God of Clocks (22 page)

The river?

She felt it suddenly in her throat, a strange sensation of pressure as the liquid she'd sipped crawled back up towards the back of her mouth. She coughed and tried to spit, but the fluid seemed to have a mind of its own. It flooded the passages behind her nose and then burst out of her nostrils in guttering spasms.

Carnival gasped.

The boy stood up. “They're coming now,” he said quickly. “Take me away from here. I can be useful to you.”

The angel drew in a breath. She spied movement at the edge of her vision, and turned.

Something strange was happening. The waters bubbled and frothed.

“Please carry me out of here,” the shape-shifter pleaded. “You have to leave now, before it's too late. Take me with you.”

From the myriad waterways all around rose an army of red warriors, hundreds of them, all clad in glutinous armour and clutching dripping weapons. Carnival wheeled, watching as more and more of them emerged above the surface of the river. Their faces looked roughly human, but like rude sculptures, without detail. Yet their weapons looked sharp enough.

The boy grabbed her hand, having elongated his arm to reach across the ten paces between them. “They're dangerous!” he cried. “Fly!”

She snatched her hand away from his, aware of the tricks he had used to attach himself to the tethered man. She lashed her wings and took to the air.

The boy yelled at her, but his words were drowned out by a much deeper voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. “Come back!”

The men in the river had spoken as one.

Carnival's instincts drove her to fly higher. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her skin crawled with sensations emanating from countless old wounds, filling her with a sudden rush of hatred and anger. Twenty yards above the river, she paused and looked down.

Something massive was forming in the seething waters. It looked like a huge bubble, but as the angel watched, it swelled and took on a new shape. Shoulders appeared on either side of the initial protrusion, then arms and eventually hands. Even as Carnival thrashed her wings to lift herself even higher, the crimson thing burst upwards like a geyser.

For a heartbeat the giant, incomplete figure lolled drunkenly in the gloom before her, a thing of bone and sinew and layers of sluicing liquid. It seemed to Carnival that it might collapse, but then its hands reached out for her.

She thumped her wings, but not quickly enough. Red fingers closed around her leg and pulled her sharply down. In the instant before she hit the water, she caught a glimpse of the creature looming down on her. Wings had sprouted from its back, while its eyeless face was now etched with scars.

She closed her eyes and mouth as the waters slammed over her. The river was shallow; her back struck something soft and pliant. She struggled, tried to rise, but remained trapped in the grip of the giant.

Drowning…

Carnival thrashed violently, using her nails to tear at the hand holding her down. She felt its skin shred, the hard knuckles underneath, so much harder than the surrounding waters. Her fingers closed around something round and solid. She wrenched it sideways.

The giant eased its grip.

Carnival broke the surface of the river. She sucked in a breath of air and staggered to her feet.

The creature had roughly assumed the shape of an angel. It towered over the river, clutching the back of its hand as if in pain. Dark crimson wounds crisscrossed its bright red arms. It swayed on its long legs, as though it had not fully learned how to use them.

The warriors in the river had no such infirmity, however. They were fast closing on Carnival, their liquid-forged weapons ready. The nearest of them drew back his spear…

Carnival felt a small hand grab her own. The shape-shifter boy was by her side, though only his head remained above the frothing water.

“Let go,” she cried, turning fiercely away. A spear lanced past her shoulder. She glanced over to see another spear growing in the hand of the river man who'd thrown it. The replacement weapon flowed from the warrior's own fist. Cold fury bucked inside her. Her gaze snapped to his wet red throat and she crouched to pounce.

“You need a weapon!” The shape-shifting child was still clutching her hand. And as she looked he began to change. His body diminished, twisted itself into a new form. She saw the glint of steel.

The river spoke to her again, its voice as soft as rain. “Join me.” Overhead, the unsteady giant leaned over her, its hands grasping for her neck.

Carnival swung the blade.

The sharp edge met with little resistance. She severed the tips of two of the giant's fingers, and brought the weapon back for another strike before they had yet fallen to the water. Her second blow split the thing's palm along the middle. Red droplets spattered her face. She felt them tighten on her skin… and
move.

Complete rage overcame her.

She unleashed a furious attack, hacking at the giant's arms and at the hands of river men who groped for her. She split open a dripping
skull and, striding forward, reached the giant's knees and plunged the blade in deep.

The thing collapsed.

The river howled.

But the lesser warriors continued to advance. And Carnival threw herself amongst them, hacking and thrusting, her demon blade a whir of steel. There were many of them, and wherever they fell others rose to take their place. Carnival could not kill them all, but neither could she stop her slaughter. The sword danced to her fury.

The waters tried to suck her down, but she would not be dragged under again. It formed walls before her and she cut through them. Red weapons lunged for her on all sides and she chopped them down and returned the men who wielded them to the waters that had birthed them.

In relentless waves they came. With her dark eyes shining murderously under the lamplights of Hell, Carnival waded onwards through the bloody river to meet them. She had given up any thought of escape. Rage filled her soul entirely. If this endless river had limits, then they would be tested here.

John Anchor watched the disturbance in the distant gloom. It looked like a red storm front moving across the surface of the waters. “That looks about where I threw that shiftblade,” he commented.

Harper glanced down at her locator and then back at the horizon. “It's Carnival,” she said. “My locator is too afraid to search for soul traffic in that direction. It coped with the river, before, but not with her. I don't even know what she is, John.”

The big man beamed. “You need to discipline Mesmerist tools, eh? Or do you just give them a hug now and then?”

“Cuddles only embarrass it.”

He laughed, then rested his fists on his hips and let out a long sigh. “We are in a pickle, yes? The river has turned its attention to
the angel now.” He moved one foot through its limp waters. The currents that had been pushing them towards the Ninth Citadel had stopped. “And we do not know which way to go. The god of the Failed has become distracted.”

“By the look of that cloud,” Harper said, “that's a good thing.”

Anchor turned away and gazed back over the wreckage of the
Rotsward.
Little of the skyship or its contents remained identifiable—no large pieces of its superstructure, no bodies.

No soulpearls.

He had eaten them all, and without more, his strength would soon fade.

“A very big pickle,” he repeated under his breath. And then he smiled again and turned back to the engineer. Unconsciously he glanced at the bottle she held cradled against her heart, the container that held her husband's soul.

The waterlogged street had become chaotic. On Iron Head's orders, Rachel instructed Dill to drop his pretence of submission and deposit the Rusty Saw tavern by the wharf side. She called to Mina, who met her outside just as the town defenders were hurriedly regrouping. Glances flicked the thaumaturge's way but didn't linger, as the Burntwater militia was given orders by its captain.

“This is an evacuation,” Iron Head yelled. “Women and children to the barges and skiffs. Holden, signal the pilots. Spindle, take your men—you already know what to do. I want twelve units, four to the east and four west of Hoggary Row. The third group, take up position at the junction of Ashblack and Green Darrow, or as close as you can get. Bernlow, Malk, Cooper, Geary, Wigg, someone else—you, Thatcher—keep the attackers divided, and away from the wharfs. Harry them and then retreat, but don't let those bastards step on you.”

Basilis began to bark. Mina tried to shush him, but he wouldn't
be silenced. The ragged little dog struggled against her grip, his eyes fixed somewhere to the rear of the crowd.

“What's wrong with him?” Rachel asked.

Mina peered into the crowd. “Nothing's wrong with him. He's just barking at you.”

“Me?”

The thaumaturge seemed distracted, and it took her a moment to respond. “What? No.” She turned back to Rachel, shaking her head. “I don't know… I suppose one of the militia must have startled him.”

They were interrupted by a door banging.

Oran came barging out of the tavern, red-faced and full of raging accusations, but stopped short when he saw Iron Head. “You're not actually
parleying
with these bitches?” he said with a contemptuous jerk of his scarred head towards Rachel and Mina. “We've been—”

“Shut up, Oran,” the captain said. “Look there.” He gestured with his pole towards the southern perimeter of the settlement, then turned away as a group of his soldiers came running up. “Fire the bales and coke in the warehouses,” he instructed the men. “Tar them first if there's time. Another two units… Weatherman and Block, go find them and spread the word. I want the whole dockside burning right
now.”

“Captain?” The young lieutenant frowned.

“Smoke, man, smoke. They're too big to take down, so we need cover and confusion. This mist's too thin to hide us.”

“Aye, sir.”

Oran had finally spotted the enemy beyond the palisade wall and now stood there with his mouth open.

Six arconites loomed over the town, their armour pulsing faintly in the fog, their great skulls turning slowly as they peered down at the streets underneath their ironclad boots. Behind them, great translucent wings shimmered in the gauzy light like pale auroras.

Iron Head seized his brother's arm. “Your women are going on the barges. Your men are going to fight with us. Give Hasp over to these two, but keep him covered up. I don't want the arconites to spot him.”

“You don't have the right—”

“Do it or I'll have you killed.” The captain beckoned another of his lieutenants over, and ordered this man to ensure that Oran obeyed. The woodsman snarled and stormed off back to the Rusty Saw with Iron Head's lieutenant close at his elbow.

“What can we do to help?” Rachel asked.

“Trust breeds trust,” Captain Iron Head said. “Or at least I hope it does. Can your arconite defeat any of these others?”

“They can't be wounded or destroyed,” she replied, “but if Dill brings one down, we can get inside its head and disable it with fire. Against any one of them he has a chance, but he can't fight all six at once.”

“Then tell him to remain here and help with the evacuation. He can ferry people and goods over to the barges, and defend them if he has to. That'll earn us some time to get our families out onto the lake.” He turned back to his troops, but Rachel halted him.

“Captain, we have another problem.”

“Yes?”

“Hasp is compelled to obey any Mesmerist orders. They'll order him to kill as many of us as possible.”

“Then confine him in your arconite's jaw.” The captain turned away abruptly and strode over to where three units of his men were waiting for further orders. In moments he had dispatched them all and turned his attention to an approaching commander of yet another unit.

Rachel stood beside Mina, the pair of them watching as men rushed to and fro. Three short blasts of a horn sounded over the town of Burntwater, followed by another long single note: the evacuation signal, Rachel assumed. Some units were already marching back up into the main thoroughfares, while others ran into side
streets, yelling and knocking on doors. Old men, women, and children were already making their way towards the lakeshore, carrying bundles of clothing, water, and food. Oran's people, too, poured out of the Rusty Saw. Meanwhile a blaze erupted with a roar against the wall of a warehouse over to the east. Other soldiers were busy rolling barrels along the jetties or dashing between the warehouses with flaming brands held aloft.

“Those civilians look like they were all actually
ready
to be evacuated,” Mina pointed out. “Either that or they packed remarkably quickly. A careful observer might think that's odd.”

“It never occurred to me,” Rachel said.

“What?”

“To confine Hasp in Dill's jaw.”

“Let's only hope Hasp agrees to it.” Mina indicated the Rusty Saw tavern, where eight of Oran's men were carrying the glass-armoured god down the sloping earth of the building's ruined foundations.

At first Rachel thought the god was unconscious or dead, but then she saw that he was still gripping an empty bottle. His arms moved as he tried feebly to resist his bearers.

Rachel winced as the woodsmen deposited their burden roughly on the muddy ground in front of the two women. They all glared at the assassin with murder in their eyes, but then left without as much as a word. They had, after all, witnessed her fight.

A quick check revealed that Hasp's glass armour remained intact. Rachel could smell the harsh spirit on his breath. He had drunk enough to kill a normal man, and his red eyes rolled wildly, as if staring into a fever dream. He tried to stand, but slipped and fell back in the mud.

The assassin and the thaumaturge hoisted him up between them and helped him over the uneven ground towards Dill. Rachel called up to her giant friend, who, with a hiss of pistons and creak of metal, lowered one of his dead hands and allowed them to climb aboard.

Maneuvering the drunken god into Dill's jaw needed the combined efforts of both women. Though Hasp seemed unaware of his surroundings, he retched and spat and cursed them under his breath. After they had finally bundled him inside, he lay down upon a rug amidst scattered coins, turned over, and threw up.