He became aware of a susurration of noise from down the street, in the direction of the Grand Temple of the Lady. A crowd. Distant screams.
Imid Factallo saw the squirrel freeze in its tracks, head cocked. Then it fled.
The sounds were getting louder.
The saint leaned out slightly, peering down the street.
More screams, shattering pottery, a heavy crash-he saw a mass of motion, filling the space between the buildings. A mob, in full charge now, coming this way.
Alarmed, Imid Factallo rose from the step.
A hundred citizens, maybe more. Faces twisted in terror and panic, Saints of Glorious Labour among them. And worthies. And nuns-what was this?
They swept opposite Imid where he stood, clawing each other, clambering over those who fell. A wailing baby rolled to the bottom step, directly below Imid, and he snatched it clear a moment before a worthy’s boot slammed down on that spot. Staggering backward until his shoulders struck the door behind him, Imid stared as the mob surged past.
And, in its wake, the Paladin of Purity, Invett Loath. He’d drawn his sword, the polished steel flashing as he waved the weapon above his head, marching as if leading a parade. Or driving sheep.
“Weaklings!” the Paladin bellowed. “Run, you assorted pieces of filth! You are all being adjudicated! I have seen your faces! Smelled your foul breaths! Unclean, all of you! None of you shall escape my judgment!”
Noting Imid standing with the now-silent babe in his arms, Invett Loath pointed his sword at them. “You are witness!”
Imid stared. In his arms, the babe stared. From the rooftop directly overhead, the squirrel stared.
In Invett’s other hand was a handkerchief, which the Paladin used to wipe dried blood from his face. The man’s eyes glittered, appallingly bright. “Announce yourselves! Witnesses! Or suffer the fate of the Impure!”
“We witness!” Imid squealed. The babe wisely added a bubbling burble.
Triumphant, the Paladin of Purity marched on, driving his flock ever onward.
Something near the Grand Temple was burning, smoke twisting and billowing in dark, almost black clouds.
A figure approached in the wake of Invett Loath, and Imid was startled to see Elas Sil, moving furtively towards him.
“Elas Sil!”
“Quiet, you fool! Did you see him? He’s gone mad!” She paused. “That baby’s not yours!”
“I never said it was.”
“Then why are you holding it? Don’t you know how dangerous that is? It might void, it might wail, or worst of all, thrash about!”
“Someone dropped it.”
“On its head?” She came closer and peered at it. “That smudge-is that a bruise?”
“It might be-”
“By the Lady, is this a Saint? Imid, you have discovered the youngest Saint of Glorious Labour!”
“What? It’s just a baby-”
“A Saint!”
“What labour? Babies don’t work! Elas Sil, you’ve lost your senses!”
“Look at its face, you fool-it’s working right now!”
Something warm squelched against Imid’s lap, and then the stench struck him.
In the meantime, the mob of the Adjudicated had grown. Four hundred and twenty-six and counting, charging in a stampede up Greentongue Avenue. Whilst, on each side, down alleys and side streets, the riot spread like runny sewage.
A drover who had been leading thirty oxen to a seller’s compound lost control of his terrified beasts. Moments later, they were thundering madly, straight into a number of heavily burdened wagons that had been backed up and were sitting directly beneath the Monument of Singe-an ancient solid brick edifice, twenty stories tall, of dubious origin and unknown significance.
Loaded onto the beds of the wagons were caskets of jellied oil, which had been sweating out the entire day, forming a glistening patina on the sodden wood. Arto the Famous Fire Eater, whose fame had dwindled to pathetic ashes of late, was passing by at that moment. He had time to turn and see the wall-eyed oxen stampeding towards him, then was struck by a massive horned head, the impact throwing him back, the stoke-pot slung from his right shoulder wheeling outward, spraying its coals in all directions.
The subsequent explosion was heard and felt by every citizen in Quaint, and those crews out in the bay, throwing four-finned fish from their nets, looked up in time to see the skyward-pitching fireball and at least three oxen cartwheeling above the city, before the Monument of Singe dropped from sight and flames lit the dust clouds a gaudy orange.
Bauchelain slowly wiped the blood from his knife blade with a bleached cloth. He glanced down at Ineb Cough for a moment, then away, westward to where the sun was crawling down into its cave of night. Poised, like a figure in some heroic tapestry.
The demon was lying prone, trapped into immobility by the straits of the puppet’s clothes.
“All right,” Ineb growled, “cut me loose. But carefully!”
“You need have no concern there, demon,” Bauchelain said, crouching down and extending the dagger. “However, if you continue to squirm…”
“I won’t move, I promise!”
The brief flapping of wings announced the crow’s return. A pungent, musty smell wafted over Ineb, then a second figure appeared at Bauchelain’s side. A huge man, bald, his skin the tone and pallour of a hard-boiled and peeled egg, likely as clammy to the touch, as well. Small, flat eyes regarded the demon with cold curiosity.
Ineb tried a toothy smile. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But no. Not me. Not a homunculus. Not even a golem. I am a real demon.”
The man licked his flabby lips.
Ineb fell silent, mouth suddenly dry.
The tip of the dagger slipped beneath the demon’s jacket just above Ineb’s straining belly. Began slicing upward.
Bauchelain lifted his other hand, offering his companion the bloodied cloth. “The sun has set, Korbal Broach,” he said. A snip, and the jacket parted. The sorceror began working on the sleeves.
Korbal Broach took the cloth and held it to his face. He breathed deep, then, smiling, he turned away and walked off a short distance. He tossed the cloth down at his feet, made a few gestures in the air with his right hand, then faced Bauchelain and nodded.
“And the unclean ones, Korbal Broach?”
The man’s round face pinched in disappointment, almost petulant.
“Ah, of course,” Bauchelain murmured. “Forgive me, friend.”
Three more cuts and the clothes fell from Ineb. The demon clambered upright and drew in a savage, satisfied lungful of air. “Excellent! Much better. I’m a new demon.”
Storkul Purge staggered over. “I’m bleeding,” she said in a high, wavering voice.
Ineb sneered at her. “He pricked your finger, woman!”
“I think I’m going to faint.”
Bauchelain sheathed his knife. “Please, sit, Miss Purge. Ineb, pour the unwell Knight some wine.”
Tunic sodden and foul, Imid Factallo ran down the street, Elas Sil at his side. The baby squirmed in his arms, but its expression was content.
Behind them, a long distance runner, returning from a six league sojourn out of the city and his mind understandably befuddled, ran into a burning building. And did not reemerge. Panicked animals and frenzied citizens scampered in all directions through the smoke, sparks and ashes. The lamp-lighters had not appeared, leaving only the conflagrations in various districts of the city to fight against the encroaching darkness.
Elas clutched at Imid’s arm and tugged. “This way!” Down a narrow, winding alley.
“Don’t hurt us!” A piping, squealing cry from somewhere up ahead.
They halted, looked round in the gloom.
“Leave us be!”
Imid Factallo edged forward, eyeing the two small figures lying in the rubbish two paces in front of him. Absurdly tiny, the both of them. On the left, a man, his skin a mass of wrinkles, like a golden fig. Beside him, a woman, tiny but nonetheless a woman in the adult sense, as if some perverted inventor had fashioned a breastly, slim-legged doll upon which to lavish sick fantasies.