halfpenny into the slot.
Mr. Nettle’s crimes gnawed at him—his mind kept returning to them like fresh scabs—but they didn’t trouble him like his other dilemma. That one sat in his gut like a brick.
Twelve souls had been harvested—one more was needed. In order to make the angelwine potent, the Poisoner would have to bleed the life from another innocent.
And Mr. Nettle would have to let him do it.
He clenched his teeth and turned over in the net, as though that would somehow ease the pain. Abigail was all that mattered. Abigail, Abigail: he said her name over and over in his mind, using it to drum other thoughts out. Now that he knew where her soul was, he had to let Devon finish composing the elixir. He had to do it, for her .
But Abigail’s voice was always in his thoughts, and she wasn’t happy.
What about the other souls?she asked him.Will they be trapped inside me? Or will I be trapped inside them?
He didn’t want to think about that. How many people would she be?
The ropes beneath him stretched as he twisted over on his stomach and peered into the abyss. The journey down there would be difficult.
Impossible, Abigail insisted. How are you going to climb down? By rope? Are you going to use your grapple and spikes all the way down to the city of Deep? Then what? Will you walk into Ulcis’s palace of chains and demand he release my body?
He didn’t know. Everyone had heard the stories of the folk who’d gone down there. And how no one ever came back.
I’ll find a way.
How?
I don’t know. Maybe he could steal an airship, or scale the edge of the abyss.
Steal an airship? She laughed.Who do you think you are? You’re a scrounger, for God’s sake .
Leave me alone.
Then what about your soul? You are giving up eternity.
An image of Abigail came to him then: at six years old, stamping her foot.
What about his soul? He had been damned from the moment he decided to retrieve his daughter’s body from the abyss. The god of chains did not welcome intrusions. There would be no salvation for Mr. Nettle.
I don’t care, he told her. And he realized that he didn’t. There was solace in damnation. If he was to let Devon murder again, then it was fitting. Necessary.
He’ll bleed them! Her anger made him flinch.How can you let him hurt anyone else? Someone else like me .
Shut up!
A fist closed on his heart. How had he reached this place? What forces had steered him? There had been no choice in his life since Abigail’s death. None. He wasn’t responsible—God was. God was trying to take everything from him, trying to empty him. Trying to beat him down. For a moment he despaired. In the dark of the nets beneath the tower and the city and the airships, he felt small, empty but for the echoes of Abigail’s voice.
Then anger welled, filling the void inside him, pushing back at everything. Anger enough to support a city. He twisted fistfuls of the net, blood pounded in his ears, and he spat into the abyss. So what if another died? He wasn’t holding the knife.
Don’t!
He won’t defeat me.
Abigail would be his victory.
He found himself breathing heavily, and he turned on his back, still clutching the net. The airship had drifted out of sight behind the tower, but another was rumbling closer from the south. High above, a light shone from the tower’s narrow window.
Careless.
Recently, Devon had taken to leaving a light burning at all hours of the night. During their first sweep of the Depression, the temple guard had been unable to force the tower door, so had simply moved on when their bloodhounds had shown no interest in the place. But if Devon thought he was safe, then he was a fool. That light would eventually attract someone’s attention—especially in this neighbourhood. How could the Poisoner be so stupid?
A head popped out of the window and peered up at the sky. Spectacles glinted, disappeared back inside.
Mr. Nettle moved a hand to the handle of his cleaver but kept his eyes fixed on the window.
Suddenly a hammering sound startled him. He sat bolt upright, listening. There was a pause, and then the sound repeated. There could be no mistake; someone was pounding on the door of the Poisoner’s tower.
* * * *
Carnival watched the airships above from the bough of an old stonewood tree. A bright halo shone through low cloud, but after