That thing you met in the Shade is another matter. We’ve known of Sweetness and its mouthpiece for a long time. That sort of knowledge bubbles up here and there, echoes of a time before Ba‘l Melqart, before the Spire was built, even. But an inquisitor, despite what the people believe, is not a ratcatcher. One does not go running about imprisoning every blasphemer and apostate, every fool and sinner. One must take a broader view of the city’s welfare. We have eyes on Sweetness, and on those who think to visit it.
But still what you’ve done is a terrible crime, Manet, though I think you have already paid for it. Four fingers left on that pretty hand of yours, and I was told you were the finest harpist White Isle had produced in a generation. Was it worth it? The things of beauty you might have created, the fulfillment you might have felt, the happiness you would have brought to others? What did you trade it for? What do you think to gain?
Truth? And you really mean that, don’t you? Or think you do.
Let me ask you something—what do you see, out that window you keep glancing at? You see a very stiff drop, some thirty floors to the street. Beyond that you see the Chapel, and you see the Lower Heights, and the Reach. You see the Isthmus, the great bridges connecting Seaside and Spire. You see a city of endless millions, human and halfling, fettered and free.
And what don’t you see? You do not see smoke, and you do not see fire. You do not see these many millions tearing themselves apart in bitter madness. You do not see, or you see very little, murder, rape, theft, brutality. Why do you not see these things?
No, I will not take all the credit, though it is true that we in the High Chapel have our role to play. The reason for the peace which the city has enjoyed this last quarter century—not a perfect peace, because we children of Ba‘l Melqart are imperfect creatures, but still—that peace exists because of an idea. A dream, if you will. Or a story, if you will not. Shall I remind you of it, since you seem somehow to have forgotten?
Once upon a time there was a great hero named Kiri, who returned from war to find the city tormented by the tyranny of the Anathema, gone mad with age and power. Ordered to turn his weapons on innocent citizens during the Sanguinary March, Kiri refused, and went underground with Amata, his one true love. After three long years of rebellion, Kiri and his companions fought their way to the Spire, but only Kiri survived the ascent to take his place as Ba‘l Melqart and begin the reign of peace and prosperity that we continue to enjoy.
We live in the aftermath of that great tale; we are the happily ever after. What lucky creatures! How blessed!
Suppose—purely as an academic aside, you understand—suppose that story had been tinkered with at the edges. Suppose that story were only eighty percent true, or seventy-five. What would that change? The peace holds true, is it not? Undeniable, unassailable. How exactly that peace came to be, what is that when weighed against the reality of its continued existence?
Honesty is a virtue in small children and house servants. The people do not seek truth, they do not want it, and indeed they do not need it. You could run screaming through the streets telling everyone what you know—or what you think you know, because in fact you have nothing but conjecture and hypothesis, the half-remembered stories of an old drunk, the mutterings of a witch—and it would not change a single mind. During the Jubilee, with their passions at a fever pitch? They would hang you from a lamppost, and they would throw stones at your corpse. I have seen it happen; the cells of the High Chapel have nothing on the cruelty of a mob. And they would be right to do so—for this truth you seek imperils the safety and stability of millions. You think to gamble their prosperity against the interests of your own mad quest? You would put some abstract virtue above their health and safety?
But I’m the fanatic.
In any event, one more question, before we determine what exactly it is that will need to be done with you. The only question, really, one I’m sure you’ve been tormenting yourself with these last few days.
Who sent you the locket?
(15): Unknown
7:01 PM
Over here! Over here! No time to ask questions, only to move! That was a fine escape, but they will not take long to follow. Through here and down the alleyway, take your first left and wait in the shadow of the ruined house. I will join you there in a moment.
There is no time to argue, mistress, no time!
* * *
By the thing that made you, what a leap! A thousand people must have seen your dive, swinging from one awning to the next, and none of them will forget it, though they live a hundred years!
It will all be in vain, unless you listen to me carefully, and do exactly what I say. Go to the back door but do not leave through it, not until you hear the parade passing. You must move very swiftly then, up into the crowd, and lose yourself among the chanters. They are making their third circuit around the old city, and when they complete it they will gather in the main square to hear the benediction on Amata. You will not go with them—you will head to the bay and find someone to take you seaward.
It is your only chance. High Chapel will be hampered by the crowds, but it will not stop them. They are clever, the High Chapel, they are very clever—but they are not so clever as we are, eh?
Ha! Do not worry, they will never catch me. Of that you can feel certain.
(16): Utuaa the Ferryman
8:03 PM
Closed for the day. We’re closed.
Ten hours I’ve pulled the line, ten hours today and ten hours yesterday and ten hours every day, all the way back to when I had great broad locks of chestnut and not this shrivel of white. Ten hours is enough, more than enough. You can head north to the Cove; there are crafts that run at all hours. Or there is the bridge, though that would be quite a walk.
Is your house on fire? Your mother dying? A man, then? What else would make a pretty girl so desperate? He must cut a fine line, to put you in such a spin. I tell you something, you mark my words for scripture—let him come to you! What’s fought for is cherished above what is given. He ought to be seaside right now, trying to talk some poor ferryman into making one last passage east.
God King willing, he is not successful. Climb in.
Keep your coin. Why do a thing halfway? We will call my strain a sacrifice to Amata, and I would not sully my effort with scrip. A celebration of love, today of all days.
Is he tall? Dark-haired, or fair? Can he dance? It was dance that won me my Mala, though I daresay she liked my shoulders as well. Ten hours a day, it showed then and shows now! But it was my two-step that caught her eye—she didn’t suppose a punter could have rhythm. Is he kind, your man? Rhythm is fine, and broad shoulders better, but is he kind? The rest fades, quicker than you might think. You grow used to touching them, and grow used to hearing them talk, but kindness—
* * *
That’s the siren. . . . Very strange, indeed. The last time they rang it there was a blaze in the Lower Heights, took hours to put it out. I’m afraid it’ll be a bit longer before you see your young man.
By Ba‘l Melqart, he’s driven you mad, eh? You’ll need to control yourself just the same. The siren means all craft need to divert to the harbormaster or face the High Chapel’s wrath. He’ll wait a little longer, don’t you—
Put it down, girl. Put it down! The waves are high, you might cut me not meaning. Whatever it is they chase you for, a murder will not help.