called for Clarissa, then said, “It is a peculiarly tranquil invasion. Are your people putting up no resistance at all?”
“The City Guard are doing what they can, but the disease has knocked the population sideways. I’ve seen more Guards staring into space than swinging their swords. The situation is thoroughly catastrophic!”
Clarissa stepped from the laboratory with Father Clutterfuss, and Thewflex reported, “I came to tell you that Lord Brittleback and Father Reverie have just been taken. The House of Lords and Council of Magicians are in disarray. The Heart of Blood isn’t yet a quarter risen, and already New Yatsillat’s Aristocrats are dwindling so fast that we’ve lost all influence over the Working Class. Do you know where I might find Father Yissil Froon, Miss Stark?”
Clarissa handed a small flask of liquid to our visitor. “Drink this, Baron—it’s the cure. We’ve just perfected it. No, I haven’t seen Yissil Froon in a long while. Apparently he’s sequestered himself somewhere in order to meditate. Why do you want to see him?”
Thewflex removed his mask, swallowed the formula, and replaced his face covering.
“The protection provided by the Magicians simply isn’t working. I was hoping Yissil Froon could advise me. Indeed I was. Indeed! Indeed!”
“Father Clutterfuss has two bottles of this cure,” my friend said. “You and he should go and ensure that every remaining Aristocrat receives a dose. Treat the Magicians first. The stuff isn’t Dar’sayn, but it might, at very least, give them a little more strength.”
“Rightio, but I fear it’s come too late, Miss Stark. The outlook is bleak.”
The two Yatsill went to the door. Thewflex turned back and said, “You are one of the very few Servants left, Mr. Fleischer. Do you hope for release?”
“Most certainly not,” I answered.
“Then guard yourself well.” He gave a nod of farewell and, with Father Clutterfuss, departed.
I addressed my companion. “I’m more concerned with guarding you. The Blood Gods appear intent on taking you into the sea.”
“Then you’d better sharpen your sword,” she responded, “because we have to leave the house.”
“It’s too dangerous! Those infernal creatures are everywhere!”
“Maybe so, but Baron Thewflex was right—we have to find Yissil Froon. As Father Mordant Reverie suggested—and Clutterfuss has since confirmed—he’s survived a great many cycles of Ptallaya’s yellow and red days, and if there’s any way we can help the Yatsill to survive this invasion, he’s the one to tell us how. We must go to where the shield emanates from the fishing village. I feel positive that Froon is its source.”
I hesitated. More than anything else, I wanted to keep my friend safe, but she was right—we couldn’t stay in the house forever. There were already deep cracks appearing in its walls. Like every building in the city, it was falling apart.
“Very well—but keep your dagger drawn and don’t leave my side.”
We donned our coats and stepped out into the peasouper. The vapour glowed redly around us. Driving would have been perilous in the extreme, especially with the roads being littered with abandoned vehicles and rubble, so we walked to the avenue and made our way down it. I kept my hand on my sword’s hilt, expecting at any moment to see a Blood God come writhing out of the roiling murk. What few of the Working Class we passed were unclothed and docile. There was no sound other than the occasional rumble and clatter as buildings collapsed.
“This place was built on my memories,” Clarissa muttered, “and has crumpled into nothing. Is my past so flimsy?”
I touched her hand. “Your remarkable mind may have given form to New Yatsillat, but do not judge yourself by what’s happened to it. It’s become what it is through the actions of beings entirely alien to us.”
“Exactly as my life on Earth was ruined by a being utterly alien to my working-class background—an aristocrat. I sometimes think I’ll forever be denied a place where I feel I belong.”
“I hardly think the Aristocrats here are responsible for this chaos. They’ve been invaded by an evil predator.”
“Evil, Aiden? We shall see.”
We continued on down the steep and wide thoroughfare, stepping carefully over networks of cracks and deep fissures, passing from the fourth level to the fifth, on to the sixth, then across the muddy seventh. Through the fog, we saw that parts of the defensive wall had subsided, and when we came to the gate, its six guards didn’t even challenge us—they were staring into space, oblivious to all.
The eighth terrace was devastated, having for the most part slipped onto