Scar Night Page 0,93

against the stone wall, the other clenched and unclenched on the cleaver handle. He could only hope that the guards hadn’t spotted the light from the window, that this was a random search, and that the two men would give up and move on.

Then a voice from inside the tower made him catch his breath. “Hold on, hold on, will you? I’m coming as fast as I can.”

Devon was coming down to meet them?

Thoughts tumbled inside Mr. Nettle’s skull. What was the idiot doing? Was he drunk or had he lost his damn mind? Had he decided to give himself up? Was Ulcis going to deny him the elixir too?

Abigail’s voice remained thankfully silent. She knew him well enough to leave him to his despair. His head drooped, rested against the wall. God had beaten him.

A lock rattled, then Mr. Nettle heard the tower door creak open a fraction.

“Who are you? What do you want at this time of night?” Devon sounded annoyed.

The bloodhound sniffed at the door for a moment, then resumed dragging its jowls around the guards’ feet. Whatever scent it had been given, the Poisoner had managed to shed.

Evidently the guards could not see clearly to whom they were speaking. “We have orders to search all the buildings in this area.”

“Orders? On whose authority?”

“Presbyter Sypes.”

There was a pause. “No, I am sorry. That’s quite impossible.”

The guards shared a look, stiffened, and levelled their pikes at the door. “Why?” the first demanded.

“Because,” Devon said, “it would lead to my arrest.”

And then Mr. Nettle heard a sound: a rush of air. To his astonishment the nearest guard collapsed at once. The other staggered back a few paces and swayed dizzily for a moment before he too dropped to the ground with a thump and clunk of armour. The bloodhound scampered away a few feet, and then turned, tail wagging and jowls swinging. It barked.

Devon stepped out from the doorway and looked up and down the lane. He held a metal canister with a flexible tube protruding from its tip. “Two weeks,” he said. “It took you two bloody weeks to get here. I was about to start putting up signposts.”

The bloodhound backed away, raised its head, and barked again, then edged forward.

Devon tossed it something from his pocket.

The dog slewed around, paws skidding, and slobbered down whatever had been thrown to it. Then it turned, strings of saliva swinging, and looked up expectantly at Devon.

Mr. Nettle watched the Poisoner drag the guards inside the tower.

The dog followed, tail wagging.

* * * *

The tower basement was dank and windowless. Metal panels bolted over the rotten floorboards boomed as Devon paced back and forth before his captives. Rats scratched in the crawlspace under the floor, pattered across the heavy iron foundations below. A smoking fuel burner set low on the wall cast long shadows as he walked, intermittently covering and revealing the bruises on the two guards’ faces.

Devon had simply piled the unconscious men head over heels down twenty steep steps. It had been noisy, but relatively effortless, and he felt that minimum strain was important in his present condition. Their armour had protected them from the worst of the fall. Now somewhat bashed and scraped, it gleamed dully in the glow of the flames.

The men were groggy but awake; chained back to back around one of the girders supporting the weight of the rooms stacked above. One was young, soft-skinned, but broad as a wrestler; the other, probably his lieutenant, had the look of a worn veteran with too many cold morning patrols etched in his face. The dog was sniffing around the rear of the basement.

“How are you feeling?” Devon asked, his tone cheerful from habit. It was important to seem polite, important that the men felt—as much as possible given the circumstances—that he was a potential ally whose actions were outside of his control. But it was also necessary to cause friction between the pair from the beginning, for he had not the time or energy to interrogate them separately. Easier if he could turn them against each other. The more he learned about them, the more harm he could potentially cause them, and pain, after all, had always been at the core of Devon’s work.

“My chest,” the younger guard gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

Devon nodded. “You probably broke a rib when you fell down the stairs. I doubt it’s serious, though, and I may have an unguent upstairs to ease the pain.”

The veteran squinted into the harsh light