Lye Street (6 page)

Ravencrag threw up his arms. "No way!"

Cope and Greene had thumped their fists on the phantasmacist's door for a good ten minutes before he'd admitted them. In the end, it had been Cope who'd persuaded the crooked little scholar to let them inside. He'd done this with some not-so-subtle threats.

The thaumaturge said, "I cannot retrieve Basilis without your help, Mr Ravencrag. A drop of your blood began the ritual, and so I require further drops from both of you gentlemen to proceed. We have escaped the Forest of Eyes, yet there are still the memories of another two hounds to explore."

"And there's your bonus to consider," Greene added.

"Sod the bonus," said Ravencrag. "I'm staying here."

"You forget," said Cope, "that my lord Basilis has seen you. He knows you were instrumental in releasing his vision from the dream of the first hound, albeit in a limited sense. He may even be grateful. Yet two aspects of the demon remain trapped, in the Forest of Teeth and the Forest of War. Would you have me explain to my master how you refused to proceed, how you abandoned him in his hour of need?"

"He has us there," said Greene.

Ravencrag stabbed a finger at him. "No. He has
you
there.
You
want to go back! There's only two Scar Nights left in the year and that fucking angel is going to come for your blood on one of them.
You've
got nothing to lose." He shook his head. "Sorry, Sal, but you're on your own. I won't do it."

"So be it," said Cope. "I wish you a long and happy life, Mr Ravencrag. Although, since you have chosen to make an enemy of my master, I doubt you'll have either."

"Wait a minute," Ravencrag said quickly. "You said that without both Sal's blood and mine you can't finish the ritual. Right? We can't release Basilis?"

"Correct."

The phantasmacist looked relieved. "Then having him as an enemy doesn't particularly worry me. What's the mutt going to do? Glare at me?"

"Mr Ravencrag, I don't think you understand. I intend to use your blood with or without your consent. My master would have looked more kindly upon you if the blood had been offered willingly." Cope unsheathed his gut-sticker.

"Hey! Just a–"

Cope jabbed the tip of the blade into Ravencrag's shoulder

"Ow!"

Cope brandished the weapon's bloody tip. "Thank you, Mr Ravencrag," he said. "Mr Greene and I will return when we need some more."

The phantasmacist grumbled and rubbed his shoulder. "Damn you, Cope, that hurt." He chewed his lips. "If I help you to release him... willingly, I mean. What'll happen to me?"

"Basilis may decide to reward you," replied Cope, "or he may punish you for all eternity."

Judging by the Ravencrag's expression, this was not the response he had hoped for. "And if I don't help to release him?"

"Certain punishment."

The phantasmacist thought for a long moment. Then he faced Greene. "You and your damn grimoire." he said.

A fierce northern wind dragged clouds across the heavens, obscuring stars and moon. Deepgate's chains whistled. In places streets and houses rocked gently in their ironwork cradles, while out in the League, the ropes and walkways flapped and creaked like rigging. The end of autumn often brought such winds from the north, carrying rain across the Deadsands and the promise of colder weather to come.

Carnival heard music.

An eerie melody floated across the chained city. Mournful yet discordant, the song seemed to rise and fall with the wind.

The angel had never heard anything so beautiful before. Curious, she flew towards the sound.

The district of Bridgeview encircled the Church of Ulcis. Whitewashed townhouses overlooked that moat of air and chains around the temple itself. Space here was limited, and the buildings had scrambled over each other's shoulders to fill it. Gables elbowed chimneystacks. Walls shouldered walls, nudging stonework this way and that. Windows glared at each other in mute defiance. Even the tangle of chains stitching it all together looked like the result of a war among weavers. It was an ongoing contest among the noble families who lived there, a slow but steady conflict waged over hundreds of years.

Normally Carnival would not have flown so close to the temple. Spine assassins used the naked foundation chains to travel to and fro that monstrous building. Yet the mournful music intrigued her. Swallowing her fears, she flew on, and soon discovered the source of the lament.

A terrace near the summit of a ramshackle dwelling had been filled with crystal wine flutes of various sizes, the vessels placed side by side so as to cover every inch of the paving stones. Gusts of wind plucked notes from this strange arrangement of glass and carried them out across the city rooftops. Was this intended to be a warning system against club-footed intruders? Such a measure seemed excessive given the proximity of the temple. Carnival crouched on the terrace balustrade and looked up at the vast dark building, at its gargoyles and crenellations and blazing windows. Scaffolding clung to the stonework, rising to reckless heights.

Each flute had been polished to high sheen. Light spilling under the roof terrace door illuminated crystal stems. Someone was inside the house. The angel almost fled back to the derelict places she had come to fear. But she stopped. Above the door, half obscured by ivy, an open hatch led to what appeared to be a storage space under the roof.

She padded along the balustrade and peered into the hole.

It was hardly an attic, more of a triangular tunnel, but it was invitingly gloomy. Carnival's uncanny vision probed the depths of it, but she couldn't see any messages.

She folded her wings against her back and climbed inside.

Silently, so as not to disturb the occupants in the rooms below, she crawled along the tunnel on her hands and knees. Through cracks in the floorboards she caught glimpses of a hallway leading back into the house.

The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, shaped like the inside of a pyramid. Apart from a water tank in one corner, the space was stuffed with thousands of rings. There were huge mounds of them, all gleaming gold and silver. Some boasted cut gemstones and elaborate filigree, while others were just plain.

Carnival picked one up and examined it. It was old and tarnished. On the inside it bore an engraving:

To E.B, with love.

She frowned, and replaced the ring on one of the piles.

Why would anyone hoard such trinkets?

And why leave the roof hatch open?

A creak from the room below grabbed her attention. Carnival froze. She listened for a long time, but heard no other sounds. The floor here was old and warped, allowing her to peer down through one of the gaps.

An opulent study lay below the attic, lit by brass gasoliers and a fire in a black stone hearth. Dyed catskin rugs covered the floorboards. Turning her head, the angel spied a bookcase, some shelves, and a display cabinet packed with brightly-coloured stuffed birds: yellow and green mottled songbirds, red tops, canaries, and the like. A second, larger, glass-fronted case rested against the opposite wall, this also full of exotic specimens. Between the cabinets, an elderly lady sat at a desk before the window drapes. She was facing away from Carnival, peering through a lens at something on her desk. Then she set the lens down, and cocked her head to one side, listening.

"Back again?" the old lady said. "I wondered when you'd return."

Carnival held her breath.

"There's no need to skulk up there in the attic." Her hair had been plaited and then woven into a grey knuckle and she wore a black frock with white frills at the cuffs and neck. Carnival could not see her face.

The old lady went on, "I won't harm you, dear. Why don't you go back the way you came and enter through the door? I'll dim the lights so they don't hurt your eyes, then we can chat like civilised people."

Carnival didn't know what to do. Her instincts told her to flee, but another darker part of her heart screamed for murder:
A trick! A trap! Silence the crone, now, before her cries alert the Spine.
This house lay too close to the temple. The attic floor would be easy enough to rip through. She could tear out the woman's neck and...

And what?

Where would Carnival go?

The crone rose from her seat. "Come now, go out and walk back in through the door like a sensible girl," she said in clipped, authoritative tones. "I'll make us a nice pot of tea."

Carnival hesitated.

A long moment passed. Finally the old lady said, "The rings are from the dead. Marriage rings. The priests retrieve them for me before casting the corpses into the abyss. They do this because I ask them to."

"Why?" The angel's voice sounded hoarse, strange to her own ears. She could not remember the last time she'd used it.

The old lady grunted. "Why do I ask them? Or why do they pander to my requests?"

Carnival said nothing.

"I ask them," the lady said, "because there is power in such objects. I believe we should keep a little of our dead back from God: just a trinket, some intimate little thing the soul has brushed on its way through life. By doing so we maintain a link with Him, so we can understand and love Him more. The priests bring me the rings because they have no conception of their true value. And because I provide a valuable service for them."

"What?"

The old lady sighed. "Your memory frustrates me," she said softly. "You should know me by now, dear. We have had this conversation many, many times before." Then she turned and looked directly up at the angel. She was a striking woman with a slender jaw and high cheek bones. Her gaze met Carnival's squarely, with no hint of fear or revulsion in her violet eyes.

Carnival thought there was something familiar about her.

The old lady smiled kindly. "Come down and talk with me, child. Some call me a witch, but you have no reason to fear or distrust me. My name is Ruby, and I knew your mother a long time ago."

Her mother?

"A thousand years ago," said Ruby. "Back when Deepgate's chains were forged, I made a promise to her to look out for you; to keep you safe if I could. I can help you, dear. I can make all that is ugly about you beautiful."

Carnival remained wary. She had no memory of her childhood or parents, even in her dreams. When she slept she dreamt of chains and knives and blood. More likely the witch meant Carnival harm. Everyone meant Carnival harm. Yet what if this old woman was speaking the truth? What was it about her face Carnival found so familiar?

I can help you, dear.

"I know you have been plagued by messages lately." Ruby's violet eyes twinkled. "They make demands of you, don't they? And you suspect you know who the author is, eh? Yet you're too afraid to accept the truth. Perhaps I can help to make the messages go away."

Outside, the crystal glasses trembled and chimed. Carnival retraced her steps through the attic and came back into the house through the roof terrace door, as she had been asked to do.

The witch's study was snug and smelled of lavender. Her display cabinets faced each other across the floor, the stuffed songbirds positioned on branches and twigs, all peering out with eyes that glittered like anthracite.

Ruby hung a kettle on a hook over the hearth, and then turned to face Carnival. "Oh my," she said. "Oh you poor child! I had forgotten how many darkmoons have passed since we last met, but I see every one of them now in the cuts on your face." She lifted a hand to touch Carnival's cheek.

Carnival recoiled.

The witch lowered her hand. "You mustn't be afraid. What harm can a frail old thing like me cause
you
,
the strongest of all angels?" Slowly, she brought her hand up again. This time Carnival did not flinch away.

"So many scars," murmured Ruby, running her fingers gently across the lesions on Carnival's cheek. "So many lives taken." She cupped the angel's chin softly in her hand. "This is a mask, child," she said softly, and then with vigour: "And if you can wear one mask, then surely you can wear another?" She released Carnival. "Let's forego the tea for now. We have a great deal of work to do, and I suggest we begin at once."

Carnival's skin tingled. She had never allowed another person to touch her before.

The witch became full of energy and determination. "We can cover the scars and lift that horrid pallor from your skin with make-up and rouge. Your hair? Hah! It's like a crow's nest! A wash and comb will soon fix that. Your eyes are quite pretty, in a dark, brooding sort of way. They just need a spot of colour around them. I have just what we need in my dresser."

She beckoned Carnival into the next room.

But the angel was looking at the desk where the witch had been sitting. A small bird had been fixed to its surface, the wings stretched out and secured to the wood with silver pins. One wing was dull and grey, but the other was quite beautiful, with brilliant hues of yellow and red. Then Carnival noticed the jars of colourful paint on a shelf beside the desk, and a pot full of tiny brushes, and she understood what had happened.

"A little hobby of mine," said the witch.

Carnival followed the old lady. At the door she glanced back one last time at the little painted bird, with its tiny dead eyes.