God of Clocks

from behind. He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. The buildings on either side of the road had retreated slightly back into the surrounding walls, revealing a yard of scraped cobblestones where their foundations had been a moment ago.

“They're afraid,” Harper said.

“Don't worry about them,” Isla said. “They always come and go. There's only so much room for them down here, and Mr. D rents the empty spaces out. He has hundreds of customers, you see. He says Menoa… shortchanged them.”

“Buildings come here to visit him?” Anchor asked.

“They come to trade,” Isla confirmed, “but they're always complaining about the Mesmerists, especially King Menoa. At least, the people inside them do. So they come here and buy souls and grow stronger, and then they just slide back into the Maze. Sometimes they don't come back for ages, but you're not allowed to hurt them because they're Mr. D's special customers. He says there's going to be a revolution and he's going to be the…” she thought for a moment, “duly elected representative of the free state of Hell.”

Anchor shook his head.

Harper grinned. “Hell is an endless, living, breathing city, John.”

“And Menoa pissed it off, eh?”

“He's been harvesting the Maze for millennia,” she said, smiling again. “I'm not surprised there's an underground resistance movement.”

But a revolution? Of houses?

Isla leapt up three steps onto the stoop of the hotel and shouted in through the doors, “Some guests here to see you, Mr. D! They've come about the Icarates.” She disappeared inside. “Mr. D! Where are you?”

Anchor and Harper followed her into the hotel. The skyship rope rasped up the steps behind them.

This level of Mr. D's Emporium had been given over entirely to the business of buying and selling souls. Shelved cabinets packed every available inch of wall and floor space, while bottled ghosts packed every available inch of cabinet shelf space. To negotiate this wooden maze, Anchor had to turn sideways and squeeze between the rows of shop furniture. The Rotsward's rope followed in his wake, dragging splinters from the floorboards.

“Mr. D? Where are you, Mr. D? Oh, there you are!”

Anchor heard a squeaking noise coming from the rear of the Emporium. He spied movement in the shadows, and then an object that he had at first taken to be a part of the furniture turned and rolled down an aisle towards them. It was a tall wooden box set on four small brass wheels. A slit, the width of two fingers, had been cut into the front panel at about chin height, but Anchor couldn't see anything inside except darkness.

The box continued to roll, of its own accord, down the aisle until it reached them. Then it stopped. A moment later, Isla padded between the rows of cabinets after it. “This is Mr. D,” she said.

Anchor looked at the box. He glanced at Harper.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said.

The box remained motionless.

Isla kicked one of its wheels. “Say something, Mr. D. They've come to buy the Icarates.”

A wheezy voice issued from the box: “You've been misled, Isla, dear child. These two are not soul collectors, renegade or otherwise. They are actual physical forms, substance rather than meta-substance.” A soft wet pop, like the sound of a bubble bursting on the surface of hot soup, terminated the unseen occupant's sentence. He gasped. “They're from the living world.”

“Like you, Mr. D?” Isla said.

“Indeed,” said the man in the box. “You two aren't really here to buy my Icarates, are you? And you're certainly not agents of Menoa. After all, you're both still human.”

“Menoa didn't send us,” Harper said. “We were simply caught up in the storm your Non Morai created.”

“I see,” said Mr. D.

“Who are you?” Anchor demanded.

The box rolled back an inch. It creaked round to face Anchor more squarely. “I was a scientist,” Mr. D replied, “and now I am a collector and a tradesman of sorts. I rent rooms and sell personalities.”

“Souls, you mean?”

The box remained motionless.

“You collect souls and sell them?”

“Do you have a wife, sir?” said Mr. D. “No? A brother, then? A sister? Isn't there anyone who annoys you? Anyone you know who would benefit from a change of personality?” Another wet sound came from the box, this one like tripe slopping against a butcher's slab. The box's occupant let out a long ragged breath. “Please excuse me, sir. I am not a well man. I'm afraid I have a rather… unusual condition. But don't let that put you off. My emporium contains every type of soul. It is a simple procedure to pop open a bottle and thereby insert one mind into the physical body of another.” He made a gurgling sound. “Excuse me.”

“What procedure?” Harper asked. “What do you mean?”

The box squeaked back on its wheels and then rolled forward again, changing its angle so that the slit in the front now faced the engineer. “I'm talking about possession,” Mr. D said. “Wholesale. Isla, fetch one of the specials for this woman. Section fifty-eight, bottle eleven, the red section.”

Isla peered out from behind the box and blinked. Then she scampered away, retrieved a bottle from the back of the shop, and hurried back with it. She held up the bottle for Harper to inspect.

Harper took the bottle.

“Such a good vintage,” said Mr. D. “The gentleman in this bottle was a great leader, a kind and intelligent man. He fell to his death in a terrible accident during a great battle. Somewhat older than you, and not particularly handsome, I admit, but that doesn't mean anything. Looks aren't part of the package I offer. It's up to you to find some muscled dimwit and then persuade him to drink down this soul.” A slavering sound came from the box, followed by a sharp rapping noise. “Do you know what this would be worth up there… in the living world?”

Anchor had had enough. This boxed lunatic couldn't help them in their fight against Menoa. He was nothing more than a trader of slaves. “Let's go now,” he said. “We have a long road ahead, eh?”

But Harper held up her hand. “How much?” she said. “How much to buy a soul?”

“Ha!” said Mr. D. “I knew you were interested the moment I saw you walk into my shop. You want the aeronaut, then? I can make you a very good deal.” The box began to turn away.

“Not him,” she said. “I want to… look around.”

The box stopped. The slit in its face crept round to face Harper again. Mr. D's voice issued from the darkness within. “Someone in particular, is it?”

She looked at the floor.

Anchor frowned. He recalled the chime her Mesmerist device had made when they'd first arrived here. Had she been searching for one of these souls all along? He faced Mr. D. “Answer her. How much for a soul?”

“That depends,” said Mr. D, “on the soul.”

“What do you want? Gold?”

“What a strange notion,” replied Mr. D. “Whatever would I do with an immutable physical substance down here?” He let loose a sudden hacking cough, and the whole box shuddered on its wheels. “Please excuse me again. No, I simply require the purchaser to sign a contract, promising me certain services, and a small token to act as security, of course, just to ensure that the purchaser doesn't de-fault on the contract.”

“Tell me what you want,” Harper said.

The box rolled forward. “I'd like you to kill some people for me. Nobody you know, just some old friends of mine. You've probably never even heard of the city where they come from. I doubt it even exists now.”

“What city?” Anchor said.

“A place called Deepgate,” said Mr. D.

“There,” Monk said.

The hook-fingered boy peered through the sightglass in the same direction as the old man's pointed finger. Brands flared away down in the darkness where the Rotsward's outer scaffold pressed against a towering facade. The skyship had been dragged straight down into Hell, and then pulled horizontally for many hours. Now that John Anchor had halted his progress, Cospinol's slaves worked alongside his gallowsmen