A third lengthy corridor, at least forty feet long, with many more leading away from it. The scrounger frowned. From the outside, Sparrow Bridge did not seem wide enough to contain all this. He looked back, spied the crescent-shaped shard, then squeezed on between the treacherous glass walls and shuffled deeper into the maze. Something nicked his shoulder and he halted, felt blood trickle down his back.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Scatterclaw cried. “Stay where you are, all of you. He is not lost. You are not lost, are you, Scrounger?”
“No.”
“Then proceed.”
Sweat ran from Mr. Nettle’s brow, but he dared not lift his hand to mop it. There was barely room to breathe in here. He sucked in his chest and moved on again. Another opening led to another corridor and this one appeared to stretch for twice the length of the last. Walls of glass glistened blackly. Nothing made sense: the entire room could not be more than sixty feet wide. He glanced up and saw the lantern overhead. Had it always been hanging directly above his head? He was growing weary of this.
“Scatterclaw,” he shouted.
“Don’t linger. They know where you are.”
“Who?”
No reply.
Mr. Nettle cursed and moved on. He took a left, edged fifty paces, then a right. When he looked up the lantern was still there, directly above. Damn the thaumaturge. Wasn’t it enough that he’d paid a wealth of iron to speak to the man? Now he was expected to crawl through this trap. He’d half a mind to climb the partition, get a good look at the place, or use his cleaver to shave away some of the glass fragments.
But Mr. Nettle did neither. Thomas Scatterclaw was not a man he wanted to anger. Folks said he’d come across the Yellow Sea from a place where Iril was worshipped. They said he’d come here a hundred and forty years ago and his body had been grey and fleshless then. They said he’d pierced his lips, ears, and eyes with splinters of gallows wood so that he could converse with demons, and that he’d had nails hammered into his spine to keep his gaze from Heaven while he slept.
The scrounger waited for a dozen breaths, and then pushed on. A left, then another left. Twenty paces. A right. Ten paces. Another right. Always the same wickedly sharp corridors, always the same blood-coloured lantern overhead. Had he been tricked? Was he to spend the rest of his life in here? He wandered for what seemed like hours, down corridor after corridor, glass inches from his chest and inches from his back.
Finally he stopped.
Ten paces ahead was an opening in the left wall. But this did not lead to another corridor; it opened into a wider space. Even from here he could see another partition a short distance beyond, but this time a wall without glass. Warily, Mr. Nettle approached it.
Thomas Scatterclaw sat cross-legged in the centre of a box-like space some twenty feet across and hemmed in by partition walls. A deep-red robe and cowl hid every inch of him, but Mr. Nettle thought he saw bumps in the cloth on the man’s back where no bumps should be. On the floor in front of him, a rusty kitchen knife and a plain, chipped bowl. The bowl was full of blood.
Mr. Nettle grunted. “You the thaumaturge?”
“Take the knife and open a vein.” Thomas Scatterclaw didn’t look up. “Add your blood to this—to the dead blood.”
“What for?”
“Do it quickly.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
“No,” Scatterclaw said, “but Iril does. Quickly now, there are demons in here.”
Mr. Nettle glanced round. Nothing but the tired wooden partitions. No sounds, no creak of wood. The thaumaturge was trying to unnerve him.
“Now,” Scatterclaw snarled.
Mr. Nettle picked up the knife, and without thinking any more about it, cut across the back of his hand behind his thumb. Blood welled and trickled over his hand.
“In the bowl,” Scatterclaw said. “Hurry.”
Mr. Nettle did as he was told.
Iril’s priest appeared to shudder beneath his robe. He leaned forward and picked up the bowl, and Mr. Nettle saw that his exposed hands were black and gnarled as though they had been burned, the fingers twisted around each other like tightly woven roots. Had the thaumaturge done this to himself too? Scatterclaw tilted the bowl under his cowl, and drank.
Disgusted, the scrounger watched the man drain the bowl and set it down.
“Do not close your eyes,” Scatterclaw said. “Not for an instant. Do you understand? No more than a blink. They get in through your eyes but only if you cannot see them. They will try to sneak up on you, trick you. If they get inside you, you will never leave this maze. You’ll stay trapped in here with them until Iril comes for you.”
“Who?”
“The Non Morai.”
Again Mr. Nettle looked around anxiously.
“You’ll see them if you look hard enough,” Scatterclaw said. “And I advise you do look hard. Be thankful it isn’t dark, for darkness makes them bold. All that trouble on Cog Island was caused by the Non Morai at night. Doors from Hell attract them like flies.”
The light in the room appeared to thicken, until Mr. Nettle felt as though he was straining to see through a red veil. Walls and floor and rafters turned a dark, dark red that was almost black. He heard movement behind him and whirled round. Nothing. Now he could smell an odour like spoiled meat. Something moved at the corner of his vision, as though trying to approach unseen, but when he swung to look, there was nothing there. Yet Mr. Nettle felt an aura of malice in that empty space, so strong his heartbeats quickened.
Thomas Scatterclaw breathed slow and deep, and then spoke in a glutinous voice that was not his own. “How many are here?”
Behind him, Mr. Nettle heard a chorus of whispers. Eleven.
He wheeled, saw nothing.
“And a living soul,” Scatterclaw said.
Ours, the voices hissed.
Thomas Scatterclaw, or whatever had taken possession of him, was silent for a long time, and then the cowl turned to face Mr. Nettle. “Your daughter is not with us. A living man has taken her.”
The scrounger’s fists bunched. “Who?”
“He is diseased. Hafe reaches for him.”
“Hafe?”
“The hell of the fourth angel. Halls of dirt and poison. Green ghosts, harrowcells, and flowers.”
Mr. Nettle frowned. The Maze, he suspected, was trying to confuse him. So it was with Iril. “Who is he?”
Voices then swarmed all around Mr. Nettle. Close your eyes. Let us in and we’ll tell you.
For a heartbeat the scrounger almost obeyed. It seemed the most natural thing to close his eyes, to let the voices inside. But some part of him resisted. “Who is he?”
The voices hissed, snarled.
Thomas Scatterclaw said, “Devon.”
Smoke rose from smouldering censers around the Sinners’ Well and hung in a fragrant pall between the severed heads. Nine of the twenty spikes were occupied: six men, two women, a child. Pulpboard signs proclaimed them blasphemers, Iril worshippers, or Heshette spies. All rooted out by the Spine, brought before Ichin Samuel Tell to be redeemed before the mob. Their bodies had been cast, still bleeding, into the abyss; the heads left as a reminder of Spine efficacy. Fogwill surveyed the scene through watering eyes and breathed through the folds of his sleeve. Was his man here? Was he too late?
Then, in the shadows, he spied the glow of a pipe. It lit up a narrow, dirt-streaked face, and then all was dark again. Fogwill approached his spy.
“Good evening, Adjunct,” the man said.
“Any developments?” Fogwill asked.
“No. He works late, as usual.”
“You managed to get away without any problems?”
The man sucked on his pipe till it illuminated ranks of narrow teeth, bony cheeks, and a knife-thin nose. “Left for a smoke, didn’t I? Half the workers do it.” He grinned. “Who was going to stop me? The furnace gaffer? He’s scared of me. I still got my knife, and they all know it.”
Fogwill glanced over at
the nearest head. Crows had already taken the woman’s eyes and lips. He grimaced. “Why did we have to meet here? I abhor this place.”
“I like it here.” Smoke leaked through the spy’s teeth. “The heads tell me things.”
Fogwill tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. The man was a lunatic. “What things?” he asked, despite himself.
“Secret things,” the spy said.
“Blood has been shed here,” the Adjunct said. “It’s dangerous. God knows what things might be lurking here.”
“The censers are blessed.”
“You can never be too careful.” Fogwill caught a glimpse of movement, and spun. A black shape, like a dog but much larger, loped away between the chains. “Look, did you see that? What was it? A manifestation?”
The spy shrugged. Fogwill found the gesture oddly disconcerting. This man had once been Spine; not an Adept, but a common Cutter. The needle marks in his neck remained—evidence of the Spine masters’ attempt to temper him. But these traces were augmented by tattooed knots—the indelible stains of failure. A common enough occurrence, for tempering was not always successful. Sometimes minds just broke.
Ejected from the sanctuary of the temple, damaged assassins did not survive for long. Society shunned them, and it was only a matter of time before some cutthroat, with sharper wits and drunken morals, took exception to them.
“You learn anything from the scrounger?” the spy inquired.
“His daughter disappeared close to the Scythe—in the Depression. The bruising indicates it wasn’t Carnival’s work.”
“Figures.” The assassin inhaled. “Want me to go ahead?”
Fogwill nodded.
“If I don’t find anything?”
“Report to me tomorrow morning.”
“And if I do?”
Fogwill hesitated. “You know God’s will.” And, there, the words were out, as simply as that.
I’ve just sanctioned murder.
Whatever had been inside Thomas Scatterclaw had now departed, leaving him collapsed and senseless. But the voices in the maze were growing louder, bolder.
Why not close your eyes? Just for a moment. The light is so bright.
The room had brightened, almost painfully so, but Mr. Nettle had no desire to close his eyes. His anger gave him the strength to ignore the demons, if that was what they were.
Devon had killed Abigail. Devon was mortal. He could be made to suffer. What form of suffering, the scrounger didn’t know, not yet. But he would see the Poisoner scream and beg for his life before the night was out.
We can help you. Close your eyes. Or break the lantern. Yes, smash it. We can help you if it’s dark.
“Shut up!” He had to think. The thaumaturge’s maze still trapped him and he had no idea how to get out of it. Didn’t much like the thought of squeezing back through walls of broken glass with these demons at his heels. Better if he found another way.
There is another way. A safe way. Break the lantern and we’ll show you.
Mr. Nettle studied the room. The rafters were too high to reach, and the floorboards looked too solid to smash through. Maybe he could climb one of the partitions, step across the tops of them to the edges of the room? He cursed himself for having left his backpack outside.
Something cold touched his hand. He lashed out.
At empty air.
The voices wheeled around him, laughing.
Mr. Nettle circled slowly. Movement everywhere, but he couldn’t seem to get a clear look at whatever was moving, as though the air shifted and blurred around indistinct shapes. Shadows that weren’t shadows when he looked; figures that evaporated, became whorls of grain in the partition walls.
Overhead, the lantern flickered and dimmed, and in that moment Mr. Nettle glimpsed them: thin men with white faces and red grins. They were standing in a circle around him.
He ran to the nearest partition, grabbed the top of it, and hauled himself up.
Glass bit his fingers: the other side of the wood was evilly sharp. He hoisted one knee up and crouched on the top of the partition. The maze now looked smaller than it had appeared from below, not more than fifty feet square, but the complexity of it stunned him. Narrow corridors crammed together, running in every direction. Square spirals, L-shapes, and S-shapes. Countless dead ends. And all laced with blood-red glass. Twenty paces away, the door where he’d come in; and beside the door, the room’s single window. If he was careful, he could hop across the top of the maze to reach it. Slowly, he stood. The top of the partition was only two inches wide.
Cheat, the voices howled. Cheat, cheat, cheat.
Mr. Nettle stepped across to the adjacent partition, wavered for a second. He sensed the air shift, push him, as though trying to throw him off balance, and he flung his arms out. For several heartbeats he stood there, knees trembling, certain he was going to fall. But he recovered his balance. Then a deep breath, and another step. The partition groaned, wobbled, and his insides lurched. His heart was pounding. The maze of glass glistened below him, like walls of teeth that seemed to grin, salivate.
Cheat, cheat, cheat. The demons’ fury was palpable. Icy breaths caressed Mr. Nettle’s face. Unseen things thrashed around him. He stepped to the next partition. The wood cracked, but held. Mr. Nettle swayed for a sickening moment. Corridors of glass tilted and pitched. He took another step. Another.
He was halfway across when the lantern went out, and plunged the room into darkness.
14
TWO ASSASSINS
THERE WAS A knock at the laboratory door. Devon slammed the rat cage shut and raised his breathing mask. “What is it now?”
A nervous chemist poked his head in. “Sorry, sir, we need to know if you still want the aether tanks drained tonight. There’s a ship due in from the Plantations in the morning. If we drain the tanks we’ll need to recalibrate, and she’ll be waiting for the best part of the day before we can refuel her.”
“Tradeship or churchship?”
“Churchship.”
“Drain the tanks.”
“What about the ship?”
“The ship can wait. I don’t want any further interruptions tonight.”
“Very good, sir.” The chemist slunk away.
The Poisoner returned to the rat cage and peered down at the scampering creature. From his waistcoat pocket he plucked a small phial and shook it, squinting at the rose-coloured liquid within. He replaced his breathing mask, opened the phial, and carefully drew a drop of the liquid into a pipette. This he mixed with a spoonful of honey in a shallow dish and placed inside the cage. The rat scurried over and began lapping at the solution. Devon watched it anxiously.
When all of it was consumed he studied the rat for a few minutes. There was no visible change in its behaviour.
“Now,” he muttered, picking up a scalpel, “I am afraid this is going to hurt.”
He held the blade over the rat, following it patiently as it bounded about the cage. Then he stabbed it in the back. The rat shrieked and tried to wriggle free, but Devon held the scalpel firmly in place. He pinned the creature down until it stopped struggling, then withdrew the scalpel and plunked it into a beaker of alcohol.
Devon waited, his breathing loud in the mask. Minutes passed. The rat twitched once. Blood leaked from the wound. Then nothing. Devon put a finger under its chest, rolled it over. The creature was dead.
He sighed heavily.
Devon pulled off his mask and dropped it on the workbench. His face was itching, his hair dishevelled about his ears. Carefully, he removed his spectacles and cleaned them before perching them back on the bridge of his nose. He glanced back at the dead rat in the cage. It was still a dead rat in a cage.
The Poisoner crumpled on his stool. Enough for today. He felt exhausted and still had that mess to clean up in his study. He was always tired these days. Over the years he’d found himself going to bed earlier and rising earlier, already worn out before the day began. His body seemed heavier, every
task more laborious. He accepted the weariness, but the pain…
Some nights Devon woke in agony, clutching his chest, as if breathing shards of glass. His wounds bled constantly. The poisons, fuels, and sulphurs of the Poison Kitchens had soaked into his flesh and filled his bones like lead. There was no room inside for any more. He was dying.
The Saviour of Deepgate—poisoned and left to rot by the people I’ve saved. And for what? The populace despise me. My own chemists despise me. The Church despises me, for all that I’ve done for them. Who are these people? People whose survival was bought by my suffering. By my Elizabeth’s suffering. Yet I endure this agony so that they can outlive me.
The hypocrisy enraged him. Everyone in Deepgate was waiting to die. Except Devon. They did not deserve their own lives, and yet they took his. But he wasn’t finished yet. He’d take back what they’d stolen, and more. Only thirteen souls were required to make the angelwine potent. Had it required a thousand, Devon would have cut them from the city without hesitation.
Deepgate owed him.
It had been careless of him, he supposed, to leave the girl’s body in his apartment, but he’d had no intention of venturing out on Scar Night, and he’d lacked the strength this morning to move the corpse. The prospect of lugging the body around made him feel even wearier. He would just dump it in the first dark gap he found over the abyss, then make himself some supper. Lately he hadn’t been eating enough. A good supper would sort him out: perhaps steak with minted potatoes. He picked up the jar of honey from the worktop, wiped away some spatters of rat-blood, and stuffed it in his pocket—pancakes with honey for dessert.
To minimize any further contact with his chemists, Devon left by one of the back exits. Labourers filed in and out the door in shuffling lines, going to and from the furnaces. Soot-blackened faces weary; clean pink faces despondent.
To Devon’s dismay, he spotted a group of other chemists under the clock-tower gaslight. Above them, the clock sounded midnight with a brassy thunk. He recognized Danderport, a sprightly, eager nuisance with permanently moist lips and restless fingers, who was engaged in a fierce debate with some other crinkled, sulphurous little oiler.