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tightened the straps around the man’s arms and legs. “Zealots,” he muttered. “Too easy to manipulate.”

* * * *

Mr. Nettle was shaking as he perched outside the window and watched Devon bind the assassin to the chair. He watched Devon insert tubes into the man’s arms. He watched blood flow into a flask on the floor. He watched it all, but didn’t see. He was thinking about the angelwine.

Eleven souls.

Abigail’s soul?

She was dead, her body lost to the abyss, but her soul had never been given to Ulcis or taken by Iril. Her soul was trapped in this world, in the Poisoner’s elixir. Even now, there was still hope for her.

Could her soul be reunited with her body? Would she live again—not in the abyss or the Maze, but here in the city? With him?

Mr. Nettle knew what he had to do.

He shuddered.

He had to let Devon complete his work. When the angelwine became potent he would kill the Poisoner and take it. He would reclaim Abigail’s soul from the man who had stolen it.

And then?

Somehow, he had to get her body back.

15

Boobytraps and Snails

After three hours of restless sleep, Fogwill was up at dawn to greet the assassin. He paced before his cold, untouched breakfast, blinking tired eyes, twisting his rings this way and that.

By mid-morning there was still no sign of the man and he began to fear the worst. Noon came and went, and the Adjunct found himself standing by the window, staring listlessly at the view. Lowering skies pulled the horizon close, pressed down on the rooftops, and soaked the colour from everything. Spine were not late. Even broken Spine did not fail to report.

He knew the assassin was dead.

But that was the least of his worries. The smallest criticism of Devon’s work led to bouts of illness in the temple. What would the Poisoner do if he learned who was behind an assassination attempt ? Fogwill winced. Slurry would be the least of it.

He had to act now, before it was too late.

So he sent runners to the Poison Kitchens to enquire after Devon, and instructions to Captain Clay to gather six of his men and meet him on the Gatebridge within the hour.

Clay trudged heavily out of the temple, his coal-coloured armour clinking, his face slumped under the grey weight of the afternoon heat. Six lethargic temple guards fell in behind him.

“Rain is overdue,” Clay said. “The clouds are pregnant with it, but keeping it up there to torment us. A foul day—and I’ve a feeling things are about to get worse. If we’re out here, I suppose you propose a march into the city.”

Fogwill mopped his brow. “We are going to the Poisoner’s apartment.”

“Bloody hell,” Clay said, “I knew it.”

The Adjunct chose to ignore this impertinence. Benedict Clay, for all his gruffness and bluntness, was a good man. “The Poisoner did not appear for work this morning,” he said. “I am concerned something may have happened to him.”

“And this requires six guards?” When Fogwill didn’t reply, the captain sighed. “Well,” he said, “it isn’t getting any cooler. We’d best make a start.”

The streets were quiet, and those people they passed went about their business sluggishly, hardly finding the energy to glance up from the cobbles at the Adjunct and his retinue. The temple guards sweated in their armour and Fogwill sweated in his cassock. Even the chains seemed to sweat under the burden of the city. When they crossed the Scythe at Docker’s Bridge, the air was turgid, with no hint of a breeze from the abyss, and Fogwill wondered if Ulcis himself was sweating down in the darkness below.

The Adjunct tried not to worry about what he might find in the Poisoner’s apartment, but he couldn’t help himself. If Devon had overcome the assassin, then doubtless he would have fled. And removed any evidence of his crimes? Almost certainly. Sypes would be furious. But would Devon’s disappearance convince the Presbyter of his guilt? Fogwill wasn’t sure. After all, he’d given the assassin free rein, told him to use his own judgement. That was like handing a lunatic a knife and telling him to go use it.

They reached the Depression by mid-afternoon. Under the faint red glow of the Poison Kitchens’ flamestacks the district simmered. Hot, foul air pooled where the factories and warehouses slumped in a bowl. Brickwork sweated in a dripping haze. Flecks of ash alighted on chains and cobbles like feeding moths, and blackened the sweat on Fogwill’s cheeks and