Scar Night

24

Uneasy Alliances

The Heshette shaman spoke from behind his scarf. “If we remove your head from your neck, cut off your arms and legs, and divide what’s left into small enough pieces to feed to the goats—will you die then, do you think?” His accent was Dalamoor, the clipped speech of camel herders. Bones in his beard clicked together as he leaned forward.

Devon sat in the sand and tried to reach with his left hand an arrow stuck behind his left shoulder. He’d already pulled out the others, and they’d hurt . The axes had been less painful to dislodge but had left deep gouges in his chest and neck. He’d had to push the severed flesh together again to help it knit, but his woundswere healing. He no longer bled. The pain in his skull had subsided and the vision was clearing in his once ruined eye. He looked up at the scarf and said, “I really don’t know.”

The shaman struck him hard in the throat with his staff. Devon fell back, gagging. He spat blood and sand and wrenched himself back to his knees, driving his stump into the ground. The other tribesmen stood in a circle around the pair of them, faces hidden by their own scarves, weapons ready.

“That…course of action,” Devon said between breaths, “would be…bad…for both of us.”

“Worse for you, I think,” the shaman said. One of the tribesmen laughed.

Devon finally got hold of the arrow and yanked. It came out with a spike of pain that forced his teeth together. “Aren’t you even curious as to why I’m here?” He dropped the arrow onto the bloody, sand-crusted pile before him. There were a dozen there already, bone-tipped and fletched with vulture feathers.

The shaman tugged at his beard. “We’ll need a saw to do this right.”

“I have come here to offer you something,” Devon said.

“The arms and legs first, I think,” the shaman continued.

“Will you parley?”

“And then the head. If he still lives we can position the head to give him a better view of the more delicate cuts.” The shaman turned to one of his men. “You, fetch a saw.”

“Yes, Bataba.” The man bounded off under the Tooth’s hull, towards the rear of the machine.

“Sharp or blunt, whichever you prefer,” Bataba called after him.

The man grinned back.

Devon’s shoulder itched as the arrow wound closed and healed. Another of the savages had upturned his poison bag and was sifting through the coloured bottles, sniffing at their glass stoppers.

“I recommend the red one,” Devon said to him. “Yes, that small one.” He turned back to face Bataba. “Is my heightened constitution of no interest to you?”

“It presents me with a challenge,” Bataba conceded.

A score of men had already surrounded the Birkita ’s gondola and, growing confident they were not to be attacked from within, were edging closer. In moments they’d find Sypes.

“I can offer you something far more rewarding than my death,” Devon said.

“Your death will be sufficient, Poisoner.”

“You know me?”

“Did you think Deepgate was entirely free of our spies? We learned of the Church’s manhunt days ago. And now skyships pursue you here. But you are a fool to have come to us.”

“We share an enemy.”

Bataba snorted. “Thirty years of poison and disease and you seek an alliance?”

The Heshette were inside the airship now, shouting and smashing everything they could find. One of them gave a shrill ululation, and moments later Sypes was dragged through the aft port door and thrown onto the deck. As the old priest sprawled facedown on the buckled wood, Devon winced. “You ought to be more careful with him,” he said. “He’s as frail as he looks and worth a considerable sum in ransom. This priest is Deepgate’s Presbyter.”

Bataba watched the Presbyter pick himself up. “A token of your faith? Or are you a token of his?”

“Kill him if you wish.”

“You think I require your permission, Poisoner?”

Devon did not reply. By now the tribesman had returned with a rusty saw—painfully blunt. He felt nauseous.

Everything now rested on his offer.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I came here to end this war, to end the decades of bloodshed. I came here to offer you victory. I can give you Deepgate.”

Bataba turned slowly, his face still hidden by the scarf. Blood matted the tokens sewn into his beard. “You are a liar and a murderer. Every word you speak is poison. We will ransom the priest, but not you.”

Devon spat more blood into the sand. “Then you’re a fool,” he said. “Do you think our sciences end with me? There are others to take my place. And how much do you think you’ll get for him? Look at him, he’s almost dead. Just keeping him alive will be a struggle. The temple will prevail without one crippled old priest. I’m asking for your help to end this war.”

Bataba hefted the saw, studied the dull serrated blade. “This will cause a great deal of pain,” he said flatly.

Devon snorted. “A waste of your efforts. Pain, as you can see, means little enough to me.”

The shaman looked up. Slowly, he unwrapped the scarf from his head.

Devon’s breath caught. Half the shaman’s face was darkly tanned and smooth; the other half was a ruin. The left eye was misty grey, the right nothing but a red welt. Burns like reptile skin swept up from his neck and over his sunken cheeks. His right ear was missing. Black tattoos spiralled through the burns, through the wrinkled mess of his missing eye, and narrowed to points on his cracked and blistered scalp. Clumps of hair still sprouted from the unburned side.

“Yes,” the shaman said, “little enough to you.”

* * * *

We should turn off the lantern,” Rachel said, above the whoomph of Dill’s wings. She hugged his neck with one arm, while her legs wrapped around his midriff.

“No.” Dill held the lamp close, like a mother holding a baby.

“We need to save the oil.”

“I…” He could think of nothing to justify his need, other than the truth.

“He’s afraid of the dark,” Carnival growled, banking close by.

Rachel studied him for a moment, then rested her head against his shoulder. “We can keep it lit a while longer, then,” she said.

“No.” All at once, the light seemed as much of an enemy as a friend, both easing and exposing his fear. “You’re right,” he said. “We need to save the oil.”

With trembling fingers, he extinguished the lantern.

Darkness slammed in.

They flew down deeper and deeper into the abyss. The dark formed a solid wall around them, broken only by the faintest knot of light above. Deepgate was smaller, more distant every time Dill looked up. He felt Rachel’s breaths against his neck, her chest rising and falling against his own, and he tried to match her breathing. But, as much as he tried, he took two breaths for every one of hers.

Only Carnival could see in this gloom. Occasionally he heard a wing beat off to one side, or felt the air stir as she circled them. Her plan had been for them to keep close to the gently sloping wall, but without light Dill had no way of knowing where it lay. With every turn he made, he feared he would bruise a wing against the rock. He strained his eyes, trying to distinguish forms in the dark, until they were weary.

The air grew warmer, denser. Sweat broke from his forehead and matted his hair; breathing became laborious. His armour rubbed against him, stifled him, and trapped the sweat on his back. A dull pain took root in his neck, then reached out tendrils into his shoulders and crept down his spine.

Unseen, Carnival sailed around them effortlessly.

After a while Rachel asked him, “Do you need to rest?”

“I’m all right,” he mumbled. Dill’s thoughts were elsewhere.

The city of Deep lay somewhere below, legions of ghosts wandering its cold streets. Were they now looking up from the darkness? Did they still yearn for Ayen’s light? Oblivion seemed a kinder fate than millennia without light at all.

Rachel shifted against his chest. The scabbard on her back bruised his arm where he gripped her. A movement in the air told him Carnival had glided past again. He waited a few moments before he whispered in Rachel’s ear. “Do you think she meant what she said? About…about why she saved you?”

He felt Rachel stiffen.

She said, “Perhaps that’s why she’s so afraid. When Scar Night comes she’ll need a living soul if she’s to survive.”

“Can you resist her?”

Rachel merely shrugged.

As they circled deeper into the pit, Rachel grew steadily heavier in his weary arms. Her weight forced him to beat his wings constantly to keep their descent gentle, and his shoulders began to cramp under the strain. His shirt clung to his back like a blister, the chain mail grated his skin in a hundred places. The heavy sword twisted his belt and the hilt dug into his side. They breathed in each other’s damp breaths as Rachel’s heart pressed against his own.

Down and down, for what seemed like hours.

There was nothing in that interminable dark by which to gauge their progress but the thickening air, the mounting pain, and the building heat. Dill was about to suggest that they rest a while when a sudden realization gripped him. He pulled up, halting their descent.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“Carnival. She’s left us?”

They listened, heard nothing but their own breathing and the beat of Dill’s wings.

“I’ll light the lantern again,” Rachel said.

“But she’ll see us,” Dill said. And you’ll see me .

“She can already see us without it. We need to know if the bottom is close.”

Dill held the lantern while Rachel spun the flint wheel. Even at the lowest wick, the light was blinding.

“Can you see anything?” Dill asked.

“Nothing.”

Darkness swallowed the light completely. They hovered for a while in the vast silence.

“You look exhausted,” Rachel said. “Let’s get over to the side.”

“Which direction?”

“I don’t know. If the abyss continued to narrow as we descended it can’t be far away.”

He nodded.

“Go slowly,” she warned.

After they had flown a short distance, the abyss wall appeared before them, glittering in the dark. Either he had chosen the correct direction by instinct or the abyss was much narrower here. Rachel unhooked the lantern and held it up. The rock face was warped and blistered, like melted black glass. Their reflections flowed over its uneven surface, faces stretched and contorted into pale, phantom-like forms.

Dill shuddered.Are we now ghosts? Is this finally the realm of the dead?

“There’s another ledge below,” Rachel observed.

The metal perch was wet. Water seeped from a crack in the rock face and gurgled along tiny gullies so that drips hit the ledge with eerie chimes. Rachel cupped her hands and tasted the water. “It’s fine. Cold.”

When they had slaked their thirst they found a place further along the ledge which was relatively dry. Dill dangled his legs over the edge and stretched his neck, wincing at the pain. “How far do you think we’ve come?”

Rachel looked up. “I can’t see Deepgate clearly, but it seems brighter up there. It must be late morning by now.”

Far, far above, faint curls and lines of light scarred the apex, impossibly distant. He returned his gaze to the depths. Nothing. “Maybe the abyss goes on down for ever.”

Rachel raised the lantern and edged a few steps further along the ledge. She paused, squatted down. “Dill, this ledge isn’t flat. It rises at a shallow angle.” She squinted along the metal ridge. “I wasn’t sure the first time we stopped, but now I am. It’s steeper down here. It must follow the abyss wall in a spiral.”

“A path down?”

She lifted her head. “Or a path up. The top of it must be hidden somewhere under the abyss rim.”

“Why?”

Rachel shook her head. “I don’t know, but this shouldn’t be here. The metal”—she ran her hand along the edge—“is rusted, but it wasn’t further up. This section of path is older, perhaps decades older.”

“Can we follow it down?”

The assassin peered below. “I can’t see any sign of Deep. If the city exists there, it’s unlit, or it could be leagues still further down. We might keep walking for days.”

An entire city, kept in eternal dark. Dill’s heart cramped at the thought.All the darkness in the world gathers there, is trapped there . He shuffled closer to the lantern.And the oil will run out soon . Suddenly he felt like he was drowning, slipping deeper into a lightless ocean. The desire to just break for the surface overwhelmed him. He stood up, shaking, gulping air.

“Dill?” Rachel was by his side. “Look at me!” She grabbed him, pulled him round to face her. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Dill couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me! I won’t leave you. You’re safe.” She lifted the lantern between them. Her eyes were bright, full of concern. “There’s plenty of oil left, plenty of light.”

Gradually the pressure in Dill’s chest eased, his shaking subsided. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel so ashamed.” He tried to turn away, break her grip, but she held him tightly.

“Don’t be,” she said. “Everyone is afraid of something. Look at Carnival—why do you think she avoids the daylight?”

“I’m a temple archon,” his voice broke, “but I can’t do anything right. I can’t use a sword, I can hardly fly.” He closed his eyes, trying desperately to conceal his shame. “I can’t even manage the soulcage horses. And this darkness…it terrifies me! I’m a coward. I’m nothing.”

What would my father think of me? And you, Rachel, what would you think if you knew how I hesitated?There was no escape from his shame. He met her gaze, and misery swamped him.

“Youare facing the dark, Dill. Look how far you’ve come already. Gods below, you’re braver than me.”

“But you can fight.”

“You think that’s brave?” A pained smile. “There’s nothing honourable in Church-sanctified murder. A Heshette heathen is still a human being. A traitor is still a human being.” The hurt in her eyes shocked him. “Before the Spine gave me to the rooftops, I hunted Heshette spies and informers, sometimes mercenaries and pilgrims who’d fled the city. In Hollowhill and Sandport and the Shale Forest. I don’t know how many—it frightens me to remember. But I murdered them because I was afraid not to. Once you’re part of the Spine, you obey or become a threat yourself.”

For a long moment they stood in silence, leagues of empty darkness above them, immeasurable unknown depths below, and it seemed to Dill that they were the only two people left in the world. Angel and assassin, alone here but for their warped, wraithlike reflections deep in the black stone.

Is this how the abyss sees us? Grotesque parodies of the people we once hoped we’d become?His own reflection mocked him with its cruel honesty. In the mirrored stone he saw an angel he barely recognized: older than his sixteen years, yet malformed, stretched thin by longing only to be corrupted by the hard edges of reality, debased by fear.

He tore his gaze away.

Is this all I am? Please, Ulcis, give me the strength to change. Give me courage, for Rachel’s sake. More than me, she needs someone to protect her.

He remembered Carnival. How much had she been shaped by brutal truths? Yet Carnival had no illusions about who she was or who she might become. Suddenly Dill understood her. Her scars were self-inflicted. She hates herself, damages herself to keep some deeper part intact . Dill’s heart clenched at the realization. Carnival’s soul wasn’t scarred and ugly: it was pure. And she guarded it fiercely.

Her scars were armour.

Carnival and Rachel…bitter enemies. And yet so similar.

He searched for her in the depths.Where is she? When Scar Night comes, who will kill whom?

Rachel seemed to read his thoughts. She released him, her eyes veiled. “Perhaps Carnival decided she didn’t need us after all.” She didn’t sound like she believed that.

Water dripped steadily, beating a tiny rhythm on the metal: a narrow trail from Deep to Deepgate. For whom was it constructed? Will this path be walked by the dead? Dill sniffed: the air held an odour that he found familiar but couldn’t place. For some reason it reminded him of dreams he’d experienced—dreams of battle. “Can you smell something?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It just smells odd.”

“It’s warmer down here. The air is stale.”

Maybe that was it. He took a deep breath, then frowned. No . There was something else, something that made him think of war. In his dreams he was always flying, brandishing a sword or pike or spear, his armour gleaming, a painted shield strapped to one arm. The more he thought about it, the more the smell reminded him of—

Weapons?

Did forged metal have an identifiable smell? Dill shook his head. What else could it be? Something he associated with weapons, armour and war…

A movement down in the darkness caught his attention, a whisper of air. Carnival emerged from the void. She wore a savage grin and her black eyes were shining.

“I’ve seen the bottom,” she said. “This you have to see.”