Footsteps, light and quick. What is that? She braced herself, and when Mikal took his hand away they shared a look of silent accord–visible because the cameo at her throat had lit with leprous green brightening as the sound grew closer. There was no splorch of the ooze releasing a running foot, nor was there the sliding of an accomplished flashboy who had learned the trick of not breaking the Scab’s surface in order to move quickly along.
What on earth—
It burst from the gloom at the end of Blightallen, and Mikal was there to meet it, his knives out and flashing dully.
Flickers of motion, a whip-crack of sound–and her Shield was driven back, sliding on the uncertain footing.
It did have a whip. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she flashed through and discarded invisible threads. The æther resonated oddly, curdling; she had time to take a deep breath before Mikal was flung aside and hit a dosshouse door with a sickening crack.
Scab curled and smoked, oily steam rising as it cringed away from the tall, square-headed figure–it had a coachman’s hat, and the whip was a heavy one meant to sound over several heaving clockhorse backs at once.
She had fractions of a moment to decide what manner of creature it was as it leapt skimble-legged for her. A glamour could kill if she believed in its truth; a bound spirit or a Construct could injure her grievously if its binder or creator had entrusted it with enough ætheric force; a dollsome or Horst’s Mannequin could only strike physically; a Seeming could not injure her unduly; and there were so many other categories to consider she was almost, almost too late.
Mikal let out a choked cry, but Emma had set herself squarely, the cameo sparking and two rings on her left hand–one a bloody garnet set in heavy gold, the other cheap brass with a glass stone that nevertheless held a fascinating twinkle and a heavy charge–flaming with ætheric force.
A violet flower bloomed between her and the thing in a coachman’s form: sorcerous force widening like a painted Chinois fan. The Word she spoke, sliding harsh and whole from her throat with a harsh pang, was not of Mending or Breaking or even of Binding. No, she chose a different Language entirely, and one not of her Discipline.
Strictly speaking, Naming belonged to neither the White nor the Black, nor the Grey besides. Its only function was to describe, but such was a law of sorcery: the Will makes the Name.
Had she not been Prime, she perhaps could not have forced the creature’s dubious reality to temporarily take the form most suited to her purposes. The Word warped as the thing fought her humming definition of its corporeality, and that very twisting and bulging gave her indications of its nature.
But only indications.
A tricksome beast you are, indeed.
It hit the shield of violet shimmering and Emma was driven back, her heels scraping long furrows through crisping, peeling Scab. Her gloved hands flew, describing a complex pattern, and the violet light snapped sideways and forward, again fanlike. The edge slashed up, sharply, and the thing’s howl blew her hair back, cracked the folds of her mantle, stung her watering eyes.
She ignored the irritation. It was a coachman, its yellow and red striped muffler wrapped high to conceal a void where the face should be and its high collar doing its best to shade the face as well, its coat flapping open, worn and patched in places with tiny needle-charmer’s stitches; its boots caked with manure and street-scum. The hat was of fine quality, a jaunty black feather affixed, the waistcoat of embroidered purple and gold a proud bit of flash. It was not liveried, but the boots and the hat said servant instead of hire, and who would send a creature like this in a livery which could be identified? The clothes were no doubt pawnshop acquisitions, probably corpsepicker gains.
It fell, splatting dully onto the Scab-covered cobbles. More vile steam rose. Its fingers had torn through the ragged woollen gloves, being far too long and corpse-pallid, each sporting an extra joint that no doubt helped the thing wield a knife.
Or its whip, which clattered on the cobbles beside it.
Emma set her chin, bringing the fan-shield back smoothly. The creature’s advantage of surprise was lost, and she had successfully driven it down. But where was Mikal, and what precisely was this unholy thing?
It hissed, scrabbling at age-blackened cobbles with malformed hands to find its weapon, and she had a moment to be grateful Clare was not further involved in this matter before it twisted upright with inhuman speed and flung itself at her again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A Babe In Woods
The saying Foul as Limhoss breath was marvellous apt. Whitchapel had its own stench, and Limhoss no Scab, but in Archibald Clare’s considered judgment there were few places in Londinium to outdo the latter in matters of fragrance. Perhaps it was the Basin, or maybe the mariners who congregated in its dens and dosses, the tar of the ropes or the tight-packed press of alien flesh–for the Chinois population of the Isle was concentrated here, and their suffusion of odours was foreign as well as rank.
Ginger and spices, the starch of their rice and boiling of their odd oils, different fish than an Englene would eat, the dry rough note of raw silk, and an acrid smoke enfolded them. Even the fog was a different shade here, its billows assuming the shapes of their odd writing, their crouching, painted charter stones near the doors alive with weak saffron light so they could practise their native arts of minor charming without the risk of nasty side-consequences.
Aberline knocked twice at a collection of splinters masquerading as a door, which shivered and opened immediately. Perhaps he was expected, or perhaps, Clare thought as he ducked to pass through the tiny opening, anyone was expected after dark.
Down a close, reeking passageway and into a womblike dimness, the light turned red by the paper lampshades it passed through, and Clare realised it was a poppy den.
Long shapes reclined on bunks built into the wall, giving a rather nautical flavour to the room. A brown fug rose from winking scarlet eyes as Morpheus’s chosen flower carried its devotees into fantastic languor. The eyes were the bowls of the pipes, a beast with a thousand gazes.
“Your methods are indeed unusual,” he remarked, breaking the hush. Coughs rose in protest, weakly; he had not adjusted his tone for the confined quarters.
The bent, blue-garbed Chinoise who had bobbed ahead of them into the room made a shush sound, but not very loudly. Clare could not quite decide what age the crooked stick of a woman had attained, for her thinning hair was still lacquer-black–as were the few teeth she still possessed–and the skin of her face had drawn tight. She scuffed along in embroidered slippers, threading through those on the floor gathered around the long poppy-pipes, beckoning them along and bowing repeatedly to Aberline, who appeared a giant in a toy shop next to her.
“Nodders all,” Philip Pico muttered behind Clare. “Ripe for rolling.”
“Not here,” Aberline whispered. “Do be a good sport, little lad.”
Of course, the prickly little russet took offence. “I’m no nodder. Not with the filthy Chin—”
“Silence is good for your health.” Aberline cut him off, and Clare observed him handing the Chinoise a handful of coins. He received a key and a packet in return, and she pointed them up a rickety staircase.
“Surely there are more wholesome dens than this.” Clare found himself walking stiffly, avoiding the chance of the surfaces of this place brushing against his clothes.