The Blood Debt: Books of the Cataclysm Two

by Sean Williams

  Highson went to say something, but Sal waved him silent.

  “That's what I thought. I know now that I was wrong. The tear wasn't how the Homunculus came into this world. If it was, I would have stopped feeling it ages ago, when it healed over. So the hole has to be the Homunculus itself. It's a rip in the fabric of things—a rip that's getting bigger, the longer it's here. I can still feel it, out there, somewhere.”

  Highson nodded. “I don't know anything about rips or tears, but I know we have to work out why it's here and what it wants. It saved me—once in the Void and then again in the desert. I'm bonded to it now. It owes me an explanation.” He took a deep breath. “I can't go anywhere until I've got it.”

  Sal felt incredibly weary. “Then I guess I'll have to help you.”

  “No, Sal. You've done too much already.”

  “I can hardly leave you here at Marmion's mercy, can I? And I'm not letting you go off on another mad march across the country. Not on your own. There might be no one to rescue you at the end of that journey.”

  “Marmion thinks we're already there—that the Homunculus is going to come back to Laure, where it's been heading all this time. Don't you agree?”

  Sal thought of what he had seen in the last moments before his connection with Kail had snapped, and shook his head. It wasn't the time to tell anyone about that. “I think,” he said, “that if the Magister decides to formally charge us with something, the point will be completely moot.”

  Highson nodded, looking puzzled at first, then letting the subject go. His gaze drifted back out to the city's drowned carriageways and paths. A handful of miners were circling in the quiet morning air, examining the damage. The eagles hadn't returned to the top of Observatory Tower.

  Sal felt bruised and empty inside, as though part of himself had been forcibly ripped from him. What that part was, he didn't know for certain: the memory of rejection; or perhaps the wounded pride that had clung to that memory for five years; or something else entirely. But its absence ached in him. He felt hunched over, persistently askew although he tried to sit straight.

  “It's going to take them a while to work out whether to be happy or not,” Highson said.

  “Who?”

  “The people who live here. They wanted water, and now they've got it. But at what cost? How will they make their living with the Divide flooded? I don't envy them the next few months.”

  Neither did Sal. But, looking at his father rather than the view, he understood that Highson was lying.

  Word came at lunchtime that the Magister would conduct a hearing the next morning in order to decide the fate of the visitors to the city. Sal, already chafing at having been cooped up for so long, didn't know how to take the news. On the one hand, he was glad that the wheels of Laure's bureaucracy were turning quickly. On the other, he was nervous of what the Magister's decision would be. If it went well for them, they could be freed by noon. If it went badly, they might never see the sun again. Or worse.

  In order to keep himself occupied, he sought out the hostel owner and asked for a favour.

  “What do you people want now?” Urtagh exclaimed, hands raised in a dramatic gesture, the veins in his ruddy jowls primed to pop. “More food? My best wine? My daughter? And why not? You've cast my business into disrepute. The guards have sealed the doors so paying customers can't get in. Take what's left, why don't you? I'm already ruined!”

  Sal soothed him. “You'll be compensated. Don't worry. The Alcaide's pockets are deep.”

  “You say that now. How are you going to pay your bill if you're locked in a dungeon?”

  “Is that all you can think of? What about the extra business that's going to come through here with the Divide flooded? People will be able to cross anywhere now, not just at Tintenbar and the Lookout. There'll be a fishing industry, tourism, and trade. You'll make up your losses in a week!”

  Urtagh was only slightly mollified. “Okay, okay. How can I help you? I'm all out of playing cards.”

  “I want a stick. A straight one, tall enough to walk with.”

  Urtagh eyed him grumpily. “What for?”

  “Just put it on the bill. I'll charm that smoky fireplace of yours if it comes within the hour.”

  It came in half that time, not the best piece of silky oak he could have hoped for but perfectly straight and just the right height. When he had finished with the fireplace, Sal unfolded the pocketknife he kept under the false bottom of his pack and began to carve.

  “Don't act so disappointed,” said Marmion in a peevish voice. “I may not look like much, but it's going to take a lot more than this to put me out of action. Stubbornness runs in my mother's side of the family.”

  Marmion glanced down at where his right hand used to be, then back up again. His eyes were red-rimmed but determined. Only the greyness of his skin indicated that he had been on the threshold of death at least twice in the previous day, according to his healers.

  Sal was watching Shilly, who had opened her mouth to say something, perhaps about Marmion's mother's family. She held the pose for a heartbeat, then pursed her lips and leaned with both hands on her new walking stick.

  Just moments earlier, word had come that Marmion was awake and working on their appeal to the Magister. They had hurried to the communal dining area to find him propped up with cushions and his arm in a sling, still dressed in a nightgown. His mood was one of defensive dignity. Every now and again he went to use his right hand, and through that tiny chink in his armour Sal glimpsed a world of hurt.

  “I'm sorry,” said Skender.

  “So am I,” Marmion said without looking at him, “but there's no point dwelling on trivialities when we've lost the Homunculus, a far more important thing than one hand. How are we going to ensure that we remain free to find it?”

  Almost everyone was present to work on that question, seated on chairs, benches, and tabletops around the makeshift stretcher Marmion occupied. There had, apparently, been a huge row with the guards over Mawson. During the attack of the man'kin, they had insisted on taking the bust into captivity. Fearing that he would end up smashed to pieces by some disgruntled captain, Abi Van Haasteren had pointed out that a creature with neither arms nor legs was unlikely to do any damage to anyone. The guards had reluctantly acquiesced and let him stay.

  The only person missing was Chu. As a Laurean citizen, she required different treatment from the visitors—and nothing Skender could say made a difference. In her absence, he was like an overwound spring, too full of energy to relax but with no way of letting off steam. Sal still didn't know exactly what was going on between the two, and he suspected Skender didn't, either. That ambiguity only contributed to the awfulness of waiting.

  Censers burned incense in all four corners of the room, filling it with the smoky scent of desert plum.

  “Unfortunately,” said Marmion, “the Magister is well within her rights to press charges. We did subvert her authority and break the laws of this city. The Alcaide can apply pressure for clemency, later, but that doesn't help us right now. We don't know how much time we have. Even a single night might cost us dearly.”

  “You're still going to go through with it?” asked Shilly. “After all we've learned?”

  “What we have learned only increases my certainty that the Homunculus is dangerous. It must be stopped.”

  “And how exactly do you think you're going to accomplish that without Kail?”

  “It must be coming to Laure. Its path led right here, and the flood will only have delayed it. We have to be ready for it when it arrives.” Marmion's stare dared her to defy him. “I can assure you that we are perfectly capable, even without Kail.”

  With his left index finger, he drew a shape on the table in front of him: a D lying on its back, as large as a small book. Sal heard a faint buzzing and knew instantly what Marmion was doing. Before the warden had completed the sign, his finger was tracing it through a faint layer of dew.

  Marmion was using the Change. />
  A gasp went up from the other wardens. Abi Van Haasteren raised an eyebrow. Shom Behenna's scowl deepened. Breaking the oaths of the Novitiate was a serious matter. For that alone, Behenna had been stripped of his rank and sent into exile. Sal couldn't tell exactly how he was doing it, but whether Marmion was using the power of the deeper desert or the bloodwork of the yadachi, it ran against everything the man had been taught: that in the Interior, a Sky Warden was too far from the sea to use the Change.

  “The Divide is flooded,” Marmion explained. “Water has returned to the Interior. Nothing will be the same again.”

  Sal stood.

  “I'm afraid it's not going to be that simple.”

  Every eye in the room swivelled to focus on him. He didn't flinch from their scrutiny. The time had come to unburden himself, and to make sure the conversation wasn't diverted too far from what mattered.

  “What do you mean?” asked Marmion.

  “You're so certain that the twins are headed for Laure. Why? Yes, the city lies right in their path, and once we ruled out the Aad, this seemed like the only alternative. But Pirelius had to drag them here by force. They pressed constantly to be allowed to go elsewhere.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “You're not the only one who talked to Kail.”

  Marmion nodded. “I wondered about that. Go on.”

  “Just before the flood hit, Kail spoke to the Homunculus. You were injured, so you couldn't have heard what the twins said, and Skender was busy saving you.” Sal and Skender had agreed to keep the details of how Pirelius had died a secret, out of respect for the missing tracker. “I'm the only one who heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Kail asked the twins what they wanted at Laure. They said: nothing. He didn't believe them, so he asked again. Why would they have travelled all that distance with nothing at the end of it? It didn't make sense.

  “The twins replied that their journey wasn't over yet. The thing they were looking for was still ahead of them. They didn't know how far away it was. They didn't know how long it would take them to get there. All they had was a direction.”

  “Did they say what the direction was?” asked Shilly, looking at him in surprise. Sal hadn't told anyone about what he had overheard Kail say, not even—especially—her.

  “Did they say what they were looking for?” added Highson.

  “No. They just pointed northeast.”

  Marmion exhaled noisily. Sal could understand what he was feeling. Frustration that, if what Sal said was true, his mission might not be nearly over yet; anger that his plans had been trumped yet again; uncertainty over whether this new intelligence was trustworthy or not.

  “It changes nothing,” Marmion said. “We still have to convince the Magister that we should be freed—and quickly. Let's concentrate on tomorrow for now, and work out what to do the day after that another time.”

  “Just don't assume,” said Sal, “that it'll be easy.”

  “Believe me,” said Marmion, “I won't.”

  Sal nodded and sat down. That was enough for now.

  After nightfall, in their room, Shilly asked Sal why he hadn't told her about Kail's conversation with the Homunculus. She had spent the night reading a book from the hostel's meagre library while Skender and Sal challenged two of the guards to a prolonged game of Double Advance—anything to distract themselves from the uncertainty of their fate. Despite the day's preparations, everyone was nervous about the following morning. Marmion had endured long enough to eat a small evening meal, then had retired to his room to recuperate.

  “I didn't tell you,” Sal said sombrely, “because we were never alone. There was always someone listening in, watching us.”

  She nodded and pulled him closer. Her eyes hung heavily. The mattress beneath them was softer than they were used to in Fundelry, and he could tell by the way she moved that her leg still bothered her. That always made her tired.

  “Do you think he's dead?” she asked, running a cool hand across his sunburn.

  “Kail?” He thought for a moment. “Maybe. He was thoroughly drained at the end. I don't know if he had the strength to swim a stroke. You can bet that Marmion's looked for him, and if he hasn't found anything then I don't think we should hold out much hope.”

  Shilly didn't respond. Her breathing became deeper and slower, and the muscles of her face relaxed.

  Sal relaxed, too, glad that he had avoided the issue of Kail's final words for one more night. He didn't completely understand why keeping them from her was so important to him. Part of it was obvious: he had seen the way she looked at Marmion, how his very existence confused and hurt her. He's the closest thing I've got to family, she had said to Sal the previous day, apart from you.

  Sal didn't want to put her through anything like that all over again.

  But that couldn't be all of it. He wondered if he was jealous, or afraid that he might lose a part of her that had always been his. That was irrational and demeaning of him, he knew, but he had to admit it, if it was true.

  Tell Shilly, Kail had shouted to Skender, just moments before the link between him and Sal had slammed shut. Kail the pragmatist, for whom the ends justified the means. Tell her I'm sorry.

  Sal just needed some time to work everything out.

  With that thought echoing in his mind, he fell asleep.

  “There is no greater mystery than one's own family…”

  THE BOOK OF TOWERS, EXEGESIS 4:18

  The sand swirled in a whirlpool like water going down a drain. Instead of lessening, it only seemed to become thicker, denser, and more choking by the second. It stung Shilly's face and got in her hair. Her mouth was full of it. When she tried to breathe, all she did was suffocate faster.

  Finally, stillness enfolded her. The sand had stopped moving because it was packed in tight around her. Its weight was constricting, immovable. Her body stood trapped from the tips of her toes to the top her head. She was buried alive.

  She couldn't even scream.

  After an unknowable time, she felt something change. The sand encasing her head shifted. The pressure fell away. Fingers scrabbled at her hair and light fell on her clenched eyelids. She strained for the air, yearning for freedom.

  Released from its dry tomb, her head tilted back and her eyes opened. She saw a young, dark-skinned woman bending over her, looking down in horror at what she had uncovered. Shilly tried to tell her, No, don't be afraid. It's only me! But the words wouldn't come.

  As the sand poured in, sealing her back in her terrible grave, she screamed with despair as well as dread. The face bending over her was one she knew well. The woman responsible for trapping her again was none other than herself.

  There were better ways to wake up. Echoes of the dream haunted Shilly all morning as she queued to bathe and relieve herself, then queued again for the breakfast Urtagh laid on for his guests. The service was resentful—and would remain that way, she figured, until he could be certain of being paid—but the fare was good. She ate heartily, not knowing when she'd get the chance to do so again. If she was about to be condemned, at least it would be on a full stomach.

  Not long after, a series of motorised vehicles arrived to take them to the hearing. One by one, groups of four were escorted out of the hostel by the guards and whisked off to Judgment Hall, where the Magister would see them. Shilly recognised the feeling in her gut as she waited for her and Sal's turn to come. It was one that had become awfully familiar to her, years ago.

  The taste and smell of sand seemed to follow her everywhere she went. At any moment she expected her mouth and nostrils to seize up, just like in her dream. Her palms were too sweaty to hold hands with Sal.

  When finally their turn came, they were parcelled off with wardens Eitzen and Rosevear and shown outside. The sun seemed bright through a smattering of low cloud. The streets were less waterlogged than they had been the day before, but the stench was becoming worse in the humid air. She lifted the hem of her cotton
skirt as she crossed puddles, trying not to think about what sort of disease-carrying dirt might be getting through her sandals and onto her toes.

  The vehicle waiting for them was black and official. Guards bundled them into the back and locked the doors behind them. Two benches and just one small window greeted them. Sal helped Shilly to a seat and sat down next to her.

  He took her new walking stick from her when she was settled and ran his fingers along the charms he had carved down its length.

  “Not so much, this time,” she said. “We don't want it to go off by accident.”

  He nodded, looking sheepish but unrepentant.

  The trip wasn't a long one, but her stomach had settled into a continuous flutter by the time they arrived. The big breakfast no longer seemed like a good idea. A new set of guards opened the doors and let them out. She hopped out first, not waiting for her stick. Even the stench of stagnant water was better than being in that tightly enclosed space.

  Think of flowers, she told herself. Think of ringing bells and glass jars full of pebbles. Think of kittens and birds in flight. Anything but sand and suffocation…

  Judgment Hall was an imposing structure, blunt and square like an ancient fortress. Gargoyles crouched high on its eaves—just gargoyles, not man'kin—and the shrivelled bodies of convicted criminals, drained of blood, hung in rows down one side. She blanched on seeing them, feeling more nervous and sick than ever. A number of people had gathered to watch the procession of outsiders coming to be judged. They didn't cheer or jeer, but Shilly felt the weight of their scrutiny keenly. What did they make of her, this scraggly-haired young woman from the south with walking stick and muddy feet? At least on the last point they had no grounds to think her odd.

  Inside, the hall was all right angles and circles, with ceilings stretching up to milky-coloured skylights and cobwebs too high for cleaners to reach. Porters led her and Sal through a relatively small antechamber to the room in which the hearing would take place. Circular, with a raised dais in the centre, it reminded her of the public hall in the Haunted City in which she and Sal had been sentenced years earlier. Her anxiety peaked at the sight. I thought we'd put all that behind us, she wanted to cry out. How did it come back to this?