God of Clocks

8

Rachel allowed the watchtower rider to escape-a decision that threatened their plans and placed them all in greater danger. From the airy heights of their vantage point behind Dill's teeth, she watched the horseman disappear into the fog-shrouded woods. The assassin, however, didn't get much chance to dwell on possible outcomes, for their immediate situation suddenly became a whole lot worse.

“Stop this march or we kill Hasp.”

A small group of woodsmen waited on the stoop of the Rusty Saw tavern in Dill's hands, looking up at them. Oran himself had barked the demand. He'd finally realized the leverage he held over his exiled employers.

“Well, it was only a matter of time,” Mina said. “I suppose we could tell Dill to rip the roof off that building.”

Rachel shook her head. “It's too late now,” she muttered. “I'd have risked it before, but we don't know what's going on in there right now. One blow could break Hasp's armour.” Her jaw still ached from the punch Hasp had delivered, and the musket ball wound above her ear continued to gnaw at her. If she'd been thinking clearly, she would have told Dill to free Hasp before the woodsmen ever thought of using him as a hostage, but she had hoped that they weren't smart enough to consider such a plan. After all, Hasp had tried to kill Rachel and Mina, so he must have seemed as much of an enemy to the two women as a friend.

She shouted down to them, “Kill the bastard if you like. I'd do it myself if he wasn't Rys's brother.”

Oran laughed at that. “I know my lord's will,” he said. “In this case, I'd be doing him a favour.”

“Nice try,” Mina said, “but he has a point. Our glass friend is a liability to his living kin. If Rys survived Coreollis, he'll be more likely to reward the man who slays Hasp.”

Rachel rubbed her head. This whole land was beginning to grate on her. It seemed backwards and hostile, and she hardly knew who to trust anymore. She had also sustained more injuries from her supposed allies than from her enemies.

She stepped back from the wall of teeth and considered their situation. Oran knew he could not attack the arconite himself, and his threats to burn down the Rusty Saw had been nothing but bluster. Rachel and Mina had the gold, and an ally powerful enough to crush the soldiers at any moment, should they choose to do so. And yet they were prisoners up here.

Oran had Hasp.

“I'm surprised at you, Mina,” Rachel said. “You haven't ever suggested we let them kill Hasp.”

Mina pouted and gave a look of indignation. “I like Hasp.”

The assassin sighed. “The whole point of recruiting help was to prevent Menoa from using them against us. And now I've turned these bastards against us anyway. The Mesmerists couldn't have done a better job of it if they'd tried.”

“Hasp put you in a difficult position.”

“He put himself in a difficult position. And now I have these bruises to thank me for getting him out of it. How long until we reach this settlement on the lake?”

“We're moments away, although it would seem entirely sensible to avoid the place altogether. We're not likely to find any friends there now.” She shrugged. “Should I also remind you that we now have eleven arconites in close pursuit of us? Or would that just be confusing the issue?”

Rachel leaned against the inside of Dill's incisor and peered out through one of the gaps. The air smelled fresh and cool. The sun had risen behind them in the southeast, and filtered through the white mists ahead, where branches laced the fog like gossamer. The forest was mostly deciduous here and had been thinned recently. There were still signs of recent logging: stacks of freshly cut logs and piles of smaller branches. Wide trails crisscrossed the grey-green earth underneath the cradled tavern. A reflection flashed across the steel blade of Dill's cleaver. Down below, one of the woodsmen on the stoop moved suddenly.

An arrow struck the edge of the incisor, glanced off, and hit the roof of Dill's mouth. It dropped, landing just inside the row of huge teeth.

Rachel flinched. She heard laughing from below, and then Oran yelled up: “You have until we finish this to come down.” He held up a bottle of whisky. From up here Rachel was unable to tell how much drink was left in the bottle. “And then we're going to start peeling the glass armour from your drunken friend.” They moved back inside the inn.

A second arrow struck the edge of the incisor and ricocheted off. But this time there were no archers around to fire it. All of Oran's men had gone back inside. The arrow bounced off the roof of Dill's mouth and fell in exactly the same place as the first one.

Rachel stared down at the thin wooden missile. There was only one arrow there. “Mina?” she said. “Did you see one or two arrows hit the roof?”

The thaumaturge was sitting further back, her head resting against the inside of Dill's jaw. She yawned and stretched out her arms. “Two, why?”

“Because there's only one here now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean two arrows flew up through that gap, but there's only one here now. And it's not just that. I've been seeing strange things for days now… memories that don't match up with reality, moments in time that repeat themselves. They're like defects, as if reality… or even time itself has somehow become fractured.” She watched the other woman frown. “Dill experienced the same vision you did-of the world cracked open.”

“That was… odd,” Mina admitted.

“Something strange is happening,” Rachel said. “Thaumaturgy, or…” She waved her hands. “I don't know. Something to do with what happened to Rys's bastion in Coreollis… or else something involving the god of clocks. Doesn't Sabor study time?”

“He observes time,” Mina said, “but what you're talking about sounds like the manipulation of time itself, and that's impossible.”

“The same arrow came through that gap twice. The same arrow. And just before Rys's bastion fell I saw two versions of the god of flowers and knives. One Rys on the balcony and another Rys inside. I'm sure of it now.”

Mina considered this for a long moment. Finally she said, “I experienced something odd, too. When Dill pinned down that arconite… for an instant it seemed to me that it was Dill lying on the forest floor, and Menoa's warrior holding him down.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

Mina came over to join Rachel. “Sometimes our minds play tricks on us. I didn't dwell on it at the time.” She picked up the arrow and turned it over in her hands. Then she shrugged, and turned her attention to the view outside.

“What must we look like?” Rachel said. “The settlement militia is going to attack the very moment we heave into view.”

Mina smiled. “Just look at us poor women,” she said, “held hostage inside a demon's mouth, our hapless friend, Hasp, imprisoned and hideously tortured by a gang of ruthless mercenaries.”

“Ruthless mercenaries?”

“They look like mercenaries to me,” she said. “Don't you think? I mean, just look at all this gold. The Mesmerists must have paid them well.”

Rachel turned slowly to face her. “Oh, Mina…”

“It explains why this ghastly automaton is cradling them so gently, and why it shows them so much respect. Clearly these woods-men are leading Menoa's assault against this land.” She gave an abrupt nod. “Local knowledge, you see-that's what conquerors pay for. You knock out the scouts and the watchtowers before you attack. I'll bet this arconite attempts to keep those traitorous dogs out of harm's way once the settlement defenders begin firing arrows.”

“Firing arrows at them.”

“Yellow Sea pirates used to do the same thing. They'd fly the flags of their enemies during attacks on merchant vessels. The merchants blamed the attacks on the pirates' enemies.”

“That's terrorism.”

She grunted. “We've little choice. Oran knows us too well. If he killed Hasp, would we crush his people in a bloody act of revenge? Murder all those women and children? He doesn't regard that as much of a gamble. But if he found himself caught amongst an angry mob, thousands of people who would readily kill him to protect their town… then the ensuing violence no longer becomes our responsibility. Our position changes from one of potential avenger to potential saviour. In such a situation, he might be more amenable to bargaining.”

Rachel smiled. “You're really quite fiendish, Mina.”

“You have to be,” the thaumaturge replied, “when you have a devil for a master.”

If this was Hell, as she suspected it might be, then she found it satisfying to think that the gods might well have created this realm with her in mind.

A river of blood.

Carnival waded onwards through the thick red waters. Her rage felt like a cold fist in her gut. It had reached an extreme where it could no longer remain in conflict with her soul. Hatred, pure and simple, controlled her every thought. She was going to kill a lot of people.

She thought she recognized the dark-skinned giant up ahead, but couldn't remember where she'd seen him before. He wore a cumbersome wooden harness attached to a heavy rope that floated limply in the river behind him. The line seemed to have been previously connected to the vessel now scattered across this bloody landscape.

A pale, red-haired woman in a grey uniform was held in the big man's arms. Carnival studied her, but nothing stirred in her memory. The woman had a small wand tucked behind her ear that emitted harsh white light, and she held a bottle in the crook of her arm while she manipulated a silvery device with both hands.

As Carnival walked towards the couple, she felt odd currents tugging at her legs. It was almost as if the river was examining her. She heard a splash, and turned sharply.

The boy from the airship was following a short distance behind. Realizing he had been noticed, he ducked behind a mass of broken timbers. Carnival ignored him. She strode up out of the water, across one of the low banks between channels, and then back down the other side. The river embraced her again her like a lover.

“I do not wish to fight you,” the tethered man shouted. “Choose another path, angel.”

Carnival continued straight for him.

“You are free of the Rotsward,” the man said in a steady voice. “But you are not free of Hell, eh? We are here to fight the Lord of the Maze… to save our world… your world. Come with us. We'll leave this place together.”

Carnival made no reply. She was within twenty paces of him now.

“I am not afraid of you,” he said. “You hate me, yes? But I do not hate you. Violence between us makes no sense.”

She heard the boy splashing through the river behind her, but she didn't turn around this time. Her full attention remained fixed on the huge warrior. He was now urging the red-haired woman away from him.

“I beat you once before, angel,” he said. “And I can do so again-but you need not fight me. You wish an apology? Then I am sorry. My master sent me to fight you and I obeyed him.”

Carnival stopped. A memory surfaced: a glade in a stone forest, a place where every branch and thorn had been coated with colourful poisons. She remembered fog, too. “You,” she said.

He nodded grimly.

She felt the blood rush into her scars. Her muscles tightened, making her rotted leathers creak. Instinctively, her wings angled backwards as she prepared to pounce.

The giant reached around behind his back, where the end of the great rope had been split into strands and woven into the latticed harness. He grabbed a fistful of hemp and tore it free, then repeated the process. He was tearing the rope loose.

Carnival waited.

One strand at a time, the tethered man ripped the mighty rope from his back. When he was finished he rolled his shoulders and stepped forward. “I am ready now,” he said.

She leapt at him.

He sidestepped with remarkable agility, bringing one huge fist round to bear on her like a mast hammer.

Carnival twisted and ducked under the blow. Putting her knee behind his own, she grabbed the rear of his harness to pull him downwards.

He remained standing.

She might as well have just tried to pull down a mountain.

His punch had swung wide, but now he tried to loop the crook of his other arm around her neck. Carnival bowed out of this attempted maneuver. They wrestled for a heartbeat, their shins splashing through the sucking water, until she found an opening and threw a vicious punch at his neck with enough force to kill any normal man.

He released her and backed away.

They faced each other again.

The warrior rubbed his neck, looking at her for a long moment. “You have improved,” he said, nodding. “You are much quicker than before, eh? Much stronger now. That is good.”

His red-haired companion was still studying the silver contraption in her hands. “She isn't an angel,” she announced. “I don't know what she is. The locator won't probe her. It's terrified of her.”

The big man laughed uproariously. “Impressive,” he said. “If she can terrify Mesmerist silver, then she can terrify the walls of Hell itself.” He cricked his neck and then crouched, holding out his arms as though he meant to catch her. “Now let me see that move again.”

She flew straight at him.

His arms closed around her.

She made a savage downwards kick at his knee and vaulted up out of his embrace, lashing her wings to gain height.

He grunted in pain.

Carnival flew up, twisted in midair, and dived down on him.

He was ready. He swung at her.

Her wings snapped out, stopping her descent. She allowed his fist to pass an inch from her face and then wheeled and kicked him in the jaw with the back of her heel.

His head snapped round, but he turned his huge body in time to save his neck from breaking. He groaned and then jerked around again to look up at her. “You are stronger than-”

Thrashing her wings to keep airborne, the scarred angel spun again, aiming her foot at his neck.

The big man ducked, moving his body at incredible speed. It wasn't nearly fast enough. Her heel connected with the side of his mouth, knocking him sideways.

He gasped, his huge chest heaving within its wooden harness. Sweat sluiced down his dark cheeks and mingled with the blood now leaking from one corner of his mouth. He backed away from her, pressing two fingers against his swollen lip. Then he withdrew his hand and stared at the blood there.

He gave her a bloody grin. “You are the first one ever to make me bleed.” He slammed his enormous hands together and growled. “Come on, then.”

Carnival flew at him again.

As soon as she was within range, her opponent launched a ferocious flurry of blows at her, aiming at her face, her chest, her neck.

She blocked them all. She saw him reach over her shoulder, grasping for her wing, and punched upwards into the base of his jaw. The blow connected with a loud crack. He grunted, but didn't otherwise react. He had a grip of her wing. Muscles in his shoulders bunched as he pulled.

Carnival sank her teeth into his neck. She tasted blood.

“John!” the red-haired woman screamed.

They were locked together. He huffed and grunted, his huge greasy body engulfing her as he wrenched at her wing. She smelled his sweat, the spicy odour of his skin. His muscles slid across her own. Her shoulder gave a sudden crack, and she felt the bone jerk loose from its socket. A spike of pain. She ignored it, tearing at his flesh with her teeth. Hot blood flowed over her jaw.

“Leave him alone!”

This cry had come from somewhere else. Carnival recognized the voice of the boy. For a heartbeat she hesitated, relaxing her grip on the giant.

With a roar, the huge warrior pushed her off.

Carnival splashed backwards through the shallow red waters, but remained standing. A dull throb had taken root in her broken shoulder.

Her opponent looked in bad shape, too. He took an awkward step backwards, sucking in great breaths of air through his nose. He had one hand clamped against his bleeding neck.

The boy was standing in the river, ten paces to one side of the giant. Red water coursed around his thin chest. He held his hands clasped together under his chin as if in prayer, the metal hooks splayed outwards like fans. “Please don't kill him,” he said.

Carnival returned her attention to the giant warrior. Her dislocated wing hung slackly against her back, the feathers trailing in the river. She clenched her teeth, reached behind her back, and pushed the bone back into its socket. She barely noticed the pain. Flexing her rapidly healing wing, she strode forward to finish off her enemy.

“No!” The boy rushed over and put himself between Carnival and her opponent.

“Get away from me, lad.” The giant grabbed the boy's upper arm and started to shove him to one side.

The boy changed.

Carnival halted as the child's skin began to flow like tallow from his bones. He closed his eyes and his head seemed to melt down into his shoulders. His flesh was reforming around the thin muscle of his upper arm where the giant held him, shrinking and changing colour. His bones clicked and cracked. In two heartbeats the whole of the boy's body had altered shape, hardened, and taken on a metallic lustre. He had ceased to exist in his previous form.

Instead of a boy, the warrior now clutched a sword.

A humming noise came from the device in the red-haired woman's hands. She glanced down at it. “It's a shiftblade, John,” she explained. “That child is a Mesmerist demon.”

John? Carnival looked at her opponent. They had given him another name in the poison forest, she now recalled. Anchor.

John Anchor frowned at the weapon in his fist. He swung his arm to cast the blade away, but threads of metal spun out from the grip and wrapped themselves around his wrist.

Anchor growled and tried to shake the sword loose. The metal threads tightened. It would not leave his hand.

“For the gods' sake, John,” the woman cried. “Sod your ridiculous principles and just use the damn thing!”

The big man ignored her. He seized the weapon's hilt with his free hand and tried to prise it loose. “Let go of me,” he growled. “This is not the way I fight.”

The shiftblade turned into a spear.

Anchor shook the long weapon furiously. He slammed it down against the water and put his sandaled foot halfway along the shaft and tried to snap it.

The demonic weapon let out a shrill cry. It changed from the spear to a short, fluted mace with elaborate silvered flanges and a grip cord of woven gold that coiled around the warrior's wrist like a serpent.

Anchor roared. “No swords, no spears, no bludgeons! I will not carry you.”

Carnival watched him struggle with the weapon. No matter how hard he thrashed his arm around, it would not release him. It changed shape again and again: to bows and clubs and punching shields. Each new weapon was more elaborate, more beautiful than the last, but Anchor would accept none of them.

He yelled at the red-haired woman, “Why is it doing this? Shiftblades feel pain. Since when do they choose to fight? Since when do they force themselves upon others?”

“Maybe it likes you, John.”

Carnival thought she understood. She recalled the boy's words in the skyship. Maybe John, after my father. The child did not look like the man, but then that child was a shape-shifter.

The shiftblade had stretched itself and become a broad steel shield with a sumptuous floral design in green and blue enamel that seemed to shine in the crimson gloom. In the world of men, such armour would have cost a presbyter's ransom, but Anchor simply beat at it with his fist, denting the brightly coloured metal until the shiftblade finally gave up. It released its hold on him.

The giant let out an angry roar. He wrenched the offending shield from his hand and threw it far across the River of the Failed. It spun away, flashing through the shafts of light descending from above, before disappearing into the distance.

The scarred angel looked at Anchor, and then she turned and gazed out in the direction where the shield had vanished. She tested her wounded wing, thumping it slowly, before she took to the air. And then she left the warrior and his red-haired companion and set out across the red river.

Ahead of her lay all of Hell.

Evidently the escaped rider had been quick to raise the alarm, for the entire local army awaited them when they finally reached the settlement.

From Dill's mouth Rachel watched as they reached the northern fringe of the great forest. The lakeside town appeared out of the fog; a brown ribbon of timber buildings ranged along the shore and was hemmed within banked palisade walls on its three landward sides. Mists hung over the waters like puffs of cotton. A hundred yards out from the harbour, Rachel could see manned barges loaded with mounds of coke and logs. Yet more sailors were steering empty vessels out from their jetties to join them, leaving only a cluster of smaller fishing skiffs at the quayside. It seemed that the merchants had received enough notice to try first to protect their fleet.

Long lines of soldiers stood atop the battlements, while others peered out from watchtowers set at regular intervals around the perimeter. Most of these men were bowmen; it seemed the settlement lacked any of the heavy ordnance-the catapults and scorpions-Rys had employed at Coreollis.

Dill paused, turning his jaw slowly from side to side as he helped them survey the scene before them.

“They don't seem very keen to listen,” Mina observed. “But it's hard to tell with these provincial types. Does Dill know what he has to do?”

“Yes.”

“It has to be convincing.”

“He understands!”

Mina shrugged. “Then let's hope our friend Oran hasn't already killed Hasp.”

“With all that free-flowing drink, they're not exactly on top of things. They haven't even noticed the town yet.”

Mina inclined her head. “That's about to change.”

Dill was moving again, now coming within range of the bowmen. A shower of arrows flew up from the battlements, closely followed by a second, smaller barrage from the streets immediately behind the wall. They whined through the misty air. Most of the missiles clattered harmlessly against Dill's armoured shins, but a score or more thunked into the log walls of the Rusty Saw tavern.

There was a pause.

One of Oran's men appeared at the entrance of the inn. He clung to the edge of the doorway, swung woozily for a moment, and then stared across at the town with its defenders massed upon the walls. He shook his head, and looked again. Then he bolted back inside.

Mina smiled. “Here we go,” she said.

A second volley of arrows lanced up at the arconite. Gripping the cleaver in both hands, Dill raised it-and the entire tavern that rested upon it-high above his head, as if to protect the building. He roared.

“Nice touch,” Mina said to Rachel. “I can imagine how someone would find that menacing.”

Rachel yelled, “Don't overdo it, Dill.”

The huge automaton had reached the palisade. Rachel heard cries from below and yells from Oran's men overhead. She caught glimpses of the woodsmen peering down through Dill's fingers. In the settlement below, defenders scattered in both directions along the spiked embankment. Groups of men began assembling in the adjacent streets.

Dill lifted his foot and brought it crashing down upon the timber defenses. The wooden spikes and part of the embankment collapsed. Arrows pinged off his armour as bowmen attacked from both flanks. He raised his foot again, leaving a deep trench full of crushed wood, and stepped inside the town.

He was standing at the top of a long mud track that continued all the way down to the lakeside wharfs. The air was crisp, and thin lines of smoke rose directly from chimneys above the shingled rooftops. Pale faces gazed up from windows on either side of the street. Had the townsfolk not been given enough opportunity to flee? Didn't they fear for their lives?

Angry voices came from below. Two groups of town soldiers converged on the arconite and attacked his ironclad ankles with long poles.

Dill swung around and inclined his head to look down, causing Rachel to topple against the inside rim of his teeth. She held on to the upper edge of a huge smooth incisor as the automaton lowered the tavern again and now clutched it against his breastplate like a baby. One gable cracked, and two of the Rusty Saw's windows shattered. Dill lifted his foot as if to crush the attackers.

Those men immediately under the shadow of his heel broke and fled, before Dill slammed his foot into the ground with hideous force. Even up here, Rachel felt the jarring blow in her bones. Her head throbbed. She watched as Dill raised his foot again, revealing nothing but a muddy crater below. No one had been injured.

“Good,” she shouted. “Now on to the lake.”

Cradling the tavern and the enormous stolen blade against his chest, he set off down the slope towards the lakeshore. Scores of Oran's woodsmen had appeared at the Rusty Saw's windows to watch these unexpected events unfold. The tavern's back door burst open and their leader himself emerged. With three of his men he ventured out to the very edge of the building's foundations and from there gazed down into the streets. Oran was far too absorbed by the scene below to look up.

Rachel could still hear the defenders yelling orders and curses behind them, but the streets below were now deserted. All around clustered two-and three-tiered timber houses with diamond-paned windows under the canopied eaves of their bark-shingle roofs. In a dozen steps Dill reached the lake, where low wharfs crowded the shoreline amongst timber warehouses and boatsheds. Huge, three-beamed stanchions overhung the water, supporting ropes, chains, and pulleys for hoisting cargo.

All of the larger vessels had been maneuvered out into deeper waters, but a number of smaller craft still occupied the shallow moorings. Dill crouched by the waterside, leaning closer to examine one.

Rachel experienced a sudden rush of vertigo as the arconite stooped and the whole of his skull tilted forward. She pressed her hands against the cold enamel of his teeth as the wooden skiffs rushed closer. But then the alarming motion stopped. She heard a creaking sound.

Dill picked up a boat with his free hand, then swung round to face the streets again.

Some two thousand men of the town militia were marching down the main thoroughfare towards them. They were armed with poles, bows, or spears, but now many also carried flaming brands. Wisps of orange tar fire jigged between the leaning buildings on either side, while a pall of grey smoke followed the vanguard, trailing over the helmets of those behind.

A horn sounded.

Rachel shot a glance at Mina. “Arconites?”

“No, that's local,” the thaumaturge replied. “A rallying call. We still have time.”

Dill threw the boat at the advancing forces.

The vessel was barely twenty feet long, so he could have thrown it right into the midst of the defenders-or half a league beyond the settlement-if he had chosen to. It spun mast over hull and hit the main street well short of the town militia, bursting into planks. The soldiers cheered and quickened their pace towards the arconite.

Dill roared again. The engines inside his breastplate thundered and blew gouts of hot black fumes out through the joints in his armour. He backed into the lake, smashing one jetty and three more boats to driftwood. In another three steps he had retreated up to his shins in the water. He reached down to pick up another vessel…and froze.

For a long moment he remained quite motionless, crouched over the harbour as though his joints had seized. He then shuddered and let out a mighty groan.

Slowly, he sank to his knees in the harbour so that a great wave surged right across the docks, lifting boats and depositing them on the ground beyond. Water burst against the shorefront warehouses, washing barrels and bales of goods aside, before slowly draining back into the lake. With agonizing slowness the huge automaton slumped forward onto his elbows, holding the tavern balanced on its huge blade out before him like a wounded man trying to save a child-or like an offering of penance to the advancing horde. He bowed his neck, lowering his head until his jaw settled in the mud of the shorefront street.

“Now that,” Mina said, “was bad acting.”

“Give it a chance,” Rachel muttered.

Many of the town defenders hesitated, apparently suspecting a trap. Their giant enemy had shut itself down for no apparent reason. But others cheered and rushed towards the fallen arconite. Oran's woodsmen remained trapped in the upheld building, still fifty feet above the ground. She hoped they would have the sense to stay there.

“You do it,” Rachel said to Mina.

She snorted. “No way. It was my idea. You do it.”

“I'm not going to scream.”

“Well, neither am I.”

The assassin looked at her. “Mina, I don't want to argue with you. It'll sound more convincing coming from you. I'm not used to-”

The thaumaturge raised her hands and walked back towards the crawl space in the rear of the jaw. She stooped to pick up Rachel's sword from the rug. “I'll be in his skull,” she said, “doing murderous things with an assassin's blade. I'll see you in a moment.” Basilis barked and ran after her.

Rachel peered out between the gaps in Dill's teeth. She could see the town defenders gathering on the opposite side of the flooded street, edging forward with their weapons ready. “Gods damn you, Mina,” she muttered.

She swallowed, and then cried out for help.

It wasn't the dramatic scream Mina had insisted on. Rachel couldn't even be sure that she sounded like someone in distress. But it was enough to give the town defenders pause.

Lying prostrate on the shore of the lake with the inn still raised before him and his chin resting upon the muddy ground, Dill must have looked defeated. Or so Rachel hoped. The defenders were bound to be suspicious. All Rachel had to do now was allay their doubts.

“In here,” she called.

She saw boots and mud-spattered breeches moving about outside the jaw, the flashing steel of spear tips and blades. She heard hoarse cries and barked orders coming from amongst the men. A face appeared between two of the arconite's teeth-a young man looking in at her along the blade of a short knife.

“Help me out,” she said. “Please.”

“Who are you?” the young soldier asked.

“A prisoner,” Rachel replied. “Please get us out before Menoa's men regain control of this monster. We can't keep the arconite disabled for long.”

He frowned at her. “How many of you are in there?”

“Two of us. Mina is in the back.” She tried to sound pathetic. It helped that she felt pathetic. “The men in that tavern forced us in here. They've been guiding Menoa's arconites since the battle at Coreollis. They even have Rys's brother hostage.”

“Did you say Rys?”

A deep voice behind the soldier intervened. “Who is it?”

“A woman,” he replied. “She's trapped in there.”

The young man moved to one side, and an older soldier peered through in his place. This man wore a beard and a metal skullcap over braided hair. “How the hell did you get in there?” he said. “What's happened to this golem?”

Rachel took a deep breath and repeated her story. The old warrior listened, but continued to eye her with obvious suspicion.

He waited until she had finished before asking, “Mercenaries? You mean the woodsmen trapped up there inside that building?”

“King Menoa paid them in gold.” She picked up a handful of the coins strewn everywhere and shoveled them through the gap. “There are whole caskets of it in here.”

The man glanced at the coins but left them where they had fallen. “He paid them to lead this brute here?”

“Eleven more are on the way,” she said. “But we know how to stop them. Please get us out; we don't have much time.”

He moved away. A third face peered in, a man of age with the first soldier. His eyes opened in surprise, and then he, too, withdrew. Rachel spied movement outside, torches flickering. She heard the first two men conversing in hushed tones. Finally the old soldier returned to the gap. He was holding a long pole. “Get back,” he said. “We're going to have to force it apart.”

She watched as the man inserted the pole between Dill's teeth and pushed down at one end. On cue, Dill opened his jaw.

“Thank you.” Rachel started to climb out.

“Hold it there,” the old soldier said. “There's not one thing about you I trust yet. Get back from its mouth.” He waited until she had retreated, and then he climbed into the jaw beside her.

He was a short, stout man with powerful shoulders and arms, and eyes as brown as his bulky leather armour. His nose had been broken at some point in the past and reset crookedly. Framed by his steel cap, it looked unnaturally large and ugly. In the scabbard at his belt he carried a short sword, and on a loop around his shoulders hung an enormous hammer. He peered around the gloomy bone chamber for a long moment before returning his attention to her. “More of these are coming, you say?”

She nodded.

“We spotted two of them near Harwood a short while ago.” His gaze traveled the length of the dim chamber, pausing on the piles of caskets and the scattered coins. “And we've heard no word today from the watchtowers on Wycke Road and Boulder. No birds sent, nothing. Now you'd better explain to me why Menoa's giants are heading this way. Those woodsmen and their women in the tavern are crying out for assistance, too. They claim they're the prisoners.”

“Lies,” Rachel said. “The arconite has been protecting them all the way from Coreollis.”

“So you say,” he muttered with a complete lack of conviction. His brown eyes stared at her intently. “Some of those woodsmen are familiar to us. Oran Garstone is well known to me. You're still alive only because I know exactly what sort of a man he is.” He paused. “But don't think that makes us friends. You aren't yet known to me at all, and I'm too good at smelling a lie to believe much of what you've already told me.”

“We're from Deepgate,” she said. “Ulcis's city. Cospinol brought us here to fight with Rys at Coreollis. We slaughtered the Mesmerists, but then Menoa released his arconites. Rys ordered us-”

“Your friend is inside now?”

“She's back through there.” Rachel pointed to the crawl space at the rear of the jaw. “We found a way to disable the arconite. Let me show you.” She beckoned him towards the crawl space.

The soldier grunted. “If I climb through there, am I going to find her with a blade poised at this giant's brain?”

Rachel said nothing. That was eerily close to what he would find. Mina would be standing over some critical link in the machinery, apparently ready to strike down the evil arconite if it failed to obey her commands. “What's your name?” Rachel asked.

“The men call me Iron Head.”

“You run this town?”

“Burntwater, it's called. I captain the town militia here.”

“Rachel,” she offered. “The woman in the back with the knife is Mina.”

A sudden verbal row broke out between the Burntwater militia and two of Oran's men trapped in the uplifted tavern. Insults flew both ways. Oran's men kicked clods of soil down upon the soldiers below. One of Iron Head's men laughed derisively.

The captain yelled for order and then turned back. “So what's the truth, Miss Hael? Why did you kill two of my lookouts and yet allow the third lad to escape? Why come to Burntwater at all? What was the reason for that ridiculous boat-throwing charade? And how did you come to be traveling with my brother in the first place?”

“Your brother?”

“Oran is my brother.”

Rachel sighed. If Iron Head was willing to listen, she saw no reason now to continue the charade. “Can I get out of here now?”

He offered her his hand, and helped her out.

She told him everything: their plan to reach Sabor's castle; the decision to recruit an army of men along the way; Dill's fight with the arconite in the forest, and its subsequent effect on Hasp. She admitted that she had killed two of Oran's men in the Rusty Saw's saloon in order to protect the glass-skinned god. And, after a moment's hesitation, she even told the truth about the watchtower Dill had destroyed.

“You have made a lot of mistakes,” Iron Head said.

“This is only my second war. I'm learning.”

The old soldier scratched his beard. “I have good reason to believe that Sabor escaped Coreollis unharmed,” he said. “We'll take you to his castle at once.”

“How far is it?”

“The Obscura? No more than an hour by boat and another two hours' march,” he told her. “The realm of Herica lies directly across this lake. My family came from there originally.” He nodded privately to himself as though deciding upon the elements of a plan forming in his mind. “The vast majority of them still work for Sabor-and have for decades now.”

“Sounds like a large family.”

“You could say that.” He gave her an enigmatic smile. “Thanks to Sabor, I'm fortunate enough to have the largest family in the history of the world.” He grunted. “Of all my brothers it's a shame you met Oran first.”

He peered into the back of Dill's massive jaw. “Might I see the giant's workings for myself?”

“You'd better let me warn Mina.”

But the thaumaturge yelled from within: “I heard it all, Rachel. My ears might be covered in glass, but I'm not deaf. Hold on, I'm coming out.”

She crawled out of the low passageway, holding, as always, her demonic dog. Iron Head's brows rose when he saw her, but he made no comment. He stepped on past the thaumaturge, and peered into the crawl space. “Please wait here,” he said. And then he got on his hands and knees and shuffled into the narrow passage, the shaft of his hammer knocking against the roof.

Mina watched him disappear. “I'm going to charge him a copper double when he comes back out,” she said. “This is too creepy. It reminds me so much of my freak show days.”

“You will not charge him.”

“I ought to,” Mina replied. “Why on earth would he want to look inside there? That's provincial types for you, Rachel.” She walked over to Dill's open jaw and peered out at the Burntwater militia. “What's the matter with you lot?” she yelled. “Haven't you seen a skinless Mesmerist witch before?”

They looked like they were about to flee, but then the young man whom Rachel had first seen broke through their ranks. “Where's the captain?”

She jabbed her thumb behind her.

The soldier ducked his head between the giant teeth. “Trouble, Captain,” he shouted. “The rest of these big bastards have just arrived.”

Carnival did not know why she flew after the shape-shifting boy. She felt nothing for him, and nothing for the boy's father. No hunger troubled her here in Hell. Neither did she dwell on John Anchor's reasons for casting the strangely persistent weapon far across the subterranean river. She just didn't care.

Nevertheless, of all the paths she could have taken, her instincts drove her to follow one that would bring her to the boy.

The boy who called himself Maybe John was guised in human form again, sitting alone on one of the fleshy banks separating the waterways, his elbows supported on his knees. The shins of his breeches were drenched in blood. He looked up as Carnival drew near.

She landed ten yards away in ankle-deep shallows, still uncomfortable to be in his presence and altogether unsure of her reasons for seeking him out. For a long moment she just stared at him. Perhaps she had come here out of simple curiosity? After all, she had never seen anything like him. Or perhaps the darker part of her heart had an altogether different motive?

“I can't remember what I used to look like,” he said suddenly. “That's maybe why he didn't recognize me.” He held up one finger before his face and watched as the flesh turned into a thin metal spike. The spike then curled around itself like a child's doodle. “And don't say I should just have told him. No point in doing that until I know for sure he's my old man.”

Carnival said nothing.

“I can't remember much before the Icarates got me,” he went on. “The Mesmerists work like that. They persuade you that you're something else, and you believe them.” He lowered his hand and stared into the waters. “I'm not really a shiftblade. They just convinced me I was.” He paused. “Did you have to kill Monk?”

The scarred angel made no reply.

“He only tried to loosen the bolts,” the shape-shifter continued. “We was all hungry on that ship, but you didn't have to kill him.” He looked up at her. “Are you going to kill me, too, now?”

Still she said nothing.

“Or did you want a sword? Most people want a sword. You learn that pretty quick. The Mesmerists gave me to a nobleman on Cog, but his wife died of Early Cough and he killed himself on the edge of my blade. I made myself really sharp for him, like he asked me to.”

All of the boy's fingers suddenly became knives. They glittered in the uncertain light. “Good swords are difficult,” he said. “Hammers are easier, but it hurts more when they use you. If you need a weapon down here, you need me.”

“No,” she said at last. It was the truth. Down here the dark moon didn't pluck at her nerves. Whatever vengeance her heart had demanded had been satisfied. She felt no further desire to kill. She gazed up across the vast reaches of the Maze, at the millions of souls trapped together, and she felt suddenly cold. The red river seemed to tug insistently at her ankles. She bent down and scooped some up in her hand, lifting it to her lips.

It tasted dead.

The boy watched grimly as she emptied her hand. “I don't think that was a good idea,” he said. “It won't like that at all.”

The river?

She felt it suddenly in her throat, a strange sensation of pressure as the liquid she'd sipped crawled back up towards the back of her mouth. She coughed and tried to spit, but the fluid seemed to have a mind of its own. It flooded the passages behind her nose and then burst out of her nostrils in guttering spasms.

Carnival gasped.

The boy stood up. “They're coming now,” he said quickly. “Take me away from here. I can be useful to you.”

The angel drew in a breath. She spied movement at the edge of her vision, and turned.

Something strange was happening. The waters bubbled and frothed.

“Please carry me out of here,” the shape-shifter pleaded. “You have to leave now, before it's too late. Take me with you.”

From the myriad waterways all around rose an army of red warriors, hundreds of them, all clad in glutinous armour and clutching dripping weapons. Carnival wheeled, watching as more and more of them emerged above the surface of the river. Their faces looked roughly human, but like rude sculptures, without detail. Yet their weapons looked sharp enough.

The boy grabbed her hand, having elongated his arm to reach across the ten paces between them. “They're dangerous!” he cried. “Fly!”

She snatched her hand away from his, aware of the tricks he had used to attach himself to the tethered man. She lashed her wings and took to the air.

The boy yelled at her, but his words were drowned out by a much deeper voice that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. “Come back!”

The men in the river had spoken as one.

Carnival's instincts drove her to fly higher. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her skin crawled with sensations emanating from countless old wounds, filling her with a sudden rush of hatred and anger. Twenty yards above the river, she paused and looked down.

Something massive was forming in the seething waters. It looked like a huge bubble, but as the angel watched, it swelled and took on a new shape. Shoulders appeared on either side of the initial protrusion, then arms and eventually hands. Even as Carnival thrashed her wings to lift herself even higher, the crimson thing burst upwards like a geyser.

For a heartbeat the giant, incomplete figure lolled drunkenly in the gloom before her, a thing of bone and sinew and layers of sluicing liquid. It seemed to Carnival that it might collapse, but then its hands reached out for her.

She thumped her wings, but not quickly enough. Red fingers closed around her leg and pulled her sharply down. In the instant before she hit the water, she caught a glimpse of the creature looming down on her. Wings had sprouted from its back, while its eyeless face was now etched with scars.

She closed her eyes and mouth as the waters slammed over her. The river was shallow; her back struck something soft and pliant. She struggled, tried to rise, but remained trapped in the grip of the giant.

Drowning…

Carnival thrashed violently, using her nails to tear at the hand holding her down. She felt its skin shred, the hard knuckles underneath, so much harder than the surrounding waters. Her fingers closed around something round and solid. She wrenched it sideways.

The giant eased its grip.

Carnival broke the surface of the river. She sucked in a breath of air and staggered to her feet.

The creature had roughly assumed the shape of an angel. It towered over the river, clutching the back of its hand as if in pain. Dark crimson wounds crisscrossed its bright red arms. It swayed on its long legs, as though it had not fully learned how to use them.

The warriors in the river had no such infirmity, however. They were fast closing on Carnival, their liquid-forged weapons ready. The nearest of them drew back his spear…

Carnival felt a small hand grab her own. The shape-shifter boy was by her side, though only his head remained above the frothing water.

“Let go,” she cried, turning fiercely away. A spear lanced past her shoulder. She glanced over to see another spear growing in the hand of the river man who'd thrown it. The replacement weapon flowed from the warrior's own fist. Cold fury bucked inside her. Her gaze snapped to his wet red throat and she crouched to pounce.

“You need a weapon!” The shape-shifting child was still clutching her hand. And as she looked he began to change. His body diminished, twisted itself into a new form. She saw the glint of steel.

The river spoke to her again, its voice as soft as rain. “Join me.” Overhead, the unsteady giant leaned over her, its hands grasping for her neck.

Carnival swung the blade.

The sharp edge met with little resistance. She severed the tips of two of the giant's fingers, and brought the weapon back for another strike before they had yet fallen to the water. Her second blow split the thing's palm along the middle. Red droplets spattered her face. She felt them tighten on her skin… and move.

Complete rage overcame her.

She unleashed a furious attack, hacking at the giant's arms and at the hands of river men who groped for her. She split open a dripping skull and, striding forward, reached the giant's knees and plunged the blade in deep.

The thing collapsed.

The river howled.

But the lesser warriors continued to advance. And Carnival threw herself amongst them, hacking and thrusting, her demon blade a whir of steel. There were many of them, and wherever they fell others rose to take their place. Carnival could not kill them all, but neither could she stop her slaughter. The sword danced to her fury.

The waters tried to suck her down, but she would not be dragged under again. It formed walls before her and she cut through them. Red weapons lunged for her on all sides and she chopped them down and returned the men who wielded them to the waters that had birthed them.

In relentless waves they came. With her dark eyes shining murderously under the lamplights of Hell, Carnival waded onwards through the bloody river to meet them. She had given up any thought of escape. Rage filled her soul entirely. If this endless river had limits, then they would be tested here.

John Anchor watched the disturbance in the distant gloom. It looked like a red storm front moving across the surface of the waters. “That looks about where I threw that shiftblade,” he commented.

Harper glanced down at her locator and then back at the horizon. “It's Carnival,” she said. “My locator is too afraid to search for soul traffic in that direction. It coped with the river, before, but not with her. I don't even know what she is, John.”

The big man beamed. “You need to discipline Mesmerist tools, eh? Or do you just give them a hug now and then?”

“Cuddles only embarrass it.”

He laughed, then rested his fists on his hips and let out a long sigh. “We are in a pickle, yes? The river has turned its attention to the angel now.” He moved one foot through its limp waters. The currents that had been pushing them towards the Ninth Citadel had stopped. “And we do not know which way to go. The god of the Failed has become distracted.”

“By the look of that cloud,” Harper said, “that's a good thing.”

Anchor turned away and gazed back over the wreckage of the Rotsward. Little of the skyship or its contents remained identifiable-no large pieces of its superstructure, no bodies.

No soulpearls.

He had eaten them all, and without more, his strength would soon fade.

“A very big pickle,” he repeated under his breath. And then he smiled again and turned back to the engineer. Unconsciously he glanced at the bottle she held cradled against her heart, the container that held her husband's soul.

The waterlogged street had become chaotic. On Iron Head's orders, Rachel instructed Dill to drop his pretence of submission and deposit the Rusty Saw tavern by the wharf side. She called to Mina, who met her outside just as the town defenders were hurriedly regrouping. Glances flicked the thaumaturge's way but didn't linger, as the Burntwater militia was given orders by its captain.

“This is an evacuation,” Iron Head yelled. “Women and children to the barges and skiffs. Holden, signal the pilots. Spindle, take your men-you already know what to do. I want twelve units, four to the east and four west of Hoggary Row. The third group, take up position at the junction of Ashblack and Green Darrow, or as close as you can get. Bernlow, Malk, Cooper, Geary, Wigg, someone else-you, Thatcher-keep the attackers divided, and away from the wharfs. Harry them and then retreat, but don't let those bastards step on you.”

Basilis began to bark. Mina tried to shush him, but he wouldn't be silenced. The ragged little dog struggled against her grip, his eyes fixed somewhere to the rear of the crowd.

“What's wrong with him?” Rachel asked.

Mina peered into the crowd. “Nothing's wrong with him. He's just barking at you.”

“Me?”

The thaumaturge seemed distracted, and it took her a moment to respond. “What? No.” She turned back to Rachel, shaking her head. “I don't know… I suppose one of the militia must have startled him.”

They were interrupted by a door banging.

Oran came barging out of the tavern, red-faced and full of raging accusations, but stopped short when he saw Iron Head. “You're not actually parleying with these bitches?” he said with a contemptuous jerk of his scarred head towards Rachel and Mina. “We've been-”

“Shut up, Oran,” the captain said. “Look there.” He gestured with his pole towards the southern perimeter of the settlement, then turned away as a group of his soldiers came running up. “Fire the bales and coke in the warehouses,” he instructed the men. “Tar them first if there's time. Another two units… Weatherman and Block, go find them and spread the word. I want the whole dockside burning right now.”

“Captain?” The young lieutenant frowned.

“Smoke, man, smoke. They're too big to take down, so we need cover and confusion. This mist's too thin to hide us.”

“Aye, sir.”

Oran had finally spotted the enemy beyond the palisade wall and now stood there with his mouth open.

Six arconites loomed over the town, their armour pulsing faintly in the fog, their great skulls turning slowly as they peered down at the streets underneath their ironclad boots. Behind them, great translucent wings shimmered in the gauzy light like pale auroras.

Iron Head seized his brother's arm. “Your women are going on the barges. Your men are going to fight with us. Give Hasp over to these two, but keep him covered up. I don't want the arconites to spot him.”

“You don't have the right-”

“Do it or I'll have you killed.” The captain beckoned another of his lieutenants over, and ordered this man to ensure that Oran obeyed. The woodsman snarled and stormed off back to the Rusty Saw with Iron Head's lieutenant close at his elbow.

“What can we do to help?” Rachel asked.

“Trust breeds trust,” Captain Iron Head said. “Or at least I hope it does. Can your arconite defeat any of these others?”

“They can't be wounded or destroyed,” she replied, “but if Dill brings one down, we can get inside its head and disable it with fire. Against any one of them he has a chance, but he can't fight all six at once.”

“Then tell him to remain here and help with the evacuation. He can ferry people and goods over to the barges, and defend them if he has to. That'll earn us some time to get our families out onto the lake.” He turned back to his troops, but Rachel halted him.

“Captain, we have another problem.”

“Yes?”

“Hasp is compelled to obey any Mesmerist orders. They'll order him to kill as many of us as possible.”

“Then confine him in your arconite's jaw.” The captain turned away abruptly and strode over to where three units of his men were waiting for further orders. In moments he had dispatched them all and turned his attention to an approaching commander of yet another unit.

Rachel stood beside Mina, the pair of them watching as men rushed to and fro. Three short blasts of a horn sounded over the town of Burntwater, followed by another long single note: the evacuation signal, Rachel assumed. Some units were already marching back up into the main thoroughfares, while others ran into side streets, yelling and knocking on doors. Old men, women, and children were already making their way towards the lakeshore, carrying bundles of clothing, water, and food. Oran's people, too, poured out of the Rusty Saw. Meanwhile a blaze erupted with a roar against the wall of a warehouse over to the east. Other soldiers were busy rolling barrels along the jetties or dashing between the warehouses with flaming brands held aloft.

“Those civilians look like they were all actually ready to be evacuated,” Mina pointed out. “Either that or they packed remarkably quickly. A careful observer might think that's odd.”

“It never occurred to me,” Rachel said.

“What?”

“To confine Hasp in Dill's jaw.”

“Let's only hope Hasp agrees to it.” Mina indicated the Rusty Saw tavern, where eight of Oran's men were carrying the glass-armoured god down the sloping earth of the building's ruined foundations.

At first Rachel thought the god was unconscious or dead, but then she saw that he was still gripping an empty bottle. His arms moved as he tried feebly to resist his bearers.

Rachel winced as the woodsmen deposited their burden roughly on the muddy ground in front of the two women. They all glared at the assassin with murder in their eyes, but then left without as much as a word. They had, after all, witnessed her fight.

A quick check revealed that Hasp's glass armour remained intact. Rachel could smell the harsh spirit on his breath. He had drunk enough to kill a normal man, and his red eyes rolled wildly, as if staring into a fever dream. He tried to stand, but slipped and fell back in the mud.

The assassin and the thaumaturge hoisted him up between them and helped him over the uneven ground towards Dill. Rachel called up to her giant friend, who, with a hiss of pistons and creak of metal, lowered one of his dead hands and allowed them to climb aboard.

Maneuvering the drunken god into Dill's jaw needed the combined efforts of both women. Though Hasp seemed unaware of his surroundings, he retched and spat and cursed them under his breath. After they had finally bundled him inside, he lay down upon a rug amidst scattered coins, turned over, and threw up.

“To think people used to worship him,” Mina remarked.

“What people?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “He's a god, so somebody, somewhere, must have worshipped him. Otherwise what use would he be?”

“Look after him, Dill,” Rachel said.

They left Hasp lying there and climbed back outside. From this height, Rachel could see Menoa's arconites clearly. Six great simulacrums of angels towered over the palisade walls, their armour still scorched black and bloodied from the battle at Coreollis, smoke pouring from their Maze-forged joints. Thin wings disturbed the fog, their white bones shifting constantly through the veiled atmosphere. Slowly and steadily they were surrounding Burntwater on its three landlocked sides. And then, with a sound of crashing metal and shattered timbers, they broke through the town's useless defenses.

By now the streets below were crowded with people fleeing towards the wharfs. Units of Iron Head's men hurried in the opposite direction, heading towards the approaching enemy. Many of the town's defenders had already taken up positions at key intersections, but for all their bravado it seemed to Rachel that they would accomplish nothing.

“The fog is getting thinner,” she said, as they began to descend.

Mina had her arms tightly wrapped around Dill's thumb. “It isn't easy to maintain,” she protested. And then she fell silent, and did not speak again until they had stepped safely back onto solid ground.

“I'm doing my best, Rachel.”

“I didn't mean to suggest you weren't.” Rachel now realized how the other woman's glass-scaled face disguised her exhaustion. The thaumaturge had been conjuring this fog ever since the battle at Coreollis. She could not keep it up for much longer.

Shouts came from the nearest wharf, where a throng of soldiers and civilians stood waiting for an approaching barge. The vessel bumped against the dockside, whereupon scores of men and women began clambering aboard its long low hull. Burntwater militiamen yelled orders to the pilot, and gestured to the captains of two more vessels further out.

By now, fires had taken firm hold of the nearby warehouses, and dense black smoke churned overhead. Frightened children howled and clung to their mothers, as militia pushed their way through the jostling crowds. Four armed men hurried along a lengthy wharf, rolling a huge barrel before them, while nearby an old man leaned against a mooring post and smoked his pipe and casually watched it all. Others raced back towards the town, clutching flaming torches, long poles, bows, and swords.

Rachel looked for Iron Head, but couldn't see him anywhere. She heard a distant scream and then a series of dull concussions originating from somewhere to the south. That meant Menoa's arconites were destroying buildings inside the walls.

“There's not enough time.” Rachel looked up and yelled above the surrounding clamour, “Dill, help these people get onto the boats!”

His great skull swung down to face the lake, the ground shaking under him as he moved forward. Another step took him into the churning waters, till the metal columns of his legs straddled the shoreline. Engines drumming, he stooped and picked up a barge in each hand and lifted them, dripping, out of the lake. As he moved, his wings swung across the heavens like some vast carousel. The refugees screamed and broke away all around him.

Dill set both vessels down on the promenade. Their hulls landed with heavy thuds and then tilted to one side. He turned back to look for more.

In the confusion, the town's refugees didn't know what to do. Many ran to the shore and tried to board the vessel now moored there, but it was already overloaded. The surging crowd pushed many unfortunates into the lake. Others clung to the sides of the moored barge and were dragged aboard by its passengers. Desperate cries filled the air, only to be drowned out by the sound of destruction increasing from the streets behind.

Rachel tried in vain to shout instructions, but the panicking masses ignored her. She spotted three of Oran's men shoving two whores towards the western docks, before a unit of town militia ran in between and blocked her view.

She grabbed a passing soldier. “Get your people onto those barges.” She jabbed a finger at the recently grounded vessels. “They're going back into the water as soon as they're loaded.”

The young man gaped at her and then at the grounded barges. And then he shouted over to his colleagues. Moments later they set to work herding the civilians up onto the sloping decks. Once the vessels were filled, Dill lifted them back into the water.

The warehouses were blazing furiously by now, smoke and embers billowing right above Rachel's head. She dragged Mina into the lee of a loading stanchion, and they crouched as low as possible to breathe some cleaner air. Booming sounds continued to resonate across the streets behind the dockside, where secondary fires had by now taken hold. Torrents of ash spiraled above the stricken settlement, and in that turmoil Rachel saw vast shapes moving, bones and metal limned in tremulous green auras. Most of the soldiers here had already boarded the town barges, and Dill was nudging those vessels out into deeper water. But she saw no sign of the men who had gone to confront Menoa's angels.

Even from here, Rachel could see that Iron Head's diversionary tactics had failed. The six giants had not deviated far from their initial paths through the settlement. They now stood still, in a half-circle around Dill, no more than two hundred yards from the water's edge.

One of them spoke. “King Menoa wishes to negotiate a truce, Dill. His conditions are generous, and you need not join our cause. The Lord of the Maze simply wishes to avoid more bloodshed, and to prevent you from coming to harm. Your own free will makes you vulnerable to our attack. King Menoa would speak with you, if you will listen.”

Rachel tried to shout a warning to her friend, but her voice got lost in the chaos. In the same way that the Rotsward drew its strength from linked will of Cospinol and Anchor, so Dill drew his from his own convictions. Doubting his abilities would begin to corrupt those abilities.

Dill took a step backwards into the lake. He crouched and gently nudged one of the barges closest to him. A score of vessels now floated in the lake behind his knees.

“These people will not be harmed,” Menoa's angel went on. “Look around you. Have the king's warriors harmed any who tried to flee? Have they hindered this evacuation? Have we used our influence over Hasp? The king desires peace, Dill. He asks only that you listen.” The automaton's gaze moved over the shoreline, and then it lifted its head again. “All will be pardoned, Dill. All differences can be resolved. We will even repair the weakness in your construction, allowing you to function without the fear of breaking limbs and corrosion. We have no desire to cause further harm or distress to anyone.”

Dill dragged his cleaver out from underneath the Rusty Saw. The hammered metal blade was twice the size of any of the barges. Reflections of flames flashed across its scoured metal surface. He flipped it menacingly from one hand to the next.

“Observe the scratches on that blade,” Menoa's angel said. “The weapon lacks the will to maintain its own purity of form, a flaw that is also evident within you, Dill. If you fight us you will be destroyed.”

Rachel yelled up at him, “Don't listen to it! It's trying to plant doubt in your mind. You've already beaten one of these bastards.” From the corner of her eye she glimpsed movement, as six of Iron Head's men came running around the corner of the Rusty Saw tavern, closely followed by the captain himself. They looked bloody, beaten, and exhausted, but they ran like men with witches at their heels. As they neared the wharf, the captain spotted Rachel and Mina, and signaled wildly to them.

She stood and spread her arms. “What is it?”

“… back,” he cried. “Going to blow!”

“What's going-?”

There was a loud crackling sound, and then a series of tremendous booms. A chain of orange flashes erupted in the streets behind Menoa's giants. Tons of debris burst skywards, pounding against the armoured figures. For a heartbeat they were entirely enveloped in thick grey smoke and grit. And then a second barrage of explosions shook the air. Enormous pillars of dust spiraled over Burntwater.

The concussion hit Rachel like a physical punch. Her ears rang. She stared in disbelief as two of the six arconites toppled backwards, arms flailing, into the mass of houses. A third giant lurched sideways and crashed into another, and both fell towards the earth. The ground shuddered under Rachel's feet.

Iron Head skidded to a halt beside her, and adjusted the position of the hammer on his back. “Coke and saltpeter,” he explained. “Sadly not enough sulphur, but we used whatever we had.”

A hail of grit peppered Rachel's hair, as she gazed up at the rising funnels of ash and smoke. “When did you prepare that?” she said. “That must have taken-”

“After we heard about Coreollis, we installed the powder kegs as a precaution. Didn't particularly want to use them, mind you, but they were there if we ever had to flee… Our sappers nearly set one off under your friend Dill, and I'd have let them if he hadn't behaved so strangely.” He frowned grimly at the devastation and shook his head. “Not nearly powerful enough to do them much harm, though. These bastards are tough.”

He was right. Despite the blasts, two of Menoa's arconites remained standing, and the four who had fallen were already rising to their feet. Soot caked their armour and their massive blades, but they otherwise seemed entirely unharmed.

Iron Head suddenly waved his arm and shouted, “Here! Spindle!”

Soldiers appeared all along the promenade as scores of Iron Head's men left the smoke-filled streets and retreated towards the wharfs. Grey dust now covered their faces, boots, and armour. Barely half of the men who had gone off to fight the arconites now returned.

Spindle stood a foot shorter than his captain, and dust and soot caked every inch of him, so much so that he carried a thin grey aura of the stuff around him. He hurried over to Iron Head, smacked powder from his gloves, and sneezed. “Not enough sulphur, Captain,” he confirmed.

“We're pulling out, fast as you can. You know what to do.”

“Aye, sir.” Spindle turned away and began bawling orders at his men. Soldiers from other units were still moving towards the wharfs, helping wounded comrades along, then unlashing the mooring ropes of the smaller skiffs and climbing aboard. Others had converged on a pyramid of barrels stacked under a loading stanchion. They were lifting them down and rolling them across the wooden decking, spreading them out.

Iron Head turned back to Rachel and Mina. “Can we rely on your big friend to cover our retreat?” He raised his chin towards the towering figure of Dill, still standing in the shallows. “That blade of his looks like it could do some damage.”

“I don't think you need ask.”

Evidently Dill had witnessed the soldier's efforts on the water's edge, for he now strode forward to meet the enemy. He stepped carefully over men and boats, and up onto the promenade, landing with a massive metallic clunk. Torrents of water sluiced from his armour and rushed across the boardwalk. His head turned slowly as he studied his six opponents.

“Good man,” Iron Head muttered, then led Rachel and Mina towards a smaller vessel moored to the dockside. Many of the other skiffs were already moving out onto the lake. The three now crossed a gangplank onto the tiny pitching boat. The thaumaturge's little dog sniffed at the dockside one last time before padding after them.

The voice of Menoa's leading arconite resounded through the heavens once more: “Surely you see the folly of this, Dill? Why die here in defense of this wooden town? Look at what this violence has already accomplished. The town is in ashes, yet we six remain unharmed.” The arconites had all regained their feet and once again stood motionless amongst the boiling smoke. “We have attacked no one here,” the leading angel continued, “yet you continue to reject our attempts at diplomacy. Should we crush your bones right now, or will you stand amongst us and hear King Menoa's terms?”

Dill took two giant strides forward and buried his massive cleaver in the automaton's neck.

The sheer force of the blow drove the massive warrior to his knees. Its armoured shins obliterated the burning remains of two houses.

Dill smashed his knee in the automaton's face, hurling it backwards into three rows of houses. The ensuing shock wave reduced the surrounding buildings to powder. He flipped the cleaver over, turning it sideways, and swept it sidelong across the broken rooftops. The end of the blade struck another arconite, clashing against its armoured thigh with a hideous peal. Its leg buckled and it toppled too.

Now dust and smoke obscured the battle. Amidst this turmoil Rachel caught glimpses of vast wings moving, monstrous shadows, and geysers of spinning debris. She heard thunderous booms and gut-wrenching metallic bangs, as Iron Head's men worked the oars and their little boat withdrew further into the mist.

“He can't beat them,” Rachel muttered.

Iron Head raised his head from the tiller. “What was that?”

“Menoa's warriors can't be destroyed,” she said. “They lack minds of their own, and so they are incapable of losing conviction in their own invincibility. But Dill is different.” She gazed back into the fog. “He can fail if he loses faith in himself.”

“Just like any other soldier,” the captain replied. “Confidence is good armour.” Then he grunted. “Pandemerian steel is better, of course, but who can afford it, eh?”

Rachel sat on a creaking bench between two militiamen with her arms wrapped around her knees. Mina's plan had fallen to pieces. Dill was supposed to have attacked the gates of Heaven, thereby provoking the goddess Ayen to destroy all of the arconites. Yet now they had no choice but to abandon him here and hope he bought them enough time to reach Sabor's castle. Everything now rested on the god of clocks.

How long could Dill keep fighting?

The town militia heaved at their oars, and the flotilla of skiffs moved out into deeper waters towards the waiting coke barges. Soldiers aboard these larger vessels were busy stoking the air-engine furnaces with shovelfuls of fuel, and the deck-mounted flywheels spun faster as the temperature differential increased. Black smoke trickled from tall funnels and looped over the heads of the women and children who squatted upon the loaded decks. Amidst the rasp and scrape of the militiamen's shovels and the hum of the flywheels, the refugees watched in silence as the ashes rose from their shattered homes.

Behind her, Rachel could see nothing now but Mina's sorcerous fog. The boats drifted in their own grey world that seemed suddenly so far from land. Even the crash of battle from the lakeshore sounded muted and dreamlike.

As the two fleets rendezvoused, skiffs and barges jostled in the cold waters under a canopy of coke fumes. Wet lines were thrown and snatched from the air and tied off. Tamping engines rattled decks and planking.

Iron Head's men helped some of the refugees from the more crowded vessels clamber across to the smaller craft, amongst them Rosella and her husband, Abner. In the fibrous gloom Rachel spotted scores of Oran's men and the Rusty Saw whores seated together upon other barges, and she gave silent thanks to the Burntwater troops for keeping the woodsmen away from the innkeeper and his wife.

Within moments the motored barges had attained full power, their air engines thrumming jauntily as they altered course. Iron Head's men strained over their oarlocks and struck a new path around the flanks of the larger boats. The whole clutter of vessels maneuvered into a surprisingly regular formation, and then set out across the lake.

The air stirred, as an unseen object whoomphed through the mists overhead. Rachel heard it splash into the lake in front of them. Low waves rolled out of the grey distance and set the boats pitching.

Calls rebounded between the leading barges.

“What was that?”

“Looked like a chunk of the sea wall.”

“You see anything else?”

“Nothing.”

Silence descended. The men bent to their oars again. For a long time they continued in this manner: the vague dark shapes of the barges like bruises concealed under veils of grey, the steadily rattling engines and the rasp of shovels, the knock of wood on wood and the constant slosh of the lake water. Lines strung between the vessels tightened and groaned. Hulls shifted to compensate.

In time the noise of battle faded behind them.

A man shouted up ahead, his voice strangely calm and un concerned: “Hericans … Hoy! Who's that? We're steaming down on you.”

Rachel raised her chin from her knees and looked over at Iron Head for explanation.

The captain shrugged, causing the shaft of his hammer to rise and fall behind his back. “Fishermen from across the lake,” he said. “I'd be surprised if they've come to help. These Hericans don't interfere with us much, beyond occasional trade.”

“Friendly sorts?”

“Decent enough folks, but not the sort to take up arms and rush into a scrap. Not unless it's over fishing rights.” He stood at the tiller and peered into the gloom. “And probably not even then…”

But then the voice ahead called back again. “Captain, there's something strange here.”

“What do you see, man?”

“Rafts.”

And then Rachel saw them, too, as first one, then two of the simple craft drifted into view. They were indeed rafts, constructed of nothing more than lashed-together logs, and floating low in the water. Both were unmanned, each empty but for a thickly smoking cauldron fixed squarely to its center. Tar or some other additive had been applied to these pot fires, for they emitted foul black vapours.

Basilis gave a low growl. Mina cuddled the tiny dog to her chest.

“Another three to port,” yelled the unseen sailor. “These ones have fires burning on sheet tin. And two more ahead, nor'west if I'm reckoning right.”

“A trap?” Rachel asked.

Iron Head frowned. “Looks more like a diversion. You'd assume the Hericans are trying to aid our flight by confounding our pursuers. You'd think that, if you didn't know Hericans.” His frown deepened. “Then again, they're not the sort to cause trouble, either.”

The unseen sailor called out into the fog again. “Hoy! You there! Make yourself known.” There was a pause, and then he shouted. “Captain, it's a woman. She's coming over.”

“What kind of vessel?”

“Rowboat.”

An interminably long pause followed, before the sailor raised his voice again. “Captain, she wants to speak to Rachel Hael.”

Me? Rachel straightened in her seat. No one could possibly know she was here. She strained her eyes, trying to discern something in the mist. Nothing but vague shapes.

“Send her over,” Iron Head called back.

They waited another moment. Eventually the sailor answered, and this time his voice sounded more relaxed. “She's just one of Miss Hael's family, Captain.”

Grinning, Iron Head turned to Rachel and whispered, “I have a confession to make, Miss Hael. I've been expecting this. Your sister's here.”

Rachel just stared at him. “I don't have a sister,” she said. “My family is all dead.” She waved her hands in frustration. “I never had a sister. Don't trust this woman, Captain. She is not who she claims to be.”

The captain chuckled. “I have every reason to believe she is exactly who she claims to be,” he said. “Her presence here is a very good omen for all of us. You, Miss Hael, are about to meet someone who has walked through the labyrinth of time.” He pointed ahead. “She's approaching. You will soon see for yourself.”

The impostor who claimed to be the assassin's sister was using an oar to push her tiny boat away from one of the barges up ahead. She nudged her vessel into open water, altered course, and then rowed quickly towards them. She was facing away, bent over the oars, but wore leather armour strikingly similar to Rachel's own. Three burner rafts drifted in the fog behind her, disgorging clouds of inky fumes.

Finally the impostor's boat knocked against the bow of their skiff. Iron Head moved forward, extended a hand, and helped her aboard.

The woman turned to face Rachel.

And Rachel's heart froze.

A moment passed in which nobody spoke.

“I can see the resemblance,” Mina said.

Rachel couldn't speak. She was staring into a face she knew intimately. The woman who had claimed to be her sister could easily have been Rachel's identical twin: the shocking green eyes, the gaunt face, the fair hair tied back so severely. The Spine leathers were not just similar, but practically indistinguishable from Rachel's own. A partially healed wound traced a line above the woman's ear-exactly matching the path Abner's bullet had scoured through Rachel's flesh. Even the twin's jaw was swollen, still bruised from the punch Hasp had delivered.

“You were right about Sabor, Rachel,” Mina said. “Clearly he's been meddling in Time. This woman is you …. returned to us from the future.”

Rachel could spot only one difference between herself and this mirror-image woman. The twin had an extra bruise-a soft yellow smudge under her left eye. That single blemish was the only thing that differentiated them; without it, a stranger might never manage to tell the two apart.

“You're me?” she asked, incredulously. “A future me?”

The twin narrowed her eyes. “Hardly,” she said. “I'm the original. You, little sis, are the earlier version of me. About ten hours earlier to be exact. I stood where you are now and said exactly the same things you are about to say.”

“But this can't be…”

“Yes, that's more or less what I said.”

Rachel's thoughts tumbled wildly. “No… I won't… You can't be me. You're an impostor, a fraud. The bruise on your face…”

The twin snorted. “They told me it was necessary to help me understand. It's called a paradox, and this is how it happened.” And then she lashed out a fist and punched Rachel hard under the left eye.