Scar Night Page 0,76
in a cage.
The Poisoner crumpled on his stool. Enough for today. He felt exhausted and still had that mess to clean up in his study. He was always tired these days. Over the years he’d found himself going to bed earlier and rising earlier, already worn out before the day began. His body seemed heavier, every task more laborious. He accepted the weariness, but the pain…
Some nights Devon woke in agony, clutching his chest, as if breathing shards of glass. His wounds bled constantly. The poisons, fuels, and sulphurs of the Poison Kitchens had soaked into his flesh and filled his bones like lead. There was no room inside for any more. He was dying.
The Saviour of Deepgate—poisoned and left to rot by the people I’ve saved. And for what? The populace despise me. My own chemists despise me. The Church despises me, for all that I’ve done for them. Who are these people? People whose survival was bought by my suffering. By my Elizabeth’s suffering. Yet I endure this agony so that they can outlive me.
The hypocrisy enraged him. Everyone in Deepgate was waiting to die. Except Devon. They did not deserve their own lives, and yet they took his . But he wasn’t finished yet. He’d take back what they’d stolen, and more. Only thirteen souls were required to make the angelwine potent. Had it required a thousand, Devon would have cut them from the city without hesitation.
Deepgate owed him.
It had been careless of him, he supposed, to leave the girl’s body in his apartment, but he’d had no intention of venturing out on Scar Night, and he’d lacked the strength this morning to move the corpse. The prospect of lugging the body around made him feel even wearier. He would just dump it in the first dark gap he found over the abyss, then make himself some supper. Lately he hadn’t been eating enough. A good supper would sort him out: perhaps steak with minted potatoes. He picked up the jar of honey from the worktop, wiped away some spatters of rat-blood, and stuffed it in his pocket—pancakes with honey for dessert.
To minimize any further contact with his chemists, Devon left by one of the back exits. Labourers filed in and out the door in shuffling lines, going to and from the furnaces. Soot-blackened faces weary; clean pink faces despondent.
To Devon’s dismay, he spotted a group of other chemists under the clock-tower gaslight. Above them, the clock sounded midnight with a brassy thunk . He recognized Danderport, a sprightly, eager nuisance with permanently moist lips and restless fingers, who was engaged in a fierce debate with some other crinkled, sulphurous little oiler.
Danderport beckoned him over. “Sir, your opinion please.”
“What?” he snapped.
“The Tooth, sir.”
“What about it?”
Danderport gave him a limp smile, his fingers dancing. “Adraki aeronauts got a proper look at it as they rounded Blackthrone on the hunt for the Skylark . We were wondering if you had any thoughts about the method of its construction. My own theory is that the hull material may be vat-grown. Brent here disagrees.”
Devon considered this. The Tooth of God, as the priests called it, seemed too heavy to have ever moved without sinking deep into the Deadsands. Yet it had moved once. Deep trails of compacted earth still crisscrossed the desert in places, frequently vanishing under drifting sands only to become revealed years later. Whatever materials had been used in its construction were far lighter and stronger than anything they were currently familiar with.
“It is possible,” he conceded.
“Sir, perhaps a closer inspection of the Tooth might be possible at some point?” Danderport’s voice seesawed. “Merely an inspection. We wouldn’t touch a thing.”
The Poisoner harrumphed. “If Sypes agrees to it, I’ll let you know.”
Danderport’s face collapsed briefly before he turned back to his debate.
Devon’s chores gave him a gentle tug. He left the chemists pugging Danderport’s ideas like swill, and strode across the yard and out through the gates. It was late, he was tired, and he had a corpse to dispose of before supper.
* * * *
In darkness Mr. Nettle continued to balance on top of the two-inch-wide partition wall. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see the next partition or the labyrinth of broken glass below. But he sensed invisible shapes swirling around him and he could taste their rage. It was like a thunderstorm imprisoned within a bottle.
Without even touching him, the Non Morai tore at him.
Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close your eyes.
“Piss off,” Mr. Nettle growled. He