Chapter 51 #2
Lady and I dove to our knees beside Chuey. Blood coated his Kamelot shirt and trickled from the corner of his mouth. He looked up at me, his eyes fluttering. “Ese?”
“Can you help him?” I asked Lady.
She shook her head. “His wound is beyond what a wize can do.”
Brach had goaded Chuey into the attack. I shot a look at him. “Undo this, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
“Be careful with your threats, Jack.” Brach wiped his blade clean. “And while I won’t do it myself, I will show you how to help your impetuous friend.” He sheathed his knife. “You’ve studied the architecture of thanaturgy, yes?”
Three drycraefts—death, undeath, and life. A thanatist could give his life to life. “But I’ve never done this, and there’s no time!”
“Of course there’s time.” Brach leaned over, whispering in my ear. “But it will take a very powerful memory to stanch the ebb of your friend’s spirit. A recent memory, I think. I will watch your shadow to guide you, be sure you use the right memory the right way.”
My song. Of course he knew. His puppet Leinad Ke had been there. And his people had been casing me, studying me, all the way back to that first night, when Madam had looked into my shadow.
This was why he’d goaded Chuey. Had to be. To take from me the words and notes I’d found to begin forgiving Mama. A lifetime to get them. What would it do to my bond with the ward? To me? And could Brach use it somehow for his revolution?
Brach’s army stood silent under the bright stadium lights. My friends huddled nearby, waiting for me to choose a path.
I cradled Chuey’s head. “Show me.”
Brach bowed his lantern again, throwing Chuey and me into a wash of amber light. Our shadows overlapped.
“Find the memory,” Brach instructed, “then call it to mind with as much vividness as you are able.”
My mind went back to those moments on the Wembley stage. The crush of sound emanating from the immense speaker system. Tens of thousands of empty seats. The rush of life flowing through me as I saw it all from Mama’s side and the beginnings of forgiveness brought the words and music to me.
Chuey clenched my arm. “No, Ese. Don’t let that go.” “Shut up, Chuey.”
Brach hit staccato notes on one of his lantern rods with his bow. Light pattered down into Chuey’s scar. “Now focus it all on your friend’s wound.”
As I did, the scar inside me began to brighten, the light streaming past my sutures and funneling down into Chuey’s scar and body wound. Bit by bit, those moments at Wembley flowed out of me, and a great hollow opened up where they’d once been.
Soon, the light stopped streaming from me.
My scar darkened. But it ached deeper than before, because I sensed what it had been like before the memory was gone.
Such a strange feeling. I knew I’d finished my song—like a memory of a memory—I’d told the Ward as much when she accepted me.
But the moment itself was simply not there anymore.
Chuey heaved a long breath and relaxed in my arms. His shirt was still wet with blood, but his flesh wound had been replaced by an angry red scar.
Brach ceased bowing his lantern. “You gonna kiss me, bro.”
I smiled. “Glad you’re back.”
Inside, I only knew that I’d gone to Wembley and tried to finish my song. I had no memory of how it went, whether I’d succeeded, or the feelings that might have come if I had. What I did know was that all of the old pressure was back. And with it, some hate for Mama.
“So much for your bonding to the ward,” said Brach. “Or did you think I was somehow unaware of that little arrangement. As for your friends here, they’re still conspirators to theft, and will be held until such time as a proper trial can be scheduled.”
I staggered to my feet. “Like hell they will.”
“Afraid of a simple theft trial, are you, Jack?” Brach motioned to his standing army.
“The past is forever on trial. And since revolution is not itself a Precedent crime, best of luck at your trial, proving these other baseless accusations. It is, however, disappointing that you cannot see the beauty of new songs to build a new future. Songs that mean something about the past . . . like the one you wrote for your mother.”
He was really trying to piss me off. “Interesting that the song I’ve chased all my life is just me trying to make peace with someone who abandoned me, while the song you’re after makes you perfectly willing to kill a friend.”
Brach waved a hand and a couple of the guards moved in around us.
“I love Henry,” he said. “Largest musical heart I know. But he and I have different ideas about how to remedy the indignities foisted upon the Strata—the neglect, the revisionism; and very different ideas about how best to share the Strata’s continuing contributions to London’s future. ”
“You love Henry,” I said. Present tense. Reminded me Henry was still alive—he was the key. “Where is he?”
“You will ultimately lose the Iron Horse, Jack. Perhaps even before this wraith inhabits its final form. All you have to decide is whether or not you want to be on the right side of history. Oh, and, of course, if you want to save your friends.”
I bit back a curse. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
It was time to get the hell out of there, but Brach’s attendants had closed ranks on us. Emaline got my attention and glanced down the west face of the portico to a crushed stone path along the rear wall. A simple run for it.
I tapped Chuey and nodded toward the path.
His eyes darted around the portico, and before I knew it, he’d dashed to the light console beside the lectern.
It wasn’t the slick new digital type used in the venues topside—looked more like cranks and cogwheels and toggle switches—but Chuey assessed it in an instant, down-cranked the toggles, then tore the switches out.
The stadium lights went black, throwing the plaza into darkness.
Cassius shoved one of the guards and put a thick arm around me to help me up.
Lakshmi kicked back the one closest to her and barreled forward, opening a path to the north portico stairs.
“Grab the long-haired bastard!” Brach cried. “Kill the others.”
Armor clattered in the darkness. Swords rang as they were ripped from sheaths. Heavy boots pounded the plaza and portico stone. A shot of adrenaline hit me, and I started running without Cassius’s help.
We raced down the north portico steps and pounded along the crushed stone path, slipping through the shadows past startled Shiguan and out onto Tudor Street. It sounded like the entire garrison was chasing us.
A hundred feet ahead of us, the great mob had gotten rowdy, pushing and shoving each other—a lot like a mosh. I led us straight into the throng.
Semblances grabbed at us, tore our clothing. Fists slammed into our faces and backs as we fought through to the other side. When we finally broke free, behind us angry rioters had swarmed Brach’s army blocking their way through. Bought us maybe a minute.
That’s when I noticed Mick. He’d rushed along with us. He clucked his tongue at the mob. “You, Mr. Solomon, are in for quite the batty-fanging if Brach’s lot gets hold of you.”
Gasping for breath, I pulled Mick around. “We’re looking for a friend—”
“Which is why I’m here,” Mick said. “Information comes at a price, fresh fish, same as lamps and stones.” He pulled his ledger from his coat. “And the man who wants it must be him what puts his name in my book.”
Mick handed me a pencil, and I quickly scrawled my name.
After tucking his ledger back into his coat, Mick grinned at me. “Brach is holding an unnamed prisoner at Newgate. Special quarters. No visitors, save Brach himself.”
“Come on,” I said, and took off toward Newgate.
“Remember, Mr. Solomon,” Mick called after us, “if you somehow survive your trial—and I’m rooting fer ya—sooner or later, I’ll call your mark.”
I barely heard him, running full out, praying there was still time.