Глава 9

Nothing unusual to me. If you put a Taran in front of me right now, I wouldn't fancy them much different from a Victorian anywhere else.

To tell the honest truth, if life's not bad, who'd want to make trouble all the livelong day?

Quite a few wear ideals on their sleeves, but only a minority ever take them to heart. Most just care about filling their stomachs, and if they're full, they can care about the purse, too.

Right you are! I can barely imagine Damian Barry caught up in the spectre force either.

In my eyes, him and the locals were all normal people, scared stiff beggin' for forgiveness the moment they're arrested, comin' together when a loved one dies just so they could fall to pieces and weep.

They're nothin' like trained soldiers at all.

What you're saying is exactly what I'm worrying about—Colonel Hamilton might have been spouting more than just alarmist talk.

When ordinary people take up weapons, voluntarily or not, the disaster we then face will be the likes of which Victoria hasn't seen for a very long time.

Afternoon, Saoirse! Lucky me, I was just about to go find you at the newspaper.

Eh? What's wrong, Saoirse? Were you just crying?

Janie... No, I'm alright. I'm perfectly fine.

Pull the other one. Your eyes are all puffy, and your face is pale as sheets. The Saoirse I know would never be caught in the street looking this ghastly. Something gave you a nasty shock, didn't it?

Who bullied you? Was it that soldier from last time? I'll help you think of something... There has to be something.

No, Janie, don't you fuss. He hasn't come bothering me again.

It's... I don't know how to put it.

Come on, deep breaths—it's me right here, your very good friend. You're safe now, I promise.

Janie... why? Why are you one of them?

What are you talking about, Saoirse? I don't understand.

I don't want you to get hurt. You're the best friend I have... and you're a good person. I'm good too, right? My ma, da, cousin... aren't we all good people?

Your cousin... Barry? You mean Damian Barry? I'm so sorry. I wasn't fast enough.

It's not your fault. And I don't think it's mine. I just want to live life peaceful. I don't want to see any more people I care about die.

Cry it out, Saoirse... I'm here with you. Seeing a loved one pass on and still having to manage your work, it's too much pressure on you. Here, lean on my shoulder? It'll be more comfortable.

That's okay, thank you, Janie, I'm much better just seeing you. I understand what I have to do now—

This is for you.

Is... this an address?

I could give you a few names, too. But there's no need. I don't want to put you in even more danger.

This address should be enough. You can... hand it to someone you think's reliable. Your Sergeant Major, or maybe another officer, like Uncle Louis.

I know there's people around asking about Damian. They want to be clear what it is we're plotting.

Plotting—Saoirse, even you...?!

I'm not sure. You can believe me or not—I've only been responsible for passing on some info some ways. A few notes stuck between book pages, one or two hidden signals in the Hillock Evening News's classifieds.

I used to think this was for making everyone safer... I didn't twig what dreadful things they're scheming, not until the... dispatch I just heard by the chief editor...

Never mind that. I'm not trying to justify myself or even repent, what's important is that you stop them as soon as you can.

Alright, I will. I'm sure of who I should give this to. She'll fairly treat you all, more than anyone else would. Saoirse, don't be scared. Everything will be alright.

Alright, Janie. I trust you.

Remember, it's 8 P.M. Hold onto this address tight—

East side of the statue at District Ten... third alleyway on the left. There's a bookshop there, with a flower pot by the door... yellow rose... found it.

To... Bag... pipe—

(Do I just leave it under the flowerpot like this and call it done? A loose brick right there, exactly like they said this morning.)

(This really is an unusual way of receiving your letters.)

(Friend from Londinium, I hope you can be of help to Saoirse... and all of us.)

Boss, someone left a new slip downstairs, under the yellow rose.

Bring it in.

Eh, yellow rose? So it's for me? That was fast.

The informer you mentioned before?

Aye. She's a soldier at the barracks too, but I can assure you, Leader, she's warmhearted. She's good.

I... hope you've gotten an eye for people.

No worries! My eyesight's always been brilliant.

What's it say on the slip?

'109 Dam St, tonight 8pm'—that's all.

Dam Street? It's the boundary between Districts Ten and Eleven. Rings bells for me—it's Baron Bolton's estate.

Looks like there's an important meeting tonight. Bagpipe, we should go.

This is where you were...

That's right. Sipping hot tea, skimming the paper, doing things befitting a woman of my age.

Phew, strong wind kicking up.

Found what you were looking for?

(Taran) When you want to find tomorrow, you go meet with yesterday.

You can speak Taran?!

Can't speak much at all. What you hear is what you get. Just showing off what I learned.

Hard to believe... Oliver was right, you're an incredible one.

Hahah. You get a nice rush the first time you impress somebody, but there's diminishing returns on the second and third round.

Nobody at our office even knows how to speak Taran.

Considering your backgrounds, that's reasonable.

Oliver grew up in a middle-class household in north Londinium, with family roots in Gaul. He lives upstairs from the office these days, taking some time off every year to go back and see his wife and children.

Fred's more or less an apprentice from County Peninsula. He's got bunch of brothers and one little sister, and the whole family gets along like a dream.

Will's a local. His clan moved decades ago from a fixed village nearby, and his Taran blood's probably from his paternal grandmother.

You've looked at our data?

Do I look like the type who does homework? Not my style.

Then... how do you know?

Language.

Name, pronunciation, wording, tone, and even where you pause—language tells a keen ear more than you could ever guess.

I heard about how Sankta extraordinary are, but I never figured...

Ahah. Really, it's just a hobby of mine.

Anyhow, language itself holds a special significance to some folks. Why else would the Tarans have cared so much about digging a sample of their own language out of a pile of old books?

You're not wrong. Half a decade ago, barely any Tarans regularly spoke it.

And you?

You've probably heard it in me... I'm not a Taran. My wife was. She only taught me a word or two while she was still alive.

Yet nowadays, you see that gradually dying language all over the newspaper.

Plus, I just overheard someone outside the window teaching kids how to call each other in Taran.

Until you mentioned it... I never noticed.

Language binds a people together tighter than most things. A language doesn't get diluted over time like bloodlines do, and it doesn't get weighed on the scales of cost-benefit analysis like everything else.

Looks like there's some out there who want to exploit those ties, bring back together the community that's been loosening away. But with that, the gatherings that already were, lose their stability.

Victoria won't just sit back and let this play out right under its nose. And yet, the harder you pull, the harder the backlash will snap.

You all know why I came, don't you?

Actually... I'm not that sure. I just feel like, you wouldn't need to bother an elite operator to go fetch data in person.

Numbers on paper don't mean a thing against seeing it with your own two eyes. Put it that way, I really am here fetching data.

Could you just tell me one more time, in the last six months, how many local businesses suspended collaboration with us?

Seven.

That's three on top of last month's report. In modern Victoria, when any wind stirs the grass, it's the big merchants' wallets that feel it first.

I need to head out, get a few more eyefuls of this place—make it before this city gets drowned under dirty rain.

Leader, you've had your eyebrows wrinkled ever since morning.

We don't have much time to go.

This spectre force move is inconsistent in ways with past incidents.

Their execution was covert before, rapid. Every time we thought to chase them, we'd find the leads wiped clean.

But now...

Oh, like they finished knittin' a jumper and just tossed yarn ends on the floor? Barely an idea of how each end is linked, too.

And moreover... these leads have all cut off at County Hillock.

It's not just you. I'm feelin' trapped as all heck too.

This city is just like a pressure cooker sealed shut. The residents, the barracks, everyone's twitchy, and people are gettin' up in arms anywhere and anytime.

Everyone's waiting. Waiting for when the first bolt strikes.

But if it does truly strike, what will this city... no, what will Victoria become?