Fogwill heard movement inside the shack, and the door again opened a little. He decided to press his advantage. “I don’t believe Carnival was responsible.”
This time the door swung wide and the ugliest face Fogwill had ever seen emerged from the shadows beyond. He stifled a squeal. The face—and yes it was a face, now that he got a good look at it—peered up and down the street then settled on him. It sniffed.
“You stink,” Mr. Nettle said.
Fogwill’s relief at stepping off the plank dissipated as soon as the door closed behind him. Inside, he couldn’t see a thing. For an awful moment he was afraid he’d made a terrible decision in coming here at all. If he was attacked by this lout, he would be quite unable to defend himself. Clay had warned him this man was known to be violent, and he was certainly no friend of the Church. What if Fogwill was stabbed? Or worse? God help him, he might even be ravished.
Then Mr. Nettle struck a flint, and an oil lamp brightened the hall. Standing in the narrow space edged by pulpboard and tin sheets, Mr. Nettle raised the lamp in one fist and regarded Fogwill sourly.
The scrounger was huge. In his ragged dressing gown, he stood larger than a fully armoured temple guard, blocking the narrow hallway like a pile of builder’s rubble. His features were as rough and ill-defined as the hewn stone before a sculptor began carving the details. His flattened nose had been broken and set crooked, and stubble as coarse as iron filings covered half his face, while bruises covered the rest. Red eyes ringed with dark shadows glared down at Fogwill.
From the tiredness in his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks, the man looked like he hadn’t eaten or slept in a week. He looked finished. And he stank like a dungeon.
“This way,” Mr. Nettle growled.
The scrounger trudged further along the corridor, stepping over bundles of paper and boxes of bottles, then turning his enormous shoulders sideways to get past a stack of crates propped against the wall. The whole house shuddered as though it might fall apart at any moment. Nails jutted randomly from odd places where they had been used to patch scraps of wood and tin on to the walls. On closer inspection, Fogwill realized that the walls themselves had been constructed from junk. Here, one wardrobe door formed part of the side wall, while its twin served as part of the ceiling. There, an old mirror frame, the glass long smashed, filled a gap between two struts. Rusted pipes and broken ladders acted as joists to support this patchwork. Evidently Mr. Nettle was no carpenter. There wasn’t a straight join to be seen. And what was that? A shield? He recognized the design: a temple guard’s shield . Fogwill edged through the space with his hands close to his chest, careful not to touch anything. He tried not to think about rats.
Empty whisky bottles had rolled down the slope of the living-room floor to gather against a faded advertisement for Whitworth’s Honey Washing Oil—a product, Fogwill suspected, Mr. Nettle himself had never used.
The scrounger cleared some boxes from an old chair, and piled them on the rest of the junk behind. He grunted, “Sit.”
Fogwill perched gingerly on the edge of the seat, one of whose arm rests was nothing more than a splintered spike. This was not at all how he had imagined a scrounger’s house to look. He had expected something more like an antiques shop: solid furniture, rare objects rescued from the nets, to be restored and resold. Not just paper and bottles, tin cans, bundles of rags. True, there were one or two unusual items that stood out from the debris: a marble clock with one hand missing, clearly not originating from this part of town; some large brass cogs that could easily have come from the Presbyter’s aurolethiscope; several garish paintings of city scenes daubed on pieces of pulpboard nailed to the walls; but most of it was simply rubbish. It packed the room from floor to ceiling. How could someone live in this filth?
Mr. Nettle put down the oil lamp and folded his arms, waiting for Fogwill to speak.
The priest smoothed his cassock, the plain black one Clay had insisted he wear. “May I ask what your daughter did for a living?” he asked in his creamiest voice.
Mr. Nettle grimaced. Finally he said, “Painter.”
Fogwill cast his eyes over the paintings. “She painted these?” They were particularly amateurish. People actually bought these?
Mr. Nettle nodded.
“Excellent work,” Fogwill said hastily. “She had a good eye.”
“Penny apiece.”
Fogwill wondered if he should buy one to help smooth things over, before he remembered that he’d left all his money back at the temple, so decided to change the subject. “Mr. Nettle, do you know exactly where your daughter was when she disappeared?”
In answer, Mr. Nettle reached behind him and pulled out a ragged square of pulpboard. Fogwill saw it was an incomplete work, a first sketch, and quite as awful as the others. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt of the subject represented.
“She was working on this?”
“Found it in the nets down there. I searched there first.”
Fogwill studied the sketch. He recognized the neighbourhood. The chimneys and funnels of the Poison Kitchens rising in the background were unmistakable. This wasn’t proof, of course. The implications were there, but it wasn’t enough to warrant accusing Devon, even with Fogwill’s existing suspicions. Carnival had killed in every part of the city. He had to ask next: “Did she have bruises on both arms?”
The scrounger’s eyes narrowed.
“Were her arms bruised?” Fogwill repeated.
Mr. Nettle studied him for a moment. “Aye.”
Our murderer. The scrounger hadn’t kept her on ice all this time. Fogwill cast his gaze over the other paintings: different scenes from the city in the same few gaudy colours. Obviously the girl had had a weird affection for red and yellow, as they were the only colours used, whatever the subject. “We’ve found others,” he explained. “The puncture wounds are the same, but the bruises…Those are not Carnival’s work. Carnival suspends her victims by the feet.”
“Who did it?”
“We don’t know.”
The scrounger pushed his face even closer to Fogwill’s. “But you suspect someone?” His tone was a threat.
Fogwill saw that the muscles on Mr. Nettle’s arms had become as taut as the street-rope holding a house. He squirmed inwardly, but forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. “No.”
The scrounger’s eyes stayed locked on Fogwill’s for a long moment, the bruises on his face seeming to pulse.
Fogwill struggled to appear calm. He smelled whisky on the man’s breath, and felt a trickle of sweat run beneath his own ear. Why had he dismissed Clay so readily?
At last Mr. Nettle stepped back. “Get out,” he said.
Fogwill crossed the plank in two strides and raced back in the direction of the temple, robe fluttering. The walkway buckled and tipped beneath his feet but he didn’t slow. He didn’t slow down at all.
Mr. Nettle dressed quickly. He stuffed his scrounging tools into a backpack: rope, grapple, hammer, spikes, a small pulley, storm lantern, and flints. He grabbed his water flask, a disc of hardbread, a pouch of raisins, and a cord of pigskin, and threw them in with the tools. Then he tucked his cleaver in his belt, wheeled Smith’s trolley out to the walkway, and began loading it with pig iron. The help he needed would be expensive. Maybe the iron would cover it, maybe not. It might cost him a lot more.
While he worked, a gust of cold air blew from the abyss and shook the League of Rope. Shanties swung and knocked together. Timbers boomed on pulpboard walls and nails scratched tin roofs. Even the Warrens were moving, down below. Gaslights shivered among the chains. Only the temple stood motionless, black and immense, windows like a jet of embers frozen high above the heart of the city.
The fat little priest had lied. Mr. Nettle knew it in his gut. The Church suspected someone. He rubbed a hand over his sweating face, sighed slowly. Not Carnival? Maybe the priests would do something about it, maybe not. Didn’t matter. Mr. Nettle planned to do something first, whatever the cost.
S
orcery didn’t exist. Everybody knew that. In taverns and grogholes throughout the Warrens, folk dismissed the idea loudly, laughed heartily at the merest suggestion. But a careful listener might note how they dismissed the idea a little too loudly, laughed a little too heartily.
When the trolley was fully loaded, Mr. Nettle spat on the ground, steeled himself, and set off to meet the only man in Deepgate who could speak to hell.
The further Fogwill got from Mr. Nettle’s house, the more his nausea and vertigo returned. Here, as in all areas on the outskirts of the city, the distance between the great chains was at its widest; more of each neighbourhood being supported by a less substantial web of chain, cable, and rope.
Everything wobbled, shook, and groaned. Wood sweated. The smell was frightful. Like a sick-house full of plague victims. This entire district is rotting, ill .
Ropes threatened to snap. One cut would bring the whole nasty, ugly, filthy, smelly lot down into the abyss. With each step taken, Fogwill worried that it might be his last. Even those nets he could glimpse beneath the boards offered him little peace of mind. For the most part they were thin and frayed and looked too frail to support the weight of a dog, let alone his own portly frame. The darkness didn’t help. Occasional brands gave the timbers a buttery glow, but for the most part Fogwill was left to stumble along under the weak moonlight, his hands never leaving the street-ropes on either side. So soon after Scar Night, the moon was still a slender crescent. League-folk rarely ventured out at night and the streets were empty, but the lack of louts and cutthroats was little consolation. The man he was going to see was more dangerous than any of them.
The crippled thaumaturge lived inside the Sparrow Bridge in Chapelfunnel. A towering wooden construction built upon a granite deck, the bridge spanned the abyss between Tanners’ Gloom on the west side and the old coalgas towers on the east. Once open to the sky, and wide enough to allow two carts to pass side by side, Sparrow Bridge had formerly been a symbol of the district’s booming coalgas industry. In years past, workers could peer over its balustrades and see a canal of air and chains plough deep into the Warrens, hedged on both sides by walls of good strong flint and trunks of smoke. But prosperity brings wealth, and wealth brings men, and men need to be housed. Now Sparrow Bridge towered to four storeys. Homes had been built above, stacked one upon the other like children’s bricks and sewn up with chains bolted to any anchor available. Pinched roofs bucked across its summit in a ragged line. Forty or so families had lived in the bridge before Thomas Scatterclaw settled here. Carts still trundled through the long tunnel below the houses, loaded with leather for the Chapelfunnel market or steel from the dismantled coalgas yards, but now moving only one at a time, and only in the daytime.
Mr. Nettle looked up at the bridge. Scaffolding clung to the outside of the houses, but it was sagging, the poles and ladders rotten. There were holes in the roofs where shingles had come loose. Broken windows fronted the abyss, all of them dark but one, high up, where a dull red light glowed.
“Iron, is it?”
Mr. Nettle turned towards the voice. The man emerging from the tunnel sat on a low, wheeled platform and pushed himself along with bandaged hands. As the man drew near, Mr. Nettle saw that his legs had been severed below the knee. Despite this, he remained powerful. Muscles bunched on his broad chest. His arms looked strong enough to break a horse’s neck. Two deep scars, like sword wounds, running down his left forearm made Mr. Nettle think he might once have been a soldier or a temple guard.
“Is it enough?” Mr. Nettle asked.
“Depends what you want,” the man said. Wheels squeaked under him. “But no, in the end it won’t be enough.”
“That supposed to be a riddle?”
The man grunted. “Danning is my name. Want to know what happened to my legs?”
“No.”
The other man grinned. “You’ll want to speak to Mr. Scatterclaw. Upstairs. I’ll take the iron.”
“Might be he can’t help me.”
Danning shrugged. “Not my problem. That’s how it works here.”
The scrounger hesitated. Smith’s pig iron was a fortune to someone from the League, enough to feed him for six months or more. If the thaumaturge was unable to help, Mr. Nettle couldn’t imagine any future for himself. But what if Scatterclaw could help him? That future might be worse than none at all.
“Can’t make up your mind for you,” Danning said, “but it seems to me you’ve risked plenty coming here already.” He smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “Mr. Scatterclaw knows you’re here. And if Mr. Scatterclaw knows, the Maze knows.”
Mr. Nettle released his grip on the trolley.
Danning tilted his head. “Door beside the red window.” He pushed himself over to the trolley, grabbed the handles, and eased them back so that they rested on his wide shoulders. Then, grunting, he set off the way he had come, six wheels squeaking now.
The scaffolding wobbled the whole way up. Greasy ropes protested and soft planks dipped, but Mr. Nettle reached the uppermost catwalk without incident. The Chapelfunnel canal curved away below him, broken by moonlit chains into narrow strips of abyss. Beside the door, red light sweated through a warped window, blurred red shapes inside. Mr. Nettle stashed his backpack in the shadows and knocked.
A brusque voice issued from inside. “He’s here. Hide yourselves.”
The scrounger waited. He did not want to think about who or what Thomas Scatterclaw might be speaking to. Iril had opened many doors inside Sparrow Bridge.
“We have company,” Scatterclaw bellowed. “Do you want to frighten him out of his wits? Get out of my sight. All of you. Hide!”
Mr. Nettle listened at the door for a long time. He heard nothing further. No footfalls. Nothing. Not knowing what else to do, he knocked again.
A pause, then: “Come in.”
The door revealed a wall of broken glass. Razor-sharp shards of every shape and colour had been glued to a wooden partition set a few feet back from the door. Eight feet high, this partition stretched away on either side to the edges of a long room. It formed a narrow corridor from which a dozen other corridors, also faced with broken glass, led off into the interior. A red lantern depended from the rafters, its light the colour of blood.
A maze? The thaumaturge had built a shrine to Iril. Mr. Nettle stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The corridor was just wide enough to allow him to move sideways along it without tearing his clothes on the glass fragments. Mazes, in any form, were forbidden in Deepgate. Iril’s demons drew power from mazes. Not two months ago, an Ivygarths silversmith had been dragged before the Avulsior for crafting a brooch, it was said, of such intricacy that it had been likened to Iril’s corridors. But here was a real maze, a solid thing composed of wood and glass. The Church would burn it to the ground if they discovered it.
He edged along to the first intersection. Another corridor ran to a dead end twenty feet ahead. Six more branched off from it. Mr. Nettle called out, “Scatterclaw?”
“Over here.”
But the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. Mr. Nettle turned carefully into the sharp passageway and eased himself along, wary of losing his way. On one side he noted a crescent-shaped shard of glass, black in the red light, and tried to burn it into his memory. He decided on the third branch on the right.
A third lengthy corridor, at least forty feet long, with many more leading away from it. The scrounger frowned. From the outside, Sparrow Bridge did not seem wide enough to contain all this. He looked back, spied the crescent-shaped shard, then squeezed on between the treacherous glass walls and shuffled deeper into the maze. Something nicked his shoulder and he halted, felt blood trickle down his back.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Scatterclaw cried. “Stay where you are, all of you. He is not lost. You are not lost, are you, Scrounger?”
“No.”
“Then proceed.”
Sweat ran from Mr. Nettle’s brow, but he dared not lift his hand to mop it. Th
ere was barely room to breathe in here. He sucked in his chest and moved on again. Another opening led to another corridor and this one appeared to stretch for twice the length of the last. Walls of glass glistened blackly. Nothing made sense: the entire room could not be more than sixty feet wide. He glanced up and saw the lantern overhead. Had it always been hanging directly above his head? He was growing weary of this.
“Scatterclaw,” he shouted.
“Don’t linger. They know where you are.”
“Who?”
No reply.
Mr. Nettle cursed and moved on. He took a left, edged fifty paces, then a right. When he looked up the lantern was still there, directly above. Damn the thaumaturge. Wasn’t it enough that he’d paid a wealth of iron to speak to the man? Now he was expected to crawl through this trap. He’d half a mind to climb the partition, get a good look at the place, or use his cleaver to shave away some of the glass fragments.
But Mr. Nettle did neither. Thomas Scatterclaw was not a man he wanted to anger. Folks said he’d come across the Yellow Sea from a place where Iril was worshipped. They said he’d come here a hundred and forty years ago and his body had been grey and fleshless then. They said he’d pierced his lips, ears, and eyes with splinters of gallows wood so that he could converse with demons, and that he’d had nails hammered into his spine to keep his gaze from Heaven while he slept.
The scrounger waited for a dozen breaths, and then pushed on. A left, then another left. Twenty paces. A right. Ten paces. Another right. Always the same wickedly sharp corridors, always the same blood-coloured lantern overhead. Had he been tricked? Was he to spend the rest of his life in here? He wandered for what seemed like hours, down corridor after corridor, glass inches from his chest and inches from his back.
Finally he stopped.
Ten paces ahead was an opening in the left wall. But this did not lead to another corridor; it opened into a wider space. Even from here he could see another partition a short distance beyond, but this time a wall without glass. Warily, Mr. Nettle approached it.