Scar Night; Book One of the Deepgate Codex Trilogy Read online

  “Might be someone tells them first,” the man on the gangplank said. “Best bury her in the Deadsands, save yourself the walk.”

  Mr. Nettle kicked the plank from under him.

  The man threw an elbow over one of the guide-ropes. The hemp stretched dangerously, groaned, but held, leaving him swinging over darkness. The smokers laughed.

  Mr. Nettle grunted. Damn right he was drunk.

  When the men were out of sight, he shifted Abigail’s corpse to a more comfortable place on his shoulder. His heart was beating painfully. For a long while he searched the ground, seeing nothing.

  What would Abigail have made of his present mood? How many times had she brooded and sulked, fretted and cried and shaken him to break his silence over one of her worries? He’d never gotten angry; never raised a hand to her like some fathers might have done. He’d just sat there and watched her through his whisky, quiet like. The bottle felt cold in his hand. He took another slug.

  After a while, the path brought him to the edge of the Workers’ Warrens. Here the sprawl of timber huts and walkways lapped the walls of stone-built tenements. Frost clung to the cobbles and flint in Coal Street, a wending fissure which led the scrounger into the district of Chapelfunnel. Fog smothered the ground and writhed amid the swish of his mourning robe. Wisps of it coiled around his knees.

  Maybe four hours until dawn. He was running out of time. He drank deeply, savouring the burn in his throat. Mutilation was not the answer. Not for his child. Those that took knives to their dead were worse than blaggards, or thieves, or cutthroats. They were worse than the heathens. Yet what choice did he have? If he was to see her safe?

  Under his robe, the cleaver hung heavy from his belt.

  Coal Street narrowed as he went deeper into the Warrens, pressing the fog into a dank vein. He passed Boiler’s Inn, silent and shuttered, and followed the long curve round Fishmarket. Smoke drifted through the locked grates. He narrowed his eyes and pushed on through it, hoping the shroud would not retain the smell. Past Fishmarket the tenements grew taller and slouched inwards. In some places the upper storeys buttressed those opposite, like exhausted brawlers, and then Mr. Nettle’s footsteps echoed in utter darkness. Unseen tunnels burrowed into the walls here, gaping maws that leaked chill draughts, odours of damp straw and horses, hookah smoke and weed. Once, he sniffed the spice of the censers at Sinners’ Well: his stomach clenched at that.

  Beyond the tunnels there was scarcely more light. With the brands here long out, moonlight fell in grey slabs that made the shadows all the darker. He trudged past bolted door after bolted door. Rusted bridges linked the districts of the Warrens, spanning narrow canals of empty space. He left Chapelfunnel and crossed into Merrygate, iron ringing under the hobnails of his boots.

  He was deep in the Warrens, where Merrygate merged into Applecross and the road skirted the broken watchtower to follow Dolmen’s Chain, when he noticed a heap of blankets on the ground ahead stir. A voice chimed out: “Coin for a pilgrim, sir, a penny or a double? Look at the moon grin—one night before she’s dark. A double for a room to keep me safe.”

  Blankets hid the boy’s face, but Mr. Nettle saw the cup outstretched.

  “Hungry,” the beggar said, reaching for his own mouth. “No mother, no father.”

  Mr. Nettle spat at him without breaking stride.

  Fifty years a scrounger had taught him plenty. Expect nothing, ask for nothing. If you need a thing, you find it or you pay for it. If you can’t find it or you can’t afford it, you never needed it. A double would make no difference anyway. Didn’t matter what night it was any more. Full moon or dark moon, the lad wasn’t safe. No one was safe these days.

  “Ragman!” the beggar cried. “Keep your League-filth coin, you’re no better than me.” He banged his cup against the wall and began to sing. “Come out tomorrow. Come see the moon. Out tomorrow. See the moon.”

  Mr. Nettle’s pace faltered for an instant. Thrashing the beggar would only delay him. He held Abigail more firmly, straightened his back, and pressed on. The city soon swallowed the boy’s lunatic song.

  Dawn was close, but the districts of Deepgate still slept in frost: air held like a breath for morning. Stars glittered like spear points in a ragged strip between the eaves.

  The bottle was nearly empty. He raised it to his lips, then lowered it again without taking a drink. What was he to do? He had to think. A headache was creeping into the base of his skull, and his thoughts ran like tar. Had he sleepwalked into this godforsaken maze? Where was he now? On Tapper Road, where once he’d broken an oil-seller’s jaw for weighting his barrel with stones. He was almost out of the Warrens. How much time left? Not much. He’d wasted it. He’d listened to his own footsteps and watched his breath curl up before him, and drunk his whisky. The cleaver blade felt like ice against his thigh, the bottle neck like a knot in his fist. He threw the bottle away and heard it smash.

  Around the next bend, the Tapper Road plunged into deeper fog. Gas lamps bloomed in the distance: the temple districts. He was almost there.

  Mr. Nettle paused by a luckhole, a gap where the street-stones had fallen through, lost to the abyss below. Someone had put down planks, but those would come up easy enough. There would still be iron down there, lots of it. Often you could remove three or more girders without weakening the street and making more holes. But sometimes you lifted too much iron and the whole lot would cave in when a loaded cart went over. It was hard to judge.

  He pulled Abigail down from his shoulder so that she lay in his arms. Her face sparkled with a patina of ice, as white as the linen in which he had wrapped her. This was good linen, better than any you’d get in the League. He’d found a bolt beneath the Coalgas Bridge fourteen years ago, unsullied, for all the stink of that place, and kept it for himself. Even so, merchants sold silk out in Ivygarths, and he’d walked the miles there yesterday to price it. And walked the miles back empty-handed. It was fine enough linen.

  There was nothing delicate about Abigail’s appearance. She had not been pretty: the strong jaw, wide forehead, features as blunt as his own but softer. Her too-wide shoulders and hips were now far from those of the young girl he still saw in her. Despite this, even after all this time, she weighed nothing. He could have carried her for ever.

  Mr. Nettle closed his eyes and imagined Abigail opening hers. She would lift her arms around his shoulders.You don’t have to carry me, she’d say. I can walk . Then he’d lower her to the ground and they could turn round and go home. He pressed his forehead against hers. She was still cold as stone. He opened his eyes again, blinked at the gas lamps in the distance, and pushed on—crossing the Flint Bridge into Lilley.

  Abigail had often come here to paint. She’d liked the crooked old townhouses with their slatted shutters and delicate iron balconies, and she’d liked to sit under a shady tree in the cobbled rounds and listen to birds chirrup while she worked. But she’d liked the gardens best.

  They’d been down here together once, trying to sell a rake he’d scrounged in Ivygarths, and Abigail, being little, had done the door-knocking. An old fellow had let them in to one of the gardens and stood haggling with Mr. Nettle like a Roper, while Abigail had run in circles gawping at all the different flowers. After that, she’d wanted to go in all the gardens, but Lilley folk kept them locked tight. Still, he’d gotten eight doubles for the rake and was put in a fine mood, so he’d lifted her up on his shoulders so she could peek over the walls.

  Southeast of Lilley the road veered away from Dolmen’s Chain and rose to Market Bridge, and here were the pedlars out stamping their feet, rubbing their hands, and hollering through the morning mist.

  “Coal, oil, coal, oil.”

  “Hot bread, fruit bread.”

  “Birders, ratters, guarders.”

  Some Lilley servants were already out, milling round the carts, buying, arguing, and laughing like it was their money they were spending.

  There was no other way but on through the market. Mr.
Nettle kept his head down and quickened his pace, and no one bothered him until he reached the flower sellers at the far end.

  “You, mister?” The man got right up off his stool and stood in front of him, blocking his way. “Got daisies and poppies and Shale Forest milkflowers, all fresh and nothing over a double a bunch.”

  He had a thin, dirt-coloured beard and a loop of gold in his ear, big enough to slip a finger through.

  “Nothing over a double, and halfpenny sprigs of sickleberry from Highwine—and look here.” He picked up a bunch of the white roses and cradled them like he was holding a baby. “Lilley roses, home grown, six a penny.”

  Mr. Nettle was staring at the earring.

  The pedlar was looking at Abigail’s shroud. “Nobles been buying them up for twice that. Soil comes all the way from Goosehawk’s Plantation in Clune. Listen, give you another couple on top, same price.” He pushed the flowers into Mr. Nettle’s hand.

  They were a tired-looking bunch: curling petals and brown stems.

  “That’s eight for a penny,” the pedlar urged.

  Mr. Nettle gripped the stems and shook hard. Petals scattered.

  “Hey.”

  “Withered,” Mr. Nettle said. He snatched a fist of petals from the ground and threw them at the pedlar. “Dead.”

  The sky was flat white when he carried Abigail into Bridgeview, where the road unravelled into dozens of deep lanes. He wove through one after another, checking the signs to keep from losing his way. Victoria Lane, Plum Lane, Silvermarket. On Rose Lane he heard the shuffle of feet and looked up. High above, the soft silhouettes of the nobles’ bridges jagged between the townhouses. Muted conversation drifted down: they were going to see the angel; they were tired and cold, and if this dreadful fog didn’t lift they’d see nothing. Mr. Nettle reached the end of the lane, clumped down four steps, and came at last to a misty courtyard abutting the open abyss. Here he stopped.

  The Gatebridge shattered the dawn. Arcs and struts of iron rose in a skeletal fan. Along the deck, low bolted gasoliers burned feverishly, lighting wedges of the thick oak beams which ran all the way to the temple steps at the opposite end. The dead lay there: six or seven that he could see. So few? His stomach tightened like twisted rope. He brought his hand to his mouth before he remembered he’d thrown the bottle away. His gaze lingered a while on those pale shrouds. Why could there not have been more today?

  The Church of Ulcis rose up behind, its walls like black cliffs. Fierce convolutions of stone, sharp in the glare of the gasoliers, spread outwards from the doors, softened, and faded into the fog, so the building itself looked like it stretched to the ends of the world. Mr. Nettle knew how vast it was. On clear days you could see its fist of spires clear from the League, so big you felt you could reach over and grab it. But this was as close as he’d been in twenty-three years. There had been thirteen dead that previous day, fourteen including his wife. He’d left Abigail asleep in her tiny cot and carried Margaret here. A week before Scar Night and the guards had been lax: they’d opened none of the shrouds. But that day he’d had nothing to hide.

  The courtyard nurtured a silence like a pause in the clangour of bells. He felt it in his bones and it set his skin crawling. The cleaver was a cold weight under his belt, the steel pressing against his thigh. It had to be now or never.

  He held his daughter firmly. For a long moment, he almost felt inclined to turn away.

  And then he yanked the hood lower over his face and advanced. He stepped onto the bridge, his boots loud on its deck.

  Other mourners crowded the bridge. Some stood in silence; others huddled in whispering groups. Black robes seethed around him as they parted to let him through: robes of silk and velvet, some finely cut and sewn in folds that rippled as they moved, some cut plain, but all were as black as his own. Most of the mourners turned away at the sight of him, but a few hoods bowed as he passed them, white fingers steepled underneath in greeting—Warreners, he figured. Mr. Nettle ignored them, pushing through towards the temple doors with his jaws clenched and his heart bruising his ribs.

  At the far end of the bridge, he laid her with the others, taking a moment to smooth back her hair and brush away some of the frost crusting her shroud.

  She looked now just as he remembered seeing her asleep only a few nights before, her hair like coils of copper round her cheeks, her mouth slightly open, as if even now she might draw a breath and wake. He remembered thinking at the time how peaceful she looked, as pretty as one of her own paintings. She would have made some lad a fine wife.

  He opened his hand and took the three white rose petals resting there and tucked them in her shroud, and then gently he covered her face with the linen. In a moment she was as anonymous as the rest. Mr. Nettle stayed on his knees, tugging creases from the stiff fabric of the shroud long after it was smooth.

  Dark figures stood around him and waited. The gasoliers hissed. Mr. Nettle counted thirty heartbeats before a hand gripped his shoulder, another thirty before he turned round.

  The temple guard wore oiled armour, as black as the abyss. Threads of gaslight slipped over its surface, never settling. On the breastplate, the talisman of Ulcis, the Hoarder of Souls, shone dully. The guard’s face was clean-shaven, wrinkled and red from the cold; the eyes beneath his helm were heavy with sleep. In one hand he held a pike like an iron mast. “Open the shroud.” He sniffed, rubbing a leather gauntlet under his nose.

  Mr. Nettle looked up, his face still hidden by the hood, his hand still clutching his daughter’s shroud.

  “I’m to check them all,” the guard said.

  Still Mr. Nettle didn’t answer.

  The guard regarded him impassively for a while, his breath misting in the cold air. Then he moved to one side, laid his pike on the deck, and knelt by Abigail’s corpse. Plates of steel on his shoulders slid against each other as he loosened the folds of cloth and pulled her arm free.

  Both men stared at the torn flesh on her wrist.

  The guard dropped the arm like it was a plague rat. “This one’s been bled,” he announced, louder than he had to.

  There were murmurs from the mourners behind. Mr. Nettle heard them push closer to look.

  The guard traced a circle around his talisman and touched his brow. “A husk,” he said. “Been on ice for a while.” Slowly, he reclaimed the pike and rose to his feet. “Why do you bring this thing to the temple doors? Gods below, man, don’t you realize the danger?” He threw his arms wide. “She cannot enter.”

  Mr. Nettle continued to stare at his daughter’s exposed arm.

  “You understand? There’s no soul.”

  The guard’s words rang out like bells in the still morning. Deep inside, the scrounger felt some part of himself crumble. And with it, the gem of hope he’d guarded all night slipped away. Had he been wrong not to try to disguise her wounds? Suddenly he was weary, his head slumped to his chest. For the first time, he seemed to feel Abigail’s cold weight pressing down on his shoulders. He sank to the ground.

  And then his teeth locked together and his lips peeled back. Beneath his robe, the muscles in his neck grew taut, his shoulders bunched, his hands tightened to fists, and he was on his feet with a snarl, grabbing the guard’s throat with all of his strength, and forcing him back.

  The man stumbled, flailing an arm. He tripped over one of the corpses and hit the ground in a clatter of armour, his neck still tight in the scrounger’s grip. The pike toppled and landed with an unholy crack.

  Mr. Nettle’s hood fell back; his face twisted into a blur of teeth and stubble and murder.

  The guard wrenched at Mr. Nettle’s arm and struck it, pulled at the fabric of his robe. The sacking ripped but the arm beneath remained hard as iron.

  Mr. Nettle tightened his grip.

  Air burst from the guard’s throat; his eyes rolled back; his face darkened to crimson. He scrabbled again at Mr. Nettle’s arm, then at his face, fingers gouging. His gauntlets, stiff with frost, raked Mr. Nettle’s skin.
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  Then something hit Mr. Nettle hard above his ear, pitching him sideways. His head struck the deck of the bridge and he rolled awkwardly, twisting the muscles of his shoulder. Darkness flickered through his vision. He ended up on his back, gasping. His ear burned, and his skull felt like it was shrinking. He shook his head, looked up. Spans of iron spun against the still lightening sky.

  A second guard stood there, livid in the dawn, armour gleaming, pike levelled.

  Mr. Nettle staggered to his feet. Blood streamed from a gash on his forehead, filling his eyes. The crowd of mourners backed away.

  He charged at the guard—or tried to. Pain hit him like a nail driven into the top of his spine. Everything suddenly lurched to one side; the bridge slid out from under him. His legs folded and he stumbled, brandishing his fists like a drunk, and dropped to his knees.

  The second guard stove the base of his pike into the scrounger’s stomach.

  Mr. Nettle curled and clawed at the wooden deck beneath him. Splinters pierced him under his nails. He bit down hard, tried to rise, and was struck again. And again. And again.

  The mourners looked on in silence. One of them crouched to inspect the injured guard. Pinned by his armour, the man coughed and spluttered and drew in great rasping breaths.

  Mr. Nettle had no idea how long he suffered this beating. After a time, he stopped feeling the blows as they rained on him. They came as quick as licks of flame in an inferno. He was only distantly aware of the sting of metal on flesh, the deck of the bridge rough against his cheek, the blood bubbling in his nose as he sucked in air. It might have lasted minutes, or for hours.

  Finally, the guard held back. “Get lost,” he said, panting. His arms trembled as he levelled the sharp end of his pike at Mr. Nettle’s throat. “Go! Out of here. Get lost.”

  Mr. Nettle tried to move, his muscles screaming protest. Torrents of fresh pain rushed through his arms and legs. He bit down on the urge to retch, and pushed back against the bridge, hefting himself onto his hands and knees. His left eye had swollen shut. At least one rib was cracked or broken. He spat a bloody tooth on to the deck.