The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(118)

"She lies," he said. "Come."

Mal let go, and watched the two of them shrink into the distance as the tunnel began to narrow and close. Time to make his own departure. He turned, only to find his way blocked by devourers. Their coal-black hides made them near-invisible in the darkness, so that they could only be seen when they moved. There had to be nearly a dozen of them.

From somewhere behind him, Ilianwe's voice rang out, faint but clear.

"Kill him."

Mal tried to summon the obsidian blade, but his hand remained frustratingly empty. As the creatures began to close in, he made a desperate dive for the hollow where all his dreamwalks began–

–And woke on the cold stone floor of the gallery with a start. The fireworks still popped and whined and lit the clouds with their man-made lightning, but the shrieks of awe had turned to screams of terror. Looking down into the courtyard, Mal saw bodies lying sprawled on the ground in pools of dark blood. Sweet Jesu, what had he done? He raced towards the staircase and followed the trail of destruction out into the night.

CHAPTER XXXII

St Mark's Square was as crowded as the palace, and the fair was still in full swing. Coby slipped through the shadows, trying to find a place to relieve herself in private. It was a good excuse to avoid the fireworks, but she had better be back before they finished, just in case Mal needed her.

For once she wished she was wearing women's clothes. At least that way she could use whatever facilities were provided for the noblewomen, or even squat in an alley without baring her nethers. Venetian men, on the other hand, pissed in the street wherever they pleased, including against the pillars outside the palace. It was all very irksome. She gritted her teeth and headed towards the basilica.

Around her, the citizens of the republic laughed and sang and ate, but there was surprisingly little drinking. Even so, or perhaps because of their normally abstemious habits, many of the faces were flushed, their owners unsteady on their feet and as lecherous as alley cats. Coby had her arse pinched more than once before she had gone ten yards, and one man had even groped her groin as she squeezed past a group of people watching a conjuror. Thankfully she was wearing a soft fake prick in her breeches, not the hard roll of lock-picks, but the man still leered at her, making what was presumably a lewd invitation in the local dialect. She smiled politely, not wanting to start a fight, and moved on.

Just beyond the mouth of the Mercerie an alley opened into darkness; empty, at least for the moment. She hurried down and ducked into a doorway, fumbling with the buttons on her breeches. Then she heard the screams, and nearly lost control of her bladder altogether. What in Heaven…? Rebuttoning her fly, she drew her knife and padded towards the alley mouth.

A mass of people surged down the narrow street like water along a storm drain, women screaming and men white-faced with terror. Something loped along beyond them, bigger than a wolfhound and moving with a sinuous grace. The screaming crowd passed the alley mouth. Coby pressed against the wall, her heart pounding. The high walls seemed to close in around her, like a nightmare, and she caught a glimpse of a wet maw with too many teeth and dead white eyes like a baked trout, then the creature was past her, spreading pandemonium in its wake. Two others followed, until the night was a swirling kaleidoscope of screams and the air thick with the scent of fresh blood.

Coby peered out of the alley, but her feet would not move. When she saw Mal heading towards her, she felt dizzy with mingled relief and panic. She stepped out of the alley mouth, and Mal stumbled to a halt.

"What are you doing here?"

"No time for that." She gestured back to the square. "There are creatures–"

"Devourers. I know. I let them out."

"What?"

"It was an accident." He manoeuvred past her; getting between her and the devourers, she noticed.

"So what do we do?"

"We find my brother."

"Sandy?"

"Charles."

Erishen staggered backwards, holding the woman by both arms. Skraylings surrounded them, iron shackles at the ready. Ilianwe screamed in fury as the manacles closed around her wrists, then collapsed to her knees to the floor.

"You are certain this is the Lost One?" Hennaq said, eyeing her doubtfully.

"Yes, certain," Erishen replied. "I saw her spirit-self and it is quite distinctive."

Hennaq's eyes narrowed. "If you are lying to me–"

"It is no lie. Ask her."

The captain cleared his throat. "Who are you?" Ilianwe merely stared into space. Hennaq looked at Erishen. "Well? Is she deaf or mute, or merely some poor human, ignorant of our business?"

"I suppose she has not spoken Vinlandic in many lifetimes, and in any case all tongues change with time." He crouched down and addressed Ilianwe in the ancient tongue. "Tell the captain your name."

"Ilianwe," she said, in tones befitting a queen. "Child of Maran?, of the Fourth City."

Erishen translated for the captain's benefit.

"Hennaq-tuur!" One of the sailors burst through the cabin door. "Come see, Hennaq-tuur, there is–" He shrugged helplessly.

Erishen followed Hennaq out onto the deck. The crowds of merrymakers on the quayside were no longer laughing and singing; they were dashing to and fro, screaming, and some flung themselves into the water as if desperate to escape.