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  The witch's study was snug and smelled of lavender. Her display cabinets faced each other across the floor, the stuffed songbirds positioned on branches and twigs, all peering out with eyes that glittered like anthracite.

  Ruby hung a kettle on a hook over the hearth, and then turned to face Carnival. "Oh my," she said. "Oh you poor child! I had forgotten how many darkmoons have passed since we last met, but I see every one of them now in the cuts on your face." She lifted a hand to touch Carnival's cheek.

  Carnival recoiled.

  The witch lowered her hand. "You mustn't be afraid. What harm can a frail old thing like me cause you, the strongest of all angels?" Slowly, she brought her hand up again. This time Carnival did not flinch away.

  "So many scars," murmured Ruby, running her fingers gently across the lesions on Carnival's cheek. "So many lives taken." She cupped the angel's chin softly in her hand. "This is a mask, child," she said softly, and then with vigour: "And if you can wear one mask, then surely you can wear another?" She released Carnival. "Let's forego the tea for now. We have a great deal of work to do, and I suggest we begin at once."

  Carnival's skin tingled. She had never allowed another person to touch her before.

  The witch became full of energy and determination. "We can cover the scars and lift that horrid pallor from your skin with make-up and rouge. Your hair? Hah! It's like a crow's nest! A wash and comb will soon fix that. Your eyes are quite pretty, in a dark, brooding sort of way. They just need a spot of colour around them. I have just what we need in my dresser."

  She beckoned Carnival into the next room.

  But the angel was looking at the desk where the witch had been sitting. A small bird had been fixed to its surface, the wings stretched out and secured to the wood with silver pins. One wing was dull and grey, but the other was quite beautiful, with brilliant hues of yellow and red. Then Carnival noticed the jars of colourful paint on a shelf beside the desk, and a pot full of tiny brushes, and she understood what had happened.

  "A little hobby of mine," said the witch.

  Carnival followed the old lady. At the door she glanced back one last time at the little painted bird, with its tiny dead eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the smoke cleared, Greene found himself surrounded by woodland once more. Autumn, or perhaps merely the memory of Autumn, had turned the trees to shades of gold and copper. The sky was a very pale yellow and sunlight fell through the canopy in needle thin shafts. The smell of old leaves and earth hung heavy in the air.

  "The Forest of Teeth?" he asked.

  "Think of this as an antechamber," said Cope. "Here the hound's memories are strongest, but as we proceed, you will see that Basilis's influence consumes the beast's dream. This aspect of the demon is quite beautiful, as you shall soon see."

  "You think teeth are beautiful?" Ravencrag spat on the ground. "Maybe to a hag who lacks her own...."

  "Ignore him," said Green. "He misses his courting days."

  The thaumaturge laughed.

  "Are we likely to encounter more of those flea-men?" asked Greene.

  "Doubtful," said Cope. "They fear the Forest of Teeth, and the things which dwell in there."

  "Well my mind's at rest," said Greene. "Let's get it over with."

  They marched over a carpet of crisp leaves. Greene spied what appeared to be another clearing, a short distance ahead of them through the trees. He saw flashes and sparkles of light there, as of a great confusion of silvered mirrors. And now he thought he heard sounds upon the air, like faint metallic music.

  Cope stopped and scratched the brim of his tall hat.

  "What is it?" asked Greene.

  "I've just had worrying thought"

  "About something that lies ahead?"

  Cope nodded. "We didn't bring tools." He set off again.

  The prospector exchanged a glance with the phantasmacist, then followed the other man into the clearing.

  It was a tree of swords. This sentinel stood in the centre of a circle of dry earth, its steel branches glittering under the pale sky. The lower part of the trunk had been wrapped in stained leather cord, like the grip of a heavily used weapon, while the upper bole split into many vicious steel branches. Long thin blades jutted out at every angle, these in turn sprouting smaller and smaller blades, like knives and needles. By the size and curve of each branch, Greene took them to be bastard swords, cutlasses, daggers and stilettos, all beautifully forged and polished to a mirror-like sheen.

  Beyond the tree lay a wicked forest of metal, a thicket so dazzling as to pain the eye. The trees crowded together in the sunshine to form a blinding hedge of razor sharp edges. Greene couldn't see a way through it.

  "My master was fond of his weapons," said Cope. "And it is here that that aspect of Basilis transforms the dream of this hound. These are the teeth of the demon, Gentlemen. We must be wary. My master may protect us from the forest, or he may choose to sacrifice either of you. It's often hard to tell."

  Ravencrag growled in his throat. "I'm not walking through that."

  "Then please remain here," said Cope. "Should you encounter Wirralwights, Red Spleeners or Needlechildren, or even – Gods forbid – Armstrong Hackwish and his three blind wives, I trust you will remember to make the appropriate signs before you flee? These creatures are not mere witless insects."

  "I rue the day I met you, Cope."

  The three men walked into the forest of swords, following the thaumaturge, who led them along a narrow track through the steel. A cold breeze blew, shivering the metal. The trees rasped. Needles tinkled. Everything glittered and flashed until Greene felt dizzy and disoriented. He saw reflections in the blades all around: of his own haggard face, Ravencrag's scowl, and Cope's sardonic smile. He smelled leather and metal. Sharp edges crowded in on them, ever threatening to pluck the flesh from their shoulders. Even the ground over which they travelled felt hard and jagged underfoot and in places the tips of swords broke through the cracked earth and split the soles of Greene's boots. The prospector wrapped his heavy topcoat around himself. He decided he would rather not be forced to flee through this cruel forest.

  "Why don't we just grab one of these branches?" he said to Othniel Cope.

  "By all means, try," replied Cope.

  The prospector eyed a likely tree: a monstrous, buckled thing bristling with serrated long swords, short swords, rapiers, foils, and a scintillating canopy of knives.

  He pressed the heels of both hands against the flat of a good-sized blade, and pushed. The metal flexed, but remained firmly attached to the tree. He reached around the steel to pull it towards him, and winced in sudden pain. A line of blood welled across his left palm. He cursed and squeezed the hand under his armpit. "Razor sharp," he said.

  "I could have told you that," muttered Ravencrag.

  "And yet you didn't."

  The thaumaturge tipped his hat further back on his head. "It is as I thought," he said. "My master wishes us to take a particular sword; one which best encompasses the aspect of himself represented by this forest. It will be a blade of superb quality, I imagine, and not a common gut-sticker."

  "He didn't require us to take a particular branch from the last place," said Greene. "I just ripped off the first bit of wood which came to hand."

  "At the time," said Cope, "Basilis was unaware that his vision could be removed from the hounds' dream. Who could have predicted that your vandalism would free a part of him? I myself would never have assaulted one of my master's trees.

  "If Basilis could have foreseen the consequences of your actions, I think he would have preferred you to choose a more suitable branch, one with many more eyes, perhaps, or clearer vision."

  "So which sword does he want us to take?"

  Cope thought for a moment. "I shall ask him to guide us." He opened his topcoat, removed the branch, and peered into it. After a long moment he exclaimed, "This way, gentlemen!"

  And so the demonic branch let them through this forest of terr
ible edges. The land sloped down into a shallow basin or valley. Overhead the sky changed from yellow to a peculiar fragile pink, a hue reflected in the polished steel. All turned pink: the metal boughs, the gleaming roots, the cruel points pushing up through the earth. As they descended the air became bitterly cold. A smell of oil or some other such preservative infused the forest. The further they went, the more the breeze strengthened, until a freezing wind was howling through the woodland, causing branches to shiver and clash.

  Ravencrag held on to his hat. "This is madness."

  "The gale is my master's lust for violence," shouted Cope. "Invigorating, is it not?"

  "Cold is what it is," cried Ravencrag. "I can't feel my hands. Sal, how about lending me your coat?"

  "Get lost, Laccus."

  They came upon pool of clear water, its surface shuddering with the force of the gale. It appeared to be no more than a few inches deep, yet stretched far into the trees ahead, turning the forest into swamp. In places clumps of knives and silver spears sprouted from the water, like metal grasses and reeds. Greene stooped to wash his lacerated hand, but the thaumaturge grabbed his shoulder. "You have an open wound," explained Cope, "and nothing in this place is what it seems."

  But just as the prospector rose, something curious caught his attention. A small island, no more than a mound of white and leathery earth, broke the surface of the waters. The hummock was bare, but for a single short-sword which sprouted from its apex, the tip pointing at the sky. The weapon looked modest, with a plain pommel and a simple cross-shaped guard, yet the blade shone like a beacon.

  Cope had followed the prospector's gaze. "In a forest of giants, we find a sapling."

  "You reckon this is the sword we're supposed to take?"

  "I am sure of it, Mr Greene."

  Ravencrag hawked up a gob of phlegm, swilled it round his mouth, then spat into the blowing water. "The demon leads us all the way here and he doesn't put some flea-men, or clickety sword beasts, or some other evil in our path? We just take the sword and go?"

  "Why not?" said Cope.

  "I don't like it," muttered Ravencrag. "The whole thing stinks."

  "You sound disappointed," said Greene.

  The phantasmacist did not reply. He yanked his little black hat further down over his eyes, then stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets.

  Cope waded into the pool. After a moment's hesitation, the old prospector followed. He gave an involuntary gasp as freezing water closed around his boots, yet the ground remained as hard as iron underfoot. He pushed onwards, the sound of splashing water now accompanying the whistling gale and clashing branches, but then he noticed that Ravencrag had hesitated behind him.

  "You're not coming?"

  "With my bones?" the phantasmacist yelled. "Certainly not! And I'll thank you not to call me a coward just because I don't want to get my feet wet. I hope you catch your death." He eased himself down onto the hard ground, but then leapt suddenly to his feet. "Gods in Hell!" he cried. "The ground is full of knives!"

  Greene grinned. He reached the island moments after Cope, and squatted beside him. The sword was unadorned, as modest as it had looked from afar, with a plain, functional hilt and guard, and a clean, sharp blade. Yet there is beauty in simplicity. This weapon had been forged – or grown – for combat rather than show. The edge and tip of the blade looked as keen as any he had ever seen. It would be easy to slide such steel into a man.

  Cope grabbed the weapon's hilt and gave it a tug. The sword did not move.

  "How do we get it out?" asked Greene.

  "Hmm." Gingerly, the thaumaturge brushed earth away from the base of the pommel. "There appears to be a root system," he said.

  "Can we dig round it?"

  Cope continued to expose more steel from the surrounding ground. The pommel was not as simple as it had first appeared: it was connected to a complex arrangement of metal shoots beneath the earth.

  "The roots have no function," Cope observed, squatting back on his haunches. "Yet our hound knows that trees have roots, and so this sword has been given roots in its dream. We only need to return with the sword, so we must find a way to separate it from the earth without causing damage." His brow creased with concern. "I should have considered this problem more carefully before we arrived."

  "Let me try." The prospector gave the weapon's grip a mighty kick with the heel of his boot. A hideous metal peal rang out across the swamp. The steel bent below the pommel, but the sword, although now skewed, remained attached to the ground.

  Cope gasped. "You have just assaulted Ayen's Lord of Warfare a second time!" he cried. "Is no amount of brutish vandalism against my master beyond you?"

  "Worked in the Forest of Eyes," said Greene, who had always been of the opinion that if something valuable was stuck in the ground, a crack with a pickaxe was the best way of getting the damn thing out.

  “Indeed,” said Cope. "I am sure the demon Basilis has not forgotten the way you ripped out his eyes to batter your opponent in the face. Just as I am convinced that the kick you have now administered to his teeth will reverberate in his memory for some time to come."

  Now Greene understood why Cope's pup had glared at him with such profound malevolence. Notwithstanding the fact that he'd helped the demon, the thing was angry at him for hurting it. Basilis's impending release from captivity had just acquired a new flavour.

  Ravencrag called across from the shore, "Getting into trouble again, Sal? You remember that bottle of wasps I talked about? That might have been optimistic." The phantasmacist had dropped his trousers and stood there in his underpants, his scrawny, white legs on display, while he tried to inspect the injury to his rear.

  "How's your arse, Laccus?"

  "Covered," the little man replied. "Unlike yours."

  Greene sighed with resignation. Here he was helping to free a demon which, upon its release, would undoubtedly find eternities of pain for him to endure – merely because he'd plucked out a few eyes and kicked it in the teeth. It probably didn't help that he had no way of paying the ludicrous summoning fee in the first place, or that the demon's own servant was equally furious with him. As things now stood, Cope might end up quarrelling with his immortal master for the right to do wicked things to the prospector's spilled innards.

  And all this to try to save his family from the curse of an angel who would certainly slay him if he failed.

  1012, Greene decided, was not turning out to be a good year for him.

  "Sod it," he said. Time was running out.

  He kicked the sword again, then again and again, pummelling his boot against the lower edge of the grip. The steel roots snapped somewhere below the pommel and the sword fell to the ground.

  "Alright," he said, breathing hard. "Now I've kicked your master's tooth out, will you ask him nicely to get us out of here?"

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two buildings of note faced each other from either end of Lye Street. To the south rose the brick tower containing the ash vats which had given the road its name. Opposite this, at the top of a rise, Barraby's Watchtower looked out across an abandoned cannon foundry, built after the Skirmishes in 880. The Church had constructed the watchtower in the seventh century. It stood in a circle of floating flagstones, pinned to its foundations by a radial arrangement of chains.

  Scrimlock set the street plans down on the desk and glanced up at the sapper seated opposite. "You think she'll head for the lye tower?"

  "Without a doubt, Your Grace." The woman was small but heavyset, with a wide brow, a flat nose, and masculine shoulders. She wore a faded brown jerkin and fingerless leather gloves. "It's the only uninhabited building in the street. It's high and gives a good view of the surroundings."

  "Can we rig it with blackcake?"

  The sapper shook her head. "There's not much point, Your Grace. The walls are old, the brick crumbly, and the roof is just wood and slate. If we brought the lot down on top of her, she'd probably just shuck it off again. She's torn throu
gh stronger buildings than that one before."

  The presbyter clucked his teeth. Scar Night was still two days away. "Have you had a chance to survey the rest of the area?"

  "As much as we can. We're moving under the street so as not to attract too much attention." She leaned forward, studied the blueprints, and prodded a finger at one section. "Our best chance to trap her is Barraby's Watchtower. The walls are built of Blackthrone stone and the windows are too narrow for her wings. If we can get her inside we ought to be able to fix it so that she can't get out again. We'll prime the roof to blow using ten yard fuses, enough boom to cut off her escape, but keep the structure intact."

  "Hmm. I want the watchtower door strengthened."

  "It's iron-banded oak," the sapper said, "designed to keep an army out. But we'll bring in a portable buttress on the night, just to be sure. Four knocks with a hammer and its in place."

  The presbyter nodded. "Good."

  All they had to do was lure her inside. He unravelled the scroll Merryweather had brought him, and reread the information the Adjunct had gleaned from Deepgate's census, tax, and crime records.

  Sal Greene, prospector, made his fortune in the Northern Deadsands, inherited 34 Lye Street from his father, Mack Greene in the 962nd Year of Our Lord Ulcis.

  Minor infringements:

  963-3: Reprimanded. Suspected instigator of a brawl in the Skewered Goat Inn, Callow.

  963-4: Fined after a second brawl, the Skewered Goat Inn, Callow.

  964-10: Fined for lewd comments made toward Agatha Constance of 13 Potter's Wheel House, Applecross.

  964-10: Fined for throwing eggs at the windows of 13 Potter's Wheel House, Applecross.

  964-11: Jailed for two days for stealing flowers from the garden of M. Caldershot of Lilley. Flowers subsequently discovered in the window box of a Miss Celia Norman of Applecross. Suspect confessed to charges. Recorded as telling the city militia to "Go **** themselves sideways."