The Iron Ghost (2 page)

The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her eyes. Most people would tie it back before attempting to walk across a sky-chain, but Siano had barely thought about it.

She was over three quarters of the way across and enjoying the thin sliver of sunlight warming her back when the bells began to toll, over and over. Siano paused, the wind pulling playfully at her jacket. When the children of the House of Patience were small, they were given a song of their very own. Each one was subtly different, and they all learned their own by heart. It was their second name, their signature. Siano listened, and after a few moments, smiled. They were calling her name.

Siano spread her arms and ran the rest of the way across the chain.

‘Siano, my child, come with me.’

The monks in their scarlet robes had ushered her up to the top floor of the House of Patience, ignoring all of her frantically whispered questions, and now Father Tallow himself was here to greet her. He was a tall, painfully thin man with a fringe of grey beard on his chin, the hair on his head oiled back into a long braid. His hands were long and delicate, a woman’s hands, save for the thick yellow fingernails. He grasped Siano’s shoulder with one of those hands now, and the girl was reminded of the strength hidden in them.

‘What is it, Father?’

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, and speak only when spoken to.’ Father Tallow led her through the opulent Receiving Room, where clients were served iced wine and tiny honeyed cakes – the cakes and wine were usually left untouched, since their clients were, by necessity, uncommonly paranoid – before being plied with reassurances and relieved of their money. Next to this was an anteroom that Siano had never been in, and this was where Father Tallow led her now. Before going in, he squeezed Siano’s shoulder again, apparently responding to the girl’s questioning look. ‘An important client, Siano. It is a great honour.’

Inside, the room was dark and stuffy. Small red lamps lined the walls and there were richly decorated screens to all sides. Siano’s training immediately provided her with a hundred places to hide, and a hundred places to expect danger. There were thick rugs on the floor and small clay pots burning incense that smelt of scorpion oil and lilies, and in the middle of the room was a low table. In the centre sat a large black lacquered box.

The room was crowded, small, dark – perfect for a job – but there was no one else present. Even behind the screens, Siano sensed there was no one. Perhaps the client would be brought to her?

‘Here, Siano, you will kneel.’ Father Tallow indicated the space in front of the table. Siano went to her knees in the waiting posture, her palms lying face-up on her thighs, showing no weapons: a gesture of respect. ‘Good. I have taught you much, Siano. As much as anyone learns at the House of Patience before plying their trade out in the world, perhaps. I ask you now particularly to remember the lessons of secrecy and stillness.’ Siano glanced up, trying to read her old teacher’s face. She felt her own stomach clench. ‘Are you listening, Siano?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Father Tallow nodded, and then walked forward and knocked three times on the lacquered box. There was a curious change in the atmosphere of the room; rather than stuffy, it now felt cold. The darkness was no longer a useful tool, it was threatening. Siano shivered.

‘I am here.’

The voice came from the box.

Siano let out a low cry of surprise, quickly silenced by Father Tallow’s warning look. Her teacher reached forward and opened the box, revealing a bloody severed head sitting upon a plump cushion. The head was either not particularly fresh or had experienced a rough journey, as much of the skin was missing, and the eyeballs had been gouged out. Strange angular shapes had been carved into the small pieces of flesh that had been left intact.

‘Good, good. This is the one, is it? She looks an eager sort.’ The voice was old, and cultured. It sounded relaxed, and faintly smug. ‘Your best, you say?’

Siano swallowed hard. She was untroubled by the sight of the severed head – she would not have lasted long at the House of Patience if such things worried her – but the voice was something else.

‘Siano has trained in all the methods of Patience, my lord, and excelled at them all.’ Father Tallow’s voice was steady, to his credit. ‘We feel she has a natural talent for the business.’

‘Ah, good. A child of mine, then. Yes, this will be perfect.’ The severed head did not move inside the box, but that was where the voice was coming from. ‘You have the names?’

‘Yes, my lord. We have the list, and information on all the families mentioned. It will not be a problem.’

‘Excellent. Blood and names, it always comes down to that, in the end. Siano, is it? Look at me, girl.’

Siano raised her head respectfully, gazing on the bloody holes where the thing’s eyes should be.

‘Magic has returned to the world, do you know that?’

Siano nodded, and, at a glance from Father Tallow, cleared her throat. ‘Yes, my lord. There was a dragon in Creos, and griffins were seen to fly across Ynnsmouth.’

‘Heh,
griffins
.’ The voice sounded both amused and sour. ‘Ede is thick with magic once more. Places and creatures that have been dormant, shall rise. And so it is time for a friend of mine to return, for old debts to be repaid. And you are going to help me with that, young Siano. You will be my instrument.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Siano.

‘I have given your master a list of names,’ continued the voice. ‘Many years ago I hid the seeds of a spell in the blood of three men.’

Siano frowned slightly at the mention of a spell, but she kept her silence. The voice coming from the severed head continued.

‘These men were servants of mine, and they agreed to carry the seed in their blood for the granting of certain . . . privileges. I do find it quite fascinating, my young friend, how much a person will agree to when it is not them who will pay the price.’ Siano kept very still. She had no idea what the voice was talking about, but she assumed that either Father Tallow knew or it would be explained to her in time. ‘The descendants of these men have carried the seed in their blood, a quiet little passenger through the centuries, and it is time for this blood to be spilled, and the spell set in motion. There are three families on this list, Siano, and you will kill them all, and you will collect vials of their blood. Do you understand? You must be fast and deadly and quiet, a dark hawk on the wing.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Siano realised that she could smell the head now, even over the heady scents of scorpion oil and the warm echo of polished wood. The head smelt like the back entrance of a butcher’s on a hot day, when the floors were washed and waves of pink water came down over the step.

‘The House of Patience can do this.’ Father Tallow came and stood behind Siano and briefly rested his fingers on the back of her neck in a gesture of support. ‘It is my belief that Siano was brought to us for this very purpose. To be your weapon, lord.’

The voice chuckled.

‘That is most fine. I am fond of my weapons. Siano, there will be women and children on these lists. The blood lines must be severed. Do you have any objection to this?’

Siano sensed the danger in the question and was seized with a sudden, morbid curiosity. What would happen if she did object? What would be her fate if she said no? It was like looking into a glass tank at a deadly viper, and contemplating putting your hand inside.

It hardly mattered. Siano was made for such a task.

‘I have no objections, my lord.’

‘Good.’ The mineral stench of the severed head increased, and as Siano watched the partially scabbed wounds began to bleed again. ‘Then you will kill in my name.’

Wydrin leaned against the guardrail and watched as dark, solid shapes passed them by slowly, the river making soft, insistent noises against their hull. It was late evening in this strange, cold country and the last light of the day turned the featureless grasslands grey and milky violet, but it did little to illuminate the sentinels on the banks. Their own lamps cast the faintest glow over the surface of the nearest one and she could make out a rough stone face, contorted with rage, or pain, and then it was gone again, lost in the dark.

‘What do you suppose they are?’ she asked Sebastian.

The big knight had been staring off to the north where the shadows of the distant mountains haunted the horizon. He turned back to her, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. ‘I don’t know. Statues of local gods? It is difficult to make them out.’

‘Oh good,
gods
,’ said Wydrin. ‘We haven’t had enough of that lately, after all.’

They were sailing up the river known as the Comet’s Tail, heading towards Skaldshollow, a city in a land so distant that Wydrin had never heard of it before the letter had arrived; the latest plea for their services, another generous promise of coin. Their work was certainly taking them to some strange places these days.

She glanced up towards the stern of the boat. The crew of the
Molly Sings
were moving with purpose, black shapes in the dusk, but one figure was still, his narrow shoulders and the white shock of his hair covered in a dark hooded cloak. She knew the shape of him and the way he stood, and that in itself was an annoyance.

Sebastian caught her looking, and she cursed inwardly.

‘Give him time,’ he said. ‘Frith is stubborn, but he’s no fool.’

‘That’s what worries me.’ Wydrin shivered and pulled her own furred hood over her head. The wind that filled their sails was icy. ‘Here, there’s that boy again. I think he likes you.’

Sebastian glanced up and a young sailor briefly caught their eyes before heading rapidly past. The youngest son of the captain, he had been sniffing around them since they came on board. Wydrin had started to think that he must have heard of them, that their fame had reached this tiny river tribe, until Sebastian had been caught in a sudden downpour about a week into their journey upriver; the rains here ended as quickly as they came, soon to be replaced with a freezing, driving wind. Sebastian had stripped off his soaking shirt below decks, and the young sailor had dropped an entire tray of dirty dishes.

‘Do you think so?’

‘Are you kidding? If you jumped in the river right now he’d jump straight in after you.’

Sebastian looked away. ‘He’s just a boy.’

Wydrin snorted.

‘What? He’s my age, at least. Don’t you think he’s cute? I think he’s cute. A bit wet-looking maybe, like he’d sit at your feet and fetch your slippers, but—’

‘You prefer the complete bastards, of course.’

Wydrin ignored this. ‘How long’s it been, Seb? Are you really going to let those Ynnsmouth fools ruin everything?’

Sebastian shook his head, and the look he shot her was edging towards angry. ‘It’s not that. Everything that’s happened, with the demon, and then with the brood sisters . . .’ His voice trailed off. The wind was coming on fiercely again, bringing with it the chill of the mountains they were gradually snaking towards. In the morning they would see them clearly again, a grey fracture against the sky.

‘What do you need?’ Wydrin eyed her friend warily. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes – lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

Sebastian smiled. ‘I just need time, and distractions. And you’ve always been good at those.’

‘Yes, well. This promises to be a good one.’

Crammed into his tiny cabin Sebastian slept deeply, although there was no rest in it. He dreamed of the demon again, of Ip’s small pale face, as clean and innocent as the moon, and of her feet, red to the ankles with blood. The demon’s disguise had been so perfect he had never suspected what travelled within the girl; at least not until the Ynnsmouth knights were dying and a deal with the creature that called itself Bezcavar had felt like his only hope. In the dream he saw his sword turn the brittle colour of ash again, felt the enchanted armour settle against him like a second skin. And then in that way that dreams have, Ip’s face turned into that of another girl, the one with the scarlet hood dotted with pearls. She had screamed at the edge of the lake and the brood sisters had turned to him with blood on their claws, and he knew it was his fault.

The brood sisters. The daughters of the dragon-god Y’Ruen, and somehow his too, a connection via his blood that he still did not quite understand; a fever born of death. In his dreams he saw them on the battlefield of Baneswatch again, their faces green and beautiful, their silvered hair streaked with blood. Ephemeral standing knee deep in the bodies of his brothers, reaching out and calling him ‘Father’.

And then in the midst of these fever-bright dreams there came a different voice, and it was like a cold hand on his brow. He moved towards it, desperate to feel cold, to be able to shiver.

. . . and he stood once more before Isu, a boy again. There was the great dark chasm from his dreams, and the mountain was a heavy presence in his heart, a relentless pressure now weighted by guilt and a need for redemption. He could feel snow under his bare feet and in his hands he carried a goblet, filled to the top with something red. The mountain was speaking, in its voice as slow as ice ages.

‘Where must I go?’ he asked, unsurprised that his voice was now a boy’s voice. ‘I don’t understand what you want.’

The mountain gave him nothing more, save for the image of a tiny green plant miraculously untouched by dragon-fire, and a man with ice in his veins . . .

And then the voice was gone and Sebastian woke in the darkness, his arms thick with gooseflesh.

In the daylight they could see the statues clearly, and they were no more reassuring. Made of some sort of dark granite, they depicted a full range of hideous monsters: women with snakes for hair and holes where their eyes should be, huge hulking shapes with twisted, ruined faces, men with many arms, their clawed hands holding severed heads. At the bottom of each was a small pile of food, or coins, or swatches of brightly coloured silks, all covered in a thin layer of frost.