Глава 9

4:23 P.M. \ Cloudy, turning overcast

MacMartin Brothers' Chip, first floor

Still no reply?

None. Haven't gotten a peep from Londinium, yesterday or today.

It's been twenty hours. They have to have received my last telecoms by now.

Could the encrypted line be faulty?

Hard to say, sir. Being honest, it's been nearly ten years since I graduated, transferred to Hillock. There's not much information you need to activate this secret comms line.

Two years back, around the end, I reported to our group's boss, and he asked me if I had anything to say other than whatever number kid was being born. And that if I hadn't, I could save even giving the routine reports.

Oh, no wonder you opened this chippy.

Not a bad plan, right? Codename's not Chef for fun. Thought at the time, suppose some outsider wanted to sniff out our liaison point, they'd only suspect next door's bookshop.

Aye, right. Besides, your chips are delicious too!

Ought to be, eh? Hahah, you fill yourselves up.

Hillock's potatoes are high quality. Locals all love my chips—if I didn't still remember my actual job as a lamplighter, I would've opened up branches ages ago. Five, six of them.

Ah, anyhow, I thought I was dreaming of the time I was in training again, when you gave the secret knock at the door yesterday.

...It seems highly likely this line was abandoned long ago.

Or perhaps, someone's received our info, but doesn't want to reply.

You mean there's people interceptin' our intel on purpose, Leader?

Not easy to say yet.

We'll send the next report as we would originally—right, and besides Triangle's findings, add on the outcome of my dialogue with Colonel Hamilton.

The Colonel's targeted measures against a portion of the residents are already extremely suspicious. In the worst case, I'd like for our team to be allowed more flexibility.

That... sounds like there's no point in me convincing you to use a barracks Messenger, is there?

Ugh. Leader, I don't wanna say this, but we're a little low on numbers.

That definitely isn't like you to say. Relax, though. Nobody wants to take that step.

But... the circumstances about this city are far more complicated than any of us foresaw.

Chef, seeing as you've been in County Hillock for so long, how do you feel about the people here?

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?