by Liz Williams
Later, when Deed had gone, Perra once more opened the hole in the wall. Mercy had been on tenterhooks throughout Deed’s visit; she had been sure he would notice the damaged sigil. But he had given no sign of having done so and now, for him, it would be too late. Mercy left her mute, unresponsive double sitting in her place with the book and fled through the wall.
This led them to the point of rescuing the sword. Mercy knew they had to act fast: it was only a matter of time before Deed or someone else discovered her escape and sounded the alarm.
“The library? Do you think he’d have put it in there?”
“I can find my way back,” Perra said, “if we need.”
But first, the roof. The two books were still where Mercy had left them, on the ledge by the window. Then they raced around the passages, down steps and up stairs. The library door was opening. As Mercy flattened herself behind a wall hanging, the door banged and the disir girl came out, heels clicking. Today she wore a gown of grey velvet and her face was once more remote and cold. She was writing something on a pad as she walked.
As soon as she had gone, Mercy slipped into the room. The same rows of grimoires; the same air of fermenting occult strangeness. The Irish sword lay on a slab of slate, bound in silver. Mercy reached out and wrenched it free. Moments later, an alarm sounded, shrieking at astral level throughout the building. She did not know, and cared less, whether it was as a response to the theft of the sword or in answer to her own escape. With Perra at her heels, she ran out of the lab. A door at the far end led onto an outside balcony, which opened onto the same courtyard that had come close to being decorated by Mercy’s plummeting body the day before. It was perhaps ten feet to the ground. Mercy ran along the balcony and at the end a door opened and the white gibbon-thing from the dungeons was loosed. It screamed, bounding towards her. As it leaped, Mercy skewered it with the sword, gutting it mid-flight. The monkey-devil howled and like the homunculus, wizened around the blade, diminishing until only a few bloody white ribbons fluttered about the hilt. The sword cried out in triumph; Mercy was not inclined to tell it to shut up. She ran to the end of the balcony and looked through the door. The Court was now chaotic with shouting and running footsteps. Mercy sprang over the rail and dropped down to the courtyard, trying to orient herself. The outer perimeter wall of the Citadel had been visible through the windows of the laboratory: that meant that the main square lay directly ahead and they were at ground level. Mercy ran through a door, down a passage, and came out into the atrium.
“Shut the doors!” she heard someone shout, but it was too late. Mercy threw herself through the iron doors of the Court and rolled down the outside steps into the square. She dodged into the maze of passages that ran between the Court and its neighbours, and was swallowed by the city.
Forty-Six
Shadow stood alone in the middle of the Khaureg. From the position of the sun, it was late afternoon. The sky was a hot burn of blue above her, and the distant dunes were ringing and singing as they shifted. There was no sign of the garden of flowers, of the storm-swarming abyss, of the angel or the demon. Why had Elemiel taken a risk that had nearly killed her? But he had said the guard should not have been able to see them: presumably because they were with Elemiel himself, and he was allowed to walk there. Then she wondered how vulnerable she had really been. She wasn’t quite human any more, after all.
On the western horizon she could see the walls of Worldsoul, with the golden crescent moons of the Eastern Quarter rising above. Facing the city, there was no chance of losing it. Tears came to her eyes and she clenched her fingers around the hilt of the sun-and-moon blade. She had wondered if she would ever see it again, and now-
It was dusk when she walked through the Desert Gate. The evening bustle of the Medina lay ahead. Shadow felt as if she had been gone for years, and she did not trust the Messenger’s view of time. When she checked the great water clock that stood at the entrance to the Medina, however, she found that she had been gone for three days, as she had thought. She let go of a breath that she did not know she had been holding and walked into the Medina.
“Shadow!” She turned at her name. Sephardi came out of a dark doorway, smiling. “I haven’t seen you for days. There was talk… ”
Shadow returned the smile. “There’s always talk.”
He looked at her. “You smell of the Khaureg.”
“I’ve been-outside the walls.” She probably simply smelled, Shadow thought with distaste.
“Mariam Shenudah has been asking about you.”
“I was going to see her,” Shadow said.
Three days, but it was not just that it felt longer. She felt no hunger and only a little thirst. There had been a shift, a reorganisation of her guiding principles. She’d gone to get rid of a spirit and she’d found a war. Even the Shah could be regarded from a different perspective: a potential ally, or part of the problem? The sight of the café destroyed in the flower attack, charred and with its walls still reeking of smoke, only hardened her resolve. She needed advice and if Shenudah was unable to give it, she would at least know where it was to be found.
Mariam worked throughout the night, but it was early enough for her to be out and about, catching up with Medina cronies. Shadow found her on her own doorstep, unlocking the door.
“Shadow!”
“I need to talk to you,” Shadow said. Sephardi had melted away into the Medina, pleading urgent business, and she had been relieved: it was not precisely that she did not trust him, but he conveyed rumours. It was his job and she did not begrudge him that, but she thought the news of what she had been shown in the desert needed more careful handling than being scattered around the Medina like blown leaves. And not much stayed in the Medina, either: fermenting in its crucible, information became alchemically transformed, eliding and changing, until, released, it sprang forth into the city. Had Sephardi gone straight to the Shah? Quite possibly so.
Mariam, however, knew how to keep her mouth shut. When they were behind her locked door, and Shadow had, with some gratitude, accepted the ritual of tea, she told Shenudah what had happened. She had some concern that Mariam might not believe her, but the other woman listened without expression.
“I’ve heard of the Pass of Ages once. It’s in a very old text that was brought with the Library when it came from Alexandria. It’s said that Eden fell into it after Adam was thrown out.”
“Eden apparently did.”
“The story of Eden has many variations. Some of the oldest say it was born from the desert. Historians are starting to think it was a real place, a forest that formed a wild garden for the early peoples of the Fertile Crescent. There would have been areas they’d seed and tend: the Fall came when they gained knowledge and tried to control it. They destroyed the balance and the Garden died.”
“That doesn’t account for the Pass.”
“But if what the angel told you is true, it’s part of the overlight.”
“Who are the Storm Lords?”
“In legend they are the children of Lilith, who is herself many entities-the Lilitu. They’re bird demons, storm devils. They came into being when Lilith, who was Adam’s first wife, left Eden on her own because Adam tried to control her. Who can blame her? She danced with demons in the desert and bred with them to produce the storm children.”
“So Lilith left Eden of her own free will, and when Eden fell, her children came back to make use of it?”
“Perhaps. Someone’s attacking this city, after all, and the Storm Lords are ancient enemies of mankind.”
“How do we stop them?” Shadow asked.
“I think you need to pay a visit to the Library,” Mariam Shenudah said.
That night, Shadow had a dream. She was back in her own rooms, with mingled reluctance and relief. Mariam had offered her a bed for the night, but given that so many things were trying to kill her, Shadow was unwilling to place the older woman in further danger. Shenudah was the closest thing remaining to family, and she�
��d lost too much already. So she had come home, to spend a weary hour re-warding the laboratory, followed by a bath-essential after three days in the desert, it had been amazing that Mariam had let her in through the door-and finally going to bed.
In the dream, she was once again out in the desert, and she knew despair at the realisation that the return to Worldsoul had been the illusion, and this the reality. She had not escaped, but was once again in that unknown place, where the tides of time shifted like the dunes. Elemiel’s beehive hut, undamaged, stood before her. It was night, with the stars thick overhead.
The man came up the path towards her. She had a curious rush of feelings: hope, resentment, desire, shame. The young man was tall and wore black robes. His face was beautiful: symmetrical, with high cheekbones and liquid dark eyes. His skin was the colour of gold and it shone. He wore no headgear and his hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a short black beard.
“Who are you?” Shadow said. He touched his brow and she saw a fillet of gold around it. She was sure that this had not been there before.
“I am a prince,” the young man said. His face was grave. He reached out and Shadow stepped back.
“Do not touch me,” she said.
“I know you are a virtuous woman. I mean no disrespect. But I am within you.”
“You’re the spirit who is in my blood?”
“Yes.” He bowed. “I did not intend to possess you. But I have to hide.”
“In me?”
“A human is the best hiding place. They’re surprisingly difficult to see into.”
“What are you hiding from?”
“Everyone.”
“Why?”
The spirit drew his right hand up and in it was a scimitar. It shone in the moonlight, fire-bright.
“I am the scabbard and the blade,” he said, and before Shadow could stop him, or say anything, he raised his arm above his head, reversed the hilt in his hand and plunged the scimitar into his own skull. It vanished and at that moment Shadow understood that both scimitar and man were part of the same thing, just as Gremory was both girl and beast and both, and all demon.
“How do I get rid of you?” she said to the spirit, and he-the Prince of the Air-began to spin, whirling around in a dervish-wheel of dust and air. Then he was gone, winking out. A single drop of blood fell glistening to the desert earth. And Shadow woke up.
Forty-Seven
The disciplinary committee hearing was remarkably tedious, and a waste of valuable time. Eventually, since Mercy herself could not, Nerren took issue with the Elders.
“You don’t have any proof that she was even there. Deed was lying. He said they kept her in a chamber, but there’s no record of it. She’s here now, isn’t she?”
Mercy, sitting in the interrogation chair, forced herself to stop staring out of the window and look helpful.
“Then why undertake such a rigmarole?”
“Because the Court is trying to make trouble. That’s what it does. They’re magicians. They’re tricksters.”
“With the Skein gone”-and you lot dithering-“they’ve seen that there’s a power vacuum and they’re trying to take advantage,” Mercy said.
“But why do they think you were trying to burgle their premises?”
Round and round it went, but in the absence of proof, and with Nerren backing her up, they eventually placed Mercy on a three-day suspension.
Good. Now I can do what I want.
Back in Nerren’s office, the other woman looked at Mercy. “What did you think you were doing?”
“I can’t tell you.” That much was true. She could feel the geas binding her tongue. Presumably it would only be over when she delivered the book. “But it’s to do with that business with Section C.”
Nerren rolled her eyes. “I might have known.”
“And I’d like to say that I know what I’m doing, but I don’t. I wish I did.”
“That’s very reassuring, Mercy.”
“I’m off for three days. That means you won’t have to worry about me.”
A snort. “As if. What are you planning to do?”
“Some light reading,” Mercy said.
Darya’s purloined book was about the disir. It was old, though not nearly as old as the text from which the thing had come, and it was both in English and surprisingly informative. Mercy read it over tea in her office at the Library, paying close attention. She could tell that a lot of it was conjecture, and yet more of it, legend. But the kernels of the story were there, the seeds of truth from which the myths had grown.
The old god, chained.
Poison dripping from a serpent’s mouth.
The Ladies, who came from before the ice.
And a name: Mareritt. The Ladies’ enemy.
All of these things were connected to the disir. What had become of the one who had leaped through a story-gap into the Library, and run out into the city? The one whose hand Shadow had cut off?
Mercy had tried to contact Shadow since then, but without success. The alchemist seemed to have gone to ground. She’d tried again. But Shadow was not there, or was not answering.
Perra, leaf-light, jumped onto the desk.
“Do we go home, tonight?” the ka asked.
“No. It’s not safe. I’ve angered Deed; we’re safer here.”
Safer, if not wholly safe. She did not have total confidence in the Library’s defences, but it would be a lot easier to hide here than in her house. She could sleep on the couch in her office; she’d done it often enough. Nerren had agreed to tell the Elders that she’d gone to a friend’s for the days of her suspension, though she was not banned from the Library’s premises. There were stories of people who lived in the Library, after all: hiding out among the stacks, venturing out at night when all was silent. Living off crumbs and flakes of tales, so faint that they were almost ghosts…
As she had told Nerren, Mercy planned to do a little late reading.
When everything was quiet, and the Library had been locked for the night, Mercy ventured out of her office. The slam of the huge main doors was still echoing throughout the building and she caught sight of one of the night staff whisking down a corridor. Mercy waited until the man had gone, then climbed the stairs. The ghostly spirit birds were beginning to flutter down to their invisible roost; she could see the last golden fire of the sun reflected on the tall windows.
She headed for Section C. The sword was at her side, and she had re-applied the sigils on her brow. Pity about the ward bracelets that she’d lost to Deed; she was cross about those. She had another pair, old and in silver, an apprenticeship gift from Sho. She did not like to wear them for everyday use; they were too fine, but on the other hand, these were exceptional circumstances and Mercy felt these bracelets had more power. Fortunately, she kept them in a locked drawer of her desk rather than at home. She had taken them from the black velvet interior of their box as though armouring for battle.
Which in fact, she was. Deed: Game on.
She was looking for one of the translators on the Ninth Floor. She did not think that Mareritt was anyone’s friend but her own, but she’d be interested to see what there was to be found in The Winter Book. When she got to the locked stacks, therefore, she sat down at the translator, put the book under its thick glass panel, and began to turn its brass handle.
Paper spewed out of the other side and Mercy looked at it with interest. It was a book of fairy tales, like The Red Fairy Book and The Green Fairy Book. She found again the story of Jan and the dove. She remembered that in the tale, Mareritt’s sleigh was drawn by swans, not deer; she wondered if it was significant. And another tale, too, of a ship made of ice that sails the northern seas, crewed with the ghosts of drowned sailors. The original had delicate watercolour illustrations behind a thin film of tissue paper. Here was the ship and-yes!-a picture of Mareritt in her sledge, running over the ice. Clouds of mist steamed out of the mouths of her deer and Mareritt’s face was beautiful and cold. The ship was pl
unging among the floes.
Mercy read the story. It was not clear if Mareritt was heroine or villain: she saved the ship, but for her own reasons. This ambivalence did not seem to bother the author, concerned mainly with the protagonist of his story, the ghost of a young cabin boy. But at the end of the tale, Mareritt told the boy something useful: If you need me again, call my name three times in moonlight and I will come.
All right, thought Mercy. We’ll see if that works. Anyway, Mareritt would want to see her, wouldn’t she? Mercy had been successful: she had obtained The Winter Book. It was too early as yet: the sun had only just gone down. But she would be able to see the moon’s rise from the top of the building easily enough. The geas gave a twinge.
She put the book back in its place and locked up. Walking down the next row of stacks, she heard a sound.
Night watchman? Probably. But the sound did not come again, as if someone was keeping still. Mercy drew the sword. She tiptoed along the row of books, paused, waited. Nothing.
Then a floorboard creaked. Mercy turned and was struck blind. Something billowed over her head, shutting off sight and hearing. The sword was entangled and she could not strike.
Then it was whisked away.
“Sorry!” Shadow said. “I didn’t realise it was you.”
“We’re going to have to tell the Elders,” Mercy said, some minutes later. They were sitting back in her office. Shadow, unveiled, looked haunted. She wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, with an indigo tunic over it, and loose blue trousers. Her feet were booted. She looked weary: unsurprising, if what she had told Mercy was the truth.
“Mariam Shenudah is taking it to the imams and the magi of the University,” Shadow said. “She has contacts: they’ll listen to her.”
“It ought to go to the city council,” Mercy remarked. “Oh wait, we haven’t got one. The Citadel doesn’t count-all they do is pointless inspections which have to be written up in triplicate.”
Shadow sighed. “Maybe this is heresy of a kind, but I’m beginning to realise what a stranglehold the Skein have had on this city.”
