I was still kneeling, thinking about how impossible this whole thing was, when Mrs. Christie interrupted my thoughts.
“And who exactly, may I ask, are you?”
“My name is Jack Solomon.” I extended my hand.
She took it. “You’re obviously a lamp-bearer, but not typically so.” My hand practically flopped back to my side. “I’m new?—”
“It’s not that,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. “In any case, thank you.”
I looked at the cellist slowly getting to his feet. “Was just trying to help some fellow musicians.”
“And not justanymusicians,” added Mr. Blaire, “but the very fine Waterloo Chamber Orchestra, in residence here at the 1901 Arts Club.” He gestured to the now-windowless building.
“Music gives added meaning to our existence here,” Mrs. Christie explained.
I nodded but stayed put. The imparting had left me tired and weak. I tilted my head back, breathing. “Do either of you know anything more about these players? The attack?”
Mr. Blaire chuffed and finally set down his wheelbarrow. “These are some of the finest composers in the Strata. They were scheduled to do a selection of original pieces tonight, which is increasingly rare.”
“Why rare?” I asked.
“There’s growing pressure in the Strata to play only Shiguan compositions,” Blaire explained.
“As to the attack,” Mrs. Christie added, “that, unfortunately, has become routine of late. Thanatists parading through here, shining lanterns all about, taking semblances into service.”
I checked the dowsing stone—it pointed us south—and dragged myself to my feet again.
Cassius put a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you feel ready?”
“I’m fine,” I said, then turned to Christie and Blaire. “I’m sorry about the other two. I was just trying to help. But we’ve got to be going now.”
We made our goodbyes, accepted their thanks, and hurried on.
A block down the street, Cassius looked over his shoulder, then turned to me. “I have existed nearly two thousand years and not once have I seen such a thing as that.”
“The wraith attack?”
“A thanatist helping semblances he does not know and is not hoping to bind.” He extended a hand. I was getting the impression that Cassius shook hands a lot.
I clasped his forearm. “You’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd for too long.”
“Perhaps,” he said with a smile.
I checked the dowsing stone again. A thin streak of red light flared down Morley Street. “Come on,” I said, “let’s find this woman and get some answers.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A thanatist can live with an open wound of the soul, but only if he has the strength and willingness to stare unflinchingly at the memories that gave it rise.
—Delma the Older, first substantiated Child of Ash
He followedthe dowsing stone through the Modern Stratum Dregs toward the Imperial War Museum. The building’s tall green cupola was half gone and smoking beneath enormous white columns. A block away, I pulled Cassius to a stop.
“This could be a setup,” I said, “but I think we have to take the risk. Odds are she’s a thanatist. If things go south . . . well, Precedent says you can’t engage unless you’re attacked first.”
“When you and I met, I was prepared to have my bindings run dark,” said Cassius. “I am no longer afraid of Precedent punishment.”
I didn’t exactly like the sound of it, but I nodded. We made our way to the museum steps. The woman who’d given me the dowsing stone was leaning against the center column. She wastall and lean, wrapped in a double-breasted coat over a black turtleneck; at her collar was a necklace pendant in the shape of the Shiguan sigil. She took a step forward and greeted us. “If there’s a next time,” I said, “let’s do it without all the cryptic notes, huh?”
