Nieve (20 page)

When Nieve made the mistake of mentioning this to Lias, he responded that most of what haunted this part of the city – the wirricowes, the foliots, the rawheads – must have already infiltrated the upper one and would be spreading out into the countryside, and to her town, as Wormius and Ashe had done.

“Might still be a few leftover,” he added. “I wouldn't count them out.”

“Wonderful.” She didn't enquire what a “rawhead” might be – she was in such a bad mood that she was beginning to feel like one herself. Might as well practice, she thought grimly, because if they got lost, which they'd almost done a couple of times in miscalculating the turn the cart had taken, they too might end up as nothing more than phantoms drifting endlessly through the streets of this nothing city. Her, a distinctly evil-tempered one, bumping blindly into things. What she hadn't mentioned to Lias was that the eyedrops Gran had given her were losing their power and her vision was fading. She could still see well enough at present, but had no idea how fast her sight would go. Hours from now? Minutes?

In her uncertainty, as if trying to outrun it, she put on a burst of speed.

“Hey.” Lias scrambled to catch up.

As they progressed, the houses grew larger and grander, the streets wider and laid with slate. Since it was more open here, they had to keep themselves far enough behind so as not to be noticed, while at the same time Nieve longed to rush ahead. Added to the problem of her diminishing night-sight was her growing conviction that they were being followed. Not that she'd heard any steps dogging theirs, any rustlings or patterings, however faint. It was more a feeling, a tingling alertness, a strong sense of something at her back.

She spun around and surveyed the street behind. Nothing there. Or nothing her weakening eyesight could detect.

“What is it?” whispered Lias.

“Don't know. Something.”

They kept on – what choice was there? – if more warily.

Walls rose up on either side of them covered with dead ivy, branches crawling over the stone like thick, black veins. Inside the walls were decayed mansions of the sort Nieve sometimes read about in novels, safe in the company of fearless fictional children. She'd found the brooding menace of those houses thrilling and fun, while the very real menace of the ones that lay behind these walls was not thrilling at all – and as for fun? How she wished she could take the Black City in her hands like a book and snap it shut, never to be opened again.

Lias motioned to her, pressing a finger to his lips as he moved nearer to the wall on his left.

The cart had finally come to a stop and the guards appeared to be fiddling with the latch on a gate. After rattling it and cursing at it and giving it a boot, the gate swung open and they herded their business slaves in, which involved more cursing and boots all round for them as well. Squinting after them as the wagon disappeared through the gate, Nieve wondered how it was that the captives had been able to see in this solid darkness, and realized that they probably couldn't. Same for their human cargo, same for Malcolm. All might as well have been muffled in black hoods, prisoners of a lightless nightmare.

Once the others were inside, they moved ahead, staying close to the wall. With her ear practically grazing it, Nieve heard a tiny, raspy sound that she took to be an insect of some sort – a welcome sign of life, no matter how small. But then, pausing to look at the wall more closely, she was startled to see a face staring out at her through a network of ivy branches. Gargoyle, she thought, although this face wasn't anything like the grotesques she'd seen earlier, the grinning monsters and glaring devils. This face was pretty, the face of a young child. Curious, she was about to reach out and touch its cheek – it seemed so lifelike – when Lias waved her on impatiently – this was no time to dawdle.

But it wasn't long before he stopped, too. When Nieve caught up with him, he was staring at the wall, transfixed. It had evidently crumbled at some point and been repaired, although not with stone. A much softer material had been used. Bodies. Human bodies of all sizes, all ages, male and female, were woven together, arms and legs twisted and linked and wound, in places awkwardly bent or cruelly contorted, whatever was required to tighten the weave. Some were upside down. Some faced out and others in. Some had their eyes closed, but most not. All were expressionless, faces blanched of emotion, and all, Nieve was sure, were alive.

“Can they feel anything?” She kept her voice low, and tried to keep it steady.

“Probably not,” said Lias, his own voice a bit shaky. After a moment, after they'd both absorbed the worst of the shock, he added, “We're obviously in the right place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bone House, remember? Where the troublemakers end up. Are you sure you want to go in? The odds aren't much in our favour.”

“Are you?”

He nodded. “Have to.”

“Me, too.” She thought of Malcolm, in
there
, behind this living wall. She couldn't help everyone, couldn't free everyone, but one person, maybe
one
. . . . “We can sneak in, check it out first. Like I did at Ferrets.”

“Gate's still unlatched, I think.”

They edged closer to it, both keeping their own eyes averted from those that stared out, wide-eyed, from the wall. The gate itself consisted of two tall, skinny men, their feet and shins badly bruised. The hand of one, stiff as iron, reached out to clasp hands with the other, who did likewise. Nieve shivered to see it, the hands of these unfortunate brothers, twins, serving as latches. She shivered again . . . and then
froze
as a hand, much smaller, but as cold as metal, seized her arm.

A girl who had been wedged in beside the gate, stuck in like mortar to fill a hole, had swiftly – and improbably – reached out and clutched her. Nieve barely stopped herself from screaming. She tried to yank her arm away, but the girl held fast. Struggling to free herself, Nieve looked quickly at her, then more closely, shocked at what she saw.
Who
she saw.

It was Alicia Overbury, cold as death and as immobile, except for the one hand that grasped Nieve so firmly, fingers digging into her arm. Alicia's eyes, too, seemed overlarge with anguish. An awareness flickered in them.

“Alicia,”
Nieve whispered. “How did . . . ?” Useless question. Alicia was incapable of speech. It was that night school, Nieve thought, that vile teacher. She had never liked Alicia, but felt sorry and sick to see her trapped here. Maybe she'd stopped eating those poisonous treats, as Nieve had advised, and had woken up enough to cause some trouble. But how had she overcome her numbness, unlike the others here, to reach out? And to what end? Nieve didn't know if Alicia was trying to stop her from entering Bone House and suffering the same fate, or if she was imploring her for help.

“I'll do what I can, Alicia, “ she promised. “I'll do everything I possibly can.”

Feeling her grip loosen, Nieve touched her hand lightly – how cold it felt! – and pulled away.

Alicia's arm fell by her side, heavy as a plank.

Nieve turned back to the “gate,” expecting Lias to be waiting anxiously. Odd that he hadn't tried to intervene when Alicia seized her.

But Lias wasn't there; he hadn't waited for her. She decided that he must have gone in before Alicia grabbed her, assuming that she was following right behind. In that case, he wouldn't have gone far. Nieve took one last look at Alicia, nodded, and then slipped into the grounds of Bone House.

“Lias?” She spoke as softly as possible. “Can't see you.” Her eyes were worse. It was getting harder to make things out.

Something swished by overhead, crying sharply. The lich-owl again. That harbinger of . . . Nieve shuddered. And then it struck her, as though the owl itself had told her: Lias was gone. Something had happened to him.
Lias was gone!

She cast around desperately, dearly hoping she was wrong, knowing she wasn't. No idea what to do – she had to
think
, she mustn't panic – she ran behind what she took to be a bush that was branching massively and palely in the dark.

The second she crouched behind it, the bush shot out a spray of wiry branches, several of which snaked around her neck, cinching her as inescapably as a rabbit caught in a snare. She clutched at them, fighting and struggling to free herself, but this only caused the coiled branches to tighten.

A figure, appearing out of the air like a twist of smoke, began to take shape as it advanced slowly toward her.

He was barely visible to her, but she knew exactly who it was. Not someone she had
ever
wanted to see again.

“My, how
stupid
of you,” observed the Weed Inspector, closing in. “As I predicted. Eh,
Nieve
?”

–Twenty-Four–
Our Mutual Fiend

O
nce he spoke her name, he didn't stop. He uttered it quietly enough, creepily enough, but as he marched her through the long halls of Bone House, taunting her, the walls themselves picked up her name and bounced it along between them until it got louder and louder: Nieve . . . .
Nieve . . . .
NIEVE!
Her name preceded her like an announcement, echoing along corridors bleached and brittle-looking, as if the place really were made of bone.

Nieve reached up to touch her neck, trying to assess how badly she was hurt. The coiling branches that the Weed Inspector had roughly unwound and torn off, had left painful, throbbing welts on her skin.

“Hands at your sides.” The Weed Inspector walked behind close as a shadow, breathing dank air on her head. “
Nieve
.”

Nieve . . .
Nieve . . . NIEVE!!

“Why?” she challenged. “Are you afraid I'll hurt you?” She'd been caught so easily that she
did
feel stupid. And if, under the circumstances, belligerence was stupid, too, then fine, she didn't care. She delicately probed the welts.

The odious man (if he
was
a man) chuckled. “You don't really believe all that megrim nonsense, do you, Nieve?”

No, I don't
, she thought. But said, “You'll see. You'll see what I can do.” A threat that sounded as empty as her own name did echoing down the hall.

He chuckled again, mirthlessly, and breathed more dank air on her head, but didn't say anything more until they arrived at a huge set of double doors at the end of the hall. “You are to have the great honour of meeting Elixibyss.” This name sank with a tremor into the walls and was not repeated. “The Impress, Elixibyss. Behave. I highly recommend it.”

The Weed Inspector opened the doors and shoved her in, then hastily closed them again. She heard the lock turn.

As she had surmised, the woman before her was the one who had pursued her at Ferrets. She still wore the hat with the veil covering her face, although she was now dressed in a shimmering purple gown with long batwing sleeves. She sat in a blocky regal chair at one end of a long, limestone dining room table, drumming her long fingers on its dull surface, raising little puffs of dust as she did so.

The room wasn't well-lit by any means, but was bright enough for Nieve to see. Besides the flickering butt-ends of candles stuck in old bottles arrayed on the table and set in sconces on the wall, there were curious bluish-white lights that roved independently around the room. About the size of ping-pong balls, they wove in and around the chairs at the table and floated past the adjacent fireplace, pausing to hover over a large, covered object in the corner, a trunk possibly. Nieve watched them, fascinated. She hadn't expected to see anything here quite so . . . .

“Enchanting?” said Elixibyss, her voice surprisingly soft, even pleasant. None of the harshness she'd heard at Ferrets. “Don't stare at them, my dear. Naughty spherals, they'll mesmerize you and then the next thing you know you'll be walking off the roof. Wouldn't want that now, would we?”

Nieve turned to observe her, this Impress. Which was supposed to mean what? Queen of the imps? The thick veil shrouded her face entirely, which suggested that she was a fright, a gorgon with features too alarming to expose. Still, Nieve knew she had to prepare herself for the shock of seeing her unveiled. The woman (if she
was
a woman) was about to dine, after all. The table was set for two, with plates and glasses and silverware, and she had a sinking feeling that one place setting was intended for her.