Scar Night; Book One of the Deepgate Codex Trilogy

by Alan Campbell

  The captain’s cabin was only marginally larger than the crew bunkrooms, but richly finished: polished hardwood veneers, etched glass, carpets soft as molten gold. Bottles of Rhak, whisky, and wine gleamed in the drinks cabinet.

  There was no white vintage to be found, so Devon selected a light Duskvalley red that would if not complement the clams, at least not overwhelm the flavour.

  He was reading the label when the ship pitched forward and he was thrown against the cabin wall. The Duskvalley slipped from his grip. Bottles and glasses clinked and smashed and tumbled across the floor. The drone of engines rose suddenly to a shriek.

  “Blood and chains,” he muttered, levering himself upright. “I’ll kill the old fool for this.”

  Devon scrambled out of the cabin, leaning heavily against one wall. The starboard companionway sloped downwards to the bridge. He half ran, half slid to the end of it and slammed against the bridge door. Through the porthole he saw Sypes leaning over the control deck, gripping the elevator rudder levers in his hands. A sandstorm filled the bridge windows. Devon fumbled with his keys till he found the right one, and unlocked the door.

  It stayed firmly shut. The priest had lodged his chair beneath the handle.

  “Old fool!” Devon shook the door, pounded on it.

  Sypes wheeled, frowning.

  Using the handrail, Devon struggled back up the sloping companionway and took a right, cutting along the midship companionway to the port side. His shoulder thumped against the wall. The Birkita ’s engines were screaming and stuttering now, the air vents clogged with sand. When he reached the port companionway, its angle was so steep that he had to slide along the deck on his backside till his knees cracked against the alternative bridge door. Again he rattled his keys, tried one, then another. Finally he unlocked the door.

  It wouldn’t open. Sypes had moved the chair and slid it under the handle of the portside entrance.

  “Open this.” Devon kicked at the door.

  Sypes ignored him. Sand fumed behind the bridge’s forward windows. The slope of the companionway was becoming steeper—too steep to climb back up it. The old man had angled the airship’s elevators, flooded the aft ribs, and emptied the forward ones, letting the weight of the bridge drag them nose down.

  “You’ll kill yourself!” Devon screamed, and kicked with both feet, again, again.

  The door opened at last and he fell through it.

  Sypes didn’t turn as Devon hit the control deck beside him. His white-knuckled hands held both elevator control levers fully forward. Angus’s voice chattered wildly through the engine-room com-trumpet. Cables stretched and groaned under pressure. Wood creaked. The sandstorm parted and dunes loomed behind the windows.

  Devon threw the priest aside, twisted valves to flood the forward ribs, and slammed the elevator levers back.

  Nothing happened.

  Behind the glass, the dunes drew nearer. Tufts of withered grass shuddered in the wind. Rocks and petrified trees cast stark shadows under the warship’s aether-lights. They were only a hundred yards from the ground, then ninety yards, eighty.

  The warship’s nose lifted slightly.

  “Faster,” Devon growled. With one hand and one stump he jammed both levers as far back as he could, then shouted into the com-trumpet: “Angus! Increase fuel pressure. We need more hot air up front now .” He twisted to face Sypes. “Where the hell did you learn how to operate an airship?”

  “It’s just a bag of gas,” Sypes explained from the floor. “How hard could it be?”

  The Poisoner snarled, went back to the controls.

  Dunes approached. Sixty yards away, fifty, forty.

  The nose crept a little higher.

  Devon saw ripples of sand through the haze, wind-etched curls and waves beneath the limbs of petrified trees. Thirty yards. Air hissed from the forward ribs as they stretched almost to bursting under the increased pressure.

  Twenty yards.

  Stone branches raced past the window like grasping claws.

  The Birkita levelled. She started to climb.

  Devon eased his grip on the controls.

  Presbyter Sypes picked himself up from the floor and nodded at the pot still wedged beneath Devon’s arm. “You forgot the wine,” he said.

  He told you to do what?”

  “To find Carnival and deliver a message.” Dill’s eyes were still white after his meeting with Adjunct Crumb, but he didn’t care. Rachel was long used to the sight by now.

  “Why?”

  Dill explained.

  “He wants to bargain with her? Recruit her to go after Devon ? That makes no sense.”

  “He said I’d be safe with her as long as I was unarmed.” He paused. “He took my sword away.”

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  “He said nobody had ever faced her unarmed before.”

  “With good reason. I wouldn’t want to face her without every weapon available in the Spine arsenal.” She sat on the sill beneath Callis’s window and flexed and stretched her wounded hand absently. The bandages were off now, but her skin still looked red and swollen.

  Dill had only just learned about Rachel’s fight in the planetarium. The Spine had reported to the priests, and one of them, a fellow called Primpleneck with a lazy eye, had related the story to a temple guard called Paddock. The story spread through the ranks of the temple guard until the kitchen staff got to overhear their conversation at breakfast. The stewards told the cooks, who told the maids and the potboys, who in turn told the cleaners, who, having no one else to tell, gossiped to the stable staff. At least, that was what the dung-shoveller had said when he accosted Dill outside the stables that morning.

  “Oh that,” Dill had said to him haughtily. “I heard about that ages ago.”

  He’d stalked off and begun an extra-long snail run afterwards. There were so many unexpected places to hide the slimy little things, when you really put your mind to it.

  “I won’t let them,” Rachel said.

  “What?”

  “It’s too dangerous. I won’t let them send you.” She stood up. “I can’t be expected to protect you under these circumstances. They assigned me to be your overseer, so I’m going to oversee you now. I’ll speak to Fogwill, demand he call this whole thing off. I’ll get your sword back for you.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe they’d risk you. Don’t they realize who you are?”

  “The last archon.”

  “No…” She frowned. “That’s not what I meant. I meant…” She appeared to be struggling to find the right words. “I meant that you’re the only part of this whole rotten mess that hasn’t been spoiled or corrupted. You are the heart of the temple…the heart of Deepgate. They need you more than they can possibly imagine.”

  Dill felt his eyes change colour. It wasn’t a colour he recognised at once. He hadn’t felt it since his father had been alive.

  Rachel was already walking to the door.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She didn’t stop. “It’s a bad idea, Dill. It’s lunacy. I don’t know what Fogwill thinks he’s doing.”

  “Please, I want to do this. Let me go.”

  She halted. Perhaps something in his voice had given her pause. She said, “I don’t know.”

  But Dill knew. Here was the moment he’d waited for his whole life: the chance to do something for the temple; the chance to be an archon worthy of his ancestors. Here was his chance to shine. Even without his sword he felt more like a temple archon now than he’d ever done before.

  21

  DILL AND CARNIVAL

  SCAR NIGHT WAS still ten days away and the waning moon rose huge and bloody out of the Deadsands. It lost its colour as it climbed, becoming sharp and bright until it shone alone in its own circle of night, as if shunned by the stars. Deepgate sparkled below, a thousand blinking points of light. A freezing northern wind tore through the city, whistled and howled through the chains. Cables shivered and sang. Webs of iron trembled and chi
med weird, discordant notes.

  All around him, Dill thought he heard distant screams.

  A cold night, and colder still on the rooftop where the angel cowered. The chill of the slates crept bone-deep into his fingers; his breath misted before him; and still he didn’t move. The darkness pinned him.

  Where to start?

  One direction seemed as unwelcoming as the next. Adjunct Crumb had told him to stay high and keep moving. “She’ll find you,” he had said. Dill’s hand sought the hilt of his sword, grasped nothing but air. They had taken it, he remembered.

  The Adjunct was probably asleep by now. The temple’s dark outline cut a ragged shape behind Dill, a few faint lamps glowing beyond the stained glass, like fading embers. They were probably all asleep by now—even Rachel. Only Dill himself was awake. Awake…alone…and outside.

  In the dark.

  How long had he been out here? It must have been hours now. He hadn’t felt his eyes change colour since he’d left the temple. They had turned white at that point and they were still white now.

  Where to start?

  Frost laced his feathers; his arms and legs were numb. Sleep tugged at him despite the cold, and dawn could not be far away. But he didn’t dare move.

  A falling star darted across the south. Was it the fourth or fifth he’d spotted tonight? Ayen has been busy, then: another companion banished from the sky . He watched it glimmer and die.

  Stay high and move.

  Move.

  He had to move, or he would freeze.

  His chain mail scrittered as he stood up and spread his wings. Adjunct Crumb had given him the armour, which had once belonged to Gaine. Its tiny links were wrought from ancient steel, once light and strong, now corroded and heavy with rust. It soaked in the cold and seemed to clamp it over Dill’s heart. He took another deep breath. The night smelled of metal. Dill took a step forward, then another, his feet slipping on the icy slates. Beyond the edge of the roof a labyrinth of streets spread out before him, brilliant in the moonlight, like leagues of chain-shattered ice. Dill paused there for a long time, buffeted by the wind, and listened to Deepgate’s haunting music.

  Move. Or freeze.

  He leapt from the roof.

  Cold rushed over him, rippled through his shirt and breeches, blew back his hair; it slipped beneath his collar and across his chest, and stole his breath. He followed the course of a cobbled street, beating his wings, once, twice, and then letting the icy air carry him forward.Steady and calm . Once, twice, keeping the rooftops a level distance beneath him. Steeply pitched slate rose in frozen waves above the narrow lanes. Shadows gathered between pools of gaslight.

  As he flew he watched those shadows, as the Adjunct had told him to, alert for movement.Carnival can see in the dark , the priest had warned. Don’t let her take you by surprise . There were shadows everywhere. Was she hiding there below, watching him now? He pulled himself higher, sucked in gulps of biting air.

  Once, twice, he beat his wings, every stroke taking him further from the temple, further from safety.

  And if she was airborne? Would he hear her approach? What if she was behind him? His heart clenched and he twisted round to look, fumbling for his missing sword, certain he would find Carnival reaching for him with those scarred hands and eyes like knife cuts. But there was only the outline of the temple, the cold stars. His fist opened, releasing its grip on…nothing.

  The lane jagged its way deeper into the city. Solid doors, shuttered windows, iron chimney grates. Shadows clung to everything.Too many shadows . He started to fly faster, his chain mail dangling from his chest, his shirt billowing beneath it. Again and again he beat his wings, shoulder muscles tightening, feathers glowing around him like blowing sheets of snow. He focused on the rhythm of motion and tried to drive all other thoughts from his head.

  Below, the lane sank below a pendulum house suspended from one of the foundation chains. Dill left it behind and sailed up over the chain, in a wide arc that would bring him back around the temple. He would spiral outwards until he reached the rim. And then? He prayed it would be dawn by then.

  Steady and calm.

  The moon looked down, a bright eye, and Dill imagined other, hidden eyes watching him from below: eyes in the darkness under the eaves, and in the darkened windows, eyes in the temple, and eyes peering between the chains, staring out from the abyss below.

  He swung around the temple, high above the weathervanes of Lilley, and saw the gap cut by the Scythe and the funnels of the Poison Kitchens beyond. Industry crammed the banks of the Scythe, shrouded in amber smog. Flamestacks bloomed and lit the bellies of smoke clouds. Steam curled around tangled pipes. The iron skeletons of gantries and cranes and docking spines reached up through the fumes. He looked for airships but saw none. Most were away hunting Devon in the desert, he realized, and he felt even more alone than before.

  Dill flew on towards the flames, towards the light.

  He left Lilley behind and soared over Ivygarths. Chains webbed everything: a garden of gnarled trees; a leaning tower with a light burning in the top window; an inn with a wooden goat hanging above the door. There were no people out; no sounds but the air rushing by, the clink of his armour, and the beat of his wings.

  It grew warmer near the Scythe, so Dill decided to rest a while and shed the cold from his bones. He landed on a flat, tarred roof overlooking the abyssal gap, where the sour-sweet smell of coalgas lingered. Foundation chains stretched over the Scythe as though floating on a still, black lake. Factories crowded the far shore and disgorged ash into the gusting wind. Jets of steam hissed and whined among smoke and flames, while a deeper, booming sound arose from the Poison Kitchens.

  At least it was warm and bright here. Heat from the flamestacks reached across the gulf and warmed his face and hands, melted the frost from his feathers. His rusted chain mail shone red-gold.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind, a woman’s voice. “They pollute their own god’s burrow.”

  Dill froze.

  “Relax,” the woman continued. “I’m in no mood for slaughter.”

  Finally he’s moving.” Clay squinted through the sightglass they’d set on a tripod before Fogwill’s window. “I thought he’d become frozen to that rooftop.”

  “We’re likely to freeze in here if you keep that window open much longer.” Fogwill shifted in his blanket. “Nothing more dangerous than a chill draught at night.”

  Clay grunted. “I can think of a few other things.”

  Fogwill scowled and pulled his chair closer to the fire. He picked up a poker and stabbed at the embers. “Which way is he heading?”

  “South.” The captain of the temple guard seemed not to notice the cold as he hunched over the sightglass in his worn leathers. “Hell’s bloody balls, he looks like a lame dove dragging such a big empty scabbard. What did you make him wear it for?”

  “I didn’t. He insisted.”

  “Poor sod.”

  Fogwill replaced the poker and cleaned his hands with a square of linen. “I wouldn’t have sent him if I didn’t think it was safe.” He did his best to sound like he believed that.

  “Plenty of chilly draughts out there,” Clay grumbled, shaking his head. “This plan of yours is madness.”

  Fogwill felt inclined to agree, but what choice did he have? He hadn’t even been able to tell Clay the real reason behind this attempt to parley with Carnival. He couldn’t tellthat to anyone. Hence the lie that Carnival would be offered Devon’s angelwine in exchange for the Poisoner’s death. Nobody but Fogwill need know Carnival’s real target. Dill himself had been easy enough to convince. Now that the Church had two immortal enemies, wasn’t it reasonable and apposite to turn them against each other? But others were more sceptical, so Fogwill had contrived a way in which he might speak to Carnival in complete safety. He would set a trap. Mark Hael, apparently thrilled at the prospect of putting Fogwill and Carnival in the same room, had gone off to make the arrangements. Clay, by c
ontrast, had just stared at Fogwill for a long moment and then abruptly walked away, muttering curses.

  Fogwill shivered inwardly on recalling the captain’s reaction. He threw the square of linen into the fire. “I would have hoped Commander Hael would be here by now with news from the Poison Kitchens.”

  “That place has been in chaos since Devon disappeared. No one else knows how to get anything done. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the armada set out with barrels of butter in their deck cages instead of lime-gas.”

  “Perhaps I should go and check on the preparations myself.”

  “Won’t do any good. He’ll be here soon enough, when it’s all set up. Aye, aye, the angel’s fumbling at his scabbard now. Might be he’s seen something.”

  Fogwill moved to stand up. “Carnival?”

  “Nope. Chill draught, probably.”

  The priest slumped back into his chair.

  Clay twisted the tube of the sightglass and breathed a curse. “Damn focusing,” he muttered. “Got him again, still heading south.”

  The fire shifted, crackled. Fogwill placed another log on top and watched the flames curl around it. He plucked another square of linen from a box by the hearth and cleaned his hands again. “We ought to have trained him with the guard,” he said, “like we did with Gaine. But Sypes didn’t see the point. Not with the heathens scattered and our fleet growing in strength. He assumed the war would be over soon. An angel should become a symbol of peace, he told me, not war.”

  “Never trusted Gaine,” Clay muttered. “Swear his eyes turned dark every time he looked at me.”

  “That’s why we could trust him,” Fogwill said. “Archons can’t hide their emotions like ordinary men can.”

  “Damn creepy if you ask me. What about Carnival—reckon her eyes change colour too?”

  “She’s no angel. Well…no temple angel.”

  “Was one once, or so I’ve heard.”

  “That’s Warren gossip.”

  Clay struggled again with the sightglass focusing ring. “The last archon to come from the abyss, they say. Her eyes have been black as pitch since she bloomed, and that was three thousand years past. Some folk think she takes the blood to replace—”