Then she was gone, transformed into a blur in the thickening smoke, no doubt the result of a recent intake of Green. Any hopes she may have vanished for good were soon dashed by the sounds of alarm rising from the harbour itself. I turned to see fire blossoming from the deck of a freighter moored twenty yards from my position. Then a few moments later a great gout of flame rose from the vessel’s stack and a boom shook her from bow to stern, a boom that told of an exploding boiler. A few heart-beats later and another ship took light with similar results, then another until it seemed as if every vessel moored at the quay-side was wreathed in flame.
I cannot attest to the full horror of what unfolded in the harbour that night, preoccupied as I was with climbing down from my imperilled perch in order to make good my escape from the advancing conflagration. Suffice to say that the scale of destruction being wrought on those ships at anchor compelled the harbour-master to raise the gate and allow the surviving vessels to sail clear. This also had the beneficial effect of permitting the tidal waters to wash over the quay and extinguish the inferno before more damage could be done. Unfortunately, this in turn resulted in the flooding of dozens of homes fringing the Dockside District thereby providing an impetus for the riots that have been raging in our city for much of today.
No trace of Catheline Dewsmine has been found, although the appointed Protectorate investigators have assured this correspondent that exhaustive efforts are being employed to hunt her down. However, it is this correspondent’s opinion that such efforts will prove fruitless, for I believe the “Blessed Demon” is no longer within their reach. Enquiries at the harbour-master’s office reveal that six vessels were destroyed at anchor in Sanorah Harbour and twenty-three others are known to have escaped through the opened door. Of these only twenty-two have been subsequently accounted for. One vessel, the South Seas Maritime passenger liner the SSM Northern Star, has not returned to port and her whereabouts are unknown.
A full accounting of casualties has yet to be made public but it can safely be assumed to be in the hundreds. The Dockside District is now blackened wasteland and the cost in commerce and revenue so enormous as to defy easy calculation. And yet, your humble correspondent is forced to entertain the notion that what he witnessed the previous night was but a portent. Catheline Dewsmine, risen from death and rendered monstrous by means unknown has escaped this continent and gone to complete her “most pressing and important matter.” It is this correspondent’s grim duty to report his firm suspicion that we have not yet seen the last of her.
Lead article in the Sanorah Intelligencer—23rd Rosellum 1600 (Company Year 211)—by Sigmend Talwick, Senior Correspondent.
CHAPTER 34
Clay
His left hand scraped over ten feet of bare rock before finding purchase on a shallow fissure barely an inch wide. Clay shouted as the shock of his arrested tumble jolted through his arm to his shoulder, threatening to dislodge his grip. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into the fissure, ignoring the pain and the wet rush of blood that told of a displaced finger-nail or two.
He hung there, dragging air into his lungs and fighting panic. Loriabeth kept calling his name from atop the cliff, becoming more shrill with each plaintive cry. Clay’s mind raced through various escape scenarios, none of which seemed to offer much prospect of success. The wallet containing his product sat in the right inside pocket of his jacket, meaning he would have to engage in some frantic manoeuvring to recover it. Even should he manage to retrieve it without separating himself from the cliff, the chances of getting it open and safely extracting a vial were remote. He considered attempting a descent, but a few careful probes with his dangling feet revealed an absence of ledges where he might find purchase. To add insult to his predicament the burnt and severed end of the rope dangled only a few feet above his head. Clay glared up at it in a spasm of helpless reproach, an emotion that soon turned to alarm when he saw a bright bead of blood swelling on the blackened stub. It wasn’t his blood.
He could see the Black’s severed neck dangling above, emitting a crimson cascade that coursed down the face of the cliff and inevitably found its way onto the rope. He watched as the bead detached from the rope and descended towards him, impacting on the upper side of his forehead. Had he been un-Blessed there would have been a hard jab of flaming agony as the blood met his skin. Instead, the undiluted substance produced just a warm wet tap, no doubt leaving a pale and permanent reminder in his flesh for the rest of his life, however short that proved to be in the current circumstance. Strangely, the bead’s fall brought a new clarity to his thoughts, banishing the panic and allowing a certain realisation to dawn.
Black. He raised his gaze, watching another red bead swelling on the rope’s ragged end. Black for the push . . . But what to push? The wild notion of employing Black to move his own body blossomed then died immediately. No Blood-blessed had ever successfully accomplished such a feat, and those that tried had merely gifted the world with a spectacular new form of suicide. It was an early-learned lesson for all those who shared the Blessing: Black never flows inward. And there ain’t nothing to push, he concluded with a sigh, slumping against the unyielding rock, then frowning as another notion came to mind. Nothing . . . ’cept the cliff.
He levered himself back from the cliff-face as gently as he could, eyes exploring the rock. The fissure into which he had thrust his hand was part of a long crack that narrowed as it descended, Clay finding it extended nearly the length of his body. He could see it was in fact the edge of a narrow protrusion in the cliff, a thin slab of rock that might well come loose with enough prodding.
Another wet peck at his forehead returned his attention to the rope. It was now red from end to end, the blood winding along its braids in thick rivulets to birth a steady stream of droplets. Clay craned his neck and opened his mouth wide, letting the product flow down his throat. He had thought the taste of undiluted Green would be the worst thing ever to befoul his mouth, but it transpired that raw Black was an order of magnitude worse. He gagged as the thick, acrid liquid burned its way past his tongue and gullet before finding his belly, then shuddered at the instant upsurge of nausea. He forced himself to keep drinking, despite the spasm that began to make his whole body vibrate. He needed all he could stomach if this was to work.