The Canticle of Whispers

by David Whitley

Overview

In The Canticle of Whispers, the final volume of the Agora trilogy, Mark and Lily lead the revolution to unseat the powerful elite while confronting the dark and twisted nature of their destinies.
Over the course of their travels, Mark and Lily have seen the dark side of capitalist society and the terrifying side of utopian community. Now they journey deep underground to a world populated by people terrified of physical touch but capable of creating mesmerizing song. Here they discover the seat of Agora's power and try to right the wrongs of their forefathers--but can they succeed without sacrificing themselves? In this gripping conclusion to a trilogy that is at once timely and prophetic, David Whitley pushes his characters and his world to the brink in order to find redemption from the past.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781596438453
Publisher:	Roaring Brook Press
Publication date:	02/19/2013
Series:	Agora Trilogy Series , #3
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	400
Lexile:	740L (what's this?)
File size:	819 KB
Age Range:	11 - 14 Years

About the Author

David Whitley, a recent graduate of Oxford, wrote his first children's novel at age 17; it was shortlisted for the Kathleen Fidler Award. At 20, he was the youngest person ever to win the Chesire Prize for Literature for a children's short story. He lives in England.

David Whitley was born in Chester in 1984 and graduated from the University of Oxford with a double First in English Literature and a passion for writing Children’s fiction.  At age 17 his first children’s novel was shortlisted for the Kathleen Fidler Award and at 20 he won the Cheshire Prize for Literature for a children’s short story, the youngest writer ever to win this prestigious award. Presented by Children’s Laureate Michael Morpurgo, who said some very complimentary words, the award was sponsored by Maryland Bank of North America and the £2000 prize helped David to spend a postgraduate year writing The Midnight Charter.  Whilst his first and overriding aim is to write fiction, David is also a scholar, particularly interested in the works of Jonathan Swift and his contemporaries; he had just received an offer of a place at Oxford to study for a Master’s Degree when his book was picked up by Puffin and Roaring Brook Press.  Although David’s primary medium is the written word, he is no stranger to performance. As well as straight acting, he is an in-demand bass-baritone having taken several leading roles in musical theatre. David’s numerous ‘serious’ music credits include Masetto in Mozart’s Don Giovanni for Carte Blanche Opera and concert performances of Tosca, Tannhauser and Peter Grimes under the baton of the late Richard Hickox, musical director of Opera Australia. As well as appearing on stage himself, he has also enjoyed directing youth drama. In his home town he has worked with The King’s Players to direct and produce two musicals and a play between 2006 and 2009, including Sondheim’s Assassins and Into the Woods. David loves giving readings of his stories, to audiences of all ages.

Read an Excerpt

The Canticle of Whispers

The Agora Trilogy

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By David Whitley

Roaring Brook Press

Copyright © 2013 David Whitley
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59643-845-3

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CHAPTER 1

Echoes

Tertius had said he was going to show her a wonder.

Septima had never been this far from the central caverns before. They had been on the run for days, but up until now they had skirted around their old haunts — swiping food parcels whenever they could, making do with drinking from deep, clear pools of water when they could not. She felt an ache in her belly sometimes, but she was still buzzing with the thrill of it all. She knew that the guardians would catch up soon.

So when, an hour ago, Tertius had told her that he had scouted ahead, and found something marvelous, she was sure that he was lying. Maybe the guardians had threatened him. Maybe he was leading her into a trap.

That didn't stop her from going, of course.

They walked through new and mysterious caves. There was no crystal light here, so they both lit their lanterns. The metal was smooth and warm under her fingers. Everything looked different under lamplight — Tertius's pale face became burnished gold, and his large, dark eyes gleamed with excitement.

Septima stroked back her long, ash-colored hair.

"Is it far?" she asked, daringly. It wasn't her turn to ask a question, but out here they could break all the rules.

"Just a couple more caves away," he said. His voice was high and tense, with none of the music it normally had. She bristled a little. This was his wonder; he wasn't supposed to be frightened of it.

Septima was about to speak again, when she heard a strange echo, too far away to make out. Suddenly, she was afraid too, and shrank into her long robe.

"We're near the Cacophony," she whispered. "You never said the wonder was out here. What if it's moved?"

"It won't have," he replied, irritated. "Don't fuss. I don't need to answer you. You haven't shown me anything new for days."

She lapsed into silence, sulking. But it was true. She would have to find something for him soon. She didn't want him to lose interest in her.

She had been near the Cacophony only once before. Back when she had been too young to sing, her tutor had taken her and the others in her section to the outer caves. She would never forget that visit.

She remembered the unfamiliar silence. Their tutor had forbidden them to talk. To speak near the Cacophony invited it to come and find you.

Then there had been the darkness. The tutor had made them douse their lanterns. One girl had refused to go any farther. She had never been out of the crystal light. But the rest of them were braver. They left her, cowering, and walked into the pitch-black caves, stumbling over little cracks in the ground.

As Septima walked now, she felt those same irregularities beneath her feet, so unlike the smooth stone at the Hub. She stared defiantly at the still-burning flame in her lantern. There was no tutor here to make her walk in darkness. For the first time in her life, she was abandoning the rules. She was a rebel.

But now, as she and Tertius moved deeper into the outer caverns, Septima began to hear again what had so terrified her years before: the echoes. They emerged out of the silence — quiet at first, but growing in intensity. Roiling, rushing sounds, like the pounding of a river made up of words and shouts and wails. Septima pressed her hands over her ears, but it didn't make any difference. These echoes seemed to well up from the ground itself.

It wasn't the voices themselves that frightened her, but the passion behind them. Each one roared with joy, or cried in pain. A million voices, all talking at once, each demanding that she listen. She quickened her pace, her heart pounding. It was said to be madness to walk through the Cacophony. The impenetrable barrier that circled their home was an ocean of sound that filled the outer caverns with insane howls and mind-destroying whispers. But that didn't stop people going as near as they dared.

"We don't have to go through the Cacophony, do we?" Septima asked as the echoes faded a little. Tertius didn't respond. He wouldn't talk now. Not unless Septima gave him some new information in exchange.

"I've been here before," she ventured. Still silence. "Six years ago. Just before we first spoke." She bit her lip. Was it enough?

Finally, Tertius turned back, looking satisfied. Septima breathed a sigh of relief. She had balanced their knowledge; they were even.

"No, we don't need to go through. The wonder is just at the entrance to one of the outer caverns." He grinned, his teeth shining in the lamplight. "Not afraid, are you?"

"A little," she admitted. He stepped closer to her. Involuntarily, she pulled back; she could almost feel his breath on her face. That wouldn't do at all.

"Let's get going," she mumbled, her cheeks flushing.

They walked on. She tried to relax, but the rumble of the Cacophony left her on edge. The stone above her seemed to shake with it, as though any moment it might burst out, burying them in the awful sound.

And then, Tertius held up his hand, cutting across her thoughts with the sudden gesture.

"We're here," he breathed.

She squinted into the distance. Just ahead, at the mouth of one of the smaller tunnels, she saw something on the ground. It looked like a pile of cloth. She wrinkled her nose in disappointment.

"Doesn't look like much of a wonder to me," she said, doubtfully. But as they drew near, she could make it out more clearly. No ... it wasn't cloth ... it was ...

"But that's impossible!" She gasped. "Is it one of the Choir? It must be ..."

"Who?" he asked, triumphantly. "Have you ever seen her face before?"

She looked down. Crumpled at her companion's feet was a girl of maybe fifteen years. Her long, black hair was loose, and fell over her face in swaths. Her skin, too, was dark, and contrasted with her off-white woollen dress, weighed down with dried, flaking mud.

Septima had never seen her before in her life. And that was amazing.

"Is she ... one of the Orchestra?" She asked, breathless, so excited she forgot that it was not her turn to ask a question.

"Only one way to find out," he said.

Slowly, he extended one foot. She felt the breath catch in her throat.

"You can't!"

He looked up, a look of fierce excitement on his face.

"Watch me."

He prodded the form with the toe of his boot. Septima squealed in delighted fear. He was amazing; he could do anything.

The form groaned. They both jumped back. She felt like screaming, but already her squeal from before was echoing around the chamber, and she didn't want to add to it. The guardians might hear them, and take their wonder away.

So she watched, in amazed silence, as the girl raised a hand, and brushed the hair away from her face.

"What ... I ... where?"

The girl stared up at the two of them, her eyes wide.

"Where am I?"

Septima's mind raced, trying to come up with the right response. Was this wonder, this girl, really asking a question, without first offering some knowledge?

"Don't you remember?" she asked, cautiously, deciding the only proper response was another question.

The girl seemed thrown by this, and she pushed herself into a sitting position.

"I remember ... the steps," she began. "So many steps. Going down forever. And the darkness. And then ... voices ... calling my name. Getting louder, and louder ..."

Tertius nearly dropped the lantern.

"You've been through the Cacophony?" he said, abandoning all the rules. "What was it like? Where do you come from?"

Septima turned and stared at him in astonishment. They certainly hadn't earned the right to ask questions like that. Not yet.

"Let's start with something simple," she said, turning to the girl. "Tell us, what shall we call you?"

The girl shook her head for a moment, as if clearing it of smoke.

"I'm ... Lily. My name is Lily," she said. And then, looking more confident, she rose to her feet. "My name is Lilith d'Annain, from the city of Agora. Now you tell me," she said, looking Septima in the eyes without fear. "Where am I?"

CHAPTER 2

The Hunt

Mark Drew the filthy blanket up over his face, and tried not to be noticed.

He wouldn't have to wait much longer. Already, he could see that the Inspector was peering less carefully into the face of each debtor. Mark guessed that she had not often taken the time to look at the wretches on the street, and the parade of thin, ill faces was taking its toll. Though, like most receivers, Inspector Poleyn was unmistakably tough; in her the quality was more an unshakable sense of purpose rather than a working knowledge of the streets. It was clear that she would have been far more comfortable guarding the elite in the upriver parts of town, than down here in the tangled alleys of the Sagittarius District.

"Perhaps you could show me only the most likely suspects, Doctor?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "I don't have time to interview every debtor that ends up in your ..." she paused, obviously biting back an insulting term, "establishment."

"I am afraid not, Inspector," replied the doctor, in measured tones. "There have been several fresh outbreaks of fever in recent weeks, and I barely have time to note the patients' names, let alone remember them individually."

Mark risked peeking over the edge of the blanket again. Poleyn was picking at one young woman's wrappings with long, elegant fingers, as though the debtor were something fundamentally unclean. Behind her, Dr. Theophilus ran his own fingers through his thinning brown hair. He was doing a surprisingly good job of appearing helpful, but Mark noticed that he was beginning to sweat. He wondered if the doctor had ever lied to the receivers before.

He caught Theo's eye. The doctor made a frantic signal with the hand behind his back, and Mark sank back beneath the blanket.

"Perhaps, Inspector," Theo said, steering her away from Mark's corner, "you could tell me more about the case? I'm certain I would be able to help."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but absolute secrecy is vital," the inspector sniffed. "These fugitives have stolen from the Director himself. They must be apprehended, and swiftly."

Under the blanket, Mark suppressed a snarl. Yes, he supposed he had stolen from the Director of Receipts, the ruler of the city. But Mark had stolen nothing which that same man had not first taken from him. Once, Mark had lived in the tallest tower of the city — the Astrologer's Tower, former home of Count Stelli. Mark had been famous, a child prodigy, with a future that seemed endlessly golden, and Snutworth had been his loyal manservant — until Snutworth betrayed him, and sent him to prison. Now, Snutworth was the ruler of Agora, and Mark was hiding among the poorest of the city, trying to avoid the attentions of the law.

"Yes, of course," the doctor said, a little too hastily. "But surely such desperate thugs would much prefer to take shelter at the Wheel, rather than here. They have better supplies, and would likely find an ally in Mr. Crede. I hear that receivers are far from welcome in that part of the city nowadays ..."

"Investigations are being carried out in all likely areas, sir," Poleyn interrupted. Theo had clearly hit a nerve there. "But for reasons I am unable to disclose, it is most likely that the fugitives would hide in this area." She peered closely at Theo. "Are you completely certain that no suspicious figures have recently arrived? Perhaps a boy of fifteen summers, and a young woman with golden hair? She, at least, should not be difficult to recognize — she would be far cleaner and better fed than most of the rabble."

Mark saw a flash of concern cross Theo's face, but he covered it well.

"Inspector, as you have said on numerous occasions, we cater to everyone here at the Temple Almshouse. If we turned someone away merely for being suspicious, our beds would be empty every night. Our doors are never locked."

Scowling, Poleyn turned away, and Theo began to sort some sheets. Mark could see that he was studiously trying not to look at him, or at the cot by the door, where the other fugitive was trying to keep still.

Unfortunately, that was precisely where Poleyn was headed.

"I don't think I've seen this one before," she muttered, pulling aside the blanket. The young woman looked up at her. From this angle, Mark couldn't see if Cherubina was keeping up the pretense. "Perhaps I should examine her more closely."

"Be my guest, Inspector," Theo said, trying to sound unconcerned. "I'm sure that her boils are no longer quite so contagious."

Poleyn snatched her hand back, and despite everything, Mark found himself choking down a gasp of laughter.

This, on reflection, was a bad idea. Poleyn's attention snapped around to his corner.

"You know, of course, that harboring criminals is a serious offense, Doctor," she said, padding over toward Mark. Hastily, Mark drew the blanket over his face again, but he could still hear Poleyn's voice — firm and resolute. "The Director has decided that it is time for a crackdown. Too many people are flouting the rule of law. This ruffian Crede is just the beginning, and we have no intention of letting the rot go any further."

She was leaning over Mark now. Mark could smell her — a clean smell, almost disinfectant, quite a contrast to the rest of the cellar. Mark cringed back under the blanket, his mind racing, trying to come up with something that would force her away. They had been so close ...

"Inspector, I really wouldn't ..." Theo began, but Poleyn interrupted.

"I've had quite enough of that, Doctor. Quite enough. It's time to finish these childish games. I'm sure the Director will have many questions to ask ..."

And then, with a sudden flash of inspiration, Mark flung back the blanket and grasped at Poleyn's lapels, groaning.

"Take me out of here!" he yelled, trying to sound as feverish as possible, scraping his hands, covered in flaking skin, across the sergeant's face. "They're keeping me sick, I tell you!" He rolled his eyes, pushing his lips next to Poleyn's ear, even as she tried to pull away. "You'll help me? Won't you? You'll save me from the medicine? They're all after me, every one!"

Poleyn raised her truncheon, and Mark fell back, whimpering, curling into a ball. Internally, though, he was entirely focused on the sounds of Theo steadying the startled receiver.

"Well, I did try to warn you," Theo replied, with noticeable relief. "That poor young man — mind quite gone, I'm afraid."

Carefully, still acting, Mark peered over the edge of the blanket again. Theo was wetting a rag in a wooden bowl, and offering it to the sergeant. "All part of his condition. A dreadful case. If I were you, I'd wash yourself where he touched you, just in case you develop any symptoms ..."

With forced dignity, Poleyn took the rag and wiped her face. This time, though, Mark didn't laugh. Despite her distaste for the debtors, Theo had warned him that Poleyn was a highly efficient investigator. If she believed that her quarry was here, she would be back with a whole squad next time. True, the receivers themselves were only doing their job, but they reported to the Director.

And if the Director caught him, Mark wouldn't even have the right to a fair trial, because as far as the law was concerned, he didn't exist.

"Well, I think that is all of the current patients," Theo said, soothingly. "Of course, if you wish to wait until this evening, I'm sure there will be a crowd. It looks like rain, and my assistant Benedicta is planning on an excellent stew. There might even be recognizable meat in it this time, if you'd care to join us ..."

"That will not be necessary," Poleyn said, brushing down her lapels with a look of disgust. "I am satisfied for the moment that the fugitives are not here, but you shall, of course, be receiving regular visits." Poleyn put down the rag and drew herself upright. Though Theo was almost a foot taller than her, Poleyn seemed to look down on him. "I know what you are doing here, Doctor. How you offer shelter to the debtors and criminals. In happier times, I might have approved. But now ..." Poleyn looked troubled, and turned away. "The Day of Judgment approaches, and we must all choose our sides ..."

Despite the tension, Mark saw Theo reach out to her.

"Inspector," the doctor said, gently, "is something distressing you?"

"That is none of your concern," Poleyn muttered, hastily, as though she had said more than she intended. "Now, Doctor, I have other business to attend to ..."

Looking shaken, Poleyn retreated to the stairs out of the basement. For a tense moment, Mark and Theo listened as she scattered the debtors on the floor above. And then, with an air of finality, she slammed the door.

The doctor sank down onto a stool, head in his hands.

"It's over," he muttered. "Thank the stars."

"No, thank you, Theo," Mark said, sincerely, jumping out of the cot, glad to stretch after hours spent curled up. "Do you still have that cloth?"

Theo handed Mark the damp rag, and Mark began to scrub at his exposed skin, removing the milky film that they had painted on earlier. Before long, the signs of his "illness" were wiped away.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Canticle of Whispers by David Whitley. Copyright © 2013 David Whitley. Excerpted by permission of Roaring Brook Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Epigraph,
PART ONE: Answers,
CHAPTER 1: Echoes,
CHAPTER 2: The Hunt,
CHAPTER 3: Fugitives,
CHAPTER 4: The Wheel,
CHAPTER 5: Harmonies,
CHAPTER 6: The Warning,
CHAPTER 7: Resonances,
CHAPTER 8: The Page,
CHAPTER 9: The Legend,
CHAPTER 10: Thoughts,
CHAPTER 11: The Descent,
CHAPTER 12: Revelations,
CHAPTER 13: Cracks,
PART TWO: Truth,
CHAPTER 14: The Stone,
CHAPTER 15: Believing,
CHAPTER 16: The Punishment,
CHAPTER 17: The Noose,
CHAPTER 18: Voyaging,
CHAPTER 19: The Addiction,
CHAPTER 20: Living,
CHAPTER 21: The Return,
CHAPTER 22: The Reunion,
CHAPTER 23: The Appointment,
CHAPTER 24: The Leader,
CHAPTER 25: Orders,
CHAPTER 26: The Storm,
CHAPTER 27: Words,
CHAPTER 28: The Judgment,
CHAPTER 29: Beginning,
EPILOGUE,
Copyright,