Devon squatted before Angus. “Your companion appears to have passed out. Did you manage to come to an agreement in my absence?”
Angus spoke slowly, clearly desperate to keep a measure of conviction in his voice. “Lars was in too much pain. He agreed…” He lowered his eyes. “We both agreed, I’ll help you.”
“If your friend was conscious, would he tell me the same thing?”
The guard nodded stiffly.
“Shall I revive him? Let him confirm that decision for himself?”
Angus blinked away drops of sweat. “No need,” he said. “He agreed.”
“Still,” Devon remarked, “it seems an unusual decision. He has a family who will miss him, and you apparently do not.”
“Too much pain,” Angus hissed through his teeth.
“Why should I believe you?”
Every muscle in Angus’s face and neck was tense. A sheen of sweat plastered his grey skin. For a long moment he held Devon’s gaze, then finally he said, “Please.”
Devon tapped a finger against his chin while he studied the veteran. Eventually he nodded. “Angus, you are exactly the sort of fellow I need. I do believe I can use you.” He turned to the trencher and began unpacking equipment.
“Alive?” Angus asked.
“What?” As Devon glanced back at him, he thought he saw the chained guard fumble to conceal something behind his back. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Alive.”
Mr. Nettle crouched in the dark net and waited—and waited. High above him, the tower’s single window remained dark. Eventually he stood up, shifting his weight as the hemp sagged under him. If he could hook the battlements with a grapple, the slope of the tower would make it an easy climb.
And then what?
He couldn’t squeeze through the narrow window. He needed another place where he could watch the door and wait for Devon to appear. The Poisoner couldn’t stay in his tower for ever.
So he decided to abandon his den and find a place in one of the burnt-out shells on the opposite side of the alley.
From the broken pipes scattered over what was left of the floor, he guessed this had once been a clay pen, but fire had long before reduced the interior to a blackened skeleton. Chains and cables kept the outer brickwork intact, while the lower floor sloped dizzily towards the open abyss. Almost the entire upper floor had collapsed, but a narrow platform of spiked beams and floorboards protruded from the side facing the alley and offered Mr. Nettle a place where he could hide and watch.
He slung his grapple over a broken rafter, pulled himself up, and settled by the window. A few splinters of glass still jutted from its frame.
As the night dragged on, Mr. Nettle crouched among rain-damp wood and piles of rubble, afraid even to light his storm lamp. The smell of rot and ash soaked into his clothes and skin, and stayed there. Stars blinked through the lattice of beams above. No more airships passed overhead, but he heard the distant tremble of their engines from another part of the city. One of them had crashed earlier. None of his business.
Across the lane, the tower kept its secrets in silence.
After a long while the bars of sky visible overhead began to lighten. Angles of wood and rubble stood out more distinctly against the charred brick. The hum of airships faded with the sounds of dawn: birds chirruping, distant shouts and muted clanging from the shipyards.
It grew hot, humid, as morning laboured towards afternoon under a leaden sky. Mr. Nettle shifted position, trying to ease the numbness in his joints. He rubbed tired eyes, then pulled out the flask of water and handful of raisins that were all that remained of his provisions. Both tasted of ash.
His head slumped with fatigue. His clothes, thick with grime, grated against countless small wounds. He cricked his neck and tried to get comfortable. The weight of the cleaver against his leg reassured him.
Murder isn’t something to be relished. Abigail sounded exhausted.
He was too tired to argue.
Gods, how he needed a drink. His gut ached for it. To pull himself back he gripped the handle of the cleaver tightly in his lacerated fist. Something was bothering him: it gnawed at the back of his mind like a rat he could hear but not see. It was something important the Poisoner had said; something Mr. Nettle had since forgotten.
Whatever it was would come to him in time. With some effort he released his grip on the cleaver and slumped back away from the window. The loose bricks all around ground more ash into his clothes. His hands and nails were black from it.
The bastard couldn’t stay in there for ever.
All afternoon the sun made no appearance, cast no shadows. The air stayed thick and humid, almost smothered the distant pounding and clanking from the Scythe shipyards, the shouts of workers, and the occasional chime of bells from the temple.
Mr. Nettle blinked sweat from his eyes, closed them for a moment, distantly aware of the drone of engines.
Something was wrong. Mr. Nettle was suddenly inside Devon’s apartments. In his hand, a Cutter’s blade—an assassin’s weapon.
Devon sat there grinning, his head a hideous tapestry of broken skin.
The Poisoner held up a small bottle, in which blood-coloured liquid roiled and sighed, lapping the glass in slow waves, and Mr. Nettle realized there were whispers coming from the fluid, faint moans and cries of grief. This was wrong too: the angelwine had been clear. No, that had been a trick—a bottle of Rhak. He wasn’t thinking clearly. This here was the true elixir.
The Poisoner spoke, but no sound came from his lips.
Mr. Nettle closed on Devon sluggishly, as though wading through chest-high water. He tried to stab the Poisoner, forcing his arm to the motion. But the knife was gone, his hand now empty.
A silent laugh from Devon, cold amusement in his eyes.
Mr. Nettle backed away, felt the window sill behind him. He turned, dragged himself out into a darkness so complete it felt like the abyss itself. Somewhere overhead an airship buzzed like an angry wasp. He reached for the drainpipe he knew was there.
Nothing. Just brick, black and soft with ash.
He felt the Poisoner’s hands on his back, pushing, and suddenly he was falling. The buzzing of the airship filled his head…and, somewhere distant, Abigail screaming.
He woke with a jolt. Darkness, ash, engine noise. For a few heartbeats he sat confused, trying to clear the fog from his mind, and then he remembered where he was. He sat bolt upright and peered again out of the window. The alley was empty, faintly silver under moon-drenched clouds. The tower door was still shut.
Mr. Nettle wiped his eyes. He must have slept late into the night. The search for Devon had obviously returned to this district. An airship thrummed somewhere nearby, out of sight.
Was Devon still inside the tower?
An image from his dream flitted back to him. How the knife in his hand had disappeared.
Suddenly he was fully awake and swamped with dread. The nagging doubt at the back of his mind had resurfaced: the forgotten implications of Devon’s conversation with the assassin. He realized he wouldn’t be able to kill the Poisoner after all.
Once the angelwine was potent, Devon would take a sip. Mr. Nettle had accepted that. There would still be enough left to restore Abigail. But he’d overlooked the effect it would have on Devon. Like a dirge, the Poisoner’s words came back to him.
Mortal wounds would become mere scratches.
How could he kill such a man?
Now, before it was too late; he had to stop Devon now. He had to reach him before he took a sip of the angelwine. Mr. Nettle surged to his feet.
The tower door opened.
A temple guard stepped into the lane, his battered armour full of pools of moonlight. His face was shadowed by his helm, but Mr. Nettle recognized him from before. Over his shoulder he carried a shrouded corpse, in his hand his dead colleague’s helmet. The bloodhound loped out of the tower beside him, sniffed the air, and then set off in the direction of the temple.
One of the guar
ds had survived.
So Devon was dead.
Mr. Nettle’s heart thumped with too many rapid questions. The angelwine? Was it potent? Could it still be in the tower? Or would the guard take it to the temple? Either way, he had to find it—quickly, before the priests destroyed it. Mr. Nettle slipped down from his hiding place and went to search the tower for his daughter’s soul.
If he hadn’t already abandoned God, he would have prayed.
18
TROUBLE IN THE SANCTUM
DILL WOKE, GASPING, from a nightmare of blood and scars. The echo of a hollow, wicked laugh faded to the sound of bells clanging. His brow was slick with sweat, his chest tight. One of his wings lay curled under him, numb where he had twisted in his sleep. He rose slowly, winced as needles of pain stitched his crumpled muscles.
While he brushed his feathers flat, he tried to shake that evil laugh from his mind. Carnival had haunted his dreams more frequently of late. The lacerations on her skin were always fresh, always inches from his face, the darkness in her eyes a mocking challenge.
Always black. How could an angel sustain such rage? For so long…?
He shivered despite the warmth of his cell.
Morning brooded behind the stained-glass window. Mountains of grey cloud had rolled in with the dawn and threatened more rain. The air hung heavy as a damp curtain.
Dressing himself was like struggling into armour. His black velvet jacket and boots were crisscrossed with snail tracks—not that it mattered. With Devon still at large, perhaps still looting souls for his angelwine, and Scar Night drawing near, no one would pay Dill much attention. By the time he was done dressing he already felt tired. He sheathed the sword at his hip, and trudged off to work.
Borelock was already waiting for him in the Sanctum corridor. The priest muttered something vague about the damned weather and handed the reins to Dill, but said nothing more about the toppled relic. In front of the soulcage the twin mares drooped their heads, their coats already shining with sweat. Dill flicked the reins and they huffed and clopped away with an air of resignation. Even the skeletons above appeared to slouch in their chains.
The temple doors opened on to a flat grey-white heat that forced Dill to blink and turn away. A heavy silence hung over Gatebridge. Behind the gathered dead, the mourners shifted in their heavy robes. One of the guards barked an order, and the others moved slowly to load the soulcage.
It wasn’t until Dill had wheeled the soulcage round and brought it back into the darkness of the corridor that he noticed the temple guard who accompanied him. At first Dill thought the man must be injured. He walked unsteadily, hunched over, and he carried his pike more like a crutch than a weapon. His armour was dented and scratched. He must have sensed the angel peering at him, for he glanced up, and Dill then saw the sickly pallor of his skin, the dark crescents under his eyes, the pain barely concealed.
Dill turned away, ashamed and embarrassed. This man had claimed his right to accompany the dead. Someone he mourned must be inside the cage.
For the rest of the journey Dill kept his eyes averted. He tried to slow the horses to make it easier for the man to keep up. But the mares, long used to this task, chose their own pace. The guard, however, somehow managed to follow just a few steps behind, the clink of his armour punctuating the rhythmic creak of the soulcage’s wheels.
There was no breeze to cool the Sanctum. Deep in their iron hedge, the candles wavered briefly as the doors swung shut behind the departing horses. Presbyter Sypes slouched at his lectern while Adjunct Crumb sat crumpled in a chair at his side. Both men stared at the floor.
Sweat plastered over his face, and, panting in the heat, the guard dragged the chain over to attach to the soulcage. Dill climbed on top of the cage, ready to adjust the hook. He wondered which of these shrouded bodies the guard mourned for. Would the guard even recognize it?
The angel reached down to receive the chain. But the guard did not hand it up to him. Instead, he did something astonishing.
He lifted his pike, aimed it at Dill, and demanded, “Give me the key.”
Dill stared in amazement.
Presbyter Sypes straightened. “Guard?”
“The soulcage key. Give me it,” the guard growled, pressing the sharp tip of his pike into Dill’s chest.
Pain nipped Dill between his ribs. He recoiled, but the guard pressed even harder.
“Now!”
Dill tossed him the key.
Presbyter Sypes rapped his walking stick on the flagstones. “What the blazes is going on?” Adjunct Crumb had risen suddenly from his chair and stood beside him, pallid and wide-eyed.
The guard unlocked the soulcage and climbed in.
“Get out of there,” the Presbyter hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The guard was tearing open one of the shrouds.
“Guard, have you lost your senses?”
Dill peered down through the soulcage bars. The man was grabbing handfuls of cloth and pulling them loose from a corpse.
The corpse stood up.
Dill jerked away in horror and nearly fell off the cage. The corpse’s skin was red and peeling, its eyelids slack. Wisps of white hair curled around blisters, above ears that looked torn and chewed. Worst of all, it was still bleeding.
The cadaver shed the rest of its shroud, then took out a pair of gold, thin-rimmed spectacles from its waistcoat pocket and perched them on its nose.
Then Dill recognized it.
“What a day.” The Poisoner hopped down from the cage. Nothing of his grin belonged to his face: it was a grin wholly owned by the skull inside. “Even the dead are sweating.”
Presbyter Sypes and Adjunct Crumb both gaped.
The guard reclaimed his pike as he followed Devon out of the soulcage. He staggered two or three steps, his gaze sweeping dizzy circles across the floor.
Adjunct Crumb found his voice first. “You’ve decided to give yourself up?”
Devon uttered a curse, his red lips peeling back from skeletal teeth. “Does that seem remotely likely, Fogwill? Is there no link between your mouth and brain? Are you wholly unconnected inside?” The Poisoner mopped his brow with a soiled handkerchief, causing blisters to burst and to leak fluids.
“Soldier!” Presbyter Sypes shook his stick. “Arrest this man.”
The guard clutched his pike with whitened knuckles. He inclined his head towards the Poisoner and hissed, “The pain…I can’t…”
“Soon enough, Angus,” Devon replied. He turned to the Presbyter, who was edging closer to the bellpull that would summon the temple guards. “He won’t help you, Sypes. Move an inch closer to that rope and I’ll have him split you where you stand.”
The Presbyter halted and whispered, “What have you done to him?”
“He has already betrayed his comrade in order to live. Betraying the Church came somewhat more easily.” There was a note of sorrow in Devon’s voice. “Faith, like iron, is strong but brittle. It can support great weights of doubt, and yet a small amount of pressure in just the right place will snap it.” He made a motion like a hammer tap. “One only has to witness Ichin Tell’s…performances to see how easily suffering can shatter faith. Too much of it destroys the man, too little merely strengthens the resolve and extends the whole process.” He grimaced at the guard, as though he found the sight of him distasteful. “This unfortunate fellow suffers from a painful affliction which can either be eased with serum or allowed to proceed on its natural course. He serves me because he wants to live.”
“He won’t save you,” the Presbyter said to the guard. “For God’s sake, help us now and save your soul.”
“There’s a bargain to die for.” Devon sneered. “Even now, you promote faith over belief. Believe me, Sypes, the fate of your soul matters less when every drop of your blood is screaming out for another hour of life. Just look at him!”
The guard winced.
“I had hoped this would not prove necessary,” Devon said, his expres
sion hardening. “The poison inside him is rare and expensive. But I was forced to use it, wasn’t I, Angus?”
Angus nodded like a berated child.
“A concealed knife!” Devon said, indignant. He looked at Presbyter Sypes as though he expected the old priest to share his own disapproval of such an action. “This man attempted to murder me the moment I loosened his chains.”
The Presbyter frowned. “I imagine you have that effect on many people. So what do you want?”
Devon’s spectacles glinted in the candlelight. “What do I want?” He regarded Presbyter Sypes for a few moments. “I want to show you a miracle.” From his waistcoat he produced a syringe full of blood-coloured liquid. “You know what this is?”
“Don’t do this,” the Presbyter said. “Not here. Let’s speak in private.”
Devon rolled back his sleeve. “We’ll speak, Sypes, but later.” He glanced at Fogwill and then at Dill. “This requires temple witnesses.” He brought the syringe to his arm and slipped the needle under his skin. “Of course, I had intended to find a smoked glass bottle for it, or a gold-laced phial, something more appropriate…” A tiny amount of liquid disappeared into his vein. “But ultimately a common syringe seemed more practical.” Devon removed the needle and held out his arms like a showman. “Now watch.”
“Mad as a broom,” Presbyter Sypes muttered.
If anyone had asked Dill later to recount the subsequent events there in the Sanctum, he would have been unable to say exactly what had happened or in which order they had happened. Events, as he remembered them, unfolded with the speed of a dream.
A flurry of expressions—bliss, wonder, and pain—crossed the Poisoner’s face. But that visage changed from moment to moment and made each expression seem to belong to a different man. Skin paled from red to pink to white, then tightened across Devon’s forehead and underneath his eyes. Blisters shrank, their fluids retreating back inside his flesh. Weeping sores dried and healed. The bleeding stopped. Devon stood before the abyss aperture with his arms outstretched and said, “I can feel them inside.” His eyes brightened with each heartbeat and he searched the floor wildly. “All of them, I can hear…their voices.”