The Gutter Prayer, page 29
“It all seemed part of the same change. The thaumaturges took the old mysticism of sorcery and tore it apart, putting a rational framework on it, just as the reformers wanted to take the Keeper’s parliament, with its empty ritual and its rotten practices, and tear it apart and make it rational.
“I met Jermas at the back of one of those reformist meetings. I can’t recall what that particular meeting was about, and it didn’t really matter. Same crowd of faces at every one anyway, no matter what the speaker was rambling on about—abolishing the index of banned books, or reform of the voting act, or thaumaturgical engineering. We got to talking about the reformist party in parliament. There was a reform party back then, the priests’ concession to what passed for democracy. The dignified and respectable opposition, a toothless dog that growled on command. We wanted a real reform movement, but we knew the church would crush us if we tried.
“So we hit on the idea of reforming the reformists. We’d hide our real agenda inside them. I quit university, started working as a scribe and then speechwriter for Turcamen Gethis. He was perfect—wonderful speaking voice, full of conviction, but so senile he had no idea what he was saying, so he just read what was put in front of him. And a safe seat, to boot.
“Jermas provided the money. I did the work. Our first success was getting the ban on alchemical research lifted. The alchemists founded a guild. I gave a speech at the ceremony. Stammered my way through it, and it’s deservedly forgotten. I wonder if Rosha remembers that I was there when her bloody empire started. Everything she has, she owes to me!
“Feh. No matter. This is all fifty years ago.”
Jere frowns. Nothing Kelkin has revealed so far is scandalous or controversial. “Come on, boss. What’s all this got to do with the goddamn bells? Why the secrecy?”
“Bloody context, all right? It’s only natural disasters and plagues that come out of nothing—it takes time for people to fuck things up. She understands,” snaps Kelkin, stabbing a finger at Eladora. “This has been brewing for a long, long time.”
Jere grunts, clearly impatient, but he settles back in his chair and makes a show of being attentive.
“Where was I?” mutters Kelkin.
“The legalisation of the alchemists,” offers Eladora.
“Yes, yes.” Kelkin’s voice grows stronger as he talks of his glory days. “The alchemists needed traders. Traders needed an open port. An open port meant they couldn’t keep out other religions. And once that went, the Keepers didn’t have much left. We dropped the old reform party, called ourselves the Industrial Liberals, and went to work.
“I pleaded with Jermas to stand for parliament, take a more active role in the party, but he refused. Set himself to the business of making money. We drifted apart—his donations to the Ind Libs came in like clockwork, but we spoke less and less. I thought little of it.
“Reform did not—must not—stop at the church door or the gates of Parliament. I was determined to improve the whole city. I brought in the Land Acts, reformed the navy, ended the church tithes.” He thumps his chest as he recites the litany of his deeds. “Let the ghouls out on the surface. Fought organised crime, too—thirty bloody years ago there was Idge. Now there’s Heinreil. Scum, fouling my city.
“I kept us out of the war, and kept us neutral even when it became the Godswar. I stopped the fucking Stone Plague.
“I was busy. Jermas would ask me for a favour now and then, and I’d help him if I could, but nothing out of the ordinary. I knew he was involved in the alchemists’ guild, in the weapons trade, but so was half the city.”
Kelkin pauses. His bluster fades, his voice drops. Eladora leans towards him to hear better; so does Jere. Only Bolind seems unmoved.
“Then, I got an unsigned letter. It claimed that Jermas Thay was part of an underground cult, that he’s summoning demons and conducting all sorts of rituals. The letter’s descriptions were detailed. There were lists of names—not just Thays, but rogue thaumaturgists, dissidents, even criminals. Defrocked priests. The letter writer said that he or she simply wanted to draw my attention to the matter, but the threat was clear—if they went to the watch, or the newspapers with this, I’d be ruined. Even though Jermas and I were no longer close, our careers were intertwined. A public trial for heresy or illegal sorcery would have dragged me down, too.
“There was no mention of blackmail, though. Nor any demands. I had no idea what the letter writer wanted. I waited, and no second letter came. I hoped it might be an oddly well-informed crank, but the danger was too pressing for me to do nothing. I started working through the list of names, and found a linguist named Uldina Manix. She was reputable, solid, of good family. She confirmed the letter’s contents, told us that Jermas had hired her to translate some books that escaped burning during the Black Iron War. Manix had seen things in this mansion, heard things, and Jermas paid her off to keep quiet. When we put pressure on her, though, she found her conscience and started talking. Gave us more names.
“Jermas Thay was … I’m still not sure if he worshipped the Black Iron Gods, or if he thought he could use them somehow, but he was still doing unthinkable things. Human sacrifice. Worse.
“I knew that if I went to the watch, it was all over for him and me. I could have gone to Jermas myself, but what good would that have done? Nothing ever changed that man’s mind once he was set on a course—no matter what it was. Even this unholy madness.
“So I did the only thing I could do. I did what we’re going to do tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Kelkin insists on driving the carriage himself, and he drives it like he’s hoping to crash, hurtling round the steep slopes of Gravehill and through the narrow streets of lower Glimmerside at terrible speed. He uses the whip with abandon, slashing at the scaly flanks of the raptequine to drive it onwards until it screeches in pain. Inside, every rattle over the cobblestones sends a new jolt of pain through Jere’s battered bones. Eladora’s face is white with fear. Only Bolind seems unmoved, although his big belly ripples obscenely in time to the carriage’s rattling passage.
They’re not heading for the crest of Holyhill, as Jere thought they would. The palaces of the Keepers are all up there, high above the city, but Kelkin takes the road that circles around the foot of the hill. Through the window, Jere can see the smokestacks of the Alchemists’ Quarter, and the shining palace of their guildhall. Somewhere in that industrial wasteland is Professor Ongent. Somewhere, too, are the remains of the bell from the Tower of Law, and, if they’re right in their suppositions, the bell from the Bell Rock.
Gods and monsters. At least, thinks Jere, Guerdon’s strange local Godwar has been contained so far. Even his experiences on the Bell Rock weren’t as terribly, terrifyingly unnatural as the things he saw as a mercenary. By all accounts, the Raveller is a ghastly horror. Jere hasn’t seen it himself. He tries to imagine a horde of them besieging the city, but his only mental image is the illustration in Eladora’s history book, and that just looks like ink spilled across a picture of some old battle with swords and spears.
The way Eladora talked about Desiderata Street, though, told him enough. It was the same way other veterans talked about the war.
The Thay girl is a saint. A crack in the world that these Black Iron Gods can widen until it’s big enough for them to crawl in. Ongent saw it before Jere, before anyone else. The sickening thought that all this is somehow his own fault is born in Jere’s brain, and crawls down his chest to settle in his stomach, freezing his heart as it slithers through him. If he’d kept the Thay girl in custody, then they could have contained this threat. It wouldn’t have stopped the bombings, but Eladora’s account suggests that Carillon is somehow connected to the Raveller. Maybe if they kill the Raveller, it’ll all be over before it really begins. Scare the Black Iron Gods back into their bells.
“Hey, Bolind.”
The big man doesn’t stir. Jere pokes him, and Bolind opens one eye. Was the bastard actually sleeping at a time like this?
“What?”
“Did you bring that hand cannon of yours?” Bolind favours an absurdly big pistol, enough to put a Gullhead down with one shot.
“Nah.”
“What did you pack?”
Bolind says nothing for a long moment, then holds up clenched fists and grins—an old joke of theirs, but right now it just annoys Jere, right down to the way Bolind’s too-wide smile gleams.
The carriage takes a sharp turn to the left, down brickwork canyons. Industrial buildings, then yellowed stone as they rattle to a stop. “Early Reconstruction,” says Eladora, pointing to an old doorway. “Built just after the war with the Black Iron Gods.”
Kelkin hitches the raptequine to a post and gives it a feedbag. Scraps of red meat splatter on the ground below.
“This way.” He hurries them over to the old doorway and pushes on it. It’s unlocked. As soon as they’re all off the street, he closes it behind them. The doorway leads to a small courtyard, surrounded on two sides by tall windowless buildings, and on the third by the cliff-steep wall of Holyhill. There’s another archway there that looks unpleasantly like a sewer entrance to Jere.
“We’re going in there, I presume.”
Kelkin grunts.
“Oh joy, oh rapture,” mutters Jere with all the enthusiasm of a man climbing the gallows.
The gate is also unlocked. The tunnel beyond is dry and cold, and heads straight into the mountainside, running under Holyhill. Kelkin squares his shoulders and marches into the darkness. Eladora shivers and goes after him.
To Bolind: “Stay here, all right? Watch the carriage, make sure no one bothers us.”
“I should come with you.”
“Now’s not the fucking time for this conversation.” Bolind needs a good kicking to remind him of why Jere employs him, and that it’s not for his sparkling wit or tactical nous. But not right now. “Stay,” orders Jere, like you’d tell a dog, then he follows Eladora into the tunnel. He glances back to see Bolind standing there at the archway, a deeper darkness against the twilight of the yard.
Up ahead, Kelkin holds a lamp. The swaying beam catches the walls; dead-eyed saints watch over them as they walk.
“Stop shivering, girl,” snaps Kelkin at Eladora, “there’s nothing down here that’s going to eat you.”
“These are ghoul tunnels,” she says, and Jere wonders at that. He doesn’t know anything about architecture or art, but he knows that ghoul tunnels are full of shit and carrion and covered with those creepy green-stone carvings they make with bits of bone. This tunnel reminds him of a church crypt.
Another light, up ahead, answering Kelkin’s.
They emerge into a circular room, a crossroads under the hill. Three other tunnels running off in the other three cardinal directions.
Waiting there are two priests. Old and young. The young one holding a lamp, the older one huddled on a little bench by the side of the corridor.
“Rejoice, oh brother,” says the old one, “our lost child has returned. Have you heard the truth of the Testament, Effro?”
Kelkin ignores the mocking greeting. “Is this everyone?”
“For the moment. We sent an emissary below, but she hasn’t returned yet. What do you want, Mr. Kelkin?”
“This is Jere Taphson, thief-taker, and Eladora Duttin, historian. They’ve been assisting me in my enquiries into the recent attacks.”
The old priest stands slowly, peers through the gloom at Eladora and Jere.
Kelkin continues: “Ms. Duttin was also present at Desiderata Street. She identified the creature that killed seventeen people and a number of Tallowmen as a Raveller—a servant of the Black Iron Gods.”
“And we keep the city safe from thousands of them. There are gates in the depths, Mr. Kelkin, which must be constantly guarded lest the hordes break through. This is our vigil. One of our watchmen is coming; you can hear his assurance from your own lips that no Ravellers have escaped.”
“I saw it,” protests Eladora, but Kelkin hushes her.
“A more pressing matter,” he says, “is the Black Iron Gods themselves. Your predecessors concealed them around the city. One was in the Tower of Law; another in the Bell Rock.”
The two priests look at each other. The younger priest—Bishop Ashur, Jere suddenly recognises the man’s pugnacious face—scowls. “Why not? Let every sacred mystery be dragged out and sold in the marketplace. This is your doing, Kelkin. You tore us down, wounded us, and now you worry when jackals come to pick at our carcass!”
Kelkin bristles; he and Ashur are old enemies. “You hid bound demons around my city and kept that a secret for three hundred years. Don’t you dare try to turn that into a virtue! You know what I sacrificed for your church, what I did to keep the city safe. What’s the difference between you and Thay anyway?”
The older priest raised his hand. “Enough. How can you be certain our assailants know about the bells? We were told by the watch that the Bell Rock was an accident. A freighter carrying alchemical weapons got loose and exploded on the reefs.”
“I was there,” says Jere. “They came in and took the bell intact, then blew up the lighthouse to cover their tracks.”
“Who did?” demands Ashur.
Jere pauses, and Kelkin fills in the silence. “The alchemists’ guild.”
Jere finds that he’s hoping that Ashur rejects the suggestion as preposterous, that he shouts Kelkin down, that there’s no way at all that the alchemists might be responsible. Jere has no love for the alchemists or their creatures like Nabur or Droupe—or hell, for their actual creatures, like the Tallowmen—but the guild is one of the pillars of the city. If he’s right and they’re behind the attacks, then it’s going to get much, much worse.
Ashur says, slowly, “Guildmistress Rosha came to the church, some years ago, with a proposal. They offered to buy the monastery at Beckanore. They said they wanted to build a research station there, a testing ground. They even offered to move the chapel and the bell tower back to Guerdon at their expense, out of respect for our traditions. She proposed that the bell be installed in the guildhall church.” He spits. “Treacherous bitch.”
“Patros,” says Kelkin, addressing the older priest. Gods, thinks Jere, that’s Patros Almech, the Master Keeper himself. “I can fix this. It’s not the same as what happened with Jermas Thay. We can have a public inquiry, go through parliament. Arrest Rosha, if we have to. Hells, they’ll be begging to be put in chains—better a trial than the mob tearing them to pieces in the streets. Do I have your support?”
Almech clasps his hands. “You cannot reveal the truth about the Black Iron Gods. That secret we must keep.”
“And if it comes to a confrontation, if Rosha resists, we’ll need your saints to counter her Tallowmen. How many do you have on the rolls?”
“One.”
“One!?” roars Kelkin.
Ashur rounds on him. “What did you expect? Sainthood is a gift of the gods, and ours are so very, very weak. Kept Gods are what we promised, and Kept Gods are what we have. We keep them starved and quiescent, give them just enough to sustain them and no more. You knew this—and still you opened the city to other gods, divided an already paltry supply of souls among all the rutting lust-cults and barbarian faiths!”
“You sent a dozen against the Thays.”
“Twenty years of neglect and starvation have gone by since then.”
“We could muster another four or five from missions overseas and from the hinterlands, given time,” says Almech, “and perhaps, with prayers and sacrifice, beg for another blessing. But no more.”
“Well,” says Kelkin, “we had best pray that Rosha does not resist the demands of parliament, then.”
“What about the Raveller?” asks Eladora again.
And suddenly Jere feels like he’s being buried alive, like there’s this clogging weight of cold earth pressing against his head, his skin, forcing his lips open, icy cold pouring down his throat. His mouth moves on its own.
“IT DID NOT PASS THROUGH THE BLACK GATES.”
Kelkin swears and backs away from Jere. Eladora lets out a frightened yelp.
“It’s all right,” calls a woman’s voice, “it’s just this fucker.”
Approaching from another tunnel branch are two figures. One’s a woman, human, armoured, holding a lamp. The other is huge, hulking, bigger than a gorilla, twice her height, loping on its forelimbs. Dog-like muzzle, glowing green eyes, the stench of rotten meat: an elder ghoul.
Green eyes fix on Eladora, and the terrible pressure relents, releasing Jere. The ghoul transfers its attention to Eladora, and Jere sees her throat tighten, panic flood her eyes as it speaks through her. It’s horrible to hear that gelatinous, groaning voice issue from her throat.
“THIS ONE IS BLOOD KIN TO THEIR HERALD.”
It’s talking about Carillon. Jere tenses, but he realises there’s nothing he can do. That elder ghoul is gigantic, fearfully strong. Its stench fills the narrow corridor like a miasma. If the monster does go for Eladora or Kelkin, Jere has no weapons except a small concealed pistol. He could holler for Bolind, but this is the one time the fat idiot didn’t bring that oversized gun of his.
Eladora freezes, a rabbit before a wolf. She just makes a whimpering noise, over and over, until the ghoul grabs her voice again. “SHE IS BY THE WATER. A STONE MAN IS THERE. HE IS SICK AND DYING.” The ghoul leers obscenely, as if pleased with itself. “I WILL GUIDE YOU.”
A Stone Man, with Carillon. Somehow, the ghoul knows where they are. Spar hangs around with another, younger ghoul, doesn’t he? Mouse or Rat or something. Clearly, the younger whelp sold Spar out.
Kelkin’s thinking along similar lines. “I welcome you to the surface lands, old one. Your assistance in this matter is most beneficial, and the long friendship between our peoples shall endure forever.”
