Scar Night Page 0,43
into it for temple coin .
Maybe Sypes wasn’t senile after all.
The manacled Heshette lad was wailing now. Ichin Tell had put him at the end of the line, so the boy would have to watch the others before his own turn came.
The scrounger clenched his jaw and shouldered his way through the rest of the crowd, his fists painfully tight on the trolley handles. Behind him rope creaked, the onlookers cheered.
* * * *
Back in the League Mr. Nettle beat his boots along the walkway planks, shoved past passers-by, not caring how much the bridges swung or the gangplanks wobbled or who had to hold on for dear life. Boards threatened to snap under the weight of the trolley he pushed. His mourning robe flapped about him, torn and filthy and thick with blood. The League folk frowned at him, shunned him, but none said a word of protest until the Nine Ropes Bridge, where a bowlegged spinster screeched after him, “Rude! You big pig!”
Mr. Nettle swung round, ready to slap her, but seeing her all hunched over and clutching the street-rope made him feel like a lout. He scowled instead, and spat on the boards at his feet, but he eased up his progress a bit so the bridge shook less.
He would have slammed the front door if the doorframe hadn’t been held together with catgut and about to fall apart. Once inside, he unloaded the iron, one bar at a time, and spread it out over the strongest joists in his hall floor. When this work was done he stormed down the hall, kicking empty bottles and oil barrels aside. The whole house shuddered and swayed, ropes creaking dangerously. He didn’t care: the ropes would hold or they wouldn’t. To hell with his luck. In the living room he lit a lamp, tore off his robe, and threw his cleaver hard at the wall, where it stuck. Juddering.
Mr. Nettle unplugged a fresh bottle of whisky and slumped in his chair, grinding his teeth.
Angel. He pounded a fist on his knee. Angel, angel, angel . Why did folks call her that? This one wasn’t god-fearing like the temple angel. She was a leech, an abomination, a wound in the city that, like the wounds she gave her own victims, never healed. Like the wounds she’d given Abigail.
He drank, spilling whisky over his chin.
Scar Night or not, the murdering, soul-thieving bitch was going to suffer. She had it coming. He would be out tonight watching for her. Out under the dark moon, him and her—alone but for the beggars, the madmen, and the Spine. Those Nightcrawlers—who did they think they were, with their sanctified swords, crossbows, and poisons? The beggars had no choice, the lunatics no mind to make one, but the Spine—if they were so damn good, then why was this demon still loose? Why was his Abigail dead? He looked at the cleaver buried in the wall. He didn’t need Smith’s crossbow. Foolish idea. Eight inches of steel and a strong arm to swing it, that was all it would take. He’d find a way to get close to her. He took another slug.
And just one spot of real luck; he’d need that. Just one little bit of luck. Just one. The bitch would spot him, all right, if the stories about her were true. She’d see him from a league away. He’d make sure of it—and she’d hear his shouts. The whole damn city would. This would be a Scar Night when no one got any sleep. But he’d need to see her too, and that would be harder. His enemy hated the light.
He sat there for a long time, brooding. If he could get her down from the roofs somehow, lay a trap for her. Maybe he could lie down somewhere, pretend to be drunk. No, she didn’t relish whisky-blood or Glue-blood, so they said. Instead he would make like he was hurt or, better, a madman wandering the city singing fools’ songs like madmen sometimes did. Mr. Nettle pushed the thought away. His wife used to say he’d a singing voice like a sick boar.
Probably just frighten the bitch off.
Abigail’s paintings still hung from the walls, dozens of them. Bright little squares of pulpboard: all her imagined gardens—the flowers and trees painted in red and yellow. He’d never managed to find green paint for her, just those two colours. She’d never minded. Red and yellow were her favourite colours, she’d said, and then she’d hugged