Lye Street (8 page)

"How's your arse, Laccus?"

"Covered," the little man replied. "Unlike yours."

Greene sighed with resignation. Here he was helping to free a demon which, upon its release, would undoubtedly find eternities of pain for him to endure – merely because he'd plucked out a few eyes and kicked it in the teeth. It probably didn't help that he had no way of paying the ludicrous summoning fee in the first place, or that the demon's own servant was equally furious with him. As things now stood, Cope might end up quarrelling with his immortal master for the right to do wicked things to the prospector's spilled innards.

And all this to try to save his family from the curse of an angel who would certainly slay him if he failed.

1012, Greene decided, was not turning out to be a good year for him.

"Sod it," he said. Time was running out.

He kicked the sword again, then again and again, pummelling his boot against the lower edge of the grip. The steel roots snapped somewhere below the pommel and the sword fell to the ground.

"Alright," he said, breathing hard. "Now I've kicked your master's tooth out, will you ask him nicely to get us out of here?"

Two buildings of note faced each other from either end of Lye Street. To the south rose the brick tower containing the ash vats which had given the road its name. Opposite this, at the top of a rise, Barraby's Watchtower looked out across an abandoned cannon foundry, built after the Skirmishes in 880. The Church had constructed the watchtower in the seventh century. It stood in a circle of floating flagstones, pinned to its foundations by a radial arrangement of chains.

Scrimlock set the street plans down on the desk and glanced up at the sapper seated opposite. "You think she'll head for the lye tower?"

"Without a doubt, Your Grace." The woman was small but heavyset, with a wide brow, a flat nose, and masculine shoulders. She wore a faded brown jerkin and fingerless leather gloves. "It's the only uninhabited building in the street. It's high and gives a good view of the surroundings."

"Can we rig it with blackcake?"

The sapper shook her head. "There's not much point, Your Grace. The walls are old, the brick crumbly, and the roof is just wood and slate. If we brought the lot down on top of her, she'd probably just shuck it off again. She's torn through stronger buildings than that one before."

The presbyter clucked his teeth. Scar Night was still two days away. "Have you had a chance to survey the rest of the area?"

"As much as we can. We're moving under the street so as not to attract too much attention." She leaned forward, studied the blueprints, and prodded a finger at one section. "Our best chance to trap her is Barraby's Watchtower. The walls are built of Blackthrone stone and the windows are too narrow for her wings. If we can get her inside we ought to be able to fix it so that she can't get out again. We'll prime the roof to blow using ten yard fuses, enough boom to cut off her escape, but keep the structure intact."

"Hmm. I want the watchtower door strengthened."

"It's iron-banded oak," the sapper said, "designed to keep an army out. But we'll bring in a portable buttress on the night, just to be sure. Four knocks with a hammer and its in place."

The presbyter nodded. "Good."

All they had to do was lure her inside. He unravelled the scroll Merryweather had brought him, and reread the information the Adjunct had gleaned from Deepgate's census, tax, and crime records.

Sal Greene, prospector, made his fortune in the Northern Deadsands, inherited 34 Lye Street from his father, Mack Greene in the 962nd Year of Our Lord Ulcis.

Minor infringements:

963-3: Reprimanded. Suspected instigator of a brawl in the Skewered Goat Inn, Callow.

963-4: Fined after a second brawl, the Skewered Goat Inn, Callow.

964-10: Fined for lewd comments made toward Agatha Constance of 13 Potter's Wheel House, Applecross.

964-10: Fined for throwing eggs at the windows of 13 Potter's Wheel House, Applecross.

964-11: Jailed for two days for stealing flowers from the garden of M. Caldershot of Lilley. Flowers subsequently discovered in the window box of a Miss Celia Norman of Applecross. Suspect confessed to charges. Recorded as telling the city militia to "Go **** themselves sideways."

988-1: Jailed for sixty days for urinating against a monument to Ulcis in Seven Chain Square. Subject deemed unsuitable for tempering due to arthritis in hands.

Other:

980-7: Suspected of withholding tax. Unproved.

990-6: Accused of murder. Unproved.

1012-3: Suspected of smuggling heathen totems. Investigation suspended, pending additional funds.

Scrimlock pursed his lips. So this was Carnival's next intended victim? This foul-mouthed criminal and blasphemer from the Warrens was the direct descendant of Henry Bucklestrappe? The presbyter set down the scroll, and smiled to himself. He ought to be able to kill two birds with one vigorous explosion.

Ruby's dressing room abutted the study. It was a small chamber with one window, shuttered to keep out the night, and it was empty of furniture except for a stool, a tin basin, and a white dresser with an oval mirror.

She filled the basin with hot water and washed the angel's hair.

Carnival endured Ruby's ministrations with closed eyes and a thumping heart. She crouched over the basin, trembling each time the old lady's fingers touched her scalp, shivering when warm water sluiced over her neck.

Ruby hummed as she worked, and made occasional comments: "That's much better, dear," and, "You have such lovely hair under all that grime."

There was a lot of grime. The witch changed the water three times before she was satisfied.

Next the old lady took a brush from her dresser and teased the knots from the angel's wet hair. This took some time, for there were a lot of knots. After she had finished, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"That will do, I think. Now let's see about those scars."

Carnival's fear and confusion returned. Hair dripping, she backed away towards the door.

Ruby gave her a tut-tut of disapproval. "If only your poor mother could see what a mess you've made of your pretty face," she said primly. "Still, a little liquid smoke and make-up conceals all manner of sins."

Carnival swallowed. "You knew her?" she said in a cracked voice.

"Your mother, dear, was my sister, which makes you my niece and me your aunt."

Carnival didn't know what to say. Her thoughts spun. She had
family
among these mortals, among those she preyed upon? A wave of distress rose within her. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. The scrawled messages came back to her.

LYE STREET. LIE STREET.

"You look just as shocked every time I tell you," said Ruby. "And why should you be? Why shouldn't your mother be a mortal woman? Mortal women bear the temple archons, after all."

"And my father?"

Ruby glanced away. "Well..." she said. "Let's not concern ourselves with
him
right now. All in good time, dear." She opened a dresser drawer and took out a number of small pots, jars and colourful sticks, fussing over them nervously. "Clean hair is all very well, but if you're going to look like a proper noblewoman's daughter, I'll have to work a miracle. Sit down, for goodness' sake."

She chose a pale powder which she said was made from Hollowhill lead, wood ashes, ox fat, and a handful of secret ingredients. She applied it to the scars on Carnival's face and arms with a small pad. And Carnival allowed her to. All manner of strange feelings tumbled through the angel's heart, but she sat quietly on the stool and let the witch work her miracle.

"Now, a little red for your lips," said Ruby. "Do try not to lick it; it's made from ox blood." She smeared the stuff all over Carnival's lips.

Carnival waited while Ruby applied further powders, fragrant talcum and scents. She permitted the old lady to daub her eyelids with shades of umber, then trim her nails with small silver scissors and paint them deep red.

Finally the witch stepped back again. She studied Carnival for long moment, and then smiled. "You look almost human. Well... not human, of course; but, my goodness what a difference a little face paint and eye shadow makes. I think we're seeing the real you at last. No, no, stay where you are. Don't get up and look in the mirror just yet. I have one last gift for you. My master stroke."

She hurried back into the study.

Carnival sat alone on her stool, waiting. She looked at her hands and wrists, so pale and unmarred, the cracked nails hidden under a shiny red veneer, the scars disguised by powder. She wondered about the human mother she could not remember. Did she resemble that woman? Who would she see when she looked in the mirror? Her heart trembled with nervous excitement.

She heard a click.

A heavy metal grate crashed down over the door. It must have been hidden inside the walls of the townhouse. Now it blocked her escape from the room. Carnival leapt from her stool. She grabbed the bars and heaved at them. They would not shift. She turned sideways, tried to squeeze between two bars, but her wings prevented her from passing through such a narrow gap.

"Such a slender little thing," Ruby said wistfully from the study. "Had you been a normal girl, you might just have managed that."

Carnival rushed back across the room and threw open the shutters. There was nothing there: no window, just a plain brick wall. She smashed a fist against it, again and again.

"Temper tantrums won't change a thing, dear. You're trapped."

Carnival returned to the grate. The old lady stood on the other side, clutching a coil of red ribbon in one hand and a fist of white flowers in the other.

"I had intended you to have these," she said. "Your mother always wore flowers and ribbons in her hair. But I think you look enough of a fool without them, don't you?"

Mina had put the demon Basilis in her pram and smothered him with doll's blankets and frilly bows and her family of painted wooden ducks. Then she had announced that she was taking Mr Bangles and the ducks for a walk, and pushed the little vehicle out of the day room on its squeaky wheels.

Sal Greene could hear his granddaughter singing in the hall outside. The dog had its teeth back, but it was still a pup. When it had tried to bite Mina, she'd only got cross and hit it with a spoon.

"What does the sword do?" he said.

Ravencrag had insisted they return Lye Street. Greene suspected this was because the phantasmacists was worried that his colleagues at the club would start to ask questions about Cope. Ellie had made them breakfast and then retired to her room to let the three men speak in private. Now they reclined in comfortable chairs before the hearth.

The thaumaturge inspected the weapon. "It is a mystery," he said. "With the branch I had only to peer into it to be shown wonders through my master's eyes. Yet this appears to be a normal blade."

"Maybe it's unbreakable," said Greene.

"Your brutish actions in the Forest of Teeth have shown that it is not, Mr Greene. See where the metal beneath the pommel was sheared by your boot."

Ravencrag lit his pipe. "I bet it drinks souls," he said. "And sends them screaming into the demon's veins."

"A novel supposition, Mr Ravencrag," said Cope. "Why do you suppose the blade drinks souls?"

The phantasmacist exhaled a cloud of smoke. "It's a magic sword," he said. "That's the sort of thing they do."

"Have you wielded a magic sword before?"

Ravencrag grunted. "That's between me and my ex-wife."

Cope studied the sword, turning it over in his hands. "I fear you are mistaken, Mr Ravencrag. I sense nothing of my master's thirst in this steel. In fact, I can discern little of him except his grim determination to kill and maim, the predilection you felt expressed by the gale in the Forest of Teeth."

"Maybe that's it," said Greene. "The blade gives the wielder some sort of unnatural skill at swordplay? Or heightened aggression?"

"Hmm." Cope looked doubtful. "I do not feel overly aggressive. But at least we can test this theory without bloodshed. Which of you will spar with me?"

"Fling it over," said Greene. "I swung a sword in my youth. I was never much good at it, mind you, but I'll fight you if you promise not to go for my bloody knees, and stop when I yell."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather hold on to it," said Cope. He unsheathed the gut-sticker from his walking stick and presented it to the other man. "Will this weapon suffice?"

"As you like," said Greene.

The two men faced each other in the centre of the day room. Greene lunged first. Cope parried and retorted. The sound of clashing steel continued for several minutes, until it became clear that neither man possessed a greater degree of skill than the other. They were both mediocre swordsmen.

Breathless, Greene returned to his seat. "Maybe it's just a plain sword," he said. "Or maybe it has some use in the next forest."

Cope looked up suddenly. "Of course!" he said. "The branch led us to the sword, but we lacked the means to free the weapon without violence. Basilis has now gifted us with a blade. We must journey at once to the Forest of War."

"What?" snapped Ravencrag. "Now?"

"Why not?" said the thaumaturge. "I see no sense in delaying."

But Greene objected. "Before we go cavorting through another one of these forests," he said, "I want to get a few things settled. I hired you to kill an angel, but now it seems to me that we've been sidetracked. What started as a ritual to speak to your master has become a quest to set him free.

"Now... you've already made it cleat that Basilis hates me, for pulling out a few of his eyes and so on." He made a dismissive gesture. "So I want some kind of reassurance that the pair of you are going to do what you're supposed to do. I want the angel dead. I've got my family to think of."

"I am a man of honour, Mr Greene," said Cope. "And I have no intention of reneging on our deal. Basilis's imminent release is merely an unexpected bonus. In fact, I have already used my master's vision to work on your problem."

"You have?”

Cope nodded. He slipped the branch from the Forest of Eyes from one of his deep pockets. The branch blinked in places, and its gazes travelled the room from floor to ceiling. "Basilis has shown me much through this," he said. "Carnival is a tormented creature."

Ravencrag snorted. "You needed a magic branch to tell you that?"

Cope went on, "She does not know who she is and she cannot accept what she is. Each Scar Night her thirst overcomes her, driving her to kill. However, this darkmoon is different because we know who the victim is likely to be." He paused. "The Church has also learned of her vendetta against your family, Mr Greene, and the presbyter is planning to use it to his advantage."

"It won't help," said Greene. "She cuts through Spine assassins like a scythe through wheat. And I've never seen eye to eye with that cassocked fool or his priests in the temple. God-botherers, the lot of them. That's why I looked you up in the first place. The Church never saved my father, or his father before him."

"The angel does not recall those murders," said Cope. "And yet some part of her psyche remembers Henry Bucklestrappe's crime five hundred years ago. This dark element of Carnival's personality attempts to communicate with the angel by leaving messages in places she frequents. Carnival is unaware that she is writing the messages herself."

"You're saying she's mad, then?" asked Ravencrag

"Perhaps," said Cope. "Her amnesia is probably the result of an overwhelming need to suppress some trauma in her own past. Her vendetta threatens to expose this same trauma. She fears the messages and flees from them, but they will inevitably lead her to Mr Greene, and eventually to his descendants."

"How do we stop her?" asked Greene.

Cope leaned back in his chair. "I think I have given you enough, Mr Greene. We have the means to locate Carnival when the time comes, and a weapon which may prove useful against her. Now all that remains is to release the sword's owner." He took the skull of the last hound from his travel bag and set it on his lap. "Let us begin, gentlemen."