Even though it’s a warm night, Jaleh piles some logs in the grate, pokes the dying fire until it burns again. “Here, I help them who want to get free. Best not to suddenly tear free by denying the god who holds you–it rips the soul open. Better to slowly work the thorns out, one by one. Dull prayers help, smoothes the mind. Some gods hold you through your actions, others through your feelings.”
“It’s like a reverse of Safidism,” says Eladora, “praying to one god to ensure another doesn’t notice you, so your soul isn’t in alignment. Does it always work? Can you always free someone from sainthood?”
Jaleh shrugs. “None of us are wholly free. There’s always a chance, even here, that some god will reach down and claim any of us. But if someone wants to be gentled, wants their burdens lifted, I can help.”
“Are you helping Emlin?”
“I help everyone who takes shelter under my roof.”
“Is everyone here a former saint?”
Jaleh laughs. “Not since your lot opened Hark Island and started arresting people. No, most of them are just lost souls from the Godswar. A lot of god-touched, changed in body. They don’t let true saints through any more. Just them who are a little blessed. One thorn in the soul.” She chuckles and pokes the fire again, making it blaze up.
“Can you tell when someone’s a saint?”
Jaleh’s eyes glitter in the fire. “Sometimes I get a feeling. A sense of it.”
“What happened to your arm?”
“What gives you the right to come here asking so many questions?”
Eladora pauses, then speaks quietly. “You know, parliament intends to employ the ghouls to assist the city watch, to sniff out saints and dangers to the city. Silkpurse speaks highly of you, but she’s a generous soul. Others might be more intrusive. Or so Lord Rat suggested, when I last spoke to him.”
“And will the ghouls be sniffing around you, too? I got a sense of it when you were here before–you were sainted, weren’t you? You tried to tear free, and it broke you. Who was it? You sound like you’ve never been out of Guerdon. Did the Kept Gods stir and try to claim you? The holy fire of Safid? Or something else?”
“My mother,” admits Eladora, “is a Keeper saint. She, ah, implied that Emlin might also be gifted. I want to know if you’ve seen any signs of spiritual gifts in him.”
“And what then? Will you call the watch? Whistle up them ghouls? Send him to Hark?”
“Is that warranted?”
Jaleh reaches into the fire, takes out a hot coal, holding it on the bare scales of her warped hand. “I lived in Lyrix, a long time ago. I worked for the Ghierdana, the old dragon families. I stained my soul with all sorts of sins. Culsan, god of murderers, recognised himself in me, claimed me for his own, but I didn’t know that for a long long time. Maybe if I’d seen that, I’d have come home before…” She clenches the coal, crushing it to black dust. “Some gods work in secret, child. And just because someone’s a saint don’t mean they owe anything to the god who claimed ’em.”
She looks up at Eladora. “The gods cursed me after I strangled a priest of Culsan. That’s what warped my arm. Divine punishment.” She brushes the dust back into the fire, making it flare up. “I didn’t even know I had been a saint of murderers until Culsan tore his blessings away and cursed me instead.” A shower of sparks.
Is she hinting that Emlin is unaware of his sainthood? Or that she thinks the boy isn’t a threat, that whatever vestiges of power he retains are too weak to be dangerous?
“I’ll leave a note for Alic. Please see that he gets it.” Eladora fishes in her bag for pen and paper. “Also, if you would ensure that Emlin is diligent in his gentling, I would consider it a personal favour.”
Part of Eladora is uncomfortable at any sort of prayers to the Kept Gods, now that they’re so much more active. What’s needed is some secular gentling process, not beholden to any deity. Something like the sorcerous exercises that Ramegos insists she—
Oh. Eladora nearly breaks the pen.
Ramegos was part of the inquiry into the Crisis. Knows everything about Eladora’s experiences. Took an interest in Eladora, tutored her in sorcery. Like Professor Ongent did. What gods does Ramegos suspect still have a claim on Eladora’s soul? The Black Iron Gods are dead, they told her. Were they lying?
Jaleh, outlined against the fire, watches her. A vision of the future of the city, maybe, a scarred survivor that has made her own accommodation to the unseen powers. Unable to hide from them fully, unable to deny them, but able to balance one against the other. Blessed and cursed, faithful and faithless all at once. Eladora finds herself suddenly envious of the older woman. Jaleh has found her place here in this house. Eladora thought her place was in the university, amid the books. Where history is set and the rules of the world don’t change according to the mad desires of unknown gods. Now she’s not so sure.
The door rattles, breaking the moment. Jaleh undoes the heavy locks, opens it awkwardly with her human hand, keeping the clawed dragon-hand raised like a knife until she’s sure it’s safe.
It is safe. It’s Alic. He enters, grinning, dressed in an absurd outfit of overlarge clothes.
“Miss Duttin,” Alic says, and bows. “Is all well?” he asks. “Is Emlin all right?”
“He’s upstairs. What in the world are you wearing?”
He looks down at his oversized clothes. “Oh, I was out with friends, and fell in a canal. Had to borrow these. What’s this I hear about a king?”
“Apparently, the heir to the throne of Guerdon has returned.”
“Really?”
The spy listens as Eladora hastily describes the events of the Festival. He dismisses the miraculous appearance of some long-lost king as irrelevant. The people of Guerdon are unsophisticated when it comes to divine intervention–they live in a land of Kept Gods and the dregs of the Godswar. A magic crown appearing to some distant heir? That’s mere sleight-of-hand compared to the real wonders the gods can perform. If the kings of old clawed their way out of the tombs, or if every member of parliament suddenly fused together into a fleshy giant that bestrode the city, carrying Castle Hill as a shield and waving the three cathedrals as a trident, then the spy might be impressed. No, the return of the king isn’t worrisome. It doesn’t matter who’s in charge when the Ishmeric fleet arrives.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow night Emlin will send the message.
Eladora continues. “They’ve sent Absalom Spyke to investigate this new king. I’ll be taking over the New City campaign until polling day.”
“You’d better take this, then.” A bag of coin, so heavy that Eladora has to use two hands to hold it. “Campaign donations. From the merchants of the harbour in general, and Dredger in particular.” He considers the matter. “I’ll walk up to Lambs Square and fetch you a carriage. Better not to walk through the Wash carrying that.”
“You did.”
He grins again. “Sometimes the gods smile on fools.”
The silence of the train station in Grena is the silence of a tomb.
A century ago, when the station was built, it was busy as a feast-day market. Primitive trains roared down the tracks, carrying the bounty of the goddess–a dozen harvests a year–north and south. South to Guerdon, as that city swelled with traders and sailors. North to Haith, eternal icon of stability and order. Some trains would rattle through the station on the express line, not stopping at Grena, going straight from one city to another.
Then came the war.
Then came the madness of the goddess.
Then the bomb.
Then silence.
Now, that silence is broken by a military train from the north. It races through the station, moving at full speed, its aetheric lights flooding the platforms with a false dawn. Row after row of skulls can be briefly glimpsed through the windows, mort-carriages full of dead men. There are living soldiers, too, next to the new weapon-carriages. The train’s equipped with Guerdon-forged artillery. For now, these massive guns slumber un
der tarpaulins. The train doesn’t stop. It passes through, and the silence of the tomb returns.
Then another train.
Then another.
Then another.
Then silence.
CHAPTER 31
Terevant wakes to find Yoras shaking him. Opens his eyes to look into the eye sockets of a skull.
The ambassador is dead.
It takes him a moment to connect the title to the man who holds it. A moment in which he’s walking without noticing the ground has fallen away.
The ambassador is dead. Olthic’s the ambassador.
Terevant’s in the embassy. Back in Guerdon, somehow. A vague memory, last night, of being bundled into a coach. Rattling down country roads at speed. His stomach’s awash with acid. His legs are shaking, and he has to lean on Yoras for support. His head feels like an overripe fruit, and every movement brings pain.
Come down, quick.
Terevant staggers down the stairs, grabbing his sword by instinct, buckling it on as he runs. He’s still in his clothes from last night. Yoras follows close behind him. From ahead, shouts, running feet. The stillness of the early morning broken. Two Vigilant guards stand outside the door of Olthic’s study. More inside, living and undead.
And one dead.
In a heartbeat, Terevant sees it all.
His brother’s body lies on the floor by the fireplace. Half dressed–parts of the uniform he wore at the Festival on the floor, but he’s wearing his old swordbelt, his spit-polished marching boots.
He’s been stabbed. The blade was driven through his stomach, emerging from his back, then torn free. There are other wounds, too, smaller cuts. Blood, great red floods of it, over the ground, soaking into carpets and running in little regular rivers along gaps in the tiles. Furniture hurled about, as if caught up in a hurricane. The window’s been smashed in. There’s glass everywhere.
A look of confusion on Olthic’s face that mirrors the one on Terevant’s own.
There’s no sign of the Erevesic sword.
Terevant stumbles towards the body, but, before he can cross the threshold into the study, Daerinth bars his way.
“Where is the sword? What did you do?”
Confused memories. Did he talk to Olthic last night? The last thing he recalls clearly is sitting with the mercenary woman, Naola, by the fireside. A dream of talking to Olthic. Jumbled memories of fleeing with Lemuel. A blow from behind.
Daerinth doesn’t hesitate. He snaps orders at the Vigilants. “Detain the lieutenant!”
Terevant backs away as the skeletal troops advance. Bony hands reach for him. “Only you could have done this!” croaks Daerinth. “Surrender, Erevesic, and face the judgement of the Crown.”
Instinct takes over. He draws his own sword, and the Vigilants draw theirs. The dead are faster than he is, stronger, but they’re not trying to kill him and he doesn’t need to worry about killing them. His blows hammer at them, wildly. Bones splinter as he hews at the Vigilant troops. Everything’s a red haze. Olthic’s dead, and the world’s broken, and all he can do is fight. Blindly, through the tears. There’s more than two Vigilants now, it’s four or five, six, the whole garrison turning out, living and dead. The living hang back, confused–do they follow the orders of the First Secretary to arrest their commander?
The dead don’t hesitate. Daerinth shouts an order, and the Vigilant redouble their attacks. His sword’s ripped from his hand; another slash opens up his forearm, spraying blood across the marble wall. They’re trying to kill him now. It’s not murder if he can self-resurrect, turn Vigilant.
A sword thrusts at him, aimed at his heart. One of the Vigilant deliberately falls in the path of the blade, blocking its compatriots. It’s Yoras.
Run, sir, he whispers.
Terevant runs. Shouting behind him, half the embassy in hot pursuit. He races up the stairs, vaults out of a window onto a low roof. Slipping down the tiles towards the courtyard. He catches himself on a gutter–his bloodied arm explodes with pain as it takes his weight and he nearly blacks out, but he stumbles across the yard to the gate. The dead are at his heels, but he’s over the threshold just ahead of them, crossing the line from Haithi territory to Guerdon.
Eight Vigilant skeletons stop dead on the threshold, unwilling to pursue. Their hesitation won’t last–either they’ll fetch masks and gloves so they can move among the living, or Daerinth will send them out anyway. Or the living troops of the embassy will give chase. Terevant doesn’t stop, keeps running.
Falling into the city.
In the morning, the spy’s woken by a scratching at his window. He crosses the small room he shares with Emlin, stepping around his bed. Emlin’s hidden somewhere under a pile of blankets despite the summer heat. A garland of flowers lies discarded on the floor. The spy kicks it away under the bed; Emlin has one more miracle to perform tonight, then Jaleh can gentle the boy all she likes.
Outside, Silkpurse perches on the windowsill, three storeys off the ground. She’s got the sure hooves of a mountain goat. “Don’t have time to knock downstairs, dear,” she explains as she hands him a bundle. “Lord Rat’s called us down, so I must be off.”
“‘Us’, meaning?”
“All the ghouls of the city. Haven’t had a gathering like that in a few months, not since we cleared out the Crawling Ones.” She sucks at her sharp teeth, as if remembering a particular satisfying meal. “That’s from Miss Duttin. Says it’s urgent. Well, the food’s from me. I was going to the market anyway, before going below.” She pats a satchel at her side that bulges with fresh-baked bread and cold meats. Alic looks confused; behind the mask, the spy is knowingly amused. She’s going into the deep places of the city, the old kingdoms of the ghouls, so she carries surface food to eat instead of corpse-meat. Her own version of gentling, a way to fend off the unwanted transformation into the next stage of ghoul-dom. Silkpurse’s bread and Emlin’s garland are both symbols that align them with forces other than the ones that lay claim to them.
The ghoul slips away. He opens the bundle, removes the matching loaf and paper-wrapped meats she left for him. The rest of the bundle is papers from Eladora. A letter, repeating what she told him last night, that she’s now in charge of the campaign in the New City. A bag of coin (a third of what he gave her, he notes), a list of engagements, a list of ward-beaters and other party officials. A letter of writ, authorising him to act in her name–and her name means Kelkin’s name. Plenty of work for Alic to do.
And why not? He’s almost Alic entire, now. The spy’s job is nearly done.
Emlin’s awake. Watches him from the shadows of the blanket.
Alic holds out a hunk of bread. “Let’s eat this here before going down to the common room for breakfast.”
“Not hungry.” Something’s wrong, Alic can tell. The boy won’t meet his eyes.
“You’ll need your strength.” He lowers his voice. “Aunt Annah wants you to work tonight.”
Emlin draws back into the nest of blankets, shaking his head. “I can’t.”
The spy sits down on the bed, gently excavates the nest so he can see Emlin’s face. “What happened?”
“There was… there was another saint. Miss Duttin’s mother, I think. She knew what I was.”
“What happened?”
Silence.
“Emlin, what happened?”
The boy sits up in bed, his face streaked with tears. “She burned me, she made me… she said I had to ab-ab—”
“Abjure,” says the spy, bitterly. The word is ash in his mouth. The Keeper bitch has burned Emlin, spiritually. Forced him to deny the Fate Spider, to blaspheme. And the boy’s sainthood was already tenuous. He’s useless now! Broken!
“I can’t hear the whispering any more.”
“She hurt you?” Alic asks, suddenly furious. He grabs Emlin by the shoulders, turns him this way and that, looking for wounds.
“She healed me, too,” says Emlin, his voice thick with shame. He was even denied martyrdom.
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“A mad saint,” whispers Alic. “She’d have killed you. It wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done to stop her. And I’m glad she healed you. It’s better—”
And then a cold chill crawls through Alic. The spy speaks through his mouth, whispering into the boy’s ear. “I know how to fix this. We’ll go tonight.”
The spy spends the day waiting. Patience, he screams. Patience, as he wants to gnaw his legs off.
Alic has plenty of work to do. Alic is everywhere in the Wash and the New City, tirelessly campaigning. Rallying the dispirited voters, laughing at the idea that Guerdon should have a king again. Reminding them that Kelkin saw them through the Crisis and has kept the city safe. It’s easier to convince the inhabitants of the New City to dismiss news of this new king–those who fled the Godswar know better than to trust divine intervention, not in a city that’s supposed to be blessedly godless. In the Wash, though, reverence for the lost king runs deep. It’s in the shape of the streets, in the names of the old families. Shot through the city like sinews through meat.
He keeps Emlin close. Keeps the boy from dwelling on the events of the Festival. They talk about what they’ll do after the election.
The summer day stretches endlessly. Alic fills the hours, but the spy watches the horizon. He wishes he could poison the sun, or drag it from the sky. Anything to hasten twilight.
When Emlin tires, he sends the boy home. Alic stays working. He eats in the IndLib hall. Laughing and joking with friends and allies. Dredger’s money sliding down their throats, filling their bellies. It takes him half an hour to leave when he’s finished his meal. Everyone wants one last word with him, to shake his hand and slap him on the back. Emlin waits for him back at Jaleh’s.
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