The City's son

CHAPTER 41

‘Wake up! Wake up! Christ, you snore like someone’s shoved a hedgehog down your throat!’ A horrendous ringing filled Petris’ skull — one he couldn’t put down to last night’s pint of garbage gin. His eyes grazed open against the inside of his punishment skin and bright wintry light stabbed into his retinas.

‘Wake up! Wake up!’ The girl who was shouting at him wore a filthy hoodie. The reason for the ringing in his head became abundantly clear: she was repeatedly hitting it with an iron railing.

‘Gerrroffofit,’ he snarled, sour alcohol-flavoured bile bubbling in his throat. He swiped at the railing with a gauntlet, but the girl jerked out of the way easily.

‘Who in the name of my sadistic Goddess’ tits are you?’ he growled at her.

The girl ignored his question. She cocked an eyebrow as his breath washed over her face. ‘It’s what’s inside that counts, huh? Well then, I guess what counts for you is about ten pints of booze.’

A face from Petris’ memory battled through the alcoholic fug — but that face hadn’t had the grey-tinted skin, the concrete-coloured eyes. His gaze lighted on the railing. The tip on its spike tapered to vanishing point. ‘You’re Filius ’ bit of fluff?’ he burst out incredulously. She glared at him. He coughed and recovered himself. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Beth, is it? You’ve… changed.’

Beth sniffed. ‘So have you. Last time I remember you having manners.’

Petris waved a hand dismissively. ‘Oh, I’m hungover,’ he explained. ‘I always drink when I pray.’

‘Tough being religious, is it?’ she asked.

Petris barked out a laugh. ‘It’s like sleeping with another man’s wife,’ he told her, ‘nine parts guilt to one part ecstasy, and somehow you’re always alone again in the morning.’

Beth snorted. ‘Bitter, much?’ she said. ‘Well, I’d love to have the time to care.’ She clapped her hands abruptly. ‘Get it together, stoneskin. Sober up, rally your troops. There’s a war on, or haven’t you heard?’

Petris shook his head. Even the tiny motion made the world blur alarmingly and his pulse slammed unpleasantly at the base of his skull. He was very much not in the mood for idiots, which was a shame, because the girl was talking like one. With extreme effort, he hefted his heavy legs under his stone habit and walked into the shade of a leafless oak tree, big enough to cast enough shadow to get him out of that bastard sun. Only then did he rasp, ‘Come again?’

‘Rally. Your. Troops.’ Beth craned her neck over her shoulder, looking southwest.

With a sinking feeling, Petris realised he didn’t need to ask what she was looking at. ‘That’s what I thought you said.’ It had taken all of ninety seconds for him to regret waking up this morning.

‘I’m storming the keep, Petris,’ she said. ‘I’m taking Reach’s house. I need an army. Zeke’s boys did their best, but they didn’t cut it. I need more. I need the best. “ If there’s one thing I’m better at than drinking it’s fighting,” huh?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, little did I know just how big a boast that was. Time to make good on it.’

Petris fixed her with a sullen stare. ‘I believe you were here when Filius asked the same,’ he said, ‘and I will give you the same answer: No. I cannot fight for Mater Viae’s return.’

Beth hopped onto the headstone for Stanley Philips. End of an Error. ‘Just as well,’ she said coldly, ‘because she’s not coming back.’

A shiver rippled up Petris’ spine. He went quiet for a long time.

‘Really?’ he said finally, with forced levity. ‘That’s interesting. Filius, Gutterglass and Fleet’s war party all say differently.’

‘Fleet’s war party says meow and bugger all else,’ Beth countered. ‘But as for Fil and Glas, they’re both wrong. I don’t know why yet, but I’m sure of it: Mater Viae is not coming back to London.’ Her voice was clear as she spoke. She didn’t blink.

Petris swallowed down enough of the mingled hope and disappointment rising in his throat to growl, ‘How do I know I can trust your word?’

‘You can’t,’ she said bluntly, ‘so stop taking people’s word for stuff. Work it out for yourself.’ She ticked off points on her fingers. ‘Her only son gets shredded by the Wire Mistress. Where was she? Nowhere. The first army to fight for her in fifteen years gets ground into dogmeat on the banks of the Thames, and where is she? Again, nowhere. And then of course there’s the Cats.’

‘The Cats that are never seen without her, you mean?’ Petris said, barely amused.

‘ Exactly.’ Beth leaned forward. ‘Not once, not for one day. I asked around. Not in the whole of recorded history have Mater Viae and her whole retinue ever been seen apart. So why in Christ’s name are they here without her now?’

Petris didn’t answer.

‘Unless,’ Beth continued, and paused.

She had one of those disturbingly intense gazes he could feel on the back of his own eyesockets.

‘Unless she’s somewhere else, somewhere the Cats can’t follow.’

Petris narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s thin, girl.’

‘Thinner than a supermodel’s cake budget, I know,’ Beth agreed, ‘but I’m sure it’s right. It feels right, doesn’t it?’

Petris breathed out and shut his eyes. Yes, it feels right, he admitted silently — but was that only because he wanted it to be true? Because he craved the simple joy of crushed scaffolding in his gauntlets far more than the intricate, addictive torture of secretly praying to a Goddess who never spoke back?

‘All right,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll sing the Treaty Song. I’ll put what you’ve said to the Stone Parliament. All I can promise is a vote, but it will take time.’

Beth blanched at the word time, but she nodded in reluctant acceptance. This was as good as she was going to get. She stood and turned towards the gate.

‘What?’ Petris said. ‘You aren’t going to wait for an answer?’

Beth shook her head. ‘Reach has got my best friend,’ she said. ‘Waiting’s not getting her any more rescued.’

‘I’ve heard,’ Petris said soberly. He was pissed off and hungover and had no inclination to sugarcoat this. ‘The Mistress’ host. I hope by “rescue” you mean “kill”, because that’s the best thing you can do for her now. Her death’s inevitable anyway.’

Beth looked at him in a way that scared him. It was a fanatical look, a look that didn’t accept that anything was inevitable, that wouldn’t accept it. A look that despised him for being weak enough to believe that it was. She hefted Filius’ spear.

‘So you’re going alone?’ Petris was appalled. ‘Into battle a — a God short. That’s-’ He floundered, and finally finished, ‘That’s rash.’

A thin smile crossed Beth’s lips, her face dappled red under the autumn trees.

‘Paraphrasing a wiser friend of mine,’ she said, ‘rash is where I excel.’ Her smile fell away. ‘Gather your church,’ she said. ‘Get the right answer. Get it fast.’ And she ran off through the trees towards the hooting traffic.