Scar Night (13 page)

There it was. In the seven months Fogwill had endured Sypes’s dismissals of his suspicions, four additional husks to those normally expected had turned up. Four extra souls claimed, their blood leached out, yet Carnival, for all her voracity, took only one for herself on Scar Night. But how could he convince Sypes of Devon’s guilt without telling him the precise truth?

Do I hate Devon enough to suffer your scorn?

When Fogwill had last complained about the fumes from the Poison Kitchens wilting his dear mother’s geraniums, everyone in the temple had subsequently fallen ill. Suspecting foul play, Fogwill had kicked up a terrible fuss. The bout of sickness following
that
complaint had given him slurry for a month, and when he’d finally recovered, it was only to discover that Devon had since begun recruiting labourers from the temple kitchens. What became of them was never investigated. That swine Fondelgrue didn’t know and didn’t care, and nor, it seemed, did anyone else.

Except, of course, Fogwill. He hesitated. “I had a friend.”

Sypes lowered his head into his hands. “I don’t want to hear this, Fogwill.”

“A kitchen porter,” Fogwill said, feeling bolstered now that the words were out. “Devon said he had four ships coming in that night, and needed strong lads to load supplies. He claims an ongoing shortage of menial labourers, and refuses to use soldiers or scholars. Says he hasn’t the time or resources to screen every cleaner and packhorse himself.”

“His words?”

“Not
mine
.”

“Unpalatable but necessary work, I’m sure, and the war has hard-pressed us all.” Sypes closed his ledger. “When was this?”

“Six weeks ago.”

“And what happened to your…friend?”

“Disappeared. The Poisoner pleaded ignorance, of course. Said he must have…well, I don’t really want to go into that. It wasn’t civil. His comments, quite frankly, were obscene. He hates me, so he always…” Fogwill couldn’t find the words for his frustration. “He always…”

“No
body
?”

A wounded look.

“Truly I am sorry you lost your friend, Fogwill, but that’s no reason to suspect foul play. He may simply have wandered off. I understand that’s common for those employed in the Poison Kitchens. Nobody in their right mind wants to work there. Despite Devon’s official title, he is not a wicked man.”

“A moot point. Look at the weapons he devises. The level of suffering he strives for is quite unnecessary.”

“Your opinion of his work is hardly relevant.”

“Let me put the Spine on it—just to observe him.”

“Impossible.”

“We could use Rachel Hael. She’s still untempered, has connections within the military, we—”

“No. I want her watching Dill.”

“Then let me speak to the Roper,” he said, “find out where and when his daughter died, perhaps examine the body.” He surprised himself as he said it. The League of Rope was not the safest place in Deepgate.

The Presbyter shook his head. “Fogwill, we denied this girl our blessing. Her father will be hurt and grieving. I don’t want you salting his wounds. My answer is no.”

Why are you blocking me?
Fogwill shook his head in frustration. Was Sypes
hiding
something?

A light rain began to patter against the window behind the Presbyter’s desk. The sunset was now a rip of gold between the horizon and the towering clouds. A storm was coming. It would be dark earlier than usual this Scar Night, and Fogwill suspected there would be more than one murderer at large.

PART TWO

MURDER

11

SCAR NIGHT

R
AIN FELL IN
sheets, rattled catch-pans or gurgled through gutters and into the throats of cisterns. Chains steamed and dripped endlessly, shifted, groaned under the weight of waterlogged buildings—like dull iron voices in every part of Deepgate. The evening light dwindled and died, but no lamplighters appeared to brighten the streets, and soon the temple districts, the Warrens, and the League of Rope filled with darkness.

Twelve Spine assassins had gathered in Pickle Lane: gaunt-faced ghosts, unmoving; rain hissing off leather armour; knives, swords, and crossbows within easy reach of their pale hands. Of all the twelve, only Rachel shivered. She had seen the others many times before, yet knew none of their names.

A dead-eyed man with a hook-shaped scar that curled around his nose addressed her. “You will be bait.”

“Why me?”

“You have the capacity to enrage her.”

“And you don’t?” Rachel snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. Open your mouth and say anything, she’ll be pissed, I guarantee.”

“Provoke her, Adept. Carnival will respond to you—to your insults. You have a talent for applying such emotional…devices. You will be bait.”

Conversations with the Spine were typically wooden. These were the times Rachel was almost glad she’d been spared the needles, the torture, the brutal tempering which would cleanse an Adept and allow one to function without the burden of emotion.

Almost
glad.

“And, of course, you are expendable.” This came from a rakish woman with full, bloodless lips. She stood beside a slender girl who might have been her sister, a young thing with deep bruises under her vacant eyes.

God, do I look like this? Like these ghouls? These husks?

Rachel glanced from one hollow stare to the next, found nothing there. “Expendable,” she muttered. “Yes, I forgot. Stupid of me. Thanks for that.”

The rakish woman nodded stiffly.

Insults, sarcasm, irony—all wasted on her peers. Rachel would have slapped the woman if she’d thought it would anger her, but where was the satisfaction in striking a brick wall? And yet Rachel envied her, envied them all. Tempering offered an inner silence for which she would not mourn the loss of her sense of self. “Just get out of my sight,” she snapped. “I’ll meet you at the planetarium.”

The dead-eyed man said, “You will not engage Carnival until the trap has been sprung.”

“And if she attacks me before then?”

“Do nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That is correct.”

Rachel clenched her fists. “Whatever you say.”

The dead-eyed man tilted his head. “Darkmoon is rising.” At this unvoiced command, the Spine slipped away into the night, leaving Rachel alone.

Do nothing?
She turned one way, then cursed and turned back again.
No, I’m going to find a tavern, bang on the bloody door until they let
me in, then sit and have a drink like a normal person. Maybe meet a man…Maybe…

Maybe it wasn’t too late for her.

She stormed off into the rain. The streets were deserted, but she sensed a
tightening
in the air all around her. A thousand noises came from the dark homes: shutters checked; nails driven into wooden boards; doorjambs and iron grates secured; chains and padlocks locked and tested. Deepgate was tensing for battle.

“Coin for a pilgrim?” A filthy figure huddled in a doorway, long, greasy strands of hair and a food-crusted beard poking from under his hood. “Sir, the darkmoon is coming, the rain is fresh and clean, and here we are alive. You have blood in your heart, and I have glue in mine. What a glorious thing! Spare me a coin.”

A Glueman?
The skin beneath those rags would be yellow and viscid; the tongue thick and weeping chemicals. His blood…unusual. “Sir?” she replied.

“Ah, good lady, then. Young by the sound of your voice, pretty too, yes, yes, now I hear the breasts, oh my, the thighs, the strain of some tight fabric—is it leather? How wicked. Yet without a man to walk at your side on this foul night. Has he thrown you out, or died and left you wandering dazed and broken by grief? Severed? My condolences, poor puppet.”

Rachel realized he was blind.
That’s why he heard me pass
. “All this from one word?”

“Six words now, kitten, each weighted with enough pain to crack cobbles. And longing too. So conflicted, confused, poor thing. I hear an undercurrent of desire. I hear…” He paused, as if listening, then lowered his voice. “Oh, my shame, that’s it. You are quite wet, aren’t you, quite wet?” He began to rock backwards and forwards. “Speak two words for me. Two words to know your soul. For me, please, please.”

The assassin sighed. “Which two words?”

The beggar shifted closer in his rags, whispered, “Dirty boy.”

“You want me to say…those words?”

“Say them, I beg you.”

“I will not.”

“Please,” he said.
“Please.”

“Not a chance, beggar.”

“Puppet, have pity. Look how broken and lonely I am, how desperate. My brothers lost in rendered shipyard nets. My wife disappeared with a penniless reservist of dubious gender. My old Glue-father snatched away for throwing pebbles at the Avulsior. My mother—”

“All right.” He was going to rouse the whole neighbourhood. Sheepishly, Rachel swung a look around her to make sure no one else was nearby, then quickly muttered, “Dirty boy.”

“Lust! Delight!” the beggar cried. “Now come here, sit in my lap.”

Rachel frowned.

“I heard that frown.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Sitting on the ground, begging.”

Rachel’s lips quirked. “Very clever,” she said. “Can’t you find somewhere safer to sit than this doorway? Your Glue-blood might protect your soul, but not your flesh. Nothing is certain tonight. You’re still in danger.”

“Ah, but Carnival and I have an understanding.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t kill her, and she doesn’t kill me.”

“A fair deal.” The Spine Adept found herself smiling. “You’ve spoken to her, then?”

“I heard her wings above me and called out to her. She swooped low and gave me a gift.”

“A gift?”

“A fine gift! A haunch of lamb, sweetly cured and smothered in redberry sauce. Look here…” The Glueman reached inside his rags, drew something out.

A dead rat, the head chewed down to the bone.

Rachel’s smile withered. “She gave you…this lamb?”

“On my soul, I swear it. And so you see I have nothing to fear.”

“You are…fortunate.” She reached into one of the pouches at her belt, pulled out a copper double, and carefully pressed it into his hand.

“Vengeful Ulcis bless your nights,” the beggar said, then more quietly, “and spiteful Ayen bless your days.” He winked a sightless eye. “Not that I pray to either of them. I am bound for Hell.” He said this with pride. “So I embrace Iril: there are wonderful benefits in being damned. The Maze is growing. I hear its stone passages creeping through the derelict places in the city. Sometimes I hear the thump of blood.” He pocketed the coin. “This will buy wine for our feast. You must share it with me, I insist. There’s meat for two, and with you so recently widowed, so supple, we might—”

“Thank you, no. I must get back to work before…” The words were out before she realized.

“Work?”
He scrambled away from her, and hissed, “Spine. Get away from me, bitch.”

Rachel just stood there, unmoving.

“Ichin Tell’s whore,” the beggar growled, clutching his rat. “I’ve nothing for you.”

Rachel wheeled, her heart stuttering.

“How many knives have you cleaned in your life, Nightcrawler?” the beggar cried. He was eating his trophy now. “Scar Night is her night…The dark of the moon…One soul for the angel…Spine blood for Iril…” He giggled. “But no souls to nourish the Maze. You gave them away already!”

The assassin strode away, leaving the beggar to his feast. She walked on for miles, losing herself among the dripping chains, and passed four taverns, but did no more than glance at their solid, bolted doors.

T
he rain had ceased at last, leaving the night air scrubbed and cool. Fresh wind from the north gusted and dragged rags of cloud across the stars. Snake-scale tenement roofs glistened faintly, but the streets between were dark. Every shutter had been drawn against the night, every brand smothered, and every gas lamp left unlit. Very few were abroad in the city now. No one but herself and those who hunted her.

With ragged wings folded tight against her back, she squatted on the roof of the Ivygarths watchtower, bracing herself against the chill wind, savouring its force. Tall stone falcons perched at each of the eight corners of the octagonal watchtower, blindly observing the city with grim determination. Carnival’s face was expressionless. Her long black hair whipped around countless scars: scars across her cheeks and forehead, scars across her nose, her neck; scars beneath her moondark eyes. All of them knife cuts, except one.

These watchtowers had been built an age ago: Carnival could not remember when, only that there had been a time when the skyline was different. From their weather-bitten stones she judged them to be more than a thousand years old. Perhaps the Spine had once used them? A vague memory stirred in her, like poison bubbling over the lip of a cauldron.

Another watchtower…Crumpled battlements…Smoke…Blood.

Scars tightened around her heart. She almost cried out, drove her nails into the heels of her palms until the emotion passed and she was left breathless and trembling. Something terrible had once happened in Barraby’s watchtower, the place they now called Sinners’ Well. She did not want to know what.

Other parts of Deepgate pained her too: Canner’s Nook and the Thousand Brick House and the nets below Chapelfunnel Market. Fragments of old, old memories surfaced whenever she drew near to these places; memories that drove her away from them, snarling and gasping. She had been in those places once, she supposed, and people had died.

The abyss was the worst. She had tried more than once to fly down into that darkness, but each time the rope scar around her neck constricted until she clawed for breath and thrashed back up towards the city. The abyss terrified her.

Now she surveyed the city patiently. Her hunger was building—she could feel it behind her eyes and in her veins—but it had not yet grown beyond her control. So she waited, searching for some overlooked weakness: a forgotten attic window; loose tiles on a storm-damaged roof; a smokeless chimney or an unlatched shutter thumping against its frame in the wind.

Nothing
. There were no obvious openings, no easy ways into the houses. Her prey had long since learned to be thorough.

Carnival was pleased.

A mile to the west, she spied a shadow move. One of the Spine, a heavy crossbow in his arms, ran crouching across the rooftop of the Goat and Crab Inn in Merrygate, and ducked out of sight behind a chimney. The ninth assassin she’d seen tonight.

His leathers so much darker than the slates. Does he know? Is this poor camouflage deliberate?

Carnival gripped the ledge tighter as the scars on the back of her hands began to itch. Her heartbeats quickened; she moistened her lips. Part of her wanted to go after this assassin,
yearned
to go after him. She clamped her jaws together, and squeezed the ledge until her fingers hurt, then gasped. The hunger subsided.

A trap. It has to be.

She closed her eyes and listened for quiet sounds beneath the buffeting wind. Fragments of hushed conversations drifted up from the nearest homes.

“…no, both of them, sleeping…” A mother’s voice, concerned for her children.

“…it’s locked, I checked…” Another woman, older, speaking to her husband.

She heard the crackling of coals on a hearth, footsteps on a wooden floor and the clink of cutlery. She heard someone crying and the shreds of an argument.

And then she heard the drunk.

“Goddamn bitching murdering bitch!”

Her eyes snapped open, and she darted to the other side of the watchtower, heart racing, blood pounding behind her scars, making them throb.

“Filthy scar-faced whore.” He was down in the street a few blocks away, shouting up at the rooftops. A big man, staggering all over the place, swinging a cleaver at the shadows with one hand and waving a bottle at the air with the other. He lurched suddenly to one side and crashed into a pile of crates. For a few moments he lay there, grumbling incoherently, then he picked himself up and continued zigzagging along the street. “Come out, you murdering bitch!” Twenty paces later he fell to his knees, retched, then slumped to one side and lay unmoving.

Rushes of sharp, delicious pain prickled over Carnival’s skin. “Shhh,” she said, placing a finger to her lips, “I can hear you.” Her finger traced the gossamer lines around her mouth, then down across the raised white scars on her chin, before it lingered at the deep rope-mark around her neck. A thin smile stretched her lips.

Then she sprang from the watchtower and dove into the night.

O
berhammer’s planetarium perched on the clock tower of his pinched grey mansion like a huge glass egg ready to topple to the lane below. Vines and brickleweed clutched its western curve and reached inside the brass skeleton, where facets had been smashed by thrown stones or decades of winter frost. But most of the panes were intact, painted black and dotted with pinholes. On sunny days these holes had once been stars to viewers within. A platform with twelve comfortable chairs remained inside, at one time kept perpetually level, through some mechanical wizardry, while the globe revolved on its wheels and simulated heavens rolled overhead.

Seated now in one of the observation chairs, Rachel gazed up at real stars shining through the broken glass and imagined illusions.

The planetarium had never been operational in her lifetime. Church intolerance had seen Oberhammer die poor, another crank who’d killed himself after his fortune dwindled. Like most developing sciences, astronomy had been frowned upon—decades of study brought to the temple, locked away, and forgotten. The masses need not be educated. Where was the merit in that when Ulcis waited beneath their feet, when Ulcis was everything? In another generation few would remember the scientist’s name.