The Canticle of Whispers (36 page)

She stepped in a little farther.

“You in here?” she asked.

As her eyes adjusted, she made out a man sitting in the corner of the hold—head down, his knees up to his chin. Something was wrong. She had never seen Owain looking like this, not even when his whole village had tried to kill him. He looked crushed, defeated.

“Owain?” she said, more quietly, her good mood evaporating. “Owain, what is it? What's wrong?”

He looked up.

He wasn't Owain. He looked just like him, but his face was different—hollow, vacant. He stared at Lily with no interest at all. Lily took a step back.

“Who are—?”

A woman's hand clamped over her face and mouth. It was holding a cloth soaked in something that smelled thick and sweet. Her head began to spin

“You, Miss Lilith, have an appointment with the Director,” said a tough female voice, far away.

And she fell into darkness.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

The Appointment

M
ARK'S FIRST MISTAKE
was to open his eyes.

It wasn't that his eyes still stung from whatever he'd been made to inhale. It wasn't that the light that shone toward him was uncomfortably bright.

It was that when he opened them, the first thing he saw was the face of Father Wolfram.

He jumped before he could stop himself, and felt leather straps bite into his arms. Wolfram moved the lantern closer. Mark could see nothing but his hard, uncaring face, the lines exaggerated by the harsh light. Mark tried to turn his head away, but something held it in place. His legs were bound too, uncomfortably. He was trapped in a sitting position, head back, vulnerable.

Wolfram shook his head.

“Always struggling against the greater good,” he rumbled, in a tone of disgust. “No matter how many times I try to curb your nature, Mark, you are a twisted sapling, and would have made a crooked tree.”

Mark didn't like the sound of ‘would have.' He tried to speak, but his tongue lolled uselessly, and all he could do was groan.

“Do not attempt speech,” Wolfram reproached him. “Not yet. The tincture will clear from your mind, soon. But for now, you must learn the virtue of silence.”

Wolfram withdrew, taking the lantern with him. If Mark could have spoken, he would have remarked that Wolfram's own vow of silence seemed long dead, but perhaps it was best that he could not. The more he saw of this room, the more his heart sank.

It was not a big room, but the stones in the wall were built to a massive scale, as though this were part of a much larger structure. Without being able to move his head, all he could see was this rough-hewn wall, and to his far left, the edge of some contraption, covered in dials and tubing. It looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Wolfram walked out of sight behind him, taking the light with him. Mark looked down, still unable to move anything but his eyes. With his head tilted back, he could barely see his arms, but the straps on them felt thick and tight.

There was a soft sound to his right. Mark tensed. Now the light was no longer blinding him, he could see a shape out of the corner of his eye. It looked like another chair, with another bound figure just coming to their senses.

“Wha … whu … what?” The voice came, so familiar. Mark groaned.

“L … Lily?” he asked, forcing his slack tongue to make words.

“Mark! What…”

That was as far as she got, before Wolfram struck her. Mark felt the force of it, even from where he was sitting, a ringing slap across the face. Wolfram stalked back over to Mark, and pushed the lantern so close that Mark felt his eyebrows singe.

“You will not speak,” he growled. “If you do, Lily will receive your punishment. Be glad that I will not strike you. I might damage the apparatus.”

Apparatus?
Mark thought. There did seem to be an odd sound in the air, a humming hiss. And he had the sense that something large was hanging over his head.

Behind him, a door opened. Footsteps on the stone floor. And something else—the confident tapping of a cane.

“Well now, Father Wolfram, are the Judges awake?”

Mark knew that voice. Still reasonable, and calm, and deceptive.

Wolfram nodded. There were more footsteps, and the newcomer came into view. He propped his silver-handled cane against the wall, and smiled, warmly.

“Mr. Mark, Miss Lilith, welcome to the Directory,” said Snutworth.

What struck Mark most forcefully was how unchanged he was. True, his coat was now trimmed with gold, but it was still the same formal black. He wore the same gloves, the same simple cravat, and the same expression of polite interest. He could have surrounded himself with finery, but he hadn't. In a way, that was all the more disturbing. This didn't look like a man who had reached his goal.

“Why have you brought us here?” Mark heard Lily say, her speech returning. “What have you done with Owain?” Wolfram glared at her, but Snutworth—Mark still couldn't think of him as the Director—raised his hand.

“No, Father Wolfram, I think that the Antagonist is entitled to an answer. Besides,” he added, lightly, “we will scarcely make any progress if our guests remain silent, will we?” Wolfram bowed his head, and withdrew from sight, walking behind them.

“Now, to answer the simpler question first,” Snutworth continued. “Mr. Owain is imprisoned elsewhere in the Directory, along with Sister Elespeth. I cannot pretend that they are particularly comfortable, but they are alive.”

“And who was that, in the boat?” Lily continued. This time, Snutworth's expression hardened. Just for a second.

“That was Mr. Owain, naturally. I thought that you were famed for the clarity of your perception…”

“That wasn't Owain,” Lily interrupted fiercely. “He looked like him, but it wasn't the same man. When he looked at me … it was like he'd never met me before…”

Lily trailed off. Snutworth's expression was hard to place. Was there a spark of triumph in those sharp green eyes?

“Nevertheless, it was him. Mostly. How else do you imagine Inspector Poleyn would have known where to find you? Really, I do wonder why you thought it would be a good idea to use the tunnels, or why it had not occurred to you that if one person may travel through them to reach the docks, so may a whole platoon of undercover receivers. Barricades are irritating, Miss Lilith, but hardly real barriers.”

“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.”