‘Still, I almost prayed anyway.’
IV
THE PRICE
‘THEY CALLED IT Martyr’s Cradle. They called it the City of Scarlet, Saintsholme, the Isle of Seven Sins. But mostly, they just called it Redwatch.
‘It had started like most river cities do – as a fishing town. But it rose to fame as the birthplace of the fourth martyr, old San Cleyland himself. He was a brick shithouse of a man by all accounts, a few drunkards short of a bar fight, but he had a remarkable talent for slaughter. Visited by the Mothermaid in a dream, Cleyland raised an army of faithful lunatics and marched into Ossway, intent on bringing the One Faith to the pagans of the west.
‘He died, of course. Being a martyr and all. Perished in valiant battle against a coalition of Ossian clans, or choked to death on a chicken bone during a victory piss-up, depending what you read. But not before he’d converted half the country at swordpoint, and built a series of priories to the Mothermaid that stand to this day. In return for his faithful butchery, the Almighty gave Cleyland the key to hell, and the big man stands guard over its grim gates to this day. And if you think designating the safekeeping of the abyss to a pin-headed twatgoblin who doesn’t know which part of the chicken is safe to eat sounds a terrible idea, you and I are in total agreement.
‘We reached his birthplace near the end of the second night, punting into a crowded dockside sprawl. Redwatch might’ve started as a village, but now it was a cityfort, and one of the empire’s finest. Built on a broad island in the middle of the Volta, its walls and towers were made from red river clay, hence one of its many names: the City of Scarlet. Its buildings were tight-packed and towering, citizens living atop one another like rats in a bloody maze. On its eastside, a foreboding keep punched holes in the sky, and northwards, the Priory of San Cleyland kept a mother’s watch over the city of his birth.
‘I was in some of the worst shape of my life. The thirst had me so tight by then, all the world was washed scarlet. Dior gave thanks to Capitaine Carlisle in my stead, and the man looked me over with something between pity and fear as I shuffled past, hair tumbled about my face. All around me, I could smell it, feel it, taste it. Blood.
‘Blood.
‘Still, there was enough of me left to notice Dior share a small nod with a grubby fellow passenger as we shuffled onto the jetty. Last I’d seen him, the man had been laid out in his bride’s lap, dying of infection. One look at him told me his once-broken leg was now straight as a spear, and I could smell no sepsis in his veins. He bowed, hand to heart, as we stumbled past. His wife had tears on her cheeks; his daughters made the sign of the wheel, watching Dior with awestruck eyes of old sky blue.
‘I glanced down at Dior’s hand, saw a fresh strip of bloody cloth about her palm.
‘“You didn’t …”
‘“Tits,” she said, motioning to her chest. “Right off them.”
‘“You fucking idiot.”
‘“I was careful,” she hissed. “I spoke to them at night. Nobody else saw.”
‘I shook my head. “I’m going to tell you something now, girl. And you mark these words, because they’re ones to live by: it’s always better to be a bastard than a fool.”
‘“You’re not my fucking papa, aright? I don’t need words to live by from you. Now, tell me where this damn Night Market is so we can get you what you need. Because if you fall over here, I’m leaving your surly arse for the bloody rats.”
‘“There,” I managed. “Up that alley.”
‘It’d been over a decade since I’d visited Redwatch, and like everywhere in the empire, all was worse than when I’d left it. It was far more crowded, for starters, streets jammed to bursting even after dark. Beggars with open sores and refugees with stricken, battlesick faces, street preachers and honeygirls, fisherprinces and riverthugs, and everywhere you looked, burly bastards in the sunflower yellow of the Emperor’s troops. We pushed through the crush, and all about me I could smell it, thrumming in every vein, rushing beneath every suit of skin.
‘God help me …
‘“Which way?” Dior asked.
‘“The squeezeway,” I winced. “P-past the hucksters.”
‘We passed a bevy of thieves selling charms against the Dead – pendants of churlsilver, braids of virgins’ hair, necklets of “duskdancer teeth” plucked from the heads of dead dogs. Nonsense all, sold by crooked bastards and bought by desperate fools. But beyond the grifters and frauds, in the damp shadows off the Redwatch drag, a fellow with eyes could find it. A tiny puddle of dim but true magik, hidden in the dark.
‘The Night Market.
‘A single street. A few faceless shops. Women with needle eyes and ill-favoured men with tattooed faces, snatches of spells carved into swarthy skin with ink-stained knives. Iron in the air. Ash and the dreams of pale gods, dead long before we discovered there was only One. My every bone was aching, eyes red as river clay as we staggered up to a thin black door and I hammered six times. The sign above the threshold simply read THE PRICE.
‘“Souris!”
‘“This place makes my skin crawl,” Dior whispered.
‘“Souris!”
‘“… His name is Mouse?”
‘“Her name. Just keep your eyes on the w-well side of down and your mouth on the right side of shut. This is d-deep water.” I pounded again. “Sour—”
‘The black curtain in the window beside the door was pulled aside, and I saw a pair of eyes, utterly white and apparently blind, peering through the grubby glass. I pressed my sevenstar to the window, leaving sweat misted on the pane. Even my gums were aching.
‘The curtain closed. A moment as long as my life passed before I heard six locks and six chains being loosed. With a slow creak, the door opened, revealing a woman, ancient and wrinkled, bent back draped with a smoke-grey shawl laced with charms of silver. But though her pupils were white with age, still she narrowed her eyes at the sight of me.
‘“Lion Noir,” she purred, smiling with empty gums.
‘“M-madame,” I winced. “I’ve a will to b-buy, if it please you.”
‘Those blindworm eyes turned to Dior, roaming head to toe. And finally, Madame Souris shuffled aside. “Enter freely and of your own will.”
‘We stepped within, Dior whispering a soft curse. The scene was chaos; like a junk store had a drunken hate fuck with a lunatic asylum. Every square foot was packed with shelves, and every square inch of those shelves was filled – books and bottles, herbs and scales, tiny pickled things in cloudy jars, hourglasses in skeletal hands. The store was lit by a hundred softly burning chymical globes, and stank of cat piss and insanity.
‘“We heard you were dead, Lion,” Souris called, shuffling ahead.
‘“They t-tried.”
‘She smiled over her shoulder. “Well. God loves one of those, doesn’t he?”
‘We followed the old woman through the mess, Dior close on my heels and studying every nook and corner, until Souris propped herself at a long counter. Among the twisted curios and dusty jars and books of skin, sat a rocking chair. Seated in it, wearing a pretty dress of timeworn silk and a powdered wig, was a human skeleton.