'He's alive, you stupid cow!' This from Blue. He was sure he recognised her voice.
Henry tried to say 'Hello, Blue', but no sound came. His eyes were closing again, all of their own accord, so that he lay in the red, pain-filled darkness. It occurred to him that he was dying and he didn't care.
'He's alive!' Blue said again. 'He's breathing!'
'I can't see him breathing.'
Somebody was taking his shirt off, the one the Silk Mistresses had given him. He heard a gasp of shock.
'It always does that,' said a cool female voice. 'If he hadn't been wearing spinner silk it would have burned through to remove his heart.'
'It's bubbling… Yuk, it's oozing blood.'
'Blisters. The skin is just blistering.'
'It's bubbling!'
'I don't like the look of this.'
Henry felt something inside him relax. The pain seemed far away as he sank softly into darkness.
'Do something!' Blue hissed fiercely. She felt a terror welling up inside her. Her father had died like this. One day he was healthy and hearty, the next he was dead; and now it was happening again with Henry.
Nymph frowned. 'He needs new skin. It's the only thing, really.'
'Then get it for him!' Pyrgus ordered.
'We don't have it. We're not equipped.'
Blue rounded on Ziczac. 'You did this!' she shouted. 'Can't you fix it?'
The little wizard looked genuinely desolate. He started to shake his head.
'Blue…' Pyrgus said.
'You threw the damn thing! You must be able to do something. Reverse the spell. Heal -'
'Blue…'
'I'm not a healer,' Ziczac said. 'I don't even know much about military spells.'
'Blue,' Pyrgus said gently. 'I think he's gone.'
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
It was great to be back in the city. The countryside was too empty for Brimstone, too silent at night, even though he'd only been away for a short period of time. He waved cheerily at the guards on Cripple's Gate and walked on a few steps before he realised they were Faeries of the Night. Well, well, well. Black Hairstreak was moving fast. There hadn't been a Nighter guarding any of the city's gates for the past five hundred years.
He stopped and breathed deeply. He'd always liked the smell of the city – a mix of sweat and dirty laundry with a delicate counterpoint of sewage. Three hundred and twenty-two thousand seven hundred souls packed in a delightful labyrinth of alleyways and slums. There was nowhere like it in the whole world.
A dancing procession wound sinuously past and he stopped to look at the jugglers. With a shock of delight he realised it was a celebration of the Night. Processions like this never used to take place outside of Nighter districts. Extraordinary how things had changed.
The warren of alleyways that was Sailor's Haven led him to the river. He walked slowly along the towpath, examining each set of wooden steps that reached down to the water. Eventually he found one with a hireboat at the end of it. The poleman was an unshaven ruffian, but Brimstone was wearing his demonologist's shawl with the horned insignia, so he expected no trouble.
'Twenty-seven groats,' said the man, trying it on, but pushed the craft off without complaint when Brimstone handed him six.
The river had always been the easiest way to get around the city. Brimstone took a seat in the prow and watched contentedly as the rows of warehouses gave way to office buildings, then looming residential houses. He was feeling… how was he feeling?… he was feeling good. He'd made his peace (and his new bargain!) with Beleth. Pyrgus was no longer headed for the throne. Hairstreak had taken over. The Faeries of the Night were now in charge. Life was sweet. The future, once so confined to Widow Mormo's grubby lodgings, opened up to panoramic vistas.
'Few changes lately,' he ventured smugly.
The poleman looked like one of the few products of Lighter-Nighter interbreeding. But even without that, his occupation meant his loyalties lay with the highest bidder. 'Reckon,' he said laconically.
Brimstone looked around him. There were changes on the river too. General traffic seemed heavier and several of the boats were sporting pennants, indicating a tendency towards piracy. Time was when the water police would have sunk them without trace (sensibly only asking questions afterwards) but there they were, bold as brass. There was even a big pleasure vessel – or at least something he thought had to be a pleasure vesseclass="underline" there was a multicoloured walrus on its flag. If he was right, it was the first time the trulls had taken to the water in four decades.
The houses on the river bank opened up on to a broad, stone-paved piazza leading to the ancient Church of Saint Batwits. Batwits was a Lighter saint, much venerated for eating wasps, but now there was a bustling market right outside the church door! A small group of white-robed pilgrims was trying to push through the throng, bemused looks on their faces. They were halted by a fire-eater who declined to stop his act to let them past. In the old days, the Churchwardens would have swarmed out to beat him with their sticks, but today nothing happened. The new dispensation was taking hold everywhere.
The boat pulled in at the Cheapside docks. 'This do?' asked the poleman, reaching for a rope.
'Admirably,' said Brimstone cheerily. He even considered giving the man a small tip, but decided that would be pushing a good mood too far.
Cheapside was busy as ever and there seemed to be even more low-life about than usual – especially fizz-heads for some reason. Brimstone drew the shawl a little closer round his shoulders and stepped into the throng, immediately and immensely pleased with the way people gave him space. The insignia did it, of course. Even with the Hael portals closed, people respected anyone who commanded the infernal hierarchies. Most of them probably suspected the portals would not stay closed for ever.
By the time he reached Seething Lane, Brimstone's mood was bordering on the ecstatic. There was no reason why he should not take up his old lodgings. The old Emperor was dead, Prince Pyrgus was in exile, Beleth was placated – what had Brimstone got to fear? He could move back in and start some very pleasant wheels in motion. Like selling off his late wife's property. Milking some more money out of Chalkhill. Taking up his old position at the glue factory. Searching for -
There was something wrong. Seething Lane didn't smell right.
Silas Brimstone stopped, appalled. Chalkhill and Brimstone's Miracle Glue Factory had disappeared! The end of Seething Lane was no more than a pile of rubble: he could see the twisted iron gates from here. An errant breeze from Wildmoor Broads carried in the citrus scent of prickleweed.
Brimstone glared down Seething Lane. Somebody had destroyed one of the most profitable businesses he'd ever had.
And that meant somebody would pay.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Peach Blossom said, 'We might be able to use silk.'
Pyrgus was leaning over Henry's body, his fingers gently probing one side of his neck. He looked stunned. 'I think it's too late,' he said. 'I can't find any pulse.'
Blue said, 'How can we use silk?'
'It's too late,' Pyrgus said again. He looked round at Blue, then Nymph, his eyes brimming.
T think he's right, Blue,' Nymph said.
Blue said, 'Shut up, both of you.' To Peach Blossom she repeated, 'How can we use silk?'
Peach Blossom licked her lips thoughtfully. 'We can fuse it to living tissue. We do it sometimes over a small area to make a garment hang properly. Temporarily, of course, but there's no reason why it shouldn't be permanent. Or cover his entire chest,' she added as an afterthought.
'Living tissue,' Nymph emphasised quietly. She looked compassionately at Blue.
'Do it!' Blue said.
Peach Blossom was staring down at Henry's ruined body. 'If he does survive, he's going to look strange… '