The Canticle of Whispers (37 page)

Mark's whole body felt light, as though something cold was seeping into him.

And then his every feeling blazed into life. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to howl, but his body lay rigid. Somewhere, far off, he could hear Lily shouting.

“I don't know!” she was screaming. “I don't know where the path is.”

“Tell me, and I will stop.” That was Snutworth, calm as ever. But to Mark, that voice no longer sounded rational. It was colored with a thousand different insinuations and implications. For a moment, all of the confidence Mark had ever felt took command. He believed he could break free of these straps with a single heave. He could see instantly what Snutworth's plan was—all the power that he could gain if he had access to Naru, and everyone's secrets. No, there was more to it than that, he was going to …

But then that feeling was gone, replaced by fear. Horrible, petrifying fear. He longed to curl up, to bury his head, to not think of what Snutworth was doing to him, what he could do to everyone. He felt tears running down his face and smearing on the inside of the mask. He could hear Lily more clearly now; she was afraid too, deathly afraid.

“But I can't say,” she was shouting. “They never told me. You have to believe me!”

Why didn't she know? Why hadn't he told her?! Mark wanted to hit himself, his hands tensed as anger flooded him. He wanted to roar, to berate his so-called friend for never asking him how he'd reached her. He let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a curse, but the mask was tight, and it echoed around his own head.

“You misunderstand, Miss Lilith,” Snutworth said, his very voice making Mark's innards clench. “It would be useful for you to tell me now, but not necessary.”

He didn't need it! Maybe he was going to release them after all … maybe … he felt light and giddy. Suddenly, he loved everything, and everyone. Surely Snutworth could be redeemed; surely Lily could be rescued. Surely they could all go home, to the temple, where Theo waited, and Ben and Cherubina … all his dear, wonderful friends. Now every other emotion was out of the way, now he was free of worry, and fear, and anger. Now it was just love, and delight, in everyone and everything …

And it was gone. For a few more seconds, he felt an acute sense of loss. Then that was gone too. And there was nothing.

“You see, Miss Lilith,” Snutworth said, as he carefully prized the mask away from Mark's face. “It doesn't honestly matter if you tell me, because Mr. Mark knows.” He looked Mark in the eyes. Mark looked back, blinking.

“Yes?” he said, his tongue dull and slow.

“Tell me how to get down to Naru.”

Mark looked back at Snutworth.

“Why?” he said.

“Do you find these straps uncomfortable?”

Mark looked down. They were causing his arms some pain.

“Yes,” he said, truthfully.

“If you tell me, I will undo them.”

Mark nodded.

“All right. The Descent is in the Last's old house in the Virgo District.”

Mark heard Lily gasp, but he wasn't quite sure why. As the Director released his head, he saw a tangle of glass tubes in the ceiling, filled with fizzing gases of all colors. As he watched, they condensed down into fluids, running into several racks of tiny glass vials, each one holding a different color.

“You wondered what had happened to Mr. Owain?” the Director asked. “This. It is quite simple to obtain information from people, when they do not care about who has it.”

Mark scratched an itch on his arm. All of the straps had been taken away, but he didn't see any reason to get up. There was nowhere else to sit, and his limbs were heavy and tired. Idly, he glanced around the room. He saw Father Wolfram begin to collect the little vials, which he supposed contained his emotions. Over to his right, Lily was crying. Her tears were dropping down to the stone floor. He watched one for a moment, running through a crack in the flagstones, before losing interest.

“Now, Miss Lilith,” the Director continued. “I'm going to release you. As you know, if emotions are to be returned, they must be reabsorbed by their owner before a full day has passed, or they are lost forever. If you attempt to escape, or cause trouble, Father Wolfram will begin to smash the vials. I trust I make myself clear.”

Lily nodded, biting her lips. Mark watched as Snutworth untied her. They looked like very sturdy knots. He wondered whether the Director had the rope made specially.

Now that Lily had gotten up, Mark realized that she had run over and started clinging to him. She was saying something, but it was hard to make out through all the snuffling.

“You should speak clearer,” he said, flatly. “I can't hear you.”

“I'm sorry…” Lily said. Mark shrugged.

“If you say so,” he said.

Mark heard a clinking sound, and looked up. The Director was placing the little glass vials in a leather bag.

“Father Wolfram, would you go and inform Lady Astrea that she is in command of the receivers in our absence? Should the expected attack come, she knows what to do.”

Wolfram left the room. As he opened the door, Mark glimpsed an ancient corridor, paneled in dark oak.

“Get up, Mark,” Snutworth said. Mark did so. As he did, he felt Lily, who was still holding on to him, slump to the ground. He looked down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if he should be doing something.

“Help her up, Mark,” Snutworth said, gently rattling the pouch that contained everything Mark had ever felt. Seeing no reason not to, Mark held out his hand, and Lily took hold of it, pulling herself to her feet. She glared at Snutworth.

“What now?” she asked, her voice catching.

Snutworth smiled.

“Once Father Wolfram gets back, the four of us are going on a short journey, down to the land of secrets. And you two will fulfill the duty that was assigned to you a hundred years before you were born.” He leaned forward on his cane, his eyes sparkling. “You will fulfill the last prophecy of the Midnight Charter.”

For some reason, Mark felt Lily's hand tense in his.

He couldn't imagine why.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

The Leader

L
ADY ASTREA SAT
in the Director's office, staring down at her hands. All of her life, she had dreamed of this moment—sitting behind the mahogany desk, the whole of the city at her command. Of course, she had imagined that she would have been appointed Director, not holding the fort against a city full of revolutionaries while the real Director disappeared.

Life had a way of being so disappointing.

“My lady?”

She looked up. Two receivers stood before her, both bedecked in midnight-blue uniforms trimmed with silver and gold braid. The young woman was scuffed and bruised, but bore the weary stance of a woman ready for more battle. The man was older, more cautious. His uniform was pristine, but of course, for the last few months he had been confined to his desk in the Directory. She sighed; this was not going to be an easy meeting.

She had read their reports. The battle in the Gemini District had been brutal, weaving in and out of houses, shops, and taverns. The receivers had the numbers, but they fought only with truncheons, while the defenders had broken bottles and knives. Neither side had come out of it very well, and the revolutionaries had managed to build a new barricade, deep into the Taurus District. By the time the receivers had regrouped, the sun had long since set, but no one was in the mood to sleep.

“How many receivers do we have left, Inspector Poleyn?” she asked the young woman, who saluted, smartly.

“Exact numbers are hard to say, Ma'am, but we sustained few losses at the Gemini skirmish.”

“Losses?” said Chief Inspector Greaves, the older man and technically Poleyn's superior. “Please, Inspector, let us have no nice language here. Call them deaths. The deaths of our men and women.”

“With respect, Sir,” Poleyn replied, managing to make the word “sir” sound like an insult, “the losses were lower than we expected. We could easily make more progress, perhaps advance as far as the Piscean slums by tomorrow.” She turned back to Lady Astrea. “If you would give the order, as Acting Director, we could send reinforcements from the barracks.”

“Have you been to the barracks lately, Poleyn?” Greaves said—his tone still reasonable, but firm. “Our receivers are run ragged maintaining the barricades and protecting the citizens in our half of the city. They remember when their duty was to protect. Their contracts say that they will deal only with criminals and thieves, not take up arms against their own families and friends.”

“They
are
criminals,” Poleyn snapped. “Every one of them. They chose to reject our rule of law, to steal half the city. And come the end of this battle, they will all face trial.”

“All of them?” Greaves said, his eyebrows raising, his craggy face unreadable in the candlelight. “How will you have enough judges, or prisons? There were thousands behind the barricades who didn't want a revolution, who were trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we starved them into desperation. We have given them a reason to fight.”

Astrea didn't speak for a moment. She was staring up at the portraits lining the walls. All of those ancient Directors. What would they think of her? What would they think of Snutworth, deserting his post in Agora's time of need?

But now was not time for history; now was time to act.

“You gave them a chance for peace, Greaves, and they responded with violence,” she replied. “We shall continue the attack until they surrender. Their leaders will stand trial, and only them. The rest of the city will be pardoned.”

Neither of the receivers looked happy, but they both bowed. Astrea relaxed a little. The rule of law still persisted within the Directory.

Poleyn saluted.

“Ma'am, you wished to see the prisoner now?”

Astrea nodded, and Poleyn blew on her whistle, the harsh sound grating on Astrea's already damaged nerves. The thick, ebony doors at the end of the office opened, and four burly receivers frog-marched in the prisoner. He was a large, brutish man, and despite the chains binding his hands and feet, Astrea was still glad that the guards remained in attendance.

The prisoner was flung to the floor.

“Look upon the Acting Director, prisoner,” Inspector Poleyn barked. The big man looked up, pushing himself onto his knees.

“Can't stop chasing me, can you Inspector?” he said, leering at her with a smile that was missing a few teeth since that morning. “People will talk.”

Poleyn turned away from him in disgust.

“He calls himself Nick, ma'am. Crede's closest lieutenant, and the leader of these revolutionaries.”

Nick snorted.

“Better start checking your spies, girlie. That's old news.”

Poleyn spun around, her truncheon in her hand, cracking Nick on the side of the head. Greaves frowned, and Astrea winced. She didn't object to this brutish man being taken down a peg, but she was not used to violence in her presence.

“You will be
silent
unless questioned!” Poleyn said, fiercely.

Nick pulled himself upright again, head weaving a little, but otherwise focused.

“Yes,” Lady Astrea said, trying to take control of the situation. “We know that you are not the only leader; more's the pity. But Mr. Mark and Miss Lilith are both in our hands, and you will be able to avoid much bloodshed if you encourage your people to stop…”

“You think I can get them to stop?”

Poleyn went for her truncheon again, but Greaves put a hand on her arm, restraining her.

“We do want to talk to Mr. Nick, Inspector” he said, patiently. “Perhaps we should allow him to continue?”

Poleyn shrugged off her superior's hand, but did not strike the prisoner. The big man nodded to Greaves, and then turned to Lady Astrea.

“You don't get it, do you? I'm not really a leader. Sure, some'll follow me, if they're angry. If you want a fight, everyone knows that Nick's your man.” He began to scratch at a recently stitched wound on his chest, through the holes in his ragged shirt. “But that's just because of Crede. He was a real leader. He always had a plan. Me and my friends … we were so angry, all the time. And Crede showed us how we could use that anger. Now half the city has that same rage, thanks to you.”

Lady Astrea fixed him with a cold stare.

“I have read reports on you, Mr. Nick,” she said, quietly. “A bully and a thug, half-drunk most days. You picked fights with my receivers and stirred up trouble wherever you went. And you would lecture us on leadership?”

Nick didn't reply; he just continued to scratch at his chest. Poleyn's lip curled.

“Nothing to say, Nick?”

The big man paused. And then, deliberately, he pulled his shirt open a little further. Poleyn recoiled from the smell.

“You see this wound?” he said, pointing to a mass of stitches. “I was on a barricade when it collapsed, a month back. I should've died.”

“Are you boasting now?” Astrea asked, darkly amused. “I assure you, your just punishment will not be so easy to avoid.”

“Thing is, I didn't die,” Nick continued, slowly. “Because someone was there to stitch me up. Someone knelt down in the middle of a battle, with people grappling all around and rocks flying overhead, to sew up my wounds, and send me back for treatment. And everyone there saw it.”

Nick met Astrea's gaze.

“His name was Dr. Theophilus,” he said. “Before that day, I thought he was a fool. I thought everyone at the temple was a fool. But that's who we have to lead us now. Not fighters, like me. Healers. People who don't need to get ahead to win. And after seeing that, we're never going to let you turn it back the way it was,” he rose suddenly to his feet. “Never.”