“I’d rather not talk about it.” Mercy winced.
That
story, which had reached a conclusion shortly before the Skein had disappeared, had taken the pattern of all her other romances: Library coming first, everything else coming second.
Nerren seemed to understand this. She said, “Well, never mind that now, then. How about this?”
It was the story of a woman who tried to fly to the moon, in a chariot drawn by deer, or sometimes swans. It was very old, and petered out some three thousand years down.
“I like it but I can’t see how it’s relevant. What we’re looking for are legends of warrior women, ancient nightmares . . . ”
“Those all seem to be from around the Black Sea,” Nerren said. “We’d have to bring up another map.”
The oldest maps of the storyways were from the Middle East, with some from China. The Australasia department on the ninth floor was doing sterling work transcribing songlines, which were much older, but those responded to pictures, not text, and Mercy did not think they would be relevant to mainland Continental Ice Age myths. Eventually, she and Nerren gave up.
“We’re just going to have to go in there and have a look,” Mercy said. She watched as the sigilometer powered down and the map faded back into its parchment. “And keep our fingers crossed.”
Mercy took the Irish sword with her when she went back into Section C. She also took Benjaya, one of the more active of her colleagues. Benjaya was young, male, and keen, which were not necessarily good qualities, but Mercy felt that enthusiasm would make up the lack. She gave him a lecture anyway, as they climbed the stairs, about appropriate behaviour and lack of experience. Benjaya listened earnestly, but she had a nasty feeling that he might not have taken it all in. With Nerren recently injured, however, she needed someone who could provide backup and Benjaya, despite inexperience, had muscles. He was also on the Library’s fencing team and Mercy thought this was likely to be useful. He brought a sword of his own with him, a long whipping rapier which sang softly to itself, in a language that Mercy did not know.
The
ka
stood on a ledge of ice, small wings folded against the wind. Golden eyes were slitted, trying to see. To the left lay a long line of forest, shadow-dark. To the right stretched a broken landscape of ice, a wide tumbling torrent, and the glimmer of oxbow lakes. The sky was heavy with storms. As Perra watched, a vivid bolt of rose-coloured lightning broke the cloud and struck down into the forest. Perra heard something cry out, a long forlorn wail which did not sound human. The trees went up like torches, burning a strange, unnatural blue.
Perra had the feeling that this had happened before, many times. The
ka,
eyes closed, sent senses out into the overlight, the place which lies between the layers of the nevergone, and saw, very far away, a huge construction like a sundial. This confirmed the
ka’s
suspicions that this scene, unfolding now, was no more than a bubble in time, a trapped loop on endless replay.
Nonetheless, it was interesting. And something was running from the forest, a tall thing that loped swiftly over the tundra. Perra braced clawed feet against the ice, but this thing did not look like the disir. A narrow muzzle swung from side to side, scenting the air. It was dressed in strips of leather that hung down like moss; a clawed hand gripped a staff. It sang as it came, a plaintive wail that was nonetheless rhythmic and compelling. Perra felt a thread of old magic spiral through the air, conjured from ice and water and wind, and speaking to the far stars. The figure raised its staff and behind the
ka,
the rent in the air grew wide. Perra was lifted from the ledge and carried through. The rift snapped shut.
Mercy, stepping cautiously through the double doors of Section C, had to duck to avoid the flying
ka.
Benjaya cried out, lashing up with the rapier.
“No!” Mercy cried. “It’s Perra!”
She felt the
ka’s
passage merely as soft feathers brushing her face, and when she straightened up, she saw Perra sitting on the ledge above the door. The spirit looked slightly ruffled.
“Perra, what are you doing here?”
“This
ka
wanted to see what was here,” the
ka
said. “Now, it has seen.”
Mercy stared at her. “What did you see?”
“An age of ice.”
“Why was the rent still open?” Benjaya asked.
“A very good question.”
“You would not have been able to see it,” the
ka
said. “It was visible to me, but only in the overlight, not the everyday.”
Mercy sighed. “So all the time we’ve been thinking of the rent as closed, it’s been gaping wide open letting through who knows what?”
• Nineteen •
Deed had been more relieved than he cared to admit on his return from Bleikrgard. The meeting had gone well, better than he’d hoped, and despite the encounter with Mareritt, which still unsettled him, he thought he had the upper hand. That was the way Deed liked it.
This flying blind was making him nervous, however. He did not know exactly what Loki’s intentions were, although he thought they were now becoming reasonably clear.
The lid taken off the cauldron of the city by the disappearance of the Skein and a power vacuum in Worldsoul, with the Court facing powerful former allies turned enemies.
The chance to retrieve an earlier version of the Library and bring it under Court control.
The disir, trapped in their ancient storytime and awaiting the possibility of release.
You didn’t have to be a genius to put those things together.
Deed stood now in one of the Watchrooms, on the long gallery that went around the perimeter of the circular chamber. The walnut panelled gallery was lit by sconces, dim gaslight which flickered and hissed, but which proved as far as the spirits who inhabited the Watchroom were willing to go in terms of technology. Demons, so Deed had discovered, were conservative and slow to change. There was a moral there, but he was damned if he knew what it was. Well, probably damned anyway.
The triangle for the conjuration floated in the middle of the shadowy cloud that filled the inner part of the chamber. This was classical magic, very formal, tried and tested. The magician stood in a circle, bound about with the Key of Solomon. A triangle, inscribed with ward words, formed the holding pen for whatever was summoned through the overlight from the infernal regions of the nevergone.
Deed had done this on many occasions, and the process was one he considered routine. That did not mean that it was perfunctory: he took care to make certain that the chamber was as secure as possible. But there were two parts to this particular ritual and he wanted to make sure he got it right.
Demons do not come for blood, or death, or even pain. They do not need to. They come for one reason only, and that reason is curiosity. Deed made sure the spell he was reciting would pique the interest of any demon listening to it, but he had a particular target in mind.
As he spoke the words of the spell, he could feel the twitch and twinge in the overlight, which meant that he’d attracted attention. Whether it was the right attention remained to be seen, but he continued to speak and gradually, a shape began to form in the triangle. Its head was bowed. It wore a veil and a long mantle, both of crimson. There was a shape behind it, something not human, but as he watched, it dissipated like smoke. One hand, ringed with a great carnelian seal, gripped the veil at its throat.
Deed spoke a name. “Am I addressing Gremory, Duke of Hell?”
The demon looked up. He saw eyes like rubies, over the folds of the veil.
“Who asks?”
“My name is Jonathan Deed.” Names had power, even children knew that, but there was nothing to be gained from hiding his own. The demon would have been able to pluck that out of the communications directory, if she so chose. Mareritt—well. Best not go there.
“Deed.” The demon spoke wonderingly, savouring it on her tongue. “I have heard of you. Abbot General of the Court.”
Deed bowed. “Madam. The honour is mine.”
The demon looked idly around her. “What does a mage of the Court want with me?”
“Ah,” Deed said. “I need some advice.”
The spirit put her head to one side and slipped the veil from her face, which was, predictably, cold and beautiful. The more human demons always had something of the same look, as if there was some form of genetic stamp, but since their manifest appearance was illusory, Deed could only assume that they simply lacked imagination. Or perhaps it wasn’t that important. “Advice, indeed?”
Deed aimed for an expression of humility, but did not feel he was entirely successful in achieving it. “Yes. I have a question concerning the Eastern Quarter of this city, regarding a woman named Shadow. An alchemist.”
Gremory grew still, the garnet eyes filmed like the bloom on a plum. “An alchemist named Shadow? Yes, I know her.”
“What can you tell me of her?”
“I hear that she has courage and intelligence. She has integrity, and cannot be easily bought.” The demon grinned. “And she is under the protection, if you can call it that, of the Shah of Has El Zindeh. I would suggest that even the Court treads carefully.”
“I see,” said Deed. This confirmed what he already knew. “Do you know anything more about this protection? Is she working for him?”
“Oh,” Gremory said, with a laugh. “She will be working for him. The Shah does not give something for nothing.”
“Do you know,” Deed asked carefully, “of an ancient race known as the disir?”
“The Ladies?” the demon said, with scorn. “Of course.” She put her head to one side again and touched a finger to her lips. Deed could not help but focus on the long, curling claw, of polished brass. “Now let me see. They are from the north, an ancient people, as you say, bred from clans that roamed the snowlands long before the ice. They bred into the northern tribes, mingling the bloodlines—one of which you come from.”
She pointed her brassy claw at him and, to his horror, Deed felt himself start to change: flesh drawing back from the bones of his face, his fingers elongating, back hunching, vision altering—“Enough!” Gremory said and Deed, human once more, again stood straight in his formal ruffed suit, feeling as though he had been wrenched out of his skin. As indeed, he had. It was Mareritt all over again and within, Deed cursed all female kind. A boil of hate rose up inside him. Never mind that now; he could take it out on Darya later.
“You are one of Loki’s children,” the demon said and an expression of extreme distaste crossed her beautiful face. “Be careful, Abbot General. I know much more than you think. There is a disir in the Eastern Quarter; she has been hurt and she is angry. Even for you, I don’t think she will come back.”
“Oh,” Deed said, more sharply than he meant to. “She’ll come. I sent her, after all. Now—” for he felt the need to move from these dangerous waters into others, which might prove equally treacherous, “—I need to speak about another matter. The
Barquess.
”
The head-tilt was to the other side this time, but just as irritating. “Ah. The ship of souls.”
“Yes. What can you tell me about the
Barquess
? She and her crew were sent in search of the Skein, but since then nothing has been heard, and nothing can be found. Can you tell me? Is the ship lost?”
“The
Barquess
sails on,” the demon said. “But not as you know it.”
“They
are
dead, then?”
“No.” Gremory smiled a curious, secretive smile. “They are far beyond the Liminality, and that is why you cannot find them. But they do live. Would you like to see them?”
Deed felt blood pounding in his head. “Yes. Yes, I would. But why haven’t we been told of this before, from your kindred?”
“You didn’t ask,” the demon answered, mildly surprised. Deed knew that this was not true, at least, not by human standards of truth. Demons did not see things in the same way, however.
“Please show me now,” he said, as politely as he could. Obligingly, the demon spread a clawed hand. Lightning played about her fingers and an abyss at her feet began to whirl and bubble. A pale dot appeared, at the centre of the whirlpool, then cast upward, sailing around the rim of a maelstrom. It grew in size and soon it was large enough for Deed to see the familiar configurations of the
Barquess
: its icebreaker prow, the huge engines at the stern, the masts and funnels and, along its sides, the immense folded vanes which would enable the ship to fly, should there be a need. Part battleship, part airship, part behemoth, the
Barquess
had been engineered for many possibilities. It was not beautiful, although the golden traceries along its flanks—indicating the passage of the dimension-breaking magic with which it had been endowed—looked like the veins of leaves. Deed had seen the sails unfurled only once and they, too, were of gold. When he looked more closely, he could see small figures scurrying across its decks.
“Is this as the ship is now? Or a simulacrum?”
“A day or so ago. We are looking into the past, but not far.” The demon shrugged. “It is likely that they still live but who can truly say? The
Barquess
sails dangerous waters, if one can call them such.”
“Where is it? Tell me the truth,” Deed commanded, “in the name of Solomon the King, I abjure you.” He made a sign in the air.
A blank cast came over the demon’s face, but Deed knew the Name would not hold her for long, and could be used only sparingly, like a rare spice. “They sail among the Western Stars. They chase their quarry, hound to hunter. Their journey takes them further and yet closer—do not try that again,” Gremory warned, eyes flashing ruby sparks. “I am not easily controlled.”
“Madam,” Deed said easily, for now he had got what he wanted. “I would not dream of it.”
• Twenty •
Shadow sat on her heels by the cage containing the ifrit. The thing was vast, far bigger than the cage, its energies contorted within it in a way that could not be comfortable. But who knew how the ifrit saw matters? Shadow did not, however, think the ifrit was happy.