Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Blade-Ka (adepts of the Blade) are often recruited as raptorials due to their combat skill and skepticism, it’s humorous to consider their sometimes-career as exorcists.
—William Makepeace Thackeray,
Thanaturgic Amusements: A One-Act Monologue
Then the Iron Horse door had closed behind Brach, I turned to my friends. “So were Brach and Henry close?”
“Not something they made a public show of,” said Church, “but they came up together in the ways of thanaturgy, shared a few interests, and got into a scrape or two as young men. Long before Brach assumed leadership of the Shiguan.”
“Well, I was ready for that one.” Chuey pointed his sound design book where Brach had just exited.
I chuckled. “To quiz him on the history of sound?”
Chuey hit me with his book. “Who are these Shiguan clowns, anyway?” “They’re the largest and loudest contingent of those Brach called ‘dissenters,’ ” Lady said.
She went on to explain that the Shiguan were one of five active schisms that oversaw thanaturgic dealings throughout London and its Strata, that those schisms were constantly at war, and that together they made up something called the Convocation, which wrote and upheld Precedent law.
“Henry mentioned the Shiguan in his journal,” I said. “But why didn’t you say anything about them last night?”
Church turned out his sleeve. “Do you see the sigil of a key woven into my binding cuff?”
I leaned in. “Yeah.”
“It represents a geas,” he said, “a kind of taboo against revealing information to someone without them already having some awareness of the topic. It protects the thanatist, Henry in this case, from having those of us who are bound to him overshare with the wrong people.”
Lady took my hand. “Besides your being already too tired last night.” “That’s part of the r-reason for the books,” Jimmy added. “Once you’re passingly familiar with a thing, we’re f-free to say more.”
“Then is it true?” I asked. “Is our world doing something that’s killing the Strata?”
“I’ve never heard such a thing,” said Church, “nor have I heard Henry speak of it. But then, I’m sure Henry, like every man, has his secrets.”
“Speaking of secrets,” I said, holding up the string Brach had given me, “what’s this?”
“That’s the bunda thread I mentioned.” Lady fingered the bit of string. “It’s a multifilament twine woven of wild silk and nettle grown in the Strata. It’s commonly used for primary bindings.”
“Is this what you use with patients?” I asked.
Lady shook her head. “My threads are for repairing what’s broken or torn. Only a thanatist can use thread woven to receive impartings.”
I pulled up a chair, set Henry’s field manual down in front of me on the table, and turned to the section on impartings.
Apparently, there were many kinds of thanaturgic thread, and most were given power by imparting to them a small portion of the thanatist’s soul.
I had to reread that twice. Sharing out bits of my soul sounded not only impossible but foolish.
“Bunda,” said Church, “responds to the thanatist’s touch, and will manifest sigils of specific utility through your thoughts, like the geas key I showed you.”
I found a chart in the manual listing dozens of binding sigils—what they looked like, their effect, and how to mentally express them.
A mask indicated the Enigma Covenant, a chain meant compulsion, and every thanatist had a personal mark.
Next to Henry’s name at the front of his book was a drawing of supplicating hands—his mark, apparently.
Each vestige also had a mark of their own.
Bindings automatically inherited these personal marks.
On the next page was a section called “nonbinding” sigils: a compass provided direction in the dark, a candle conducted light to the semblance, and a handheld mirror—known as a reflection sigil—gave mortals the ability to see past the Enigma Covenant.
I tapped Chuey on the shoulder. “Let’s give this a whirl so you don’t go around thinking everyone’s a priest.”
I closed my hand around the bunda thread and concentrated on the idea of a mirror and the words “truth in seeing” from Henry’s field manual.
Nothing happened, and when I opened my hand, the string was just sitting there crumpled.
I tried again with the same result. So, I checked the manual again and realized I’d missed a critical instruction: I had to lend the thread a part of myself, like I’d instinctively done when I bound Cassius.
I closed my hand around the bunda thread again, thought of the words and mirror, but this time I let the idea of the mirror grow, recalling the time my father had stood next to me in front of the bathroom mirror and taught me how to tie a tie.
The thread began to move inside my fist, which freaked me out a little but clearly meant it was working.
The memory of my father began to fade. It would be gone—the way I’d lost something when binding Cassius—and another hollow would open up inside me where something simple and beautiful had been.
So, I stopped. I didn’t know what it might mean for Chuey later on if he couldn’t see things the way I did, but I wasn’t ready to lose that memory of Dad.
I opened my fist to show the unchanged thread. “I guess I need more practice.”
“Be patient,” said Church. “You’re imbuing the thread with a measure of life to create a living contract. It’s no small thing.”
I nodded, grabbed a glass of water from the bar, and came back to Chuey. “Sorry, my veiled brother, carry on seeing the virtue in everyone.”
He laughed. “I’ll pray for your cynical soul.”
Then, since I had my field guide out, I moved on to other topics. For the next three hours, I took in as much as I could, asking questions of my friends, reading passages, all as Chuey deejayed the background music with Cream, Iron Butterfly, and Blue Cheer—more comfort music.
We called it a night at nine o’clock, partly to open the Horse back up to patrons, and partly to get some rest. I put in my earbuds and walked home with my nose still in Henry’s field manual.
With my head down, I almost ran into someone standing at my door.
It was one of the women I’d seen the night before—sword handles jutting above her shoulders.
Her unflinching gaze felt like an accusation. I took out my buds.
“Mr. Jack Solomon,” she said matter-of-factly, “my name is Lakshmi Gopalkrishnan. I am a raptorial—enforcement arm for Precedent Law. I’m investigating the shooting of Mr. Henry Wilkinson. May we talk inside?”