Scar Night Page 0,11

away at the sight of him, but a few hoods bowed as he passed them, white fingers steepled underneath in greeting—Warreners, he figured. Mr. Nettle ignored them, pushing through towards the temple doors with his jaws clenched and his heart bruising his ribs.

At the far end of the bridge, he laid her with the others, taking a moment to smooth back her hair and brush away some of the frost crusting her shroud.

She looked now just as he remembered seeing her asleep only a few nights before, her hair like coils of copper round her cheeks, her mouth slightly open, as if even now she might draw a breath and wake. He remembered thinking at the time how peaceful she looked, as pretty as one of her own paintings. She would have made some lad a fine wife.

He opened his hand and took the three white rose petals resting there and tucked them in her shroud, and then gently he covered her face with the linen. In a moment she was as anonymous as the rest. Mr. Nettle stayed on his knees, tugging creases from the stiff fabric of the shroud long after it was smooth.

Dark figures stood around him and waited. The gasoliers hissed. Mr. Nettle counted thirty heartbeats before a hand gripped his shoulder, another thirty before he turned round.

The temple guard wore oiled armour, as black as the abyss. Threads of gaslight slipped over its surface, never settling. On the breastplate, the talisman of Ulcis, the Hoarder of Souls, shone dully. The guard’s face was clean-shaven, wrinkled and red from the cold; the eyes beneath his helm were heavy with sleep. In one hand he held a pike like an iron mast. “Open the shroud.” He sniffed, rubbing a leather gauntlet under his nose.

Mr. Nettle looked up, his face still hidden by the hood, his hand still clutching his daughter’s shroud.

“I’m to check them all,” the guard said.

Still Mr. Nettle didn’t answer.

The guard regarded him impassively for a while, his breath misting in the cold air. Then he moved to one side, laid his pike on the deck, and knelt by Abigail’s corpse. Plates of steel on his shoulders slid against each other as he loosened the folds of cloth and pulled her arm free.

Both men stared at the torn flesh on her wrist.

The guard dropped the arm like it was a plague rat. “This one’s been bled,” he announced, louder than he had to.

There were murmurs from the mourners behind. Mr. Nettle heard them push closer to look.

The guard traced a circle around his talisman and touched his brow. “A husk,” he said. “Been on ice for a while.” Slowly, he reclaimed the pike and rose to his feet. “Why do you bring this thing to the temple doors? Gods below, man, don’t you realize the danger?” He threw his arms wide. “She cannot enter.”

Mr. Nettle continued to stare at his daughter’s exposed arm.

“You understand? There’s no soul.”

The guard’s words rang out like bells in the still morning. Deep inside, the scrounger felt some part of himself crumble. And with it, the gem of hope he’d guarded all night slipped away. Had he been wrong not to try to disguise her wounds? Suddenly he was weary, his head slumped to his chest. For the first time, he seemed to feel Abigail’s cold weight pressing down on his shoulders. He sank to the ground.

And then his teeth locked together and his lips peeled back. Beneath his robe, the muscles in his neck grew taut, his shoulders bunched, his hands tightened to fists, and he was on his feet with a snarl, grabbing the guard’s throat with all of his strength, and forcing him back.

The man stumbled, flailing an arm. He tripped over one of the corpses and hit the ground in a clatter of armour, his neck still tight in the scrounger’s grip. The pike toppled and landed with an unholy crack.

Mr. Nettle’s hood fell back; his face twisted into a blur of teeth and stubble and murder.

The guard wrenched at Mr. Nettle’s arm and struck it, pulled at the fabric of his robe. The sacking ripped but the arm beneath remained hard as iron.

Mr. Nettle tightened his grip.

Air burst from the guard’s throat; his eyes rolled back; his face darkened to crimson. He scrabbled again at Mr. Nettle’s arm, then at his face, fingers gouging. His gauntlets, stiff with frost, raked Mr. Nettle’s skin.

Then something hit Mr. Nettle hard above his ear, pitching him sideways. His