Scar Night

16

Manhunt

In the days that followed, the hunt for Devon showed no sign of abating. Every morning Dill made a circuit of his balcony and watched the airships patrolling low over Deepgate. The city sky buzzed with them. At night, their aether searchlights probed the darkest corners under the waxing moon, while Dill huddled in his cell among his candles and his snails and hoped that, just once, the searchlights would fall on him.

Taking the snails to the kitchen had been a bad idea. Fondelgrue had pounced on them and put them all in a bag. The fat cook had assured Dill that he knew a place where they would be happy, and where Dill would never see them again, but the angel wasn’t convinced. He’d offered to go with Fondelgrue to make sure the snails were all right, but the cook had shooed him away and said don’t worry, they’ll be absolutely fine, very warm, very happy, now sod off. So Dill had found a new place to release his charges—the temple guards’ armour room. There were lots of dark places in there for them to hide.

He’d just completed an evening snail run to the armoury when Rachel burst into his cell and he dropped the book he was reading.

“They’ve got every temple guard in the city out there, knocking at doors, searching houses, questioning everyone, bloodhounds sniffing everywhere, and the third, seventh, and ninth have been recalled from Sandport and the Plantation hill forts to join the search. And they’ve begun reinstating reservists, hundreds of them. There are more soldiers in the city than I’ve seen in years, and yet more are on the way. Have you seen the warships? Sypes has aeronauts out on the decks with sightglasses.”

She paused for a breath. “The nobles are unsettled, and the common folk are moaning like kittens in a bathtub. They can feel a curfew coming, increased taxes. You should hear the talk in the alehouses and penny taverns. Why so many soldiers for a simple manhunt? And why the blazes should they have to pay for it all?”

“Will there be trouble?” Dill asked, still slightly perturbed that she hadn’t knocked.

“Not from the forces,” she said. “The reservists are happy to be earning wages again, and merchants and nobles can afford the extra levy. But the commoners might cause a problem: those who are happy enough for their souls to be saved, and willing enough to attend the executions, but don’t care to dip into their pockets to feed an army of this size.”

She made her way to his balcony door and wandered outside. After a moment he grabbed his book and went to join her.

Shadows reached out from the western rim of the abyss, already cloaking a third of Deepgate. To the east, the streets and homes glittered: chains, roofs, and chimneys turned golden in the sunset, glints of copper and bronze, windows bright as scattered gems. A dozen airships drifted above the city, like scavengers sifting treasure.

“It’s full moon tonight,” Rachel said. “Spine mark the occasion with a night of prayers to Ulcis. They pray the moon will not wane, and that Scar Night doesn’t return.”

“They?”

She shrugged. “Normally I feel easier at full moon, since Carnival keeps herself hidden. The streets at night are reasonably busy, people relax. But tonight…” A warship droned by, close to the temple. Rachel paused and watched it for a while. “Tonight everything feels wrong . They’re leaving farmlands unguarded all along the Coyle, recalling soldiers from as far north as the Shale logging camps and Hollowhill. Too many soldiers for a simple manhunt. Something else is going on. Presbyter Sypes isn’t telling us everything.”

“An attack from the Heshette?”

“No.” She studied the warship a moment longer, then faced him. “The Heshette haven’t been a threat to the city for decades. What are you reading, anyway?”

Dill showed her the book: Battle Flight Strategies for Temple Archons .

She smiled.

“It’s not forbidden,” he said. “I checked.” But he still felt his eyes blush a little.

* * * *

In the darkness of the den he had built in the nets below Devon’s tower, Mr. Nettle watched the warships pass overhead. Engines thrummed distantly; searchlights divided the night, moving incessantly, like the legs of strange aether gods.

A five-by-four tin sheet and three stout beams salvaged from the shell of a coalgas depository formed the makeshift roof. Rope tied it all together and secured it to the net. The nets here were thick, as they were in all industrial districts, easily strong enough to support the weight of his shelter. He’d ventured out a few times in the past two weeks to stock up on supplies. With nothing to trade, and no time to go scrounging, he’d been forced to steal the food from carts at the Gardenhowe market. He’d filled his water flask from a worker’s pipe near the Scythe, but hadn’t dropped a halfpenny into the slot.

Mr. Nettle’s crimes gnawed at him—his mind kept returning to them like fresh scabs—but they didn’t trouble him like his other dilemma. That one sat in his gut like a brick.

Twelve souls had been harvested—one more was needed. In order to make the angelwine potent, the Poisoner would have to bleed the life from another innocent.

And Mr. Nettle would have to let him do it.

He clenched his teeth and turned over in the net, as though that would somehow ease the pain. Abigail was all that mattered. Abigail, Abigail: he said her name over and over in his mind, using it to drum other thoughts out. Now that he knew where her soul was, he had to let Devon finish composing the elixir. He had to do it, for her .

But Abigail’s voice was always in his thoughts, and she wasn’t happy.

What about the other souls?she asked him.Will they be trapped inside me? Or will I be trapped inside them?

He didn’t want to think about that. How many people would she be?

The ropes beneath him stretched as he twisted over on his stomach and peered into the abyss. The journey down there would be difficult.

Impossible, Abigail insisted. How are you going to climb down? By rope? Are you going to use your grapple and spikes all the way down to the city of Deep? Then what? Will you walk into Ulcis’s palace of chains and demand he release my body?

He didn’t know. Everyone had heard the stories of the folk who’d gone down there. And how no one ever came back.

I’ll find a way.

How?

I don’t know. Maybe he could steal an airship, or scale the edge of the abyss.

Steal an airship? She laughed.Who do you think you are? You’re a scrounger, for God’s sake .

Leave me alone.

Then what about your soul? You are giving up eternity.

An image of Abigail came to him then: at six years old, stamping her foot.

What about his soul? He had been damned from the moment he decided to retrieve his daughter’s body from the abyss. The god of chains did not welcome intrusions. There would be no salvation for Mr. Nettle.

I don’t care, he told her. And he realized that he didn’t. There was solace in damnation. If he was to let Devon murder again, then it was fitting. Necessary.

He’ll bleed them! Her anger made him flinch.How can you let him hurt anyone else? Someone else like me .

Shut up!

A fist closed on his heart. How had he reached this place? What forces had steered him? There had been no choice in his life since Abigail’s death. None. He wasn’t responsible—God was. God was trying to take everything from him, trying to empty him. Trying to beat him down. For a moment he despaired. In the dark of the nets beneath the tower and the city and the airships, he felt small, empty but for the echoes of Abigail’s voice.

Then anger welled, filling the void inside him, pushing back at everything. Anger enough to support a city. He twisted fistfuls of the net, blood pounded in his ears, and he spat into the abyss. So what if another died? He wasn’t holding the knife.

Don’t!

He won’t defeat me.

Abigail would be his victory.

He found himself breathing heavily, and he turned on his back, still clutching the net. The airship had drifted out of sight behind the tower, but another was rumbling closer from the south. High above, a light shone from the tower’s narrow window.

Careless.

Recently, Devon had taken to leaving a light burning at all hours of the night. During their first sweep of the Depression, the temple guard had been unable to force the tower door, so had simply moved on when their bloodhounds had shown no interest in the place. But if Devon thought he was safe, then he was a fool. That light would eventually attract someone’s attention—especially in this neighbourhood. How could the Poisoner be so stupid?

A head popped out of the window and peered up at the sky. Spectacles glinted, disappeared back inside.

Mr. Nettle moved a hand to the handle of his cleaver but kept his eyes fixed on the window.

Suddenly a hammering sound startled him. He sat bolt upright, listening. There was a pause, and then the sound repeated. There could be no mistake; someone was pounding on the door of the Poisoner’s tower.

* * * *

Carnival watched the airships above from the bough of an old stonewood tree. A bright halo shone through low cloud, but after this night the full moon would begin to wane. Two weeks until Scar Night and hunger had already begun to crawl back into her veins. An empty ache cloyed in her stomach, a discomfort that would build over the days to come—until the darkmoon rose, and she died again.

She tried to ignore the sensation. The night was deliciously cool amid the scent of flowers from the garden beneath. Sweet-thorns, honeyweed, and sprays of jasmine bordered the neat silver lawn around her tree, and brushed the ivy-dark walls beyond.

She often came to this place at night to clear her lungs, to sit up in the tree and listen to the whisper of leaves in the breeze. An old gardener arrived every day at dawn, unlocked the iron grate set in the north wall, locked it shut behind him, and then began his leisurely circuit of the flower beds.

Carnival rarely stayed out until such hours—when the light hurt her eyes—but once or twice she had watched the old man in silence from her perch. She found his calm devotion relaxing; the way he pottered around muttering to himself, hoeing and pruning, enjoying the still of the morning. This was the closest she ever felt to another person in the city.

She avoided the garden on Scar Night.

From his shabby appearance, she doubted he owned the plants he tended. This was a garden to display wealth, and if its owners ever visited this place, it was long after the sun had steamed the dew off the grass and forced Carnival back into hiding.

Now, with the night chilly against her skin and the fragrance of bark and flowers all around her, she gazed up and frowned as a warship thundered overhead, its searchlights cutting through the darkness.

How long was their search going to go on? In the beginning she had studied the airships with mild interest. Had she killed someone important the last Scar Night? The doctor hadn’t seemed to be of particularly high social standing; could he be the relative of some general, some high-ranking priest? Every few decades, usually on the appointment of a new Presbyter, the temple would make a display of hunting her down. Nervous guards patrolled the streets, never looking too closely into the shadows. Curfews were instigated; the population were shown that something was being done. Usually the charade dwindled after a while, but this search showed no signs of letting up, and it was beginning to grate on her nerves. Those airships were so loud —she cursed every time one of them disturbed her rest. And she began to wonder if she was really the target after all.

The airship turned, low in the sky, its engines hacking and pounding as if its sole purpose was to annoy her. A searchlight swept over the garden, blinding her.

“Damn them!” She twisted her face away. The beam lingered briefly, bleaching the garden, before moving on again. Darkness swamped back over her.

Carnival gripped the branch tightly as her eyes narrowed on the airborne intruder. This was going to have to stop. If they were trying to find her, she was going to make it easier for them.

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 into 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.