Scar Night Page 0,135

Poisoner’s ship. The heathens are evidently busy.”

“Cannibalism…or repairs?” Fogwill asked between spasms.

“Hard to tell,” Hael said. “The advance fleet is still circling high, beyond arrow range.” As they had been for most of the day.

The rest of the armada was strung out between Blackthrone and Deepgate, forming a continuous line through which information could be flagged back and forwards between the warships hovering over the strickenBirkita and those over Deepgate, where Captain Clay was busy organizing the regulars for a march across the desert.

News of the Birkita ’s sudden plummet to earth had reached the city just after dawn, whereupon Mark Hael had ordered the formation to hold as was while his own ship, theAdraki, was rigged for flight. The Birkita ’s proximity to the Tooth of God could mean only one thing: She’d been holed. Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. Now that the winds had changed in their favour, Hael would be able to reach the crash-site in just six to eight hours. He had elected to command the attack personally.

But Hael was not known for restraint when it came to unleashing ordnance, and Fogwill, desperate to see Sypes returned unharmed, had insisted he accompany the commander. With Carnival now off hunting angelwine, and Dill vanished, perhaps even dead, Fogwill’s brief moment of command had put the city in greater peril than ever. The Adjunct needed his old master back in charge of things. Clay had tried to talk him out of the excursion, of course—the temple guard captain did not trust airships. But Fogwill had been adamant. After all, he’d assured himself, they’d be safely above arrow range. What was the worst that could happen?

The contents of the bucket sloshed between Fogwill’s trembling knees. His stomach bucked again as the warship shuddered, thrumming a discordant rhythm in every one of the priest’s nerves.

“A fine breeze, Adjunct.” Mark Hael was grinning. “Perhaps Ulcis himself has sent it to aid us.”

Fogwill groaned. The same wind had been blowing fiercely since they’d left Deepgate three hours ago. Devon’s own ship had been forced to crawl through the night against a northerly gale, but the wind had swung to the south with the arrival of dawn and the Adraki had been able to thunder along the armada’s stationary flag-line at triple Devon’s speed. They were closing fast.

Provided the Adraki didn’t tear herself to pieces in the process.

Mark Hael didn’t seem to care. He’d ordered the engines to be cranked up full and appeared to relish the screaming wind, the pitching and thumping of the bridge, the groan of over-stressed cables.

And he’d claimed Devon wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

Fogwill just wanted to get off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The talc had all smudged off by now, revealing his unhealthy pallor to all.

“You don’t look well,” Hael commented, his grin even wider. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy Fogwill’s discomfort.

“Why do these things sway about so?”

“Air currents. We’re pushing the Adraki hard. You’d feel better if you kept your eyes fixed on the horizon.”

But the Adjunct kept his gaze pinned to the bucket. “Standing makes me feel dizzier. How much longer must I endure this?”

The commander drummed his fingers on the control panel. “Another five hours. The advance fleet vessels are massing. We’ll circle and look for signs of Devon and Sypes once we arrive. With any luck the Shetties will have done away with the Poisoner for us.”

“Sypes must be protected,” Fogwill said. He then put his head in his hands and began to retch again. The stench from the bucket brought tears to his eyes.

“If those savages have him, it’s already too late,” Hael continued, unconcerned. “I know them. They won’t keep him for ransom.”

Fogwill looked up. His throat felt raw, saliva dribbled over his chin. “We need to…get the Presbyter back,” he managed.

Hael grunted. “There’s nothing I can guarantee. I don’t have enough men for mud-work, so a landing would be pointless.”

“What do you suggest we do, then?”

“What we normally do.” Hael stared out across the desert, the buttons on his uniform glinting in the sun. “We’ll gas them. This many ships against one Shettie stronghold should clear out most of them. Then Clay’s regulars can march out and mop up.”

“But Devon may survive.”

“Where’s he going to go?”

* * * *

After some discussion, Dill and Rachel had decided to abandon the spiral path—a route too slow and treacherous for them to keep pace with Carnival. Clasping her in his arms, Dill flew carefully,