Drosi screwed up his eyes and bobbed his head. “We won that. We won that war, I remember. Now you make fun of an old man.” He spat at the shaman’s feet.
Bataba spoke carefully. “The war that took both your sons, twelve years past.”
Drosi leaned heavily on his crutch. He muttered something under his breath, then turned to Adi at his side. “Bran, fetch your brother, lad. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”
Adi fidgeted. “Councillor, I’m not your son.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Councillor, I am Hoden’s son, Adi. Cousin to your third wife, Deniz.”
Drosi shook his head and scrunched up his eyes again, his lips forming unspoken words. He peered at Adi, then scowled at the councillors around the room.
The forked-bearded warrior spoke. “Go home, old man, back to your hamaruk. We have work to do.” His accent was softer than the shaman’s, closer to that of the river town traders.
Devon looked more closely at the man’s knife. The blade was slightly curved, the steel etched with designs imitating those on the Tooth’s hull. A score of lines marred the grip. A bandit habit, this marking of the grip: each line likely represents an opened throat.
“Curb your arrogance, Mochet,” said one of the elder councillors. “The shaman did not give you leave to speak.”
The warrior called Mochet frowned.
“Shit stickers,” Drosi said. “Not one grain of wit between the lot of you.” He smacked Adi again with his crutch. “Come on, Bran, we’re not staying here.”
With Drosi muttering all the way, Adi helped the old man from the room.
When they were gone, the shaman cleared his throat and addressed the council. “Now, each of you…”
A scratch at the door.
“Come,” Bataba said.
The door opened and a face appeared, a young man, his skin aflame with suppurating sores. “Shaman,” he wheezed, his voice ragged and moist.
Damage to the lungs in this one, I know the poison. And the sores? Gull-pox. He’ll be dead in a month.
The pox-faced youth went on, “The outcast guard in the skyship has lost his mind.”
“Explain.”
“He won’t stop screaming, raving like a madman. He froths at the mouth and tears his own flesh.”
“You were too harsh with your sport?”
“No, shaman, he welcomes our blows and howls for more. We have restrained him.”
Bataba looked inquiringly at Devon.
“He’ll die soon enough,” the Poisoner said.
Sypes’s brow furrowed. “You can’t just abandon him.”
“He’s of no more use to me.”
“That’s—”
Bataba interrupted. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He poisoned the man.” Sypes jabbed his stick.
“Have the healers look at him,” Bataba said to the youth at the door.
“Easier just to finish him off,” Devon said.
The shaman’s eyes narrowed. “My men enjoy their sport, as you yourself will find out.”
Sypes fumed above his stick. “For God’s sake,” he said to Devon, “at least give him something to ease his pain.”
“A knife would do the job just as well.”
Mochet spat. “The Poisoner treats his own as he treats the Kin. You’ve called us here to decide the method of his death, Bataba?” His forked beard glistened with oil. “The men are saying he took a dozen arrows in his flesh, plucked them out, and laughed at us.”
Devon met the young warrior’s eyes, then gave him a small nod.
“Cut him,” said an elder councillor, a man with onyx skin and misty eyes. “These folk believe hell comes for spilled blood, so let him watch the sand drink his own.”
“A thousand cuts,” said another stocky young warrior. “And let’s make them fight each other.”
“Look at the priest,” Mochet snorted. “Poor sport, I think. Unless we took the Poisoner’s other hand off. Or an arm. Or removed his eyes?”
Bataba said, “He’ll die soon enough, Mochet, but that’s not the reason I’ve summoned this council. We must decide if we can use him first.”
“I’d use his ribs for a spear rack,” Mochet growled, “his eyes in lizard traps, and a foot for my hunting hounds to chew on. Those are the best uses for him, shaman.”
Devon was beginning to believe the Heshette must hoard entire rooms of the severed limbs of their enemies. He smiled patiently and thought of his own eventual uses for warrior body parts.
“He wants to offer us a deal,” Bataba said.
A moment of silence.
“I’ve a deal for him.” Mochet brandished a fist. “And if he doesn’t like that, I’ve a better one here.” He drew his knife.
“Put the knife away,” Bataba said. “We’ll listen to what he has to say.”
Mochet lowered the knife but didn’t sheathe it. “You expect us to bargain with this worm?”
There were muttered protests all round.
“Have you forgotten what he’s done to us?” Mochet’s beard was dripping oil like sweat. “Have you so soon forgotten the poisons and the burnings? Did you not see the ways our warriors died? The sicknesses? What is it you think you’ll gain from him? A new eye, perhaps? I say we run him through. Here. Now.” He took a step towards Devon, muscles bunching behind the outstretched knife.
“Stop,” Bataba commanded.
Mochet halted.
“I have not forgotten the past,” Bataba continued. “But I will not neglect the future. The Poisoner has fled Deepgate. Skyships hunt him. He has sought us out as allies.”
“His skyship crashed,” Mochet said. “We all saw it.”
Devon regarded him coldly. “The airship landed,” he said, “as smoothly as my incompetent companion could land it.”
Mochet scowled his disbelief.
Bataba gazed at each of the council members in turn. “He claims he can give us the city,” he hissed.
“A lie,” Mochet said.
The shaman folded his arms across the multiple fetishes in his beard. “Let us hear him and then decide. If his reasons for aiding us are weak, Mochet, you’ll enjoy your sport today.”
All at once Devon had the attention of all the councillors.
He removed the spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and cleaned them while he considered his words. The angelwine had restored his eyesight, but it was an old habit. In a way he missed having to wear them. More than his death was now at stake here. If he failed to convince these men, he would endure an eternity among their imaginations. He replaced the spectacles in his pocket and took a deep breath.
“I do not give a damn about any of you,” he said. “I do not give a damn about your beliefs, your culture, or your little war.”
A circle of Heshette brows lowered.
“To me, you are ignorant savages—little better than animals. As far as I’m concerned, you can all live in this bone mountain for ever, or drop dead from gull-pox. I don’t care.”
Mochet’s jaw had clenched. The tattoos on Bataba’s face twisted into new shapes. Sypes was watching the men’s expressions carefully. As was the Poisoner.
Apparently they believed him.
“The only people I hate more than savages like you are those walking corpses in Deepgate and their puppeteers in the temple.” He fixed his gaze on Sypes. “The Heshette worship Ayen, the goddess of Light and Life, and so have at least some limited understanding of what it is to be alive. In Deepgate, life is forfeited at birth; an entire culture waiting to die, eager to be consumed by the darkness beneath their feet.” He snorted. “Or that’s the theory. In truth, those maggots cling to their existence with savage tenacity, devouring anything, anyone, in a desperate frenzy for one more miserable day of waiting for the end.” He forced his words through clenched teeth. “Their hypocrisy is staggering. My wife died to feed their insatiable hunger for life. The Poison Kitchens claimed her, as they almost claimed me. Two of us, p
eople who wanted more than this non-life they promote, who were not content to become food for their god, destined to be used up and discarded by those mindless masses who yearn for the pit.”
Devon felt like striking the old priest then. He felt the elixir thumping inside him; it whispered to him, darkened the edges of his vision. The councillors seemed to fade until only Sypes existed: a haggard old priest hunched over his walking stick, more dead than alive.
“I will cut your rotting city down for no other reason than to give your people what they want. Will they flee, priest? When the abyss reaches out to them, will they turn away?”
Presbyter Sypes met his stare. “There are innocents in Deepgate, children—”
“Let their parents evacuate them,” Devon snarled. “If they do not, then the crime is theirs…yours. The Church fostered their absurd faith—not me.”
He saw from the Presbyter’s pained expression that the old man understood that. But Sypes hadn’t lost his faith; he still believed in Ulcis. Devon knew then, with utter certainty, that his suspicions had been correct. The priest was afraid of his god. Suddenly he realized why Sypes had endeavoured to have the angelwine made for Carnival. It was such a ridiculous idea, he had never before considered it. The priest had actually hoped to convince Carnival to stand against his own god. Whatever waited in the abyss had clearly become a threat.
“Tens of thousands will die,” Sypes said.
“They’ll die happily,” Devon hissed. “I’m giving them what they desire, what they deserve.”
But what will rise from the abyss? Devon could not wait to find out.
The shaman interjected, “How do you propose to accomplish this, Poisoner?”
Anger bruised Devon’s vision, pulsing and fading, and for a long moment he stared in confusion at the tall tribesman, trying to remember who he was. He finally shook his head clear. “I’ll awaken this machine,” he said, “this bone mountain, as you call it, and bring it to the abyss to cut the city’s chains.”
One of the councillors muttered, “The outcast god would be crushed, its keepers destroyed. Shaman, what retribution from Ulcis?”
Bataba’s brow furrowed in thought. “Ayen will protect us.” He nodded. “She will sanction this.”
“The Poisoner is a liar,” Mochet hissed. “This is a trick.”
“He has betrayed his own people,” Sypes said. “He’ll betray you too.”
“They were never my people, Sypes.” Devon’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears, as though he had spoken in a chorus of whispers. “They were never people to begin with. They’ve always been dead.”
Bataba rapped his staff on the floor. “Council, you have heard him. What is your decision? Do we delay our sport, ally with this man? Or do we finish this now? Deepgate’s skyships burn closer.”
“Kill him,” Mochet demanded.
But the other six were uncertain. They muttered among themselves. Eventually, an elder councillor approached the shaman. “We will delay our sport. For now.”
Devon breathed deeply. “Good,” he said. “But before we begin, there is something important I must do for you.”
“What’s that?” Bataba asked.
“Save your lives.”
Through the viewing windows on the bridge of the Adraki, the armada stretched ahead over the Deadsands towards Blackthrone, like a long curving bank of steel clouds. Sunlight flashed across the great silver balloons and sparkled on the brass of the gondolas beneath them. Fogwill might have found the sight impressive, even inspiring, had he been able to look up from the bucket between his knees. The bridge lurched, a tremor ran through the carpet under his feet, and he retched again.
A whistle sounded and Commander Hael put his ear to a trumpet fitted to the portside wall. After a moment, he responded into another trumpet. “Aye, flag that news back to the Kora and the Bokemni.” He turned to the captain. “Fourteen degrees starboard. Stretch the formation to day-range limits. I want Clay notified of any developments.”
“Aye, sir.” The captain nodded to an aeronaut seated on his left, who relayed the message via a third trumpet to the signalman on the aft deck.
The aeronaut commander turned to face Fogwill. “They’ve spotted movement around the Poisoner’s ship. The heathens are evidently busy.”
“Cannibalism…or repairs?” Fogwill asked between spasms.
“Hard to tell,” Hael said. “The advance fleet is still circling high, beyond arrow range.” As they had been for most of the day.
The rest of the armada was strung out between Blackthrone and Deepgate, forming a continuous line through which information could be flagged back and forwards between the warships hovering over the stricken Birkita and those over Deepgate, where Captain Clay was busy organizing the regulars for a march across the desert.
News of the Birkita’s sudden plummet to earth had reached the city just after dawn, whereupon Mark Hael had ordered the formation to hold as was while his own ship, the Adraki, was rigged for flight. The Birkita’s proximity to the Tooth of God could mean only one thing: She’d been holed. Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Now that the winds had changed in their favour, Hael would be able to reach the crash-site in just six to eight hours. He had elected to command the attack personally.
But Hael was not known for restraint when it came to unleashing ordnance, and Fogwill, desperate to see Sypes returned unharmed, had insisted he accompany the commander. With Carnival now off hunting angelwine, and Dill vanished, perhaps even dead, Fogwill’s brief moment of command had put the city in greater peril than ever. The Adjunct needed his old master back in charge of things. Clay had tried to talk him out of the excursion, of course—the temple guard captain did not trust airships. But Fogwill had been adamant. After all, he’d assured himself, they’d be safely above arrow range. What was the worst that could happen?
The contents of the bucket sloshed between Fogwill’s trembling knees. His stomach bucked again as the warship shuddered, thrumming a discordant rhythm in every one of the priest’s nerves.
“A fine breeze, Adjunct.” Mark Hael was grinning. “Perhaps Ulcis himself has sent it to aid us.”
Fogwill groaned. The same wind had been blowing fiercely since they’d left Deepgate three hours ago. Devon’s own ship had been forced to crawl through the night against a northerly gale, but the wind had swung to the south with the arrival of dawn and the Adraki had been able to thunder along the armada’s stationary flag-line at triple Devon’s speed. They were closing fast.
Provided the Adraki didn’t tear herself to pieces in the process.
Mark Hael didn’t seem to care. He’d ordered the engines to be cranked up full and appeared to relish the screaming wind, the pitching and thumping of the bridge, the groan of over-stressed cables.
And he’d claimed Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.
Fogwill just wanted to get off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The talc had all smudged off by now, revealing his unhealthy pallor to all.
“You don’t look well,” Hael commented, his grin even wider. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy Fogwill’s discomfort.
“Why do these things sway about so?”
“Air currents. We’re pushing the Adraki hard. You’d feel better if you kept your eyes fixed on the horizon.”
But the Adjunct kept his gaze pinned to the bucket. “Standing makes me feel dizzier. How much longer must I endure this?”
The commander drummed his fingers on the control panel. “Another five hours. The advance fleet vessels are massing. We’ll circle and look for signs of Devon and Sypes once we arrive. With any luck the Shetties will have done away with the Poisoner for us.”
“Sypes must be protected,” Fogwill said. He then put his head in his hands and began to retch again. The stench from the bucket brought tears to his eyes.
“If those savages have him, it’s already too late,” Hael continued, unconcerned. “I know them. They won’t keep him for ransom.”
/>
Fogwill looked up. His throat felt raw, saliva dribbled over his chin. “We need to…get the Presbyter back,” he managed.
Hael grunted. “There’s nothing I can guarantee. I don’t have enough men for mud-work, so a landing would be pointless.”
“What do you suggest we do, then?”
“What we normally do.” Hael stared out across the desert, the buttons on his uniform glinting in the sun. “We’ll gas them. This many ships against one Shettie stronghold should clear out most of them. Then Clay’s regulars can march out and mop up.”
“But Devon may survive.”
“Where’s he going to go?”
After some discussion, Dill and Rachel had decided to abandon the spiral path—a route too slow and treacherous for them to keep pace with Carnival. Clasping her in his arms, Dill flew carefully, cautious of reaching the bottom of the abyss too abruptly. They kept the lantern burning low as they descended, and strained to see through the humid darkness, searching for some sign of Deep itself or the ghosts down below.
But whatever awaited them still remained hidden.
Carnival wouldn’t as much as hint at what she’d seen during her earlier reconnaissance. She circled them impatiently but kept her distance to stay out of the lantern light. Whenever Dill caught a glimpse of her, he saw nothing in her eyes but a glint of savage humour, as if she were savouring some cruel joke.
He knew better than to press her for answers. Not that he was overly keen to hear what she might say. Her malicious eagerness for them to reach the bottom unnerved him.
In the silence Dill heard his blood drumming in his ears. Rachel’s arms were heavy about his neck, her breath hot against his cheek. The antique steel of his mail shirt began to feel like pig-iron, becoming heavier until it felt like he was carrying the weight of a city on his back. And everywhere now, that smell.
Of war.
Of weapons.
Feebly, he shook his head. He couldn’t place it, and yet some part of him knew what it was—the pungent odour howled to be recognised.
War. Weapons. Something…?
Rachel interrupted his thoughts. “Listen,” she said, “can you hear it?”