“Good lad.” Emlin hops off the stool and runs upstairs. Moving silently, even on the creaky wooden stairs. Good lad.
We’ll leave tonight, he thinks.
But the spy’s older than Alic. Colder and cleverer. Alic’s just a name, a smile, a stance. A few lines of background, a handful of lies. His whole identity is as fragile as a spider’s web–and it’s anchored here in Guerdon. Everyone who knows Alic is here. He’s a creature of the city.
And without those anchors he’s so weak that the the spy can brush him away. Discard a disguise that’s no longer needed. He slips out of the kitchen door, locking it behind him. Every step he takes away from Jaleh’s makes the spy feel more like himself. It’s liberating–but he still needs a mask to wear. It’s not yet time for the spy to move openly.
Alic’s last job is to move a barrel in the alleyway, rolling the heavy container along until it blocks the old coal chute. No more secret ways out.
Alic is a liability, the spy decides. Live your cover is good advice for mortal spies, but he’s gone too far. Created a false life, a false name that’s become too real. He has to end it.
Walk away. Kill your cover.
Alic can join X84 and Sanhada Baradhin. Dead men without a grave.
So he becomes the priest again, slipping the rough cloth robe over his head, becoming old and tired. No–the priest’s bones are old, but they’re warmed by the aftermath of the Festival. The king has returned! The Kept Gods are waking from their long slumber! The priest would feel the change. He hurries along the alleyway, breathing heavily.
The priest mutters to himself. Castigates faithless beggars and godless pickpockets as he climbs the twisted stairs of the New City. Wild-eyed, utterly fervent, utterly sure of his righteousness–live your cover– he finds a city watch sentry on the Street of Shrines.
I will tell you such a tale, says the priest.
Eladora stands in the rain, the fiery sword in her hands smokes with her mother’s blood. Heaven-forged steel armours her; her heart feels like it’s a blazing sun, flooding her with infinite light.
Men, armed men, appear out of the gloom. Eladora recognises some of them, faces out of nightmare. They’re the ones who attacked her before, on Sevenshell Street. They say nothing, but they surround her, weapons ready, but not daring to come too close to a saint. To her.
Another one approaches, dressed in clerical robes. This priest drags a prisoner with him, a young man, of an age with the flower girl. His other hand holds a long-barrelled rifle. The sniper, Eladora guesses, the one who shot Terevant. The priest drops the boy to the ground, and rests the heavy weapon on his shoulder. Eladora recognises him too, and he knows her.
“Eladora Duttin!” shouts Sinter, and it works like a spell. She feels the gods withdraw from her mind–not completely, but it’s enough to ground her. The broken sword hilt is a broken sword hilt. Her clothes stay her long-suffering, travel-stained dress and cloak, not shining armour.
Sinter grins at her, showing broken teeth. “Well, that was a bit fucking touch and go there. Thanks be to the gods that the gamble paid off, though. And what a prize!”
He glances down at Silva’s body. “This isn’t on me, understand. This is on them. They fucking brought this on us. The gods. Still, I warned your mother not to cross me. Bloody awkward woman.” He shrugs. “Heal her.”
“W-w—”
“Heal. Her.” One of the other men points a gun at Eladora. “I’ve seen bloody Aleena do it. If she can, you can. Lingering grace, am I right?”
“I can’t.”
“She’s your fucking mother,” says Sinter. “Try. Blessed Mother of Mercies, heal those who come to thee for solace, aye?”
Eladora bends down, next to her mother’s body. There’s a strange heat in her fingers–and the words of a prayer to the Mother of Mercies come to mind instantly. She recites them, and grace flows through her, honey-sweet and warm. Silva’s wound closes.
“Not too much, now.” Sinter tries to push Eladora’s hand away, but she’s too strong for him to do it easily. He has to use both hands to move her arm. “Don’t want her waking up and causing a fucking fuss, do we? None of us want that. Look, I’m sorry I had to do this, but what choice did I have?”
“Y-y-you used me.” Eladora was already spiritually wounded, open to the gods. She’d channelled the Kept Gods before. Sinter took advantage of the connection, used her to confuse the gods. Giving her Saint Aleena’s own sword, bringing her close to her mother–and Eladora looking more like Silva every day. Enough to fool the Kept Gods. They’re so fucking beautiful, it breaks my heart, Aleena told her once, and so fucking stupid, I want to smash them.
Unable to distinguish between Eladora and Silva, the gods split their gift of sainthood between the two–weakening Silva enough for Sinter to bring her down.
“Aye. Can’t have a rabid dog on the streets. Can’t have a madwoman riling up the gods. But I swear to you she’ll be spared,” says Sinter. He raises his voice. “How are the others?”
Sinter’s men have spread out across the street. One by Cari. “Still alive.”
One by the flower-saint. “Here, too. Barely.”
“All right, do her, too,” orders Sinter. They bring the broken form of the flower-saint over, lie her down next to Silva’s unconscious body. It’s harder for Eladora to summon the power this time, but she manages it. The flower girl gasps for aid, then turns over and vomits a mix of bile, blood and petals. She stares in terror at the unfamiliar faces surrounding her.
Sinter drags the boy over, dumps him next to the girl. She reaches for him, but Sinter’s boot blocks her.
“Fucking Safidist idiots. First whiff of sainthood and they think they’re the fucking chosen ones.” He slaps the boy away. “Right, you little Safidist idiot. You work for me, now? Not her!” He gestures at Silva’s unconscious body. “For me! For the true Church. Understand?”
The boy shakes his head. Mouths the words “false priest” through bloodied lips.
Sinter gestures. One of Sinter’s men draws a dagger across the boy’s throat. Blood, again, in a terrible red gush. Eladora reaches forward, her fingers burning with healing magic, but the killer has a gun in his hand and clucks his tongue. She recognises him from Sevenshell Street. Sinter’s men planted Vanth’s body, she thinks. She wants to tell Terevant, but he’s bleeding to death a few feet away in the house behind her.
Sinter kneels down next to the girl, grabs her head with his hands, forces her to look as the boy dies. “Now, child, you work for me, now, see? You’re their saint, but you work for me. Fucking swear it, by the Mother.”
She nods, helplessly. Eladora wonders if she’s about to be forced to make the same oath.
“I swear by the Mother,” says the flower-saint, and Sinter grins with his broken teeth.
“Sweet child,” he says, kissing her on the forehead. “Pray for me. Pray for him, too.”
Eladora stares sullenly at the priest. “I should heal Carillon, too.” She can feel the connection to the Kept Gods slipping away. She could fight to keep it and the power it brings, but she remembers her mother’s madness. That’s what lies at the end of that path.
“Heal Carillon?” echoes Sinter. “Fuck no.”
“Kill her?” suggests the gunman.
Sinter stands, looks at the towers burning in the distance. “Last time I tried that, it cost me two fingers, and that was before she was proper sainted. No, let’s keep her alive until we know how to safely dispose of her.” He raises his voice, addressing his men. “All right. This one—” nudging Cari with his foot, “to Hark. Have her put in the deep cells, mind you. With the special prisoners.” He nods at the flower-saint. “Bring our new little sister to the House of Saints, and keep her there. Proper rites and offerings. Dump that dead one in the sea, weight ’im with stones. And Mrs Duttin goes back in her box, aright?” He takes out a little vial of what looks like smelling salts, uncorks it, and tucks it into the bloodied remains of Silva’s clothin
g. Silva stirs but doesn’t wake. He does the same with Carillon.
“A friend of mine’s been shot. He’s inside,” says Eladora. “May I go to him, please?”
Sinter rises, circles around. He glances inside the half-house and laughs. “My! We’ve found the runaway, too!”
Two more of Sinter’s men hurry over, pick Terevant up.
“What do we do with him, boss? Bring him back to the embassy?”
Sinter considers. “Nah. Fuck that turd Lemuel. Bring him to the palace, let Lyssada Erevesic have him. Call him a consolation prize.”
“The Erevesic sword isn’t here,” observes one of them.
“I have had enough of swords,” says Sinter, kicking away what remains of Silva’s weapon. “They always leave a fucking mess.”
They carry Terevant past Eladora. He’s alive, but very pale and shivering. Blood drips on the ground. “Heal him, too,” orders Sinter.
She complies. What else can she do? She could try to call down armour from heaven, to beg a blessing from Saint Storm, but one mistake would end her, and she feels hollow. Defeated. She pushes her fingers into the bloody well of the wound, feels the hard shape of the bullet, and concentrates. The power flows more slowly this time, reluctantly, but it still works. Heat rushes from her, and his flesh spasms, pushing back against her. Forcing her fingers back out, the bullet and all its little shards with it. The wound closes, leaving an ugly red scar like a brand.
She takes the handkerchief that Sinter offers her, wipes an ocean of blood from her hand. She feels faint, and shivery.
They carry Terevant away into the night. The armed men vanish in twos and threes. Silva’s taken away. The flower-saint is wrapped in a robe of samite cloth and carried reverently down the street by men who look like mercenaries, but sing like choristers. Cari, in chains, is brought down a different road to the sea.
Until it’s just Eladora, and Sinter, and the man with the gun.
She wants to be as brave as Cari. To find that strength she felt earlier. But that gun doesn’t waver.
Sinter picks up Cari’s knife, tests its balance. “And what are we to do with you, Ms Duttin? That boy was unreasonable, and I had to end him. Your mother wouldn’t listen, and I had to use you to counter her, divert the gods’ blessing into a more… reasonable vessel. I take no pleasure in this work. I’m just trying to do the best for my city. Same as you, I think.” He sighs. “Are you going to be awkward, too?”
“I-I—”
“If you stammer I will end you.”
Eladora swallows. “You still need Kelkin. You need Kelkin more than ever–if the church wins the election, who’s going to run the city? You? A puppet from Haith?”
“Need is a dangerous word, but… aye, a steady hand and familiar face would make what’s to come easier,” says Sinter. “Can you get him?”
She looks him in the eye and lies. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Give me the sword.”
He takes Aleena’s hilt back from her. Wipes it off, kisses it, puts it away inside his robe. “Back to the House of Saints with this, too.” Sinter appraises Eladora. “I don’t think you’ll end up there. Not if you’re sensible.”
Sinter stoops and plucks a few flowers that sprout, miraculously, from a pool of blood. Their stems have intertwined, making them grow in a ring. A crown.
“The blessings of the Festival on you, child. Rejoice. It’s going to be a good harvest.”
And then he’s gone, leaving her alone in the rain as the towers blaze in the distance.
CHAPTER 35
That night, as the spy walks back along the docks to the House of Jaleh, the sky’s on fire. The New City’s burning.
Are they here at last? thinks the spy. Crowds gather, looking up at the blazing towers, but the spy alone rushes to the railing, looks out across the dark water. No–Queen’s Point is unchanged. There’s no corresponding flurry of activity there, no rush to battle stations. The city’s not under attack–at least, not by some external invader. His sacrifice isn’t too late.
Alic would go up there. Alic would want to help. And it’s better that the priest vanish again, he’s given the watch all they need to know. He removes the priest’s robe, throws it into the sea.
He puts on the Alic identity like a mask, but it now feels stretched and ill fitting. His movements awkward, the cadence of his speech is off. Still, at night, no one will notice.
As Alic, the spy hurries up to the fires, running along the same streets that the priest limped along. Becomes part of a stream of citizens who rush towards the flames. Alchemical wagons push through the crowd, carrying tanks of fire-quenching foam. The spy clambers aboard one of the tanks, helps direct operations. Rallying the people. He plunges into one burning building after another, pulling victims from the fire. Vanishing into the smoke again and again. He’s heedless of the danger to his own life, onlookers whisper admiringly.
He works through the night. Later, they’ll say that it was Alic’s leadership that saved hundreds of people, that without him the disaster would have been much worse. That he fought to save the New City.
Towards dawn, it seems to snow. He stops, wondering if this is a miracle.
Then he touches one of the flakes, and it crumbles rather than melts. It’s ash, falling from a thousand burning election posters.
Silkpurse finds the spy among the soot-streaked crowds. She comes rushing up to meet him, bounding on all fours. Breathless with alarm.
“Alic! The watch!” she yowls, gasping for air amid the lingering smoke. “Someone talked. Jaleh. Harbouring dangerous saints.”
Alic wouldn’t hesitate. Alic doesn’t know what’s happening, but he trusts his friend, so he would break into a run. He’d sprint downhill, through the narrow streets, towards the House of Jaleh. So, the spy does likewise, even though acting as Alic doesn’t come as naturally as it did before. He can’t bring himself to run headlong–it would spoil everything if he actually rescued the boy in time. No, he runs just slowly enough to miss the nick of time.
The House of Jaleh crawls with ghouls. Like a stone turned over, revealing the worms beneath. The ghouls scurry out of doors and windows, sniff the ground, jabber to one another. As the sun rises over the city, they whimper and cower, retreating to the shadows. They stink of the underworld. They’re not young surface ghouls like Silkpurse; they’re middle-ghouls, they haven’t seen daylight in decades. But they’re here now. City watch, too, soldiers with guns, lending a legal imprimatur to the whole affair.
Jaleh’s in the courtyard, arguing with a huge horned ghoul. An elder, much larger, much older, much stronger than its kin. The spy guesses that’s Lord Rat. It’s a one-sided argument. Not only does the ghoul reply by speaking through Jaleh, but his responses are monosyllabic. Whatever her concerns are, it dismisses them with a shrug.
Even from a distance, he can sense the terrible power of the creature. It has senses far beyond those of any mortal. Those yellow eyes see things that should be invisible.
“Alic, you’ve got to talk to him! I can’t make him listen!” urges Silkpurse.
The elder ghoul stirs. Heaves its massive bulk past Jaleh, extending its long hoofed legs. Stepping out of the little garden in front of the house in a single stride, turning down the street away from them.
“WHO IS THIS ONE?” says Silkpurse, but it’s not her voice coming out of her mouth. Her eyes narrow. She studies the spy for a long moment.
Deflect, he thinks. “I’m a candidate for the Industrial Liberals in this ward,” he declares. Finds a soot-stained leaflet in his pocket, shoves it in Silkpurse’s face, so whatever’s looking through her eyes can see the stippled picture. “I demand to know what you’re doing to my constituents.”
—and then that terrible attention withdraws, and Silkpurse is herself again.
The elder ghoul laughs. It leaps onto a rooftop and vanishes into a thicket of chimneys.
“Alic, you have to go to Mr Kelkin! You’re Industrial Liberal now, they’l
l listen to you.” Silkpurse flaps her hands in panic, her claws ripping through her lace gloves.
Jaleh staggers up, pale and shaken. Her dragon-scaled hand is bleeding from a wound. “They took half the house. Arrested all my flock. The ghouls and city watch. All my sainted ones.”
“Emlin?”
“He… they could smell him. They broke into your room. He tried to run, to get out through the cellars, but they caught him. They took him.”
“Where?”
“The docks. They’re taking them to Hark Island.”
The detention camp for saints. The spy rejoices–the sacrifice has been accepted! The machine is in motion! The web of fate is inescapable now.
The spy’s triumph is certain.
But in that moment of triumph, he’s distracted.
It’s Alic who speaks. Alic whose stomach lurches, whose heart is frozen with panic and fear. Alic who thinks quicker, acts quicker than the spy.
Alic who grabs Silkpurse by the shoulders. “Arrest me!”
“What?”
“I’ve made a mistake! Tell them you smell sainthood! Tell them anything! Get me on that boat, quick! Arrest me!”
The boat of saints casts off from the docks, under the eyes of ghouls and the guns of the city watch. It is not the only boat to make the crossing to Hark Island this morning. The white wakes of a dozen more criss-cross the waters of the harbour.
Alic’s seated by the rail, watched over by more ghouls. The saints huddle in the middle of the deck. Some pray to gods too far away to listen. Others pray to gods that do not care. Alic can see the hunched shape of Emlin a few feet away, but they’ve put a cowl over his head, and restrained his hands with bonds of some rubbery alchemical slime. Alic raises his voice when demanding that one of the guards give him a blanket against the early morning chill, so the boy knows he’s there.
The spy has retreated. He’s fled far inside Alic, hiding in some dark crack in his mind. For now, he watches and waits. For now, the spy’s cover is alive, the mask moving of its own accord.
Driven by its hissing alchemical engine, the boat races across the harbour, threading its way past sandbars, past huge freighters, past barques and schooners, their sails furled as they wait for a tug. Off there is the Isle of Statues; on their left hand is the poisonous wasteland of Shrike.
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