Scar Night

30

The Palace of Chains

A thousand campfires shivered under Scar Night’s dark moon. Dunes extended in frozen waves before them, till it seemed to Devon that he was looking at a city built on the distant shore of a sea. He eased the throttle of the Tooth and let the machine rumble to a halt. Sand showered down past the bridge windows.

So many fires. Every legion of Deepgate’s regulars and reservists warmed themselves in readiness for the onslaught. Unseen, he realized, the seventh and ninth cavalry divisions would be off to the sides, moving into a position to outflank them. And up there the warships. Devon counted more than thirty, burning like comets among the stars. TheWhisperer had emptied its payload. Somewhere overhead, it would be flying back to Deepgate to rearm.

Bataba kept squinting through the forward windows, alternately scratching the scar of his right eye and tugging at the fetishes in his beard. “We are Ayen’s fist,” he grumbled. “This war should be fought under her light.”

“Not much we can do about that,” Devon said. “Unless your goddess sees fit to raise the sun early.”

The shaman grunted.

“How do you want to do this?” the Poisoner asked.

“Just mow them down.”

Devon feigned surprise. “I thought the Heshette looked their enemies in the face when they killed them.”

“In daylight, yes. But this fight is on the outcasts’ terms.”

“They’ll send someone out to parley.”

Bataba continued to eye the horizon.

Devon stifled a yawn. “As you wish.” He hitched a lever and the Tooth lurched forward to meet the assembled armies.

Bataba turned his back on the night as the Tooth eased over into a dip. “What can we expect?” he asked.

“A bumpy ride.”

“Anything else we should know about?”

“The third through fifth divisions, the sappers, they’ll have undermined the ground between. Tunnels, trenches of pitch, that sort of thing. Expect more explosions, but I doubt they’ve had time for any serious excavation. So that shouldn’t be a problem. They’ll have cobbled up some siege-towers, heavy ballistics and such, but nothing powerful enough to stop us. As long as we keep moving, they’ll have a hard time breaching our hull in significant numbers. We should be safe until we reach the abyss. Their reservists, for all their zeal, haven’t fought or trained in a decade.” He paused. “My main concern is Spine saboteurs. Ichin Tell will have assassins hidden here and there in the sand, whose job will be to get inside while our attention is diverted. Look out for grapples from below.”

“I will post lookouts.”

“Better to set an ambush for them,” Devon said. “Allow them an opening and let them come in. But be ready to close it again on them quickly.”

“Don’t tell me how to fight, Poisoner. We’ve beaten their likes before.”

“In desert skirmishes,” Devon agreed, “but you’ve never faced numbers like this. Almost every living man who ever held a sword for Deepgate is out there now.”

Bataba seemed not to hear him. He turned away as the Tooth began to climb out of the depression. “I’ll fetch the council,” he said, and then left the bridge.

When they reached the crest of the next dune, Devon saw a group of horsemen riding out to meet them, the temple standard rippling gold and black in the light of a dozen brands. A trumpet sounded shrill beneath the roar of the Tooth’s churning engines. Devon kept the same course and fed power into the cutting arms. Cogs of the weird metal spun and sang, and threw off arcs of sand. The approaching riders broke formation and skirted the huge machine. As the trumpet blared again, Devon jammed the throttle forward in response.

Deepgate still lay hidden below the horizon, but huge fleshy columns of smoke rose from the city, as though every furnace was ablaze in forging weapons. The sky above was painted in colours of oil and coal and fire. Churchships dotted the billowing smoke like red blisters.

A last line of defence, perhaps? Had Clay armed the temple armada too? The Poisoner wasn’t overly concerned. By the time the churchships engaged him, the city itself would already be lost.

After half a league, the horsemen regrouped and rode back towards the waiting army.

Presently the council arrived on the bridge. They were in no better mood than Bataba, at least half of them with fresh burns from the Whisperer ’s attack. None concealed their contempt for the Poisoner. They gathered around, brandishing their tribal knives in plain view, until their scowls were drawn to the distant lights.

“We’ve set bowmen at the vents on both sides,” Bataba explained. “Barrels of tar from the wrecked skyships stand ready in dawn and dusk corridors. These saboteurs will find scaling our walls no easy task.”

Devon wasn’t convinced, but he left his concerns unvoiced. “Just keep one eye on the sky,” he reminded him.

Bataba ignored the jibe. He was studying the landscape before them. The Poisoner turned to follow his gaze. They were closer now, close enough to see units of troops clustered around the campfires, and mounted soldiers milling behind. Armour and shields flashed. On higher ground to the southeast and southwest the skeletal silhouettes of wooden towers, mangonels, and scorpions waited before the abyss.

“The outriders have returned,” Bataba said.

The horsemen had broken through the infantry and reined in before a group of command tents situated behind the bulk of the army.

“At least we know where Clay is,” Devon observed, “or wants us to think he is.”

They didn’t have long to wait after the outriders had delivered their report. Buglers echoed commands through the lines of troops, and the armies of Deepgate rippled into motion.

Hundreds of banners split aside and streamed to east or west. Rear cavalry units moved into flanking positions. Reservist infantry assembled into blocks between them, bristling with spears and pikes. Lines of pitch fire tore through the sand before ranks of archers and arbalests. Aether-lights flared in unison high above, and Deepgate’s warships started to converge, moving into position for a concentrated assault.

The plain before them now levelled. Rocks popped and crumbled beneath the Tooth’s tracks, reduced to dust in the face of the great machine. Engines thundered. But to Devon these noises seemed distant, blanketed by a heavy silence in his mind.

He waited. The Tooth rocked and juddered, slowly building speed, flattening everything in its path. Caravan tracks crisscrossed the desolate ground before them like old wounds. The stars seemed to wink in approval. Deepgate’s fire-lit trunks of smoke grew nearer.

Still he waited.

Soon enough the warships arrived, and the battle began.

A colossal boom like a thunderclap sounded overhead, followed by a prolonged crackling. The desert flickered orange and red. Gouts of flame fizzed past the bridge windows and blackened the glass. Phosphor smoke seethed in their wake. But the Tooth shrugged off this attack as though it were summer rain.

Boom, crackle, fizz.

Two hundred yards ahead, a second shower of fire fell from the night sky.

“They have missed,” the shaman said.

“No.” Devon knew what was coming.

All at once, the Deadsands burst into flame. For a quarter of a league to either side there was nothing but a lake of fire.

“The ground is on fire!” Bataba cried. “Go around! Go around!” He groped for the control levers.

Devon elbowed him aside, and maintained his course, driving the Tooth straight for the flames. “Calm yourself. They want us to hesitate here. They want to steer us aside. Spine will then try to board.”

The shaman’s face had paled. Sweat beaded his furrowed brow and trickled down across his tattoos. He rubbed at the scar around his missing eye as if it were a fresh wound.

“Afraid of fire, shaman?” Devon shouted over the mountainous rumble of the tracks and the roar of approaching flames.

“We’ll roast alive!”

“Only if we stop.”

The Tooth ploughed on into the inferno. Smoke churned and boiled beyond the bridge’s forward windows. Embers streamed upwards in spiralling torrents. There was a snap, and one of the windowpanes cracked from side to side.

“This is madness,” the shaman hissed.

“Keep calm!”

But smoke was now pouring through the cracked window, billowing across the ceiling. Bataba hunched beside Devon and breathed frantically through his headscarf. Tears streamed from his remaining eye. The Heshette councillors retreated, coughing, to the rear of the bridge.

“Seal that crack!” Devon yelled. “If they drop gas now…”

Bataba relayed the order to a runner waiting by the door. Moments later a tribesman appeared with a tub of thick, grey bone-gum. Flinching back from the heat, he set to work sealing the damaged window.

The Tooth surged on, even deeper into the flames.

Devon started to sweat as the temperature rose, the throttle feeling slick in his palm. His lungs rejected the poisonous air, and he vomited, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Men were barking orders in the corridors behind them. After plugging the window the tribesman staggered back, gabardine smoking. A runner appeared, muttered something quickly to the shaman, and disappeared. “A unit of Spine has landed on the roof,” Bataba said. “They tried to get in through the rear stairwell. They have been repelled.”

A frantic tapping sound came from somewhere behind, then a shout: “Bolts!”

Steel barbs rattled against the forward grille like sheeting hail. Further explosions shook the bridge as the warships renewed their bombardment.

Boom, crackle, fizz.

Smoke blotted the view of the Deadsands completely. Tongues of flame licked the scorched glass. The heat grew intolerable. Devon kept the throttle hard forward, squeezing every ounce of power from the Tooth’s labouring engines.

Bataba was on his knees, gasping. “We’re burning.”

“The tar they dropped on our hull is burning,” Devon replied. “It will burn itself out soon.”

But the shaman had a fevered look in his eye. “We have to turn back,” he cried. “Try another path.”

“No,” Devon said. “We’re not stopping. We’re almost through.”

“Turn back!”

“Control yourself. Look!”

Through a break in the smoke they saw Deepgate’s army marching. A forest of spears. Armour and shields flowed towards them like a tide of molten metal. The blackened bones of mangonels and scorpions stood out against the fire-lit smog behind. Even now, siege engineers were igniting the payloads on the mangonels, winding tension into the great bows of the scorpions. Closer, riders surged in from the flanks and loosed crossbow bolts that pinged and shattered against the window grille.

And then they were out of the fire, and into cool, dark sand. Drums began to beat a low, steady rhythm.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A bugle piped. The scorpions unleashed their spines. Iron-tipped shafts smashed against the hull a heartbeat later. Devon felt the throttle shudder in his grip.

“Runner!” Bataba yelled.

“Dawnside breach,” came the frantic reply. “The hatch is off.”

“Fix it!”

“Don’t touch those shafts,” Devon shouted above the din. “If they aren’t on fire, they’re saturated with poison.”

The shaman shouted the order but a second barrage from the scorpions drowned out any acknowledgement. Drums pounded; deeper, faster.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The tar on the hull had almost burned away. Through the charred glass Devon saw a boiling sea of armour, of spiked and visored helms, glittering swords and shields. Spears rippled as far as the horizon. Banners of black and gold snapped in the wind. Warships lit the sky with frenzied flashes of aether-light.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

At another cry from the bugle, a battery of mangonel arms came up with a thunk. Burning barrels and huge clay pots arced upwards, trailing smoke and tails of flame. A sound like a sigh filled the air. From the corner of his eye Devon saw Bataba back away.

“Grab hold of something,” he warned.

He didn’t turn to see if the shaman obeyed. Suddenly pitch and phosphor exploded ahead of them and bleached the forward windows. The bridge shuddered.

Devon felt the engines skip a beat. He eased the throttle, then pushed forward hard. Bataba shot him a stern glance. Devon returned it warily. The Tooth juddered and lurched, then resumed its steady, rumbling progress. But something was wrong: the engine sound was coarser now, stuttering.

Teams of engineers were using hoists to reload the scorpions and mangonels, ratcheting the range adjusters, igniting heavy drums with dripping torches. A thousand silhouetted figures crowded the ridge before the city, black against the burning horizon. Behind the marching infantry, strings of bowmen dipped arrows into trenches of flaming pitch, raised them high, and loosed them. Countless yellow arcs cut through the sky and fell, whining, before exploding against the Tooth’s hull.

The engines stuttered again, seemed to pause, then lurched back to something less than full power.

“What’s wrong?” Bataba demanded.

“The engine is overheating.”

“Can you fix it?”

“No time.”

Crackle. The scorpions discharged their spines once more, and moments later the heavy shafts pummelled the huge machine.Crack, crack, crack . Devon flinched at the successive impacts. Panicked shouting came from the corridors behind, then screams of agony. The Heshette had found and touched the poisoned, serrated spines.

“I told you to keep them away from those things,” Devon growled.

“They’ve breached through to the inner walls. The corridors are blocked!”

“Then cover them before you try to remove them!”

Ssssssss.

A second volley of flaming arrows swept up, arced, and fell like a shower of stars. Then the archers withdrew and broke aside to the east and west. Hundreds more infantry poured forward from behind. They were pushing siege-towers. To the sides, heavy cavalry raced to join the advance cavalry. A barrage of crossbow bolts lanced up from both units. Devon could hear the infantry now, the crunch of armoured boots, the rumble of massive siege-tower wheels.

“We’re now inside ballistic range,” he cried. “The troops will engage.”

Boom, boom, boom. The drums quickened.

“Archers on the roof!” Bataba shouted. “Prepare to repel boarders.”

The Tooth jolted, dipped forward, groaned, and slowed.

“Trenches,” Devon said. He slammed the throttle back to full. Engines screamed. Bolts and arrows smashed to fragments against the window grille. The Tooth levelled, tilted back, then slewed sideways. Curtains of sand sprayed over the advancing infantry.

But the machine began to climb, Deepgate’s war drums thumping like its own heartbeat.

A tide of shields and spears broke around them. Grapples flew up from all sides. The Tooth struggled free of the trench. Devon blinked sweat from his eyes and knocked back a lever with his stump. The cutting arms lowered with a furious hiss. “Mow them down you said.”

“For Ayen!” the shaman cried.

Devon grinned, and activated the cutters.

The engines hacked once, twice, and died.

The Tooth jerked to a halt.

A sudden silence filled the bridge, as though every man in the Tooth and the army outside had paused. Devon turned to Bataba, his face bloodless. “The propeller shaft,” he said. “Get your men down there to fix it or we’re dead.”

“How soon can it be repaired?”

“Not soon enough.” Devon rose from his seat. “Fetch the priest.”

Below them, Deepgate’s army charged.

* * * *

Carnival backed away from the abomination. Her hand moved to the rope scar on her neck as though pulled there by some dark memory. “Will I kill it?” she breathed.

“Someone already has,” Rachel said. “A long, long time ago.” She found it hard to believe the thing was even standing.

Most of the angel was still there, but it leaned at an awkward angle, resting its weight on one leg. The other leg was withered and stunted, more bone than flesh. Three fingers remained on one hand, one finger on the other. Strips of intestine hung from its abdomen where leathery patches of skin—or perhaps just leather—had burst. Its yellow eyes were lidless and appeared to bulge, giving the creature an almost comical expression. It sucked air through a gap where its nose should have been. There was not a single feather on its wings, just tattered goose-flesh.

It was the most pitiful, wretched thing Rachel had ever seen, and yet she had a strong sense that Carnival was afraid of it.

Will I kill it? It was almost as if Carnival had asked for approval, but when did she ever need to ask anything of anyone?

“I’d be doing it a favour.” Carnival’s voice trembled.

“No,” Rachel said.

The dead angel watched Carnival for some moments and it did not move. Then suddenly it bobbed its head back and forward, held out a closed fist, and said, “Shing.”

Carnival flinched.

“Shing!”

“We don’t understand,” Rachel said.

Mr. Nettle had retreated a few steps back and was watching the dead angel warily. Evidently he had decided this wasn’t Abigail.

“Shing!” The dead angel pushed its clenched hand again at Carnival.

“It’s trying to give you something,” Rachel said.

“Shing!”

Carnival extended her hand and the angel dropped something into it.

“What is it?” Rachel stretched over to see.

Carnival held up the object: an ugly bone ring, somewhat chewed.

The dead angel lifted its chin. “Shing,” it repeated, then shaped its mouth into something that might have been a grin, before it turned away and folded itself back through the door.

“Do you still want to kill it?” Rachel asked.

Carnival had paled. For a moment, she looked lost, confused. And then her expression darkened and, to Rachel’s horror, the hunger was back in her eyes. “Why the hell not?” Carnival said, and stooped to follow the other angel through the doorway.

Rachel grabbed for her, but hesitated. She had noticed Carnival slip the ring onto her finger. “Come on,” she hissed to Mr. Nettle.

Beyond the door a sweating red-rock passageway sank before them, and then rose again a short distance ahead. The dead angel paused at the bottom, beckoned to them. “Grog,” it said. “Ussis.” Then it turned and loped away.

“Did it just say what I think it did?” Rachel frowned.

Carnival stared after the monstrosity, her expression dark, and made no response.

“I suggest we head the other way.”

The scarred angel’s fists tightened suddenly. She flexed her broken shoulder: bones cracked, and her skewed wing straightened. She grunted, and took off after Shing.

Cursing, Rachel ran after her. Somewhere behind her, Mr. Nettle’s crutch creaked.

Cressets dripped grease into congealed mounds and milky puddles on the floor. Rachel skipped round those, but the chain between her and Carnival sloshed through them and was soon soaked and glistening. Rachel’s hand kept returning to her empty scabbard as she ran. Time was running out.

The red passageway ended at a heavy door. Shing halted, bobbed its head again, and attempted another ghoulish smile before it yanked the door handle. The door moved inwards with a sucking sound. Cold air rushed out and past them, and they stepped through.

Walls of white water thundered down into darkness on either side, forming a tall, misty corridor without floor or ceiling. They appeared to be standing on a ledge high on the wall of a vast cavern.Or the edge of another abyss? An ancient chain bridge zigzagged between the waterfalls and vanished thirty yards ahead, where a weak red light suffused the mist. At this end the iron spans of the bridge looked weak; in the distance they seemed as delicate as lace. Looking down, Rachel saw nothing but frothing water

If this is Hell, what lies below?

“Grog,” Shing said, and bounded on without hesitation.

They moved cautiously. The bridge was treacherously slippery. Rotten beams squelched and broke underfoot, sending fragments tumbling into the dark. Chains steamed and dripped. Rachel’s leathers were soon soaked. Ahead, the red light grew steadily brighter, and gradually the deluge of water eased: first to sheets; then trickles like silver ropes; then drips. The mists parted, and they found themselves standing before Ulcis’s palace of chains.

Without any visible means of support, the iron palace smouldered like an angry red sun in the darkness; amid a great knot of walkways, stairwells, balconies, and platforms all stitched with chains. Huge braziers burned within. There were no walls, but Ulcis’s palace was nevertheless a prison. Cages had been woven into the structure or hung from chains and hooks at every level. These were crammed full of people.

The Hoarder of Souls was slumped on a massive throne in the centre of his palace, watching their approach.

“Grog,” Shing said.

“He means god.” Ulcis’s voice boomed across the void. “His vocal cords rotted centuries ago.” He sounded regretful. “Along with its wings and mind. I patch them up, but when the flesh is full of maggots, what can you do? This one is undoubtedly the worst. It never had the hunger to sustain itself.”

Rachel, Carnival, and Mr. Nettle stepped off the bridge and ducked inside the confines of the palace chains. The god’s throne sat on a dais in the centre of a broad platform, surrounded by the numerous suspended cages. A carpet of bones covered the floor around him. Rachel loosened the leather straps around the burner and poisonsong bolts at her hip. Cages creaked overhead and cold, hungry eyes turned to follow their progress.

“They are agitated,” said Ulcis. “They smell meat.”

“Grog,” Shing said.

Ulcis reached down, plucked a bone from the floor, and threw it at Shing. It missed, skittered off the platform, then slipped between the chains and into the darkness beyond.

Shing bounded after it, but stopped before the edge, its shoulders slumped. “Grog?”

“One day its survival instincts will fail,” Ulcis hissed, “and I’ll be rid of it for good. The things below this palace would soon tear it to pieces.”

“More of your slaves?” Rachel asked.

“The gates of Iril lie below,” replied the god.

“And what, exactly, is Iril?”

Ulcis smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Grog?”

“Leave!”

The creature hesitated, then bowed awkwardly and lurched back across the bridge.

The god of chains eyed Mr. Nettle’s crossbow indignantly. “I suppose this other one is human. Or aspires to be.” His voice sounded like crumbling rocks. “They will keep coming down here, from some implacable need to stand before a god. Great balloons or flying machines with sails, fins, and propellers—I’ve seen it all. A man in a chair tethered to hundreds of sparrows, trailing feathers.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I had the chair repaired.”

“This is Mr. Nettle,” Rachel said, “and he didn’t come to stand before anything. He’s looking for his daughter.”

“Have you seen her?” Carnival said.

Ulcis’s face creased with rage. “Are you feeling hungry, daughter?” he said. “That time of the month?” He leaned back, parting his lips in a wet grin. “How many have you murdered by now? Or have you forgotten them all? Do you remember your last scar? No? But now at least you remember your first.”

“I’ll remember the next,” she said.

Rachel clamped a hand on her shoulder.The chain. Don’t forget we’re chained . But Carnival didn’t move. She was staring beyond Ulcis’s throne. There was movement in the darkness. Through the chains, other angels appeared: a handful at first, and then scores of them. They were in various states of decay, though none looked as bad as Shing. Ragged wings the colour of dust. Scraps of armour—corroded steel or bone plates, strapped over grey, muscular torsos; curved swords, spears, maces, and recurved bows.

“My lieutenants,” Ulcis announced. “They remember you, daughter. You were once so pretty.” His voice was loaded with snide implication. “Flowers and ribbons in your hair, so pretty then. They all remember you.”

Ulcis’s archons leered at Carnival with such derisive pleasure that Rachel felt a surge of despair, almost panic. She’d seen that look before, on soldiers’ faces after Hollowhill had been cleared of Heshette warriors; after the soldiers had been left alone with the women. Rachel had beaten four men unconscious after she found out what they’d done there. She’d beaten them until their faces were pulp, before she’d been dragged away screaming by the Spine.

Rachel’s hand tightened on Carnival’s shoulder. She could feel the scarred angel’s muscles tensing like steel, her fists clenched, her knuckles white. The rope scar at her neck pulsed with each rapid breath. No! Rachel wanted to scream at the god. Don’t force her to remember!

Carnival spoke quietly. “What did you do to me?”

The god of chains rose, an unfolding landscape of flesh, and unfurled his vast wings. Chains of shadow lashed out behind him. “Shall I give you those memories back, daughter? When they’d finished with you there was no point in taking your soul. There was nothing left of it to take.”

But Rachel knew that was a lie. Ulcis had tried to destroy his daughter’s soul, to crush the humanity he so reviled. Yet he hadn’t succeeded. Carnival had buried that part of herself even deeper than the abyss. She possessed her father’s hunger and rage, but she still kept her mother’s soul.

Carnival slipped off the ring Shing had given her and let it fall to the ground. That small gesture wrung Rachel’s heart.

“The syringe,” Ulcis commanded. “Bring it here.”

One of the angels approached, a creature seven feet tall. Naked bone gleamed where battle-scars had opened up its face, and ribs poked through gaps in its armour. Rachel studied the sword at its hip and the bamboo tube lashed beside it; then she frowned. This bastard was carrying her weapons. It handed Ulcis the Poisoner’s syringe, still in the grip of Devon’s severed hand.

“You came here for this?” Ulcis said. The hand twitched, tightened its grip further. The god regarded it without apparent interest.

“It’s mine,” Carnival hissed, crouching, and the scars on her face contracted.

Rachel heard a creak of bone and glanced back to see Mr. Nettle shuffle forward on his crutch. He levelled his crossbow at the god, and stared hungrily at the syringe.

Shit, what’s his interest in the angelwine?Then it struck her.His daughter’s soul. So this is about to get very messy .

No one moved.

The angelwine glittered: a distillation of souls that would restore an angel. Rachel now understood why Carnival had fought so hard to find it. Would it finally cure her hunger? End her torment? Could it remove her scars? Not only the scars she wore on her flesh, but those she carried inside?

That stuff brought Devon back from the brink of death.

And suddenly she realized why Carnival could never be allowed to have it.

Ulcis prised the syringe free from the Poisoner’s dead fingers and flung the severed hand at his daughter. “You may keep this—a gift from me.”

Carnival did not move a muscle as the severed hand dropped to the floor at her feet, then scuttled away like a fleshy crab. But her scars flared brighter; her eyes darkened to the colour of murder.

Steel rasped as the dead angels around them unsheathed their swords.

Rachel heard a click.

Ulcis’s head snapped back, the hunting crescent buried in his right eyebrow.

Mr. Nettle dropped his crossbow and charged.

His improvised splint broke apart, but his momentum still carried him forward, and he slammed into the god with a force that would have brought down a house. The throne pitched backwards, and Ulcis crashed to the ground underneath the scrounger. The entire platform shuddered, tilted; cages lurched and groaned above them. A hundred chains clinked and shivered.

Ulcis roared in anger.

Mr. Nettle butted his head into the god’s face.

His archons rushed forward to attack.

Carnival pounced.

But Rachel was ready: she grabbed the chain secured to her own ankle, and yanked.

The tightened chain halted Carnival in mid-leap. Her leg jerked back and she hit the ground face-first, snarling.

With one hand, Mr. Nettle was wrestling Ulcis for the syringe. With his other fist, he was pummelling the god’s face to a bloody mess. The archon nearest drew back its sword to cut him down.

Rachel threw the burner.

It struck the angel square in the forehead and exploded. A ball of flame engulfed the creature. It screamed, stumbled backwards into the archons behind in a cloud of burning feathers.

Mr. Nettle had rolled free; his robes were on fire, but he came up on his hands and knees with the syringe in one huge fist.

“Mine!” Carnival leapt to her feet, her face creased with rage and pain.

The scarred angel flew at the scrounger, lashed an elbow down on his skull. The blow connected with bone-crunching force.

Mr. Nettle grunted, shook his head once, then surged upright in an eruption of rags and muscle. One arm thrown around her neck, the other across her shoulder, he struggled to push her away. Caught in his awkward embrace, she scrabbled for the syringe, reached it, fumbled.

The glass tube of angelwine fell to the ground, rolled clear in a wide circle. Rachel snatched it up, then ducked as steel sliced the air above her head. Ulcis’s lieutenants had closed the gap, and the tall, battle-scarred archon had just taken a swipe at her. With her own sword. Bastard.

“Give it to me, bitch!” Carnival shrieked. She had now disentangled herself from the scrounger and stood a few paces beyond him. “That belongs to me!”

Still on fire, Mr. Nettle wheeled, ran straight at Rachel.

The assassin sidestepped the big man easily, extended a foot. He tumbled headfirst into the archon who had attacked her. Both sprawled to the ground, armour and ribs crumpling under the scrounger’s weight. Pinned, the archon grunted, and tried to swing its sword.

Her sword.

Rachel ripped it from the angel’s grip, then snatched the bamboo tube from the sword belt. And then she was running towards Carnival. “Follow me! The chain! We’re still chained!”

But Carnival’s face was nothing but a snarling mask, eyes black with insatiable hunger.

Shit, not now.

As Carnival came at her, Rachel veered sharply, barely managed to duck under the angel’s outstretched arms. She punched her assailant twice—once in the neck, the second blow in the shoulder. Carnival collapsed, hissing and spitting like a wildcat.

Too bright for you in here?

“Get up!” Rachel cried. “The chain.”

A sword thrust to her side. The assassin twisted away. The blade sliced empty air an inch from her belly. Another weapon stabbed at her face. She caught the flat of its blade with the back of her hand, smacked it up, and sank her own sword into the archon’s armpit. A yank and her blade was free, then arcing down to intercept the first assailant’s rising stroke. Steel clashed, rasped. She spun, kicking the archon full in the face. The blow should have broken its neck. But it grinned, and bore down on her again.

Shit!

Behind it, the rest were closing in.

Rachel grabbed a fistful of Carnival’s hair, dragging her upright as she ran past. She glanced back to see Ulcis rise and rip the crossbow bolt free of his brow. Blood poured from the wound and from his broken nose, huge chains of indeterminate darkness swirling behind him. Mr. Nettle was still wrestling with the battle-scarred archon. He delivered one rock-crushing blow into the creature’s face, before it struck him savagely on one temple and managed to throw him off. The scrounger slumped to the floor, unconscious or dead.

Carnival wrenched herself away from Rachel, furious, seemingly mindless of the chain that bound them together or the archons at her back, mindless of anything now but ripping the assassin apart.

“The chain!”

“Give me the syringe!”

Rachel slipped through the chains surrounding the platform, and reached the bridge with the angelwine still in her grip. The prisoners in their cages were howling, rattling the bars. The whole palace shook as Ulcis’s voice thundered after her.

“Kill them.”

Suddenly Rachel was jerked to a halt.

Carnival had found a different path through the complexities of Ulcis’s palace. The chain between them was snagged, looped round another chain supporting the palace. Neither angel nor assassin could move forward. Carnival clawed at her, but couldn’t reach. Behind her, Ulcis’s archons were gaining on them. The fat god himself had joined the pursuit. His palace trembled under his footsteps. Cages creaked and swung all around him.

“Back,” Rachel cried. “We’re caught!”

For the first time, Carnival seemed to notice her manacled ankle. Her eyes traced the links back to where they had become snagged. “I’ve got you now, bitch.”

“They’ll cut us both down.”

“Not before I rip your heart out. The syringe—give it to me.”

“Behind you!”

Carnival spun about just as a huge archon, its lower face a grinning skull, reached for her. Plates of bone armour shifted as Ulcis’s lieutenant swung its mace at her head with sickening force. Carnival ducked, darted inside the dead angel’s reach. The mace looped around a palace support chain. Her fist snapped out, and the archon catapulted back, a jagged gap where its teeth had been. The other archons were weaving through the chains to engage.

Cursing, Rachel darted back to help her.

They had now surrounded Carnival: spears jabbed in at her from all sides, swords flashing and sparking on a tangle of chains. Most of the archons were enormous, twice her weight, but Ulcis’s daughter was faster than all of them. Her scars seethed blood-red. Her eyes glittered blacker than the abyss itself. Unarmed, she attacked with fists and feet and teeth, and the fury of a thousand Scar Nights.

And she was driving them back.

Unable to find space to deploy their weapons among the chains, Ulcis’s archons were retreating.

Rachel snaked through to join her, and thereby freed the snagged chain. “Now move,” she cried, sliding her sword back into the scabbard on her back.

Panting like an animal, Carnival paused for a heartbeat and glanced around in apparent confusion, before she noticed Rachel and tore after her, yelling, “Mine! Mine!”

Rachel raced past the thundering waterfalls without further hindrance, and slammed into the opposite entrance. The door burst inwards and she fell through. Carnival was at her heels, still spitting, snarling.

“They’re after us, you rabid bitch.” Rachel scrambled away. “Forget the syringe and move!”

They pounded up a rock-lined passageway. Dark tunnels slipped by on either side.

Which way?

Rachel didn’t have time to stop and think. Carnival was close, and behind her sounded the crashing armour of Ulcis’s lieutenants. She ploughed on, trusting to blind luck, gripping the syringe like some stolen gem.

Rachel now knew what she had to do with it.

Suddenly she was back in the chamber where they’d encountered Shing, cauldrons bubbling all around her, the butcher’s block before her. She was going too fast to stop, so she leapt over it. Her shin struck the edge of the block with a crack of pain, and she fell.

“Mine!” Carnival lunged at her.

Rachel drove her heel into Carnival’s neck, knocking the angel backwards into the first of Ulcis’s lieutenants to burst into the room.

“Get up!” Rachel yelled, and she heaved at the chain, dragging Carnival along on her back. The angel’s wings thrashed. A spear lashed out, struck the floor where her head had been a moment before.

Then they were up and running again.

Into darkness.

Rachel’s lantern still hung from her belt alongside the poisonsong and the bamboo tube, but she couldn’t light it without slowing down. Was there even any oil left in it? She had no way of seeing where she was going, but she charged ahead regardless, arms outstretched, feet slithering on wet rock.

Carnival’s voice came from close behind. “It’s dark, Spine.”

Without pausing, the assassin closed her eyes tight and focused . Air currents unravelled, crystallized, full of subterranean sounds and smells: the distant chopping of knives, the roar of forges and hammering steel; the scent of cold water and denser odours of clay and minerals. She concentrated, sifted through them, searching for the one she wanted.

There!

Decay.

Rachel forced every scrap of strength from her exhausted muscles and ran faster. Her lungs burned. The odour she sought thickened, pulled her closer to her goal. She reached out her right hand, encountered iron bars, and swung herself into his cell.

“No!” Carnival screamed.

The chain around her ankle suddenly wrenched Rachel’s foot out from under her. She thumped to the ground, all the wind knocked out of her. Then she began to claw her way forward, straining against the damned chain.

Sounds of battle behind: the clash of weapons. Ulcis’s archons had caught up with Carnival and Carnival didn’t seem happy about it, from the sound of her reaction.

As the chain at Rachel’s ankle slackened, she dragged herself further into the cell, searching the ground with fumbling hands.

Feathers.

Stone.

Metal?

Dill’s chain mail felt cold and thin, his skin as slick as tallow beneath.

Catch me.

Rachel stabbed the syringe into his chest, pushed the plunger all the way down—and collapsed to the ground, exhausted.

“He’s dead,” Carnival howled. “He’s dead, you stupid bitch. You can’t save him!”

Torchlight flooded the chamber, as Ulcis’s archons massed outside the cell.

“He’s dead,” Carnival wailed. “He’s already dead!”

Carnival moved over and lifted Dill’s wrist to her mouth. She bit deeply, and sucked, then threw his arm aside. “Do you see what you’ve done”—she dropped to her knees—“you stupid, selfish…” She couldn’t find the words for her frustration.

Rachel was panting; her arms now hung heavy, empty. She turned at a commotion among the archons gathered outside the cell. They were retreating from the bars. Their master had arrived.

Blood streaked the god’s battered face. His massive chest rose and fell from exertion. He said, “You, my child, have seriously pissed me off.”

Rachel stared up at him, at the bulwarks of flesh, the breasts, the overlapping chins. His eyes glowed like burning coals. In one hand he gripped an enormous iron sword, scraped and serrated from long use. She felt like laughing.

There was a cough behind her. Rachel dragged her eyes away from the obscene god to Carnival, caught her startled expression, and turned to follow her stare.

Dill was sitting up.