Shadowclock. He slipped out of a door and followed the line of a hedge around to the gardens. When a westerly was blowing strong enough to clear the smoke, the view from the hill was said to be the best in the walled city. Now all he could see was a constellation of yellow lamps twinkling through the evening smog in the streets below.
Captain Stone glanced behind him. That was odd. There seemed to be a lot of movement in the dining room, a whole company of red-coated men moving up and down the table. Surely the main course could not have finished so quickly? When the rigid envelope of an aerostat did not bind them to their duty, the officers of the high fleet could stretch a feast into the small hours of the morning. He moved closer to the window.
Inside was a picture of madness. Bodies were littered across the floor, others hanging stiff in their chairs, a few captains of the line crawling across the floor puking their guts out while their faces turned crimson. Moving methodically through the carnage the redcoats had knives out, pulling officers back and slicing their throats. At the head of the table the lumpen governor was gorging on the food, laughing and banging the table as his staff dispatched the fleet as if it were a line of animals at an abattoir.
It took a few seconds for the reality of the insane situation to penetrate Stone’s consciousness — seconds which stretched like minutes. Then his mind cleared with the first rush of adrenalin and an animal urge for survival. First the captain of the
Sliding his dress cutlass clear as he vanished into the garden, Captain Stone said a silent prayer to the souk vendors of Cassarabia. A prayer to a skewer of meat chunks of dubious provenance that had saved his life.
Oliver woke up early. They were sinking and the air was getting warmer. The rise and fall of the expansion engine had changed pitch too. Steamswipe’s unblinking visor met his gaze. He had Lord Wireburn unholstered. Harry was propped up against a barrel of expansion engine gas.
‘We’re landing?’ Oliver said over the racket of the engine.
‹We are,› Harry replied using his mind voice. ‹About thirty miles east of Middlesteel. In Middlemarsh Forest unless I am mistaken.›
‘How do you know?’
Harry flipped open a compass. ‹Destination, bearing and average speed of a fully laden aerostat.›
The engines cut off and for the first time in an age Oliver could hear silence as the vessel hung in the air. With a gentle tug they were being hauled in.
‘Her lines are out,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll be secure groundside soon enough.’
‘After we land we should send out a scout,’ said Steamswipe, ‘and observe the lay of the land. You could use the crawl space in the engines as a vantage point.’
‘Not for an hour or two I couldn’t. Right now that rotor drive is hot enough to fry a side of gammon. But there’s another way. I can do a soul walking.’
‘You can do that?’ asked Oliver. ‘I thought it was dangerous. Even my fey-finders from the Department of Feymist couldn’t do that and old Pullinger was a four-flower worldsinger.’
‘It takes concentration,’ said Harry. ‘You fill yourself with so much of the earth’s power that it can surge and sever the connection between your soul and your body — leaving you a mindless corpse. But I won’t travel that far. Just a quick poke about, nearby. A true soul walker could float all the way to Hundred Locks and back.’
The disreputable Stave moved his pack to the side of their nest among the barrels of gas and adopted a lotus position. ‘No noise now — an interrupted trance and you’ll be spoon-feeding me gruel until the crushers catch up with me.’
Oliver sensed the presence of the wolftaker lift from his body, drift through the chamber and slip through the catenary curtain of the aerostat. They waited in the shadows of the hold. An orange light on Lord Wireburn’s side had begun blinking. The holy relic was ready for the fight and with a start Oliver realized so was he. Harry shook himself out of the trance.
‘What do we face?’ asked Steamswipe.
Harry looked pale. ‘Give me a moment, old stick.’ He made a noise with his throat. ‘Circle. My skin feels like it’s on fire. All right, we’ve come down in Middlemarsh Forest. There’s an old mine behind us. Hasn’t been worked for a long time. Most of the buildings have been abandoned — but the shaft’s been cleared and the winch house has been rebuilt. I couldn’t go any deeper into the mine, the ground blocks a soul walking.’
‘How many foe?’
‘There’s crushers here — or at least, whippers in police uniform. Much the same thing in my book. Some others hanging around — they’ve got spore filters on their collars, so I’d say they’re from the undercity, Grimhope outlaws. But that’s not the worst of it. There’s Special Guard here!’
‘Almost a worthy foe,’ said Steamswipe. He sounded pleased. ‘Their natural template has been distorted — their abilities in battle will be surprising.’
Oliver extended his newfound senses, touched the souls of the people on the ground and recoiled from their depravity. Wickedness,
‘They’re getting ready to unload the miners from Shadowclock. The poor devils are in leg irons in the main hold,’ said Harry. ‘But why an abandoned mine? There’s no celgas here.’
‘There’s evil here,’ said Oliver. ‘And something else besides…’
They both stared at him. ‘What do you know about this place, lad?’
‘I know how to read, Harry. Before these jiggers stole my life that’s all I had to do. This place was in the penny sheets a couple of years back. Three children playing about in a worked-out copper mine found temple statues. Solid gold and gems for eyes. The mine was given to the archaeologists from the eight universities and the county constabulary had to fight off treasure seekers and tomb robbers coming out from the capital, hoping to dig out a fortune.’
‘The governor isn’t risking his neck at the gallows for gold,’ said Harry. ‘You can skim far more than the price of a few antiques from the patronage that comes with the governorship of Shadowclock. Whatever their jig here, they need miners to work their claim. Deep mine experience. The statues were from the coldtime?’
‘Chimecan, Harry. I think they went on display at the museum in Middlesteel.’
‘Okay, here’s the lay of the land. We wait for the Shadowclock miners to disembark and then we drop the ramp and head for the trees. There are plenty of people around. Even if we are spotted they’re as like to assume we’re crew. In the woods we’ll set up an observation and see if we can grab one of their people — find out where the miners are ending up and see how easy it’s going to be to penetrate this bleeding place.’
Oliver could feel the apprehension of the miners, their fear of the unknown as they descended the main loading ramp, and the hard hearts of the guards watching them. They did not see the miners as people at all, just a means to an end.
It was morning outside. As they lowered the ramp the bright light made Oliver wince after the darkness of the hold. Down. Walk casually — with purpose. Not three scuttling intruders fleeing the shadow of the airship. Crewmen. Then Oliver heard the shout and risked a glance back. There, by the line of resigned workers being ushered into the gates of the old mine. It was the Whisperer! A shambling child-sized feybreed, so distorted by the mist it was hard to see where his limbs began and his torso ended. But it was not the Whisperer’s bitter soul inside the fey creature; and this thing wore plated armour — a worldsinger containment suit — metal shells covered in runes and strung tightly together with wire. It was pointing at them and howling like it was caught in the embrace of a torture rack. Pointing straight at Oliver.
From the cover of the trees they were heading for a patrol of redcoats stepped out into the clearing.
‘Now we fight,’ said Steamswipe.
Oliver’s hands burned searing. He looked down and reali zed that the reverend’s gifts had appeared there. Harry stared at the two guns open-mouthed like a man whose life had ended. A shot splintered past them. Steamswipe turned and Lord Wireburn shot out a ball of revolving fire — a miniature sun that slapped into the guards behind them. Seven soldiers were incinerated, a splash of jelly-like fire landing on the nearest guards. Steamswipe fired again. After each shot Lord Wireburn let out a shriek, half an inhalation, half a gagging exhalation, as if the holy weapon was sucking in the life of the deceased.
Both of Oliver’s pistols discharged, two attackers were hammered off their feet, then he flicked the guns open, reloading from his bandoleer with a smooth mechanical precision. The disreputable Stave was moving in
