Mr. Nettle hesitated.
“Buggers like us got to help each other. No bugger else will.”
At last the scrounger nodded.
“All right.” The smith then showed Mr. Nettle how to fasten the bowstring and load a bolt by winching back the windlass. “But know there are just these three bolts, no more. If, say, you want to shoot at something way up high, you’ll need to be a damn fine shot or have a fair bit of luck, eh?”
Mr. Nettle had never even picked up a crossbow before this moment, let alone shot one. And as for luck, he’d never had much of that either. But now at least he had a small chance to put things right, and he began to feel more like his old self. He’d pay his debt before nightfall, be square with this man as much as he could, and then, come tonight, he’d be square with the angel. He hefted the crossbow to his eye and squinted along the sight, imagining wings in the shadows. “What’s your name?” he asked the smith.
“Smith,” the man said, grinning like a conspirator.
5
GHOSTS, POISONS, AND PASTRIES
PRESBYTER WILLARD SYPES was observing and recording the movements of ghosts. To facilitate viewing of the abyss beneath, he had extinguished the observatory lamps, leaving only a few scattered candles sparkling in their crystal lanterns. In the gloom, the Presbyter’s black cassock had no discernible shape. His head floated phantom-like over his desk, as cracked and yellow as the parchment beneath, while his quill sprouted from the arthritic grip of what appeared to be a disembodied hand.
To Adjunct Fogwill Crumb, the Presbyter’s face seemed to have halted momentarily as it melted towards the book. From the mottled expanse of his cranium, skin hung in folds like an accumulation of tallow. Tiny, chitinous eyes shifted somewhere within as the old priest reached to dip his quill in ink, focused once more on the page, and then resumed scratching his words into the journal.
Sypes set down his feather and creaked himself forward to peer into the eyepiece of the aurolethiscope, and for a sinful moment Fogwill wondered if the sound had come from the chair or from his master’s aged bones.
The aurolethiscope occupied most of the space in the observatory. Sypes cranked a handle and the brass machine began to turn like the innards of an enormous clock. Wheels and cogs clicked and whirred at various speeds. The lens column rotated smoothly, raising itself a fraction above the hole in the floor as the Presbyter adjusted focus. Reflections from the lantern winked on the spinning, polished surfaces and gave the machine the look of burnished gold.
Fogwill stood before his master, short, round, and splendid in his ceremonial robe. His pate was smooth and hard as a nut, his face softly plump and dusted with his favourite poppy talcum from Clune. Jewelled rings glinted on his fingers: fat rubies mounted in gold, subtle seastones in silver, and amber sandglass to match his smiling eyes. “Are the soul-lights bright this morning?” he asked.
The Presbyter squinted into the eyepiece. “Nothing for days now. I suspect my eyesight is failing.”
“Perhaps the dead grow less restless.”
Sypes sank back into his chair. He looked like he’d been hunched at the aurolethiscope all night. “Or more wary,” he said. He scribbled another sentence into the journal, then banged it shut.
Dust settled in time.
“You asked to see me,” Fogwill said.
Sypes turned with a succession of creaks. “I don’t think so.”
Fogwill steepled his fingers under his chin, trying to decide if the old man was baiting him. He produced a scroll from his sleeve. “I received a message.”
“Yes, yes.” Sypes looked irritated. “Is everything in order for the Sending?”
Fogwill rolled up the scroll and replaced it in his sleeve. “Preparations are almost complete. The Sanctum has been scrubbed and blessed, I’ve arranged for fresh candles—”
“Not perfumed?”
The Adjunct’s face slipped a little, before he caught it.
“I see,” Sypes said. “Must we always suffer these brothel odours?”
“Perfume masks the smell of rot.”
Sypes hunched forward and sniffed. “Clearly.”
Fogwill shuffled back a step, but kept his expression patient. There was an odd odour in here, now that he thought about it. He glanced at the hearth. A thick ream of parchment smouldered on the coals, blue smoke curling around its singed edges.
“Poetry,” the Presbyter said, catching Fogwill’s glance. “An Applecross butcher’s contribution to the Codex: one hundred ways to skin a cat.”
“A humorous piece?” Fogwill asked. Certainly a long one, for poetry.
“Not for the cat,” Sypes grumbled. “God forbid any more of the commoners learn how to write.” With a dramatically despondent shake of his head, he leaned back. The chair, or the Presbyter’s bones, protested softly. “How is Dill?”
“On his way to meet the soulcage.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
Fogwill shrugged.
“Humph.” Sypes’s lips quivered. “The lad’s what now—ten?”
“Sixteen,” Fogwill said. As you well know. Dill was already a full year older than the age Codex law dictated he become Soul Warden, and the populace knew it. In the years following Gaine’s death, Borelock had been required to perform the angel’s duties and, although competent enough, his presence did little to inspire the faithful. Dill was more than just a servant of the Church, more than a symbol. He was a link to the past, to the founding of the same Church. As the living descendant of Ulcis’s own Herald, he and his line had become the thread which linked man to god. But outside the temple, gossip was rife. Had Callis’s line died with Dill’s father? If the bloodline had been severed, would Ulcis still honour his promise to those who worshipped him? Or would he abandon them to Iril, the Maze of Blood? Life in Deepgate was often bleak, sometimes turbulent. The Church had long known that to pull the faithful through, it was necessary to give them something to hold on to.
Fogwill had been surprised at Sypes’s repudiation of the Codex in this matter, but at the time had put it down to the apparent decline of the old man’s mental faculties. Only later had he begun to suspect otherwise. The Presbyter was only senile when it suited him.
Sypes rubbed an ink-stained finger across his chin, leaving a dark blue smudge. Fogwill couldn’t help but wonder if this action too was deliberate.
“You can’t keep him hidden in that tower for ever,” Fogwill said.
The Presbyter gave him a weary nod. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t help worrying about the lad. One arrow, one knife, one poisoned cup: that’s all it would take.”
“It’s not too late to have him combat-trained,” Fogwill said. “The temple guard could do it…or even the Spine, I mean…” He had meant any of the Spine except Rachel Hael. The absurdity of her assignment had not escaped Fogwill. Sypes had chosen the worst assassin in Deepgate to oversee Dill’s training.
“I’m sure she can teach him the basics at least,” Sypes said.
“Well, quite,” Fogwill said. Whatever the angel learned from her was sure to be basic. She hadn’t even been tempered, for god’s sake. “With your permission,” he said. “I think it’s time we found him a wife.”
Sypes looked up, his eyes colder.
“The families have always been well compensated,” Fogwill continued. “Before, and afterwards.”
Sypes grunted. “The sort of woman he needs is the sort who’d marry him without any of this…” He waved his hands at everything and nothing.
“The girls have other motives I’m—”
“Rot! I remember Gaine’s wife on her wedding day, her frozen smile.” Sypes let out a long sigh and his gaze shifted to the hole in the observatory floor. “And now she’s down there, watching us.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared into the abyss. “The dead, Fogwill, what are they up to, hmmm? Hiding, sulking, plotting, scheming in their pit.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And up here I’m fading all the time. Like ol
d ink on parchment. I’ll join them soon.” He punctuated this last word with a tap of his finger. “And I think they know it.”
Looking at him sitting there, with his stained skin and trembling fingers, Fogwill thought the old man was probably right.
“Nonsense,” he said instead. “You’re as strong as a courser.”
“The marriage,” Sypes said, “I’ll leave it in your hands. I’ve no stomach for such matters.” He picked up his blue-inked quill and plunked it in a bottle of red ink.
“A message, Your Grace.” A boy had appeared in the doorway, fidgeting with his scuffed cuffs.
“Gods,” Sypes said, “does no one knock?”
The boy grinned, handed the Presbyter a scroll, bowed briefly, and bolted, fast as a rat.
Sypes unrolled the message, held it out at arm’s length, squinting. “Good, good,” he said. “The Adraki has docked. Edward Hael’s body is here.”
“Wonderful news,” Fogwill said. Sypes had been worried about the general for days. “His son and daughter will be relieved.”
The Presbyter was still reading, frowning.
“The body?” Fogwill ventured.
Sypes ignored him. Finally, he set down the message and rose from his chair. He grabbed his walking stick and said, “Come with me.”
They left the observatory and plodded up the stairs that wound around the inside of the Acolyte’s Spiral. A gaggle of priests on their way to the missionary halls stood aside to let them pass. As they climbed, the floor disappeared far below. Sypes grumbled constantly, complaining about his heart, about dust, about everything. Halfway up, Fogwill unlocked a grate and they set off through the dim, aether-lit corridors in the direction of the dock.
Mark Hael was waiting for them in the dock anteroom. The aeronaut commander’s face was pinched but lean, with desert skin, mud-brown against the white of his uniform. Three stripes of gold braid looped each cuff. “We left the body outside,” he explained. “The smell.”
A faint, meaty odour hung in the air. Fogwill held his breath, then opened the doors leading out to the dock.
Weathered and overgrown with weeds, the basalt wharf extended some fifty paces out from the temple wall. It was wide enough not to require handrails, but high up enough to make Fogwill miss their presence. Moored to gantries at the far end was the Adraki. Trapped by a web of cables, its silver envelope towered over them, flashing violently in the sun. Portholes and brass fittings gleamed in the gondola. Deepgate sprawled dizzily far below, slumped in its chains under the blue sky.
“Good lord,” Fogwill gasped, pinching his nose. His perfume stood no chance against this.
“We came in from Sandport overnight,” Mark Hael said. “Ran our tanks dry to get here in time.”
But Fogwill wasn’t listening; he was looking at the corpse.
The thing that had once been General Edward Hael lay on its back, with blackened fingers curled at its chest. Dry blood and ash-caked scraps of uniform matted the cracked skin, and there were charred, empty sockets where eyes should have been. The naked soles of the feet reminded Fogwill of burnt hams.
Sypes coughed. “Are you certain it’s him?” he asked.
Mark Hael nodded. He reached into his pocket and handed something to the Presbyter. “Heshette savages brought the Skylark down near Dalamoor. She must have landed heavily, ruptured a gas tank. Took us a while to clear the area and get down to the wreckage. No survivors—the crew were all…like this.”
Sypes was looking at what he held in his hand. “Nasty business,” he said.
“He’s dry as leather,” Fogwill said.
“We’ll send the soul down today,” Sypes said.
“But—”
Sypes raised a hand, and Fogwill saw that he was clutching a fistful of medals. “Clearly some blood was lost, Adjunct. Some. Little enough for Edward, he’s full of it, brimming.” He gave the body an uneasy glance. “He was devout, a good soldier, a good man. I think it fair to say his soul survives intact.”
Mark Hael had his head bowed. “Presbyter…,” he said.
“You may leave us, Commander,” Sypes said. “The Adjunct and I will attend to this.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Hael turned to go.
“Commander.”
“Your Grace?”
“I haven’t informed your sister yet.”
Mark Hael nodded and went back into the temple.
As soon as he was gone, Fogwill threw up his hands. “Look at this body, it’s a husk! There’s not a drop of blood left in its veins. The soul is already in Iril.”
“Mark Hael’s a fine lad,” Sypes murmured, almost to himself. “He’ll make a fine general one day. Good blood, eh? Won’t do to have friction between the Church and the military.” He squinted into the sun, gazing out over the desert. “Not now.”
“You can’t bless this thing! Ulcis would be furious.”
Sypes made a dismissive gesture. “Pious soldiers like General Hael are rare. The god of chains needs good men.”
“But his soul is in the Maze!”
“Nonsense.”
Fogwill shook his head. “I’ll fetch some bearers,” he grumbled, eager to be away from the stench.
“No, Fogwill. There’s not much time before the Sending. Try to round up Devon, will you? He ought to be there, too.”
Fogwill frowned. He opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. Why bother? Sypes seemed determined to obstruct him. Finally he said, “I’ll send a boy.”
“I’d rather you took care of this personally.” Sypes pinched the bridge of his nose with two ink-stained fingers, leaving more blue smudges. “If you send a messenger, Devon will just have the lad off scrubbing vats in that infernal factory and we’ll never see him again.”
“Scrubbing vats?” Fogwill couldn’t hide the scorn in his voice. He had his own ideas about what happened to the temple staff who ended up in Deepgate’s Department of Military Science.
Sypes’s tufted eyebrows lowered till his eyes all but disappeared in the crenellations of his face. “Will you go find Devon?”
“I won’t have time to get out there. The ceremony…”
“Then I suggest you try the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?” The Adjunct’s eyes narrowed. “Our kitchen? The temple kitchen?”
“I understand he’s up to his old tricks again.”
Fogwill’s gaze dropped past his freshly laundered robe to his favourite blue plush slippers—a gift from Mother, each silver stitch lovingly wrestled by the old dear herself into vaguely floral splats. His powdered face sagged. “The kitchen,” he said, “of course. Where else would the Poisoner be today?”
Rachel Hael was hanging upside down in darkness. She concentrated on her breathing, her muscles, her heartbeat, constructing states of mind to control blood flow and respiration. She envisioned a bitter coldness to draw blood away from her skin, a threat to quicken her heart and brace her weary muscles.
Spine called this process focusing. Fatigue, hunger, even thirst could be controlled for a time by any skilled Adept. She ought to be able to hang by her feet on this rope for hours, perhaps even days, without ill effects. But she’d been here for ten minutes and already had a blinding headache. Her Spine master, a thin man whose name she did not know, would have been scornful of her inability to focus, had he been capable of scorn.
Of all the Spine Adepts, only Rachel herself was able to feel scorn, or resentment, or anger, or happiness. All of them weaknesses in an assassin, for emotion was anathema to the Spine. It marred purity of thought and purpose, precluded focusing, and hindered Adepts in the field. Emotion was not tolerated for long. In the Church’s eyes she was the weakest Adept of them all. She’d already proved that to them more than once.
Someone tugged on the rope.
She twisted herself up, slipped her ankles out of the cuffs, and climbed back towards her room.
Her brother stood by the hatch in the floor. “Getting closer to god?” he asked.
Rachel sat on the edge of the hatchway and pulled up the rope, winding it into coils around her elbow. “Helps me relax,” she said.
He gave her a blank look.
“The silence,” she said. There was a sea of silence down there in the abyss, miles of it all around, and for untold miles below her, but it didn’t calm her as much as it once had. These days it just took the edge off.
“What if the rope snaps?” Mark asked.
She shrugged.
“Or someone cuts it?”
She shrugged.
“Gods below!” Mark cried. “The monks told me you’d be down there, but I didn’t believe them. Thought it had to be some kind of Spine joke—before I remembered the Spine don’t have a sense of humour.”
“What do you want?”
“Nice to see you too.”
Rachel picked up her sword from the weapon rack and slid it into the scabbard on her back. She tied the poison pouches to her belt, plugged three short bamboo tubes into the harnesses beside them, and then sat down on the bed, feeding knives and needles into the appropriate slots in her leather armour.
“We found him,” Mark said.
She paused for a moment, then continued loading her armour.
“Sypes expects us both present at the Sending.”
“I’ve stuff to do.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
A bitter smile stretched her lips.
Mark opened the window and leaned out, peering up at the foundation chains and the underbelly of the Gatebridge. “This has to be the lowest room in the temple. Is that some kind of symbolic statement? Keeping you lot down here in the foundations like this, in the darkness?”
“Access.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Mark looked round her room, but apparently spotted nothing of interest. “They don’t give you much, do they?”