Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
To call a semblance, soul, or wraith, the thanatist must bow his lantern and focus on the one he means to reach or summon.
—The Art of Lamp and Bow: A Catalyst Reader
Somewhere between the Modern and Victorian Strata, the old pain started to swell in my head, every heartbeat throbbing behind my eyes.
The smell of the dusty oak stairs filled my nose, and my stomach gurgled.
Just as the red paneled door came into view, the pressure of the past began pulling hard at the sutures in my shadow . . .
. . . I get down the eucalyptus plant, just like Mama used to do every Monday, and it hits me.
Mama loves tradition, so she’ ll be at Ardells again Saturday.
I’ ll go and talk to her. But I need to be ready.
I rush to Dad’s room and dig in the closet for a photo of Mama and me on my first day of kindergarten . . .
Then I remembered something good, too, for a change . . .
. . . playing my first show ever, at the Viper Room on the Sunset Strip. I’ d asked my dad and brothers to come. They didn’t. But there at the back, shouting “your voice sucks,” was Chuey . . .
Until he started running sound for me, Chuey had never missed a show, no matter how small or dirty the venue.
How had I forgotten that? I finally traced the Who lock and pushed through onto the Victorian Stratum.
We emerged inside some kind of prop and wardrobe room.
The smell of old paint, wood scenery cutouts, and racks of dusty costumes reminded me of shuttered community theaters.
Tired sunlight fell from small square windows, lighting dust motes eddying up off the floor.
I staggered to the other side and through a door into the Victorian Stratum music hall.
It teemed with patrons—women with their hair pinned up in tiaras, men with some of the funkiest beards I’d ever seen.
Cigar and pipe smoke swirled over waitresses bringing fresh mugs of beer and carrying away empties.
Fortunately for me, in the gilded light of gas lamps, a small chorus of showgirls was on the stage, and the entire room was singing with them: “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.”
I’d heard the tune once in an old marionette show called Howdy Doody. The semblances were singing the refrain over and over at full voice, like festival crowds do at power-metal shows. I soaked up every riotous note, and the pain in my head and shadow faded back.
With my legs under me, I checked Chuey. He was putting his rosary back in his pocket.
He nodded, and we all rushed from the Iron Horse music hall, trying not to step on the women’s thick skirts or knock off the men’s bowlers and boaters.
Out on Manette Street, it was early evening, the sky filled with smog, the air ripe and bitter with the stink of horse dung and industrial soot.
A dozen thanatists and maybe fifty vestiges were prowling at the edge of the ward, just a few yards from the Iron Horse door.
Most of them wore the Shiguan mark above their tight collars.
As soon as they saw us, they started shouting.
“Why would they be circling the Horse down here?” I asked.
Cassius pulled his sword. “It appears they are staging their forces. We will have to push through.”
Things were escalating too fast. “We don’t have time for a fight,” I said. “What do you suggest?” Church asked.
I led my friends back inside and wound to the very back, hoping the roof stairs were here on this stratum, too. They were. We climbed up, crossed the rooftops of three adjacent shops to Castle Street, dropped down to the walk, and raced toward our meeting.
Passing Seven Dials gave me a thought. “Cassius, if anyone might have information on where Henry’s being held, it would be Mick.
Maybe you should pay him a visit. Church, will you and Lady go, too?
See if you can pry something out of the guy.
Maybe threaten legal action, if it helps. Then come meet us at the Guildhall.”
Chuey grabbed my arm. “Hey, bro, this Mick guy sounds like a fence. I’ve dealt with lowlifes like that a thousand times. How ’bout I go with Cassius and Church. If physical and legal threats don’t work, I’ll lay you odds I can sweet-talk this cat.”
Chuey had once talked a hock shop owner into trading a still-in-the-box EV PA system for three audio mix lessons—the guy behind the counter was a would-be rapper. Crazy deal.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “Mick’s slick, though, man. Be careful.” Cassius, Chuey, and Church headed south into the Dials. Lakshmi,
Lady, and I wove through street vendors and carriages and people strolling the walks until we reached the grand facade of the Guildhall.
There was no one at the barricade checkpoint, so we passed right through to Carpenter Street.
It was packed with semblances. Two large crowds stood shouting opposing slogans at each other.
Those closest to the Guildhall cried, “Help us move on,” and “Muster for Muster.” Those farther back shouted, “Topside is not the enemy,” and “Your second death is final.” The two groups shoved at each other as the cacophony of slogans ascended the great stone front of the Guildhall, which had been chiseled with the Shiguan insignia.
Lady shook her head. “The most important center of music and drama in London for more than a hundred and fifty years has come to this.”
A fight broke out near us. Groups with signs bearing slogans about the sovereignty of their souls clashed with those who defended the Guildhall.
We pushed through the tight mob toward the steps at the broad southern entrance.
The doors opened, and rich golden light—the kind you only get from a quality lighting engineer—spilled down the brick steps.
Brach stood in the doorway, arms extended, palms up, a half dozen spotlights on him.
The wash of light made his white, wiry hair practically glow, his grey beard and black mustache more a contrast than before.
He was decked out in a double-breasted Savile Row suit—not a current fashion but perfect for his tall, thin frame.
And a couple of bows hung from his hip beside his lantern.
Six men and women in sharp frock coats and vests filed out on each side of Brach, lining both sides of the stairs. I didn’t see any weapons, but I knew they must be armed.
“Guy knows how to make an entrance,” Lady said.
At last Brach looked down the steps at us. “So good to see you again, Mr. Solomon. Won’t you please come in?” He then glanced at Lakshmi. “But just you. Your friends can wait here.”
“No, sir,” I said. “It’s all or none.” Brach feigned a yawn. “As you wish.”
He turned and led us through the great doors.
In the transitional lighting of the Guildhall vestibule, I caught a glimpse inside his shadow and saw a dark scar in the shape of a stick doll with a tobacco leaf skirt circled by a chain .
. . Emaline’s primal moment. Remembering what he’d done to her, I had to bite back my anger.
Inside the hall proper, a dizzying swarm of semblances and vestiges chattered, patted backs, and shook hands with one another.
Men in tails and women in satin gowns stood next to housebreakers and strumpets, all chatting like fast friends.
A string quartet played in the far-left corner of the hall, lending a hint of dignity to what appeared to be a roundup.
The hall glowed with the light of dozens of tall, flaming lamps.
They stood like streetlights on twenty-foot-high poles below the high, arched ceiling, preventing any real shadows from showing on the floor.
Shadows would have been hard to see anyway in such a dense crowd.
High on the walls scarlet banners hung, emblazoned with khopeshes, lanterns, tobacco leaves, and other symbols.
Brach led us down the concourse, the crowd parting before him.
“Semblances are being sorted by aptitude.” Lakshmi nodded toward a set of bright lanterns above a receiving station.
Thanatists had created lines under four banners: musical, dramatical, technical, and physical.
On the far side of the banners, more thanatists stood with thread in their hands next to long racks of lifeless bodies.
The thanatists seemed to reject some of the semblances and pushed them into a fifth queue that led down the stairs to the basement.
“Bold of him to let us see all this,” I whispered, “unless he thinks we’ll never get a chance to tell anyone.”
We followed Brach down a long hall on the left to a crimson wood door. He knocked, and a moment later it pushed open, Emaline stepping into the hall with us.
“Jack,” said Brach, “let me introduce my daughter, Emaline. She is my lead urn-bearer and oversees Shiguan business operations.”
She stared at me like I was a stranger. I played it cool, too. “Emaline,” Brach continued, “may I introduce Jack Solomon, a young man we’re trying to help with some difficult decisions.”
“Nice to meet you,” she finally said, bowing slightly. “I’m glad we could accommodate your meeting request.”
I returned her bow. “Nice to meet you, too. And may I introduce—” “We’re more than familiar with your friends,” said Brach. “So, allow me to come to the point.” He steepled his fingers. “You’re in a great deal of trouble, Mr. Solomon.”
“No argument here”—I shrugged—“but which trouble do you mean, specifically?”
He chuckled to himself and shook his head.
“You’ve inherited the Iron Horse, about which there is a complex debate regarding its proper stewardship.
And that’s before we even come to questions about how you came to be its proprietor.
Additionally, my young friend, you are seen as reckless, lawless, and a danger to society, not only topside, but throughout the Strata. ”
“He may be reckless,” Lakshmi interjected, “but he’s neither lawless nor dangerous.”
Brach ignored her. “You came seeking my assistance, Mr. Solomon, so let me assist you. Together we can renew the Iron Horse ward. I’ll even install you as its permanent steward. Nothing will change for you and your friends, other than you’ll book only the musicians we ask you to.”
“I’m out on a lot of markers as it is,” I said.
He flexed his steepled fingers. “Things must change, Jack, because we’re building something here. And this is the last time I’ll invite you to be a part of it.”
“What exactly are you building, Mr. Brach?”
He smiled and led us through the crimson door onto a grand colonnade portico facing a broad plaza.
Buildings across several streets behind the Guildhall had been razed and cobbled.
Thousands of vestiges sat in perfect rows, facing the portico; an armed garrison stood at attention in front of them.
It reminded me of old war photos of public rally speeches and propaganda films, except that massive stadium lights, hung from buildings around the immense plaza, lit the tableau like a Metallica concert.
To our right stood a porter with a viola.
He handed it to Brach and Brach turned to face the massive crowd.
They stared with rapt attention as the Shiguan leader stepped forward to a lectern and mic set before the balustrade.
Next to it a lighting and audio console stood—to run the sound and lights, same as any big show.
“For our revolution to succeed,” said Brach, his voice echoing out over the immense square, “we must change the hearts and minds of the world above, just as we are doing here in the Strata. To accomplish this, we will use music. Revolutionary music. And so, each of you must learn its many tenets. Humor: The mind is rarely so pliable as when it is amused. Story: something to break the heart. Unity: to join listeners in the perception of a common enemy. Conformity: Humans in the world above love to be the same as everyone else. You’ll weave these into your music, inciting the people to action.
” He raised the viola. “And to help you deliver this music, we’re crafting instruments with a seventeen-note octave, rather than the common twelve. ”
He tucked the viola beneath his chin and began to play a hauntingly beautiful melody that sounded slightly out of tune. The tension between notes rankled the occlusions in my shadow, and I began to fidget.
Beside me, Lady shifted from foot to foot. Lakshmi squinted as though tasting something sour.
As Brach wove his strange melody in tiny haunting steps, the vestiges across the great plaza sat forward, shuffling their feet and staring raptly at Brach.
Then Brach played a great flourish and cried, “Stand!”
The vestiges surged to their feet, like an infantry brigade called to arms. Brach raised his viola bow, and they thrust their fists into the air. The ground shook as they roared for action.
And right down in front was Angela DuFresne, her scarred arm high in the air, her mouth stretched open in a ferocious roar. The strength of the personal battle I’d seen in her eyes had been replaced by the same look of smug certainty and blind allegiance everyone in the crowd now wore.
An aisle over stood not just semblances but mummers, like the ones I’d seen at the Marquee—Marty Donatell, the big West End promoter; Regina Highstreet, the city’s best music publicist, and Leinad Ke, Banner Streaming founder, who’d been at my Hounds audition.
Next to them, front and center, thrusting his fist into the air, stood Morris Williams, the minister for creative industries, media, and arts.
If Brach was creating a voice in Parliament, he might be planning to set policy that would make certain songs illegal.
Behind them, all across the plaza, stood musicians I knew, mummers for Robert Plant, Elton John, Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, Adele, Clapton, Sting, McCartney, the list went on.
It would be one thing for Brach to replace influential music industry folks.
It would be quite another for him to do the same with musicians of this stature, to say nothing of the songs Brach could have these imitations play.
Which meant Brach had either already killed these people and put their mummers in place, or he’d created their mummers and would soon do so in a massive replacement of topside musicians, the way he’d already done to Angela DuFresne.
The Shiguan leader motioned to his porter. “Will you take it from here, Professor Byrd?”
Brach handed the viola to Byrd and returned to us at the back of the portico. “The past is going to change the future, Mr. Solomon. So, one last time. Will you join us?”