The Blood Debt (5 page)

‘Was?’ repeated Sal. ‘Would?’

Shilly had noticed the ominous use of past tense, too.

‘Maiz was found dead the next morning. He’d been killed several hours earlier, after meeting your father.’

Sal nodded, his face closed tight as it always was when he was most upset.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell me why you think my father killed him.’

Tom looked startled. ‘We don’t think that at all. That is, we don’t think Maiz’s death was deliberate. It was an accident, a side effect. He was unlucky, probably.’

‘Do you know where Highson is now?’

Another shake of his head. ‘Those who know him best have looked, but we can’t find him anywhere. He appears to have vanished.’

Vanished.
The word dropped into Shilly like a stone down a well.

‘Just tell us what you know,’ she told Tom, catching Sal’s eye and making sure he understood. ‘You’ve come a long way to give us this information. We won’t interrupt any more. I promise.’

Sal nodded. Tom looked relieved.

‘At the second hour of the morning, one week ago,’ he said, as though he had rehearsed it many times during his long trip to Fundelry, ‘Gunida was woken by the sound of the world tearing open.’

* * * *

Sal listened to Tom’s account with mounting alarm.
A tear in the world
was exactly what he had been feeling on the beach. Not an explosive event, as Tom described it, but as a growing feeling of wrongness. It seeped into him from the edges of his life and crept slowly to his heart.

The residents of Gunida had staggered from their beds that night a week ago, terrified. The western sky was bright with light — a flickering, perfectly white glow so bright it cast shadows from chimneys, trees and outstretched hands. A few brave souls dared to follow it to its source, thinking it lay on the outskirts of town, but it was in fact much further. Barely had the intrepid group travelled two kilometres through dense scrub and low, anonymous hills when the light went out. A thunderclap rolled across the land, shaking trees, knocking off hats and sending dogs cowering under verandahs. A terrible silence fell in its wake.

The night was utterly black. The stars and moon hid behind clouds. The group had little hope of finding the source of the explosion, but still they tried, spreading out and beating through the bushes, hoping to flush out more than the occasional startled rabbit.

Only one more event marked the stillness of the night: a distant scream that could have come from a man’s or a woman’s throat. One witness described the sound as the most awful thing he had ever heard, a cry so full of fear it melted all resolve to find its cause. The group immediately turned back to Gunida, there to wait for dawn before recommencing the search.

By daybreak, a party of Sky Wardens had arrived. The pyrotechnics of the previous night had not gone unnoticed by those of the Haunted City. Crossing the choppy waves on
Os,
the mighty ship of bone, the party included Alcaide Braham — the Strand’s highest authority — and many other senior Wardens. Tom was among them.

By then, Highson Sparre’s absence had been noted and every available Warden summoned to help shed light on a very mysterious situation. Sal’s father had left the island with a large number of arcane artefacts, formerly housed in the depths of the Novitiate’s storerooms. Many of them had no known use, although their potency was undoubted. They fairly crackled with the Change and had been interred more for safekeeping rather than because of any sense of value. That Highson had apparently made off with specific items and not a random swagful suggested that he had something in mind for them.

‘Highson was a lot of things,’ agreed Sal, ‘but he wasn’t a thief.’

After a deep draught of water, Tom’s story continued.

The search party followed Highson’s trail to Gunida. They listened to the testimonies of town residents and put together their own expeditionary party. Before the eighth hour, this new force journeyed on foot from the harbour town, following the fading spoor of the event that had shaken the world that morning. They found the source before long: a clearing set in a hollow between three low hills with a ring of flattened trees surrounding a scorch mark blacker than anything Tom had seen before. The crater at the centre of the clearing was a metre deep.

They approached it cautiously.

‘People perceive the Change in different ways,’ Tom said. ‘Some smell it or see it, or even taste it. I hear it, like a ringing in my ears. Highson’s work had a distinct sound to it, a mix of harmonics unique to him. His signature was so powerful in that place that I could hear it hours later, still vibrating in the soil and the trees — and the body.’

There went Sal’s last hope that Tom and the Wardens might have been mistaken, that his father’s connection to the death of Larson Maiz was tenuous, perhaps even completely circumstantial.

‘How did Maiz die?’ asked Shilly, taking Sal’s hand in hers. He was grateful for the gesture.

‘Maiz’s heart failed,’ Tom said. ‘Some say he died of fright.’

‘He saw something? Was attacked by something?’

‘We don’t know. There were several tracks in and around the scorched area. Maiz made some of them before and after the burning took place; the patterns of the prints match the soles of his boots, so we have no doubts there. There was a second set of tracks that we presume belonged to Highson, as they too preceded and post-dated the thing he came there to make. The procedure involved a lot of unpacking and preparation; various empty crates and containers scattered around the clearing testified to that.’

‘What about the thing itself?’ Sal asked. ‘Did you find it?’

‘Not in the clearing. Not exactly.’

‘What do you mean by “not exactly”?’

‘We found a third set of footprints.’ Tom drained the last of the water from the bottle and put it on the ground beside him with a hollow thud. ‘I’m not a tracker; I’m an Engineer. But even I could tell that something walked out of that clearing that didn’t walk into it, and it didn’t walk on legs as we know them.’

Sal didn’t want to know what sort of legs they were. Not yet. Strange screams and holes in the world were enough for now. ‘Where did it go?’

‘It tore a path through the scrub wider than a person. There are signs that Maiz tried to stop it, but obviously wasn’t successful. Markings suggest that Highson himself was knocked unconscious for a time, at least several hours after Maiz’s death. We do know that shortly after awakening, not long after dawn that terrible night, he set off in pursuit.’

Chasing the thing he made,
thought Sal.

‘They had quite a head start,’ Tom went on. ‘It was a day or more by the time we returned to the Haunted City and a fully equipped search party set out to follow them. Alcaide Braham is quite determined to get to the bottom of what happened.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Shilly. ‘Something like this, right on his doorstep ...’ She shook her head. ‘Do you have any idea what it was that Highson made?’

‘Master Warden Atilde took a closer look at what he stole. That, combined with what we found at the site, led her to suspect that Highson created a Homunculus.’

‘A what?’ asked Sal.

‘An artificial creature designed to house a disembodied mind, like a ghost or a golem.’

A chill went down Sal’s spine. ‘Does Atilde think he succeeded in giving it a mind?’

‘Yes. But what it was physically, she doesn’t know. It’s obviously
something,
something that walks.’

‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ said Shilly, frowning deeply. ‘Highson knows how dangerous ghosts and golems can be. Why would he want to make a home for one?’

‘Did anyone notice
anything
about him before all this happened?’ asked Sal. ‘Was he acting strangely? Was he still himself?’

Tom knew what question he was really asking. If a Change-worker strained too hard, their minds could be pushed out of their body and stuck in the Void Beneath — the empty non-space underpinning the real world. The vacant body left behind could then be inhabited by a golem. The three of them sitting in Lodo’s old workshop knew from grim experience what horrors such a being could unleash.

‘He was still Highson,’ said Tom, with quiet surety. ‘No one doubts that for a moment. He wasn’t something other than himself.’

Sal believed him. Golems weren’t known for their subtlety.

‘So where does everything stand now?’ he asked. ‘This all happened a week ago. Has anyone heard from Highson since? What happened to the search party? When did you leave?’

Tom blinked under the barrage of questions. ‘The search party hasn’t returned. The last I was told, they were still following the trail. No one’s heard from Highson or been able to find him through the Change. I’ve looked too, but he’s either hiding or being hidden by something.’

‘Or he’s dead,’ put in Shilly.

‘I don’t think so. I left two days ago. My dreams have been unsettled since Highson disappeared. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t. There’s only one thing I’m sure of: you two are involved. Your faces keep coming up, over and over. There’s only one way you
could
be involved, and that’s if someone came and got you. So I did. I requisitioned a buggy and set off. I stopped to refuel and rest in Samimi, but apart from that I drove straight through.’

That explained his haggard appearance, and reinforced something that had unnerved Sal ever since Tom’s unexpected appearance. Tom wasn’t interested in being a hero or standing in the spotlight; he was normally content to watch from the shadows as people played out their roles. He only acted when he felt he had to — when his dreams told him that something was important.

This obviously was.

‘How did you know where we were?’

‘Where else would you be?’ Tom reacted as though Sal had asked why the day had begun that morning. ‘When you escaped from the Haunted City, you went through a Way to the workshop.’

‘But you weren’t there,’ Shilly said. ‘No one was supposed to talk about it.’

‘They didn’t need to. It was perfectly obvious what had happened.’

‘To you, perhaps,’ said Sal. ‘You’re the first visitor we’ve had in five years.’

‘And a very welcome one, too,’ Shilly added, ‘although the news you’ve brought is less than cheerful.’

‘Did you tell anyone where you were going?’ asked Sal, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

‘No. I — uh.’ An alarmed look crossed Tom’s face. He stood up suddenly, knocking over the empty bottle of water.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, performing an awkward hop on one foot and turning pink. ‘I need — uh.’

‘Through there.’ Shilly realised before Sal did what Tom required and pointed to a curtained alcove. ‘I was wondering how much you could drink before you started to overflow.’

Tom vanished behind the curtain. Sal grinned at the sustained splash and sigh of relief that followed, but his mind was too full of images old and new, of golems and midnight detonations, of Highson Sparre and dead Larson Maiz, of hiding places and family ties, to be distracted for long.

Shilly caught his eye and held it. Her expression was very serious. He could tell that she had already decided what she wanted to do.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘I’m trying not to.’

‘He’s your father.’ Her voice held a hint of reproach.

‘My father died in Fundelry before I ever met this man.’

‘Highson married your mother; he sired you.
And
he helped us escape from the Syndic.’

Sal nodded. All true and relevant, especially the latter. Highson Sparre’s aunt, the most powerful woman in the Strand, had locked horns with Sal on more than one occasion. If she had had her way, he would still be studying in the Haunted City, fuelling her plans for advancement.

‘You know it’s the right thing to do.’ Her hand found his. ‘And besides, Tom dreamed we were involved. There’s nothing we can do about it now.’

‘If he’d left us alone, perhaps we wouldn’t be.’ He heard the petulance in his tone and hated it. The truth was that he didn’t feel ready to leave Fundelry, the fishing village he had lived in for five years after a life of constant travel. Part of him wondered if he would ever be ready to leave. Fundelry was safe: the dangers were known and familiar. He had no control over the outside world and the threats it contained; out there, he might have no control over himself, either.

Only twice had he let his wild talent consume him. The eruption of rage he had set free had almost killed a man. Then, later, he had killed an ice-creature deep in the bowels of the Haunted City. Even though that had been in defence of Shilly, the potential for violence contained within him frightened him even more than the first time. His wild talent was like a large animal blundering about in a city; by its very nature, it was dangerous.

But that wasn’t the
fault
of its nature. It was just out of place. In the right place, it wouldn’t be a problem. Sal simply hadn’t found out where that was yet.

In Fundelry, with Shilly, he had learned to balance the wild talent and bend it to his will, but it was a truce he feared could be easily broken.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘We have to help. But I don’t like it. What’s Highson doing mucking around with a Homunculus in the middle of the night? What’s he brought into the world? What are we getting ourselves caught up in now?’

She didn’t say anything, just leaned her head into his shoulder. He put an arm around her and held her, tasting an uncertainty he had thought long swallowed.

* * * *

A bell rang at lunchtime, apparently of its own accord. There were twelve strung in an elaborate mobile from the ceiling’s highest point. Each had a unique pitch and timbre, and each had an identical twin to which it was subtly linked. When one rang, no matter how far away, so would the twin.

‘That’s Thess,’ said Sal, looking up from the chart he and Tom were studying. ‘Do you want me to go?’

Shilly shook her head. She had been laying out their clothes and other possessions in preparation for packing, finding herself amazed by how little they actually owned. Discounting the workshop and everything Lodo had left them, plus the occasional trinket the townsfolk insisted they take, they had only a few personal effects to call their belongings. Part of her found it sad that they could have left so small a mark on their world that no one would notice its absence.