Iron Angel

forest or a swamp mingled with something else-something bestial. Harper inhaled it deeply, trying to identify it.

Carrick stood in the center of the room, reeling, seemingly unsure of where to turn or who to speak to. He still had a flute of wine in his hand.

Edith was shrieking. The colour seemed to have drained from her face to her thin chest, which heaved against the confines of her peach bodice. She had removed one of her gloves and clutched a bloody handkerchief in her naked fingers. A handsome man and his young wife, in matching raven-dark suit and frock, were attending to her. Harper now recognized the man as Edgar Lovich, an actor who’d made his fortune tramping the boards of Cog’s theaters before the war. Lovich was holding the young lady’s uninjured hand while his wife sought to inspect her wound. “Please, Edith,” she said. “I can’t help you unless you let me look at it.”

“It took my finger off,” Edith cried. “It took my finger off!”

“Let me see, then.”

“What happened?” Harper demanded.

Carrick wheeled to face her. “Where in hell have you been? While you’ve been off slacking, we’ve had a manifestation. Miss Bainbridge has been injured.”

“What kind?” Harper made a point of staring at the drink in Carrick’s hand.

“What?” The chief gaped at her.

“What kind?” she repeated. “A dogcatcher? An Icarate? Was it one of the Non Morai? If I’m going to get rid of it, it would help if I knew what it was.”

“What are you talking about?” Carrick said. “It manifested itself. Here. It smashed up the piano.”

The actor’s wife had succeeded in extracting the handkerchief from Edith’s hand. Now she was examining the young woman’s bloody fingers. “It’s fine,” she said. “Just a cut. The piano wire must have caught your knuckle just here.”

“The finger’s gone,” Edith moaned.

“No, dear. Look…” She counted the fingers. “One, two, three, four, and five. All digits present and correct, see?”

“It’s gone!” The young woman turned tear-filled eyes on Harper. “And it’s her fault. She’s supposed to prevent things like this from happening in here!”

Harper let out a long breath. “Would somebody please tell me exactly what happened?”

“Ersimmin was playing one of his new compositions,” Lovich said, “when this thing appeared from nowhere, destroyed the piano, and then vanished. Just like that!” He made a flamboyant gesture with his hands. “The whole incident was over in a heartbeat.”

“What did it look like?”

“Hideous, utterly hideous. It was quite dark and…” He frowned. “Chunky.”

“Seven hells, Edgar!” Jones exclaimed. “You make it sound like one of your wife’s muffins.” The former reservist approached Harper, his expression grave. “It was about five feet tall,” he said, “but bulky, powerful. Damn thing had muscles like the biggest navvy you’ve ever seen…and it was hairless, all covered in grey blisters.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t recall that it had a face as such…just blistered skin.”

Harper frowned. “A blisterman?”

“Bugger was armed, too,” Jones went on. “But not with a Mesmeric weapon. A plain stone hammer.” He lowered his voice. “It seems to have taken violent exception to Ersimmin’s playing.”

“It had taste, at least,” Lovich muttered.

Harper frowned. Such manifestations had become more common since the Cog Portal had opened. Demons could sometimes materialize in places where a lot of blood had been shed: the CogIsland plague pits, or in old temples to Iril. But this train was supposed to be clean. They hadn’t yet switched on the interior mist pumps.

And why had it targeted the passengers? These people were King Menoa’s human delegates. They were under his protection, and they would remain so until he betrayed them.

And then there was her Locator reading. For an instant she had detected something far more powerful than a simple blisterman. There were obviously gods at work here.

“If it’s still on board it will probably be hiding in the train’s blood tank,” she said. “I’ll go there now. I can set off a Screamer and force it out.”

“Splendid.” Ersimmin the pianist clapped his hands. “To the armoury, gentlemen. What do you say…ten spindles apiece, eh? The prize goes to the fellow who bags the thing?” He began to stride in the direction of the train’s arsenal.

Harper called after him. “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t fire weapons in here. The carriages are made of glass. One shot could shatter a wall.”

“Who cares about the carriages?” Edith howled. “Just shoot the damn thing.”

Jones stepped forward. “She’s right, Edith. You must think of our other guests. How would it look if we arrived at Cog Portal with a shattered train? The king would not look very kindly upon us. Even you can see that, Ersimmin.”

Edith buried her nose in the handkerchief.

Ersimmin looked disappointed, too. “Hellish waste,” he muttered. “I can get a thousand spindles for a blisterman soul on the collectors’ market. But no, you’re right. It would be foolish to risk damaging the train.”

Edith stamped her foot. “I demand that you turn this train around immediately. I require medical attention.”

“It’s barely a scratch, Edith,” Jones said. “Let Miss Harper do her work. She’ll locate the thing and send it back to the Maze before you know it.”

“Don’t hush me, old man,” the young lady retorted. “And don’t tell me to put my faith in this corpse. She did nothing to prevent the creature from appearing in the first place. Any living engineer would have caught it long before it had a chance to wreak havoc.”

“Edith…”

“No! I will not be patronized or belittled by you or anybody. I am not a child.” She spun to face Carrick, who still seemed to be in shock, and said, “Turn the train around this instant.”

Carrick raised his hands. “Miss Bainbridge, please, if you-”

“I will not be coddled by you, either, Chief Carrick. Do not forget your position here. My family could make life very difficult for you.” Suddenly she seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Why do you all have to be so cruel?”

Lovich’s wife gave her a gentle hug.

Ersimmin was frowning at his pocket watch. “Well, if we can’t shoot the damn thing, might I suggest a quick and practical alternative?”

“Sir?” the chief asked.

“Let Hasp out,” the other man said. “Let him dispatch it for us.”

“That’s not a good idea, sir,” Carrick said.

“Why not?” the pianist demanded. “He can’t harm us without a direct order. Menoa’s surgeons made quite sure of that. And I seem to recall that you gave us your personal assurance before we even stepped aboard the train.”

Carrick fidgeted. “Impossible,” he said at last. “If Hasp were killed before the handover, his brother Rys would refuse to sign the treaty. Any chance of peace between Coreollis and Pandemeria would vanish.”

“Killed?” Ersimmin said. “This is the god who single-handedly slew thousands of the Blind. Tens of thousands. And you’re worried about one demon? Hasp could kill this thing in his sleep.”

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s too much at risk. I don’t have the authority to sanction this.”

The pianist’s expression clouded. “I am giving you the authority, Mr. Carrick. We are due to arrive at the portal in less than twenty minutes-at which point our king will hand over the peace treaty and entrust us, his chosen Pandemerian ambassadors, with its safe delivery. How would it look if we turn up to greet His Majesty with a violent intruder already loose aboard this train?”

Carrick looked even more uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

Ersimmin said, “Chief Carrick, I will take full responsibility for Hasp’s release. The king will know that it was my decision. And I will of course compensate you handsomely for the