Vengeance

CHAPTER 110

In a passage far below Rix’s demolished salon, Wil the Sump hugged the iron book to his hollow chest and howled at the stones. No one loved books the way he did, and he had believed the iron book to be perfect, but it wasn’t. His life had been robbed of meaning.

‘Scribe got it wrong,’ he sobbed. ‘Scribe’s story untrue. Ruined the iron book.’

But Wil could not believe in the one, either, because the shilillar about her had also gone off track. How could he find the true story, the right ending?

It had to be right, for Wil now knew about the creeping ice. If it was not stopped, it would wipe Cythe clean, as it had already erased life on the island of Suden.

There was only one thing to do. He must erase every glyph from the iron book, recast the pages and rewrite it himself. If he used enough of the magical alkoyl, the pure weepings that could only be found deep down, surely he could make the story go right. He had to. No one else could be trusted to do it.

Wil crept down and down, cradling the book in his right arm as if it were his own child. With his free hand he sniffed his alkoyl tube until blood dripped from his ruined nose and his liver bulged like a grapefruit, but he felt no pain.

‘Down the Hellish Conduit, yes, yes. All way down to the Engine. Engine must be beating too slowly. Yes, Engine cold, that why ice coming. How can Wil fix?’

He thought for a minute, an hour, perhaps a day. Time no longer had any meaning to him. Wil took a deep sniff, mad images danced in his head and he lurched on.

‘Heat! Heat melt ice. Engine fuelled by great cauldron, down at heart of world. Wil must open stopcocks, flood Engine with cauldron fire. Make Engine race and melt ice away.’

He stopped for a moment, troubled by an elusive thought that the cauldron might be unstable, even dangerous. But Wil did not like to think about such things, so he took a huge sniff and the worry went away.

‘This the true story, the right ending. Wil going to write it.’

He made what he thought to be an elegant sweeping motion with his alkoyl tube, practising the calligraphy he must master before he could write the book anew. This time the iron book was going to be perfect.

‘Wil really special now. Wil the Scribe, and the one.’