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“They were stolen,” I say.
Her expression softens. She hands me a piece of paper, a curl of white from one of the illegal Archivist ports. As I look around the room, I notice that many of the people hold slips of paper like mine.
“You’re not the only one who wanted to know if the Plague was real,” she says. “It is. ”
“No,” I breathe out.
“We suspected a Plague even before the stillzone barrier went up,” she says. “The Society was able to keep it contained for a long time, but now it’s spreading. Quickly. ”
“Who told you?” I ask. “Was it the Rising?”
She smiles. “We hear things from the Rising and the Society. But Archivists have learned to be wary of both. ” She gestures to the paper I hold in my hand. “We have a code for times like these. We’ve used it for a long time to warn one another of illness. The lines come from a very old poem. ”
I look down and read it.
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by.
I am sick, I must die.
I grip the paper tightly in my hand. “Who is the physic?” I ask, thinking of Xander.
“No one,” she says. “Nothing. The important word here is plague. The physic isn’t anyone special. ” She tilts her head. “Why? Who did you think it might be?”
“The Leader of the Society,” I say, hedging. Even after all my trading with the head Archivist, I’m hesitant to tell her about Xander, or Ky.
She smiles. “There is no Leader of the Society,” she says. “They rule by committees of Officials from different departments. Surely you’ve figured that out by now. ”
She’s right. I have. But it’s strange to hear confirmation of what I’ve suspected. “What about the Plague, then?” I ask. “There must be other mentions of it in your Archives. ”
“Oh, there are,” the Archivist says. “Plagues are mentioned everywhere, in literature, histories, even poetry, as you’ve seen. But they all say the same thing. People die until someone finds a cure. ”
“Will you tell me if my papers surface somehow?” I ask. “If someone else brings them to trade?”
I already know the answer but it’s difficult to hear. “No,” she says. “Our job is only to certify authenticity of items and keep track of our own trades. We do not ask anyone to account for the items they bring here. ”
I knew that, of course. Otherwise, I would have had to explain how I came by my papers in the first place. In a way, I stole them, too.
“I could write some poems,” I say. “I’ve thought of them before—”
The head Archivist interrupts me. “There’s no market for that,” she says, her voice matter-of-fact. “We deal in old things of established worth. And some new things whose value is obvious. ”
“Wait,” I say, my idea taking hold and making me reckless. I can’t help it—I picture it: all of us coming together to trade. For some reason I imagine the scene taking place in a City Hall, under the dome, only instead of wearing bright dresses we are bearing bright pictures, holding colorful words, humming snatches of new melodies under our breaths, unafraid of being caught out, ready to be asked, What song is this you sing?
“What if,” I say, “we started another line of trading, using new things that we’ve made? I might want someone else’s painting. They might want my poem. Or—”
The Archivist shakes her head. “There’s no market for that,” she says again. “But I am sorry about your papers. ” Her voice rings with the loss only felt by a true connoisseur. She knew what those pages were worth. She saw the words, smelled the faint aroma of rocks and dust that clung to them.
“So am I,” I say. And my loss is much deeper, more visceral and essential. I have lost my way to get to Ky, the insurance I always had that if I stopped believing in the Rising, or if things went terribly wrong, I could trade my way to Ky, to my family. Now I have very little left, and even the Thomas poem, which no one else knows, won’t be nearly enough to get me there without the actual document.
“You have, of course, two items in transit,” the Archivist says. “When those items arrive, you’ll be able to take possession of them immediately since you have already paid in full. ”
Of course. The I did not reach Thee poem. Grandfather’s microcard. Will they still come through?
“And you may keep running trades for us,” the Archivist says, “as long as you prove trustworthy. ”
“Thank you,” I say. At least there’s that. The small amount I get as payment for the trades won’t be much, but perhaps I can start to accrue something.
“Some things will remain valuable no matter who is in charge,” the Archivist tells me. “Others will change. The currency will shift. ”
She smiles. “It is always,” she says, “so interesting to watch. ”
PART TWO
POET
CHAPTER 9
XANDER
I’m dying,” the patient tells me. He opens his eyes. “It’s not very hard. ”
