resolving. More than once it had struck Quaiche that if human beings really grasped how synthetic their world was — how much of it was stitched together not from direct perception, but from interpolation, memory, educated guesswork — they would go quietly mad.
He looked at the Way. In the far easterly distance, in the direction that the Lady Morwenna was headed, there was a distinct twinkling. That was the northern limit of the Gullveig Mountains, the largest range in Hela’s southern hemisphere. It was the last major geological feature to be crossed before the relative ease of the Jarnsaxa Flats and the associated fast run to the Devil’s Staircase. The Way cut through the northern flanks of the Gullveig Range, pushing through foothills via a series of high-walled canyons. And that was where an icefall had been reported. It was said to be a bad one, hundreds of metres deep, completely blocking the existing alignment. Quaiche had personally interviewed the leader of the Permanent Way repair team earlier that day, a man named Wyatt Benjamin who had lost a leg in some ancient, unspecified accident.
‘Sabotage, I’d say,’ Benjamin had told him. ‘A dozen or so demolition charges placed in the wall during the last crossing, with delayed timing fuses. A spoiling action by trailing cathedrals. They can’t keep up, so they don’t see why anyone else should.’
‘That would be quite a serious allegation to make in public,’ Quaiche had said, as if the very thought had never occurred to him. ‘Still, you may be right, much as it pains me to admit it.’
‘Make no mistake, it’s a stitch-up.’
‘The question is, who’s going to clear it? It would need to be done in — what, ten days at the maximum, before we reach the obstruction?’
Wyatt Benjamin had nodded. ‘You may not want to be that close when it’s cleared, however.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’re not going to be chipping this one away.’
Quaiche had absorbed that, understanding exactly what the man meant. ‘There was a fall of that magnitude three, four years ago, wasn’t there? Out near Glum Junction? I seem to remember it was cleared using conventional demolition equipment. Shifted the lot in fewer than ten days, too.’
‘We could do this one in fewer than ten days,’ Benjamin told him,
‘but we only have about half of our usual allocation of equipment and manpower.’
‘That sounds odd,’ Quaiche had replied, frowning. ‘What’s wrong with the rest?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that it’s all been requisitioned, men and machines. Don’t ask me why or who’s behind it. I only work for the Permanent Way. And I suppose if it was anything to do with Clocktower business, you’d already know, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose I would,’ Quaiche had said. ‘Must be a bit lower down than Clocktower level. My guess? Another office of the Way has discovered something they should have fixed urgently already, a job that got forgotten in the last round. They need all that heavy machinery to get it done in a rush, before anyone notices.’
‘Well, we’re noticing,’ Benjamin had said. But he had seemed to accept the plausibility of Quaiche’s suggestion.
‘In that case, you’ll just have to find another means of clearing the blockage, won’t you?’
‘We already have another means,’ the man had said.
‘God’s Fire,’ Quaiche had replied, forcing awe into his voice.
‘If that’s what it takes, that’s what we’ll have to use. It’s why we carry it with us.’
‘Nuclear demolitions should only ever be used as the absolute final last resort,’ Quaiche had said, with what he hoped was the appropriate cautioning tone. ‘Are you quite certain that this blockage can’t be shifted by conventional means?’
‘In ten days with the available men and equipment? Not a sodding hope.’
‘Then God’s Fire it will have to be.’ Quaiche had steepled the twigs of his fingers. ‘Inform the other cathedrals, across all ecumenical boundaries. We’ll take the lead on this one. The others had better draw back to the usual safe distance, unless they’ve improved their shielding since last time.’
‘There’s no other choice,’ Wyatt Benjamin had agreed.
Quaiche had placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right. What has to be done, has to be done. God will watch over us.’
Quaiche snapped out of his reverie and smiled. The Permanent Way man was gone now, off to arrange the rare and hallowed deployment of controlled fusion devices. He was alone with the Way and the scrimshaw suit and the distant, alluring twinkle of the Gullveig Range.
‘You arranged for that ice, didn’t you?’
He turned to the scrimshaw suit. ‘Who told you to speak?’
‘No one.’
He fought to keep his voice level, betraying none of the fear he felt. ‘You aren’t supposed to talk until I make it possible.’
‘Clearly this is not the case.’ The voice was thin, reedy: the product of a cheap speaker welded to the back of the scrimshaw suit’s head, out of sight of casual guests. ‘We hear everything, Quaiche, and we speak when it suits us.’
It shouldn’t have been possible. The speaker was only supposed to work when Quaiche turned it on. ‘You shouldn’t be able to do this.’
The voice — it was like something produced by a cheaply made woodwind instrument — seemed to mock him. ‘This is only the start, Quaiche. We will always find a way out of any cage you build around us.’
‘Then I should destroy you now.’
‘You can’t. And you shouldn’t. We are not your enemy, Quaiche. You should know that by now. We’re here to help you. We just need a little help in return.’
‘You’re demons. I don’t negotiate with demons.’
‘Not demons, Quaiche. Just shadows, as you are to us.’
They had had this conversation before. Many times before. ‘I can think of ways to kill you,’ he said.
‘Then why not try?’
The answer popped unbidden into his head, as it always did: because they might be useful to him. Because he could control them for now. Because he feared what would happen if he killed them as much as if he let them live. Because he knew there were more where this lot came from.
Many more.
‘You know why,’ he said, sounding pitiable even to himself.
‘The vanishings are increasing in frequency,’ the scrimshaw suit said. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘It means that these are the end times,’ Quaiche said. ‘No more than that.’
‘It means that the concealment is failing. It means that the machinery will soon be evident to all.’
‘There is no machinery.’
‘You saw it for yourself. Others will see it, too, when the vanishings reach their culmination. And sooner or later someone will want to do business with us. Why wait until then, Quaiche? Why not deal with us now, on the best possible terms?’
‘I don’t deal with demons.’
‘We are only shadows,’ the suit said again. ‘Just shadows, whispering across the gap between us. Now help us to cross it, so that we can help you.’
‘I won’t. Not ever.’
‘There is a crisis coming, Quaiche. The evidence suggests it has already begun. You’ve seen the refugees. You know the stories they tell, of machines emerging from the darkness, from the cold. Engines of extinction. We’ve seen it happen before, in this very system. You won’t beat them without our help.’
‘God will intervene,’ Quaiche said. His eyes were watering, blurring the image of Haldora.
‘There is no God,’ the suit said. ‘There is only us, and we don’t have limitless patience.’
But then it fell silent. It had said its piece for the day, leaving Quaiche alone with his tears.
‘God’s Fire,’ he whispered.
When Vasko returned to the heart of the iceberg there was no more music. With the light bulk of the incubator hanging from one hand he made his way through the tangle of icy spars, following the now well-cleared
