Perra had the feeling that this had happened before, many times. The ka, eyes closed, sent senses out into the overlight, the place which lies between the layers of the nevergone, and saw, very far away, a huge construction like a sundial. This confirmed the ka’s suspicions that this scene, unfolding now, was no more than a bubble in time, a trapped loop on endless replay.
Nonetheless, it was interesting. And something was running from the forest, a tall thing that loped swiftly over the tundra. Perra braced clawed feet against the ice, but this thing did not look like the disir. A narrow muzzle swung from side to side, scenting the air. It was dressed in strips of leather that hung down like moss; a clawed hand gripped a staff. It sang as it came, a plaintive wail that was nonetheless rhythmic and compelling. Perra felt a thread of old magic spiral through the air, conjured from ice and water and wind, and speaking to the far stars. The figure raised its staff and behind the ka, the rent in the air grew wide. Perra was lifted from the ledge and carried through. The rift snapped shut.
Mercy, stepping cautiously through the double doors of Section C, had to duck to avoid the flying ka. Benjaya cried out, lashing up with the rapier.
“No!” Mercy cried. “It’s Perra!”
She felt the ka’s passage merely as soft feathers brushing her face, and when she straightened up, she saw Perra sitting on the ledge above the door. The spirit looked slightly ruffled.
“Perra, what are you doing here?”
“This ka wanted to see what was here,” the ka said. “Now, it has seen.”
Mercy stared at her. “What did you see?”
“An age of ice.”
“Why was the rent still open?” Benjaya asked.
“A very good question.”
“You would not have been able to see it,” the ka said. “It was visible to me, but only in the overlight, not the everyday.”
Mercy sighed. “So all the time we’ve been thinking of the rent as closed, it’s been gaping wide open letting through who knows what?”
Nineteen
Deed had been more relieved than he cared to admit on his return from Bleikrgard. The meeting had gone well, better than he’d hoped, and despite the encounter with Mareritt, which still unsettled him, he thought he had the upper hand. That was the way Deed liked it.
This flying blind was making him nervous, however. He did not know exactly what Loki’s intentions were, although he thought they were now becoming reasonably clear.
The lid taken off the cauldron of the city by the disappearance of the Skein and a power vacuum in Worldsoul, with the Court facing powerful former allies turned enemies.
The chance to retrieve an earlier version of the Library and bring it under Court control.
The disir, trapped in their ancient storytime and awaiting the possibility of release.
You didn’t have to be a genius to put those things together.
Deed stood now in one of the Watchrooms, on the long gallery that went around the perimeter of the circular chamber. The walnut panelled gallery was lit by sconces, dim gaslight which flickered and hissed, but which proved as far as the spirits who inhabited the Watchroom were willing to go in terms of technology. Demons, so Deed had discovered, were conservative and slow to change. There was a moral there, but he was damned if he knew what it was. Well, probably damned anyway.
The triangle for the conjuration floated in the middle of the shadowy cloud that filled the inner part of the chamber. This was classical magic, very formal, tried and tested. The magician stood in a circle, bound about with the Key of Solomon. A triangle, inscribed with ward words, formed the holding pen for whatever was summoned through the overlight from the infernal regions of the nevergone.
Deed had done this on many occasions, and the process was one he considered routine. That did not mean that it was perfunctory: he took care to make certain that the chamber was as secure as possible. But there were two parts to this particular ritual and he wanted to make sure he got it right.
Demons do not come for blood, or death, or even pain. They do not need to. They come for one reason only, and that reason is curiosity. Deed made sure the spell he was reciting would pique the interest of any demon listening to it, but he had a particular target in mind.
As he spoke the words of the spell, he could feel the twitch and twinge in the overlight, which meant that he’d attracted attention. Whether it was the right attention remained to be seen, but he continued to speak and gradually, a shape began to form in the triangle. Its head was bowed. It wore a veil and a long mantle, both of crimson. There was a shape behind it, something not human, but as he watched, it dissipated like smoke. One hand, ringed with a great carnelian seal, gripped the veil at its throat.
Deed spoke a name. “Am I addressing Gremory, Duke of Hell?”
The demon looked up. He saw eyes like rubies, over the folds of the veil.
“Who asks?”
“My name is Jonathan Deed.” Names had power, even children knew that, but there was nothing to be gained from hiding his own. The demon would have been able to pluck that out of the communications directory, if she so chose. Mareritt-well. Best not go there.
“Deed.” The demon spoke wonderingly, savouring it on her tongue. “I have heard of you. Abbot General of the Court.”
Deed bowed. “Madam. The honour is mine.”
The demon looked idly around her. “What does a mage of the Court want with me?”
“Ah,” Deed said. “I need some advice.”
The spirit put her head to one side and slipped the veil from her face, which was, predictably, cold and beautiful. The more human demons always had something of the same look, as if there was some form of genetic stamp, but since their manifest appearance was illusory, Deed could only assume that they simply lacked imagination. Or perhaps it wasn’t that important. “Advice, indeed?”
Deed aimed for an expression of humility, but did not feel he was entirely successful in achieving it. “Yes. I have a question concerning the Eastern Quarter of this city, regarding a woman named Shadow. An alchemist.”
Gremory grew still, the garnet eyes filmed like the bloom on a plum. “An alchemist named Shadow? Yes, I know her.”
“What can you tell me of her?”
“I hear that she has courage and intelligence. She has integrity, and cannot be easily bought.” The demon grinned. “And she is under the protection, if you can call it that, of the Shah of Has El Zindeh. I would suggest that even the Court treads carefully.”
“I see,” said Deed. This confirmed what he already knew. “Do you know anything more about this protection? Is she working for him?”
“Oh,” Gremory said, with a laugh. “She will be working for him. The Shah does not give something for nothing.”
“Do you know,” Deed asked carefully, “of an ancient race known as the disir?”
“The Ladies?” the demon said, with scorn. “Of course.” She put her head to one side again and touched a finger to her lips. Deed could not help but focus on the long, curling claw, of polished brass. “Now let me see. They are from the north, an ancient people, as you say, bred from clans that roamed the snowlands long before the ice. They bred into the northern tribes, mingling the bloodlines-one of which you come from.”