Dill listened hard.
A tapping sound, metallic, very faint.
“What is it?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
Deeper into the abyss, and gradually, the strange clamour grew louder. It reminded him of the Poison Kitchens—the familiar distant sounds of industry, factories, and forges. The odour intensified too, but its cause still eluded him.
There. Just for a moment he thought he spotted a grey shape in the void beneath them. He pulled up sharply.
I know this. A shiver of fear brushed up his spine.
Rachel sniffed, frowned. “That odour—what the hell is it?”
Dill peered down. “I thought I saw—” He broke off. “Maybe it was nothing.”
But as they continued to drop, the blackness below began to lighten. Further vague outlines appeared, dissipated. Down to one side he spied a dim smudge like a pall of almost invisible smoke. He tried hard to focus but could not define its shape. What if it was just an outcrop of rock? Had he seen anything at all?
“Dill, look up there,” Rachel hissed. “A storm is blowing over the Deadsands.”
He lifted his head and his breath caught. From down here, Deepgate appeared to be no larger than his fist, but the distant city seethed. Glittering clouds of dust and rust fell from the agitated chains and neighbourhoods so far above, while spikes of sunlight punched through in countless places. An angry corona surrounded the outline of the city itself—and in the very centre, a bright ring flared around a black speck. The Church of Ulcis.
“It’s brighter now,” Rachel murmured. “The sun is high. It must be close to noon.”
“It looks so far away,” Dill said.
Deepgate seemed as distant as the sun, and as unreachable.
Gazing up, he didn’t notice the ground approaching until they were almost upon it. When he glanced down, he saw what looked like a steep, chalky slope rushing towards them. Beyond the lantern light, the slope sank away into the distant gloom.
“Dill!”
“I see it!” He thrashed his wings to slow their descent. Sudden wind whipped at Rachel’s hair.
“My God, Dill, look!”
Dill couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Where was the city of Deep? The buildings, streets, gardens? Where were the soul-lights? The army of ghosts? Where was Ulcis?
What was this?
He landed hard. The ground surface gave way beneath him, cracking, snapping. He lost his footing and tumbled wings over heels, pitching Rachel into the dark. Hundreds of hard edges jabbed him, punched the wind from his aching chest. The sword hilt pummelled his ribs. The lantern threw dizzy circles of light. Desperately, he thrust out his arms to slow his fall, but his hands sank into something crumbly and he slid forward again. Thick, sour dust choked his lungs.
Weapons? War?
Dill came to a halt, facedown, in a cloud of dust. He groaned and lifted his head.
Bones.
He was lying on a mountain of bones. Femurs, fingers, clavicles, ribs, spines, as far as he could see—an impossible slope of dry and shattered skeletons. Fleshless hands reached up from gullies and mounds of brittle remains. Screes of skulls and teeth shifted, trickled, and rattled further down into the dark.
Dill had sunk to the elbows in broken bones. He coughed, blinked.
That smell.
Not of weapons or war, but of the Sanctum corridor, the Ninety-Nine: the long-dead archons that inspired his dreams of battle.
He rose unsteadily, smacked bone-dust from his clothes.
But these were not the bones of angels, but of people. Thousands of people. Millions. Discarded in this pit, heaped like the feast-pile of an eternal banquet.
Rachel scrambled down to join him, sending a further landslide of bone fragments down the slope.
Dill couldn’t speak. He stood gawping at the crumbling mountain, gasping in the chalky air, still searching in vain for some sign of Deep. But there was nothing here. Only bones. Three thousand years of bones.
And, from the darkness all around, the continual sound of hammers striking metal. Of industry.
Or forges?
“Dill?” Rachel shook him gently. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t understand.” He looked at her. “Where are the soul-lights? The ghosts?”
As she shifted her weight, something snapped under her foot. “These are old bones,” she said. “Ancient. Further up, the remains are fresher. But there’s no flesh, no shrouds.” She picked up a smaller bone that might have been a finger and examined it. “There are marks on it, scratches. The flesh has been scraped away, picked clean.” She glanced up. “The sun’s moved on. It will grow darker again soon. We should get off this…” She let the sentence die. “We should get to the bottom.”
A sharp rapping sounded from further up the slope. Carnival was sitting there on a pile of skulls, her raven wings outstretched. In each scarred hand she clutched a long bone, using them like drumsticks to beat on a skull between her knees. “Not the best idea,” she drawled, her eyes brimming with malicious glee. “That’s where they’re coming from.”
Dill spun round. At first he saw nothing but darkness, then gradually he became aware of the lights.
The dead were coming.
26
ATTACKED
RAGS, HE’D INSTRUCTED, and rags they fetched. There was no shortage of rags in this godforsaken hole. They tore strips from blankets and strips from gabardines, soaked them in mud, and set to work stuffing them into every vent in the Tooth’s enormous hull. This would minimize the effect of the gas the armada was sure to use on them. Scarves were also collected and set aside, ready to dip in urine and then cover their faces. The Heshette women were already gathering buckets of the stuff. The urine, Devon had explained, would help counter the poisons they might breathe.
It wouldn’t, of course, but the opportunity to have these savages breathe their own piss was too good to miss.
Bataba oversaw the operation with stern diligence, while a dozen sour-faced Heshette escorted Devon outside. All carried spades. Devon clutched a lamp, a hammer, a nail, and a stub of a candle in his one hand.
“Only twelve of you,” he said as they stepped through the door and into the blinding force of the desert sun.
“Wouldn’t want you to leave before the fun starts,” Mochet snarled. He wrapped his scarf around his head.
Devon huffed. “As if it were possible to man the engines and simultaneously navigate! An airship cannot be flown single-handed.” He cringed at his own feeble joke. “And I feel hurt that you would expect me to flee such fine company.”
“I expect you to shut up.”
Devon squinted through his own scarf, one he imagined was full of lice. The stained gabardine Bataba had given him smelled of smoke and dung.
Deepgate’s advance armada had arrived at a position to the south of them, almost five hours ago. Since then they had been massing, stretching their communication line, bringing more ships forward for a concentrated assault. Seventeen warships now, with more on the way. When it became apparent they were in no hurry to attack, Devon had decided to use the extra time to his advantage.
Sightglasses flashed on the warship decks, but from that distance the aeronaut spotters would be unlikely to make out much detail. Devon kept his stump hidden in the sleeve of his gabardine nevertheless.
They think we’ve merely crashed. Once their advance force is ready, they’ll dump lime-gas and incendiaries all around the Tooth, smoke out as many of these savages as possible for their crossbows to pick off. The Poisoner nodded to himself, satisfied. They think they have all the time in the world. Which means they think Sypes is already dead.
Flanked by Heshette, Devon slipped and skidded his way down the sand drift before passing into the shade underneath the Tooth’s hull. Vast, earth-clotted tracks loomed over him, large enough to allow the group to clamber between their cogged wheels and reach the remains of the animal pens and the stricken w
arship on the far side. Goats had been crowded into a makeshift corral to one side where they bleated and pushed each other. Bells tinkled.
The Birkita’s gondola had been totally stripped. Looters had ripped teak planks from the aft deck and stacked them in piles. Rope and cable lay in coils beside heaps of pots and pans and kitchen utensils. Furniture was strewn everywhere. Plush chairs, richly veneered cabinets, tables and bookcases listed in the sand. Four Heshette warriors had found the captain’s drinks cabinet and now squatted in the sand, wasting fine wines down their bearded throats.
Inside, Devon almost lost his balance when he reached out with his stump to grab the doorframe. Cursing, he made his way along the corridor towards the engine room. Sand mounded the decks and—ridiculous as the notion was—he wished that Fogwill could have been present to comment on the mess. It would have been the last complaint that giddy plum ever made.
They found the tanks of liftgas stored in a cage in the engine room. Pipes from two of them led up to valves accessing the envelope above. Twin axles protruded from the rear of the engine, through gearboxes, to the propellers on the aft deck. Oil glistened like sweat; hydraulic tubing veined the walls. A network of further pipes spread from vents in the engine and disappeared into channels on either side of the room, to feed the airship’s ribs with hot air. Devon set down his equipment and breathed a sigh of relief; everything appeared to be intact.
“Find some tubing,” he said to Mochet. “As much of it as you can. You can strip these, and these. Drain the fluid and run lines from these other tanks into the hot-air pipes. Here, here, and here, as many as you can. Just cut the metal and wrap the joins tightly. It doesn’t have to be perfect.” He surveyed the room. “We’ll need strips of cloth, lots of them. And as much ballast as you can shovel aboard. Sand and rock will do; anything heavy.” He looked Mochet up and down. “How much would you say you weigh?”
Discoloured teeth split Mochet’s beard. He threw his spade at Devon’s feet. “Dig, Poisoner.”
So Devon shovelled sand into the port corridor along with eight of the Heshette, while Mochet and the others laboured inside. One-handed, the work was awkward for Devon. Most of the sand ended up in the faces of his comrades. Occasionally he waved his stump at them in apology. He was a cripple, couldn’t they see? The sun blazed directly overhead, falling between the Tooth and the quarry wall, ruthlessly devouring any shade and cooking the sand under his ill-fitting moccasins. Through the gauze of his scarf he peered into the white-hot sky, expecting the armada to appear above the upper edges of the Tooth any minute. But there had so far been no calls from the Heshette lookouts.
Grudgingly, Devon went back to work. When he’d put aboard as much ballast as he could stomach, he hopped back into the gondola to check on the progress inside. Two of the Heshette diggers exchanged a glance, then threw down their spades and followed him.
“Don’t worry,” Devon said as they muscled up beside him. “I’m sure Mochet can take care of himself.”
They followed him anyway.
The men inside had almost finished connecting the tubes to the hot-air pipes. Mochet leaned against a support strut and toyed with his knife while he watched the progress with hooded eyes.
“Busy?” Devon asked.
Mochet grunted. “Push me harder, Poisoner, and my knife will test the limits of your blood’s endurance. Your very existence is an insult to Ayen.”
“You speak for your goddess, then? Is your shaman aware of that?”
The warrior bared his teeth, but did not reply.
Devon gathered up the equipment he had assembled from the Tooth and stepped back outside the engine room into the midship companionway, with Mochet hounding him.
“Hold this to the deck while I hammer,” he said, giving the nail to Mochet. “At an angle—like this.”
Mochet obeyed. “Miss your aim, Poisoner, and I’ll use the hammer on you.”
Devon struck the nail partway into the wood, then pushed the candle on top of it so that it stuck out at a shallow angle from the floor. Then he opened the lamp and eased oil over the wax, just an inch from the wick. Next he took the strips of cloth the Heshette had found, soaked them in lamp oil, and made a long fuse, which he fed back into the engine room. He doused the floor and walls around the fuse with the last of the oil.
When he was satisfied, he turned to Mochet’s men. “We need to open the valves now, gently. Let the gas flood the ribs. Open all of the tanks, but not too much. Just a few turns, until you hear the hiss.”
All of the Heshette heard him clearly, but Mochet relayed the instructions regardless. They twisted open the valves on the liftgas tanks and withdrew into the companionway.
“Now,” the Poisoner said, “light the candle.” He handed Mochet a pouch of flints. “I’ll wait outside.”
The warrior seized his arm. “No, Poisoner. You’ll stay until it’s done.”
Five minutes later Devon glanced back at the Birkita from the shadow of the Tooth’s hull. Her ribs were slowly filling out; he hoped it was fast enough.
Bataba met them inside. A wet scarf covered his face, and he offered another damp rag to Devon.
Devon sniffed it. “You have enough of these for everyone?”
“We do.”
“And one for Sypes?”
Bataba nodded.
“Excellent.” The Poisoner rubbed hand and stump together. “You can keep that one. I’ll risk the gas.”
Chalk-faced, Fogwill gripped the control panel on the bridge of the Adraki, fixed his eyes on the tilting horizon, and concentrated on keeping what was left in his stomach still in his stomach. His throat felt raw. How could there be anything left? He had already vomited far more than he remembered having eaten, and even brought up things he wasn’t convinced he had eaten. Abruptly, his insides lurched and something rumbled further down.
The airship captain glared at him, a veteran whose eyes held no sympathy for the Adjunct’s delicate condition. Fogwill tried to smile back. He wasn’t keen to use the ship’s commode unless there was no alternative. Mark Hael had taken some delight in informing him how it worked.
Blackthrone baked under a parched sky. Eighteen warships had now gathered above the Tooth, turning slowly to the west as the wind changed. Vents above the bridge windows blew a hot, metallic breeze that failed to dry the sweat from Fogwill’s brow. Engines droned on all sides like persistent flies. At the sound of a whistle, Hael put his ear to one of the com-trumpets on the wall.
After a moment he said, “We’re now approaching the Birkita. She’s been stripped. A group of Heshette were spotted fleeing back inside the Tooth.”
“The Presbyter?” Fogwill ventured.
The commander relayed this question and waited for the reply: “Too far away to tell.” He turned to the captain. “Flag the armada to hold steady above the Birkita at four hundred feet windward, maintain formation, and keep us within signal distance. I want two-thirds payloads of lime-gas fused and ready to drop at my command, full complements of crossbowmen in position, and incendiaries primed for a cook-up when the bastards split. Keep me informed of changes in wind direction and speed.”
Fogwill swallowed. “This gas…is fatal?”
“Depends how much of it is breathed,” Hael said.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t allow you to use it.”
The commander shrugged. “It’s the best way to flush them out. That thing down there looks too solid for incendiaries.”
The Tooth did look impenetrable. Fogwill had heard of the machine, but had not seen it until now. Few people had. It towered over the quarry cliffs behind it, shimmering in the harsh light. Dark holes pocked its dazzling-white hull; sand drifts smothered its base on the nearest side; smoke-scorched funnels crowned its tapering summit. Skeletal arms at the front held massive columns of cutting wheels over a huge, dusty scoop.
Fogwill studied it with awe. This vast machine was in truth a holy relic, abandoned by Callis nearly three thousand years ago after con
struction of the foundation chains. It had last moved under the direction of Ulcis’s Herald himself. He remembered that crippled angel locked in the temple dungeon, and swallowed hard. Three thousand years. How many souls since?
Missionaries who had seen the machine spread fervent rumours that it possessed some vestige of divine awareness. Looking at it now, Fogwill found it hard to give credence to those rumours. The Tooth was impressive, yes. But sentient? Hardly. And yet the machine did seem to evince some latent power, as though it was waiting, watching from those openings in its hull.
My imagination. It is the Heshette who are watching us.
The Adjunct shuddered, but was unable to shake off his unease. Something else was bothering him. The Tooth looked altogether too…complete. Too unmarked.
Too ready.
“Why would Devon come here?” He spoke his thoughts aloud unintentionally.
“Water. It’s one of the few oases in this region we haven’t poisoned.” Hael sneered. “A holy site.”
“But he would easily have been able to reach the Coyle, taken a skiff downriver. Why would he fly against a headwind, and straight to the heathens?”
“He was avoiding the Coyle garrisons. Sandport, Racha, Clune are inimical ports for a fugitive. No doubt he expected to find the Tooth unoccupied. The Heshette are nomadic, and infrequent visitors to Blackthrone.”
Fogwill shook his head. Devon wasn’t stupid. There had to be another reason. He looked down at the Tooth, at the massive blades that had cut sapperbane from the mountain so long ago. Thousands of tons stripped from the mountain, processed, and forged into chains. Abruptly his unease grew to fear. “Would your gases and incendiaries be able to stop that thing if it was moving?”
The aeronaut commander turned slowly. He appeared to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. “He wouldn’t be able to operate it.”
“This is Devon we’re talking about, remember?”
Hael grunted. “The Poisoner missed his one good chance to flee. He’s a fool—or already insane.”
“A fool who evaded a citywide manhunt, kidnapped the Presbyter, and stole an airship from under your nose.”