Alan Campbell - God of Clocks

He reached down towards the inn on the ground below him, but then stopped. His hand would not fit through the door without ripping the building to shreds.

“Dill, wait!” Mina's shrill cry emerged through his teeth. “Let us down.”

Dill stared down at the shingled roof. To hell with it. He leaned forward and dug both his huge hands into the earth on either side of the inn, and lifted the whole building clear of the ground. The chimneystack leaned away from the side of the logbuilt wall and then fell and shattered against his thumb, but the walls and roof remained intact.

Screams came from within.

Dill held the tiny inn upon his two upturned palms. It rested upon a fat clod of earth and grass that he had scooped up along with it. He raised it close to his face and peered through one of the windows.

An empty room.

He turned the building slowly around in his hands.

“Dill!” Mina cried. “Open your goddamn mouth, and let us out of here.”

He opened his mouth and then brought the building and that great lump of compacted earth nearer to his jaw. Mina and Hasp clambered across the barrier of his teeth, while mud and rock slipped through his bony fingers and spattered across the ground a hundred feet below. Hasp ran inside the building and Mina followed. Dill tilted the inn so that he could peer through the open doorway.

The Lord of the First Citadel went sprinting up the stairs from the main saloon. A sudden lurch made him growl and clutch the banister to steady himself. Mina stumbled across the sloping floor, and called out, “Dill, for the gods' sake try to keep this building level! I break too easily.” Hasp had, by now, reached the top of the steps and disappeared from view.

Dill rotated the building carefully in his hands. Most of its windows were shuttered. He could not find an opening that looked in upon the upstairs landing, and with both hands full he could not flick open any of the shutters without dropping the entire inn. Its little sign flapped against the wall above the door.

He almost roared in frustration. For all his great size, he was useless.

He lifted the building again, more gently this time, and looked back in through the open doorway. Mina had halted halfway up the stairs, but Hasp and Rachel were nowhere in sight. Most of the tables and chairs had slid away, gathering like flotsam against the far wall. Dozens of bottles still rolled this way and that, spilling whisky across the floor. The smell of alcohol wafted out. The whole building creaked ominously.

Dill could not restrain himself. “Where is she?” he roared. His voice resounded across the heavens, metallic and hideously loud even to his own ears. The thaumaturge's dog began to bark frantically, still inside Dill's mouth.

Mina pressed her ears. “Try not to speak, Dill. Your voice tends to carry. Hasp is looking for her now. Hold on, I can hear…”

And then the Lord of the First Citadel came striding back down the stairs, holding Rachel's limp body in his arms. The former assassin was bleeding profusely from a wound in the side of her head.

Alice Harper sat on the edge of her bunk while the skyship plummeted towards the surface of Hell. The whole cabin creaked and whistled around her. She kept her gaze averted from the single tiny porthole, focusing instead on the array of instruments and their tiny accoutrements laid out on her narrow mattress. To keep herself occupied she made an inventory.

One Screamer. One Locator. Spare Mesmeric and parasitic foaming crystals. A knot of seeker wires in three states of agitation. Soul oil. Three phials of murderers' blood to feed the Locator and the Screamer. A silver screwtwist with a level-three shape-shifting head. Pincers and other tiny torture implements for keeping the instruments obedient. A Bael-Lossingham adaptive whistle from Highcliffe. Spirit lenses.

Her soulpearl.

Bathed in the bloody light from the window, this small glass bead seemed to emit a fierce radiance of its own-as if it could actually sense, and was reacting to, this new environment. That was impossible, of course. Only the Screamer, Locator, and screwtwist were sentient. The pearl itself was empty.

Harper clutched it to her chest and closed her eyes, listening to the winds of Hell bawling outside the skyship. A million leagues of rotten, cackling labyrinth might lie between this vessel and King Menoa's great living fortress, but she could not feel safe. The Lord of the Maze would have countless spies looking for them.

For her?

She dared not dwell on such thoughts. Menoa had previously taken a personal interest in her suffering, repeatedly breaking his promises to return her husband's soul to her.

The Locator made a tinny trumpeting sound.

Harper opened her eyes, picked up the device, and watched the silver needle dance between the glyphs etched into its metal display panel. She had instructed it to search for one particular emotive frequency-and now it was announcing its success.

“Too soon,” she said. “I don't believe you.”

The Locator crackled. To Harper it sounded like a tiny metallic laugh. Was the machine teasing her? She had never known it to lie before.

The needle wagged back and forth like an admonishing forefinger, then settled on a glyph shaped like a teardrop falling from a crescent moon. The Locator whined and then trumpeted again.

“Tom can't be here,” she said. “The odds are…”

What were the chances? Harper had spent more than one lifetime in Hell searching for her husband, yet all her efforts had been in vain. To pick up his emotae now, at the very moment she had arrived back in the Maze, was too much of a coincidence for her to blindly accept. She sensed someone else's hand in this.

Menoa?

She shook the Locator roughly. “When did he get to you?” she cried. “Did Menoa order you to do this? Don't lie to me!”

The little device wailed.

Abruptly Harper stopped shaking it. With trembling hands she pressed the Locator against her cheek, feeling its warmth against her cold dead skin. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to hurt you.” She stroked the device, then sniffed. She stared down at the glyph again. Could Tom really be somewhere nearby?

She went over to the porthole and looked out.

Cospinol's fog had vanished. Down here there was no natural sun to injure the god or his vessel, and the skies outside burned like smouldering coals. The Maze below stretched to the limits of her vision, glistening black and red.

Harper clutched the Locator in one hand and with her other hand dragged her cold fingers across the porthole. She left neither fingerprints nor smudges on the glass. Her keen eyes, long accustomed to searching for Iolites and other transparent spies in the skies of Hell, detected something odd-vague movements, like very faint shadows flitting across the heavens.

She took the trio of spirit lenses from her bunk, shuffled through them, and lifted the darkest one up to her eyes. Seen through the tinted glass, the crimson sky became green. The vague shapes she had seen earlier suddenly clarified and became immediately recognizable.

“Shit,” she said.

Shadow people crouched over her. She saw white eyes and teeth in the darkness. She feared she must be in a Spine dungeon in Deepgate's temple, because she could smell blood and she was hurting, and that meant there must be priests nearby to bless and sanction her torture.

She passed out.

When Rachel woke again, she was lying on her back on a narrow camp bed, her neck propped upon a soft pillow. Her arms and legs felt as heavy as the lumber joists in the ceiling above her. A sudden sharp pain in her head made her cry out. Gazing up at the wooden ceiling, she realized that she must now be aboard the Rotsward, for the whole room seemed to loll drunkenly backwards and forwards before it settled again.