They walked toward the bench for a very long time.
The avenue of ledgers didn’t seem to get any shorter.
The white floor stretched away in front of them, polished and endless, and the columns rose on either side into the white haze, and the shelves between them were stacked with books from floor to ceiling.
Billions of books.
Lucan looked at the spines as they passed.
Some of them had names on them.
Names in languages he’d never seen, scripts that looped and spiralled and crawled, alphabets made of dots and alphabets made of knots.
Some were in languages he did know.
Once, passing a shelf of plain grey cloth-bound volumes, he saw a name in his own first language, the language of the white-walled world, stamped in faded gold on a spine.
He didn’t recognise it.
He looked away quickly anyway.
Tamsin walked beside him.
She’d let go of his wrist at some point, he couldn’t remember when, but she stayed close, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed his arm.
She was staring at the shelves with her mouth slightly open.
“These are all people,” she whispered.
“Aren’t they?
Every one of these books is a person.”
“I think so.”
“Their debts.”
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a while.
The pen scratched on, somewhere far ahead, steady and endless.
“Is there one for me?” she said.
“Somewhere?”
“I imagine so.”
“And one for you.”
“Two,” said Lucan.
“I imagine.”
She looked at him sidelong.
Then she looked straight ahead and kept walking.
The bench, when they finally reached it, was so tall that Lucan had to tip his head all the way back to see the top.
It was made of the same white stone as the floor, carved in a single block, as high as a three-storey house.
There were steps cut into the front of it, leading up to a narrow ledge where a petitioner might stand.
And at the top, behind the great open book, sat the thing in grey and white.
Close up, it was bigger than he’d thought.
Much bigger.
Its robes fell from its shoulders in long, heavy folds like snow sliding off a roof.
Its hands, resting on either side of the open book, were long and pale and thin, with too many joints in the fingers.
One of them held a pen.
The pen didn’t stop moving.
It went on writing, steadily, even as the thing lifted its head and looked down at them.
Its face was a page.
Blank and white and slightly creased, like paper that had been folded and unfolded too many times.
“Petitioners,” it said.
The voice didn’t come from the face.
It came from the shelves.
From the floor.
From the air.
From every one of the billions of books at once, like the sound of pages turning in a great wind.
“You have brought a dispute before the Clerk of Accounts.
State your names.”
“Lucan Marr,” said Lucan.
His voice sounded very small.
“Tamsin Marsh,” said Tamsin.
Hers sounded smaller.
“State your registries.”
Lucan didn’t understand.
Then he did.
“The Exchequer,” he said.
“The Collector,” said Tamsin.
The page that was the Clerk’s face tilted very slightly, like a man nodding.
“Two ledgers out of seven,” it said.
“In one city.
In one season.
Disputing one another.” The pen paused for a single heartbeat, then went on.
“It has been some time.”
“Seven?” Lucan said.
The page turned toward him.
“There are seven open ledgers in the Ashen Crown,” said the Clerk of Accounts.
“There have always been seven.
When one closes, another opens.
Each is granted under Clause Zero to one who has died in debt twice and petitioned for an audit.
Each is different.
Each is a tool.
None is a gift.” The voice of pages rustled.
“You are the Exchequer, which records.
She is the Collector, which extracts.
There are five others.
You have not met them.
You may.”
“Who made them?” Lucan said.
“Who made you?”
The pen stopped.
The silence that followed went on for a very long time.
All around them, in every direction, the shelves of ledgers seemed to lean in slightly, as though listening.
Then the pen started again.
“That,” said the Clerk, “is not the matter before the bench.”
“The matter before the bench,” the Clerk said, “is this.”
Two pages lifted from the great book on its desk.
They floated down through the white air like falling leaves and hung in front of Lucan and Tamsin at eye height.
Lucan’s was gold-edged.
Tamsin’s was silver.
He read his.
CLAIM — The Collector against the Exchequer.
Debt: One life.
Tobin Marsh, night-watchman, 22 years of age.
Circumstances: Killed by the debtor with a climbing iron at the grate of the spoil chute, Marrow Pit Nine, having unlocked the grate to render aid.
And below it:
COUNTERCLAIM — The Exchequer against the Collector.
Debt: One life.
Orsen Tull, bondsman, 41 years of age.
Circumstances: Killed by carbine fire at Greaves & Son, Hob’s Cross, by hired men acting on a standing order given by the Collector to a Bound debtor (Varney, Saul) and not revoked.
“Both debts are recognised,” said the Clerk.
“Both are blood.
Blood debts between ledgers may not be netted.
A life does not cancel a life.
A life is not a number.”
“Then what happens?” Tamsin said.
Her voice shook.
“Do we— Does it— Do I get to Claim him, and he gets to Claim me?”
“That is one outcome,” said the Clerk.
“It is the usual outcome.
It is the reason there are always seven ledgers and seldom the same seven.”
Tamsin’s face went white.
“However,” said the Clerk, and its pen scratched, “the bench is required to examine the full chain of obligation before ruling.
A debt is not only owed by the hand that strikes.
It is owed by every hand that moved the striking hand.” The page tilted toward Lucan.
“You know this, Exchequer.
You made a man read the names on a wall because of it.”
Lucan said nothing.
“Examine,” said the Clerk.
The two pages in front of them changed.
Lines spread out from the words on them.
Golden on Lucan’s page, silver on Tamsin’s.
Thin, branching lines, like cracks spreading through ice, or roots spreading through earth.
They ran out from Tobin Marsh and from Orsen Tull, branching and branching, back through time.
Lucan watched his own page.
Tobin Marsh — killed by — Lucan Marr.
A line ran back from that.
Another line.
Thrown by — Debt Marshals — on the order of — Edmund Varga.
Another line, thicker.
Edmund Varga — acting for — the Fennick Mining Concern — and in the private interest of — Isolde Varga Fennick.
The lines met there, at that name, and stopped.
A small golden knot.
He looked at Tamsin’s page.
Orsen Tull — killed by — three hired men.
Lines branching.
Hired by — Saul Varney — acting on — a standing order of the Collector (unrevoked).
That was one branch.
But there was another, thicker, brighter.
Hired with — 2,000 silver — paid by — Coyle — acting for — Isolde Varga Fennick.
Another knot.
The same name.
Tamsin was staring at it.
“She paid them,” she whispered.
“I knew.
Pike told me.
But I didn’t—” She stopped.
“The bench finds,” said the Clerk of Accounts, “as follows.”
The pen moved.
Lucan heard it scratch, very loud.
“The death of Tobin Marsh is a debt of the Exchequer.
It is mitigated.
The deceased opened the grate in mercy, and was killed in terror.
The debtor has acknowledged it.
He has visited the grave.
He has not lied about it.
Mitigation is noted.
The debt stands.”
Lucan closed his eyes.
“The death of Orsen Tull is a debt of the Collector.
It is mitigated.
The order was given in grief and not revoked in error.
The Collector did not know of the payment that made it lethal.
Mitigation is noted.
The debt stands.”
Tamsin made a small sound.
“However,” said the Clerk.
“In both instances, the chain of obligation runs to a single principal, who moved both hands and paid for neither.
Under the rules of the Clearing House, where a principal is identified, primary liability passes upward.” The pen scratched.
“Both debts are hereby assigned.
The life of Tobin Marsh, and the life of Orsen Tull, are recorded against the principal, Isolde Varga Fennick.
Each of you holds one against her.
You may collect.”
Lucan opened his eyes.
[ LEDGER UPDATED BY ARBITRATION.
]
▸ Debt owed TO Account Holder: Fennick, Isolde Varga — 1 life (Orsen Tull).
Assigned by the Clerk of Accounts.
▸ Debt owed BY Account Holder: 1 life (Tobin Marsh) — SECONDARY.
Primary liability assigned to Fennick, Isolde Varga.
Remains on record.
“The secondary debts remain on record,” said the Clerk.
“They are not erased.
A thing that has been done cannot be undone.
If the principal is collected, they will be marked settled.
If the principal is not collected…” The pen paused.
“They will remain.”
“There is a further matter,” the Clerk said.
A third page lifted from its book and came down between them, and this one was neither gold nor silver.
It was grey.
Plain grey, like ash.
COVENANT OF ARBITRATION.
The parties to this dispute, having been heard by the bench, are bound as follows:
Neither party shall Claim, Collect from or Seize the other for the term of one year and one day.
Neither party shall cause another to do so on their behalf.
Breach of this Covenant forfeits the breaching party’s ledger to the Clearing House.
“It is customary,” said the Clerk, “to give the parties time.
Time to collect from the principal.
Time to consider.
Time to cool.” The page that was its face tilted.
“Many do not use it.
Some do.”
Tamsin stared at the grey page.
“A year,” she said.
“A year and a day.
And then?”
“And then the Covenant expires.
And you will both still be holding ledgers.
And the secondary debts will still be on record.” The voice of pages was very quiet.
“What you do then is not the matter before the bench.”
Lucan looked at Tamsin.
She was looking at the page.
Her hands were clenched in the folds of her grey dress.
“I accept,” he said.
She looked up at him sharply.
“I accept,” Lucan said again, to the Clerk.
Tamsin’s jaw tightened.
She looked back at the grey page for a long moment.
Then she let out a long breath.
“I accept,” she said.
The grey page folded itself in half, and then in half again, and again and again, smaller and smaller, until it was a tiny grey square no bigger than a fingernail.
Then it split in two, and one half drifted toward Lucan and one toward Tamsin.
It touched his chest, just over his heart, and went in.
He felt it.
Cold, and then warm, and then nothing.
[ COVENANT OF ARBITRATION — Active.
Term: 1 year, 1 day.
Counterparty: Tamsin Marsh (THE COLLECTOR).
]
“There remains the matter of the fee,” said the Clerk.
Lucan had been waiting for that.
“The Clearing House does not create value,” said the Clerk of Accounts.
“Nor does it extract it.
It settles.
And settlement has a cost.
Arbitration between ledgers is paid by both parties, in equal measure, in the only currency the bench accepts.”
“Which is?” said Lucan.
“Something you would rather keep.”
The pen stopped writing.
For the first time since they’d arrived, it was completely still.
The silence in the Clearing House was total.
Not even the faintest rustle of pages.
The Clerk reached down with one long, pale, many-jointed hand.
It didn’t reach for Lucan’s chest or his throat or his heart.
It reached for his forehead.
Its fingers were dry and cold and smelled of old paper.
They rested, very lightly, just above his eyes.
“Hold still,” it said.
“This is quick.”
Something went out of him.
It wasn’t like the Collector.
Not a draining.
Not cold.
It was more like having something very gently lifted out of a drawer.
He felt it go.
He felt the empty space where it had been.
He didn’t know what it was.
The hand moved away.
The Clerk turned to Tamsin.
She flinched, but she didn’t step back.
The long pale fingers rested on her forehead.
She closed her eyes.
Her face twisted, very slightly, as though something had pinched her.
Then it smoothed out again.
The hand withdrew.
The pen began to write again.
“The fee is paid,” said the Clerk.
“The matter is closed.
You may go.”
“Wait,” said Lucan.
“What did you take?”
The page that was the Clerk’s face turned toward him.
“Something you would rather keep,” it said again.
“You will notice, in time.”
“One further thing,” the Clerk said, as the white began to fade around them, as the columns and the shelves grew thin and pale and the floor began to dissolve under their feet.
“A warning.
Given freely.
Without fee.”
Its voice was growing faint, as though coming from very far away.
“A claim has been filed with the bench,” it said.
“Not by either of you.
By a very old creditor.
Against the city you live in.
Against every citizen who has ever warmed their hands at its fires.” The pages whispered.
“It is the largest claim the bench has received in a thousand years.
It has been on the docket for some time.
It is about to be heard.”
“The Deep,” Lucan said.
“The thing under Shaft Thirty.”
“It has a name,” said the Clerk.
“Nobody has written it down in a very long time.
That is part of its complaint.”
The white was almost gone.
Lucan could feel the cold wet grass of the churchyard under his feet again.
Could smell the fog.
Could hear, very faintly, the far-off roar of the furnaces under the smog.
“Settle your accounts, Exchequer,” said the Clerk of Accounts, very faintly.
“While there is still a city to settle them in.”
And it was gone.
They were standing in St.
Ivo’s churchyard, among the rotting wooden markers in the pauper’s ground, in the fog, exactly where they’d been.
Tamsin’s hand was still on his wrist.
Her Bound men stood around them in a silent ring, silver eyes glowing.
No time had passed.
Lucan could tell.
The glow of the burning shop still lit the smog over Hob’s Cross.
A distant fire-bell was still clanging.
Tamsin let go of his wrist as though it had burned her.
She stepped back.
They looked at each other.
“Did that happen?” she said hoarsely.
Lucan opened the panel.
The Covenant was there, grey and plain.
Term: 1 year, 1 day.
Below it, in gold: Fennick, Isolde Varga — 1 life (Orsen Tull).
“Yes,” he said.
Tamsin looked at her own silver panel.
He saw her eyes move over it, saw her mouth tighten.
Then she closed it.
“It took something,” she said quietly.
“The fee.
I can feel the hole.
I don’t know what it was.”
“Neither do I.”
She stood in the fog for a long moment, with her arms wrapped around herself.
“She paid them,” Tamsin said at last.
“Two thousand silver.
To kill a man holding a little girl.” Her voice was flat.
“And she bought me a green dress.
And a house.
And a lawyer.
And told me I could have all of Brassmarket.”
Lucan said nothing.
“A year and a day,” said Tamsin.
She looked at him.
Her eyes were very bright in her white face.
“Don’t think this makes us friends.”
“I don’t.”
“I still hate you.”
“I know.”
“And when it’s over—” She stopped.
She didn’t finish.
She turned away, and walked out of the churchyard into the fog, and her Bound men turned and followed her one by one, silent, their silver eyes fading into the grey until they were gone.
He walked home.
The shop was a black, smoking ruin.
The Constables had come.
The fire brigade had come.
The fire was out.
The building still stood, just, its timbers charred and steaming, its windows empty black holes, the upper floor sagging dangerously.
A crowd had gathered on Hob’s Cross to watch, in the dawn.
Wren was sitting on the kerb across the street with Abel Greaves’s head in her lap.
The old man’s face was black with soot and his green spectacles were gone, and his breath was rattling in his chest, but he was alive.
Ilse was kneeling beside him with her hands on his chest, golden light flickering around them.
Rook stood in the middle of the street with his sword still drawn, filthy with blood and ash, staring at the ruin.
Brutus stood beside him like a burned tree.
Nell was sitting on the steps of the haberdasher’s opposite, with Pip in her lap.
Neither of them was crying.
They were both staring at a long shape on the cobbles in front of them, covered in a scorched blanket.
The shape was very big.
It took up most of the pavement.
Lucan went and sat down on the steps beside Nell.
After a while, Pip climbed out of Nell’s lap and into his.
She curled up against his chest with the doll with no face held tightly in both arms, and put her thumb in her mouth, and stared at the blanket.
Lucan put his arm around her.
He sat there in the dawn on the steps of the haberdasher’s, with a child in his lap and a friend under a blanket, and tried to remember his mother’s face.
His first mother.
The one in the white-walled world.
The one who’d sold vegetables at the market in the monsoon rain.
He’d thought about her a thousand times since the spoil chute.
He could remember her voice.
Her hands.
The smell of her cooking.
The sound of her laugh.
He couldn’t remember her face.
He tried and tried.
He closed his eyes and reached for it, the way he’d reached for it every night for nineteen years.
There was nothing there.
Only a smooth, blank, empty space, like a page with the ink washed off it.
Something you would rather keep.
He opened his eyes.
The smog over Hob’s Cross was turning brown with the dawn.
The fire-bell had stopped.
He held Pip a little tighter, and didn’t say anything at all.