Worldsoul

Eleven

In his laboratory, back at the Court, Deed held the phial to the light and smiled. Alchemical science tells us that there are demons in the blood, and all manner of spirits flock to its red light, drawn like moths to fire. He was looking forward to seeing what might be attracted to the blood of Mercy Fane, what manner of thing might be conjured out of it.

Mercy Fane. Until now, she’d been just another Librarian and not particularly worthy of attention. But that was before she met the disir. Deed wanted to know whether there was a connection: was she a recruit of Loki? Was it just chance that she’d been in a flower attack? If Mercy decided to investigate the disir’s presence, Deed wanted her under observation.

He took a dropper and extracted a small quantity of fluid from the phial, then set it into a glass dish. Around it, he drew a triangle in chalk, then stepped back. Another circle, and then he spoke a word and set the chalk alight, a fire that flickered across the floor in eternal containment. Deed, in shirtsleeves, raised his hands and uttered the name of Mercy Fane, three times. The blood hissed and writhed.

“Come on,” Deed said, enticing. A shadow fell across the blood and stepped forth, coming up abruptly against the triangle’s invisible wall. “Oh,” said Deed, intrigued. “Now what might you be?”

But in fact, he knew all too well. The thing was tall, grave, golden-eyed. It had a long muzzle and graceful hands. A wolf-headed man.

“Now,” Deed said. “You’re from the north. One of the wolfclans. What were you? Her grandfather?”

“I shall not speak,” the wolfhead said, glaring.

“Oh, but you will. Don’t be difficult. It’s boring. You know what I am.”

“Loki’s blood,” the wolfhead said, and growled.

“Of course. I am disir, but not only disir: I have many ancestors, just as your bloodchild Mercy does. They don’t concern you. But you concern me. I need information. Who was your daughter, your son?” He spoke another word, forcing names from the wolfhead’s mouth.

“Ativana. Soreth. Greya.”

“Greya Fane,” Deed said. A piece of puzzle had fallen into place. “Aha. Yes, that would make sense. She went out on the Barquess, I recall. Nearly a year ago. So noble, heading out into the unknown on the ship that searches for the Skein. I’m sure we’ll all be interested to see if they make it back alive. So Greya Fane is Mercy’s… what? Mother? Aunt? I will have to check.”

“Not… touch… ” the wolfhead slurred and Deed looked up in surprise. “Still here? Well, can’t have you running off to little Mercy, can we?” He snapped fingers, intoned an incantation and the wolfhead was snared in silvery bonds, threads of fiery shadow that snaked around the spirit’s form until it was wrapped as neatly as a fly in a web. “Gone!”

And it was. The chalk triangle flared up and out. Deed sank to his haunches and crouched in the circle. Time to do some thinking.

Later, he went in search of Darya. He found her in the long, lead-windowed gallery at the top of the Court, looking out over the city. The four o’clock rain had swept over Worldsoul, drenching the roses and oleander and leaving a humid warmth in its wake. He could smell it through the open window and wondered what Darya might be thinking, but only for a moment. Nothing very deep, that was certain. She had cast off her jacket in the afternoon heat and her spine was bare in the cowled blouse that she wore today. He could see the little knobs of her vertebrae protruding through the flesh. Seamed stockings ran down to her high heels, but Deed knew that those heels were her own bones, the spikes of her heels arching her feet and making her teeter. It was appealing, but he knew how fast her kind could run if it came to the chase. Perhaps that would be entertaining, if Darya ever over-stepped the mark. As seemed likely.

“Darya?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her jump.

“Abbot General?”

“Greya Fane. What does the name mean to you?”

“She was a volunteer, wasn’t she? On the Barquess. From this quarter, although I seem to recall that she was originally from the Northern Quarter. I saw her name on the list, and I memorised the list. And she is related to Mercy Fane, maybe, whom Nerren at the Library told me about.”

“Quite right,” Deed approved. “If the crew of the Barquess had found the Skein, they would be heroes, but as far as we know, they have not, and thus they are not. They are in limbo, like Odin on the World Tree, waiting to snatch knowledge from the abyss. A nice simile, don’t you think?”

Darya’s face betrayed unease. “No one knows what has become of the Barquess,” she reminded him.

“Of course they don’t. It has sailed over the rim of the Western Ocean to try and catch the sun, and if they don’t make it back, which they probably won’t, they will pass into legend themselves, like the Flying Dutchman. On the other hand, if they do come back, everyone will take an interest. But the reason I’m interested in Greya Fane-”

“Is this Mercy Fane?”

“Just so. Well done, Darya. I want you to do some genealogical digging. I want to find out what other relatives Miss Fane might have.”