Chapter 5

The Deaths lunge, their daggers stabbing. It parries a blade, forces the Death back with a slash, and keeps running. A dagger slices through its jacket, but doesn’t hit flesh. It races onto the bridge and starts the long run across.

This early in the morning, the bridge holds only a pair of men pulling night-soil handcarts at a slow plod, a crowd of student stumbling back to the university, and the ghosts lining the rail.

The Deaths chase it, their longer legs cutting the distance between them. In desperation, it angles toward a night-soil cart, swerves around it and spins. Its palm smashes into the closest Death’s chin hard enough to lift their feet off the cobblestones. It runs again, hoping the others stop to aid their companion. They don’t.

Fuck. It heads straight for the students yelling, “Help!”

The students, seeing someone being attacked and too drunk to think about why, charge. It dodges through them without slowing. Behind it come shouts of pain as the students learn the Deaths are far better fighters. The delay is enough; it sprints the bridge’s length, gasping, dashes to the closest climbable building and goes up.

Halfway to the roof it risks a glance back. Three Deaths still follow though two look worse for the encounter with the student. The sight lifts its spirit. The two injured Deaths stay below, flanking it. The healthy one climbs up after it. Behind them, rolling forward like a storm front, comes the House Talique’s Master of Death, dragging the injured Death with him.

It hauls itself onto the roof and sprints to jump to the next as the other Death reaches the first. It switches directions and keeps going roof to roof. The Death behind it grows close enough that it can hear the man breathing. As it jumps to the next roof, it spins, drawing a dagger and slashing. The Death reaching for him screeches as three fingers fly off. It finishes its spin, lands off balance, stumbles, and rolls. The other Death doesn’t make the jump and catches the edge with their good hand. It kicks them in the face. The Death falls. It spins and runs, not waiting for them to hit the ground. It slips off the far side, braces hands and feet on the narrow alley’s walls and climbs down. Two-thirds to the ground, it spots a Death rounding the corner. It shoves off the walls and turns its body into a projectile. The Death sees it coming and dodges the strike. It lets the force of its landing dissipate through bent knees, bounces forward, and runs down the street.

Now, the chase becomes a game of terriers and rat. Whenever it goes to ground, in an eatery, behind the stacked crates beside a warehouse, inside a tenement, they find it. Worse, the clohalc wears off, leaving it exhausted and stumbling. Twice it crosses blades with the Deaths. Both times it comes out ahead, its daggers dripping with their blood.

In a bathhouse it changes clothes, becoming a servant once more. It keeps its boots and weapons on, bundles everything else into its bag and turns its cloak inside out to hide its House insignia. When the sun rises above the horizon, the city comes alive. It tries blending with the crowds but the Deaths spot it and the game continues.

Two hours after sunrise they corner it in a small square with a fountain, its paving stones wet from householders fetching water and washing laundry.

It steps onto fountain’s basin. A child’s ghost appears beside it, smiling and watching the crowd. It wonders if the child drowned or something worse, but the thought flees its head when it sees it is trapped. Two streets lead out of the square, and each has a Death standing in it. Dwingtal advances, hands behind him, the remaining Death beside him.

It steps off the basin and walks to an open space in the crowd.

“Come with us,” Dwingtal calls. He pushes back his hood, revealing his round, bald head. He wears brown clothes under his dark grey cloak, and looks like a merchant. The householders spare him a glance, realise he’s no one they know, and ignore him.

It pulls in a ragged breath and says, “Fuck off.”

The words hold neither bravado nor rage, just stubbornness and exhaustion. Dwingtal shakes his head, amused. He draws his daggers, the cloak covering them so the crowd doesn’t notice. It hopes it will join the ghost child watching the crowd, instead of standing where it is, weapons in hands, like its master’s shade in the Kilcharni yard.

A loud, brassy horn rings through the air. Everyone freezes. The sound comes again, and a man on horseback calls, “In the name of the Council, listen!”

The tromp of boots marching in unison echoes through the square. Council soldiers, their armour and spear-tips gleaming, advance in disciplined ranks. The householders back away, eyes wide. Dwingal sheathes his daggers.

“Listen to the order of the Council!” the rider declares. “The city is under plague lockdown! Everyone is confined to their home for the next two days! Disperse!”

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