Scar Night Page 0,109

them? Earlier he had stood on the aft deck to watch distant lights rise through the pall of smoke above the city. He had enemies behind him, and yet more foes waiting in the wasteland ahead. The Heshette would not welcome his arrival at the Tooth of God. Something told him his threshold of pain would be tested in the clash to come.

He shrugged the thoughts aside. Right now he had other concerns. Sypes’s continuing silence infuriated him. The old goat was terrified of something. So much so that he’d flouted Church doctrine and gone to almost inconceivable lengths to buy Carnival’s aid.

Why?

Unanswered questions troubled Devon. Sypes knew what was really down there, and if Devon was going to send all of Deepgate down to its maker, he wanted to know who that maker was.

A god?

He could not believe it: the temple had been built on faith and fostered with lies. But how could ignorance be the foundation for any system of order? Devon detested any deference to the supernatural. Were supernatural forces not simply natural forces yet to be explained? Blood contained energy which could be harvested to extend life. Gods, demons, devils, and ghosts did not come into it. Everything had to be defined in terms Devon could comprehend. For a man of his brilliance, this was vital.

Thoughts still stewing, he left the galley and wandered the narrow companionways towards the accommodations section, with the pot of clams under his arm.

Perhaps he should learn to be more patient, for time was one thing he now had in abundance. Sypes would talk in the end. When the old man saw his beloved city about to fall to its doom, he would tell Devon what he desired to know.

The captain’s cabin was only marginally larger than the crew bunkrooms, but richly finished: polished hardwood veneers, etched glass, carpets soft as molten gold. Bottles of Rhak, whisky, and wine gleamed in the drinks cabinet.

There was no white vintage to be found, so Devon selected a light Duskvalley red that would if not complement the clams, at least not overwhelm the flavour.

He was reading the label when the ship pitched forward and he was thrown against the cabin wall. The Duskvalley slipped from his grip. Bottles and glasses clinked and smashed and tumbled across the floor. The drone of engines rose suddenly to a shriek.

“Blood and chains,” he muttered, levering himself upright. “I’ll kill the old fool for this.”

Devon scrambled out of the cabin, leaning heavily against one wall. The starboard companionway sloped downwards to the bridge. He half ran, half slid to the end of it and slammed against the bridge door. Through the porthole he saw Sypes leaning over the control deck, gripping the elevator rudder levers in his hands. A sandstorm filled the bridge windows. Devon fumbled with his keys till he found the right one, and unlocked the door.

It stayed firmly shut. The priest had lodged his chair beneath the handle.

“Old fool!” Devon shook the door, pounded on it.

Sypes wheeled, frowning.

Using the handrail, Devon struggled back up the sloping companionway and took a right, cutting along the midship companionway to the port side. His shoulder thumped against the wall. The Birkita ’s engines were screaming and stuttering now, the air vents clogged with sand. When he reached the port companionway, its angle was so steep that he had to slide along the deck on his backside till his knees cracked against the alternative bridge door. Again he rattled his keys, tried one, then another. Finally he unlocked the door.

It wouldn’t open. Sypes had moved the chair and slid it under the handle of the portside entrance.

“Open this.” Devon kicked at the door.

Sypes ignored him. Sand fumed behind the bridge’s forward windows. The slope of the companionway was becoming steeper—too steep to climb back up it. The old man had angled the airship’s elevators, flooded the aft ribs, and emptied the forward ones, letting the weight of the bridge drag them nose down.

“You’ll kill yourself!” Devon screamed, and kicked with both feet, again, again.

The door opened at last and he fell through it.

Sypes didn’t turn as Devon hit the control deck beside him. His white-knuckled hands held both elevator control levers fully forward. Angus’s voice chattered wildly through the engine-room com-trumpet. Cables stretched and groaned under pressure. Wood creaked. The sandstorm parted and dunes loomed behind the windows.

Devon threw the priest aside, twisted valves to flood the forward ribs, and slammed the elevator levers back.

Nothing happened.

Behind the glass, the