Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Convocation of Schisms may declare any thanaturgic being or schism anathema. In such a condition, Precedent protections are withdrawn, and the anathematized may be hunted and killed, and their resources seized.
—Precedent Law, Rule Seven
More wounded musicians staggered past Cassius and me out onto the sidewalk. We rushed past them, through the open door, and shot up the stairs toward the noise. Cassius drew his sword. I lit my Zippo and grabbed my knife, both of which seemed foolishly inadequate.
As we reached the landing on the third floor, the building went quiet. Cassius and I shared a look and hurried in. A semblance sat slumped over his cello; another had fallen on his bass. Two more lay on the floor, the floorboards beneath them scorched white.
Wind suddenly gusted in from the shattered front window.
A door must have opened somewhere on the third floor, creating the draw.
I dashed past Cassius, and he followed me to a far corner.
A short set of stairs led up to an open door.
We climbed up to a patio—empty—then ran to the edge of the building in time to make out a dark mass slipping away through the shadows of the rear alley.
“Was it the wraith from Westminster?” I asked.
“I could not tell.”
We hurried back to the main room and looked out the shattered window.
Down on the street, a man and woman were laying out the wounded in a makeshift triage.
Next to them, a young fellow was playing an elegy on the violin.
Cassius picked up the bassist, I did the same with the cellist, and we carried them down the stairs and laid them with the other survivors in the road.
The woman rushed up to the bassist Cassius had just laid down and looked him over. “Dear Michael . . .”
Michael tried to speak, but the words came out garbled. He choked and coughed, then began to twist and tremble.
“Mr. Blaire,” she called to the gentleman triaging with her, “we’re losing Michael.”
Blaire came rushing over, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with books and vials of what appeared to be medicine. He gave Michael a long look, then raised his gaze to the woman. “He’s gone, Mrs. Christie. Let him go.”
Mrs. Christie snatched up a vial from the wheelbarrow and dropped to her knees beside Michael, but before she could dose him, a bright flash scorched the street beneath him, and Michael went still.
Mrs. Christie whispered, “No,” and dropped her head to his chest.
The wounded musicians lying near us in the street were crying out for help. I looked at Cassius, who could only frown. Then I remembered the eucalyptus plant I’d rejuvenated and the part in the field manual about impartation of salient memories to restore spiritual health.
Armed with that and a little instinct, I moved to the first musician and gently laid my palm on his forehead. I conjured vague memories of rehearsal rooms and sheet music. Pain shot up my arm, and he began to thrash.
“You’re killing him,” Mrs. Christie cried.
If I did nothing he would die anyway. I leaned in to try again when another flash of light scorched the ground beneath him, and he went still, too.
“Damn,” I muttered. Why hadn’t it worked?
The next player—a woman clutching an oboe—began to moan. I hurried around to her, fumbling out Henry’s field manual for a spot check on the technique—salient memories. I called to mind a Rush concert I’d been to. She started to flail her arms.
“I beg of you to stop,” said Mr. Blaire. “If they must go, let them go in peace.”
I flipped forward in the book, hoping to find more—
Another bright flash. The oboist arched her back before going completely still.
Only the cellist remained. His flesh had gone slick with sweat, his eyes were shut, and he was muttering something I couldn’t make out. I looked up at Cassius again. The centurion shook his head. But I couldn’t just watch the man die, or flash away, or whatever was happening.
I knelt at his side. Salient memories. “Is he a student, teacher, or performer?”
“He’s a concert cellist,” said Mr. Blaire.
I blinked back sweat, wiped my eyes, and pulled to mind a memory of singing a show at the Whisky on Sunset. It was the one time my father ever came to hear me sing. I gave everything to that show. To make him proud. And though he never said anything to me, I heard him telling folks I was his son.
I then put a hand on the cellist’s head and let the memory go. A moment later, his chest expanded with breath and he stretched his neck as if he were waking from sleep.
When he opened his eyes, he stared up at me like I was an intruder in his bedroom. I patted his chest and told him he was going to be okay. He relaxed and took another breath.
I was still kneeling, thinking about how impossible this whole thing was, when Mrs. Christie interrupted my thoughts.
“And who exactly, may I ask, are you?”
“My name is Jack Solomon.” I extended my hand.
She took it. “You’re obviously a lamp-bearer, but not typically so.” My hand practically flopped back to my side. “I’m new—”
“It’s not that,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. “In any case, thank you.”
I looked at the cellist slowly getting to his feet. “Was just trying to help some fellow musicians.”
“And not just any musicians,” added Mr. Blaire, “but the very fine Waterloo Chamber Orchestra, in residence here at the 1901 Arts Club.” He gestured to the now-windowless building.
“Music gives added meaning to our existence here,” Mrs. Christie explained.
I nodded but stayed put. The imparting had left me tired and weak. I tilted my head back, breathing. “Do either of you know anything more about these players? The attack?”
Mr. Blaire chuffed and finally set down his wheelbarrow. “These are some of the finest composers in the Strata. They were scheduled to do a selection of original pieces tonight, which is increasingly rare.”
“Why rare?” I asked.
“There’s growing pressure in the Strata to play only Shiguan compositions,” Blaire explained.
“As to the attack,” Mrs. Christie added, “that, unfortunately, has become routine of late. Thanatists parading through here, shining lanterns all about, taking semblances into service.”
I checked the dowsing stone—it pointed us south—and dragged myself to my feet again.
Cassius put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you feel ready?”
“I’m fine,” I said, then turned to Christie and Blaire. “I’m sorry about the other two. I was just trying to help. But we’ve got to be going now.”
We made our goodbyes, accepted their thanks, and hurried on.
A block down the street, Cassius looked over his shoulder, then turned to me. “I have existed nearly two thousand years and not once have I seen such a thing as that.”
“The wraith attack?”
“A thanatist helping semblances he does not know and is not hoping to bind.” He extended a hand. I was getting the impression that Cassius shook hands a lot.
I clasped his forearm. “You’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd for too long.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a smile.
I checked the dowsing stone again. A thin streak of red light flared down Morley Street. “Come on,” I said, “let’s find this woman and get some answers.”