The Canticle of Whispers (40 page)

Laud took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, his face was full of the old determination.

“All right,” he said, glancing around. “You try that corridor; I'll try this. Remember, try to give the impression that you know what you're doing.”

Ben attempted a smile, but there was no more time for words. Already, they could hear the commotion farther down the corridor. They had promised that they wouldn't split up. But all their plans were useless now—if Poleyn caught them, Ben doubted they would even get a trial.

She hurried down the candlelit corridors, her passage making the flames flicker, casting crazed shadows on the walls. She knocked on a hundred doors, and opened them to dusty libraries and offices. Occasionally, she found a clerk or secretary, but she quickly waved aside their panicky questions, trying to ask for Lady Astrea with an air of authority. But no one knew where she was, until a frightened old man, who proclaimed himself the Director's secretary, mentioned that he had seen her heading for the guest rooms, and pointed the way.

Even here, in the depths of the building, she could hear the muffled sound of commotion growing louder. And was that a thumping noise, like someone battering on the grand doors? She kept running until she found herself in a corridor lined with elegant tapestries. This looked like the guest quarters to her. She moved along the corridor, pressing her ear to another door, trying to see if she could hear Lady Astrea's refined tones. But all was silence.

Eventually, she reached the end of the corridor. There was only one door here, but it caught Ben's eye. The last few doors she had passed had been simple affairs, probably storerooms. But this one was made of beautifully carved oak, and had a striking mother-of-pearl handle.

She put her head up against it. There was definitely something in there. She could hear a low rumble. Tentatively, she tried the handle, easing the door open a crack. Just enough to look in.

Beyond lay a richly furnished chamber, dominated by a large four-poster bed. The room was dark, but a crack of light from the door fell into the room, illuminating a sleeping man on the bed.

He looked small, and shrunken. Even his snores—the rumbling sound Ben had heard—were weak. But there was something familiar about him. She knew that she should carry on—that anyone who was being kept in such luxury clearly wasn't a prisoner. But curiosity got the better of her. She opened the door a little farther, trying to get a look at his face, without waking him.

But … surely that was …

“My lady, are you there?”

The voice was deep and strong, and Ben recognized it at once. A few months ago, she would have been glad to hear Chief Inspector Greaves. Not anymore. It was coming from behind her, farther down the corridor.

“Lady Astrea, ma'am! You are needed!”

That was Inspector Poleyn. The figure on the bed stirred uneasily. Ben knew she'd never be able to hide in there, and shut the door as swiftly as she could. Then she cast around, urgently, as the sound of footsteps grew closer. The corridor was narrow, and the only way out was back toward them. Ben braced herself to run, to try to slip past them so fast they wouldn't be able to give chase. She didn't have much chance, but she wasn't going to let them take her without a fight.

And then, to her relief, she caught sight of another door, half-hidden in the wood paneling. She scurried forward, trying the handle. It swung open.

Offering silent thanks to all the stars, she dived through into the darkened room beyond, pushing the door shut behind her.

She leaned back against the door, her heart pounding in her ears.

In the room, something moved.

It was only now that she considered that hiding in a completely dark room was not the wisest action. The light creeping around the door illuminated only the first few feet of the bare chamber. She could just make out a candle and tinderbox on the edge of a table.

There was another sound, louder this time, like someone throwing themselves against a metal door. Her hands uncertain, Ben grabbed for the box and tried to spark a flame.

The first flash illuminated something on the other side of the room. Something in a chair. She tried again; this time she got the candle burning. She held it high.

A pair of dull, dead eyes stared back at her.

Ben jumped back, but didn't make a sound. She couldn't. Those eyes were still staring at her. And she was wrong; they weren't dead at all.

A young man sat in a wooden chair on the other side of the room. He was large, tanned, and strongly built, and dressed in rough fabric. And he was looking right at her.

The man didn't move. Neither did Ben, but her mind raced. There was something wrong here. Why hadn't he spoken? Why hadn't he raised the alarm?

Why had he been sitting in the dark?

“Who are you?” she whispered. Outside, she could hear the sound of Greaves and Poleyn. Their voices were raised, as if they were arguing.

The young man looked back at her, without interest.

“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 …