Scar Night Page 0,74

almost obeyed. It seemed the most natural thing to close his eyes, to let the voices inside. But some part of him resisted. “Who is he?”

The voices hissed, snarled.

Thomas Scatterclaw said, “Devon.”

* * * *

Smoke rose from smouldering censers around the Sinners’ Well and hung in a fragrant pall between the severed heads. Nine of the twenty spikes were occupied: six men, two women, a child. Pulpboard signs proclaimed them blasphemers, Iril worshippers, or Heshette spies. All rooted out by the Spine, brought before Ichin Samuel Tell to be redeemed before the mob. Their bodies had been cast, still bleeding, into the abyss; the heads left as a reminder of Spine efficacy. Fogwill surveyed the scene through watering eyes and breathed through the folds of his sleeve. Was his man here? Was he too late?

Then, in the shadows, he spied the glow of a pipe. It lit up a narrow, dirt-streaked face, and then all was dark again. Fogwill approached his spy.

“Good evening, Adjunct,” the man said.

“Any developments?” Fogwill asked.

“No. He works late, as usual.”

“You managed to get away without any problems?”

The man sucked on his pipe till it illuminated ranks of narrow teeth, bony cheeks, and a knife-thin nose. “Left for a smoke, didn’t I? Half the workers do it.” He grinned. “Who was going to stop me? The furnace gaffer? He’s scared of me. I still got my knife, and they all know it.”

Fogwill glanced over at the nearest head. Crows had already taken the woman’s eyes and lips. He grimaced. “Why did we have to meet here? I abhor this place.”

“I like it here.” Smoke leaked through the spy’s teeth. “The heads tell me things.”

Fogwill tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. The man was a lunatic. “What things?” he asked, despite himself.

“Secret things,” the spy said.

“Blood has been shed here,” the Adjunct said. “It’s dangerous. God knows what things might be lurking here.”

“The censers are blessed.”

“You can never be too careful.” Fogwill caught a glimpse of movement, and spun. A black shape, like a dog but much larger, loped away between the chains. “Look, did you see that? What was it? A manifestation?”

The spy shrugged. Fogwill found the gesture oddly disconcerting. This man had once been Spine; not an Adept, but a common Cutter. The needle marks in his neck remained—evidence of the Spine masters’ attempt to temper him. But these traces were augmented by tattooed knots—the indelible stains of failure. A common enough occurrence, for tempering was not always successful. Sometimes minds just broke.

Ejected from the sanctuary of the temple, damaged assassins did not survive for long. Society shunned them, and it was only a matter of time before some cutthroat, with sharper wits and drunken morals, took exception to them.

“You learn anything from the scrounger?” the spy inquired.

“His daughter disappeared close to the Scythe—in the Depression. The bruising indicates it wasn’t Carnival’s work.”

“Figures.” The assassin inhaled. “Want me to go ahead?”

Fogwill nodded.

“If I don’t find anything?”

“Report to me tomorrow morning.”

“And if I do?”

Fogwill hesitated. “You know God’s will.” And, there, the words were out, as simply as that.

I’ve just sanctioned murder.

* * * *

Whatever had been inside Thomas Scatterclaw had now departed, leaving him collapsed and senseless. But the voices in the maze were growing louder, bolder.

Why not close your eyes? Just for a moment. The light is so bright.

The room had brightened, almost painfully so, but Mr. Nettle had no desire to close his eyes. His anger gave him the strength to ignore the demons, if that was what they were.

Devon had killed Abigail. Devon was mortal. He could be made to suffer. What form of suffering, the scrounger didn’t know, not yet. But he would see the Poisoner scream and beg for his life before the night was out.

We can help you. Close your eyes. Or break the lantern. Yes, smash it. We can help you if it’s dark.

“Shut up!” He had to think. The thaumaturge’s maze still trapped him and he had no idea how to get out of it. Didn’t much like the thought of squeezing back through walls of broken glass with these demons at his heels. Better if he found another way.

There is another way. A safe way. Break the lantern and we’ll show you.

Mr. Nettle studied the room. The rafters were too high to reach, and the floorboards looked too solid to smash through. Maybe he could climb one of the partitions, step across the tops of them to the edges of the room? He