The Canticle of Whispers (10 page)

“Come now, Mr. Mark,” Crede said, smiling. “After facing the dangers of the Nightmare, and fighting through hordes of fire-crazed villagers, you still worry about secrets?” He laughed. “The truth will set us all free.”

Mark's jaw was so tightly clenched it hurt. Crede was treating his time in Giseth like some great joke. Cherubina hadn't thought twice about telling him everything about that dreadful place. Lily was probably still out there, and this little slum dictator was laughing about it. For one second, Mark pictured himself picking up one of the tankards and staving in that greasy head.

Instead, very slowly, he asked the question again.

“Where is she, Crede? I think I need to have a word with her.”

Crede's smile disappeared.

“She chose to come to me, boy. She's a big girl; she can take care of herself.”

Mark shook his head.

“No, she's not,” he said, realizing the truth of the words as he said them. “She's never had to make her own decisions. She doesn't know how. Even when she lived with…” Mark bit his tongue, not wanting to mention Snutworth's name, “… with
him
, she was protected, in a way. Maybe she'll learn, like I've had to. But until she can really choose, I won't let you use her like this.”

Crede nodded, seeming almost reasonable.

“I understand, Mark. I'm sure your friends have told you terrible things about me. I imagine Laud has shown you the scars that my men gave him, and Theo told you how I threatened him at the Temple.” Crede leaned back, spreading his arms wide. “And I'll tell you something else—everything they've told you is true. Every. Single. Thing.” He fixed Mark with a look. His ease was gone, banished by a sudden intensity. “I'd do it all again. Everything I have done has been necessary.”

Mark couldn't look away from Crede's eyes. Whatever this man had done, Mark realized that he believed every word he said. That did not help at all. If anything, it made him more eager to make a rush for the door.

“Necessary?” Mark replied, warily. “Don't tell me—there's a war coming, and you need your army.”

Crede laughed.

“Coming?” he said, scornfully. “It's already here. The revolution has begun, and the Director and all his hordes can't do a thing to stop it.”

“I've seen how this ends, Crede,” Mark said, with feeling. “Cherubina told you about my time outside Agora. Did she say what happened in the village of Aecer, about the revolution they had?” Mark tried to block out his memories of that night—of the fire, and the screams of rage and fear. “They tore their leader to pieces; they had their ‘victory.' And in the morning, nothing had really changed.”

“We will do better,” Crede said, springing up. “We have no choice.” His voice changed, growing louder, as though he were giving a speech. “Tell me, Mark, when you were coming here today, didn't you see riots break out in the streets? Aren't the receivers just weeks away from a full-scale attack on our own people?”

“I saw one of your men start that riot,” Mark interrupted, hotly. “The receivers were only doing their duty.”

“Their duty!” Crede shook his head, a look of disgust crossing his face. “And is it their duty to attack the weak and defenseless? You've seen the victims here, the debtors with nothing to trade—no hope, no future. Do you think they only go to the Temple? My almshouses are full of them. When Inspector Poleyn's lackeys want to pick a fight, they go after the weak, and no one cares. At least when Nick gets involved, everyone sees the receivers pull out their weapons.” He leaned closer. “Can't you see I'm not your enemy, Mark? Maybe I'm not perfect, not as pure as…” he paused, “as pure as a Lily. But I could help you. The Director will never find you here.”

“Why are you interested in me?” Mark muttered. “You've got my stories, for all the good they'll do you. No one will believe a word. And you've got Cherubina; she makes a far better figurehead.”

Crede shrugged.

“Possibly. She's pretty, no doubt, which doesn't hurt.” He gave a smile that made Mark distinctly uncomfortable. “But she wasn't Lily's friend. Not like you.” Crede leaned forward. “Don't you see? Lily is the key. She's the ideal—the symbol of what I'm fighting for, no matter what those cowards running the Temple think.” Crede straightened up. “She would have seen the need for revolution, and my followers know that. I'm just her spokesman. Look at me, Mark—no one would follow this face.” Crede touched his own cheek. “Everyone knows that I used to be a crook. When the Directory's doors are broken down, it'll be in Lily's name, not mine.”

Mark stared at this man, who said he was marching to war in Lily's name, and he felt his anger cool into contempt.

“And until then, you'll keep sending out Nick, with a cobblestone in his hand?” Mark said bitterly.

Crede's smile vanished.

“I don't have the time for your stubbornness, boy,” he said, coldly. “The revolution will not wait for those who can't make up their minds.”

“You don't get it, do you?” Mark replied, hotly. “I don't care about revolution. I just want my friends back.”

“What friends?” Crede said, sharply. “In the end, the only people who'll stand by us are those who share our dreams.” He fixed him with a stare. “I have many who share mine, Mark. And soon, we will awaken.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You'll want to leave now.”

For the first time, Mark agreed.

*   *   *

By the time Mark returned to his safe house, he was deep in thought. It had been a long walk—the scuffle with the receivers was still going on, and had spread across several streets. Mark had needed to make a detour to avoid being swept up in it. But truthfully, he barely noticed where he was going. Crede's words had rattled him more than he cared to admit. He was still pondering them as he opened his door, glad to have a moment to himself.

“Hello, Mark,” said a voice.

Mark stopped in the doorway. His father was sitting on the other side of the room. He had found Cherubina's old chair, and was sitting facing the wall.

“Hi, Dad,” Mark said, finding his voice. “Did Benedicta…”

“She did everything you asked,” Pete said, without turning around. His voice trembled a little. “She didn't admit that she was supposed to keep me talking. I worked that out myself.”

Mark nodded. He wasn't going to apologize. He'd meant to spare his father the worry, but he'd been doing what needed to be done.

“I've been to see Crede,” he began to explain, “I know you said I should stay hidden, but…”

“You weren't here.” Pete got up, and turned around. His eyes were red rimmed. “Can you imagine what I felt when I opened the door, and you weren't here? That you'd vanished, again? Do you know what it's felt like, these last years?” His voice grew louder, more desperate. “Don't you understand that the Director himself is after you! Why couldn't you tell me where you were going?”

“You can't protect me just by trying to hide me away,” Mark said, gently putting a hand on his father's shoulder. “I understand, I really do. But I'm part of this now. I'm the ‘Protagonist,' whatever that means. I'm a foretold Judge, and you know that Snutworth's going to keep looking until he finds me.”

Pete met his gaze, fiercely.

“I lost you twice, son,” he said. “The first time, it was my own fault—I know that. I traded you away like an old coat, like you meant nothing to me. And when I saw you rise in the world, I…” he faltered, his eyes dropping. “I was prepared to let you go, then. But you came back to me. We found each other. For twelve hours, we were a family again. And then you were gone, and I … I…”

Pete's voice faded away. Mark took his father's hands.

“All the time I was in Giseth, Dad, I tried to come back,” he said, looking his father in the eyes. “Every day, I wanted to. If we get through this, we can spend the rest of our lives making up for these few years. But right now, my friends need my help. Lily, Cherubina,…” He moved a little closer. “I haven't been a little boy for a long time. But even a man needs his father.”

Pete nodded, relief flooding across his face.

“Then let me help,” he said, at last. “On your terms, this time.”

Mark took his father's rough hand and shook it firmly. It made him feel older than he ever had before.

Pete smiled.

“Now,” he said, more cheerily. “We've got plans to hatch.”

Mark frowned, his good mood dampening.

“I wish I knew what to suggest, but visiting Crede was a mistake. Cherubina's gone for now, and I still have no idea where Lily could be…”

Pete crossed his arms and sat down again, thoughtfully.

“The Director would know.”

Mark laughed, bitterly.

“And I'm sure he'd just love to tell us.”

Pete smiled.

“But what if we had someone on the inside? Someone in his office?”

Mark looked at his father. He hadn't seen that expression on his father's face for so long. It almost looked like excitement.

“You know someone in the Directory?” Mark said, amazed. “How? Who is he?”

Pete smiled.

“
She
is the person who sent me a letter when you disappeared, to tell me that you were alive. I suppose I should have been grateful for that, but at the time, all I could see was that this woman must know where you were. So I chased her down. It took me a long time, but I found her in the end.” He sat down, with a new confidence. “Her name is Miss Verity, and she's the Director's secretary.”

Mark gasped. He had met Verity; she had been the woman who had unlocked his cell door and led him out of Agora. But more than that, Verity was Lily's aunt, the one who had brought her to Agora in the first place.

“If you can contact her—” Mark began, but Pete frowned.

“I promised I'd leave her alone, once you were back in Agora,” he said, doubtfully. Mark folded his arms.

“I didn't promise her anything,” Mark said, with steely determination. “I'll tell you what to write. She's got a lot of explaining to do…”

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Resonances

I
T HAD BEEN
such a relief to sleep in a bed again.

It was hardly a typical bed—a niche carved out of the stone wall and stuffed with cushions. But after days of sleeping on a rock floor, it was heavenly. And Lily was so tired that she did sleep, despite the aches and pains, and despite the fact that it was never quite dark in the Conductor's rooms.

As she awoke, slowly and heavily, this was the main thing that occupied her sluggish thoughts—the people of Naru lived in constant half-light. Glowing lumps of crystal, like smaller versions of the Hub, were set in every wall, the light dancing in their smoky depths and rippling over their faces like watery reflections.

She had wanted to keep on sleeping. She had been dreaming that she was back in Agora, with her friends. And Mark had been embracing his father, and Ben and Theo were dancing, and Laud had smiled and taken her by the hand. She would never have thought that she would long for Agora's crowded streets and corrupt, grasping people. But at least there, she understood how people behaved—what drove them, and made their lives complete.

Down here, it was like staying in a madhouse.

But the Choir had begun to sing again, a harsher melody this time, with loops and whirls, and sudden piercing top notes. She couldn't sleep through that. So instead, she had risen, and put on her freshly washed dress and apron. She was glad that she had talked the Conductor out of giving her Naruvian robes to wear, although she was beginning to see why they might dress in this way—in a world of stone and dim light, only the brightest colors stood out at all.

Thoughtfully, she looked over to where she had dumped her pack, and then knelt down to open it. It was nearly empty—her food had been eaten long ago, and the hunting knife that she had taken from Wulfric, her Gisethi guide, was still sheathed and untouched. But among the few strips of cloth that would have served as bandages, she found what she was looking for—the letter from her father, rolled and tightly bound with ribbon, a tiny pair of brass scales, and a small, irregular crystal made of the same smoky material as the resonant crystals that dotted the walls. She stared at this last object for a moment.

“Maybe…” she murmured to herself. As an experiment, she held it close to her mouth and began to quietly attempt a tune. She hadn't sung anything since her days as a tiny girl in the orphanage, and her voice was still croaky from lack of sleep, but after a moment or two, she managed a passable few notes. But no hidden voices emerged—this crystal was definitely Naruvian, but it held no resonance.

“Well, that would have been far too easy,” she said to herself, slipping the crystal and letter into her apron pocket as she got up. She paused before putting the scales away, feeling the shapes of the two symbols carved onto the pans of the scales. One, a lily flower growing out of an open book, was a symbol she knew very well. It was also carved onto the brass ring that she wore on her finger—her signet ring, her personal sign. The one thing about her that still marked her out as an Agoran. The other, a starfish, was Mark's symbol.

Mark …

Lily felt a stab of sadness. She hadn't seen Mark for nearly a month now, ever since the Order of the Lost had spirited him away. She'd traveled a long way to get him back, but she was no closer now than she had been before.

With a resolute sniff, Lily dropped the scales into her apron pocket and pushed aside the heavy velvet curtain at the mouth of the cave that acted as the Conductor's home. There was no more time for dithering. She still had no idea where Mark could be, but if this Oracle really did know as much as Septima and Tertius seemed to think, then she must be the best person to start asking.