Sal Greene awoke in his chair before the fire. His daughter was standing beside him in her crumpled nightdress, shaking his shoulder. She looked sleepy. "Father," she said. "Did you not hear the ruckus? He was banging on the door loud enough to wake the street."
"Ellie?" The prospector rubbed his eyes. "What's wrong?" His first thought was that another Dalamoorish assassin had arrived at his door with a babe in a basket, but his panic subsided when he saw the note in her hand.
"A lad brought this for you." She handed him the folded scrap of paper and scowled. "It's from Mr Ravencrag."
"When did this arrive?"
"Just now."
Greene picked up his reading glass from the mantel and squinted through it. It was the summons he'd been waiting for. His excitement and his apprehension grew. "What time is it?"
"After two."
"Gods balls," he muttered. "I must have dozed off. Sorry you were disturbed, princess. How's Mina?"
"That one could sleep through a war." Ellie gave him a weary smile. "She's as bad as you."
Greene returned his daughter's smile. Sometimes Ellie reminded him of his poor sister Margaret, who had been killed by the hooking cough when they'd both been young – and sometimes, like now, she was the image of the Dalamoor Princess he most suspected to be her mother, although he could not remember that woman's name. He'd been blind drunk at the time and the Vizier had had nine daughters. A year had passed before the sallow-skinned knifeman had turned up at his house in Deepgate, carrying Ellie in his arms, and a curt note from the Vizier in which the word 'bastard' had been used in several different, but colourful ways.
He took his daughter's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Did Jack wake?"
"No."
"Good, he needs his rest."
Jack had moved into the house after he'd married Ellie. Greene had always felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn't been able to help them more. A young couple ought to have their own home. However, the townhouses in Ivygarths and Lilley were far beyond his means. Jack's job as a skilled woodworker entitled him to a place in one of the Workers' Shares in Dourbridge, but if they had to live in the Warrens, then wasn't it better to be here with him than crammed into a lower tenement with four other families? Besides, Greene liked having his family around, especially little Mina.
"I don't like Mr Ravencrag," said Ellie. "The things people say about him. I don't trust him."
"I don't trust him either," Greene gave her a kiss on the cheek, "which is why I spend so much time down there. Get back to bed now, lass."
Presbyter Scrimlock's lackeys had not yet seen fit to proclaim Lye Street safe for carts, oxen and camels, so Greene was forced to walk all the way from his house to the Phantasmacists Club in Ivygarths. Despite his woollen gloves, the cold night air stole into his hands and gnawed at his arthritic joints. The pain had worsened these last few years. Often he wondered if a speck of isinglass or quartz had become trapped in his knuckles, some fragment from a mine he'd once looted. Still, he thanked the gods that he was mobile. Unlike Ravencrag with his weak hip, Greene could hurry when he felt inclined to, as he felt inclined to now.
He was going to meet a demon.
But when Ravencrag opened the door to his apartment, he wore a dark expression on his hawkish face. "There's no demon," he hissed. "Just some sprat
claiming
to be his representative. Frankly, I'm not impressed."
Greene pushed past and immediately saw the cause of his colleague's doubts. The man could not have been more than twenty years old: foppish and handsome, but with an arrogant twist to his lips. He wore a red leather topcoat festooned with pockets, yet extravagantly patterned with black wire and tribal fetishes, and he carried a walking stick, topped with pommel made from animal teeth. Clear blue eyes studied Greene from beneath the brim of a tall black set at such an angle that it appeared to be in danger of falling from his head.
"Who are you?" asked Greene.
The young man extended a hand. "Othniel Cope, at you service."
"Sal Greene." They shook hands.
"My master heard your summons," said Cope.
The accent sounded odd. The prospector could not place it. "Your master?"
"The demon Basilis. I am his intermediary, Mr Greene. Since his fall from Heaven, Basilis has used one thaumaturge or another to speak on his behalf."
A thaumaturge? No wonder Ravencrag was in such a foul mood. The phantasmacist had no patience for practitioners of rival arts.
Ravencrag hobbled over. The cold weather had evidently aggravated his hip. He squeezed past the arrangement of dead dogs, and then eased himself down into the seat closest to the wood stove. With his crooked shoulders all hunched over, and his hooked nose poking out from the folds of his topcoat, he looked more like a gargoyle than usual.
Greene and Cope joined him around a table.
"You are wondering," Cope said to Greene, "if I am who I claim to be."
"Well..." The prospector shrugged.
"How could a man of my apparent youth be the guardian of Ayen's Hounds, the skulls described by Azzarat the Nomad in his grand grimoire? You have a copy of the Heshette tome, I see." He pointed his walking stick at Ravencrag's ghoulish gallows.
"We have the book," Greene said. He thought it best not to tell Cope how little he'd paid for it. After Ravencrag had eliminated the rare and expensive magic tomes, they had moved on to the common titles, followed by the cheap ones, and then finally the tat the heathens sold at Sanpah flea market.
The Book of the Hound
propped up a great many tables north of Clune.
Cope lowered his walking stick and then twirled it between his hands. "Basilis grants his servants longevity," he said, "for as long as it pleases him to do so. I have served my master faithfully now for one hundred and sixty three years, during which time I have not once failed him. In return, I am permitted to retain my youth."
"What happens if you make a mistake?"
"I do not make mistakes, Mr Greene." The thaumaturge smiled thinly, then set down his walking stick. "My master's fee will be two fists of gall stones," he said. "Each one must have been removed from the body of a virgin. Basilis finds such morsels quite delicious." He paused, staring hard at the other man. "Of course, if you cannot procure these delicacies, your own soul will be an acceptable alternative."
"You'll have your stones, after you do your job."
"And what is the job?"
The prospector hesitated.
"He wants you to kill an angel," said Ravencrag.
Cope arched his thin dark eyebrows. "I see." He placed his tall hat on the floor beside his travel bag. Then, from one of the many inner pockets of his topcoat, he brought out a tiny dog. A thin, mangy creature no larger than his hand, it appeared to be suffering from some painful malady. Patches of fur had fallen out, revealing scabrous grey skin. Its ears were leathery and ragged, as though they had been chewed by older and larger pups. A repulsive crust had formed at the corners of its eyes, which it seemed unable to open.
The thaumaturge held up the tiny creature. "Let me introduce my master, Gentlemen," he said. "This is the demon Basilis, formerly Ayen's Hound Master, foremost assassin, and ultimately Heaven's own Lord of Warfare. It is from him that you must beg aid."
The dog gave a low, pitiful wail.
Greene failed to stifle a guffaw. "That pup is a demon?"
Cope nodded.
Ravencrag spat on his own floor. He peered out from under his pudding bowl hat, studying the dog with undisguised contempt. Finally he said, "I've seen scabbier mutts than that one, but not many. Do you want to kick this charlatan out now, Sal? Or should we rob him first?"
"Gentlemen!" Cope's tone demanded no further frivolity. He raised his free hand. "Do not let his humble appearance fool you. The Hound Master's physical form was destroyed in the final War Amongst the Gods. Ayen then seized her chance to condemn his soul by trapping it in this animal. In this form, Basilis cannot wield his power on earth. Nor can he die."
The pup growled.
"An impotent demon," said Ravencrag. "It's original, I'll give you that, Cope. I note that Azzarat never mentioned this in his cheap and wildly distributed tome. What was his share of the con?"
The thaumaturge's expression darkened. His eyes thinned and his lips twisted into a cruel and dangerous smile. Suddenly he looked much older than his apparent years. "You are the amateur here," he said in an ominously low voice. "Do not mock me, Sir."
Ravencrag scowled and chewed his lip. For a moment Greene thought he would respond, but thankfully the phantasmacist said nothing more.
Cope unbuttoned his travel bag and drew back the flap. It was full of bones, and three long-jawed skulls: of hounds or foxes. He withdrew one these and set it on the table beside the pup. The relic was old and yellowed, about a foot long and brimming with sharp teeth. A tiny window in the top of the cranium hinged back to reveal a hollow where the brain had once been. This was full of dust. "If you wish to beg my master's aid," he said, "you must first allow him to gaze upon you. I require a drop of blood from each of you, to add to this powder."
"Why?" asked Greene, suddenly wary.
"The ritual requires it," said Cope. "Objects which have been in Ayen's presence remain invested with shreds of her power. These are the skulls of the goddess's hounds. The beasts, as you see, are long dead, yet they retain memories of Ayen's former Hound Master. Aspects of Basilis inhabit these memories. To communicate with him we must explore them."
Ravencrag yawned.
Cope ignored him. "The ritual is similar to those used by shamans to induce visions. You are familiar with the ways of the Heshette Seers, the bone women of the north?"
"That old coot's familiar with plenty of women from the north," said Ravencrag. "So far it's caused him nothing but trouble."
Nevertheless, Greene acquiesced. What did he have to lose? His life? His eternal soul? Better that than the lives of his family. He pricked his thumb on a needle the thaumaturge produced, then, under Cope's instruction, let a drop of blood fall into the dust inside the hound's skull.
But Ravencrag refused to have anything to do with the ritual.
"You summoned my master here," Cope said to him. "Without your blood, we cannot proceed."
The phantasmacist shrugged. "You know where the door is."
Greene felt his anger swell. "You will prick your thumb, or I'll bite off your bloody finger myself. I've not come this far for you to wreck everything!"
The other man scowled at him.
"Do you want your bonus, or not?"
Ravencrag did as he was told.
The thaumaturge then scooped the clotted dust into a spoon, and heated it over a candle.
"Shouldn't we be uttering an incantation?" muttered Ravencrag. "Words of power, or some such thing?"
"If you know any incantations," said Cope, "feel free to utter them. I shall not object."
Ravencrag sank deeper into his coat pockets.
The dust smouldered and released green smoke which had an earthy woodland odour. The fumes thickened until they engulfed the three men in a dense, stinking cloud. A candle on the mantel guttered and blew out. Greene laboured to breathe. In the distance he thought he heard the braying of a pack of dogs, the thunder of hooves, and the clatter of steel: the sound of the hunt. Hot, humid air crept over them. They were assailed by powerful odours: of soil, loam, wood and moss.