Scar Night Page 0,81

was sitting in his chair, and the man was covered, head to toe, in soot. Such mess, quite frankly, was unacceptable here. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The worker pulled out a knife, a Cutter’s blade. In his other hand he held up the manacles Devon had used recently on the girl. “Bruises on the arms,” he said, then tipped his head at the letting chair and the blood-smeared tubes and flasks. “Been stealing souls, have we?”

Devon’s heart sank to his boots. Have I been wrong all along? He’d been unforgivably foolish and arrogant to assume it was Sypes who was protecting him. He said, “There is a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.”

Silence ensued.

“Tell me,” Devon said, “does Sypes intend to grant me a trial?”

A guarded look.

He doesn’t know? Not Sypes, then. But who?

“Fogwill,” Devon said, and saw at once the truth of it in the other man’s eyes. The Adjunct had gone behind his master’s back. He studied the would-be assassin carefully, and almost grinned when he noticed the tattooed knots, partially obscured by soot, on the man’s neck. A Spine reject, broken by the tempering process . Devon felt a sudden twinge of hope. There was still a chance, then. Broken Spine were notoriously unstable. This man would be a seething cauldron of ego and fanaticism. And, of course, quite insane.

Devon intended to stir things up.

“The Adjunct made a mistake sending you here,” he said. “You are a zealot, but without tempering you lack the capacity for restraint. This makes you easier to manipulate.”

“Think you can manipulate me?”

“It ought to be easy enough,” Devon said lightly. “All I have to do is anger you.”

The other man’s teeth flashed. “Your arrogance is astonishing,” he hissed. “Do you so much want to die?”

Pathetic, really. He just can’t help himself.

“Actually, no,” Devon replied. “Death is my opponent, and my work always sought to defeat him. Our forefathers almost succeeded in that a thousand years ago. You will remember the story of the Soft Men?”

The assassin’s expression darkened. “I remember their punishment.”

Devon smiled. “They developed a process to extract the soul and bottle it. Do you know what happens when a man consumes the soul of another? I will tell you. When flesh becomes saturated with the only substance that truly enriches it, the balance between the physical and metaphysical shifts. Will, so empowered, is irresistible. Desire can extend life, strengthen the body, heal wounds. Physical ageing becomes a matter of whim.”

He took a step closer to the letting chair and to the metal stand supporting the tubes. “This equipment is similar to what the Soft Men used. Thirteen souls are required to reach saturation point, a level of potency when the solution can be absorbed by a recipient. A single drop might sustain a man for many lifetimes; give him such control over his flesh that mortal wounds would become mere scratches. A man infused with angelwine is nearer, in every sense, to God.”

The assassin was now coiled like a spring, the knife gripped tightly in his fist. “You’ll not have your trial,” he snarled.

Devon plucked a small bottle from his coat pocket and held it up. Clear liquid sloshed within. “Eleven unblessed souls.” He pulled the stopper and sniffed. “Stolen from Ulcis, and no doubt hunted by Iril even as we speak. I wonder if the Maze can sense what it has lost.”

The assassin looked aghast, backed away. “Replace the cork,” he hissed. “Hide these souls before—”

Devon threw the contents of the bottle into the assassin’s face.

The man howled and doubled over, spitting, dragging his arm frantically across his face.

Devon grabbed the metal stand and swung it hard. The blow threw the assassin across the desk. He smashed through beakers and test-tubes, and dropped to the carpet.

Pain clenched Devon’s chest. He felt blood trickling beneath his bandages from freshly opened wounds. Wincing, he pulled another, smaller bottle from his waistcoat pocket and examined the pale red liquid within.

“Room for one more?” He held the bottle to his ear, then sighed, shook his head. “Iril take me, I’m talking to a bottle of souls.”

And part of me almost expected a response.

He tossed aside the other, empty bottle. “Waste of good Rhak,” he muttered.

Broken glass littered the floor. Devon crunched through it as he dragged the unconscious assassin towards the letting chair. “I am old,” he said, “and sick. But, unlike you…” He heaved the assassin into the chair. “I am alive. You, my friend, have been dead since birth.”

He