The ash is still warm, as if fresh from a crematorium. Some part of Baston’s mind wonders what the doctor was doing with the bodies in the cellar.
“Swear,” commands Rasce.
“I’ll serve you in all things, you and the dragon. My life for the Ghierdana.” Baston swallows. “And if I break my word, my life’s forfeit.”
Rasce extends his hand, helps Baston stand. “My friend, you have to understand. The ash buys only a measure of indulgence. Not forgiveness.”
A pit opens beneath Karla. She vanishes, falling into the darkness. Her scream’s cut off by the street closing above her. Baston jumps forward, tries to catch her, but his hand meets only solid stone.
“Karla!” His cry echoes off the walls of the city and the heavens above, and is ignored by both. Karla’s gone in an instant, swallowed up as if she never existed. All the strength and courage seem to drain from Baston, leaving him hollow and broken.
“She is alive,” says Rasce. “I’ve sent her away. All the way down to Rat.”
Baston turns, slowly, to face his new master. He thought himself bigger than Rasce, taller and stronger, but he now realises he’s very, very small in comparison to the creature that stands before him. Everyone else on the street, all the onlookers, all the thieves who’ve rushed down from the House on Lanthorn Street, even Doctor Vorz – they’re immaterial now, living ghosts, no more substance than a candle-flame. Easy to snuff out. Just like him, just like Karla. Rasce’s the only solid presence, the only truly real thing.
No longer human. He’s stepped through some unseen door, risen to some exalted height no mortal can attain. Once, they were on the same side, allies despite the tangle of oaths and duties and family. Now, that’s no longer possible – they are of different orders now. As scythe to the corn, as fire to the forest, so is Rasce to them all now.
He desperately wants to vomit, to scream, to get away from the horror of the living god.
“I’d like to trust you, my friend,” says Rasce, “but you must atone first. My Uncle Artolo cut off his fingers with his own knife to prove his loyalty to the dragon. Tiske took the greatest risk at Dredger’s yard. I have something in mind for you, now.
“It’s time for you to go home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Carillon and Myri feast on a banquet of dried fish, with a delicious appetiser of dried fish, two main courses of dried fish (prepared in the traditional Yhandisian method, that is to say, drying), and polished off with a dessert of dried fish. It is unquestionably the best meal Cari has ever had in her life.
And fresh water, too! This little village is better than any of the broken heavens they’ve travelled through on their way here.
When they’re finished, it’s Cari who breaks the silence. She takes out the book, props it up like a gravestone against the aethergraph set. Balanced between the two of them.
She takes out a fish-gutting knife, lays it on her lap.
“So—” she begins.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” Myri interrupts her, leaning forward with curiosity.
Cari holds up her numbed hands. “It’s been like this ever since I stabbed Rhan-Gis.” She can still bend her fingers, a little, but only with great effort, and the flesh is greyish-white and mottled.
“You blasphemed.”
“I figured.”
“Does it hurt?” asks Myri.
“Aches a bit.”
“Here.” Myri fishes in her robes, digs out a small glass vial, and tosses it across to Cari. “Rub a little along your wrist.” It’s a vial of Myri’s pain medication.
“Hey, I stole all these off you back on Ilbarin!” Cari cracks the vial open, lets the liquid inside drip on her wrist.
“A sorceress always has something up her sleeve,” says Myri, then she shrieks, “Don’t use it all! Just a few drops!”
Cari throws the vial back, and Myri pours the remainder down her throat. Even a few drops absorbed through her skin makes Cari feel like she’s floating, the tugging weight of her maimed hand suddenly gone. She has no idea what drinking a whole vial would do to you, or what internal fires Myri has to quell. She flexes her hand, and it feels somewhat better.
“Fuck it,” says Cari, “let’s assume we can get a boat to Khebesh from here. Do you want to sort this out now? That was the bargain, wasn’t it? We help each other until we get there, and then…”
“And then we kill each other?” Myri’s scar of a mouth twists into a wry smile. “Here and now?”
“Winner takes the book.”
“Winner,” echoes Myri, “takes the book.”
“Only… it’s not like it’s a ticket, right? It doesn’t say ‘admit one only to the fabled city of Khebesh’, does it?” Cari’s seized by a brief moment of doubt; she can’t read Khebeshi in the slightest, so it might say exactly that.
“It’s not.”
“So. Fuck it?”
Myri sounds exhausted and amused at the same time, punch-drunk. “By that, do you mean you don’t want to kill me any more?”
Cari considers it. “I’m not going to cry over you when you go. You worked for that fucker Heinreil.”
“Doesn’t it get tiring,” asks Myri, “holding grudges so long?”
“Hate keeps me going. You have to fuck the fuckers before they fuck you.”
“Very eloquent.”
“What about you? You still want to dissect me?”
“Honestly? Yes. But—” Myri raises a finger. “Only in the spirit of research. Bred from a Raveller, Herald of the Black Iron Gods, Saint of Knives… they make the most fascinating things in Guerdon. But I’ll be patient. I’ll wait until you’re dead first.”
Cari looks at the blasted, withered, spell-wracked woman opposite her and laughs. “Yeah, I think I’m safe there.”
Despite her weariness, Cari can’t sleep. It might be excitement at the thought of nearly reaching Khebesh, or the stress and terror of the last few days catching up with her, but, honestly, it’s mostly the fish. She decides to try the aethergraph again, now that they’re clear of the blasted region on the other side of the mountains. Maybe there’s some sort of divine interference blocking the messages. It’s worth a shot.
She leaves Myri sleeping by the warmth of the brazier, the Fucking Book still propped up like a sentinel, and slips out of the longhouse. Some impulse catches her, and she brushes her hand against a mostly erased carving of the Lord of Waters just inside the door. The rough wood is pleasant to the touch, but it puts her in mind of other half-erased carvings. In the Seamarket back in Guerdon, she remembers carvings of the Black Iron Gods. Worn smooth by centuries, hidden away, but still there. Like the gods they depicted.
Gods cannot die. Except when I shoot ’em, she thinks, then they stay dead.
She walks through the silent village, the moon bright enough to make out a path. Off to the west, godlights flicker beyond the mountains. If anyone else is still awake, they stay indoors in their huts. She wanders down to the little strand, walks barefoot on the sands, the lamps of the village far behind her. Her gown glimmers in the moonlight, despite the caked mud. Tomorrow, I’m going to spend another fucking emerald on something sensible to wear.
The waves brush quietly against the shore. One fishing boat rocks softly against its neighbour. Cari finds a rock to sit upon, looks out at that black expanse of water. I’m facing east, so – that way, beyond the mountains, is Ilbarin. And that way is Khebesh. She looks one way, then the other, but the vistas are identical. A voyage across darkness.
Almost identical. A light shines on the horizon. A ship.
And – with the addition of a lot of shit – these waters are the same as Guerdon’s harbour. That anonymity of the sea goes both ways. The sea’s bigger than the names and charts mortals try to put on it. The sea’s bigger than gods. No sea-god, Captain Hawse once told her, can claim the whole ocean.
He’d settled down with one god, though, in the end.
Cari wriggles forward, dips he
r toes in the water. Spar, she thinks, are you there?
The same water, after all, washes against the seawall of the New City. She’s as close to him now as she was there, right? Spar, can you hear me?
Nothing. She sits down with the aethergraph set and opens the case. The moonlight’s too dim for her for her to make out the details, but she can feel the letters embossed on the keys, the unnatural chill of the glass tube. She touches the activation stud.
Nothing. The set’s dead. She shoves it aside, angrily, embarrassed at her foolishness. She’s dragged the stupid thing all the way from Ilbarin, and for nothing! She stands back up, ready to throw it into the water—
And sees the light.
That light out there – it’s getting brighter. Getting closer. Moving against the wind, against the tide.
It’s the Moonchild. Artolo’s ship. It’s coming right towards her, descending on her like the dragon did. There’s nowhere else it could be going – barren mountains to the north, salt flats and more wastelands south. It’s heading for Yhandis. Even if they don’t know Cari’s here, they’ll stop to take on water, supplies. Fucking dried fucking fish is going to get her killed.
Run, screams every instinct.
She dashes through the surf, water splashing underfoot. In her mind’s eye, Artolo’s already here, grown gigantic and distended in his hatred. Tentacles thrashing, razor-sharp, murdering everyone in Yhandis to get to her. They’ll kill Myri, too. Just like she brought Artolo down on Hawse, on Adro and Ren. Just like she brought ruin on Guerdon.
Just like she got Spar killed.
Don’t let it happen again, she thinks, and that sounds like Spar.
Her hands shove one of the fishing boats out into the water. She follows it out, wading, water cold against her thighs, her midriff. Throws the stupid aethergraph in, and then she hauls herself on board. Not thinking, just acting, a reflex. Run.
The breeze blows from the south. She tacks into it, and the sails fill, carrying her north. Aiming for the narrowing gap between Moonchild and the mountains. If she can slip past the approaching freighter, if she can make it out into open sea, maybe she can lose them in the darkness. And Moonchild’s slow to turn. There’s a brief, brief window in which she can make her escape, but she has to go now.
Something bumps against the hull. A rock? She doesn’t know this shitty harbour at all, she’s sailing blind. But her stolen boat isn’t impeded – if anything, it picks up speed.
“Carillon? What are you doing?”
Myri’s on the shore, dwindling as Cari sails away.
“It’s Artolo!” shouts Cari back. “Get away!”
Myri shouts a reply, but it’s lost in the wind.
“Take the book! Get to Khebesh!” Cari bites her lip, then shouts, “And then you owe me! Tell the masters to do something!” All that power, locked up behind the Ghost Walls while the Godswar breaks the world. They have to do something.
Like she’s doing something. Only in her case, it’s something stupid.
Her boat suddenly accelerates, the jolt nearly knocking Cari overboard as the wind redoubles, concentrates, a gale blowing at her back. It’s Myri, casting one last spell, giving her the wind.
A searchlight stabs out from Moonchild, a ghastly beam like a finger, probing at the darkness. Crawling and jumping across the black sea. Illuminating shore, then breaking wave, then empty water.
For an instant, it catches some living thing, a fish or dolphin, a domed shape breaking through the surface. Then the thing’s gone, and the hungry light moves on. If it lights up the shore, it’ll find Myri, slowly limping back up towards the village. Artolo will send men ashore to kill her.
Cari hunches, a thief’s instincts. Fly-the-light, stay hidden, you’re nearly there.
But that’s not the point, is it?
“THIS WAY, FISHFACE!” she shouts at the top of her lungs.
The searchlight in her face, like an explosion.
“Mark! A boat! A boat!”
Artolo strides across the iron deck of Moonchild to the rail. There she is. A savage satisfaction rises in him and becomes an unexpected prayer of thanks. Damala was right – this meeting is ordained by the gods. Fate Spider has woven his destiny. Kraken has blessed him with a mission of divine vengeance.
“After her!” he roars. “Turn! Turn!”
Moonchild wallows, the engines roaring as the heavy ship turns. The wind that buffets her has little effect on the massive freighter, but it still cracks and spits like a whip, forcing the other crewmen to take shelter. Only Artolo stands in the full fury of the wind.
Dol Martaine on the searchlight tracks the movements of the fast little boat as it skims over the water, fleeing north-east, back towards Ilbarin. Aiming for the narrow gap between Ram’s Head and Moonchild.
“Turn!” roars Artolo, but they’re going too slowly. Snarling, he grabs a rope and loops it around himself, then abseils down the side of the hull. His tentacle-fingers possess inhuman strength – one hand twists and grasps the rope so tightly he’s held in place even as the ship lurches, even as the gush of spray strikes him with terrible force.
He reaches his other hand down, to touch the churning waters.
At Ilbarin, it was another who did this, a Kraken called up by one of Damala’s prayers. Artolo does not know if the thing was a spirit, or a godspawn brought into the world by the Kraken. He suspects it was once human, warped by sainthood. Then, he’d recoiled in horror, suddenly suspecting that the priestess had tricked him, doomed him by healing his maimed hands with Kraken-magic. Now, he sees the truth – there is no distinction between such things. The material world around him is nothing more than the chaos of the water, flowing and formless. Only the gods have meaning. Only the gods impose order on this base matter.
Even he is nothing. The flesh that is Artolo is a passing wave, a momentary arrangement of matter. His revenge is holy. He is a holy purpose, cloaked in flesh – the instrument of Ishmere’s revenge on Carillon Thay. His defeat, his maiming, all are part of the will of the gods.
Blessed above all things is the Kraken. All things that cleave to the Kraken are part of the Kraken.
His tentacles dip into the water, work the Kraken-magic. His fingers branch again, and again, and again. He feels them stretch out, unfurl, branch, and he’s conscious of them all, all those millions of filaments snaking out into the sea ahead of Moonchild.
He can feel Cari’s little boat, fragile as an eggshell, scudding over the waves. He extends his tentacle-fingers around it, his hand now a mile long, his soul stretched into something much greater than it was before. Even Moonchild is small to him now, a little flake of iron near Cari’s speck of wood. The ocean is deeper than these mortals know, colder and darker. Unfathomable leagues below, the Kraken waits.
Now.
He clenches his fist – but as he does so, there’s a flare of pain, and one of his tentacles is cut! Carillon’s boat slips through the gap in the Kraken-water. Artolo roars in pain, reaches out again, two tentacles sprouting where the one was severed. He’s more cautious this time, employing senses previously unknown to him, new forms of perception opening as Kraken moves through his veins. As above, so below – the same pattern, repeated on many scales. Kraken seizes his brain like he seizes the water, and he sees—
—In the water, a shoal of fish swimming alongside Carillon’s boat. Dark wings of rays spread out, holy sigils marked on their hides, vestigial human remnants trailing along behind them. Bythos, thinks Artolo, idiot vermin. At the same time, though, there’s another thought in his mind, a thought that isn’t his: Bythos. Servants of the Lord of Waters. Demons. Heretics. Enemies of the one true god of the sea. He strikes with the Kraken-miracle again, and another of the Bythos hurls itself into the path of his tentacle, countering his magic. The creatures are protecting Carillon! He snarls in fury. The Kraken has uncountable tentacles, and they cannot stop them all!
He lashes out – and Moonchild lurches. Iron screams and tears. Artolo
is flung forward on the rope as the ship grinds to a sudden halt, then he swings back to slam painfully into the hull. Winding him. Kraken withdraws from him, his power vanishing in a heartbeat. He’s back in his body, made terribly small again.
“Captain! Captain! Haul him up!” Dol Martaine calls from the deck above. Hands haul on the rope looped around Artolo’s chest, pulling him up. He dangles, helpless from the line, a sack of garbage, until they bring him over the railing and dump him on the iron deck.
A knife in someone’s hand. Treacherous dogs, he can’t show weakness in front of them. He staggers upright, spits blood.
“Why have we stopped?” he snarls in the face of the sailor with the knife, so the rogue steps back.
“Captain – we struck a sandbar,” says Martaine, nervously glancing at Artolo’s elongated fingers as they twist and coil.
“Reverse the engines, then! Pull us off and—”
“We need to wait for the tide to lift us. The keel’s stuck fast.”
“She escapes!” Carillon’s boat has vanished into the darkness. The searchlight has lost her.
“We need to wait for the tide,” insists Martaine. Pitching his voice so the whole crew hears him.
Moonchild’s engines are gigantic, furious – and wholly mundane. Whatever lingering power of the Lord of Waters that counters the Kraken can surely have no effect on the engines. Come the rising tide, they can catch Carillon long before she escapes. Where is there to go? There are no landing places on the west coast, not with that line of errant mountains. Does she flee back to Ilbarin? To the Isle of Fire?
There is no escape from Artolo.
Only another delay. An infuriating, knife-twisting delay, but soon…
“We wait for the tide,” he agrees.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It is an army of the unseen, a thieves’ invasion.
They descend through hidden ways into the tunnels under the New City. Rasce shows them the way, or opens the way where necessary. He can see the fear on the faces of the Brotherhood thieves, many with the ash still fresh upon their faces. These men and women are dockworkers, tanners, factory workers and furnace-stokers, labourers and pedlars first, thieves second. They followed Baston into the New City hoping for relief from the mad gods who occupy the Wash, and now find themselves conscripted into another strange conflict. They clutch their Ghierdana-bought guns as they step gingerly into the shadows.
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