While it was bad that first night it was something that lingered and worsened.
The rain did not stop, just dripped down through the trees, descrying holes in tents and makeshift shelters and splashing on faces or skin; grey and greasy droplets, that stained or, if swallowed, caused nausea and stomach cramps.
Medicine was starting to miss the Factories.
“This place stinks,” someone complained to Medicine, as he treated a wound caused by one of the bats.
“Everything stinks,” he said.
The next day the mood was grim. And, though he was surly and tired, Medicine put on his brightest suit, his most cheerful expression and walked the length of the campsite. He spoke to as many people as he could. Showed them all that he was in good spirits, that he believed they were doing the right thing. And it seemed to work.
They packed quickly and were on their way before ten.
Halfway through the day, Medicine realised something was wrong. No one from the front had reported to him since early morning. He was worried enough to insist that he and Agatha ride up there.
They passed the wagons at a gallop and continued riding for another ten minutes.
There was no sign of them.
“Where did they go?” Medicine asked.
Agatha looked bewildered.
“I have no idea. No shots were fired that’s for sure or we would have heard them and there’s no sign of them having left the highway.”
“What on earth could take ten Council guards without so much as a peep?”
Agatha turned her horse around. “I would rather not find out.”
They rode back to the convoy and Medicine half expected them to be gone as well. Three thousand snatched away as easily as those ten. He was sure if he was relieved or disappointed to find them still there.
After that he drove them on, walking into the night but, at last, with everyone too exhausted and no end of the Margin in sight, they had to stop and make camp.
Another night of bats and other less savoury things that moved more silently than breath.
The next morning found one of the tents empty, but for a Verger’s knife, the blade partially eaten away by what looked like acid. Another tent contained a more grisly find, every single person sat dead, at a table made of some dark and alien wood, their blood drained, their eyes taken, tiny glittering stones put in their place. But for the fact that they were corpses, it looked like a party mid swing. The dead still held glasses, their mouths remained curled in smile or silent talk.
Indeed, the people in the tent nearest claimed to have heard laughter and song until the early morning.
Medicine, always curious, had wanted to examine the bodies and the peculiar method of exsanguination; it appeared they had been drained through the veins in their feet. But Agatha over-ruled him, and had the bodies and table (which had not been carried here or ever seen before) and chairs burned at once.
“I’ve heard dark tales about such things,” she’d said grimly. “Sometimes people come back.”
Agatha called in the guards from the rear, eschewed scouts and had everyone travel close.
It was a long and tense day’s travel, the forest closing in, the road almost lost twice, but at last, just as it looked like they would have to spend another night in the Margin, they reached the plains. Medicine had never felt so happy, still he held back until all had made it out, only then choosing to walk onto the open land.
He stared back at the Margin. What was most disquieting was that he was unable to shake the feeling that it was looking right back at him.
Once out they made a head count.
One hundred and forty people had been lost to that forest and, with that knowledge, any sense of triumph.
PART TWO
CONFLAGRATION
Chapter 37
To destroy a political career like that…
What makes a man decide to turn against the tide? What makes a man decide to destroy not just his life, but those around him, those nearest and dearest?
I know this only too well.
MIRRLEES-ON-WEEP 260 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
Warwick Milde had never been a stranger to controversy. After all, he had crossed the floor, gone from Engineer with promise to Confluent, and he’d dragged his brother with him. Stade had never forgiven him for that. But this was far, far worse.
“I told you it was true.” Medicine grinned.
Warwick Milde shook his head. How could a man smile in such a place? “It wasn’t so much that I did not believe you but, well, that I didn’t believe you.”
Sean wasn’t smiling, but looking back at the door. “We don’t have much time, and only one exit. They find us here we’re dead.” The pistol he held tightly in his hand shook a little. Sean didn’t like guns.
Warwick looked over at his brother. Three of them, councillors, sneaking around the basement of the Ruele Building like children. Buchan and Whig were waiting, just beyond the tower, with enough men to keep the Vergers at bay if it came to that.
“We’ve time enough, Sean. For a little wonderment.” It was cold down here, his breath plumed, but that was the least of his discomfort. There was an endless whispering coming from the eight metal doors set into the stony walls of the basement.
“We’re dead, if we’re caught here beneath the Council Chambers.” Medicine didn’t look too worried. He’d lost his fingers to Stade and sometimes Warwick wondered if he hadn’t also lost his mind. The man was reckless. He had disarmed the alarms, he had bribed the guards and those who’d proven resistant would wake in the morning with sore heads and little memory of the past twenty-four hours. Medicine’s familiarity with pharmacology had proven extremely effective. But was it enough, and what did it make of him that was down here too, in a basement filled with Old Men? The Old Men. Every child in Shale had heard of them.
Old Men hungry and Old Men wise,
Old Men’s truth and Old Men’s lies.
Old Men’s wisdom against the heat,
Crack your bones for the marrow meat.
But he’d thought them just that, a fairy tale, a series of myths; the fabled progenitors of Shale, Masters of the Engine of the World. Yet here they were.
Be gone.
Be gone.
The eight voices chanted.
Medicine had placed his head against one of the doors. “This one’s Cadell.”
“The Engineer.”
Medicine nodded. “They’re all Engineers, but he…”
“He’s the right one.”
Sean considered the locks. “I’ve the skill for this.”
This was the sort of thing they had done as children, Sean grinned, he’d have made an excellent peterman.
“I’m watching your back,” Warwick said. He had an old revolver in his hand. Damned if he knew it would even work. Medicine looked more comfortable with his own weapon: a long knife that looked even crueller than a Verger’s blade.
“I know,” Sean said, cramming his powders into the lock. He lit a short fuse, turned from the door, and covered his ears. There was a soft detonation, Warwick had been expecting something louder, but it was enough. The door opened, Sean poked his head through doorway.
“Mr Cadell-”
“Shut it. Shut it,” came a soft voice.
“I can’t,” Sean said.
A hand snatched out and dragged him through the opening, lightning fast.
Then the screaming started.
In the few seconds it took for Warwick to reach the door, Sean was dead. Cadell, little more than skin wrapped around bone looked up, his mouth rimmed with blood.
“Sorry,” he breathed. “Sorry.”
But it didn’t stop him swallowing down chunks of Sean’s flesh.
“Sorry.”
Warwick raised the gun, aimed it at Cadell’s head.