Worldsoul

“My name is Jonathan Deed.” Names had power, even children knew that, but there was nothing to be gained from hiding his own. The demon would have been able to pluck that out of the communications directory, if she so chose. Mareritt-well. Best not go there.

“Deed.” The demon spoke wonderingly, savouring it on her tongue. “I have heard of you. Abbot General of the Court.”

Deed bowed. “Madam. The honour is mine.”

The demon looked idly around her. “What does a mage of the Court want with me?”

“Ah,” Deed said. “I need some advice.”

The spirit put her head to one side and slipped the veil from her face, which was, predictably, cold and beautiful. The more human demons always had something of the same look, as if there was some form of genetic stamp, but since their manifest appearance was illusory, Deed could only assume that they simply lacked imagination. Or perhaps it wasn’t that important. “Advice, indeed?”

Deed aimed for an expression of humility, but did not feel he was entirely successful in achieving it. “Yes. I have a question concerning the Eastern Quarter of this city, regarding a woman named Shadow. An alchemist.”

Gremory grew still, the garnet eyes filmed like the bloom on a plum. “An alchemist named Shadow? Yes, I know her.”

“What can you tell me of her?”

“I hear that she has courage and intelligence. She has integrity, and cannot be easily bought.” The demon grinned. “And she is under the protection, if you can call it that, of the Shah of Has El Zindeh. I would suggest that even the Court treads carefully.”

“I see,” said Deed. This confirmed what he already knew. “Do you know anything more about this protection? Is she working for him?”

“Oh,” Gremory said, with a laugh. “She will be working for him. The Shah does not give something for nothing.”

“Do you know,” Deed asked carefully, “of an ancient race known as the disir?”

“The Ladies?” the demon said, with scorn. “Of course.” She put her head to one side again and touched a finger to her lips. Deed could not help but focus on the long, curling claw, of polished brass. “Now let me see. They are from the north, an ancient people, as you say, bred from clans that roamed the snowlands long before the ice. They bred into the northern tribes, mingling the bloodlines-one of which you come from.”

She pointed her brassy claw at him and, to his horror, Deed felt himself start to change: flesh drawing back from the bones of his face, his fingers elongating, back hunching, vision altering-“Enough!” Gremory said and Deed, human once more, again stood straight in his formal ruffed suit, feeling as though he had been wrenched out of his skin. As indeed, he had. It was Mareritt all over again and within, Deed cursed all female kind. A boil of hate rose up inside him. Never mind that now; he could take it out on Darya later.

“You are one of Loki’s children,” the demon said and an expression of extreme distaste crossed her beautiful face. “Be careful, Abbot General. I know much more than you think. There is a disir in the Eastern Quarter; she has been hurt and she is angry. Even for you, I don’t think she will come back.”

“Oh,” Deed said, more sharply than he meant to. “She’ll come. I sent her, after all. Now-” for he felt the need to move from these dangerous waters into others, which might prove equally treacherous, “-I need to speak about another matter. The Barquess.”

The head-tilt was to the other side this time, but just as irritating. “Ah. The ship of souls.”

“Yes. What can you tell me about the Barquess? She and her crew were sent in search of the Skein, but since then nothing has been heard, and nothing can be found. Can you tell me? Is the ship lost?”

“The Barquess sails on,” the demon said. “But not as you know it.”

“They are dead, then?”

“No.” Gremory smiled a curious, secretive smile. “They are far beyond the Liminality, and that is why you cannot find them. But they do live. Would you like to see them?”

Deed felt blood pounding in his head. “Yes. Yes, I would. But why haven’t we been told of this before, from your kindred?”

“You didn’t ask,” the demon answered, mildly surprised. Deed knew that this was not true, at least, not by human standards of truth. Demons did not see things in the same way, however.

“Please show me now,” he said, as politely as he could. Obligingly, the demon spread a clawed hand. Lightning played about her fingers and an abyss at her feet began to whirl and bubble. A pale dot appeared, at the centre of the whirlpool, then cast upward, sailing around the rim of a maelstrom. It grew in size and soon it was large enough for Deed to see the familiar configurations of the Barquess: its icebreaker prow, the huge engines at the stern, the masts and funnels and, along its sides, the immense folded vanes which would enable the ship to fly, should there be a need. Part battleship, part airship, part behemoth, the Barquess had been engineered for many possibilities. It was not beautiful, although the golden traceries along its flanks-indicating the passage of the dimension-breaking magic with which it had been endowed-looked like the veins of leaves. Deed had seen the sails unfurled only once and they, too, were of gold. When he looked more closely, he could see small figures scurrying across its decks.

“Is this as the ship is now? Or a simulacrum?”

“A day or so ago. We are looking into the past, but not far.” The demon shrugged. “It is likely that they still live but who can truly say? The Barquess sails dangerous waters, if one can call them such.”

“Where is it? Tell me the truth,” Deed commanded, “in the name of Solomon the King, I abjure you.” He made a sign in the air.

A blank cast came over the demon’s face, but Deed knew the Name would not hold her for long, and could be used only sparingly, like a rare spice. “They sail among the Western Stars. They chase their quarry, hound to hunter. Their journey takes them further and yet closer-do not try that again,” Gremory warned, eyes flashing ruby sparks. “I am not easily controlled.”

“Madam,” Deed said easily, for now he had got what he wanted. “I would not dream of it.”

Twenty

Shadow sat on her heels by the cage containing the ifrit. The thing was vast, far bigger than the cage, its energies contorted within it in a way that could not be comfortable. But who knew how the ifrit saw matters? Shadow did not, however, think the ifrit was happy.

That made two of them.

“You have an entirely free rein,” the Shah had said that morning, when Shadow had sourly reported for work. “I trust your judgement.” This had not improved Shadow’s mood. The Shah was affable, but that meant he’d got whatever it was he wanted and that didn’t suit Shadow at all. And her concentration wasn’t up to much, either: memories of the disir, of the wrecked laboratory, and of Mercy Fane kept intruding. She wished Mercy was still here and that made her very nervous. Apart from Shenudah, Shadow was not accustomed to friends, and really, her friendship would not be doing the other woman any favours. Yet she’d felt that she could discuss things with Mercy, that the woman understood, and she certainly wasn’t used to having a sounding board. The fact the Shah was funding full repairs to the lab hadn’t helped, either. More unwanted obligations, more requirements for gratitude. Shadow had insisted on hiring the workmen herself, but she knew it gave the Shah the possibility to get someone inside the lab, perhaps sabotage the equipment for who knew what purpose further down the line. She could see a future in which she remained permanently tied to the Shah and she did not like it at all.

Now for the ifrit.

She could see nothing resembling features, or an eye. The ifrit could take semi-human form, but Shadow knew from experience that this was a loose term only: they were beings of fire, silhouettes of flickering eldritch light that freeze-burned the touch. Humans did not always survive long in their presence and this was why the Shah had confined this ifrit here, in a very expensive cage made of meteorite iron, and therefore holy. Shadow could see the