The Iron Ghost (60 page)

The man fell to his knees, clutching at the mess that had once been his bicep, too surprised to scream yet. Frith got to his feet.

‘They’ll bring others out to finish it off,’ said the woman. She was waving at him to sit back down. ‘You’ll miss the best bit.’

Frith glanced back down into the pit. The man was lying in the sand now, marooned in a rapidly growing island of his own blood. The scorpion was lashing out wildly, thick drops of poison oozing from the end of its sting.

‘Thank you,’ said Frith, ‘but I think I’ve seen enough.’

‘Tell me about the worst ones. The murderers, the rapists.’

The woman looked at him oddly, as well she might. Frith kept his gaze steady, reminding himself that he’d already paid the Overseer a decent purse of coin just to have this conversation with her.

‘We have a good many of them,’ she said. She was a short woman with broad shoulders and a thick layer of muscle on her arms and legs, and the red vest she wore was pierced all over with silver rings that jangled slightly as she walked. At her waist, these rings bristled with dozens of keys, and she carried a long horse-whip in one hand. ‘Here, we like to keep all the beasts together. Let me show you.’

They were within the workings of the Storm Gates now, patrolling shadowy corridors lined with sand and lit with guttering lamps. She led him down one corridor and out through a narrow training ground, the sand stained brown with old blood, and on through what Frith guessed must count as the living quarters for the prisoners here. Dark cells with rusted-iron bars dotted the Storm Gates like honeycomb, men and women standing well back from the Overseer. He suspected they were more than familiar with her whip.

‘Here you are, then. The ugliest bunch.’

They came to the end of the line. The cells here were small and cramped, and there was a stink of urine and rotten food coming from them all.

‘Salazar Gwint, who broke into an orchard and killed the entire family living there, before getting stupidly drunk on cider.’ The man in the nearest cell was skinny and pale, the tops of his bare shoulders pink with sunburn. He peered out at Frith with eyes as dull as pebbles, absently picking at his peeling skin.

‘A drooling idiot, if you ask me, won’t last five heartbeats in the arena. Here, we have Brightly Tripps, a much better prospect.’ The man in the next cell was well over six feet tall and nearly as wide around the middle. He grinned as he saw them passing, and winked luridly at the Overseer. ‘Made quite a name for himself, taking his knives across Relios and leaving a trail of blood behind him. Won’t have his knives in the arena though.’

‘It’s good to see you, oh brightly shining star of my dreams.’ The man’s voice was smooth and cultured. ‘I dream of you every night, maiden of the midden, you and your delicious skin.’

‘I wish he’d shut up though,’ she added, not looking at him. ‘On the end here we have Kathy Redfingers, who had a predilection for corpses. You should have smelt her when she came in, half the guards had to go and have a sit down.’

‘Do any of them have families?’ asked Frith. ‘Are they leaving anyone behind when they step out into the arena?’

The Overseer raised an eyebrow, and then shrugged.

‘There is one that might fit that description. One who still thinks his family are worth thinking about, at least.’ She led him across the way to a cell opposite the others. Inside, a man sat on the ground with his elbows resting on his knees, his head held so low that his long grey hair covered his face. He did not look up at their approach. ‘Jerston Blake. Got into a fight over a card game in a tavern. When the owner threw him out, he went back there in the early hours and killed the entire family save for one small boy, who hid under his bed. Long history of violence, this one. Not sure how he avoided the Storm Gates for so long, but he’s here now. Married to one long-suffering wife, with at least five children that we know about.’

‘I was drunk,’ muttered the man, still not looking up. ‘My blood gets hot when I’ve been at the drink; I’m not myself.’

‘Nonsense, Jerston,’ said the Overseer mildly. ‘You keep claiming you were stone-cold drunk, yet you had the wiles to pick that man’s lock and sneak your way to the upper floor. And you took your time killing them too, don’t forget that.’

Frith stared down at the man.

‘I would like to talk to the prisoner,’ he said eventually. ‘And I have a proposal for you both.’

It was late when Frith returned to the Storm Gates. Deep orange lamps were alight all over the city, and with the punishing sun vanished once more beyond the horizon, the evening was cool. He carried the Edenier trap wrapped in cloth and held securely under one arm. A guard was on the gate, waiting for him.

‘Evening, milord.’ As he spoke, his top lip curled into a sneer. ‘She has it all ready for you,’ he said. There was a brief pause. ‘You must have a lot of coin, milord, and strange tastes. Most people are content to see these poor bastards die in the dirt.’

Frith looked at him, saying nothing, until the guard cleared his throat.

‘Follow me, then, milord.’

The guard took him through the archway and led him on a new route through the warren-like corridors until they reached a small grubby room with mud on the walls. The Overseer stood in the doorway and, beyond her, Frith could see the man Jerston sitting on the only chair, his arms bound. He was staring past them both at something only he could see.

‘You’ve arranged it all, then?’ said the Overseer. There was a bright new dislike for Frith in her eyes, although he noticed she wasn’t backing out of their deal.

‘I have the banker’s note for you.’ He handed her a piece of parchment, which she peered at closely. ‘This man’s family will want for nothing, and you already have the first part of your payment.’

She nodded at the parchment before folding it away into a pocket.

‘Looks official enough to me. You don’t look the sort, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ The question was out before he could stop it, his voice close to angry again. He just wanted this to be over.

‘This man might be scum, but he’s done nothing to you. Although I imagine that’s not what it’s about, is it? Most folks are content with too many drinks and a scrap, or a night or three in a pillow house.’

‘You would kill him eventually,’ said Frith, measuring each word. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper now. ‘Except it would be a public humiliation, and you won’t stoop to getting his blood on your hands.’

‘That’s different. That’s justice,’ said the Overseer.

Frith glanced behind her into the room. The convict had been tied to the chair and his long grey hair hung in his face. ‘If you have changed your mind, then I will ask for my coin back.’

The Overseer shook her head abruptly, making the dozens of rings on her vest jangle discordantly.

‘Get on with it, then. There’s no accounting for some folks.’

She stepped past him and waved him into the room. As he stepped through the door she closed it behind him, so close on his heels that he felt the wind of it push against his back.

‘It’s all done, is it?’ Jerston was looking at him now. His eyes were red and raw, his face gaunter than it had been earlier.

‘It has been arranged.’ Frith put the Edenier trap down on the floor, still covered over with the cloth. It was heavy, and he was relieved to put it down. ‘Your wife will receive a pension yearly from me for the rest of her life. It will be enough to see that your children are fed and clothed, enough for medicines if they require them.’ Frith cleared his throat. ‘I keep my promises.’

Jerston snorted. ‘It’s some promise, this. A blood promise.’

‘Your alternative is to remain a prisoner here,’ said Frith, ‘until the day they drag you up into the arena, to be torn apart by dogs, or run through by a scorpion, and your family will struggle on in poverty.’ He paused, wondering who he was trying to convince. ‘This way, your death will be fast. And your wife and children will want for nothing.’

The man grunted and shifted in his chair. His right leg jittered nervously.

‘What’s it for?’ he said. ‘Is it like the Overseer said? You just like killing?’

Frith clenched his fists at his side. Inside him, the Edenier was roiling and churning. He remembered the day he had claimed back his castle, the brittle noises as he broke bones with his magic, the terrible wet sounds Fane had made as he struggled to breathe through what was left of his lungs.

‘No, it is not like that. It is difficult to explain. But you should know that when you die you will be helping to end a great evil.’

Jerston looked up at him, his face creased with confusion and fear. ‘Aye. Well. Let’s just get this over with.’

Frith nodded and moved to uncover the Edenier trap. In the yellow light of the dirty room it looked strange and tumorous on the floor, and Jerston visibly recoiled from it.

‘What is that?’ he said, his voice breaking a little.

‘It is a device. I will place it in your lap, and I will need you to look into it.’

The corners of Jerston’s mouth turned down and he shook his head. ‘I don’t think I like that none. I don’t want that touching me.’

‘It will only be for a moment.’ Frith lifted up the contraption, carrying it carefully over to where Jerston sat. The man drew back, as though Frith approached him carrying a handful of poisonous vipers, but he didn’t object again. Frith settled it on top of the man’s legs, and it crouched there like an obscene bubo. He had to admit, he didn’t blame the man for not wanting it near him.

‘I need you to look at that while I . . . while I work.’

Frith went around the back of the chair, while Jerston sat awkwardly, his arms still bound. His head was lowered slightly.

‘What is this thing?’ he said again. He sounded distracted now, as though he didn’t quite understand where he was. ‘It looks wrong.’

‘Just keep your eyes on it,’ said Frith, before adding, ‘think of your family.’

He drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and turned it in the light. He had spent part of that afternoon making sure it was as sharp as possible.

‘Do it then, milord,’ said Jerston. ‘I’m ready.’

But Frith found for a moment that he could not move at all. It was as though someone had thrown a bucket of water over him, and he had woken in a place he didn’t recognise.
What am I doing here? How have I come to this?
He looked at the blade in his hand and was appalled to see his grey eyes staring back at him in the reflection.

Do this and you are no better than any of them
. He knew that was what Sebastian would say if he were here; if he had guessed at the nature of the device, he would never have helped him in the first place. If he had known it required a blood sacrifice to work . . . If he did this he would be a murderer, just like Fane and his grinning pets, the Children of the Fog; torturing and killing in the name of a demon.

But this was his chance to end it. With this weapon, Joah would be powerless, and he would pay for all the suffering he’d caused, now and a thousand years ago. He would pay for the souls lost in the Rivener’s blood-stained rooms, and he would pay for Wydrin’s lifeless body, twisting away into the dark.

‘Are you doing it, then, or what?’ Jerston’s voice was wavering now. ‘Only I don’t think I can keep looking at this thing and—’

Without another word, Frith took hold of the man’s head firmly with one arm and ran the blade across his throat, pressing down with all his strength. There was a ragged scream that quickly disintegrated into a thick gurgle. Jerston jerked in his chair, nearly dislodging the device. Frith held him as still as he could, forcing his head down even as the blood surged out of him. It took only seconds, and he felt the bigger man shudder in his grip as the last of his life’s blood left him. Jerston said something then, garbled with blood and pain, and Frith couldn’t make out what it was, but when he looked down he saw that the Edenier trap had opened up like a flower, and inside it a dark mouth awaited.

Frith staggered away, dropping the knife from fingers that were suddenly numb. He had done it. The trap was complete, and it was ready. He had done what Joah Demonsworn couldn’t.

‘That’s it, then,’ he said, and his voice sounded less than sane to his own ears. ‘It’s all done.’

He reached up to wipe away the tears running down his cheeks, but his hands were red with blood.

Joah had found a mirror.

He stood for some time in front of it, his long narrow fingers playing lightly over his face and neck. The burns inflicted on him by Aaron were quite severe, and without salves or any other sort of attention they had festered, leaving one side of his face a bloody, pus-filled ruin. Luckily, thanks to the effects of eating the god-flesh, it was not that side that drew the eye. Oh no. Not at all.

A small, strangled noise escaped his lips and he realised that he was laughing. Was this what he had wanted? Was this what he’d been striving for all these years?

‘This is power, then,’ he said, nodding at the mirror. ‘This is what power looks like.’

He turned away from that view and looked around the Rivener’s central room. It was squalid and filthy, and two of the Rivener’s glass eyes were completely smashed. The Edenier chamber boiled with the Heart-Stone’s nauseous violet light, and distantly he could hear the screaming of Bezcavar, trapped inside the glass with the tainted magic.

‘I have lost track of time,’ he said absently. ‘Most of the souls have been harvested from this city now, Bezcavar, but you know, I’m not even sure I need them.’ He held up his hands, and twin balls of flame appeared above his palms. ‘I am a creature of the Edenier now, like the gods of old. I do not need their words to form the magic. I do not need anything at all.’

The noise from the chamber increased, and Joah tipped his head to one side as though listening to something very far away.

‘But I don’t believe that’s true, my old friend. Yes, we have done much together, achieved so many things. Perhaps it is time we parted ways.’ There was a flicker on the edge of his mind as Bezcavar tried to force him to remember, to share with him those memories that had once broken him. He shook his head sadly. ‘There is no sense in trying to frighten me, Bezcavar. Do you not see? I am beyond such concerns now.’ He summoned the memory himself, of the day that the demon had shown him its true face. He saw it as if from a distance, as the sight tore his mind into tatters and left him weeping on the edge of sanity. ‘Do you truly think you can scare me with that memory now?’ He gestured at his own twisted visage. ‘When I look like this?’