“What exactly are you building, Mr. Brach?”
He smiled and led us through the crimson door onto a grand colonnade portico facing a broad plaza. Buildings across several streets behind the Guildhall had been razed and cobbled. Thousands of vestiges sat in perfect rows, facing the portico; an armed garrison stood at attention in front of them. It reminded me of old war photos of public rally speeches and propaganda films, except that massive stadium lights, hung from buildings around the immense plaza, lit the tableau like a Metallica concert.
To our right stood a porter with a viola. He handed it to Brach and Brach turned to face the massive crowd. They stared with rapt attention as the Shiguan leader stepped forward to a lectern and mic set before the balustrade. Next to it a lighting and audio console stood—to run the sound and lights, same as any big show.
“For our revolution to succeed,” said Brach, his voice echoing out over the immense square, “we must change the hearts and minds of the world above, just as we are doing here in the Strata. To accomplish this, we will use music. Revolutionary music. And so, each of you must learn its many tenets. Humor: The mind is rarely so pliable as when it is amused. Story: something to break the heart. Unity: to join listeners in the perception of a common enemy. Conformity: Humans in the world above love to be the same as everyone else. You’ll weave these into your music, inciting the people to action.” He raised the viola. “And to help you deliver this music, we’re crafting instruments with a seventeen-note octave, rather than the common twelve.”
He tucked the viola beneath his chin and began to play a hauntingly beautiful melody that sounded slightly out of tune. The tension between notes rankled the occlusions in my shadow, and I began to fidget.
Beside me, Lady shifted from foot to foot. Lakshmi squinted as though tasting something sour.
As Brach wove his strange melody in tiny haunting steps, the vestiges across the great plaza sat forward, shuffling their feet and staring raptly at Brach.
Then Brach played a great flourish and cried, “Stand!”
The vestiges surged to their feet, like an infantry brigade called to arms. Brach raised his viola bow, and they thrust their fists into the air. The ground shook as they roared for action.
And right down in front was Angela DuFresne, her scarred arm high in the air, her mouth stretched open in a ferocious roar. The strength of the personal battle I’d seen in her eyes had been replaced by the same look of smug certainty and blind allegiance everyone in the crowd now wore.
An aisle over stood not just semblances but mummers, like the ones I’d seen at the Marquee—Marty Donatell, the big West End promoter; Regina Highstreet, the city’s best music publicist, and Leinad Ke, Banner Streaming founder, who’d been at my Hounds audition. Next to them, front and center, thrusting his fist into the air, stood Morris Williams, the minister for creative industries, media, and arts. If Brach was creating a voice in Parliament, he might be planning to set policy that would make certain songs illegal.
Behind them, all across the plaza, stood musicians I knew, mummers for Robert Plant, Elton John, Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, Adele, Clapton, Sting, McCartney, the list went on. It would be one thing for Brach to replace influential music industry folks. It would be quite another for him to do the same with musicians of this stature, to say nothing of the songs Brach could have these imitations play. Which meant Brach had either already killed these people and put their mummers in place, or he’d created their mummers and would soon do so in a massive replacement of topside musicians, the way he’d already done to Angela DuFresne.
The Shiguan leader motioned to his porter. “Will you take it from here, Professor Byrd?”
Brach handed the viola to Byrd and returned to us at the back of the portico. “The past is going to change the future, Mr. Solomon. So, one last time. Will you join us?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Dispassion—strict adherence to Precedent Law and decisive movement against violations of thesame—must rule the day. I will preserve our city’s peace with as much zeal now as I did when I fought Danelaw encroachment and Viking plunderers.
—Chancellor Lady Aethelflaed, Saxon Stratum, from a missive to Muster Brach
Brach genuinely seemedto want an answer. And though I would never have betrayed Henry or my friends, the man’s vision scared me, because it seemed almost reasonable.
I looked out from the portico at the plaza filled with thousands of Shiguan vestiges and mummers standing at attention. “You really think you can bend the world to your vision?”
“If we lead with music, of course.” Brach gestured toward his army. “ ‘For the modes of music are never disturbed without unsettling the most fundamental political and social conventions.’ ”
“Plato’sRepublic,” I said.
Brach smiled. “You do know your classics, don’t you, Mr. Solomon.” “Nose for history,” I replied, “especially when it’s about music.”
“Well, then, you’ll remember the philosopher explains that music is part of the soul’s education, and so is a primary and indispensable part of the ideal city. His so-called polis.”
“That what you’re building?” I said. “An ideal city? With you its philosopher-king?”
Brach chuckled. “You know as well as I do that harmony and rhythm, once imparted to the soul, can stimulate the desired virtues.”
“Like obedience?” I asked.
Lady leaned in. “Jack, at the Horse we’ve all seen music get inside people, make them do things. And what he just played? Even I had violent thoughts.”
Brach laughed again. “Your friend is perceptive. You may also recall that Stravinsky incited riot between the upper class and restless bohemians with his atonalRite of Spring.”
“I think we’ve probably all heard the story,” I said.
Brach folded his arms. “And yet, my young friend, you know nothing of true revolution through music. Long before your time, Jiang Qing’s eight model operas displaced all other music and elevated the heroism of the common man.”
