The first thing Sharlo did upon returning to the theatre's rear gallery was draft an official document.
Viola ground the ink; he wielded the brush. By the gallery lamp, at the end of the world, he set down stroke by stroke the most far-ranging official paper in the Vesper Bureau's three-hundred-year history:
"Vesper Bureau Overseas Survey Team, Survey Paper No. 7. Findings: at Starport in the northern reaches stand thirty-seven vaults established by the Dirge Society, containing such articles as debts of affection, oblivion, homesickness, waiting, and dreams. All are the hearts and thoughts of the people, harvested over three hundred years from the thirty-seven ports, including Kandelburg and Gern Harbour. Their provenance is unlawful, and every article has an owner. Pursuant to an extended interpretation of the wartime clauses of the Vesper Compact, the aforesaid vaults are hereby sealed on site and entered in the record. Articles whose owners can be traced are to be returned in batches. Where an owner is deceased, the article is to be transferred to the Stillwater Society for conveyance across the river. So ordered."
He added the date, signatures, and official seal.
They made thirty-seven fair copies of the sealing notice. Viola did most of the copying, Cole cut the paper, and Pip mixed the paste: a production line spread across the rear gallery at the end of the world. By the twentieth copy, Viola's wrist ached, and Sharlo took over. The notices went upon the doors in two different hands, but carried equal force: the regulations recognised the seal, not the handwriting.
Then the six proceeded down the passage, vault by vault, affixing the notices one after another, each square and straight upon its door.
Pip had mixed their paste from rations and water. As they reached the third vault, that dry, courteous voice spoke from the darkness overhead with evident interest.
"Our honoured guests intend—to seal the Stage's vaults?"
"Sealed under lawful authority." Without lifting his head, Sharlo smoothed the notice's corners. "Stolen property."
"The Stage is merely the custodian," the voice countered at its unhurried pace, like a Countinghouse clerk reconciling ledgers. "Receipts accompany the goods we store; warrants support their transport. If you wish to call them stolen—kindly address the owners of the cargo."
"In human law, knowingly storing goods of unlawful provenance is called receiving stolen property." Sharlo was equally unhurried. "For three hundred years, every purchase made by the Dirge Society involved coercion or fraud; in every case both culprit and stolen goods were caught together. The files are at the Vesper Bureau, copies are in Parliament, and the front pages are in the newspaper offices. In a human court, your 'receipts' and 'warrants' are evidence of the crime."
"Of course, you may refuse to recognise human courts." He patted the final corner flat, stepped back, and studied whether the notice was straight. "That makes matters simpler still—if you do not recognise a human court, do not conduct business in the human world. The next time a Dirge Society ship enters a human port and collects a human heart, we shall follow the precedent established today: every consignment we find, we seal."
"Three thousand years," said the Stage Announcer's voice. It sounded not angered, but as though it were reciting a rare fine line. "This is the first time anyone has brought human statutes into the Stage's jurisdiction. Mr. Curtainbreaker, that sheet of paper—has no force here."
"I know." Sharlo finished one notice and moved on to the next vault. "It need not have force here. It has force in the human world."
"Once these thirty-seven notices are posted, a new entry will appear in human archives: Starport has vaults; the vaults contain stolen goods; the Vesper Bureau has investigated and recorded the fact." He pressed a fresh notice onto the vault door. "From today, these goods will no longer be marked 'whereabouts unknown' in the human accounts. An unresolved case will lie upon the desk of every Director-General to come. If my generation cannot finish it, the next will carry it on."
"Paper cannot govern you," said the Curtainbreaker. "But paper outlives people. You know that better than anyone."
The darkness overhead remained silent for a long time.
"...Interesting," the voice said at last. It was the second time that word had been spoken that night. "The Stage has not seen an act like this in three thousand years. Pray proceed."
And it truly did not interfere. Thirty-seven vaults, thirty-seven notices, posted one after another.
At Homesickness Vault VII, something happened that none of them had foreseen.
Low, multitudinous voices had always leaked through the crack around its door—hundreds upon hundreds of native accents murmuring beyond it, voices that had never ceased in three thousand years. But the instant the notice covered the seam, the vault abruptly fell silent.
For three breaths.
Then the faintest of elderly voices sounded beyond the door. It spoke in a northern fisherfolk dialect, tentative and disbelieving:
"...Are those people outside?"
The six froze before the door. Then came a second voice in a southern accent. "Living people?" A third followed, and a fourth—hundreds of native accents flooded through the crack, swelling into a muted, trembling tide:
"The living? Someone's come from home?"
"Do our folks—do our folks know we're here—"
"How many years? How many years have passed outside—"
They had sealed more than twenty vaults, and the goods inside had never spoken. But this one answered—because the sealing notice was paper from the human world, impressed with a human seal and written with human statutes. After three thousand years, through a closed door, the native voices in the vault had recognised the scent of "home."
Sharlo laid his palm gently against the door.
"Yes. Someone has come from home." He spoke into the crack, clearly and one word at a time. "The human world. The Vesper Bureau. The Overseas Survey Team. Every one of you has been entered in the register, not one missed—it is written on the notice. I shall read it to you."
He read the official document on the notice from beginning to end. When he reached "Articles whose owners can be traced are to be returned in batches. Where an owner is deceased, the article is to be transferred to the Stillwater Society for conveyance across the river," the voices beyond the door surged like the tide, then forcibly subdued themselves. In a vault three thousand years old, hundreds upon hundreds of native voices wept, desperately muffling their sobs as though afraid to disturb this hard-won good news.
"Wait for us," Sharlo said at last, his palm against the door. "Batch by batch, we shall bring you home. The human world works slowly, but this time—"
"It will be done."
Thirty-seven vaults, thirty-seven notices, all the way to the end of the passage. From that day forward, human seals remained posted inside a theatre at the end of the world.
The thirty-eighth vault did not appear on their sealing schedule.
It lay around the corner at the passage's deepest point, and the plaque upon its door bore only two words: CLEARANCE ROOM. The moment Pip stopped before it, everyone in the party saw his face.
"Inventory clearance," he rasped. "What they take during clearance before an asset leaves the factory—is stored here."
The door was unlocked. Beyond it was a very small storeroom, its shelves sparsely occupied by little boxes, most of them dusty. Step by step, Pip went inside. His great, empty-bright eyes swept the shelves—then fixed immovably upon the lowest one.
Eleven tiny glass boxes stood upon that shelf.
In each box huddled a minuscule, feeble knot of light. Each bore a tag, and the tags held no names, only serials: C-One. C-Two. C-Three... C-Six. C-Eight... C-Twelve.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Twelve serials, with C-Seven missing.
C-Seven was Pip. Eleven boxes, eleven children who had failed to leave the workshop—the little thing taken from each during "inventory clearance" had been numbered, shelved, and left to crouch in this small vault at the end of the world for eleven years.
"They're all here." Pip sank to his knees before the shelf, his voice broken beyond shaping. "All eleven... they're here."
He reached out and lifted down the first box, holding it as though it contained a nest of fledglings. "C-One, Big Fellow. Strongest in the workshop. Took three punishments for us." He passed the box to Cole behind him, then lifted the second. "C-Two, Silkie. Cleverest hands. She used to mend the whole room's socks in secret at night."
"C-Three, Dora. Always laughed. Even laughed after a beating. The masters said there was something unlucky about her laugh—" His voice trembled. "So this is where they kept it."
"C-Four, Mufflepot. C-Five, Little Stone—stuttered when he talked, never when he sang. C-Six... C-Six was the smallest. We all called him Bean."
One by one, he lifted all eleven glass boxes from the shelf, giving each serial and restoring a name. Behind him, Viola entered them in the record, stroke by stroke: C-One, Big Fellow. C-Two, Silkie. C-Three, Dora... By her eleventh entry, eleven children erased from the archives for eleven years had names once more.
"Bean cried his first night in the workshop," Pip began abruptly, holding C-Six's box. He had never told anyone about the workshop, but now the words came fast and soft, as though he feared no one would ever know if he did not tell them now.
"Cried so hard nobody in the dormitory could sleep. The supervisor was coming to lash someone. Big Fellow pulled Bean under his quilt, covered his mouth, and spun a lie for the whole room—said it was a fine family's great house, just look how thick the bedding was; we'd have meat at every meal from then on; the masters were teaching us important skills, and when we'd learned them, all twelve of us would make something of ourselves together."
"He spun it beautifully. Bean stopped crying. Everyone in the room believed him." Pip's voice shook. "Silkie said when she'd made something of herself, she'd open a tailor's shop and cut a new suit of clothes for each of us. Little Stone said he was going to—going to drive a cart and sing. Dora laughed at him and said if a carter sang, he'd frighten the horses."
"Then, one by one, they disappeared. Every time someone was cleared, the workshop said the same thing: "The inventory clearing broke them. They never came out of the workshop." In the final year, I was the only one left in the dormitory." He lifted his face, tears coursing like rivers down that thief's countenance. "I couldn't sleep at night, so I'd recite their wishes one by one. A tailor's shop. A cart. Meat at every meal. And as I recited them, I kept wondering—if they'd even had their 'longing for home' taken away, where had their wishes gone?"
"Here." He looked around the small clearance room. "The tiny scrap of 'longing for home' taken from each of them has been huddling here for eleven years."
"Consultant." He looked at Sharlo. "I won't seal these eleven. I'm taking them with us."
"Where?"
"Wherever they are, that's where I'll take them," Pip said.
"Take them?" Viola reminded him softly. "Pip. Their owners—"
"I know." Pip cut her off, his voice hoarse. "Their owners are gone. These eleven things can never be returned. But they can't stay crouching on this shelf—under the words 'Clearance Room,' with numbers on their tags, waiting to gather dust."
"They deserve names. They deserve somewhere to go." He held the boxes more tightly. "Even if that place is the river."
The Old Boatman stepped forward and set his blue-green glass lamp on the floor at the centre of the room.
"The children died in the workshop, and the workshop lies in the south. Their souls would have taken the river—after eleven years, they should long since have settled upon the other shore," said the old spirit-ferryman. "These possessions have been parted from their owners for eleven years, and their owners have waited beyond the river for eleven years. This old man will see to the journey."
The eleven glass boxes were arranged in a line before the blue-green glass lamp. The Old Boatman sat cross-legged and began the conveyance verse of the Ferry-Ticket Litany. Sharlo had never heard this section. Its melody was deeper than the traveller-calming verse, warmer than the ferrying-the-dead verse. It was a passage reserved for "returning an article to its rightful owner"—the very errand the Stillwater Society had performed for three thousand years.
At the third recitation, Pip shuffled forward on his knees and opened the eleven lids, one by one.
Eleven tiny points of light rose from the boxes.
They had lain huddled for eleven years. At first they flew timidly, circling before the lamp and drawing closer to one another. The eleven points gathered into one small cluster, like the twelve children who had once pressed together for warmth in the dormitory, only one short. The cluster circled over Pip's head. Once. Twice. On its third circuit, it skimmed his hair with the lightest touch—like little hands, each stroking his head in turn.
Then they found their road. One after another, they entered the dim radiance of the blue-green glass lamp—like eleven children finally released from school, joining hands and walking into the alley that led home.
Before the last point of light entered, Pip spoke to it the words he had been saving for eleven years:
"When you get there, carry a message for me." His voice shook violently, but not one word blurred. "Tell them—C-Seven never made anything of himself. Never had the ability. Couldn't take your places. But C-Seven survived."
"Survived, and... and did all right. I've got a full name, a berth, comrades." He bent until his forehead touched the floor. "I've carried your names for eleven years, and I'll keep carrying them. The day I go down there—"
"Call the roll. I'll answer present."
The light entered the lamp. Only the tranquil green glow remained in the storeroom, with empty glass boxes scattered across the floor.
After a long while, Cole helped Pip up. The thief rose, wiped his face clean, and immediately gathered the eleven empty boxes, stacked them neatly, and put them in his travelling bag—
"I'm keeping the boxes," he said. "They're lined with velvet. Later... I can put clean things in them."
"What things?" Cole asked softly.
Pip thought.
"Silkie wanted a tailor's shop—when we return to Kandelburg, I'll go to Tailor Street and buy a thimble on credit, and put it in one box. Little Stone wanted to drive a cart and sing—I'll find a cart bell. Bean..." He closed his bag and shouldered it securely. "Bean was too young then. He hadn't wished for anything yet. His box can stay empty—there's no harm in empty."
"I'll think of something for him, little by little. If I think long enough, it'll come to me."
During an interval in the sealing, Casimir went to the lamp room alone.
The Keeper of the Star Gate had said: Come back alone in a while. No one asked what he went to do, and no one followed. As the navigator left, his back was taut as a cable under full strain. When he returned, he walked very slowly, very loosely—a kind of looseness Sharlo had seen only once before, on the night Casimir untied the first knot upon White Strand Island.
"He taught me how to see a keyhole," was all Casimir said. The others waited. After a long silence, he continued, in a voice soft as if speaking to himself:
"I looked at the lock upon me. For thirty years, I always thought its keyhole lay at the mouth of Detz Valley—upon that line, outside."
"It doesn't," he said. "The keyhole faces inward."
"Inward?" Cole did not understand. "In towards what?"
Casimir did not answer. He looked at the tilted sea beyond the embankment for a long while. At last he said, "On the return journey. Whether this lock can be opened isn't decided here—it's decided in the south."
He paused and added half a sentence. It held something he had not possessed in thirty years—not hope, but a thing more cautious than hope, like someone carrying a spark through the night:
"But it can be opened. He said so. Any lock whose keyhole faces inward can be opened—provided the person inside is willing to reach out."
They boarded the returning train at "daybreak"—Starport had no daybreak, but their watches said the hour had come.
When they passed out through the theatre's rear door, the nameless doorman rose from his bench.
He no longer knew how to say anything polished, and he had nothing to give them. He simply stood, pulled the rear door—which had gone unbolted for three thousand years—as wide as it would open, and held it while the six passed one by one. When the last had stepped outside, he called to their backs in the dry voice of official phrases, all that remained to him:
"Guests—may your road be smooth."
Sharlo looked back and waved. "Mind the door. This day next year, I shall speak your name."
The train entered the station, its doors slid open, and the chime remained as gentle as ever. The six boarded and took their seats, carrying three more things than before: the sealed-vault archive, a parcel of empty glass boxes, and the lingering warmth of a grey-white theatre ticket stub in the pocket against Sharlo's breast.
As the doors were about to close, Sharlo looked towards Starport one final time.
And in that instant he saw it—the light from one patch of star-apertures in the sky-curtain flickered in unison. Not a blink, but a change: one row of keyholes shifted from white to warm, then from warm to white again, like a rank of lamps whose brightness someone had tested.
Setting the lights. Someone was setting the lights above the sky-curtain's proscenium.
The Final Curtain Season had begun to load in.
The doors closed. The train moved away. Starport receded into the darkness.
The carriage was far quieter on this journey. Most of the freight that had filled it on their arrival was gone—the Stage Announcer made no inquiry about the sealing notices or the now-empty carriage.
Cole held the guiding lamp against him and leaned by the window; he was asleep before the second station, his brow smooth and his left eyebrow no higher than his right. Pip held the parcel of empty glass boxes upon his knees and said nothing all the way, but his back was straight, as though a burden borne for eleven years had at last been lifted. The Old Boatman rested with his eyes closed, the blue-green glass lamp upon his lap and its wick far lighter than before—all those carried across had taken to the road, and the lamp too had shed its burden.
Sharlo leaned back in his seat and entered the accounts of his days at Starport, item by item, in the black notebook.
Thirty-seven vaults sealed. Eleven children's hearts sent on their way. A name spoken back to a nameless doorman. A seat saved for a keeper of the lock three thousand years at his post. A message accepted from a god for delivery to the black river. His uncle's whereabouts made certain—beneath the Colossus's pillow, at the source of the black river, with lamps lit all along the road.
When he finished those entries, he returned to the final page for that night and recorded the last thing he had seen before the carriage doors closed: the star-apertures of the sky-curtain had tested their brightness in unison.
Loading in. Above them, the stage for the Final Curtain Season had begun to load in.
At the foot of the page, he added one line:
"They may load in the stage. Whether the performance opens is a question for every spectator in the house—and for one man without a script."