The carriage could go no farther.
Water flooded the tunnel to waist height, and beyond the chasm lay a collapsed gallery. Seventy-two people stood without medicine, light or communication. The Salt Guard was approaching behind them. Ahead there was only a narrow passage between the beams, just wide enough for an adult to squeeze through sideways.
Marek counted the sparks.
After the rain, the fire and the salt, twelve remained, including Irsa. There was nowhere to make a new batch. The carriage stove had burnt out, and he would not take human heat.
With twelve sparks, Marek could assign a single task to each form for the first time. He gave each one an independent line, so he would not confuse their wishes with his own.
He assigned them aloud.
Four holders fastened themselves to the beams, three listeners entered the brickwork to search for hollows, and three carriers stretched out above the water. Irsa remained the rhythm linking them. Marek left the final spark and her line unassigned.
"Why leave one?" Saya asked.
"For a mistake."
The first mistake was the rope. When the holders raised a beam, the old rope snapped and struck a passenger's leg. The free spark caught the end at once while the others pulled the man from the water.
The second mistake was the hollow behind the wall. A listener mistook a deep shaft for a passage. Marek stopped the carriers only seconds before they led the children to it.
The system did not make him all-knowing. It simply allowed him to make a mistake in one place and correct it in another without abandoning the rest.
The third obstacle could not be fixed by force. Beneath the water they found a copper grille sealing an old drain. The carriers could slip between the bars, but people could not pass. If they tore out the grille, the current would flood the dry part of the gallery.
Beran felt out a handwheel beneath the water. It was impossible to turn with one hand. Two holders fixed the old man's metal palm to the handle, and the passengers pulled on a belt at Yuna's signal. One knock – pull. Two – release. After nine repetitions, the grille rose just high enough for people to crawl beneath it.
Marek did not touch the wheel. He held four other tasks and gave the signal whenever the current weakened. For the first time, the choir worked not in place of a human chain, but within it.
Beyond the grille, the listeners found a side recess containing crates of old filters. The apothecary cleaned one, fitted it to a pipe and gave the people water without rust in it. Until then he had barely spoken to Marek. Now he simply said how many minutes the filter would last and asked for the next injured person.
From then on, the apothecary worked beside Marek and called out how much water and how many bandages remained.
Yuna was among the first. When they found a safe pipe above the water, the girl took off her single red mitten and tied it to the metal.
"So nobody goes down the other passage."
The red showed even in Irsa's dim light. The passengers began passing the directions from one to another: head for the mitten, then keep to the right-hand wall.
When the last person had passed, Yuna retrieved the mitten and pulled it back onto her hand.
Marek guided the sparks and tried to keep the people going at the same time. At a bend, a woman asked what would happen if there was no way out ahead. He began to answer and felt one line weaken.
A holder beneath a beam faltered.
Marek fell silent and brought his attention back. The beam stopped a few centimetres above Beran's head.
"You can't lead us and them," the old man said.
Marek had no answer.
Marek called Yuna over and showed her three signals, so she could lead the people without his voice. One knock – move. Two – stop. Five – listener needed.
"Why me?"
"Because you count while everyone else is shouting."
Marek did not give her control of the sparks. He only tasked her with passing the route on to the people. It was enough to free part of his attention.
Before long, a dry platform appeared ahead. Beran found an old track seal on the wall and ran a metal finger over it.
"They didn't close this branch line after the collapse," he said. "The Soot demanded that families be allowed to hear their dead before the heat went into the Ring. The Chamber called it a threat to supply. They struck the district out and bricked up the line."
Beran did not know this from hearsay. His old shift had hauled coal to the Soot until the gates were closed without warning one day. The workers were ordered to remove the signs, turn the points and whitewash the station names. Those who refused lost their clearance.
"I took down my sign," he said. "I had a family and two hands. I decided the memory of a railway line was worth nothing if the living were waiting at home. A year later, a shift died on this branch line. It was no longer on the new plans."
Marek did not try to comfort the old man. Beran was not telling the story to be forgiven. He was explaining why he had kept an illegal map and why he had been the first to answer the carriage today.
One of the passengers gave a mirthless laugh.
"So you're taking us to people the city has already written off. Convenient."
Another man looked at the twelve sparks.
"And what makes your order any better than the white seal, if one man decides for us there and one man decides here?"
Marek wanted to say that he had saved their lives. But that did not answer the question.
Saya answered for him.
She raised the clay vessel containing the memory heat of Yuna's mother.
"As a conductor, I confirm that no human memory has been used as material. But I do not confirm that Marek will always be right. If he tries to take this vessel without consent, I will sever the connection myself."
"Can you?" the man asked.
Saya looked at Irsa.
"I don't know yet."
The honest answer reassured the people more than a promise.
Marek freed one line and told Irsa to approach the vessel. The cold spark stopped a hand's breadth away. The memory heat inside responded, but Irsa did not touch the clay.
"Does she listen to you?" the man asked.
"Not always," Marek answered.
"Is that supposed to reassure us?"
"It reassures me."
Some of the passengers smiled for the first time. The danger had not passed, but at least Marek did not hide the fact that his control was incomplete.
Yuna approached Irsa and held up the red mitten in front of her. The spark repeated five faint flashes. She did not answer on the sixth.
"She doesn't know yet," the girl decided.
Marek felt an odd relief. Irsa was developing behaviour he had not given her. It made the choir less convenient and possibly less dangerous.
Before the final wall, the route divided once more. Warm air drew from the left, while water could be heard on the right. The listeners chose the warmth, but Saya caught the smell of white salt in it. The Soot protected its entrance with a false draught. Marek listened not to the choir but to Beran: the old man pointed to the wear on the right-hand rail. People had once travelled that way.
They turned towards the water. The tunnel was longer, but safe. It was the first fork where the network gave a quick answer and a person with experience corrected it.
They reached the end of the gallery. A thick wall blocked the way, built after the branch line had been closed. The listeners found empty space beyond the bricks and a multitude of warm points.
Marek prepared to dismantle the brickwork, but a knock came from the other side.
One person at first. Then several more. Within a minute, an entire district was answering through the wall.
The rhythm came from dozens of old stoves. For years, the Soot had waited for the dead branch line to find its voice again.
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