Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sunlight carries many of the qualities of living flame. Thanaturgic light, however, produced by the burning of ghost stone, lays the soul most bare.
—Thomas Blood, Amplitude of Light and Shadow
In the dim light of the Lord Ashcroft Gallery, I stared back at Emaline, my mind racing with songs of protest and war, music that had changed attitudes and beliefs and set the stage for bigger changes, like peace . . .and tyranny.
Brach had waltzed into the Iron Horse, asked me to try to put an end to certain kinds of songs, and talked about the types of songs he approved of—common truths.
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “How does Brach intend to use music for his war?” “He hasn’t told us much,” said Emaline. “But he knows that new perspectives usually come to people first by way of music.”
“Brach fed us a load of crap about the degenerate behaviors inspired by topside music. But he also told us about a song Henry wrote for his daughter who’d died. He seemed to think that was the right kind of song.”
Emaline glanced at the dolls in the glass case. “Have you heard about the Kindertransports?”
“Yeah.” The Kindertransport had been a rescue effort to bring Jewish children out of German-occupied territory into Britain just ahead of
World War II. Parliament waived visa requirements, and the kids were placed in foster homes.
“There was a shy young woman in the home secretary’s office,” Emaline continued, “whose job it was to receive the fifty pounds from would-be adopters and place them on a list. But she became worried about the flood of applicants, so she spent her evenings calling on every candidate, and disqualifying industrial opportunists who wanted child labor for their workhouses. She saved thousands of children from a hellish life, even death. Would you happen also to know her name?”
“You’re going to tell me she was Brach’s daughter who died, aren’t you?
” “Yes, and her name was Camilla Westbrook.” Emaline drew smoke.
“Lost to history, she began to languish in the Strata. Your Mr. Wilkinson wrote that song, hoping to memorialize her for your world and refresh her existence below. But there are a hundred thousand songs uploaded to your music services every day . . . Camilla’s strong, beautiful spirit and important memory were neglected by topsiders and she faded away. ” “I guess I’d be pissed, too.”
“Brach loved her deeply.”
I sighed. “So it sounds like Brach objects not just to the songs we write, but to the fact that our ‘bad’ songs make it impossible for the ‘right’ songs to be heard.”
“He’d call it ‘unregulated.’ Which is why he’ll look to replace it all with music for his movement.”
I knew such songs. “ ‘La Marseillaise’ was the cry of freedom in the French Revolution. Shostakovich wrote rhythms and dissonances to drive Stalinism. Hell, even Bob Dylan, the singer of his generation, stirred the hippies up into a war against the war with tunes like ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’ ”
“Brach will start by abolishing the songs of your world that change the stories of who we are.” Emaline took a drag from her cigarillo.
“And he will give the people of the Strata the opportunity to hold history’s revisionists accountable.
But Brach is not only concerned with accountability. He also wants control.”
“Of London?”
She nodded. “For a start.”
“Damn . . . that’s ten million people. Not to mention London’s global influence. And it’s a violation of the Enigma Covenant, isn’t it, to interfere with the lives of humans?”
Emaline tapped her ashes onto the polished floor. “Someone’s been studying. But Brach’s already shown that he won’t be bound by Precedent Law, hasn’t he?”
“By ordering the hit on Henry, a thanatist,” I said.
“Precisely. And more importantly, half the Strata Chancery supports Brach’s revolution.”
I’d read a little about the Strata Chancery.
One representative from every layer of the Strata names its chancellor.
I pulled out the field manual and flipped to the section on the chancery.
Emaline smoked while I read. “It says the chancery is supposed to help the Convocation schisms uphold Precedent Law. So, how could half of them support Brach?” “Because they’re also charged with the safety of everyone in the Strata.
And some of the chancellors believe, as Brach does, that to secure the Strata requires securing the world above, since when your world ignores or forgets or misrepresents the people of the Strata, they are changed or diminished.”
I stared, trying to recall anything more from my reading.
She drew more smoke. “Do you know who John Lilburne was?” Felt like a test, but I had no idea.
“His ‘Agreement of the People’ was an important influence on your US Constitution. How about Robin Hood?”
I started to speak but she held up her cigarillo to silence me. “If such a man existed at all, he was likely an outlaw who kept his spoils, and certainly didn’t share them with the peasant class. Yet, these days the myth has him prancing around in tights as a benefactor to the downtrodden.”
“Okay, I get it. History is selective. Written by the victors.”
“Not the victors, Jack, the living. And when the authentic stories of those who reside in the Strata are corrupted, recast, or forgotten, the semblances that gave them life start to fade, forgotten even to themselves. And their chance to move on to the next life fades with them.”
Now I understood. “And because the Strata is formed of your collective memories, the Strata itself contracts. Then everyone’s future is put at risk.
” I looked over my shoulder and saw that Cassius was checking out some of the armor displays with Emaline’s attendant.
“What does Henry have to do with any of this?”
“Brach is impatient to start his revolution, but for all his preparations and planning, he doesn’t have the numbers to take London.”
I closed my book and put it back in my pocket. “So, he thinks if he gets the Steps, it’ll help him get the numbers to take London down?”
“He needs an army, yes, but not to destroy London—to change it. And that change, as I’ve said, will begin with music. Brach’s music will lead to a kind of enslavement that requires no binding—control of the narratives that underlie how people think and behave.”
“So, it’s about converting people to his side.”
“I might call it coercion. He believes there’s an ancient song that will catalyze his revolution. A song so primal that it was composed centuries before the first mud huts were raised. Brach wants its power, but he needs access to the Abyssal Steps so he can get to the Ancient Stratum and find it.”
“That’s why he’s doing this now,” I said, “because the ward is dying.”
She nodded. “And if he gets this song, I don’t see how he can execute his plan without an immense loss of life.”
I recalled the revolutions I’d studied. “He may start by replacing musicians, but that would expand to other artists, then historians, politicians, anyone who shapes public opinion.”
“And going forward,” she added, “those professions would evangelize only his vision of what London should be.”
“Everyone falls in line,” I whispered. “And any dissenters—” “Brach doesn’t tolerate dissent.”
“So, what’s the job, then?” I’d been nearly killed again three times in twenty-four hours. “You can’t possibly think I can stand against him.”
“Of course not. I want you to help me prove Brach was responsible for the shootings.”
“How does that help?”
She smiled patiently. “For all the latitude afforded the thanaturgic communities above and below, Precedent Law on violence against a thanatist is absolute. The Convocation and Chancery must enforce it.”
“So, we prove Brach had Henry shot, and the revolution goes away with him? Why don’t you just do it yourself?”
“I’m too closely watched.” She tapped her ashes on the floor again. I wondered whether that was uncouth in the Strata but didn’t mention it. “Besides,” she continued, “if I was found betraying the Shiguan, I’d be put to death, and I must have an eye toward life after Brach.”
Our meeting outside the Iron Horse came to mind. “You’ve been casing me. You had an idea I might . . .”
Emaline tilted her head. The simple movement brought her hazel eyes directly into the light, and I lost my train of thought.
“I did my diligence, if that’s what you mean, Jack.
You were Mr. Wilkinson’s right hand. His urn-bearer, one might say.
It stands to reason he’d groom a successor.
” She put the cigarillo delicately between her lips and inhaled again.
“Mr. Brach, however, had no inclination you might return. Now that you have, he’s eager to have your allegiance. ”
“Eager enough to send some vestige thugs to abduct me?”
She nodded. “He’ll try to turn you, make you a Shiguan. If not, he’ll convene the Convocation and accuse you of killing Mr. Wilkinson. With you under a cloud of suspicion, he’ll try to wrestle control of the Iron Horse.”
“So, the thanatist in the tricorn hat, who tried to snatch me. She works for Brach?”
“She must. Though, it’s unlikely he’d send a Shiguan to abduct you—too unseemly for his taste. I’m guessing he hired it out to a freebooter.”
I’d read about freebooters. “A mercenary.”
“And Brach’s favorite tool for his dirty work. No doubt he wanted at least the appearance of clean hands on this one.”
I definitely wanted to help her stop Brach’s revolution, but I needed to do what I could to extend the Iron Horse ward, at least until we found Henry. And time was running out.
“Brach won’t rest.” She took a half step closer to me. “Besides, don’t you want to hold him responsible? For Henry? For yourself?”
Her jaw was beautifully strong, and her cheeks held the slightest of dimples.
“So, what, you want me to show up and testify that he shot us?” I asked. “Even topside courts are skeptical of eyewitness accounts.”
“Which is why you’ll also be supplying evidence.” “How do I know this isn’t a setup?”