Scar Night Page 0,49

wooden boards; doorjambs and iron grates secured; chains and padlocks locked and tested. Deepgate was tensing for battle.

“Coin for a pilgrim?” A filthy figure huddled in a doorway, long, greasy strands of hair and a food-crusted beard poking from under his hood. “Sir, the darkmoon is coming, the rain is fresh and clean, and here we are alive. You have blood in your heart, and I have glue in mine. What a glorious thing! Spare me a coin.”

A Glueman? The skin beneath those rags would be yellow and viscid; the tongue thick and weeping chemicals. His blood…unusual. “Sir?” she replied.

“Ah, good lady, then. Young by the sound of your voice, pretty too, yes, yes, now I hear the breasts, oh my, the thighs, the strain of some tight fabric—is it leather? How wicked. Yet without a man to walk at your side on this foul night. Has he thrown you out, or died and left you wandering dazed and broken by grief? Severed? My condolences, poor puppet.”

Rachel realized he was blind. That’s why he heard me pass . “All this from one word?”

“Six words now, kitten, each weighted with enough pain to crack cobbles. And longing too. So conflicted, confused, poor thing. I hear an undercurrent of desire. I hear…” He paused, as if listening, then lowered his voice. “Oh, my shame, that’s it. You are quite wet, aren’t you, quite wet?” He began to rock backwards and forwards. “Speak two words for me. Two words to know your soul. For me, please, please.”

The assassin sighed. “Which two words?”

The beggar shifted closer in his rags, whispered, “Dirty boy.”

“You want me to say…those words?”

“Say them, I beg you.”

“I will not.”

“Please,” he said.“Please.”

“Not a chance, beggar.”

“Puppet, have pity. Look how broken and lonely I am, how desperate. My brothers lost in rendered shipyard nets. My wife disappeared with a penniless reservist of dubious gender. My old Glue-father snatched away for throwing pebbles at the Avulsior. My mother—”

“All right.” He was going to rouse the whole neighbourhood. Sheepishly, Rachel swung a look around her to make sure no one else was nearby, then quickly muttered, “Dirty boy.”

“Lust! Delight!” the beggar cried. “Now come here, sit in my lap.”

Rachel frowned.

“I heard that frown.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Sitting on the ground, begging.”

Rachel’s lips quirked. “Very clever,” she said. “Can’t you find somewhere safer to sit than this doorway? Your Glue-blood might protect your soul, but not your flesh. Nothing is certain tonight. You’re still in danger.”

“Ah, but Carnival and I have an understanding.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t kill her, and she doesn’t kill me.”

“A fair deal.” The Spine Adept found herself smiling. “You’ve spoken to her, then?”

“I heard her wings above me and called out to her. She swooped low and gave me a gift.”

“A gift?”

“A fine gift! A haunch of lamb, sweetly cured and smothered in redberry sauce. Look here…” The Glueman reached inside his rags, drew something out.

A dead rat, the head chewed down to the bone.

Rachel’s smile withered. “She gave you…this lamb?”

“On my soul, I swear it. And so you see I have nothing to fear.”

“You are…fortunate.” She reached into one of the pouches at her belt, pulled out a copper double, and carefully pressed it into his hand.

“Vengeful Ulcis bless your nights,” the beggar said, then more quietly, “and spiteful Ayen bless your days.” He winked a sightless eye. “Not that I pray to either of them. I am bound for Hell.” He said this with pride. “So I embrace Iril: there are wonderful benefits in being damned. The Maze is growing. I hear its stone passages creeping through the derelict places in the city. Sometimes I hear the thump of blood.” He pocketed the coin. “This will buy wine for our feast. You must share it with me, I insist. There’s meat for two, and with you so recently widowed, so supple, we might—”

“Thank you, no. I must get back to work before…” The words were out before she realized.

“Work?”He scrambled away from her, and hissed, “Spine. Get away from me, bitch.”

Rachel just stood there, unmoving.

“Ichin Tell’s whore,” the beggar growled, clutching his rat. “I’ve nothing for you.”

Rachel wheeled, her heart stuttering.

“How many knives have you cleaned in your life, Nightcrawler?” the beggar cried. He was eating his trophy now. “Scar Night is her night…The dark of the moon…One soul for the angel…Spine blood for Iril…” He giggled. “But no souls to nourish the Maze. You gave them away already!”

The assassin strode away, leaving the beggar to his