disconnected from his flesh. Margaret had her guns, and her rime blades, but this was true weaponry.
He tensed, waiting for Cadell to drive his hand through the glass, but the Old Man did not.
Cadell’s eyes dropped to the ring on David’s finger. David realised that it was glowing, even through the ice. Only the moons were brighter. A cloud passed over them and darkness fell.
Now, he will do it now.
A whistle blew shrilly from the streets below and David was once again reminded of the Dolorous Grey. Something smashed on the ground, a roof tile, perhaps, or a stone. More whistles blew and David heard the heavy beat of Cadell’s boots clambering over the rooftops. David flung open the window, a pane cracking with a loud pop when it came into contact with his fingers. He looked down at the street; below him ran dozens of constables, heavy clubs in hand. One of them looked up at him, and David nodded, keeping his ice-slicked fingers hidden.
The constable regarded him for a moment, and then kept on after his colleagues. David slumped against the windowpane, his vision swimming. How had he ever thought that he could fight Cadell? Disposing of the Roiling as he had, while effective and showy, had exhausted him utterly. He touched his face with a fingertip, skin and ice fused. He yanked his hand free and took some skin with it.
What am I? What am I now?
David shed the ice from his fists. It was coloured with his own blood and lymph. His fingers ached. He could hardly move them. He brought them to his chest, but there was no warmth there.
He could smell blood that wasn’t his own. He peered out the window. There was a puddle of blood on the ledge. Not the sort of thing he wanted daylight to reveal to the world — certainly not to Hardacre’s constabulary.
He hurried to the bathroom, filled the bucket there. He scrubbed the blood away as best he could, with fingers that still felt like leaden claws, resisting the temptation to see how it might taste — he knew the answer to that already, the blood scent was in the air. Then he washed his hands in water that was warm, but chilled when it touched his flesh.
Is this my life now? Is this all I am, utterly at odds with my world?
David took a deep breath, walked to the desk, and found his Carnival.
He flexed and released his hands, letting the blood come back to sluggish life. At last, when he could hold his gear with enough delicacy to do what needed to be done, he saw to his addiction.
He half expected Margaret to come bursting through the door. But she did not, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
He let the Carnival do its work and it didn’t matter any more.
CHAPTER 9
She's a city made for rain. She's a city made of rage. She's a city with a rough and seeking tongue. You find it ugly. I find it beautiful.
THE CITY OF HARDACRE 965 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE
The next morning dark clouds rolled in from the north, an unheard-of thing this time of year, coming down from the mountains. The winds had changed seemingly overnight. There was some debate over whether or not they contained rain or snow. The temperature certainly had dropped, but the clouds merely built, obscuring the sky and darkening everything.
The whole city transformed with their arrival, hunkered down, as though it were the beginning of the end. The gardens seemed to shrink, several shops didn’t open, a cat gave birth to a three-headed kitten, and weird howls were heard coming from the tent city beyond the town's walls.
Margaret had spent the morning practicing her swordplay. For all that it was a weapon of last resort, the rime blade rewarded practice. It was heavy, its blade when sheathed in ice heavier still. But she had killed many Quarg Hounds with it. Indeed, she counted herself among the best of her people when it came to the sword. She was certainly the best now, and that made her practice with even more focus than usual. Her arms burning, lungs heaving, she worked through the patterns of the blade, the various rhythms that denoted attack or defence.
But her heart wasn't in it today. Her thoughts couldn’t escape the news of the morning. The deaths on Rowdy Street — three killed, half eaten — and the constables that had chased something monstrous to the outskirts of the city before losing both it and five men — pieces of whom had been found with the dawn. The papers were already calling it the Night of Blood.
David was waiting for her in the dining room, having finished off his breakfast. There were several large plates of food, stacked up before him: such a remarkable appetite for such a thin man. Margaret wondered where he fit all that food. It certainly wasn’t fattening him up, though he had broadened across the shoulders.
Margaret chewed down a few pieces of toast, and some strips of bacon. “Did you have enough?” she asked him, eyeing his plates.
“Just enough,” David said. “Barely enough.” He licked his lips, and there was something grotesque about the movement, something unconsidered and unDavid like.
Margaret shuddered, and David must have caught some of the meaning behind it because he looked almost hurt.
“Where's Buchan and Whig?” she asked.
“Purchasing more supplies. They say we should be ready to leave in under a week.”
Margaret hissed. “They’ve been saying that for a week already. What good are supplies without an airship?”
“I think this time they might mean it. There's word that a ship called the Collard Green is due.”
Margaret wasn't prepared to even begin to hope.
David grabbed an orange quarter from the fruit platter in the middle of the table and ate it, skin and all. He stood up.
“I had a visitor last night.” He almost sounded guilty.
Margaret leaned in close. “Really, he came to your room?”
“No further than the window, but I suspect he would have entered if the constables hadn’t seen him.”
“Before or after he-”
He said, “You've heard about the killings then?”
Margaret nodded.
“It was after. The constables didn't start chasing him until after the third death. He'd killed to build his strength, it radiated from him. He'd have taken me easily last night.”
“You’d have fought him alone?” she asked.
“And I’d have died, you too. I was still too weak.”
“What about now?”
“I’m fine today,” David said, stretching his arms above his head; his back clicked loudly. “We’ll hunt until we find him. I’m ready.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? We can wait, until you’re strong again.”
David swallowed another piece of orange. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
Margaret couldn’t quite explain it herself. But her mood had soured today and her desire to put David at risk had cooled. She didn't so much fear Cadell, but the thing David might have to become to kill Cadell.
“I'm fine, believe me, I'm fine. This must be done,” David said. “Too many have died because I have done nothing. Besides I really think that Buchan and Whig might really be ready to leave, and we cannot leave him here.” As if their guilt wasn’t reason enough.
“If he’s running from constables he can’t be too strong.”
“Perhaps, or he’s just building. Maybe waiting for me to leave.”
“Why?”
