Scar Night Page 0,119

of chains. Carnival plunged on through, drinking the fresh, wet air. People moved beneath her but she paid them no notice. They could wait until Scar Night. Only the Spine bitch wouldn’t have to wait; she’d made that woman a promise. And now, today, in the dark reaches of the temple, she meant to carry it out.

When she reached the Gatebridge, she paused. The mist was thinning. A pale sun shone through and endowed the great building with a golden halo. To reach the Sanctum she would have to go underneath. She hesitated, thumping her wings to keep her level, and looked down into the abyss. The rope scar around her neck constricted until she gasped.

What was she so afraid of?

Carnival couldn’t remember. Was it their god? She didn’t believe in gods. Gods were the inventions of men. Men fashioned gods to carry the burden of their own guilt. Men killed because they were afraid, and forgiveness made the killing easier. Without absolution, men suffered.

On every part of her body Carnival’s old scars flared anew. She knew all about suffering. Teeth clenched, she swallowed hard, and dove.

Spikes and ribs of dark metal crowded the base of the temple. Iron loops as large as city blocks held the foundation chains in a ring. There were countless apertures leading into the massive building, all linked by a great confusion of chain-bridges and cables. Spine normally used these to enter and exit the temple unseen. But now it was morning and there was no one to be seen. Dew coated the metal and fell away in rusty drips. Carnival flew on beneath, snarling as the rope scar around her neck started to burn like a garrotte.

A lantern hung from a wider aperture in the centre of the temple. When she reached it she forced herself to wait. She could hardly breathe, but she waited and listened and sniffed the air. For a while there was nothing but the sound of dripping and the smell of rust, and then she heard voices.

* * * *

Rachel didn’t blame him. If it took her own presence here to get Carnival to come and listen to the fat man’s ridiculous plan, then fine. That was, after all, her job. But how could she get the message into Dill’s wooden skull? He had his stupid sword back now and stood there with his eyes glowing as green as spring, and he would not leave the Sanctum. He refused to leave her side.

His stubbornness was more than likely going to get him killed.

“I’m going to call Clay,” Fogwill warned, “and get him to drag you out by the scruff of the neck. How would that look, Dill? A temple archon ejected like a drunk from a penny tavern.”

Dill still did not reply.

Rachel felt movement in the air and looked at the aperture leading into the abyss. Nothing visible, but she kept her gaze there while she spoke to Dill. “Fogwill’s right. This thing is between her and me. You did the right thing. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Dill said nothing.

Fogwill was pacing before a thousand candles set deep in the iron-thicket walls; his footsteps echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. He approached the lectern, threw up his hands, and turned away. “You can’t be here, Dill. You’ll ruin everything. I’m going to tell you one last time: leave .”

Dill didn’t move.

Rachel was watching the aperture intently now. All of her nerves were on edge, every instinct screaming. She heard nothing, but she sensed something . Cold seeped into the Sanctum through that hole. A few of the candle-flames in the walls wavered. Her hand slipped to one of the bamboo tubes at her belt.

“Do you have to fidget with those things?” Fogwill snapped. “They make me nervous.”

Rachel kept her hand where it was.

Fogwill started pacing again.

Another gust of air came from the aperture. Candles guttered; half of them blew out.

Carnival rose from the abyss with a powerful sweep of her wings. She held herself aloft for a dozen heartbeats, glancing around, before her gaze fell on Rachel. “I made you a promise,” she said. Her smile was predatory, the freshest scar on her face.

Rachel shrugged. As gently as she could, she began to loosen the plug from the bamboo tube. But she stopped as Dill began backing towards her, his hand around the hilt of his sword.

Dill!

She should never have given it back. But he’d looked so desperately unhappy without it, and she’d thought he would just take