Greaves turned, trying not to show his surprise as Father Wolfram materialized out of the shadows. For a man who wore such distinctive red robes, he was very good at being inconspicuous.
The monk hadn’t said much since those first few days at the Directory. At first, Greaves had wondered if he would be an ally, a man to challenge the Director on his own terms. But whatever they talked about in their private meetings had rapidly won him over, and now everyone knew that he was the Director’s right-hand man.
Despite this, even Greaves, with all his long service, couldn’t work out exactly what Wolfram did. Officially, he was an adviser. He had many hushed conversations with the Director, about a “process” they were working on, and the question of the “vessel.” It sounded ominous, but no worse than the many whispered conversations that the Directory of Receipts had seen over the last years.
But there was more. Greaves had seen Wolfram send letters to Giseth, and send out agents to scour the city and the lands around. Greaves had made his own investigations. He knew that Wolfram was still searching for Lily.
Even that made no sense. The Director knew exactly where Mark was—he had shown Greaves a letter from an old friend telling him that the boy was back at the temple, and yet he sent no one to interrogate him and find out where Lily was. The barricades would be no barrier to the Director if he had really set his mind on something. Greaves had asked him about this once, but had received only one of those uncomfortably tiny smiles, and the assurance that Lily would return more easily if led by her friends, not captured by her enemies.
Yet still, the Director’s agents searched—as if finding Lily were the most important task in the world. Yes, she had been an agitator in her day, but the city had more than enough of those now. This was a time for action, not for messing around with ancient prophecies.
“Chief Inspector?” The Director’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You are still here, I see. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Greaves could think of several responses to that, most of them unspeakable in this hallowed office. But he bit all of them back. He did not understand this man, but he was still his Director, his ruler. And he would protect the rule of law, because at the moment, that was all his poor, wounded city had left.
“If I am to remain in the Directory, what am I to do?” he asked, at last. He had to ask it, but he didn’t like the way it made him sound. He was Chief Receiver, not an office boy. The Director pondered for a moment.
“Set up a guard around my office,” he said, “your best men and women, naturally. And arm them with swords, Greaves,” the Director added. “Truncheons are all very well, but our private offices must be especially secure.”
“It sounds like you are expecting trouble, sir,” Greaves observed. The Director adjusted some papers on his desk, and caught the eye of the silent Wolfram.
“We must be prepared for every possibility, Chief Inspector,” the Director said at last. “I suspect that when the crisis comes, it will be swift indeed. But I doubt this will happen just yet.” The Director picked up his pen. “No, I believe that, for the moment, everything will be very quiet.”
Greaves did not find this particularly reassuring.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Noose
MARK ADJUSTED the cloth mask over his nose and mouth and looked down at the woman who lay coughing on one of the pews, her face as pale as the grave. She was just like all the others that morning. This was a simple infection and, in normal times, she would have fought it off easily. But these were not normal times. With so many people crowded together in the slums, the usual illnesses had been spreading faster than ever before.
He looked over his shoulder, to where Verity was crushing some herbs with a mortar and pestle, perched on the temple’s altar.
“Is Ben back with those supplies yet?” he asked. The barricade had moved again yesterday, and a little more of the Gemini District was now on their side. Most people had taken the opportunity to scavenge for food, but Ben had realized that one of the museums was now accessible, and she had thought that there might be some old medical equipment.
Verity shook her head, not looking up.
“Not yet,” she said, wearily. “I still say that she shouldn’t have gone alone. The streets aren’t safe—Nick’s thugs might keep order, but you can’t trust them.” She brushed away a stray strand of hair from her face. Mark couldn’t help but notice that gesture. It was so like Lily.
He had told Verity and Theo everything about what had happened in Naru, of course. In a way, he wished he hadn’t. It hadn’t even occurred to him as he’d been telling it that Verity would have known the Oracle. But the Oracle had been her brother’s wife. As it was, though, this had been the part of his story that Verity had found the most believable.
“That sounds like Helen,” she had said. “She was always more interested in facts than people. I never knew why Thomas wanted to marry her. Monks of the Order don’t usually marry. I suppose it had something to do with the Midnight Charter, or the Bishop.” She had looked down at her hands. “Everything did, for him.”
She hadn’t talked about it since, hadn’t once asked about Lily. But every time the door opened, she looked up with such hope in her eyes that Mark knew she hadn’t given up.
Then again, he was sure that he did the same. It had been eighty days since he had last seen Lily and Laud in the throne room of the Oracle. The summer was at its height, and there had been no word from either of them. Mark couldn’t even return to Naru and ask if there was any news, not while the Last’s Descent was far behind enemy lines. There was nothing any of them could do but wait, and hope.
They needed Lily now more than ever. The city was at war. The barricade had split the city in two—Upriver Agora, where the elite cowered behind their receiver guards, and the downriver districts, with twice the population and half the supplies. The revolutionaries were roaming the streets, to ensure that everyone on the downriver side supported their vision of the future, with arguments and threats. The receivers were doubtless doing the same on the other side.
Some of the corner preachers had built up Lily’s image into something divine. Inspired by Crede, the martyr for the cause, they were claiming that all it would take to win this fight would be someone like Lily to lead them to victory. To them, she was a saint, and a savior.
Mark wished he still had that kind of faith.
“Mark?”
Mark snapped out of his thoughts. Dr. Theophilus had come over and was looking at him quizzically, the deep, dark circles under his eyes more noticeable than ever.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was thinking about, um … that is…” Mark rapidly changed the subject, “Ben’s been gone a long time.”
Theo nodded.
“I’m sure she is being cautious, but she has chosen a dangerous part of the city to investigate. I’ve heard it looks like a hundred years have passed. Half of the buildings are in ruins—there’s a line of overturned carts stretching from the University to the Astrologer’s Tower. Practically every receiver in the city is in Gemini, or on the Central Plaza.” Theo attempted a smile, gesturing around to the vast crowd of people that filled the temple, sitting or lying on the stone floor. “At least we’ve no shortage of rags—I think we’re going to need more bandages.”
Mark chucked at the black humor of it all.
“I don’t see what you’re laughing about,” Verity muttered, her voice tight. “We’ve taken on another twenty patients today. How are we going to feed them?”
“We’ll manage,” Theo said, with calm assurance. Neither of them bothered to keep their voices low. Conversations like this had become all too familiar to worry the debtors.
“How, Theo?” Verity replied, stepping around the altar and coming toward him. The strain of it had been creeping over the formerly dignified secretary for weeks, and now she seemed close to snapping. “The Aquarius warehouses are nearly empty, and no one in the downriver districts eve
r saved much food. You know what will happen when we run out.”
Mark and Theo exchanged glances. Yes, everyone knew. For the first week, it had seemed like Crede’s dream of a city without exploitation would come true. Mark remembered seeing Nick, Crede’s burly henchman, handing out free bags of grain and fruit at the warehouses. But as supplies had dwindled, and the barricade remained, Downriver Agora had returned to its old ways. Most people still used their signet rings to seal contracts and trade for what little food was left, but without the receivers to make the contracts official, they were little more than pieces of paper. No one was there to make people honor their agreements, and Nick and his street thugs were taking the law into their own hands. No wonder so many more were coming to the temple for refuge.
“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.
The Canticle of Whispers Page 21