The Canticle of Whispers

by David Whitley

“Owain,” he said.

  Ben started. This couldn’t be Owain. Laud had described him as one of the friendliest people he had ever met. This person was looking at her as if she were no more interesting than the wall.

  She was about to speak again, when there was another banging noise to her right. She moved the candle. This room was surprisingly bare, but there was a second door set into the wall—a heavy-looking metal door. There was a key still in the lock, and the metal door shook as something was hurled against it from the other side.

  “What’s that?” Ben whispered. The man who called himself Owain shrugged.

  “That’s Elespeth. She’s been in there for hours now.”

  Horrified at his callousness, Ben put down the candle, turned the key, and pulled open the metal door. A woman of middle years, her long black hair straggling over her face, nearly fell through the door, and out of the tiny cell beyond. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her mouth was firmly gagged. Seeing her wild expression, Ben reached up, and pulled loose the gag.

  Elespeth screamed.

  Ben tried everything she could to stop her—even attempting to pull the gag back over the woman’s mouth, but it was too late. The door to the corridor was flung open.

  Greaves, at least, looked sorry to see her. Poleyn gave the impression that she would like to start the execution immediately.

  “Spies!” she snarled, striding into the room. Elespeth tried to hurl herself at her, but her hands were still tied, and Poleyn felled her with a single professional blow. Elespeth hit the floor hard, writhing in pain. Ben shrank back. Poleyn normally looked oddly delicate and refined for someone in her position, but the barricade assault had stripped that away. She bore a black eye, her uniform was tattered and smeared with dirt, and she looked every inch as capable as any street receiver.

  “Was that necessary, Poleyn?” Greaves asked, coming into the room. “The woman was clearly bound.”

  “Appearances cannot always be trusted,” Poleyn said, seizing Ben’s arm. “Some people dress as receivers to try and spread their revolution. Don’t they, Benedicta? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you from my captain’s description? Do you think all of my receivers are idiots?”

  In desperation, Ben looked over at Owain. Why was he just sitting there, looking down at Elespeth, collapsed at his feet? Why wouldn’t he help her?

  “A moment, Poleyn,” Greaves said, stepping in. “That scream which alerted us to her presence—that wasn’t Miss Benedicta, I’m sure; that was an older woman’s scream.”

  “Probably the Gisethi witch,” Poleyn muttered. “And with respect, we can investigate later, Sir. Right now we have a revolutionary rabble coming for us…”

  But Greaves wasn’t listening. He had knelt down and raised Elespeth’s head. The older woman was weeping, silently.

  “What’s this?” Greaves said, examining the strip of cloth that now hung loosely around her neck. “Why would this prisoner have been gagged? That isn’t normal procedure. And come to that, why is she so tightly bound? The young man isn’t even shackled…”

  Ben tried to speak, but Poleyn clamped one gloved hand over her mouth.

  “Sir!” Poleyn insisted, dragging Ben half out of the room. “There is no time for this. We are needed to defend the Directory…”

  “What is going on here, Poleyn? Why is this woman such a threat?” Greaves insisted.

  “She underwent the process,” Owain said.

  Slowly, Greaves looked up. The whole room seemed still.

  “Process?” Greaves asked.

  “Nothing but the words of a madman…” Poleyn began, but Greaves ignored her.

  “To remove emotions,” Owain continued, as disinterested as ever. “The Director said that her process was incomplete, that it would be more appropriate to leave her with rage and sorrow. Unlike me. I have nothing left.”

  Ben realized her mouth was hanging open. It wasn’t the revelation itself; it made a horrible kind of sense. No, it was the proof of it, the way that Owain talked about the Director hollowing out his mind without once changing the tone of his voice. He almost sounded bored.

  Chief Inspector Greaves got to his feet.

  “Did you know of this, Poleyn?” he said, quietly. Poleyn was still dragging Ben toward the door, her head down. Ben dug in her heels. Poleyn wasn’t going to get away that easily.

  “With respect, Sir,” she said, “we need to warn our people at the main doors. If we send out a runner, we can summon our forces back from the barricades, crush these rebels between us…”

  She trailed off. The Chief Inspector’s face hadn’t moved. He was still looking at Owain.

  “Forgive me, but I feel that this is an important question,” he said, his voice catching. “Did you know about this?”

  Ben felt Poleyn’s grip on her arm loosen, just a little. The Inspector was uneasy.

  “The Director ordered a few of us to retrieve the Gisethi spies, and to bring them here after they were subjected to the process,” she admitted, her voice becoming stiff and formal. “I did not enjoy it, Sir. I do not often enjoy following my orders. But I serve the Director. No, I serve Agora, and right now all of that is threatened. And frankly, Greaves, it’s time you began to show where your loyalties lie.”

  Greaves looked at Poleyn then, a look that was almost pitying.

  “I see. Thank you, Inspector. That makes everything so much clearer.”

  Then, moving faster than Ben had ever seen from a man of his age, he slammed Poleyn into the wall. Poleyn raised her arms to fight back, letting Benedicta go, but Greaves grasped her wrists, trying to fling her to the ground.

  “Traitor!” Poleyn shouted, jabbing him in the stomach, winding him. Ben saw Poleyn reaching for her truncheon, and looked around, wildly. Her eyes fell upon the candle.

  Ben lunged for it, grabbing it half a second before Poleyn realized what she was going to do, and jabbed the burning candle into the inspector’s wrist. Poleyn yelped as the hot wax seared into her, and her truncheon clattered to the ground. She rounded on Ben, spitting with fury.

  And Greaves took his opportunity. He barreled into her, knocking her back into the cell that had once held Elespeth. He slammed the iron door, reached for the key, and turned it with a click.

  For a minute, both he and Ben leaned against the wall, panting, listening to Poleyn hammer on the inside of the door. Then, as if nothing had happened, the Chief Inspector straightened up, looking almost serene.

  “Now,” he said, all business, turning to Owain and Elespeth. “How long ago were you subjected to this appalling practice?”

  “Twenty-two hours, forty-three minutes ago,” Owain replied, blankly. Elespeth merely moaned. Greaves nodded.

  “Time enough then. Let’s hope the Director kept the bottled emotions in his desk. He wouldn’t have thrown them away. Not him. We may yet have time to return our guests’ emotions; I believe after a full day the effect is permanent…”

  Greaves was halfway through the door before Ben was able to speak again.

  “But … I…” she stammered.

  “No time, Miss Benedicta,” he said, hurriedly. “Poleyn was right in one respect. We must act fast to prevent bloodshed.”

  In the distance, there was a great, grinding crash, and a howl like a maddened beast. The mob had broken down the doors.

  Greaves pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Well now, that could complicate matters…”

  * * *

  The mob was merciless. It poured through the corridors, a thousand trampling feet bringing bedlam to these sacred halls. As Ben caught up with it, she could see the flaming torches up ahead. Already, one of the ancient tapestries in this corridor was smoldering, smoke beginning to fill the air. Ben pushed forward, her small shape darting between the packed bodies, thanking the stars that she had changed back into her own clothes and that Greaves had chosen a different route through the Directory. This mob would have torn apart anyone wearing a receiver uniform.


  Even this wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. Not everyone was shouting and cursing. Some cheered as they ran, while others wept. This wasn’t just a mob of hardened thugs; there were children, and old women, even a few dressed in the rich fabrics of the elite. All of Agora was here, demanding to have a voice, at last.

  But as she struggled toward the front of the crowd, into the antechamber before the Director’s office, it got worse. Here were the real troublemakers—Crede’s old crowd. Some were battering on the old, oak doors that sealed off the way to the inner sanctum, while others were piling up scrolls and books, a hundred years of Directory records. As Ben watched, powerless, one lowered his torch into the pile of paper, and it went up in flames, the smoke in the corridors growing worse. Then, to her horror, she saw the prisoners. Dazed-looking clerks, a few lowly receivers, even the Director’s secretary. Bound and terrified, being jostled toward the flames of their own books. Ben could hear them choking, could see the sweat on their faces as the crowd took up a chant. Burn them, it said, burn them with their words. Agora is free … free … free …

  She opened her mouth to shout, to tell them this wasn’t their way. But it was. It was Crede’s way. A way that many of them hadn’t abandoned, no matter who they said they were fighting for. And as she drew in a breath, the smoke filled her lungs and she coughed, eyes streaming, as the old clerks were pushed closer to the flames.

  “Enough!”

  Theo stepped out of the shadows. One by one, as the mob saw him, their chanting began to fade. He wasn’t Mark or Lily, but they all recognized him—the doctor from the temple who had never given up, even on the verge of death.

  “Look at yourselves!” Theo said, his voice ringing in the sudden silence. “Is that what you’ve fought for? The right to take revenge? Is that why you joined us breaking down the barricades?”

  All eyes were on Theo now, but not all of them were friendly. Two of the ringleaders, a married couple of ex-thieves with cruel smirks, walked up to the doctor.

  “Yeah, it is,” the woman said, folding her arms.

  “We’ll follow your attack plans, Doctor,” the man continued, waving his torch under Theo’s nose, “but who says we have to listen to everything you say? There are no leaders anymore. Especially not the sons of nobility.”

  There were a few rumbles of agreement from the crowd. But most had fallen silent. Theo looked down at the couple with cold disdain. And then, he spoke.

  “You’re listening to me now, aren’t you?”

  The woman scowled.

  “Not for long, Mate. Not for long.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Theo smiled.

  “I didn’t need you to listen for long. Just for a minute. Just long enough for my friends to prevent you from becoming savages.”

  The ringleaders looked around, suddenly, but it was too late. Their prisoners had been released. Ben, whose eyes were sharp, was just able to pick out Pete and Cherubina, disappearing back into the smoky half-light, guiding the fleeing clerks to safety. The air filled with cries of alarm, but Theo didn’t give the couple and their supporters a time to react. He carried on, his voice cutting through the hubbub.

  “Turn on me if you must,” Theo said, commanding their attention again. “Yes, I tricked you. And I would again. A doctor knows when drastic measures must be taken, to stop the poison.” The couple stepped nearer to Theo, snarling. But no one else joined them. The crowd seemed unsure. These two didn’t look like leaders anymore. They looked like fools. The husband turned to the wife, floundering, and she grabbed the torch from his hand.

  “And what about now, Dr. Theophilus?” she said, putting as much contempt into his long, noble name as she could. “What does a doctor do when he’s leading a gang of rebels?”

  Theo looked over her shoulder, and smiled.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “all you need to do is wait.”

  There was a loud creak.

  The crowd turned.

  The door to the Director’s office was opening.

  For a brief instant, Ben was delighted. She saw Inspector Greaves, a bunch of keys in hand, pulling back one door. And Laud, wrenching open the other, flashing her a look of triumph. That was how Greaves had escaped the mob. Laud had helped him—receiver and revolutionary, working together.

  And then she saw what waited behind the door, and her happiness died away. The light from the burning ledgers glinted off the swords in the hands of Lady Astrea’s guards.

  It was a hopeless fight. There were hundreds of rebels, while the guards numbered only twenty. But they had a look in their eyes that made one thing clear—the first to attack would be the first to die. They would take no prisoners. And no revolutionary seemed ready to step forward.

  Inside the circle of steel, behind a grand, mahogany desk, Lady Astrea sat. The Lord Chief Justice was signing a document, her fingers stiff and tense on the quill, but clearly determined not to give the rebels the satisfaction of showing her fear. The moment stretched on forever. No one moved, except to cough as the smoke from the burning books floated upward toward the high, wooden ceiling.

  Eventually, Lady Astrea spoke.

  “I do not believe that you have an appointment, citizens,” she said.

  “My lady,” Greaves began. “This is not necessary…”

  “You are a traitor, Chief Inspector,” she interrupted, with dignity. “Consider yourself relieved of your post.” Greaves bowed.

  “With respect, my lady,” he said, “I did not swear my allegiance to you, or to the Director. I swore it to Agora, and her citizens. I regret only that the Director’s actions did not alert me to this sooner.”

  “You may choose any excuse you wish, Greaves, for allying with these savages, but you will share the blame for bringing down Agora. That will be on your conscience forever.”

  Ben thought back to the little room she had found, just before discovering Owain and Elespeth. The little door with the mother-of-pearl handle, and the sight she had seen when she had opened it.

  “We’re not savages,” Laud shouted, finding his voice. “We don’t twist the truth, and rob people of their emotions. We didn’t want power; we just wanted to get on with our lives…”

  Lady Astrea laughed.

  “Power is all you want,” she said, rising to her feet. “If you were happy with having no power, you would accept any injustice. You would make the best of what you had, instead of fighting. I know about power, boy. Power is everything.”

  “I don’t believe that, my lady.”

  For a second, Ben looked around with everyone else to see who had spoken. And then she realized it was her own voice. She had spoken without realizing. And she knew why.

  “I don’t believe it,” Ben continued, “because I’ve seen into your secret room.”

  Lady Astrea raised an eyebrow, but didn’t respond. The whole crowd was silent.

  “I’ve seen him, my lady,” Ben continued, attempting a smile. “I’ve seen Lord Ruthven. Your husband.”

  And there it was, the flash of concern, the break in her haughty mask.

  “What does that matter?” Lady Astrea said, drawing herself up. “I am not defined by my husband. If I chose to keep him safe after his disgrace, after he was nearly executed at the hands of your rabble, it changes nothing.”

  “It changes everything,” Ben said. “It shows you care about something other than power.”

  Lady Astrea laughed, bitterly.

  “Personally, I have a weakness, yes. But I am Agora now. I am the keeper of the city’s past and future. Personal concerns do not matter. My husband would expect no less. I would expect no less.”

  Beside her, Ben heard Theo step forward.

  “My lady,” the doctor said, “you must admit, you cannot win. We could force you to step down, if we wanted. We would risk injury and pain, true, but no worse than everyone behind me has experienced every day of their lives. We’ve known suffering, and starvation, and violence, and we’ve gone too far to
stop.” Theo’s expression hardened. “Can you smell the smoke, my lady? At the moment, some of us keep a restraining hand on our anger—we fight it back with reasonable words and trickery. But if you defy us again, we will fight with true desperation. Without honor, without conscience. You will fall; your husband will fall; your people will fall. But your people are our people.” He sighed. “There has been so much destroyed, my lady. So much harmed. All we want is a chance to heal.”

  Lady Astrea looked at him then. Her gaze was penetrating.

  “We would have nothing,” she said, her voice trembling. “No certainties, no order. You are asking me to unmake a perfect city, Doctor.”

  “We don’t need a perfect city,” he said, with quiet passion. “We don’t want ancient pacts or grand designs. We just want to make it possible to live here without being a symbol, or a pawn.” He smiled. “We just want to be human.”

  Lady Astrea didn’t answer. She was looking beyond Theo, her gaze sweeping across the portraits of the former Directors, staring down from the walls of the grand, ancient office.

  The room held its breath. The receivers readied their swords.

  Lady Astrea made her decision.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Words

  MARK KICKED the small wooden chair across the cave again. It crashed as it hit the wall, finally splintering into pieces.

  Lily looked up from where she sat on the floor.

  “That isn’t helping,” she muttered, listlessly.

  “It’s not helping you,” Mark corrected. “It’s definitely making me feel better.”

  Savagely, he stamped on the one remaining chair leg, and couldn’t help feeling a tiny spark of satisfaction as it cracked under the blow. His mind still felt as though it was burning, and it was taking every ounce of his self-control not to hurl himself against the wall and beat it until his fists bled.

  It wasn’t just the theft of his emotions, or their traumatic return. Yes, they had been overwhelming at first, enough to make him scream like a madman as the guardians dragged him to this cave. But this anger felt more real, though he wasn’t sure whether he was angrier at Snutworth, or at himself.