made of fine glass. “Craw plague—Devon’s finest. Milked from spiders that grow inside men’s flesh, no lies. Know what that’ll do?”
Mr. Nettle shook his head.
The smith grinned. “Wound will never heal. Never. Won’t stop bleeding till there’s no blood left and the Maze comes looking for its share.” Gingerly, he replaced the hood over the tip. “Soultakers, they call these.” Again, he glanced at Mr. Nettle’s tattered mourning robe. “Maybe you like the sound of that, eh?”
“You’ll lend me this?” Mr. Nettle asked.
“Aye,
lend
. And I want work in payment. I’ve two ton of pig iron needs brought from the yards and a hundredweight of brackets to go out to Rins before dark. Mind you pay this debt
before
sunset.” He shifted uncomfortably. “No offence meant, but I recall what night it is tonight.”
Mr. Nettle lowered the crossbow. “Can’t take it.”
“Eh?”
“Too much. Can’t repay this.”
A day’s work wouldn’t pay the debt. And chances were, the smith would never see the weapon again. They both knew it. The man’s kindness felt like a punch, and Mr. Nettle turned away to hide his discomfort. He’d have to find another way.
“Listen, son,” the smith said, “you’d be doing me a favour. With the bastards paying twenty doubles for a crate of iron, I can hardly afford the porters to bring it in. And what good is this bow to me, sitting here, gathering dust?”
Mr. Nettle couldn’t look at him. “You could sell it,” he suggested.
The smith grunted. “Who to? Ever seen any reservist with coins in his pocket? Those sods can’t afford to eat these days. The regulars have money, aye, but the temple buys their arms for them, and they don’t buy old junk like this.”
“A merchant?”
“They got their airships now. Gods below, they have to pay enough taxes for it, too. Aye, find me a merchant without the temple’s hand in his purse, and maybe I’d have a sale, but those without pockets deep enough to stave off the Spine and the Avulsior are gone now, branded as heathens. Do the work for me, but take this damn thing out of my sight before the priests find it and claim it as tax.”
Mr. Nettle hesitated.
“Buggers like us got to help each other. No bugger else will.”
At last the scrounger nodded.
“All right.” The smith then showed Mr. Nettle how to fasten the bowstring and load a bolt by winching back the windlass. “But know there are just these three bolts, no more. If, say, you want to shoot at something way up high, you’ll need to be a damn fine shot or have a fair bit of luck, eh?”
Mr. Nettle had never even picked up a crossbow before this moment, let alone shot one. And as for luck, he’d never had much of that either. But now at least he had a small chance to put things right, and he began to feel more like his old self. He’d pay his debt before nightfall, be square with this man as much as he could, and then, come tonight, he’d be square with the angel. He hefted the crossbow to his eye and squinted along the sight, imagining wings in the shadows. “What’s your name?” he asked the smith.
“Smith,” the man said, grinning like a conspirator.
5
GHOSTS, POISONS, AND PASTRIES
P RESBYTER WILLARD SYPES was observing and recording the movements of ghosts. To facilitate viewing of the abyss beneath, he had extinguished the observatory lamps, leaving only a few scattered candles sparkling in their crystal lanterns. In the gloom, the Presbyter’s black cassock had no discernible shape. His head floated phantom-like over his desk, as cracked and yellow as the parchment beneath, while his quill sprouted from the arthritic grip of what appeared to be a disembodied hand.
To Adjunct Fogwill Crumb, the Presbyter’s face seemed to have halted momentarily as it melted towards the book. From the mottled expanse of his cranium, skin hung in folds like an accumulation of tallow. Tiny, chitinous eyes shifted somewhere within as the old priest
Mr. Nettle shook his head.
The smith grinned. “Wound will never heal. Never. Won’t stop bleeding till there’s no blood left and the Maze comes looking for its share.” Gingerly, he replaced the hood over the tip. “Soultakers, they call these.” Again, he glanced at Mr. Nettle’s tattered mourning robe. “Maybe you like the sound of that, eh?”
“You’ll lend me this?” Mr. Nettle asked.
“Aye,
lend
. And I want work in payment. I’ve two ton of pig iron needs brought from the yards and a hundredweight of brackets to go out to Rins before dark. Mind you pay this debt
before
sunset.” He shifted uncomfortably. “No offence meant, but I recall what night it is tonight.”
Mr. Nettle lowered the crossbow. “Can’t take it.”
“Eh?”
“Too much. Can’t repay this.”
A day’s work wouldn’t pay the debt. And chances were, the smith would never see the weapon again. They both knew it. The man’s kindness felt like a punch, and Mr. Nettle turned away to hide his discomfort. He’d have to find another way.
“Listen, son,” the smith said, “you’d be doing me a favour. With the bastards paying twenty doubles for a crate of iron, I can hardly afford the porters to bring it in. And what good is this bow to me, sitting here, gathering dust?”
Mr. Nettle couldn’t look at him. “You could sell it,” he suggested.
The smith grunted. “Who to? Ever seen any reservist with coins in his pocket? Those sods can’t afford to eat these days. The regulars have money, aye, but the temple buys their arms for them, and they don’t buy old junk like this.”
“A merchant?”
“They got their airships now. Gods below, they have to pay enough taxes for it, too. Aye, find me a merchant without the temple’s hand in his purse, and maybe I’d have a sale, but those without pockets deep enough to stave off the Spine and the Avulsior are gone now, branded as heathens. Do the work for me, but take this damn thing out of my sight before the priests find it and claim it as tax.”
Mr. Nettle hesitated.
“Buggers like us got to help each other. No bugger else will.”
At last the scrounger nodded.
“All right.” The smith then showed Mr. Nettle how to fasten the bowstring and load a bolt by winching back the windlass. “But know there are just these three bolts, no more. If, say, you want to shoot at something way up high, you’ll need to be a damn fine shot or have a fair bit of luck, eh?”
Mr. Nettle had never even picked up a crossbow before this moment, let alone shot one. And as for luck, he’d never had much of that either. But now at least he had a small chance to put things right, and he began to feel more like his old self. He’d pay his debt before nightfall, be square with this man as much as he could, and then, come tonight, he’d be square with the angel. He hefted the crossbow to his eye and squinted along the sight, imagining wings in the shadows. “What’s your name?” he asked the smith.
“Smith,” the man said, grinning like a conspirator.
5
GHOSTS, POISONS, AND PASTRIES
P RESBYTER WILLARD SYPES was observing and recording the movements of ghosts. To facilitate viewing of the abyss beneath, he had extinguished the observatory lamps, leaving only a few scattered candles sparkling in their crystal lanterns. In the gloom, the Presbyter’s black cassock had no discernible shape. His head floated phantom-like over his desk, as cracked and yellow as the parchment beneath, while his quill sprouted from the arthritic grip of what appeared to be a disembodied hand.
To Adjunct Fogwill Crumb, the Presbyter’s face seemed to have halted momentarily as it melted towards the book. From the mottled expanse of his cranium, skin hung in folds like an accumulation of tallow. Tiny, chitinous eyes shifted somewhere within as the old priest
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