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 slogansat 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 aglimpse 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.”
