Scar Night Page 0,34

queer metal wind sighed up from the abyss. But he knew there were men down there, in harnesses on ropes, strengthening the old iron with new. Mr. Nettle could hear their faraway shouts and laughs, the pounding of their hammers. He wondered how men managed to face those chains each day, and if their wives could bear to look at them when they left home in the morning.

He found the gaffer bawling out a group of dockhands gathered beside an overloaded cart. The weight of coal sacks it carried had tipped the cart back on its wheels, leaving the harnessed donkey suspended a few feet above the ground. The donkey chewed its teeth and merely looked bored.

“Laggards, you think this is a joke?” The gaffer smacked his billet against his palm. “You want my stick on the back of your heads?”

“Not our fault,” one of the dockhands protested. “Donkey’s lost weight since yesterday.”

“Aye, and you will too, when I cut your wage for this folly.”

Smiles faded from the dockhands’ faces. They set to work unloading the cart.

“Pig iron,” Mr. Nettle said, “for Smith.” He thrust the bill at the gaffer, who ignored it.

“Tomorrow,” the gaffer growled, then, to his men, “Take them from the top first, you dolts, you want to spill the lot?”

“No,” Mr. Nettle said.“Now.”

The gaffer gave him a square look. He seemed about to say something, then to change his mind. Maybe he noticed the way Mr. Nettle’s shoulders had tensed. He sighed and grabbed the bill. “Over there. Warehouse eleven, like it says here. Pallet three hundred two.”

After Mr. Nettle had got the bill checked by the warehouse boss, he found the crates where he’d been told, and heaved the first onto his trolley. Wooden axle squeaking, he set off back to Blacklung Lane.

He worked hard for Smith all afternoon. His ribs protested with every step, and at times the pain was worse than from the beating, but he just kept moving, planting one foot in front of the other and trying to clear his mind of everything but the cobbles ahead and the grumble of the trolley wheels. Each box seemed to weigh more than the last, and there appeared to be no end to them. He could have sworn someone was loading up the pallet even as he emptied it. At this rate, he’d be lucky to finish the job by the time it got dark. Lucky? He scowled. What was luck? Bad luck was just what happened day to day. Bad luck was an icy morning, or finding nothing in the nets for a week, or getting ill when you had to work. Bad luck was just life. And good luck? It was nothing but a pause in the bad. That was when you didn’t get ill, and therefore could keep dragging the nets every day. That was when you found something you could sell, and you could eat. But maybe his luck was changing. Smith was a good man. He didn’t want to think about it, though. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he was tempting fate. Good luck, real good luck, didn’t come to people like Smith and Nettle.

By the fourth afternoon bell he had delivered half the iron. His ribs were aching, and his muscles beginning to fold. The sun beat down mercilessly and sapped his strength. Sweat soaked into his mourning robes. He slumped to the ground by a common pipe under the Merrygate watchtower, there slaked his thirst and sloshed water over his face. Some folks looked at him strangely, and some even stared outright, but most ignored him like he was a beggar.

Only three bolts. What were the chances? If he missed with the first, the angel was sure to finish him before he could load the second, poisoned or no. One bolt would have to do it. But which one would he use? The soultaker was the most fitting—a soul for a soul. Though it would cost the most to replace, since diseased bolts were rare. Smith had never said anything about him paying for the bolts, but he figured he owed the man that at least—assuming he made it through the night. Mr. Nettle rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. What if the angel killed him? The crossbow would be left on the streets for anyone to find, and Smith would never see it again. That was a poor trade for a day’s work. He shunned the thought.

Mr.