head. Crushing weight bore down on his aching back.
The scrounger yelled, strained against the man’s weight, and wrenched himself up onto his elbows. Another push and he got his feet under him. He heaved upwards: men fell on either side and Mr. Nettle stood. Thicker smoke now engulfed him. He closed his eyes, struck out with his hands, and pushed and pushed and punched and punched his way into the mass of people. His fists connected dozens of times.
A deep rumble erupted from somewhere behind. More men began to scream.
Eyes shut, lungs full of smoke, Mr. Nettle battered his way further through the crowd.
And suddenly he burst free.
All around, the smiths were dragging fallen comrades from the panicking throng. Others were rushing to the scene with buckets of water, but hampered by the tangled mass of people, they could do nothing but drop these nearby and run to fetch more.
Mr. Nettle paused there, gasping for breath. His robe was now torn to tatters and covered in blood, too much blood to have come from the blows he’d delivered. The snapping cables, he realized, had torn right through the crowd. He checked his own limbs, counted his fingers. He felt dazed, bruised, but still in one piece.
He’d been lucky, he thought miserably.
8
The Battle of the Tooth
Dill couldn’t decide whether Presbyter Sypes was still reading or asleep. The old priest’s head hovered inches from the tome on the desk before him, while his face appeared to have subsided and set like Fondelgrue’s porridge. Dry breaths rasped in his throat, but he wasn’t snoring, so therefore he was probably still reading. Yet the old man hadn’t turned a page since Dill had entered the schoolroom.
Dill’s gaze drifted across the bookshelves behind the desk. From floor to ceiling the spines of the ancient volumes formed a mosaic of sombre hues with the occasional speckled gold of lettering. Apart from this assemblage of books and a couple of tired wooden desks and chairs, the schoolroom was bare. Late-afternoon sunlight slid in through windows high in the western wall and lay in honey-coloured slabs on the floorboards. A single fly wove its languid way between the beams of light and seemed to labour through an air too thick with silence. All at once Dill realized the harsh breathing had stopped, and he turned to find the Presbyter staring at him.
“How long have you been standing there?” the old man said.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you, Your Grace.”
“No, I suppose not.” He looked Dill up and down. “You’re not scheduled for a lesson today, are you?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Then what do you want?”
Dill hesitated. “I was told to come here,” he said. “Borelock told me to come here.”
“Ah yes.” Presbyter Sypes straightened in his chair. “The incident this morning. It seems the Ninety-Nine are now ninety-eight.” He paused. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Dill hung his head. “I’m truly sorry.”
Presbyter Sypes studied him carefully. “I see.”
The fly buzzed angrily past Dill’s ear, traced a wide curve, then settled on the Presbyter’s desk. The priest slammed his hand down, missing the insect.
Dill flinched.
The Presbyter was examining his palm in apparent confusion. “I understand that before you began temple service, Borelock usually dealt with this sort of matter.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“What do you expect me to do, then?”
“I was told…” Dill’s chin still rested on his chest, his eyes rooted to a point on the floor. “Your Grace, I was told a whipping.”
“Hmmm, that would be the standard punishment, would it not? For tardiness perhaps, smudging a parchment or spilling ink…or other such crimes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“But do you think your actions this morning merit the standard punishment? As I understand it, we now have a barrowload of dust and teeth covering the Sanctum corridor. Samuel, no less, the Dawn Star. Would a mere whipping suffice, do you think?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“No indeed.” Presbyter Sypes shook his head. “You know how old that relic was?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Son”—he closed the book gently—“it was just a pile of bones before your accident. And now it is still a pile of bones. Very important bones, yes—sacred bones.” He let the words sink in. “We will repair it, with some effort and at some considerable cost, no doubt, but it will still be a pile of bones at the end of it all. However”—he hesitated—“tradition demands a whipping, and a whipping you shall have.” Now he spoke softly, hardly above a whisper. “But, Dill, there is a problem. I am a weak old man.