Scar Night Page 0,7

get along. Pretty little thing, if you don’t mind that haunted look. You don’t mind that, do you?”

Dill hid a look of surprise. Clearly, the Presbyter had become lost in one of his fuddles, slipped into another conversation. Not by any stretch of the imagination could John Reed Burrsong be described as pretty, little, or a thing.

“No, Your Grace.”

At once the old man came alive. “I am glad we had this chat.” He turned quickly away. “Best of luck. For tomorrow.”

Stone steps spiralled down into darkness. Wind whistled through the broken windows and murderholes below. “Shall I escort you down?” Dill said weakly, torn between his duty and the dread of descending into that terrible gloom. He edged closer to the top step. Presbyter Sypes might stumble, hurt himself in the dark. Had every one of the torch brands down there blown out?

The old priest studied him for a moment then rested a hand on the rough-surfaced wall and lowered himself down the first step. “No need, no need,” he said. “Get back to the fire, lad. Only nine hundred and ten steps to go.”

Dill wavered. A boot fell from the bundle he still clutched. He reached down to pick it up and dropped the rest of the garments, his hands were trembling so much.

“Nine hundred and nine.” The Presbyter gave him a strained smile as he waved the lad away with his stick. “Nine hundred and eight!”

The young angel gathered up his bundle and returned to his cell. He gave the bolts and window a final check, found everything secure, and for a moment considered lighting yet more candles. Night was just beginning, and his cell full of draughts. If the dead beneath the city were restless, some of the candles might blow out.

2

Mr. Nettle

He carried her with the confidence of a man used to finding his way in darkness. Wooden boards creaked underfoot; ropes groaned and stuttered. With every step, the walkway bucked and swayed closer to the shacks on either side. They called it Oak Alley, those who lived here, but there wasn’t a splinter of oak in the whole damn place. Pulpboard more like, and tin. Mr. Nettle dipped his shoulder to avoid snaring his daughter’s shroud on a stray tin panel. As he ducked, the boards sank with him, bobbing the gangplanks that lay between the walkway and the doorsteps like tongues. The shacks hung motionless over the dark, quietly crumpled in their cradles of hemp.

Up ahead, a brand guttered over its blackened drum, spitting tar. Giant shadows swept around him as he passed. Mr. Nettle raised his bottle and took another slug, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and settled back into the beat of his own footsteps.

The hood itched against his skin. The whole bloody robe itched. The rough sacking rubbed his wrists like stocks, drawing sweat despite the chill.

Gossip spread faster than disease in the League of Rope, and his muttered lies about Abigail’s murder had done nothing but feed those rumours. Unable to disguise his dead child’s wounds or pallor, he’d shooed away the shroud widows who’d come knocking at his door, cleaning and wrapping the body by himself. There’d been no viewing, no death ale. Curious voices soon turned angry and fearful. To avoid the gauntlet of his neighbours’ stares, he’d figured to deliver her at midnight, when the streets were as quiet as the yawning abyss beneath them.

Oak Alley dipped below the Tummel cross-chain—named after the Glueman who’d fought and died at Sourwater—and rose again steeply. Mr. Nettle stuffed his bottle under one arm, then strained on the rope to pull himself up the slippery boards beyond. When he reached the top, he saw that his secrecy had been in vain.

Barterblunder’s Penny Tavern depended from one of the foundation chains, some eight feet out from the walkway itself. Dented, potbellied, rivet-stitched, and belching smoke, it had lost none of its charm from a former life as a tar boiler. Rowdy laughter came from the open hatch in the tavern roof. Four men were outside. A heavyset fellow with the look of a cutpurse stood on the main walkway, shaking the guide-ropes as a second, scrawnier man wobbled across the tavern gangplank to join him. The other two crouched among the curtains of chains around the hatch, sharing smoke from an old tin hookah. Blaggards, the lot of them, they turned at Mr. Nettle’s approach. Drunken grins collapsed. The cutpurse let go of the guide-ropes.

One of the