‘Nebsuel!’ he called out. ‘I have taken one of your books to look at.’
The wrong kind of silence greeted his statement, the kind that made the house suddenly brittle. Tsungali sensed it too, and quickly drew back the carpet screen.
‘What is it?’ said Ishmael. ‘Is there somebody here?’
Tsungali reached forward towards his weapons, then stopped, yanked upright, standing to attention. Ishmael nearly laughed but could not understand the expression on the grimacing face. They looked into each other’s eyes, both seeking some kind of solution, and then Ishmael saw it move: midway down the old man’s body a small, silver fish twitched and shivered. It was growing in length, and Ishmael could not take his eyes from it. Tsungali, seeing his master’s stare, looked down at the point where the bright blade protruded from his chest. It turned and lengthened again, and he gave out a terrible cough as his heart was sliced through. He fell to his knees, and landed face down. The fish vanished.
Behind the fallen hunter, in the shadows, stood a man with a floating white melon head. His face looked like it had no bones beneath: a puffed-up bladder, smooth, immaculate and totally unnatural. Had Nebsuel constructed this face? Is this what he would look like in a few days’ time?
Sidrus stepped over Tsungali’s body, keeping the long, razor-sharp blade held before him, never wavering from its aim at Ishmael’s neck.
‘Don’t scream. Open your mouth and I will open your throat,’ he said in a clear, foreign accent. ‘Answer my questions quietly. Where is Nebsuel? What have you done to him?’
‘Done? We have done nothing; he is out buying wine.’ Ishmael’s voice shook, but his new face held its defiant composure. The blade moved closer.
‘Don’t lie to me, freak. Why would he trust you and this old dog, alone in his home?’
He kicked at Tsungali and the sound of his death throes rattled loudly, obscuring his last words. Ishmael’s heart contracted in mortal fear of the cold-blooded killer, but he managed to scratch out an answer.
‘He has been operating on both of us.’
This made no sense to Sidrus. Why would the healer bother with them after what they had done to the Bowman? And yet he could see the raw, stitched meat of this one’s face. He twisted Tsungali over with his foot and saw the strap that held his new arm. He nicked through it with the point of the blade and the hollow wood tumbled off. He put the flat of the blade against the stump and brought it up to his face. He sniffed at the fresh sutures and knew it to be true.
‘Did you injure or kill the Bowman?’ he asked.
‘Do you mean Oneofthewilliams?’
‘Yes,’ said Sidrus, startled at the creature’s knowledge of that name.
‘No. We left him in the Vorrh. He left without us.’
‘And the bow?’ Sidrus’ blade twitched.
‘He… he gave it to me.’
Sidrus was dumbfounded; how could any of this be true? Why would Oneofthewilliams give the sacred thing to this meat-faced youth?
‘I will have the truth!’ he said, drawing another blade from concealment and advancing towards Ishmael’s shrinking bed, his small, cold eyes calculating where to cut first.
There was a sharp, metallic click from across the room, like somebody standing on a twig of iron. Sidrus knew what it was, even before he heard the voice.
‘Twelve grams of splinter round at four metres,’ it said. ‘Put the blades down where I can see them, old friend.’
Sidrus obeyed in slow motion, sneering at Ishmael.
‘Nebsuel, I thought this scum had disposed of you.’
He started to turn towards the rifle’s muzzle, which peered at him from across the room.
‘Very slowly, old friend. I know your ways and I am not alone.’
‘But it was you who summoned me here?’ said Sidrus.
‘Yes, but I was wrong, and so were you to slay a man in my house.’
A rope was swiftly lowered from the ceiling, a loop tied at its end.
‘Put your hands in the noose,’ said Nebsuel.
‘There is no need for this; you can trust me. It will be better for you in the long term if you do.’
‘Put your hands in the noose.’
‘You tempt my anger,’ snarled the cleric.
‘Put your hands in the noose! You are tempting your death, and you know I will do it.’
Sidrus thrust his hands into the looped rope; there was a small tug from above to tighten it and then a great wrench, which lifted him from the ground and high into the space above. A dry, rumbling sound filled the room with its mechanical power. It halted, and Nebsuel shouted up.
‘You hang between two great wooden drums. If you displease me, you will be mangled through them and crushed to a rag before you can take a breath. Do you understand me?’
‘I do!’ came a faint voice.
‘Now, tell me exactly what weapons and charms you have about your person.’
Sidrus began to recite an inventory of his possessions; Ishmael was astonished at the length of the list. When it was over, Nebsuel stepped out of the shadow; he held a black dove in his hand. He winked at Ishmael and threw it into the air.
The bird disappeared towards the sky and he pulled a wooden lever concealed in the wall. The drums turned, slowly this time, and Sidrus was lowered to the ground. He was white from the strain of hanging by his twisted arms, dangling like a puppet. He glared at Nebsuel, who put a small ball of leaves in the wide muzzle of his short rifle and pushed it into Sidrus’ face.
‘Eat it.’
‘Fuck you!’
‘Eat the sedative or eat the charge, and the splinters waiting behind it.’
The hanging man knew Nebsuel would do it, so he sucked the sticky ball into his wide mouth. Nebsuel helped by jarring the rifle, chiselling the barrel onto Sidrus’ teeth.
‘No man soils my house. No man murders in my healing room. Now swallow.’
He thrust the barrel again, hitting Sidrus in his Adam’s apple. Sidrus choked and swallowed the mouthful down, his eyes raging. The lever was pulled again and he fell to the ground. Nebsuel was at his side with a sharp, curved knife. He slit the rope from the cleric’s hands with a deftness that demonstrated how easily he could have done the same to his throat.
‘Put your weapons and charms on the table and go.’ Nebsuel stood by the door, splinter gun at the ready.
‘I could still take you both.’
‘Maybe, but you would pay a terrible price for it. Anyway, we have the information you need to find your Bowman. Information that will now cost you dearly. You will never come here again. If you cross this threshold, you will die. In the future, we will communicate only by bird. Do you understand?’
‘I want to know all, NOW!’ Sidrus barked.
‘I doubt you have the time.’
‘I have all the time it takes,’ he spat back.
‘How long did it take you to get here?’
‘WHAT?’
‘How long?’
‘Three days.’
‘As I thought. I have given you forty hours to get back.’
‘What are you gibbering about, old fool?’ snarled Sidrus.
‘I told you, from now on we only communicate by bird. I sent a black dove to your abode, a quarter of an hour ago. It carries my last supply of the vital antidote for Mithrassia Toxia, the spore of which you sucked from my rifle a few minutes ago.’
‘Mithrassia? You gave me Mithrassia?!’
‘Yes. I lied about the sedative. That is why you don’t have the time to discuss what we may do for you.’
Sidrus was speechless for a moment and then bolted for the door.