Anchor looked at Harper. “I've heard of buildings moving through Hell, but what's a submarine?”
She shrugged. “I've no idea.”
The Princess was a vessel, Harper soon came to realize, able to sail through the very fabric of Hell. She moved through living stone and iron as easily as if through water, her tapered hull pushing the flesh of the Maze aside and allowing it close again in its wake. Her single engine was of a design Harper had never seen before. For fuel it burned the dead.
Before engaging the engines, Isla had connected glass bulbs containing phantasms to four inlets in the engine's housing. The terrible vessel had already sucked in the first of these souls and somehow used it to propel herself forwards. Her exhaust was located in the rear. Harper pinpointed it by listening to the screams of agony it emitted.
Her engines rumbling steadily, the Princess ploughed a course under the surface of Hell. As far as Harper could tell, nobody was navigating. Either the ship herself knew where she was going, or someone outside the vessel was able to direct her.
Isla didn't seem in the slightest bit concerned. As soon as the engines had started she ran to the front of the submarine to play with her ponies. The two animals ambled across the grass floor beside her, cropping.
Anchor was crouched beside the engine with his back to Harper, peering into its complex workings.
“Have you ever seen such a vessel, John?” she asked.
He didn't turn around or acknowledge her.
“John?”
She approached him, and saw that he was gripping the engine housing so tightly that the muscles in his arms looked as solid as marble. His eyes were closed and sweat glistened on his brow. “Are you all right?” she said. “John? What's the matter?” She noticed blood trickling down his forearm from one of his palms. “John! You've hurt yourself.”
“No,” he grunted. “Get away.”
“What—”
His eyes flicked open, his neck snapped round, and he hissed, “The Rotsward.”
Harper suddenly understood. The Princess lacked the power to drag Cospinol's ship on her own, so Anchor was feeding the vessel's engines with his own indomitable will. She glanced again at the tethered man's bleeding hand, and realized that it was pressed over one of the engine's intake ports.
How many souls were pouring out of him to power the ship?
“What's wrong with him?” Isla had appeared behind Harper, sitting on one of her ponies. “Is he sick?”
“He doesn't like traveling in ships,” Harper said.
“Mr. D is like that, too. He never goes anywhere outside the shipyard. He never even leaves his stupid box.” She blushed. “Don't tell him I said that, will you? He gets really angry sometimes.”
Harper steered the girl and her pony away. “Let's give John some peace, will we? Why don't you tell me all about Mr. D?”
For the next few hours she kept Isla occupied at the front of the vessel, while Anchor remained at the engine, feeding his tremendous power into its arcane machinery. The little girl didn't have very much to say about Mr. D except that she collected souls for him, but he never liked the souls she brought back and so he always sent her out again for more. Isla thought he was looking for one soul in particular, and she thought that was sad.
And Alice Harper, clutching her own empty soulpearl, agreed with her.
The submarine finally slowed and came to a halt. Anchor released his grip on the engine housing and slumped to the floor. He smeared his bloody hand against his thigh and took a deep, shuddering breath. A slack length of rope meandered over to the rear of the hull, where it had jammed tightly between the door and its frame, but outside the vessel this same rope would form a taut line back to the Rotsward. For hours they had dragged Cospinol's sky-ship under the surface of Hell.
Anchor breathed a heavy sigh of relief. His heart continued to pound. Alone, he could have pulled the Rotsward for days without tiring, but this strange vessel had drawn hungrily upon his power. With trembling fingers he dug out three soulpearls from the pouch tied to his belt, and then tipped them down his throat. He felt his heart rate slow.
“We're here,” Isla announced. “This is the shipyard. Come on, I'll show you. Mr. D keeps the Icarates in his shop.”
Anchor got the submarine door open with a little help from his shoulder. The skyship rope whizzed out past his feet, as the Rotsward took up the slack. He stepped out into a passageway lined with red brick. The Princess's circular hatch had fused into one wall of this corridor. Similar doors occupied both sides of the passage-way, dozens of them, retreating back into darkness to Anchor's left. Evidently this dock was used by other vessels. The rope trailed away in this direction, but the skyship itself was not in sight.
To the right, the docking corridor led to a much larger space awash with green light. Through the opening Anchor could see the tops of gaslights, the source of the luminance, and what appeared to be the facade of a shabby hotel. A painted sign above the door proclaimed:
D's Emporium. Rooms for Rent. Souls Bought/Sold.
“I don't believe this,” Harper said. “Renting a room in Hell is tantamount to taking possession of another person's soul.”
Isla ran ahead towards the opening. “It was Mr. D's idea,” she said. “He owns the hotel, and the shop, too. That's where the Icarates are.”
A strange chime issued from Harper's belt. One of her Mesmerist instruments, Anchor supposed. The engineer fumbled for the device and adjusted something, silencing it. Then she set off down the corridor after the little girl.
“Are you watching all this, Cospinol?” Anchor muttered to the rope. Then he shook his head and laughed. “A hotel in Hell. I wonder how much Mr. D charges for a room, eh?” He flexed his shoulders, took up the strain, and marched on, dragging the rope behind him. From far behind came the inevitable sound of breaking stone.
He arrived in a vaulted underground cul-de-sac, where the gaslights burned with a sickly verdant hue, illuminating the crumbling facades of half a dozen tired old buildings on either side. Planks had been nailed across almost all of their windows and doors. Only the hotel at the far end looked ready for business. Its doors had been flung wide open and faced the opening through which the three travelers now passed.
Harper lifted one of her spirit lenses to her eye. “This place is swarming with Non Morai,” she noted. “They're watching from the derelict buildings.”
“Is it a problem?” Anchor said.
She shrugged. “You're a demigod and I'm a corpse. You can't blame the Non Morai for hiding.”
“What about the child?”
“That little demon?” Harper said. “It's her they're most afraid of.”
As they wandered down this unlikely underground street, Anchor became aware of a deep rasping sound from behind. He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. The buildings on either side of the road had retreated slightly back into the surrounding walls, revealing a yard of scraped cobblestones where their foundations had been a moment ago.
“They're afraid,” Harper said.
“Don't worry about them,” Isla said. “They always come and go. There's only so much room for them down here, and Mr. D rents the empty spaces out. He has hundreds of customers, you see. He says Menoa… shortchanged them.”
“Buildings come here to visit him?” Anchor asked.
“They come to trade,” Isla confirmed, “but they're always complaining about the Mesmerists, especially King Menoa. At least, the people inside them do. So they come here and buy souls and grow stronger, and then they just slide back into the Maze. Sometimes they don't come back for ages, but you're not allowed to hurt them because they're Mr. D's special customers. He says there's going to be a revolution and he's going to be the…” she thought for a moment, “duly elected representative of the free state of Hell.”
Anchor shook his head.
Harper grinned. “Hell is an endless, living, breathing city, John.”
“And Menoa pissed it off,
eh?”
“He's been harvesting the Maze for millennia,” she said, smiling again. “I'm not surprised there's an underground resistance movement.”
But a revolution? Of houses?
Isla leapt up three steps onto the stoop of the hotel and shouted in through the doors, “Some guests here to see you, Mr. D! They've come about the Icarates.” She disappeared inside. “Mr. D! Where are you?”
Anchor and Harper followed her into the hotel. The skyship rope rasped up the steps behind them.
This level of Mr. D's Emporium had been given over entirely to the business of buying and selling souls. Shelved cabinets packed every available inch of wall and floor space, while bottled ghosts packed every available inch of cabinet shelf space. To negotiate this wooden maze, Anchor had to turn sideways and squeeze between the rows of shop furniture. The Rotsward's rope followed in his wake, dragging splinters from the floorboards.
“Mr. D? Where are you, Mr. D? Oh, there you are!”
Anchor heard a squeaking noise coming from the rear of the Emporium. He spied movement in the shadows, and then an object that he had at first taken to be a part of the furniture turned and rolled down an aisle towards them. It was a tall wooden box set on four small brass wheels. A slit, the width of two fingers, had been cut into the front panel at about chin height, but Anchor couldn't see anything inside except darkness.
The box continued to roll, of its own accord, down the aisle until it reached them. Then it stopped. A moment later, Isla padded between the rows of cabinets after it. “This is Mr. D,” she said.
Anchor looked at the box. He glanced at Harper.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said.
The box remained motionless.
Isla kicked one of its wheels. “Say something, Mr. D. They've come to buy the Icarates.”
A wheezy voice issued from the box: “You've been misled, Isla, dear child. These two are not soul collectors, renegade or otherwise. They are actual physical forms, substance rather than meta-substance.” A soft wet pop, like the sound of a bubble bursting on the surface of hot soup, terminated the unseen occupant's sentence. He gasped. “They're from the living world.”
“Like you, Mr. D?” Isla said.
“Indeed,” said the man in the box. “You two aren't really here to buy my Icarates, are you? And you're certainly not agents of Menoa. After all, you're both still human.”
“Menoa didn't send us,” Harper said. “We were simply caught up in the storm your Non Morai created.”
“I see,” said Mr. D.
“Who are you?” Anchor demanded.
The box rolled back an inch. It creaked round to face Anchor more squarely. “I was a scientist,” Mr. D replied, “and now I am a collector and a tradesman of sorts. I rent rooms and sell personalities.”
“Souls, you mean?”
The box remained motionless.
“You collect souls and sell them?”
“Do you have a wife, sir?” said Mr. D. “No? A brother, then? A sister? Isn't there anyone who annoys you? Anyone you know who would benefit from a change of personality?” Another wet sound came from the box, this one like tripe slopping against a butcher's slab. The box's occupant let out a long ragged breath. “Please excuse me, sir. I am not a well man. I'm afraid I have a rather… unusual condition. But don't let that put you off. My emporium contains every type of soul. It is a simple procedure to pop open a bottle and thereby insert one mind into the physical body of another.” He made a gurgling sound. “Excuse me.”
“What procedure?” Harper asked. “What do you mean?”
The box squeaked back on its wheels and then rolled forward again, changing its angle so that the slit in the front now faced the engineer. “I'm talking about possession,” Mr. D said. “Wholesale. Isla, fetch one of the specials for this woman. Section fifty-eight, bottle eleven, the red section.”
Isla peered out from behind the box and blinked. Then she scampered away, retrieved a bottle from the back of the shop, and hurried back with it. She held up the bottle for Harper to inspect.
Harper took the bottle.
“Such a good vintage,” said Mr. D. “The gentleman in this bottle was a great leader, a kind and intelligent man. He fell to his death in a terrible accident during a great battle. Somewhat older than you, and not particularly handsome, I admit, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks aren't part of the package I offer. It's up to you to find some muscled dimwit and then persuade him to drink down this soul.” A slavering sound came from the box, followed by a sharp rapping noise. “Do you know what this would be worth up there… in the living world?”
Anchor had had enough. This boxed lunatic couldn't help them in their fight against Menoa. He was nothing more than a trader of slaves. “Let's go now,” he said. “We have a long road ahead, eh?”
But Harper held up her hand. “How much?” she said. “How much to buy a soul?”
“Ha!” said Mr. D. “I knew you were interested the moment I saw you walk into my shop. You want the aeronaut, then? I can make you a very good deal.” The box began to turn away.
“Not him,” she said. “I want to… look around.”
The box stopped. The slit in its face crept round to face Harper again. Mr. D's voice issued from the darkness within. “Someone in particular, is it?”
She looked at the floor.
Anchor frowned. He recalled the chime her Mesmerist device had made when they'd first arrived here. Had she been searching for one of these souls all along? He faced Mr. D. “Answer her. How much for a soul?”
“That depends,” said Mr. D, “on the soul.”
“What do you want? Gold?”
“What a strange notion,” replied Mr. D. “Whatever would I do with an immutable physical substance down here?” He let loose a sudden hacking cough, and the whole box shuddered on its wheels. “Please excuse me again. No, I simply require the purchaser to sign a contract, promising me certain services, and a small token to act as security, of course, just to ensure that the purchaser doesn't de-fault on the contract.”
“Tell me what you want,” Harper said.
The box rolled forward. “I'd like you to kill some people for me. Nobody you know, just some old friends of mine. You've probably never even heard of the city where they come from. I doubt it even exists now.”
“What city?” Anchor said.
“A place called Deepgate,” said Mr. D.
“There,” Monk said.
The hook-fingered boy peered through the sightglass in the same direction as the old man's pointed finger. Brands flared away down in the darkness where the Rotsward's outer scaffold pressed against a towering facade. The skyship had been dragged straight down into Hell, and then pulled horizontally for many hours. Now that John Anchor had halted his progress, Cospinol's slaves worked alongside his gallowsmen with hammers and crowbars, smashing at the brick and stonework to create some more space around her scaffold ends. They broke windows and tiles, and ripped out doors and joists and lintels, passing the lot back up their ranks towards the Rotsward's hull.
“They're trying to ease the pressure on the ship,” Monk observed. “In case Hell decides to try and spit the whole vessel back out.”
The boy lifted his gaze from the sightglass. “How do you know?” he asked. He'd taken a liking to querying Monk's assertions. “Maybe they're just looting all that stuff. Bits of souls and all that. Cospinol can boil it all down and make soulpearls.”
The astrologer's face turned red. He raised a hand to strike the boy, but then seemed to think better of it. “Don't get smart with me, son,” he said. “They're easing the pressure, I tell you. The Maze is living. All these homes might realize it's best to work together. I've seen it happen before, whole Middens crawling across the top of the labyrinth. Buildings on the move.” He nodded to himself. “Aye, strange things can happen when a group of souls all get the same idea.”
“Maybe we could steal some of those bricks,” the boy said, “and b
oil them up ourselves.”
Monk grunted. He unfastened his breeches, then, clinging on to the edge of the hole in the hull, he pissed down through the gaps in the scaffold. Steam rose from the arc of urine. The astrologer let out a sigh, then shook himself. “Them bricks won't give us much sustenance,” he said. “We'd be better stealing a soul from inside one of them rooms. Or using the distraction to loosen the bolts on that angel's boiling pot.” He refastened his breeches and turned to face the boy. “I'll bet them slaves have gone and left their prisoner alone.”
“They never leave it alone,” the boy said. “You're just afraid to go out there on that scaffold in case the gallowsmen get you.”
“I ain't afraid of nothing,” Monk said. “I'm just being smart. A few drops of that scarred angel's essence would sate you for a hundred years.” He ushered the boy back inside the Rotsward. From the shadows under one of the bulkheads he pulled out a rag-wrapped bundle and untied it, revealing an old wrench, a hammer, and an iron spike. Monk weighed the hammer in one fist and then handed it to the boy.
“Aren't you coming, too?”
“ ‘Course I'm coming. Someone's got to tell you which welds to crack and which bolts to loosen.” Monk grunted. “Don't want to let the bitch escape now, do we?”
6
THE RIVER OF THE FAILED
Dill removed the stricken arconite's armour while it lay immobile and took it for himself. Like all Maze-forged creations, the blood-soaked metal plates exhibited a primitive consciousness. They were fiercely reluctant to release their grip on the fallen automaton's bones. Dill persuaded them by brute force. He wrenched the sections free, revealing arrays of hooks on the undersides that writhed like cilia, and then pressed them against his own limbs and torso.
Rachel watched from the stoop outside the Rusty Saw tavern. She heard scratching sounds as the hooks attached themselves to Dill's ribs. The metal itself seemed to wail quietly. Pulses of green light raced along his newly fitted arm bracers and over his armoured chest, like a swarm of fireflies amidst the fog.
God of Clocks Page 12
