Mark said, kneeling down beside her. “You think anyone needs to feel more anger toward the Directory? You've got your revolution; we'll go after the Director when the time is right…”

“No you won't,” Cherubina interrupted, her voice small and tight. “You'll sit in the temple and do nothing, just like you always do. I'm going to show them who our real enemy is.”

Mark reached out for Cherubina. With a flick of her wrist, she jabbed his hand with her needle, and he pulled back with a flash of pain. Mark massaged the wound, trying to staunch the little smear of blood that she had drawn.

“Don't interrupt,” Cherubina growled. She pulled more rags from a pile beside her, and stuffed them into the lifeless body with surprising violence.

“I don't understand…” Mark said, trying to be gentle.

“We never truly understand each others' needs, Mr. Mark,” said Miss Devine from behind him. She wandered into the room, and began to make adjustments to her emotional distiller. “We all have our addictions. Reason rarely plays a part.”

Mark tried to ignore her. He brought his head down, trying to get a glimpse of Cherubina's eyes, but she turned her head away. He sighed. He clearly wasn't going to get anywhere here.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But Verity said that you had the smaller cooking pot? We want to boil some more water for Theo.”

“I need it.”

Cherubina reached out, and touched the space under the doll's heart. It clanked.

“I built around it,” she said. “Have to start with a core of something. And when it goes on the fire, the pot will melt and pour out.” She looked up then. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, but terrible in their intensity. “Pour out of his heart like so much metal slag. And then they'll see what kind of monster they're facing. Then they'll rally, and storm the Directory, and make everything better.” She began to stitch again, furiously. “Don't you see, Mark, I need it!”

“No, you don't.”

Mark wanted to be sympathetic. He wanted to reach out to this strange, damaged young woman. But he'd tried that before. And he didn't feel as sympathetic as he expected. The pinprick on his hand burned him.

“Didn't you hear me?” he asked, feeling his throat begin to choke. “I need that pot to boil some water. Our patients need it. Theo needs it,” he kept his voice soft, but he could feel something hot building inside him. “You remember Dr. Theophilus, don't you? The man who hid us when we first escaped? The man who is still trying to save lives every day, even though he can barely move? The man who's doing more to help these people than your little crusade ever did?”

“How dare you!” Cherubina retorted, flinging down her needle. “You have no idea what I've suffered…”

“Really? Because as far as I can see, you've always managed to land on your feet!” Mark said, with biting sarcasm. “You were pretty quick to run off to Crede. Did you ever really believe? Or did you just want to cling to the most powerful person around, like you always do?”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Cherubina shrank back, but Mark wasn't finished. All the tension of the last weeks came pouring out.

“You petty, spiteful little girl!” he shouted. “Yes, all right, you had a terrible time when you were Snutworth's wife. No one's saying you didn't. But guess what? There are people here having an even worse time. Dying, suffering, bleeding because of the revolution you wanted just to get your own back! At least Crede believed! In his twisted way, he wanted what was best for others. And all this time, I thought there might be a little bit of you that thought of something other than yourself too. But no, you take one of our only metal pots, our only way of surviving in this plague-ridden city, and want to throw it on the fire, just because you can't get over your demons!”