An image of Polly Nichols’ corpse flashed into my mind’s eye. I swallowed nervously.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” the Yatsill said. “I’m sure you’ll come to terms with the issue in due course. Now then, the Council awaits. Don’t dawdle, please.”
Like the House of Lords, the Temple of Magicians was new, clean, and still being decorated. Artisans were carving a frieze into the upper walls of the corridor we passed along, and a complex geometric pattern into the large door we came to at the end of it. Father Reverie dismissed the two Yatsill working on the latter. As the pair scuttled away, I realised that all the artisans, like the cab driver, wore flat caps, baggy suits, and plain masks. Obviously, it was the uniform of the Working Class.
Our guide conducted us through the portal into a big oblong cloister. We passed around the edge of this, through another set of doors, along a second corridor, and into a room that very much resembled the interior of a church. He escorted us to a bench beside a lectern and we sat facing a gathering of about a hundred Yatsill, nearly all in crow’s-head masks and yellow robes, though I counted five who were unclothed.
Behind us, a stained-glass window depicted the two suns over a sparkling sea. The bright yellow light—which made the chamber far less gloomy than my little church back in Theaston Vale—shone through it and illuminated the billowing clouds of incense curling from a censer hanging above the congregation. I later learned that the scent, which was similar to cinnamon, was Dar’sayn, the liquid from the fruits of the Ptoollan trees. The Magicians employed it to deepen their meditations.
Father Reverie took up position behind the lectern and said, “Fellow Magicians, I present to you the dissonance, Miss Clarissa Stark, and her Servant, Mr. Aiden Fleischer.”
“There it is again,” I whispered to my companion. “No debate. I’m your lackey.”
“What’s important,” she replied under her breath, “is that they keep referring to me as the dissonance, not to us. I think I’m starting to understand a little of what’s happening, Aiden.”
Before she could say anything more, Reverie asked her to explain how we arrived on Ptallaya and where we came from. Once more, Clarissa went through the story. This time, there were no questions. The gathered Magicians simply sat in silence.
“Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash,” Reverie called. “Will you please recount the events of the Immersion and how Miss Stark came to be an Aristocrat?”
One of the crow-masked figures stood. Clattersmash had told Lord Brittleback that she was going to meditate—obviously, she hadn’t done so for long. Now her unmistakable voice emerged from behind the face decoration, and in a concise manner—but in tones that noticeably quavered—she described our discovery in the Forest of Indistinct Murmurings, the journey to the Shrouded Mountains, the events in the Cavern of Immersion, and our long journey from there to New Yatsillat.
She sat down, rather heavily.
Reverie addressed the congregation. “Whatever you make of this, there are two certainties. The first is that, compared to our other Servants, these two are rather different in form. The second is that the dissonance brought to us by this one—” he gestured at Clarissa “—is far-reaching in its influence,” he held his hands wide, “and has been accepted without question by all but a few.”
One of the unclothed magicians stood and said, “The parliamentarian Yarvis Thayne and I represent that minority.”
“Father Yissil Froon,” Reverie responded, “you are the oldest, longest serving, and wisest of us—but see how many oppose you, or at least disagree with you!”
“That does not make me wrong.”
“But why do you object?”
“Because long ago, the Saviour looked upon the Yatsill and found us pleasing, though we lacked self-awareness, did not recognise the glory of Phenadoor, and were little more than animals. But it angered the Saviour to see us taken by—”
A ripple of disapproval ran through the congregation, interrupting him. Someone hissed, “Blasphemy!”
Father Mordant Reverie rapped on the lectern and snapped, “Be careful what you say! As the survivor of many, many cycles, you are held in very high regard, but that does not grant you licence to transgress.”
“I understand,” Yissil Froon replied, “but cannot explain my objection without some reference to that which may not be spoken of in the sight of the Saviour. I shall be as circumspect as possible.”
“See that you are. Continue.”
The Magician bowed and continued, “The Saviour created a division. At Immersion, some of the children were made Working Class, and