Scar Night Page 0,90
just once, the searchlights would fall on him.
Taking the snails to the kitchen had been a bad idea. Fondelgrue had pounced on them and put them all in a bag. The fat cook had assured Dill that he knew a place where they would be happy, and where Dill would never see them again, but the angel wasn’t convinced. He’d offered to go with Fondelgrue to make sure the snails were all right, but the cook had shooed him away and said don’t worry, they’ll be absolutely fine, very warm, very happy, now sod off. So Dill had found a new place to release his charges—the temple guards’ armour room. There were lots of dark places in there for them to hide.
He’d just completed an evening snail run to the armoury when Rachel burst into his cell and he dropped the book he was reading.
“They’ve got every temple guard in the city out there, knocking at doors, searching houses, questioning everyone, bloodhounds sniffing everywhere, and the third, seventh, and ninth have been recalled from Sandport and the Plantation hill forts to join the search. And they’ve begun reinstating reservists, hundreds of them. There are more soldiers in the city than I’ve seen in years, and yet more are on the way. Have you seen the warships? Sypes has aeronauts out on the decks with sightglasses.”
She paused for a breath. “The nobles are unsettled, and the common folk are moaning like kittens in a bathtub. They can feel a curfew coming, increased taxes. You should hear the talk in the alehouses and penny taverns. Why so many soldiers for a simple manhunt? And why the blazes should they have to pay for it all?”
“Will there be trouble?” Dill asked, still slightly perturbed that she hadn’t knocked.
“Not from the forces,” she said. “The reservists are happy to be earning wages again, and merchants and nobles can afford the extra levy. But the commoners might cause a problem: those who are happy enough for their souls to be saved, and willing enough to attend the executions, but don’t care to dip into their pockets to feed an army of this size.”
She made her way to his balcony door and wandered outside. After a moment he grabbed his book and went to join her.
Shadows reached out from the western rim of the abyss, already cloaking a third of Deepgate. To the east, the streets and homes glittered: chains, roofs, and chimneys turned golden in the sunset, glints of copper and bronze, windows bright as scattered gems. A dozen airships drifted above the city, like scavengers sifting treasure.
“It’s full moon tonight,” Rachel said. “Spine mark the occasion with a night of prayers to Ulcis. They pray the moon will not wane, and that Scar Night doesn’t return.”
“They?”
She shrugged. “Normally I feel easier at full moon, since Carnival keeps herself hidden. The streets at night are reasonably busy, people relax. But tonight…” A warship droned by, close to the temple. Rachel paused and watched it for a while. “Tonight everything feels wrong . They’re leaving farmlands unguarded all along the Coyle, recalling soldiers from as far north as the Shale logging camps and Hollowhill. Too many soldiers for a simple manhunt. Something else is going on. Presbyter Sypes isn’t telling us everything.”
“An attack from the Heshette?”
“No.” She studied the warship a moment longer, then faced him. “The Heshette haven’t been a threat to the city for decades. What are you reading, anyway?”
Dill showed her the book: Battle Flight Strategies for Temple Archons .
She smiled.
“It’s not forbidden,” he said. “I checked.” But he still felt his eyes blush a little.
* * * *
In the darkness of the den he had built in the nets below Devon’s tower, Mr. Nettle watched the warships pass overhead. Engines thrummed distantly; searchlights divided the night, moving incessantly, like the legs of strange aether gods.
A five-by-four tin sheet and three stout beams salvaged from the shell of a coalgas depository formed the makeshift roof. Rope tied it all together and secured it to the net. The nets here were thick, as they were in all industrial districts, easily strong enough to support the weight of his shelter. He’d ventured out a few times in the past two weeks to stock up on supplies. With nothing to trade, and no time to go scrounging, he’d been forced to steal the food from carts at the Gardenhowe market. He’d filled his water flask from a worker’s pipe near the Scythe, but hadn’t dropped a