"And was justice served? Did the right person die?"
"Does it matter? The commoners are satisfied."
"Excellent. I like things to be tidy. Is there enough blood left for a Sending?"
"I'm afraid not."
The presbyter's hands twitched. More ghosts.
He sat down at his desk and opened The Book of Unaccounted Souls, the tome he had come to think of as Carnival's Book, since she had been responsible for the vast majority of the names in it. "I had wondered if our angel was responsible for this one," he remarked. "She has been taking a lot of Warreners recently."
"It's all the new construction work," said Merryweather. "People are living in unfinished homes. How can they expect to defend themselves on Scar Night when they don't even have a roof over own their heads?"
"There are the temple boltholes..."
"They cost a halfpenny a night," replied the adjunct. "People are reluctant to pay. They prefer to hide and hope for the best."
"A dangerous lottery."
Merryweather withdrew a scroll from his sleeve and handed it to the presbyter. "The cutthroat's victim."
"Such a waste." Scrimlock began to copy the victim's details into the book. Sophie Mean, twenty years old, ox carriage driver. "She was probably a rival of the chap who fell," he muttered. "An unfortunate girl with an equally unfortunate name." He added the location of her demise, scribbled the date beside it, and then drew a small cross to indicate Carnival's innocence. It was the only cross on the page. "Perhaps we should abolish the bolthole charges," he muttered. "At least in the poorer districts."
"If we don't charge, we'll have to increase taxes again," explained the adjunct, "or leave the Warrens incomplete." He shrugged. "And if the boltholes were free, we'd have more people clamouring at their doors than we can safely accommodate. As it is, the lower orders are left to fend for themselves."
"You mean the tinkers and scroungers?"
"Precisely."
The presbyter stopped writing. "Why doesn't she kill more of them? I mean, Deepgate has more of those sorts of people than is strictly sanitary. They're flinging up shacks and hovels whenever we turn our back, faster than we can drag the wretched things down again."
"They smear themselves with glue," replied Merryweather. "Some of them even drink the stuff, claiming it keeps them safe. They say she's no taste for glue-blood." He shrugged again. "That may be true, but the glue kills as many as it saves."
"And do we tax glue?"
"Of course," said Merryweather. "But they buy it from heathen shamans and smuggle it in."
Scrimlock shook his head. There had to be a better way to keep his taxpayers safe. If the tinkers and scroungers wanted to poison themselves with glue, that was fine by him; after all, this League of Rope which had sprung up around the city centre was becoming a fire hazard. But the taxpayers themselves paid for the rock, iron and mortar which built the city. They ought to be protected.
He dismissed Merryweather and leafed through the pages before him. The records stretched back centuries: hundreds and thousands of names, the men, women and children whose souls would never find their way to Heaven. Such a terrible waste of life. He traced a finger down one page, reading the locations: a butcher's store in Fleshmarket, an attic in Pickle Lane, Samuel's watchtower. He hunted through the older records: Plum Street, Candlemaker Street, Givengair Bridge, Callow. Carnival always chose a different location in which to bleed her victims. As Deepgate had grown, so too had the area in which the corpses had been discovered. Not once had the angel returned to the scene of a murder.
A thought occurred to him. Was she avoiding these locations? And if so, then how did she remember to avoid them? Carnival was known to suffer from amnesia. She could never remember the Spine's favoured locations in which to set their traps, a failing the temple assassins continually used to their advantage.
He could not see how such a discovery might help him, so Scrimlock searched through the victim's names: Yellowfeather, Stone, Tannay, Leatherman, Wellman, Onetree, Portish. He discerned no pattern. The dead appeared to come from all walks of life, from the noblest families to those who were quite clearly the descendants of heathens. There appeared to be some repetitions of the most common names, but that was to be expected.
Next he perused the victim's addresses, all streets Scrimlock knew well from his years on the temple census board. He flipped backwards through the pages of the ledger, idly recalling images of the places in his mind, imagining the people who had lived there for generations: Roundhorn from Lilley, Cripp of Morning Road.
He paused.
Morning Road? The name struck a chord. Hadn't there been a great fire there hundreds of years ago, some problem with a cultist or lunatic who thought he'd been pursued by demons? He thumbed back a few pages, then some more, and then finally stopped at the entry he was looking for. A Henry Bucklestrappe from Morning Road had been killed in 512. Wasn't that the very madman who'd started the fire?
Both street and surname name appeared again several pages later. The victim this time was a Norman Bucklestrappe; the date, 562. Could it be coincidence that two people sharing the same address and surname had been murdered fifty years apart?
Fifty years?
He returned to the entry which had originally grabbed his attention. Nellie Cripp of Morning Road had been killed in 612, exactly fifty years after Norman Bucklestrappe, one hundred years after Henry. Carnival had returned three times to the same street.
Quickly, he turned to the records for 662.
His heart sank. In all twelve Scar Night entries, there was no mention of a victim from Morning Road. But then he noticed a Jack Cripp of Silver Street in Callow. Could he be Nellie's son? Was Carnival persecuting a family rather than a place, returning every fifty years to kill another descendant? Had Nellie's surname changed from Bucklestrappe to Cripp when she married?
But how did Carnival know that?
Frantically, the presbyter searched forward another fifty years.
John Cripp of Silver Street, died in 712. Anne Wrightman of Silver Street in 762. Another victim followed; then a third, and a fourth, each one killed fifty years after their ancestor. By matching either the victim's name or address, Scrimlock could trace the sequence of murders like the links in a chain. As he turned to the final page in the journal, a sudden fear gripped him.
It was 1012 now.
But most of the year had already gone. If Carnival had already killed her victim, they would have to wait another five decades for her to strike again.
Fifty years ago, the victim had been Mack Greene of Lye Street, descended on his mother's side from the Wrightmans, and therefore an ancestor of Henry Bucklestrappe himself. Scrimlock scanned the records for 1012 and reached his own last entry with a sigh of relief. Neither the surname nor the address appeared on this year's listing. Did Mack Greene's family still live in Lye Street?
He rang the bell chord to summon Merryweather back. They had only a few days until the next Scar Night, but that ought to be enough time to find the descendant of a madman and, quite possibly, save his life.
Chapter Eleven
Ravencrag threw up his arms. "No way!"
Cope and Greene had thumped their fists on the phantasmacist's door for a good ten minutes before he'd admitted them. In the end, it had been Cope who'd persuaded the crooked little scholar to let them inside. He'd done this with some not-so-subtle threats.
The thaumaturge said, "I cannot retrieve Basilis without your help, Mr Ravencrag. A drop of your blood began the ritual, and so I require further drops from both of you gentlemen to proceed. We have escaped the Forest of Eyes, yet there are still the memories of another two hounds to explore."
"And there's your bonus to consider," Greene added.
"Sod the bonus," said Ravencrag. "I'm staying here."
"You forget," said Cope, "that my lord Basilis has seen you. He knows you were instrumental in releasing his vision from the dream of the first hound, albeit in a
limited sense. He may even be grateful. Yet two aspects of the demon remain trapped, in the Forest of Teeth and the Forest of War. Would you have me explain to my master how you refused to proceed, how you abandoned him in his hour of need?"
"He has us there," said Greene.
Ravencrag stabbed a finger at him. "No. He has you there. You want to go back! There's only two Scar Nights left in the year and that fucking angel is going to come for your blood on one of them. You've got nothing to lose." He shook his head. "Sorry, Sal, but you're on your own. I won't do it."
"So be it," said Cope. "I wish you a long and happy life, Mr Ravencrag. Although, since you have chosen to make an enemy of my master, I doubt you'll have either."
"Wait a minute," Ravencrag said quickly. "You said that without both Sal's blood and mine you can't finish the ritual. Right? We can't release Basilis?"
"Correct."
The phantasmacist looked relieved. "Then having him as an enemy doesn't particularly worry me. What's the mutt going to do? Glare at me?"
"Mr Ravencrag, I don't think you understand. I intend to use your blood with or without your consent. My master would have looked more kindly upon you if the blood had been offered willingly." Cope unsheathed his gut-sticker.
"Hey! Just a–"
Cope jabbed the tip of the blade into Ravencrag's shoulder
"Ow!"
Cope brandished the weapon's bloody tip. "Thank you, Mr Ravencrag," he said. "Mr Greene and I will return when we need some more."
The phantasmacist grumbled and rubbed his shoulder. "Damn you, Cope, that hurt." He chewed his lips. "If I help you to release him... willingly, I mean. What'll happen to me?"
"Basilis may decide to reward you," replied Cope, "or he may punish you for all eternity."
Judging by the Ravencrag's expression, this was not the response he had hoped for. "And if I don't help to release him?"
"Certain punishment."
The phantasmacist thought for a long moment. Then he faced Greene. "You and your damn grimoire." he said.
Chapter Twelve
A fierce northern wind dragged clouds across the heavens, obscuring stars and moon. Deepgate's chains whistled. In places streets and houses rocked gently in their ironwork cradles, while out in the League, the ropes and walkways flapped and creaked like rigging. The end of autumn often brought such winds from the north, carrying rain across the Deadsands and the promise of colder weather to come.
Carnival heard music.
An eerie melody floated across the chained city. Mournful yet discordant, the song seemed to rise and fall with the wind.
The angel had never heard anything so beautiful before. Curious, she flew towards the sound.
The district of Bridgeview encircled the Church of Ulcis. Whitewashed townhouses overlooked that moat of air and chains around the temple itself. Space here was limited, and the buildings had scrambled over each other's shoulders to fill it. Gables elbowed chimneystacks. Walls shouldered walls, nudging stonework this way and that. Windows glared at each other in mute defiance. Even the tangle of chains stitching it all together looked like the result of a war among weavers. It was an ongoing contest among the noble families who lived there, a slow but steady conflict waged over hundreds of years.
Normally Carnival would not have flown so close to the temple. Spine assassins used the naked foundation chains to travel to and fro that monstrous building. Yet the mournful music intrigued her. Swallowing her fears, she flew on, and soon discovered the source of the lament.
A terrace near the summit of a ramshackle dwelling had been filled with crystal wine flutes of various sizes, the vessels placed side by side so as to cover every inch of the paving stones. Gusts of wind plucked notes from this strange arrangement of glass and carried them out across the city rooftops. Was this intended to be a warning system against club-footed intruders? Such a measure seemed excessive given the proximity of the temple. Carnival crouched on the terrace balustrade and looked up at the vast dark building, at its gargoyles and crenellations and blazing windows. Scaffolding clung to the stonework, rising to reckless heights.
Each flute had been polished to high sheen. Light spilling under the roof terrace door illuminated crystal stems. Someone was inside the house. The angel almost fled back to the derelict places she had come to fear. But she stopped. Above the door, half obscured by ivy, an open hatch led to what appeared to be a storage space under the roof.
She padded along the balustrade and peered into the hole.
It was hardly an attic, more of a triangular tunnel, but it was invitingly gloomy. Carnival's uncanny vision probed the depths of it, but she couldn't see any messages.
She folded her wings against her back and climbed inside.
Silently, so as not to disturb the occupants in the rooms below, she crawled along the tunnel on her hands and knees. Through cracks in the floorboards she caught glimpses of a hallway leading back into the house.
The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, shaped like the inside of a pyramid. Apart from a water tank in one corner, the space was stuffed with thousands of rings. There were huge mounds of them, all gleaming gold and silver. Some boasted cut gemstones and elaborate filigree, while others were just plain.
Carnival picked one up and examined it. It was old and tarnished. On the inside it bore an engraving:
To E.B, with love.
She frowned, and replaced the ring on one of the piles.
Why would anyone hoard such trinkets?
And why leave the roof hatch open?
A creak from the room below grabbed her attention. Carnival froze. She listened for a long time, but heard no other sounds. The floor here was old and warped, allowing her to peer down through one of the gaps.
An opulent study lay below the attic, lit by brass gasoliers and a fire in a black stone hearth. Dyed catskin rugs covered the floorboards. Turning her head, the angel spied a bookcase, some shelves, and a display cabinet packed with brightly-coloured stuffed birds: yellow and green mottled songbirds, red tops, canaries, and the like. A second, larger, glass-fronted case rested against the opposite wall, this also full of exotic specimens. Between the cabinets, an elderly lady sat at a desk before the window drapes. She was facing away from Carnival, peering through a lens at something on her desk. Then she set the lens down, and cocked her head to one side, listening.
"Back again?" the old lady said. "I wondered when you'd return."
Carnival held her breath.
"There's no need to skulk up there in the attic." Her hair had been plaited and then woven into a grey knuckle and she wore a black frock with white frills at the cuffs and neck. Carnival could not see her face.
The old lady went on, "I won't harm you, dear. Why don't you go back the way you came and enter through the door? I'll dim the lights so they don't hurt your eyes, then we can chat like civilised people."
Carnival didn't know what to do. Her instincts told her to flee, but another darker part of her heart screamed for murder: A trick! A trap! Silence the crone, now, before her cries alert the Spine. This house lay too close to the temple. The attic floor would be easy enough to rip through. She could tear out the woman's neck and...
And what?
Where would Carnival go?
The crone rose from her seat. "Come now, go out and walk back in through the door like a sensible girl," she said in clipped, authoritative tones. "I'll make us a nice pot of tea."
Carnival hesitated.
A long moment passed. Finally the old lady said, "The rings are from the dead. Marriage rings. The priests retrieve them for me before casting the corpses into the abyss. They do this because I ask them to."
"Why?" The angel's voice sounded hoarse, strange to her own ears. She could not remember the last time she'd used it.
The old lady grunted. "Why do I ask them? Or why do they pander to my requests?"
Carnival said nothing.
"I ask them," the lady said, "because there is power in such
objects. I believe we should keep a little of our dead back from God: just a trinket, some intimate little thing the soul has brushed on its way through life. By doing so we maintain a link with Him, so we can understand and love Him more. The priests bring me the rings because they have no conception of their true value. And because I provide a valuable service for them."
"What?"
The old lady sighed. "Your memory frustrates me," she said softly. "You should know me by now, dear. We have had this conversation many, many times before." Then she turned and looked directly up at the angel. She was a striking woman with a slender jaw and high cheek bones. Her gaze met Carnival's squarely, with no hint of fear or revulsion in her violet eyes.
Carnival thought there was something familiar about her.
The old lady smiled kindly. "Come down and talk with me, child. Some call me a witch, but you have no reason to fear or distrust me. My name is Ruby, and I knew your mother a long time ago."
Her mother?
"A thousand years ago," said Ruby. "Back when Deepgate's chains were forged, I made a promise to her to look out for you; to keep you safe if I could. I can help you, dear. I can make all that is ugly about you beautiful."
Carnival remained wary. She had no memory of her childhood or parents, even in her dreams. When she slept she dreamt of chains and knives and blood. More likely the witch meant Carnival harm. Everyone meant Carnival harm. Yet what if this old woman was speaking the truth? What was it about her face Carnival found so familiar?
I can help you, dear.
"I know you have been plagued by messages lately." Ruby's violet eyes twinkled. "They make demands of you, don't they? And you suspect you know who the author is, eh? Yet you're too afraid to accept the truth. Perhaps I can help to make the messages go away."
Outside, the crystal glasses trembled and chimed. Carnival retraced her steps through the attic and came back into the house through the roof terrace door, as she had been asked to do.