Scar Night

25

The Tooth

Inside the tooth, Bataba led the way, his long white staff poised horizontal at his side. Devon followed, with two Heshette at either shoulder. Both had removed their scarves to reveal the grim expressions on their broad, darkly weathered faces. Presbyter Sypes’s walking stick tapped along behind them. The rest of the tribesmen had stayed to loot the airship and beat Angus. Devon didn’t care: the temple guard was of little use to him now.

The corridor they were passing through had the appearance of being carved from bone or ivory. Tusklike pillars buttressed the hull, where sunlight lanced in from air vents to strike the opposite wall in hot, white slats. Sand crunched on the hard tiles underfoot. A writhing mass of pipes extended overhead, smooth and pale as sand-adders. Everywhere Devon looked, he saw the same faint whorls of etching that covered the hull exterior.

But the Heshette had turned the vast machine into a city. Smoke lingered, thick with the stench of sweat, dung fires, and spice. Dark-skinned women peered from behind curtains of hide draped over internal doorways. Devon caught glimpses of clay urns, woven rugs, horse tackle, and vulture claws. Squalls of ragged children pushed past, shrieking and running ahead, banging bones against the walls.

At the end of the corridor, Bataba lit a taper and they clattered down stairs into a vast, cool gloom. A forest of bone-white piston shafts reached into the dim heights around a line of engines like monstrous vertebrae. Banks of dials glittered on the far wall, under enormous glass vats full of dark red liquid.

Not blood? But that ripe smell…iron?

Devon tried to get a closer look, but the Heshette urged him onwards. Beyond the engine room they were ushered into another long, narrow corridor. More tusklike pillars tapered in to a pinched ceiling. Doors on either side held ceramic identification plates.Reclamation, Seeding, Separation, Base Ignition, Second Ignition, Crew One, Crew Two, Discipline . Hieroglyphs had been stamped beneath each word, strange curled symbols like knots of snakes.

The passage wound on through the heart of the Tooth, passed swollen bulkheads and gaping holes which blew moist air at them.This whole machine has been fashioned to resemble something organic. The purpose? To inflict awe in those who would see it—to disguise the mechanics . Smoke from Bataba’s taper curled across the ceiling and left a patina of soot on the already smudged walls. Eventually they reached the end and climbed a narrow, oddly canting staircase to where a hatch opened into a bright space above.

The bridge looked like the inside of a seashell. Smooth walls, ribbed with bony protrusions, swept seamlessly up from the floor to coalesce at a low, rippled ceiling. Desert sky bleached a line of windows opposite. The glass had an odd gelatinous quality that tinted the light in pink and yellow whorls. Beneath the windows was an intricate skeletal contraption like a sculpture made from the bones of a thousand tiny creatures. Glass veins glittered inside, full of red fluid.

The fluid was moving, pumping.

Devon peered closer.

Something inside. Contracting. Expanding. Steady. The inhalation and expulsion of air. A draught—from moist-lipped, calciferous vents.

The machine appeared to be breathing.

The Tooth is alive? A mechanical heart, lungs, blood? Brain? No, no,this design is deliberate. The technology replicates, approximates life. These walls—not bone. Ceramic? The veins—no, not veins: pipes—full of oil, not blood. Hydraulics. The draught? A cooling system. Still operational after three thousand years? Why not? A human body can be altered to survive indefinitely. Why not a machine? Given enough fuel…

The Heshette shaman addressed one of his men. “Fetch the council.”

The man nodded and turned to go.

“Except Drosi,” Bataba added. “Leave him be. The journey from his room would only tire him.”

Presbyter Sypes jabbed his stick at the sighing contraption. “This device,” he said. “Why does it appear to breathe?”

“The bone mountain sleeps,” the shaman growled. “Ask no more questions, priest.”

“In other words,” Devon said, “he doesn’t know.”

“Silence,” Bataba snarled. “Or I’ll have both your tongues out and spitted.”

“This zeal to cut things off,” Devon said. “A tribal custom? Or a personal perversion?”

Bataba glowered at him.

One by one, the Heshette councillors arrived. Seven men in total assembled: four greybeards and three younger men who carried themselves with the arrogance of warriors. They were dark-skinned, wearing gabardines; scarves around their necks. All of them were disfigured in some way. Chemical burns and ineffectual tribal healing had turned faces into fleshy swamps. The eldest blinked rheumy eyes. One of the warriors, with a forked beard and lean, scar-whitened arms, gave Devon a dangerous look, then shifted his hand to the hilt of the curved knife roped to his waist.

“Later,” Bataba said.

The warrior grinned.

Devon shifted his gaze from one savage to the next and decided it would have been better if his poisons had managed to sterilize the Deadsands completely.

Finally the man who’d left to summon the council returned. He supported an ancient cripple who brandished a wooden crutch.

The cripple was using his crutch to hit his helper’s arm. “Leave me be, goat. I can manage.” He squinted though weeping, woodsmoke eyes. “Where’s Bataba? Ayen’s boiled balls, what does that one-eyed shoka want now?”

The shaman straightened. “I’ve summoned the council, Drosi.”

“Half-breed! I’m sick of your meetings. Drag me down here like a snake-tickler’s beggar whore sent looking for kathalla and pipe-water? In this heat, too!”

Bataba spoke to the man supporting Drosi. “Adi, there was no need for you to trouble the councillor.”

Adi gave him a helpless glance.

“Leave me out, would you?” Drosi said. “You loose-fluted bastard! Might be old but I’m not stupid. Think you can have your meetings without me now? Think I don’t know what’s going on? I was running this council when you were still sucking your mother’s teat.”

Most of the other councillors shifted uncomfortably. Devon did his best to hide a smile.

“Drosi,” Bataba growled, “we have prisoners.”

The old man waved his crutch at the shaman. “Don’t use that tone of voice with me, you puckered sack ofharsha balls. I remember when—”

“Dark worshippers. Enemies of Ayen.”

“I don’t give a shrivel what—”

“Councillor!” Bataba rapped his staff on the floor. “This man is the Poisoner of Deepgate. The other is Sypes, head of the black temple, breeder of carrion angels, feeder of the outcast god.”

Drosi stopped waving his crutch. He chewed his lip. “Never heard of them.”

Bataba’s voice lowered. “We’ve been fighting the war against them all these years.”

“War? What war?”

“The war with the chained folk, the outcast’s children.”

“When was this?”

“You fought in it yourself.” The shaman paused. “For a decade.”

Drosi screwed up his eyes and bobbed his head. “We won that. We won that war, I remember. Now you make fun of an old man.” He spat at the shaman’s feet.

Bataba spoke carefully. “The war that took both your sons, twelve years past.”

Drosi leaned heavily on his crutch. He muttered something under his breath, then turned to Adi at his side. “Bran, fetch your brother, lad. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

Adi fidgeted. “Councillor, I’m not your son.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Councillor, I am Hoden’s son, Adi. Cousin to your third wife, Deniz.”

Drosi shook his head and scrunched up his eyes again, his lips forming unspoken words. He peered at Adi, then scowled at the councillors around the room.

The forked-bearded warrior spoke. “Go home, old man, back to your hamaruk . We have work to do.” His accent was softer than the shaman’s, closer to that of the river town traders.

Devon looked more closely at the man’s knife. The blade was slightly curved, the steel etched with designs imitating those on the Tooth’s hull. A score of lines marred the grip.A bandit habit, this marking of the grip: each line likely represents an opened throat.

“Curb your arrogance, Mochet,” said one of the elder councillors. “The shaman did not give you leave to speak.”

The warrior called Mochet frowned.

“Shit stickers,” Drosi said. “Not one grain of wit between the lot of you.” He smacked Adi again with his crutch. “Come on, Bran, we’re not staying here.”

With Drosi muttering all the way, Adi helped the old man from the room.

When they were gone, the shaman cleared his throat and addressed the council. “Now, each of you…”

A scratch at the door.

“Come,” Bataba said.

The door opened and a face appeared, a young man, his skin aflame with suppurating sores. “Shaman,” he wheezed, his voice ragged and moist.

Damage to the lungs in this one, I know the poison. And the sores? Gull-pox. He’ll be dead in a month.

The pox-faced youth went on, “The outcast guard in the skyship has lost his mind.”

“Explain.”

“He won’t stop screaming, raving like a madman. He froths at the mouth and tears his own flesh.”

“You were too harsh with your sport?”

“No, shaman, he welcomes our blows and howls for more. We have restrained him.”

Bataba looked inquiringly at Devon.

“He’ll die soon enough,” the Poisoner said.

Sypes’s brow furrowed. “You can’t just abandon him.”

“He’s of no more use to me.”

“That’s—”

Bataba interrupted. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He poisoned the man.” Sypes jabbed his stick.

“Have the healers look at him,” Bataba said to the youth at the door.

“Easier just to finish him off,” Devon said.

The shaman’s eyes narrowed. “My men enjoy their sport, as you yourself will find out.”

Sypes fumed above his stick. “For God’s sake,” he said to Devon, “at least give him something to ease his pain.”

“A knife would do the job just as well.”

Mochet spat. “The Poisoner treats his own as he treats the Kin. You’ve called us here to decide the method of his death, Bataba?” His forked beard glistened with oil. “The men are saying he took a dozen arrows in his flesh, plucked them out, and laughed at us.”

Devon met the young warrior’s eyes, then gave him a small nod.

“Cut him,” said an elder councillor, a man with onyx skin and misty eyes. “These folk believe hell comes for spilled blood, so let him watch the sand drink his own.”

“A thousand cuts,” said another stocky young warrior. “And let’s make them fight each other.”

“Look at the priest,” Mochet snorted. “Poor sport, I think. Unless we took the Poisoner’s other hand off. Or an arm. Or removed his eyes?”

Bataba said, “He’ll die soon enough, Mochet, but that’s not the reason I’ve summoned this council. We must decide if we can use him first.”

“I’d use his ribs for a spear rack,” Mochet growled, “his eyes in lizard traps, and a foot for my hunting hounds to chew on. Those are the best uses for him, shaman.”

Devon was beginning to believe the Heshette must hoard entire rooms of the severed limbs of their enemies. He smiled patiently and thought of his own eventual uses for warrior body parts.

“He wants to offer us a deal,” Bataba said.

A moment of silence.

“I’ve a deal for him.” Mochet brandished a fist. “And if he doesn’t like that, I’ve a better one here.” He drew his knife.

“Put the knife away,” Bataba said. “We’ll listen to what he has to say.”

Mochet lowered the knife but didn’t sheathe it. “You expect us to bargain with this worm?”

There were muttered protests all round.

“Have you forgotten what he’s done to us?” Mochet’s beard was dripping oil like sweat. “Have you so soon forgotten the poisons and the burnings? Did you not see the ways our warriors died? The sicknesses? What is it you think you’ll gain from him? A new eye, perhaps? I say we run him through. Here. Now.” He took a step towards Devon, muscles bunching behind the outstretched knife.

“Stop,” Bataba commanded.

Mochet halted.

“I have not forgotten the past,” Bataba continued. “But I will not neglect the future. The Poisoner has fled Deepgate. Skyships hunt him. He has sought us out as allies.”

“His skyship crashed,” Mochet said. “We all saw it.”

Devon regarded him coldly. “The airship landed,” he said, “as smoothly as my incompetent companion could land it.”

Mochet scowled his disbelief.

Bataba gazed at each of the council members in turn. “He claims he can give us the city,” he hissed.

“A lie,” Mochet said.

The shaman folded his arms across the multiple fetishes in his beard. “Let us hear him and then decide. If his reasons for aiding us are weak, Mochet, you’ll enjoy your sport today.”

All at once Devon had the attention of all the councillors.

He removed the spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and cleaned them while he considered his words. The angelwine had restored his eyesight, but it was an old habit. In a way he missed having to wear them. More than his death was now at stake here. If he failed to convince these men, he would endure an eternity among their imaginations. He replaced the spectacles in his pocket and took a deep breath.

“I do not give a damn about any of you,” he said. “I do not give a damn about your beliefs, your culture, or your little war.”

A circle of Heshette brows lowered.

“To me, you are ignorant savages—little better than animals. As far as I’m concerned, you can all live in this bone mountain for ever, or drop dead from gull-pox. I don’t care.”

Mochet’s jaw had clenched. The tattoos on Bataba’s face twisted into new shapes. Sypes was watching the men’s expressions carefully. As was the Poisoner.

Apparently they believed him.

“The only people I hate more than savages like you are those walking corpses in Deepgate and their puppeteers in the temple.” He fixed his gaze on Sypes. “The Heshette worship Ayen, the goddess of Light and Life, and so have at least some limited understanding of what it is to be alive. In Deepgate, life is forfeited at birth; an entire culture waiting to die, eager to be consumed by the darkness beneath their feet.” He snorted. “Or that’s the theory. In truth, those maggots cling to their existence with savage tenacity, devouring anything, anyone, in a desperate frenzy for one more miserable day of waiting for the end.” He forced his words through clenched teeth. “Their hypocrisy is staggering. My wife died to feed their insatiable hunger for life. The Poison Kitchens claimed her, as they almost claimed me. Two of us, people who wanted more than this non-life they promote, who were not content to become food for their god, destined to be used up and discarded by those mindless masses who yearn for the pit.”

Devon felt like striking the old priest then. He felt the elixir thumping inside him; it whispered to him, darkened the edges of his vision. The councillors seemed to fade until only Sypes existed: a haggard old priest hunched over his walking stick, more dead than alive.

“I will cut your rotting city down for no other reason than to give your people what they want. Will they flee, priest? When the abyss reaches out to them, will they turn away?”

Presbyter Sypes met his stare. “There are innocents in Deepgate, children—”

“Let their parents evacuate them,” Devon snarled. “If they do not, then the crime is theirs…yours. The Church fostered their absurd faith—not me.”

He saw from the Presbyter’s pained expression that the old man understood that. But Sypes hadn’t lost his faith; he still believed in Ulcis. Devon knew then, with utter certainty, that his suspicions had been correct. The priest was afraid of his god. Suddenly he realized why Sypes had endeavoured to have the angelwine made for Carnival. It was such a ridiculous idea, he had never before considered it. The priest had actually hoped to convince Carnival to stand against his own god. Whatever waited in the abyss had clearly become a threat.

“Tens of thousands will die,” Sypes said.

“They’ll die happily,” Devon hissed. “I’m giving them what they desire, what they deserve.”

But what will rise from the abyss? Devon could not wait to find out.

The shaman interjected, “How do you propose to accomplish this, Poisoner?”

Anger bruised Devon’s vision, pulsing and fading, and for a long moment he stared in confusion at the tall tribesman, trying to remember who he was. He finally shook his head clear. “I’ll awaken this machine,” he said, “this bone mountain, as you call it, and bring it to the abyss to cut the city’s chains.”

One of the councillors muttered, “The outcast god would be crushed, its keepers destroyed. Shaman, what retribution from Ulcis?”

Bataba’s brow furrowed in thought. “Ayen will protect us.” He nodded. “She will sanction this.”

“The Poisoner is a liar,” Mochet hissed. “This is a trick.”

“He has betrayed his own people,” Sypes said. “He’ll betray you too.”

“They were never my people, Sypes.” Devon’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears, as though he had spoken in a chorus of whispers. “They were never people to begin with. They’ve always been dead.”

Bataba rapped his staff on the floor. “Council, you have heard him. What is your decision? Do we delay our sport, ally with this man? Or do we finish this now? Deepgate’s skyships burn closer.”

“Kill him,” Mochet demanded.

But the other six were uncertain. They muttered among themselves. Eventually, an elder councillor approached the shaman. “We will delay our sport. For now.”

Devon breathed deeply. “Good,” he said. “But before we begin, there is something important I must do for you.”

“What’s that?” Bataba asked.

“Save your lives.”

* * * *

Through the viewing windows on the bridge of theAdraki, the armada stretched ahead over the Deadsands towards Blackthrone, like a long curving bank of steel clouds. Sunlight flashed across the great silver balloons and sparkled on the brass of the gondolas beneath them. Fogwill might have found the sight impressive, even inspiring, had he been able to look up from the bucket between his knees. The bridge lurched, a tremor ran through the carpet under his feet, and he retched again.

A whistle sounded and Commander Hael put his ear to a trumpet fitted to the portside wall. After a moment, he responded into another trumpet. “Aye, flag that news back to the Kora and the Bokemni.” He turned to the captain. “Fourteen degrees starboard. Stretch the formation to day-range limits. I want Clay notified of any developments.”

“Aye, sir.” The captain nodded to an aeronaut seated on his left, who relayed the message via a third trumpet to the signalman on the aft deck.

The aeronaut commander turned to face Fogwill. “They’ve spotted movement around the Poisoner’s ship. The heathens are evidently busy.”

“Cannibalism…or repairs?” Fogwill asked between spasms.

“Hard to tell,” Hael said. “The advance fleet is still circling high, beyond arrow range.” As they had been for most of the day.

The rest of the armada was strung out between Blackthrone and Deepgate, forming a continuous line through which information could be flagged back and forwards between the warships hovering over the strickenBirkita and those over Deepgate, where Captain Clay was busy organizing the regulars for a march across the desert.

News of the Birkita ’s sudden plummet to earth had reached the city just after dawn, whereupon Mark Hael had ordered the formation to hold as was while his own ship, theAdraki, was rigged for flight. The Birkita ’s proximity to the Tooth of God could mean only one thing: She’d been holed. Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Now that the winds had changed in their favour, Hael would be able to reach the crash-site in just six to eight hours. He had elected to command the attack personally.

But Hael was not known for restraint when it came to unleashing ordnance, and Fogwill, desperate to see Sypes returned unharmed, had insisted he accompany the commander. With Carnival now off hunting angelwine, and Dill vanished, perhaps even dead, Fogwill’s brief moment of command had put the city in greater peril than ever. The Adjunct needed his old master back in charge of things. Clay had tried to talk him out of the excursion, of course—the temple guard captain did not trust airships. But Fogwill had been adamant. After all, he’d assured himself, they’d be safely above arrow range. What was the worst that could happen?

The contents of the bucket sloshed between Fogwill’s trembling knees. His stomach bucked again as the warship shuddered, thrumming a discordant rhythm in every one of the priest’s nerves.

“A fine breeze, Adjunct.” Mark Hael was grinning. “Perhaps Ulcis himself has sent it to aid us.”

Fogwill groaned. The same wind had been blowing fiercely since they’d left Deepgate three hours ago. Devon’s own ship had been forced to crawl through the night against a northerly gale, but the wind had swung to the south with the arrival of dawn and the Adraki had been able to thunder along the armada’s stationary flag-line at triple Devon’s speed. They were closing fast.

Provided the Adraki didn’t tear herself to pieces in the process.

Mark Hael didn’t seem to care. He’d ordered the engines to be cranked up full and appeared to relish the screaming wind, the pitching and thumping of the bridge, the groan of over-stressed cables.

And he’d claimed Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

Fogwill just wanted to get off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The talc had all smudged off by now, revealing his unhealthy pallor to all.

“You don’t look well,” Hael commented, his grin even wider. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy Fogwill’s discomfort.

“Why do these things sway about so?”

“Air currents. We’re pushing the Adraki hard. You’d feel better if you kept your eyes fixed on the horizon.”

But the Adjunct kept his gaze pinned to the bucket. “Standing makes me feel dizzier. How much longer must I endure this?”

The commander drummed his fingers on the control panel. “Another five hours. The advance fleet vessels are massing. We’ll circle and look for signs of Devon and Sypes once we arrive. With any luck the Shetties will have done away with the Poisoner for us.”

“Sypes must be protected,” Fogwill said. He then put his head in his hands and began to retch again. The stench from the bucket brought tears to his eyes.

“If those savages have him, it’s already too late,” Hael continued, unconcerned. “I know them. They won’t keep him for ransom.”

Fogwill looked up. His throat felt raw, saliva dribbled over his chin. “We need to…get the Presbyter back,” he managed.

Hael grunted. “There’s nothing I can guarantee. I don’t have enough men for mud-work, so a landing would be pointless.”

“What do you suggest we do, then?”

“What we normally do.” Hael stared out across the desert, the buttons on his uniform glinting in the sun. “We’ll gas them. This many ships against one Shettie stronghold should clear out most of them. Then Clay’s regulars can march out and mop up.”

“But Devon may survive.”

“Where’s he going to go?”

* * * *

After some discussion, Dill and Rachel had decided to abandon the spiral path—a route too slow and treacherous for them to keep pace with Carnival. Clasping her in his arms, Dill flew carefully, cautious of reaching the bottom of the abyss too abruptly. They kept the lantern burning low as they descended, and strained to see through the humid darkness, searching for some sign of Deep itself or the ghosts down below.

But whatever awaited them still remained hidden.

Carnival wouldn’t as much as hint at what she’d seen during her earlier reconnaissance. She circled them impatiently but kept her distance to stay out of the lantern light. Whenever Dill caught a glimpse of her, he saw nothing in her eyes but a glint of savage humour, as if she were savouring some cruel joke.

He knew better than to press her for answers. Not that he was overly keen to hear what she might say. Her malicious eagerness for them to reach the bottom unnerved him.

In the silence Dill heard his blood drumming in his ears. Rachel’s arms were heavy about his neck, her breath hot against his cheek. The antique steel of his mail shirt began to feel like pig-iron, becoming heavier until it felt like he was carrying the weight of a city on his back. And everywhere now, that smell.

Of war.

Of weapons.

Feebly, he shook his head. He couldn’t place it, and yet some part of him knew what it was—the pungent odour howled to be recognised.

War. Weapons. Something…?

Rachel interrupted his thoughts. “Listen,” she said, “can you hear it?”

Dill listened hard.

A tapping sound, metallic, very faint.

“What is it?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

Deeper into the abyss, and gradually, the strange clamour grew louder. It reminded him of the Poison Kitchens—the familiar distant sounds of industry, factories, and forges. The odour intensified too, but its cause still eluded him.

There. Just for a moment he thought he spotted a grey shape in the void beneath them. He pulled up sharply.

I know this. A shiver of fear brushed up his spine.

Rachel sniffed, frowned. “That odour—what the hell is it?”

Dill peered down. “I thought I saw—” He broke off. “Maybe it was nothing.”

But as they continued to drop, the blackness below began to lighten. Further vague outlines appeared, dissipated. Down to one side he spied a dim smudge like a pall of almost invisible smoke. He tried hard to focus but could not define its shape. What if it was just an outcrop of rock? Had he seen anything at all?

“Dill, look up there,” Rachel hissed. “A storm is blowing over the Deadsands.”

He lifted his head and his breath caught. From down here, Deepgate appeared to be no larger than his fist, but the distant city seethed. Glittering clouds of dust and rust fell from the agitated chains and neighbourhoods so far above, while spikes of sunlight punched through in countless places. An angry corona surrounded the outline of the city itself—and in the very centre, a bright ring flared around a black speck. The Church of Ulcis .

“It’s brighter now,” Rachel murmured. “The sun is high. It must be close to noon.”

“It looks so far away,” Dill said.

Deepgate seemed as distant as the sun, and as unreachable.

Gazing up, he didn’t notice the ground approaching until they were almost upon it. When he glanced down, he saw what looked like a steep, chalky slope rushing towards them. Beyond the lantern light, the slope sank away into the distant gloom.

“Dill!”

“I see it!” He thrashed his wings to slow their descent. Sudden wind whipped at Rachel’s hair.

“My God, Dill, look!”

Dill couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Where was the city of Deep? The buildings, streets, gardens? Where were the soul-lights? The army of ghosts? Where was Ulcis?

What was this?

He landed hard. The ground surface gave way beneath him, cracking, snapping. He lost his footing and tumbled wings over heels, pitching Rachel into the dark. Hundreds of hard edges jabbed him, punched the wind from his aching chest. The sword hilt pummelled his ribs. The lantern threw dizzy circles of light. Desperately, he thrust out his arms to slow his fall, but his hands sank into something crumbly and he slid forward again. Thick, sour dust choked his lungs.

Weapons? War?

Dill came to a halt, facedown, in a cloud of dust. He groaned and lifted his head.

Bones.

He was lying on a mountain of bones. Femurs, fingers, clavicles, ribs, spines, as far as he could see—an impossible slope of dry and shattered skeletons. Fleshless hands reached up from gullies and mounds of brittle remains. Screes of skulls and teeth shifted, trickled, and rattled further down into the dark.

Dill had sunk to the elbows in broken bones. He coughed, blinked.

That smell.

Not of weapons or war, but of the Sanctum corridor, the Ninety-Nine: the long-dead archons that inspired his dreams of battle.

He rose unsteadily, smacked bone-dust from his clothes.

But these were not the bones of angels, but of people. Thousands of people. Millions. Discarded in this pit, heaped like the feast-pile of an eternal banquet.

Rachel scrambled down to join him, sending a further landslide of bone fragments down the slope.

Dill couldn’t speak. He stood gawping at the crumbling mountain, gasping in the chalky air, still searching in vain for some sign of Deep. But there was nothing here. Only bones. Three thousand years of bones.

And, from the darkness all around, the continual sound of hammers striking metal. Of industry.

Or forges?

“Dill?” Rachel shook him gently. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t understand.” He looked at her. “Where are the soul-lights? The ghosts?”

As she shifted her weight, something snapped under her foot. “These are old bones,” she said. “Ancient. Further up, the remains are fresher. But there’s no flesh, no shrouds.” She picked up a smaller bone that might have been a finger and examined it. “There are marks on it, scratches. The flesh has been scraped away, picked clean.” She glanced up. “The sun’s moved on. It will grow darker again soon. We should get off this…” She let the sentence die. “We should get to the bottom.”

A sharp rapping sounded from further up the slope. Carnival was sitting there on a pile of skulls, her raven wings outstretched. In each scarred hand she clutched a long bone, using them like drumsticks to beat on a skull between her knees. “Not the best idea,” she drawled, her eyes brimming with malicious glee. “That’s where they’re coming from.”

Dill spun round. At first he saw nothing but darkness, then gradually he became aware of the lights.

The dead were coming.