Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Music is not only a source of pleasure, but can also be an elegant tool for ensuring that the masses desire their own domination.
—Excerpt of a letter from Muster Brach to the Strata secretary of Athens, Greece
The stairs were old concrete, cracked and slumping like so many backstreet cellar steps.
Lath and plaster walls had crumbled and cracked, grown through with roots, filling the stairwell with the scent of dry rot and old nails.
As we hurried down the Abyssal Steps, the pressure began to grow in my head and the old anxiety boiled up . . .
. . . I stood outside the Hounds’ rehearsal room reading an email that explained why my key no longer worked.
They’ d fired me, leaving me behind as they prepared for Wembley.
I could hear them rehearsing as I walked away .
. . In my shadow thrown by the Zippo, snaking away from the long, narrow, lake-like scar, was a small, raw wound, like a tributary river, that burned amber.
I stumbled down the last few steps to a grey metal door with a steel kickboard.
I traced the Who quote and pushed it open.
We emerged inside the Horse, just left of the stage.
Down here, there was no division between the venue and pub—it was all just one large room with a wide stage.
The wooden floor had been polished, and the upholstery in the booths looked like actual leather—no patches sewn on anywhere.
Half those booths were full of . . . hippies, I guess you’d have to call them.
And the band that was playing—I’ll be damned if it wasn’t Humble Pie, the first band to ever be called heavy metal.
They were jamming their tune “As Safe as Yesterday Is.”
I sighed with relief as the music washed over me, relieving the headache and nausea; the amber scar in my shadow faded with it, turning black.
But the music didn’t seem to help Chuey, who quickly dug his rosary from his pocket and began to work its beads.
I circled back to him. “You don’t have to come.”
He caught his breath. “Seriously, bro? When did your slow ass ever win a fight without me?”
I pointed to his rosary. “You got enough beads for your evil ways, then?” “It’s a lot to take in, man. This whole Strata thing.” He looked up. “You remember that kid from Compton I tangled with? Guy who called
my mom a crack whore?”
“Yeah, his friends carried him away unconscious.”
“I went too far, Jack. I kept hurting him after he was beat. It’s been hard to let that one go.” He put his beads away. “Gonna send him a gift basket when we get topside.”
I smiled and turned to see the crowd gaping at us—we were all carrying weapons. We apologized for the intrusion, then scrambled through the front door and out onto Manette Street.
On Charing Cross Road, we took the next right onto Denmark Street—Tin Pan Alley: an entire street lined with guitar shops, recording studios, sheet music retailers, and vintage vinyl and CD sellers. For a hundred and fifty years, it had been a music mecca.
But right now, semblances were tearing past us, fleeing the alley, wide-eyed and panicking.
Others stood screaming at the far end of the street, where bursts of amber light exploded one after another.
Following each flash, tremors shook the road, glass rained down from shattered windows, and fire licked up the storefronts.
I dashed ahead past Wunjo Guitars, Rose Morris pianos, and other music businesses. Their proprietors stood in their doorways, gasping at the
explosions. Above the French-terraced shops, semblances leaned out second-and third-story apartment windows, pointing toward the disturbance.
“Get ready,” I called to my friends. “This might go hard.”
Another intense burst of light rippled out over an invisible wall several yards ahead—the ward barrier hadn’t retreated as far on this stratum.
When the light cleared, maybe ten paces on the other side of the ward stood a thanatist wearing a neatly tailored three-piece suit with a pocket kerchief.
He sported a white mane and beard, looking a good deal like Kris Kringle.
The man’s deep-set eyes sparkled in the flames raging through Hank’s Acoustic Guitars and Regent Sounds Studio.
In one hand the thanatist held a brass lantern with a cylinder at its center, in the other a bow.
A gang of Shiguan vestiges stood behind him, clutching several semblances who trembled in fear.
One of the semblances was James Baring, who’d owned Regents, where the Stones and Sabbath and the Who had all recorded albums. Next to him was Marc Bolan, who’d written one of my favorite songs, “Bang a Gong (Get It On).” And next to him stood Marianne Faithfull, forever a part of the Stones legacy, featured on Pink Floyd’s The Wall and the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” She was a legend, and Mama’s favorite.
The thanatist smiled and motioned to his team.
Two Shiguan dragged Bolan forward. With the same grace as a master violinist positioning his instrument and striking the first note, the thanatist took hold of his lantern at the center of one thick frame rod, raised it, spun the cylinder, and raked his bow across it as it whirled.
An earthy tone sang out, his lantern brightened. Bolan’s semblance began to dissolve into particles of light that flared with the pull of the thanatist’s bow.
“No.” I started forward, but Cassius dragged me back.
The thanatist then struck his lantern viciously in several long, shrill notes, and the light that was Bolan rushed into the lantern and out again, an intense beam now firing at the ward.
Bolan’s light exploded against the barrier. It shot up and out, ripping stone from the buildings on both sides of the alley, cracking the street, beneath us, and undulating over the surface of the ward until the barrier had collapsed back another three feet.
A moment later the notes ceased, and only remnant embers of Bolan drifted on the air like fireflies winking out.
“Dear me,” whispered Church. “All the lad’s musical memories . . . gone now forever.”
There’d been nothing in the books suggesting a thanatist could use a semblance as fuel for a lantern attack.
It certainly wasn’t in Henry’s little field manual.
Cython apocrypha then maybe. Whatever it was, I didn’t like my odds.
Still, this son of a bitch had just killed a wonderful musician. I glared at him, clutching my khopesh.
“Jack”—it was Chuey—“this guy just repurposed light . . . with a lantern. That’s like CERN-level energy manipulation, Ese, and all you got is a knife. Go easy.”
The white-bearded thanatist with the three-piece suit smiled impassively and held up a hand.
“Now that I have your attention, may we speak?” He came straight for me, crossing the ward as easy as you please.
As he neared, I spotted a Shiguan pendant hanging from an elegant vest chain.
Cassius, Church, Lady, and Chuey formed a protective line to stop him.
“It’s okay,” I told them.
“Mr. Jack Solomon,” said the man, coming to a stop in front of Church. “I have a proposition for you.”
I stepped between Chuey and Lady. “And you are?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I am Sir Joseph Swan.” When I didn’t say anything, he frowned and continued.
“I gave the world electric light, Mr. Solomon. No doubt, you believe that honor belongs to Tom Edison. But that’s your modern education crediting the bastard for doing little more than stealing patents from my design. ”
I knew a fair amount about Edison but couldn’t recall this joker’s name, so just nodded.
“Mr. Solomon,” he went on, “I’m here to offer one last chance for peace.” “That’s a bit different from the note you guys pinned with a knife to
the Iron Horse door,” I said.
“Not really. The point is that Mr. Brach has immense resources in both the thanaturgic world below and in the broader mortal world above. Case in point, the heavy metal band Life for Death, you’ve heard of them, I assume?”
“Yeah. Met their singer once.”
“You know, then, of their success. Six studio albums. International tours.” Swan took a half step closer. “They could be in need of a new vocalist, Mr. Solomon. Someone to write new material for their upcoming release.”
I’d seen Life for Death a couple of times at the Black Heart.
They were pretty good, but their vocalist was a drug addict—I’d seen him using.
I could almost picture myself fronting them.
It would work—I knew it would—even if I had to wear eyeliner.
But I wasn’t going to have anything handed to me. “No.”
Undeterred, Swan continued. “You’re destined for bigger things, Mr. Solomon.
Leave thanaturgy and your little music venue behind you, then transfer the Iron Horse deed to the Shiguan.
Mr. Wilkinson’s legacy will be properly cared for.
” He leaned forward. “And before you answer again, ask yourself if this isn’t what you really want, anyway? ”
“How would you know what I want?”
“Because, Mr. Solomon, you and I are not so different. My electric bulb replaced the danger and toxicity of gas lamps in grand theaters like the Savoy. I brought light to the arts and revolutionized the world of entertainment. It’s a fact as important and ignored as your musical gift.
” I glanced at his lantern. This bastard had just burned up a semblance like it was so much fuel for his lamp.
“Guys like you and me continue to create, you’re sayin’, even when no one pays attention.
But I’m not sure I like the comparison.”
“Be that as it may, we are none of us in the Strata as idle or irrelevant as the world above might suppose. Which could likewise be said of you, Mr. Solomon, if you choose wisely.”
I sensed the offer was real. But it reminded me of what Sixth Angel Entertainment had done to me and the Hounds. “How about you go to hell.”
He raised a finger. “You might want to take a moment, Mr. Solomon. As with a coin, our offer has two sides. On the one side, there’s the career of which you’ve always dreamed. On the other, there’s the reach of the Shiguan to foreclose any future music opportunities you might have.”
“Excuse me?”
Swan chuckled. “I’ll wager that in your heart of hearts you hold out hope that once all this Strata unpleasantness is through, there’s some future for you with this dream of yours.
What I’m telling you is that, if we do indeed ‘go to hell,’ as you’ve invited us to do, we’ll ensure that you go there with us.
We’ll do this by preventing you from any record contracts, promotions, or meaningful performance opportunities.
Your music, Mr. Solomon, so far as the topside world is concerned, will be dead. ”
He was right. I’d thrown in on all this for Henry and my friends. I’d even signed the papers. And meant it all. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d assumed when it was all said and done, there’d be time for my music again. He was taking that away.
For several long moments I stood frozen, all my hopes crashing down inside me. Twenty years of my life might, in a moment, feel wasted. But then I looked at Chuey, and Cassius, and the others. Turning back to Swan, I said, “I’m not trading anyone’s future for my own. No deal.”
He shrugged. “You clearly have no real appreciation for the conflict to which you make yourself a party. Very well.” He pulled a sealed parchment from his jacket and held it cordially toward me. “Mr. Jack Solomon, you are hereby summoned to appear before the Strata Chancery.”
My mind flashed on the Shiguan prowling the ward barrier topside.
Swan had known I was at the Horse, and had surely bet I’d come running once he attacked Tin Pan.
I shared a look with Church and reluctantly took the summons from Swan’s hand.
“You could have just brought this to me. No need to kill anyone.”
“You’re presuming that my visit here is only as a delivery boy.
” He smiled. “In any event, the chancery will convene your trial for the murder of Henry Wilkinson in just three short days, at which time we will address the matter of your part in Mr. Wilkinson’s death, as well as the appropriate stewardship of the Iron Horse.
In the meantime, Mr. Solomon, please understand that in the environs beyond the Iron Horse, neutrality is not the operative principle. ”
“Is that a threat?” I asked.
Swan’s eyebrows arched. “Well, obviously. But then, it is also a statement of fact.”
Church stepped forward. “The Convocation of Schisms is usually the body that convenes trials on Precedent crime. Why’s the Strata Chancery doing so here?”
“I’ve no idea,” Swan replied.
Running a hand over his bald head, Church said, “Well, I’ll be representing Mr. Solomon in his challenge to these false accusations.”
Swan sniffed at Church, then looked at me again. “It can be quite intimidating, not to mention imperiling, to stand before the chancellors of all the ages past, Mr. Solomon. I encourage you to weigh your options carefully.”
I folded the summons into my pocket. “I’ll be there. Until then, stay the hell away from the Iron Horse.”
Swan stepped back through the barrier to where his crew still held several semblances hostage. He raised his hand, and his team began pulling James Baring forward. Swan hefted his terrifying lantern.
No way in hell I was letting Baring get burned up like Bolan. I turned to my friends. “You with me?”
They didn’t even nod, just started toward Swan and his Shiguan crew.