Scar Night

by Alan Campbell

Lying in the soil below, she spied a three-pronged gardening fork. She leapt from the branch, snapped out her wings, and swooped low across the lawn, snatching up the fork as she passed.

  Then she beat a path upwards toward the warship.

  * * * *

  Mr. Nettle glanced up again at the tower window. Devon had killed the light. Apparently he’d heard the knocking too.

  “Too late,” he hissed through his teeth. “They’ve found you, you old fool.”

  Careful not to make a sound, he scrambled from his den to where the net joined one of the tower’s support chains. A nest of rusted girders and heavy plates—broken and welded countless times—sank into the darkness below. With one hand on the stone for balance, he hopped from one chain to the next until he reached a place where he could get a clear view of the tower door.

  It was dark, but Mr. Nettle saw two armour-clad figures standing before the tower—temple guards armed with pikes. A bloodhound snuffled about their feet, all floppy ears and saliva. The closer man rapped his pike several times against the door. “Open up,” he called. “Presbyter’s orders.”

  Mr. Nettle cursed under his breath. If he rushed the guards, it was doubtful he could overpower them both, and the sound would only reveal him to Devon. It was a hopeless situation. His left hand pressed firmly against the stone wall, the other clenched and unclenched on the cleaver handle. He could only hope that the guards hadn’t spotted the light from the window, that this was a random search, and that the two men would give up and move on.

  Then a voice from inside the tower made him catch his breath. “Hold on, hold on, will you? I’m coming as fast as I can.”

  Devon was coming down to meet them?

  Thoughts tumbled inside Mr. Nettle’s skull. What was the idiot doing? Was he drunk or had he lost his damn mind? Had he decided to give himself up? Was Ulcis going to deny him the elixir too?

  Abigail’s voice remained thankfully silent. She knew him well enough to leave him to his despair. His head drooped, rested against the wall. God had beaten him.

  A lock rattled, then Mr. Nettle heard the tower door creak open a fraction.

  “Who are you? What do you want at this time of night?” Devon sounded annoyed.

  The bloodhound sniffed at the door for a moment, then resumed dragging its jowls around the guards’ feet. Whatever scent it had been given, the Poisoner had managed to shed.

  Evidently the guards could not see clearly to whom they were speaking. “We have orders to search all the buildings in this area.”

  “Orders? On whose authority?”

  “Presbyter Sypes.”

  There was a pause. “No, I am sorry. That’s quite impossible.”

  The guards shared a look, stiffened, and levelled their pikes at the door. “Why?” the first demanded.

  “Because,” Devon said, “it would lead to my arrest.”

  And then Mr. Nettle heard a sound: a rush of air. To his astonishment the nearest guard collapsed at once. The other staggered back a few paces and swayed dizzily for a moment before he too dropped to the ground with a thump and clunk of armour. The bloodhound scampered away a few feet, and then turned, tail wagging and jowls swinging. It barked.

  Devon stepped out from the doorway and looked up and down the lane. He held a metal canister with a flexible tube protruding from its tip. “Two weeks,” he said. “It took you two bloody weeks to get here. I was about to start putting up signposts.”

  The bloodhound backed away, raised its head, and barked again, then edged forward.

  Devon tossed it something from his pocket.

  The dog slewed around, paws skidding, and slobbered down whatever had been thrown to it. Then it turned, strings of saliva swinging, and looked up expectantly at Devon.

  Mr. Nettle watched the Poisoner drag the guards inside the tower.

  The dog followed, tail wagging.

  * * * *

  The tower basement was dank and windowless. Metal panels bolted over the rotten floorboards boomed as Devon paced back and forth before his captives. Rats scratched in the crawlspace under the floor, pattered across the heavy iron foundations below. A smoking fuel burner set low on the wall cast long shadows as he walked, intermittently covering and revealing the bruises on the two guards’ faces.

  Devon had simply piled the unconscious men head over heels down twenty steep steps. It had been noisy, but relatively effortless, and he felt that minimum strain was important in his present condition. Their armour had protected them from the worst of the fall. Now somewhat bashed and scraped, it gleamed dully in the glow of the flames.

  The men were groggy but awake; chained back to back around one of the girders supporting the weight of the rooms stacked above. One was young, soft-skinned, but broad as a wrestler; the other, probably his lieutenant, had the look of a worn veteran with too many cold morning patrols etched in his face. The dog was sniffing around the rear of the basement.

  “How are you feeling?” Devon asked, his tone cheerful from habit. It was important to seem polite, important that the men felt—as much as possible given the circumstances—that he was a potential ally whose actions were outside of his control. But it was also necessary to cause friction between the pair from the beginning, for he had not the time or energy to interrogate them separately. Easier if he could turn them against each other. The more he learned about them, the more harm he could potentially cause them, and pain, after all, had always been at the core of Devon’s work.

  “My chest,” the younger guard gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

  Devon nodded. “You probably broke a rib when you fell down the stairs. I doubt it’s serious, though, and I may have an unguent upstairs to ease the pain.”

  The veteran squinted into the harsh light from the burner. “Devon?”

  “I have a dilemma,” Devon went on, watching both men carefully.

  They waited in silence for him to continue.

  He tapped a finger against his lips as he continued pacing. He sighed, wrung his hands, and then adopted a regretful, almost despondent tone. “I’m afraid only one of you will live through this.”

  Surprisingly, the veteran’s eyes widened in fear. Perhaps cold mornings were all this man had suffered. The younger man’s expression, however, hardened.

  Good.

  “What are your names?” Devon asked mildly.

  A ragged breath escaped the younger guard’s throat.

  The veteran answered uneasily. “Angus. And he’s Lars.”

  “The dog?”

  “Fitzgerald,” the veteran added.

  At the sound of his name, Fitzgerald lifted his snout a moment before returning to his explorations.

  The rhythmic impact of Devon’s boots on the metal floor panels rang out like the slow ticking of an iron clock. The echoes pressed back on them from the walls, and made the underground space seem even more confined. “Any family, either of you?” he asked.

  “What?” The veteran, Angus, winced. “What do you want from us?”

  Devon kept his face in shadow, between the burner and the guards. He did not alter his pace. “Excuse my bluntness, but this has to be resolved before we can proceed. I asked you a question.”

  Lars’s head dropped and he screwed up his eyes. “Wife,” he said. “Two children.”

  Angus was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m married. Four children.”

  Devon noticed the tremble in his voice, and kept pacing, his shadow sweeping over the floor.

  “He’s lying,” Lars hissed.

  Angus twisted against the chains, trying to see round at his comrade’s face. “Bastard,” he said.

  Devon snorted. “As I do not intend to spend any more time getting to know you,” he said, “I’m not sure how best to resolve this dilemma.” He approached his captives and squatted on his haunches beside them. “Perhaps I ought to leave the decision in your own hands.”

  “They know where we are.” Angus looked like he was on the verge of
tears. “They’ll come looking for us.”

  Devon resumed pacing. “My problem is that I need to enlist the help of one of you.” He turned to face both captives as he walked. “But which one? All temple guards have access to the Sanctum, so that is not an issue. Lars, you sound somewhat the worse for wear, and yet I have already taken a disliking to your companion.”

  Lars buried his head against his chest and breathed short, ragged gasps. Angus wrenched his shoulders forward against his chains. The rhythm of Devon’s footsteps continued steadily.

  “Let us go,” Angus pleaded. “We won’t report this.”

  Lars lifted his head and clenched his jaws. His eyes rolled upwards and closed.

  “I will make this simple.” Devon let out a long sigh. “One of you is going to die here, in this tower. The other is going to work for me. I do not care which of you, so you can decide between yourselves.”

  He stopped. His final footstep resounded for a heartbeat, then faded. “Would you like a few more minutes to make up your minds?”

  * * * *

  The warship reminded Carnival of an insect larva, some enormous maggot burrowing in and out of the clouds. Flashes of silver rippled over the craft’s envelope where it caught the moonlight. Hot air from the cooling system fed fat ribs around the liftgas envelope to provide more accurate buoyancy control and allow rapid ascent with fast inflation. An engine powered twin propellers towards the rear, turning the ship in a slow circle as she watched. Valves clicked within. Beneath the bulk of fabric, portholes burned in the shadowy gondola. The bridge was up front, the crew berths, galley, and engine room behind. Neat decks, wide enough for a man to walk along, jutted from both port and starboard sides and extended some distance behind the engine room, where four aeronauts tended the searchlights stationed at each corner, adjusting aether flow and turning the mirrored bowls so that the beams swept over the city.

  Carnival landed silently on the forward port deck, opened a door, and stepped inside.

  She found herself in a painfully bright teak corridor that ran from the engine room to the bridge. Brass-bordered doors led to interior rooms, their portholes now dark. Engines thundered and shook the rich red carpet underfoot. The air smelled of fuel and polish.

  She strolled along the corridor and stepped forward onto the bridge.

  The captain stood pin-straight in his uniform, all sharp white lines and silver buttons, and peered through the arc of windows above the control panel. A helmsman wearing a skewed white cap held a tall wheel in the centre of the bridge.

  “Eleven degrees starboard,” the captain said.

  “Aye, sir,” the helmsman responded. “Eleven degrees starboard.” With one eye on a compass to his left, he spun the wheel around several times, slowed it, and brought it to a stop.

  Carnival closed the door behind her. The captain glanced over his shoulder.

  For a moment he stared at Carnival as though her presence was nothing more than an unexpected interruption. Then, abruptly, the colour drained from his face.

  “Holding now,” the helmsman said. “One-one-five degrees.”

  A moment of silence filled the bridge.

  The helmsman stared at the captain, and then turned to follow his gaze.

  “Hell,” he said.

  Carnival approached both men, relaxed her wings. Feathers brushed the roof and splayed across the floor. Her scars seemed to darken under aether-lights. Her midnight eyes thinned. “No,” she said, “just me.”

  The helmsman edged a step closer to the captain.

  The captain himself was rooted to the spot, his arms stiff at his sides, eyes wide, jaw thrust out like a bracket.

  She stopped a few paces from the captain. “I’m in no mood for slaughter,” she said.

  Both men stared.

  “What are you looking for? When is it going to stop?”

  The captain swallowed.

  “Are you going to answer me”—she bared her teeth—“or do we trade scars?”

  His eyes flicked over the lacerations on her face, and widened a little more. He replied in a hoarse whisper: “Devon.”

  Carnival tilted her head to one side and frowned.

  “Deepgate’s Poisoner,” the captain said. “Head of Military Science.”

  “Why him?” she snapped.

  The captain hesitated, glanced at his helmsman, but the other man failed to notice, as Carnival occupied his full attention. “Angelwine,” the captain said. “Devon has been making angelwine.”

  Carnival blinked.

  “The temple’s been finding husks,” the captain explained. “I mean…more husks.”

  “Where?”

  “All areas of—”

  “When?”

  “Other nights…not just—”

  With a crack, her wings were open. She took a step forward and leaned closer to the captain, her eyes as narrow as knife blades. “This…Devon, he bleeds them?”

  The captain’s jaw was so rigid, his lips barely moved. “Aye, he—”

  The door crashed open. Carnival wheeled, her wings slicing the air, to see aeronauts pouring into the bridge, short swords already unsheathed. The first man through the door paused, stumbled, and almost fell when he saw what awaited him. Behind him, two more broke sideways to avoid a collision, then they too halted. As more followed, they spread out slowly, blocking her escape.

  A line of eight men now stood frozen behind their steel and gaped at her.

  Carnival snarled.

  One bulky, grizzled man by the starboard corridor door regained his senses first. From the pips on his collar, he was the executive officer. With his eyes locked on Carnival, he addressed the captain in a low and steady voice. “We heard through the com pipe.”

  She sensed the captain and the helmsman moving away to the perimeter of the bridge.

  “Orders, Captain?” the executive officer demanded.

  As Carnival flexed her wings, a gust of air blew over the men confronting her. Her feathers stretched in a ragged curtain almost to the side walls of the bridge. From her toes right up to her furrowed brow, the scars crisscrossing her entire body began to itch. She felt the old wounds on her face tighten, writhe.

  “Gods below,” an aeronaut murmured, backing away.

  “She can’t escape,” another boyish aeronaut said. “There are eight of us, and armed.” But his sword trembled in his hand.

  The older officer looked to the captain for orders.

  “Kill her,” the helmsman said.

  The aeronauts paused, uncertain.

  Carnival’s eyes smouldered. She drew in her wings and crouched low, tensing her muscles to pounce. Tendons bulged in her neck, pushed against the rope scar around her throat. Slowly, she slipped the gardening fork from her belt.

  Eight men took an involuntary step backwards.

  “I’m in no mood for slaughter,” she said. “Leave.”

  “Kill her,” the helmsman snarled.

  A sword lanced through the air towards her. Carnival caught the blade in the prongs of the fork and twisted. It thunked into the wall of the bridge and stuck there, quivering. “Leave!” she cried. “Now!”

  “Kill her!” the helmsman screamed.

  As one, the aeronauts rushed her, their swords thrust forward.

  Carnival sucked in a long breath and held it. And then she leapt with such force that two of her attackers instinctively jerked their swords back in alarm, their eyes closed.

  But Carnival’s leap carried her straight up, smashing through the ceiling as if it was paper, and into the envelope directly above.

  Gas hissed and billowed around her. A thin skeleton of metal hoops joined by narrow struts ran the entire length of the warship, tapering into the far gloom at each end. Carnival twisted around, still clutching the fork. She could cut her way out anywhere.

  She flew upwards.

  The prongs tore easily through the taut, distended fabric. She half climbed, half clawed her way up through, and then she was out i
nto the cool night air.

  She breathed.

  Below her, the envelope rippled as liftgas poured from the expanding gash. The warship tilted sharply, dropped away. Its propellers screamed, driving the gondola even faster towards the streets below. The aeronauts on the aft deck were clinging desperately to the guardrails, unable to move. One of them slipped away, crying out before the propeller silenced him.

  Carnival watched the warcraft plummet. The gondola struck a row of townhouses, punched a hole through the roofs. There was a flash—

  —and a ball of fire bloomed skyward. The warship envelope blew to pieces, shredding the townhouse roofs nearby. Windows shattered for blocks around. Slates spun out in high arcs. Scraps of flame billowed high above the city.

  As the roar of the explosion reached Carnival’s ears, an updraft punched her higher. She rode it, her great wings spread wide, her eyes mirroring the flames below.

  “Maybe I was in the mood after all,” she said.

  17

  Angelwine

  The poisoner did not rush his preparations. This procedure was too important for mistakes. He cleaned the collection flasks and tubes carefully, reverently, then steeped the distillation cylinder in alcohol and rinsed it four times before he dried its woozy yellow glass inside and out with compressed air. The syringes were disinfected next in the same manner, and then laid out in sharply glinting lines on a steel tray. He even took the opportunity to give a quick polish to the metal stand he used to support the draining tubes. Everything must be perfect. If a priest had been to hand, he’d have had the equipment blessed, perhaps.

  When everything was ready, he poured himself a large glass of Rhak and raised it in a solitary toast.

  “Presbyter Sypes,” he said, and knocked back the contents in one gulp.

  There was an enigma. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the old priest had deliberately helped him, and that the Spine assassin he’d killed had been the Adjunct’s instrument.

  The fat man went behind your back, didn’t he? And now that I’ve been forced to flee, you fear the angelwine is lost to you. Did you plan to take it from me? What did you hope to gain with it? Power? Immortality?