Scar Night (27 page)

18

TROUBLE IN THE SANCTUM

D
ILL WOKE, GASPING,
from a nightmare of blood and scars. The echo of a hollow, wicked laugh faded to the sound of bells clanging. His brow was slick with sweat, his chest tight. One of his wings lay curled under him, numb where he had twisted in his sleep. He rose slowly, winced as needles of pain stitched his crumpled muscles.

While he brushed his feathers flat, he tried to shake that evil laugh from his mind. Carnival had haunted his dreams more frequently of late. The lacerations on her skin were always fresh, always inches from his face, the darkness in her eyes a mocking challenge.

Always black. How could an angel sustain such rage? For so long…?

He shivered despite the warmth of his cell.

Morning brooded behind the stained-glass window. Mountains of grey cloud had rolled in with the dawn and threatened more rain. The air hung heavy as a damp curtain.

Dressing himself was like struggling into armour. His black velvet jacket and boots were crisscrossed with snail tracks—not that it mattered. With Devon still at large, perhaps still looting souls for his angelwine, and Scar Night drawing near, no one would pay Dill much attention. By the time he was done dressing he already felt tired. He sheathed the sword at his hip, and trudged off to work.

Borelock was already waiting for him in the Sanctum corridor. The priest muttered something vague about the damned weather and handed the reins to Dill, but said nothing more about the toppled relic. In front of the soulcage the twin mares drooped their heads, their coats already shining with sweat. Dill flicked the reins and they huffed and clopped away with an air of resignation. Even the skeletons above appeared to slouch in their chains.

The temple doors opened on to a flat grey-white heat that forced Dill to blink and turn away. A heavy silence hung over Gatebridge. Behind the gathered dead, the mourners shifted in their heavy robes. One of the guards barked an order, and the others moved slowly to load the soulcage.

It wasn’t until Dill had wheeled the soulcage round and brought it back into the darkness of the corridor that he noticed the temple guard who accompanied him. At first Dill thought the man must be injured. He walked unsteadily, hunched over, and he carried his pike more like a crutch than a weapon. His armour was dented and scratched. He must have sensed the angel peering at him, for he glanced up, and Dill then saw the sickly pallor of his skin, the dark crescents under his eyes, the pain barely concealed.

Dill turned away, ashamed and embarrassed. This man had claimed his right to accompany the dead. Someone he mourned must be inside the cage.

For the rest of the journey Dill kept his eyes averted. He tried to slow the horses to make it easier for the man to keep up. But the mares, long used to this task, chose their own pace. The guard, however, somehow managed to follow just a few steps behind, the clink of his armour punctuating the rhythmic creak of the soulcage’s wheels.

There was no breeze to cool the Sanctum. Deep in their iron hedge, the candles wavered briefly as the doors swung shut behind the departing horses. Presbyter Sypes slouched at his lectern while Adjunct Crumb sat crumpled in a chair at his side. Both men stared at the floor.

Sweat plastered over his face, and, panting in the heat, the guard dragged the chain over to attach to the soulcage. Dill climbed on top of the cage, ready to adjust the hook. He wondered which of these shrouded bodies the guard mourned for. Would the guard even recognize it?

The angel reached down to receive the chain. But the guard did not hand it up to him. Instead, he did something astonishing.

He lifted his pike, aimed it at Dill, and demanded, “Give me the key.”

Dill stared in amazement.

Presbyter Sypes straightened. “Guard?”

“The soulcage key. Give me it,” the guard growled, pressing the sharp tip of his pike into Dill’s chest.

Pain nipped Dill between his ribs. He recoiled, but the guard pressed even harder.

“Now!”

Dill tossed him the key.

Presbyter Sypes rapped his walking stick on the flagstones. “What the blazes is going on?” Adjunct Crumb had risen suddenly from his chair and stood beside him, pallid and wide-eyed.

The guard unlocked the soulcage and climbed in.

“Get out of there,” the Presbyter hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The guard was tearing open one of the shrouds.

“Guard, have you lost your senses?”

Dill peered down through the soulcage bars. The man was grabbing handfuls of cloth and pulling them loose from a corpse.

The corpse stood up.

Dill jerked away in horror and nearly fell off the cage. The corpse’s skin was red and peeling, its eyelids slack. Wisps of white hair curled around blisters, above ears that looked torn and chewed. Worst of all, it was still bleeding.

The cadaver shed the rest of its shroud, then took out a pair of gold, thin-rimmed spectacles from its waistcoat pocket and perched them on its nose.

Then Dill recognized it.

“What a day.” The Poisoner hopped down from the cage. Nothing of his grin belonged to his face: it was a grin wholly owned by the skull inside. “Even the dead are sweating.”

Presbyter Sypes and Adjunct Crumb both gaped.

The guard reclaimed his pike as he followed Devon out of the soulcage. He staggered two or three steps, his gaze sweeping dizzy circles across the floor.

Adjunct Crumb found his voice first. “You’ve decided to give yourself up?”

Devon uttered a curse, his red lips peeling back from skeletal teeth. “Does that seem remotely likely, Fogwill? Is there no link between your mouth and brain? Are you wholly unconnected inside?” The Poisoner mopped his brow with a soiled handkerchief, causing blisters to burst and to leak fluids.

“Soldier!” Presbyter Sypes shook his stick. “Arrest this man.”

The guard clutched his pike with whitened knuckles. He inclined his head towards the Poisoner and hissed, “The pain…I can’t…”

“Soon enough, Angus,” Devon replied. He turned to the Presbyter, who was edging closer to the bellpull that would summon the temple guards. “He won’t help you, Sypes. Move an inch closer to that rope and I’ll have him split you where you stand.”

The Presbyter halted and whispered, “What have you done to him?”

“He has already betrayed his comrade in order to live. Betraying the Church came somewhat more easily.” There was a note of sorrow in Devon’s voice. “Faith, like iron, is strong but brittle. It can support great weights of doubt, and yet a small amount of pressure in just the right place will snap it.” He made a motion like a hammer tap. “One only has to witness Ichin Tell’s…performances to see how easily suffering can shatter faith. Too much of it destroys the man, too little merely strengthens the resolve and extends the whole process.” He grimaced at the guard, as though he found the sight of him distasteful. “This unfortunate fellow suffers from a painful affliction which can either be eased with serum or allowed to proceed on its natural course. He serves me because he wants to live.”

“He won’t save you,” the Presbyter said to the guard. “For God’s sake, help us now and save your soul.”

“
There’s
a bargain to die for.” Devon sneered. “Even now, you promote faith over belief. Believe me, Sypes, the fate of your soul matters less when every drop of your blood is screaming out for another hour of life. Just look at him!”

The guard winced.

“I had hoped this would not prove necessary,” Devon said, his expression hardening. “The poison inside him is rare and expensive. But I was forced to use it, wasn’t I, Angus?”

Angus nodded like a berated child.

“A concealed knife!” Devon said, indignant. He looked at Presbyter Sypes as though he expected the old priest to share his own disapproval of such an action. “This man attempted to murder me the moment I loosened his chains.”

The Presbyter frowned. “I imagine you have that effect on many people. So what do you want?”

Devon’s spectacles glinted in the candlelight. “What do I want?” He regarded Presbyter Sypes for a few moments. “I want to show you a miracle.” From his waistcoat he produced a syringe full of blood-coloured liquid. “You know what this is?”

“Don’t do this,” the Presbyter said. “Not here. Let’s speak in private.”

Devon rolled back his sleeve. “We’ll speak, Sypes, but later.” He glanced at Fogwill and then at Dill. “This requires temple witnesses.” He brought the syringe to his arm and slipped the needle under his skin. “Of course, I had intended to find a smoked glass bottle for it, or a gold-laced phial, something more appropriate…” A tiny amount of liquid disappeared into his vein. “But ultimately a common syringe seemed more practical.” Devon removed the needle and held out his arms like a showman. “Now watch.”

“Mad as a broom,” Presbyter Sypes muttered.

If anyone had asked Dill later to recount the subsequent events there in the Sanctum, he would have been unable to say exactly what had happened or in which order they had happened. Events, as he remembered them, unfolded with the speed of a dream.

A flurry of expressions—bliss, wonder, and pain—crossed the Poisoner’s face. But that visage changed from moment to moment and made each expression seem to belong to a different man. Skin paled from red to pink to white, then tightened across Devon’s forehead and underneath his eyes. Blisters shrank, their fluids retreating back inside his flesh. Weeping sores dried and healed. The bleeding stopped. Devon stood before the abyss aperture with his arms outstretched and said, “I can
feel
them inside.” His eyes brightened with each heartbeat and he searched the floor wildly. “All of them, I can hear…their voices.”

With the attention of both Presbyter and Adjunct fixed on this transformation, and Angus folded over his pike, staring into some faraway place, only Dill noticed the man climbing out of the pit behind Devon. A grapple-hook appeared first on the rim, then a bandaged hand, then another hand, and then the largest, ugliest man Dill had ever seen dragged himself up and into the Sanctum. He wore torn rags that exposed a hundred lacerations. Dirt, blood, and stubble had turned his face into a vision of Hell. His eyes were burning with hate.

The newcomer pulled a cleaver from his belt, raised it.

“Mr. Nettle!” Adjunct Crumb cried, suddenly aware. “The scrounger!”

Devon wheeled drunkenly, arms outstretched.

The massive muscles of the scrounger’s arm bunched, ripping apart seams in his filthy rags. He brought the weapon down with a ferocious swing.

The cleaver severed Devon’s right hand at the wrist. Blood sprayed everywhere. The hand, still firmly clutching the syringe, dropped to the floor.

Devon gaped at his wrist as arcs of blood jetted from the stump. He seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth and stood there, just blinking, for a dozen heartbeats, before finally he clamped his good hand over the wound. Blood sluiced between his fingers, spattered on the Sanctum floor.

Dill had never seen so much blood.

Mr. Nettle picked up the severed hand and held it up like a trophy. The syringe glittered red in the candlelight. “Abigail,” he said.

Devon roared and threw himself at Mr. Nettle, slamming into him. Both men fell sprawling to the floor. The hand flew upwards in a high arc towards the pit.

Mr. Nettle rolled aside and was on his feet instantly. He scrambled, crawled, slipped across the bloody floor, after the hand.

He was too late. Hand and syringe fell into darkness.

Angus had been slow to react, but now he rushed towards the scrounger, raising his pike. Mr. Nettle had his back to him, standing on the edge of the abyss, numbly gazing down.

The temple guard put all of his weight behind the impact. The blow connected with a crack. Mr. Nettle tumbled forward into open space.

In a heartbeat he was gone, swallowed by the abyss.

“No!” Devon cried. He ran to join Angus at the edge of the pit, still clutching the stump of his wrist. Both men stared down into the darkness.

Dill felt his eyes crackle with unknown colours.

Suddenly the Poisoner twisted away, face sour, and stormed back to confront Adjunct Crumb and the Presbyter. “Another of your assassins?”

“Not ours,” the Adjunct said quite calmly. “I believe you murdered that man’s daughter.”

“Ignorant savage,” Devon spat. “I merely displaced her soul.”

“I think,” Adjunct Crumb said, “he might have preferred her soul to remain where it was.”

Devon ignored this. He was studying the stump where his right hand had been. Blood glistened wetly but had stopped spurting from the wound. “It matters not,” he said. “Look how it heals already.” He brandished the damaged arm.

Dill saw that it
was
healing. New skin was growing over the wound even as he watched.

“Angus, we’re leaving now,” Devon said. “Sypes is coming with us. If he resists, put a hole in him.” He returned to the soulcage, rummaged among the shrouds, and pulled out a leather travel bag.

The temple guard nudged the Presbyter away from the lectern with the point of his pike. “What about the other two?” he asked.

“What do you think I am?” Devon said. “A common murderer?” He gave a small shrug. “Deepgate needs to know what has happened here. I don’t think it would serve me well to slay Ulcis’s last archon. The god of chains might take that personally. And as for the fat man”—he frowned at the Adjunct—“no finer fool could rule in Sypes’s absence. Lock them both in the soulcage.”

Pike wavering, Angus steered Fogwill and Dill into the soulcage, locked the door, and tossed the key into the shadows. He then urged Presbyter Sypes towards the door, while Devon lifted his travel bag and followed them.

Adjunct Crumb stumbled over the shroud-wrapped bodies at his feet and fell heavily against Dill. He shouted after Devon, “You expect to simply walk out of here? The city is full of armed men looking for you.”

Devon let out a long and weary sigh. “I believe the search has now reached the outskirts of Deepgate. And I have suddenly developed a lack of confidence in your soldiers’ weapons.”