The Canticle of Whispers

by David Whitley

  “Then why haven’t you…?” Lily began.

  “Don’t.” Mark said, suddenly, surprising himself. “Don’t ask him. He enjoys it.”

  He had realized what he had seen in Snutworth’s eyes. No matter how hard he tried to disguise it, Snutworth loved to see one of his schemes to fruition. He remembered that look, back when Snutworth had been his assistant, and one of the deals had come in, increasing Mark’s fortune and position. Of course, at the time he had thought that Snutworth had been pleased on his behalf, not that he was planning to take it all.

  Snutworth nodded, sagely.

  “I must admit to a little satisfaction,” he said. “Ideally, I would have waited a few more weeks before launching my attack, to ensure that starvation would have rendered your defenders helpless. However, time moves on, and we must be prepared for tomorrow.”

  Mark tried to resist the urge to ask, he really did. But he and Lily were helpless, and whatever happened next, this was clearly important.

  “What happens tomorrow?” he asked, guardedly. But it was not Snutworth who answered.

  “The first day of Libra,” Lily replied, with growing alarm. “My birthday. Agora Day, the end of the twelfth cycle of twelve years since Agora’s foundation.” She paused, Mark could almost picture her expression—the frown deepening on her face as the pieces slotted into place. “The Day of Judgment.”

  Snutworth clapped his hands, slowly, three times.

  “There. I knew that you two were appointed the Judges for a reason.” He moved to the device, just at the edge of Mark’s vision. “Now, to business. There will be some important ceremonial duties tomorrow, naturally, but first I require a rather important piece of information.” He touched some dials. Above Mark’s head, something thrummed into life. He turned back, looking Mark directly in the eyes. “Where is the Descent into Naru?”

  Mark tried to look far more confident that he felt.

  “You don’t know?” he said, quietly pleased to find that they still had an advantage. Snutworth nodded, almost amiably.

  “Alas, my predecessor and I did not part company under the best circumstances,” he said, smoothly. “Indeed, until Miss Verity left my service, I really did believe that the old man was dead. Which was rather frustrating, because since then I have learned that he had kept the location of the Agoran Descent to himself.” Thoughtfully, he picked up his cane again and polished the handle with the edge of his sleeve. “Although the Directory records have much to say on the subject of Naru, the only entrance mentioned lies in the Cathedral of the Lost, which would be most inconvenient, and would probably require violence against the remaining members of the Order. So you can imagine my satisfaction when Verity, despite the threat of my displeasure, risked everything to steal a meaningless recipe from the Directory’s vaults. It was obvious to me that this was a code of some kind, and one that could have only been planted by one with an intimate knowledge of our library, like the old Director. After that, well…” he caught Mark’s eye. “It was simply a matter of waiting for the right moment to take charge of your schemes. And it seems that I was correct in my assumptions. Mr. Owain mentioned to me that you, Mr. Mark, managed to descend to the Land Below from somewhere here in Agora, doubtless with the aid of the former Director.” He leaned back against the wall, entirely at his ease. “I think I would like you to share that knowledge.”

  “Owain would never have told you that,” Lily hissed. “You’re just trying to trick us!”

  “Miss Lilith, you may believe whatever you like. Nevertheless, I know that there is a path down to Naru somewhere in Agora, and one of you is going to tell me.”

  There was a long silence. Snutworth moved his eyes from one to the other. Mark didn’t know what Lily was thinking, but his own brain was racing, trying to think of any way to turn this one chance to their advantage. Lily spoke again.

  “First, tell us why you want to know,” she demanded. Snutworth shook his head.

  “That is my concern,” he said, simply. A desperate idea came into Mark’s head

  “We’ll tell you,” he suggested, “but only if you call off the receivers and start working out peace with the revolutionaries.”

  This time, Snutworth considered for a moment.

  “No, I think not,” he replied, still calm. “I must say, I do find your confidence admirable, but I fear that making demands is a waste of time. Consider—you are both my prisoners. No one except myself, Father Wolfram, and the loyal Inspector Poleyn know that you are here. There are no sympathetic guards who will take pity because of your youth, and no revolutionary supporters who can sneak in. Even if you were to escape, we are far from helpless, and I can assure you that after you caused the chaos in his village, Father Wolfram sees you as unholy creatures, fit for the harshest punishment.” He came closer to Mark, his expression unwavering. “So I think it is fair to say that you have very little to bargain with. You have one piece of information I require. Give it to me.”

  Mark opened his mouth, and then firmly, defiantly, clamped it shut. Whatever Snutworth needed, it could only make everything worse.

  Snutworth nodded, thoughtfully.

  “Well, in that case, Miss Lilith, I have some good news for you,” he said. “I shall answer one of your questions, and with a practical demonstration. Wolfram, would you adjust the mask?”

  Snutworth moved over to the device in the corner, and began to turn the dials. The weird hum increased, along with the hiss of rushing air. At the edge of his vision, Mark could see Wolfram’s hands reach up above his head, the long red sleeves of his habit blocking his view. Again, he got the sense of something above him. Something that shone like glass.

  “What’s going on?” Lily said, a note of panic in her voice. “Is that…?”

  Wolfram lowered a mask of smoked glass toward Mark’s head. He felt his heart begin to race, and tried to struggle, but Wolfram gripped his head and fitted the mask tightly over his face, securing it with more straps. Snutworth turned back, although Mark could barely see him through the thick, translucent mask. He looked even more like a shadow to him now. Only his eyes, sparkling in the light, were still in focus.

  “Yes, Miss Lilith,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm. “It is an emotion extractor.”

  Above him, Mark felt the sound of the rushing air intensify, as though the wind were pouring into his mind and soul.

  “What are you doing?” Lily was shouting, but it sounded so distant. When Snutworth spoke, though, his voice cut through the confusion like a knife.

  “Miss Devine and I were apprentices together. Our master was an alchemist by trade, and a true genius. He invented the first emotional extractor, an extraordinary achievement. And most of his imitators, from the worst glitter dive in the slums to the highest parlors of the elite, followed his original designs—relatively crude affairs. But Devine, now she was the best. She made several improvements to increase the purity of the extracted emotions, and yet she never realized what else she had managed to achieve. When I commissioned a copy of her device, some months ago, I did not quite appreciate it either.” Snutworth paused, and Mark heard him turn another dial. The rushing wind in his head spread throughout his entire body. He tingled and shook, and in one horrible moment, he realized what Snutworth was about to say.

  “Most emotion extractors require their subjects to be willing.”

  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 w
ith 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Leader

  LADY 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.