Iron Angel

4

Fog always brought more victims to the Widow’s Hook. The damp grey air had filled the lanes around the broth shop for three days now, softening mud walls and wilting the eaves of gin dens and hovels until the whole neighborhood seemed about to sink back into the wet brown earth. In such weather newcomers easily became lost in Sandport, and there had been no shortage of those recently: rich refugees who’d arrived by churchship after the chained city of Deepgate fell. Inevitably, some of these would wander into places they would have preferred to avoid. So when Jack Caulker heard the piper outside the Hook squawk out his warning medley, he leaned back on his stool, downed the last of his fishbeer, and gave the nod to Hammer Eric by the door.

It seemed another stranger was about to venture inside.

They had robbed and murdered nine so far-if you didn’t include the beggar woman, who’d had nothing worth selling but her long yellow hair-and dragged their bodies down to the river for the crabs to pick clean. And still the victims came. Few of Sandport’s barges or skiffs would risk sailing for Shale or Clune in this unholy murk, and so plenty of Deepgate’s merchants and nobles had been trapped here. So many had been turning up at the Widow’s Hook recently that Jack Caulker had been able to afford himself a room upstairs. Now he spent his nights in drunken stupor, swilling the finest fishbeers and raising a toast each time the fog bells rang out by the docks. By day he gorged himself on eel broth and chowder while he waited for the next job. He was growing fat around the waist and fatter in his purse. It was a nasty, immoral business, but somebody had to do it, and Caulker had paid the Hook’s proprietor a handsome sum to ensure that that somebody was him.

He scraped his stool back, shared a grin with his accomplice, stood up, and froze on the spot-

— as the door opened to reveal the oddest-looking person he could have imagined.

The stranger blocked the doorway like a fifty-ton boulder, a half-naked giant with darkly painted skin. He wore brown leather shorts and little else, exposing more painted flab than Caulker would have thought possible for one man to carry. Some sort of enormous wood and leather construction engulfed his upper body: a flotation aid perhaps-for it seemed too sparse for armour.

As the giant ducked out of the fog and squeezed his great bulk inside the Widow’s Hook, all conversation withered around him. Spoons slid back into bowls of chowder; half-raised cups were lowered. By the light of the cooking fires Caulker suddenly saw what those closest to the door had already noticed. The fat man’s body had not been painted: the colour was due to skin as dark as hull tar. His huge black fists were as big as mast-hammers, while his chest rose and fell like a deepwater swell.

But the rope was the strangest thing of all. A taut, arm-thick span of greased hemp stretched out from behind the man’s shoulders, straight as a dock pole, and curved taut around the underside of the door lintel, where it disappeared from sight. His wood and leather construction appeared to be a harness of some kind; the man must be tethered to something outside the Widow’s Hook, and something high up by the look of it.

“My name is John Anchor,” the stranger announced. “I am told there is an angel’s corpse here, yes?”

Nobody spoke. The regulars in the Hook were freshwater men: crabbers, river fishers and boat builders, a couple of barge pilots down from the Shale Forests, and few-if any-would have heard any whisper of the Gallows Fog before. But Jack Caulker, who had worked on missionary cogs before his cutthroat days, and had sailed to the Volcanic Isles, knew the legend well enough for the sight of this stranger to bring a furrow to his cynical brow. Temple sailors had spoken often of the Adamantine Man who walked across the ocean floors. A queer mist was said to accompany him: the Gallows Fog, which hid the floating hell he dragged across the world. Salt sailors feared such weather greatly, for east of the Isles, it was claimed, no ship could sail through such a miasma. All superstitious piss, of course, Caulker reckoned, yet Deepgate’s seamen blamed every deepwater wreck on the Gallows Fog, and you’d be damned before you’d find one of them who’d sail a league beyond the Isles for fear of encountering it. Caulker studied the visitor with a mounting sense of wonder. Here was a man dragging a rope. It had to be fixed to something outside.

But a skyship full of the dead?

Here? In Sandport?

Hammer Eric had backed away, the namesake weapon at his hip looking more like a toothpick now than a carpenter’s tool, next to this tethered giant. Most of the broth shop clientele had turned their eyes to Caulker; in their own small way they respected him. The cutthroat had been educated, he had traveled, and he knew how to handle himself in a fight.

It would do his reputation no good to let them see him spooked.

“Come in, friend.” Caulker raised his empty cup to the stranger. “Merrigan Foley, the boss of this fine establishment, charges nobody nothing but a bowl of chowder to see the damn thing. It’s there, plain as you like, on the wall above the counter.” He gestured over to where the bloody black corpse had been nailed up. A group of Ban-Heshette goatherds had arrived carrying it two days ago, claiming to have discovered the boy in a ditch somewhere south of Deepgate. It was the temple angel, they’d claimed. Its wings had been convincing enough for Foley to dip into his purse, though not nearly as deep as the desert folk had wanted him to. As curiosities went it was rather pathetic: just a mess of tanned bones and white feathers pinned to a rude cross, barely even recognizable as an archon-not nearly as impressive as the shape-shifting demon that show-woman had displayed recently. Yet news of the angel had brought a steady stream of curious patrons into the Hook, for which both Foley and Caulker were glad. They’d even had a group of Spine take lodging here just to study the thing at their leisure.

John Anchor studied the gruesome exhibit for a moment, then frowned. “The angel I hunt has dark wings,” he said. “This is not her corpse.”

Caulker raised an eyebrow. The angel he hunts? “Well, if it’s angels and their whereabouts you’re after, you’ve come to the right place. Nothing goes on south of Clune without somebody in the Hook knowing the meat and bones of it.”

This was not entirely a lie. The river men’s gossip was as thick here as anywhere along the banks of the Coyle.

“Explain your problem,” he added. “Sandporters are known for their generosity and their friendship to foreigners. If we can help, we will.”

John Anchor nodded. “I seek a scarred angel.”

Caulker’s brow furrowed. “Carnival?” Folks said she had risen from the abyss when Deepgate fell, and then fled into the Deadsands. Nobody knew for certain what had happened to her since, but that small fact need not affect the potential profit to be made here. The cutthroat was happy enough to sell rumors and lies, and he’d even embellish them some for an extra coin. He gave the stranger a smile and a knowledgeable nod. “Aye,” he said. “I think we can do business.”

The tethered man smacked his hands together and strode forward purposefully, heaving the massive rope behind him. Yard after yard of tough hemp scraped splinters from the underside of the door lintel. The timber creaked and bowed under what must have been enormous pressure, then suddenly snapped. Smooth as a wire through cheese, the rope tore upwards through three feet of mud-brick wall above the door and then came to rest against a stout ceiling beam. This joist gave an ominous groan. Anchor did not appear to notice the destruction behind him. He marched up to Caulker as though he had forgotten he was tethered. “Well met,” he said. “I am a stranger here. Does salt have value in this land?”

The cutthroat flinched. Everyone in the place was staring intently at him now, and at this queer rope that stretched all the way from the back of the big man’s harness to the creaking ceiling joist directly above the door lintel. “Salt?” It took him a moment to regain his composure. “You want to buy information with salt?”

Anchor frowned. “It is good salt, from the RiotCoast.”

Caulker let his shoulders droop. He’d never heard of the RiotCoast, but the man spoke Low Coyle well enough to make him wonder if Deepgate missionaries had once been there. “My friend,” he said with affected resignation, “an exchange would be most welcome, I promise you, but I fear that salt would cast your homeland in…how shall I say, an ungenerous light. Salt is common here. Now if-”

“Pearls, then?” John Anchor suddenly beamed. “You would like pearls? I have many.” He withdrew a bulging leather purse from his pocket and held it up. “How many should I offer? One…or three? Six pearls? All right, ten.”

The cutthroat gave the purse a dismissive glance, while skillfully keeping the smile from his face. This was more like it. There had to be a pound of pearls in the newcomer’s fist, and yet he’d whipped them out in full view of the Hook’s patrons without a care. Big as the stranger was, he wasn’t even armed. Why were foreigners always so ignorant of the simplest rules of life? And why were they always so bloody affable?

“Pearls?” Caulker feigned confusion, and then lifted his chin. “Oh, yes, I see…those beads the fishwives sometimes wear? We find them in little shells out in the bay.” He pretended to think for a moment while he exchanged another glance with his colleague by the door. “Well, they’re quite pretty, I suppose, and our women like their trinkets. A few sacks would-”

John Anchor interrupted him. “This pouch,” he shouted out, turning to face the room, “to any man who tells me where to find my quarry, a scarred angel. I have no more patience now.” He flexed his shoulders, and the rope behind his harness thrummed like an enormous lute string, working more dried mud free from the gash above the door.

Forty men yelled at once.

“…north into the Deadsands…”

“…west to Scarpa Well, but she…”

“…no, no, it was the chemist, listen!”

“…an angel, four of them and a hundred swords…”

“…Spine, you want. Sure as I’m sitting here…”

“…heard, but listen, she was scarred, black wings, brought down…”

“Too many voices!” Anchor boomed. “Too much!” The room fell silent. “One of you will now speak, please. No more than one! I offer this pouch for the truth. You!” He shoved the leather bag towards a lean crabber in a frayed red shirt and patched breeches who was seated at the nearest table. “You know where the angel is?”

The man moistened his lips. “Aye, sir, she fled southeast, hunted by skyships. Poison arrows took her down near Cinderbark Wood. They hacked her up into little pieces ’fore she could recover from the drugs.” He extended a hand to receive his reward.

Anchor snatched the bag away. “Dead?”

“Killed,” the crabber confirmed, still holding his palm out. “It’s true, I swear to Ayen. The Spine assassins got her, not two leagues away from where they grabbed this other one”-he pointed to the winged corpse on the wall-“if the nomads told it true. There was an assassin captured with them, a deserter. The three were seen traveling together right after the temple fell.” There were many murmurs and nods of agreement from the Hook’s other clientele on this last point.

Anchor grunted. “An assassin?”

The crabber nodded.

“And where is she?”

“Why…she’s lodging here now, sir.” Grinning, the man leaned back and put both hands behind his head. “In this very house: top floor, last door on the right. The Spine took their needles to her, see? And numbed her mind. They came to claim the archon’s bones, but Foley’s been stalling them with his talk of all the refugees hiding around these parts. The assassins have been well busy of late, redeeming folks like they do. She’s up there now with her Spine friends, and you’d best hire yourself a bunch of swords if you’re thinking of speaking to her. Fifty men should do it. Happens I can get you just the fellows to do the job, for a small fee.”

“Here?” the giant asked. “She is in this place? Now?”

“Spine don’t like daylight, do they? They only come out at night, when there’s redemption needs doing.”

Caulker understood the crabber’s plan at once, and cursed him for it. Fifty men would make no difference. When the temple assassins lodging upstairs had finished hacking this big idiot and his newly hired help to a bloody mess, those pearls would be lost. No, the Spine weren’t likely to give up such a treasure. He had to intervene now, get Hammer Eric to thump the stranger as he left the Widow’s Hook to recruit his sellswords. He gave his accomplice another secret nod, and smiled inwardly as the other man’s hand slid down to his weapon. Salt sailors’ tales of fogs and hellish skyships had little value here in the Hook.

But John Anchor did not turn and walk outside. Instead, he pulled a thin reed from his other pocket and blew into it. This rude flute produced no sound, or rather, none that Caulker could hear, for after a few moments he realized that Anchor had played a note not meant for human ears. From outside came a faint sound: a scratching, chittering noise that Caulker recognized from his midnight forays to the banks of the Coyle. The customers heard it, too; they were rising uneasily from tables, shifting gazes between each other and the open door as the sound grew more distinct. Caulker backed away; he had an idea what was coming.

Crabs!

Hundreds of thousands of the tiny red crustaceans poured into the room, all scrambling along John Anchor’s rope and over one another. The hemp strands seemed to bubble and then drip with them as scores fell to the ground and then shot across the floor towards their master. Those crabs on the rope reached the big man first and surged over his shoulders and arms in a scarlet tide. Countless more scuttled across the floor, then swarmed up Anchor’s legs and over his chest. In a heartbeat the giant was covered from head to foot in a writhing, clicking red suit.

Panic broke out. Customers yelled and shoved one another aside, knocking over stools and tables to get away from the tethered stranger and his pets. Cups, tankards, and bowls fell to the floor and smashed.

Swarming with crustaceans, John Anchor marched towards the rear of the broth shop, where a steep staircase led up to the rented rooms on the upper floors. His rope swung after him across the room, gouging a horizontal slash through the exterior wall. Men scrambled aside to avoid the expanding line. For a moment Caulker gaped in shocked silence. Then he made a decision: a man in his position could not afford to abandon a bounty like this so easily. Somehow, the giant had summoned an army of crabs-but they were only crabs: each no larger than a man’s thumbnail. He swallowed hard, then hurried after the stranger.

“Wait,” he cried. “Anchor, wait!” The other man did not pause, so Caulker followed him up the stairs. “These assassins are dangerous,” he said. “Listen to me. There are five or six of them up there, all Spine Adepts and armed. Stop and hear me before they kill you. The worst is Ichin Tell, their master. They say he’s butchered two thousand men, and I’ve seen him murder nine here in Sandport myself. He denounced them as sinners and he didn’t even bother to unsheathe his sword to take them down. Arm yourself at least.”

But the giant plowed on up the stairs, dragging yard after yard of taut rope further inside the Widow’s Hook. “Thank you for your concern,” he said. “But I must avoid bloodshed, even if attacked, or the souls of my enemies go to Iril’s Maze. This angers my master, Cospinol, who wishes the souls for himself. Steel is therefore no good.” Red crustaceans boiled over his skin. Clumps of them kept falling to the floor, then flooded after him and scurried back up his legs. And still Anchor climbed. His rope rose with him until it pushed up against the innermost ceiling joist. Now the whole roof gave a mighty groan. John Anchor didn’t slow, however. Once he reached the first landing, he turned to climb the second flight of stairs. Behind him, the rope skittered over the banister but caught on the corner post where the first-and second-floor staircases met. The big man ignored it and kept on up the stairs still ahead of him.

Caulker struggled to comprehend this situation. What the hell was tethered to the other end of that rope? A skyship? Impossible-no man could hope to keep his feet on the ground against such a force, much less drag something like that behind him. But then what was pulling the stranger’s tether skywards? The broth shop ceiling was already cracking under the strain. To put so much pressure on a line as thick as this, the burden had to be unbelievably heavy or impossibly buoyant. Either way, how could Anchor heave such a rope up another flight of steps? The hemp would snag, or break…

…or tear the building apart.

A loud snap made the cutthroat flinch. The rope jerked violently as the banister corner post broke like a twig. Below them, the ceiling joists had begun to crack, and cries of alarm came from the broth shop clientele. Caulker glanced back down the stairs to see a panicked crowd clogging the door, brawling to get outside.

Clothed in his snapping red tide of claws and shells, the giant ploughed on up the second flight of steps. Caulker followed with mounting astonishment, cautious but curious now to see how much further Anchor could pull this huge rope. The whole building seemed to buckle under the upwards pressure. Could this stranger really kill six Spine? And would he be prepared to share his wealth for more knowledge?

“The assassins will have heard you,” he warned. “Spine sleep lightly. It will be dark in their room, as they shun daylight.” He tried to think of something else helpful to say, some insight the big man might pay for. “Don’t underestimate Ichin Tell,” he blurted out at last. “The man is a demon.”

Before Anchor reached the top of the second flight of stairs, the ground-floor ceiling joists parted with a sequence of thunderous booms. Caulker watched the rope rip a vertical scar through eight feet of stairwell wall, and thump against the underside of the second-floor ceiling. He heard debris crashing into the room below. Crabs tumbled from Anchor’s legs, then shot after him with renewed frenzy. But the big man didn’t hurry. He opened the landing door and lumbered along the corridor beyond.

Breathless, the cutthroat scrambled after him. Anchor’s strength seemed limitless-might he be a match for Ichin Tell? After all, Spine weapons and heads could be sold in the tribal bazaars; their poisons could be traded on the black market in Clune. Pearls or no pearls, Jack Caulker might still be able to make a handsome profit from this.

Gritty light seeped through a window at the far end of the passageway, illuminating four doors along the interior wall, which led into the Hook’s rented rooms. The stink of old seafood clung to the plaster. Anchor marched on along the narrow space, dripping crabs and still towing his rope behind him. And when he reached a point halfway down the corridor, the joists supporting the second floor also began to break. The stressed hemp ripped through one, two, three beams, tearing a jagged scar right through the corridor floorboards. Splinters leapt like fleas. A deep moan came from the walls, and Caulker felt the building begin to list. The Widow’s Hook was falling apart.

In his living armour, John Anchor arrived at the last door. He opened the door, and then stepped inside the Spine assassins’ room. “My name is John Anchor,” he said.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

And then Caulker heard a flurry of slaps, like steel striking leather. But any further sounds of combat there might have been were drowned out by a series of violent concussions from below. Anchor’s great rope, which had so thoroughly sliced through the interior of the broth shop, abruptly severed the remaining joists. The taut hemp shot skywards, opening up the wall to the right, and sliced right through the roof. Caulker spied a crooked line of grey sky among flying rafters and spinning shingles before the entire building collapsed.

The cutthroat opened his eyes and groaned. His mouth and nose felt clogged with dirt. He sneezed, then winced in agony. Something heavy was pressing down on his legs. For a long moment he gazed up into the fog, dizzy and confused, wondering who had beaten him so badly, and whether or not he had been robbed. And then he lifted his head and saw that he was lying half buried in a great heap of sodden timbers and impacted mud. Suddenly he remembered what had happened, and his head sank back into the rubble.

Hell.

Thank the gods he had been on the top floor, and not down among the brawling rabble below. He must have fallen all of two storeys, and at least the building had collapsed underneath him rather than on top of him. He was lucky even to be alive. Faint moans and cries came from somewhere amid the rubble below him. Gods, where was his stuff? His money? Caulker fumbled for his purse, then yelped as the back of his hand scraped against a protruding nail.

Slowly, the cutthroat heaved himself up into a sitting position and surveyed the scene. The broth shop had crumpled inwards, its innards ripped out by the giant’s rope. Broken beams jutted from the mud-brown hovels on either side, while the collapsed floors slumped in a shallow valley between them. A heap of shingles and floorboards covered Caulker’s legs, but he appeared to have escaped the worst of the falling debris. Only one of the heavier rafters had landed on him. He heaved it aside, ignoring the sudden ache in his shoulders and arms, and struggled to his feet.

John Anchor was busy further down the mound of debris, pulling timbers and sections of mud wall from the wreckage and tossing them aside. The crabs were nowhere to be seen. Now that the rope had ripped itself free of the building, it rose unchallenged from the harness on the giant’s back and shot straight up into the muggy sky. Caulker’s gaze followed it up, but he could spot nothing through the dense fog above.

The giant was humming a tune while he worked. Suddenly he let out an exclamation, reached down, and dragged something free-the corpse of a pale woman clad in leather armour. Anchor held the cadaver up by its ankle, frowned, then flung it down into the lane below as easily as if it had been a dead cat. Five more corpses had already been heaped there, all of them Spine.

Caulker picked his way down through the wreckage towards them. All of the dead assassins’ heads appeared to be intact, he noted. Maybe the day wouldn’t be a total loss after all.

Down in the lane, John Anchor joined him beside the pile of corpses and folded his arms across his harness. “I wished only to speak with them.” He shook his head. “Had they not attacked me, they would still be alive.”

Caulker examined the bodies. None of them had visible wounds. He turned one over with his foot and recognized it as Ichin Samuel Tell. Somehow, the Avulsior looked healthier dead. “They must have been crushed when the building collapsed,” he said.

“No,” Anchor said. “I think they would have escaped. This house is not so much to fall on their heads. They were quick enough, like little white cats.” He nodded solemnly. “But not quick enough for John Anchor.”

“You killed them all?” the cutthroat asked. “Before the building collapsed?”

Anchor looked suddenly peevish. “They attacked me,” he grumbled. “I meant them no harm. Do you think they were afraid of crabs?”

“I suppose,” Caulker muttered.

“No matter.” Anchor smacked his big hands together. “Souls is souls, eh?” He flexed his shoulders, took hold of the rope which rose into the sky behind him, and began to haul it down towards him.