Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 7 - 9

The shackles hurt her wrists, but comfort hadn’t been uppermost in Vengeous’s mind when he’d thrown her in here. Vengeous. The last time she’d seen him the Grotesquery was crushing his head, which was, what? Four years ago? She was pretty sure she preferred him with a crushed head. The Vengeous from this reality was every bit as humourless as his alternate self, and every bit as intimidating. He didn’t have his sword any more, though, that cutlass thing. That was one thing to be grateful for, Valkyrie supposed.

It was pretty much the only thing.

Vengeous hadn’t wasted any time with questions. He assumed she was part of this Resistance everyone kept talking about, and was probably looking forward to a nice bit of interrogation once they got back to the Palace. Valkyrie wondered if this version of Vengeous had been arrested by Skulduggery during that legendary fight China had once spoken of, or if none of that had happened here. If Mevolent, and now Vengeous, was alive here, then who else was? Was Nefarian Serpine waiting for them beyond the wall? And where was this reality’s version of Skulduggery? Would he be much different to the Skulduggery she knew?

The idea that there could be two identical versions of Skulduggery Pleasant actually made her smile despite herself. The conversations that would result would probably be brain-punchingly narcissistic, at the very least.

The pitch of the Barge’s engines changed. Deprived of a view, Valkyrie had no idea what was happening until the whole thing shook and clanked and shuddered, and then the engines slowly grew quiet.

They had arrived.

The door to her cell opened and a Redhood came in, yanked her to her feet. He brought her to the open belly of the Barge, to Vengeous, who ignored her while he oversaw the transfer of the mortal prisoners. Finally, he turned, dismissed the Redhood and walked down the steps. He turned when he was halfway down, looked back at her, his eyes glowing yellow. Valkyrie started down after him and his eyes returned to normal, and he led her out from under the Barge’s shadow into the City.

The Dublin inside the wall was a vast oasis of luxury. The streets were wide and well ordered, bisecting buildings adorned with gargoyles as fierce as they were extravagant. Towers rose towards the sun and lush trees lined the pavements. At every corner there was a stone balcony, and on those balconies stood Elementals, conducting a stream of air over the privileged heads of the people. Carriages without wheels or horses or engines rose up from the ground to join this stream and were smoothly snatched away and carried from sight. There were a few rickshaws on the streets for those whose journeys deviated from the main routes, but there were no cars. The drivers of the carriages were all young sorcerers, probably Elementals, still learning their craft. The drivers of the rickshaws were brown-clothed mortals who kept their heads lowered. Valkyrie shouldn’t have been surprised. What was the point of being the elite in society if you couldn’t look down on those beneath you?

There were other mortals on the streets. They walked quickly, slinking in and out of alleyways so that they wouldn’t offend the eyes of the magical. Servants and workers and slaves. Their social betters walked without hurry and wore clothes so fine they actually looked delicate, like a stray bit of dirt would tear a hole right through them. She didn’t know what fashion they wore, with the high collars and pointy shoes and everything so bright and colourful and vibrant, but she could tell that a girl in brown being led among them was not a welcome sight. The shackles didn’t help, she supposed, nor the fact that Vengeous was beside her.

People glared and sniffed as she passed. These people were sorcerers? These primped and pampered idiots? Most of the sorcerers she knew were battle-hardened and tough, used to sticking to the shadows and not drawing attention to themselves. The sorcerers of this reality were an altogether different breed.

“You’ve never been here before,” Vengeous said. “You have that look in your eye that people get when they see the City for the first time. Take a good look. Drink in the sights. The dungeon has no such splendour on view. Your days will be spent in agony and your nights will be spent shivering and weeping and waiting for the pain to begin again.”

“Yeah...” Valkyrie said, and shrugged. “Ah, I’m more of a morning person anyway.”

He looked at her as they walked. She pretended she didn’t notice. “The Sense-Wardens don’t want to enter your mind, do you know that? The ones who tried have not yet recovered. They say you have something living inside you. A guardian. A protector. Is this true?”

“Yeah,” she said, deciding it best to leave out the fact that her head was now a very lonely place.

“Do not look so pleased,” said Vengeous. “Having a psychic prod his way through your thoughts may not be a pleasant experience, but luckily for us we still have physical torture. So do yourself a kindness. Before the interrogation begins, tell us what you did with the Teleporter, and maybe your suffering will be lessened.”

She frowned. “Who? Oh, you mean that Remit guy with the twirly moustache? Yeah, I did nothing to him. I left him on a rooftop somewhere.”

“Who has him?”

“Not me. Maybe he ran away. Maybe he wasn’t happy. He did have a silly moustache, after all. That’s usually a sign of some deeper unhappiness. Where’s your moustache, by the way? Where’s your whole beard gone? Why’d you shave it off?”

“Ah,” he murmured. “You’re one of those, are you?”

“One of who?”

“The kind who talk and joke when they’re shackled. I’ve met a few of you. Your jokes are usually there to hide your fear, and it’s always a good indicator that you will break easily, and quickly.”

“Or,” she said, “it might be a sign that I’m totally fearless and I laugh in the face of torture. I mean, it’s not, but it could be.”

He led her away from the main thoroughfare, to where the streets were slightly narrower. Still clean, still well-maintained, but a little less sunny and a lot less populated.

Valkyrie looked at him. “Can I ask you a question? I know this isn’t how interrogations usually go, but since it hasn’t officially started yet I thought I’d shake things up. What happened to you, Baron? I mean, is this what you do now? You transport prisoners? You used to be a general.”

“I still am.”

“No, you’re a prison guard.”

“I do what is needed. In times of war, it is a general’s duty to win that war. In times of peace, it is a general’s duty to preserve that peace.”

“You call this peace? The people are terrified.”

“Are you referring to the mortals? Of course they’re terrified. Terror keeps them down. A terrified people is a peaceful people.”

“Peace means nothing without freedom.”

“Then peace means nothing. I’m sorry, were you hoping for a debate on the subject? You’re a prisoner, and soon you’ll be a prisoner in pain. We’re not going to debate, or argue. You’re no one. You’re just another mortal sympathiser. Soon enough all your secrets will come spilling out.”

They passed through a tunnel that blocked out the sunlight. A bald woman approached from the other side, her hands shackled. “Husband,” she said, and Vengeous muttered something under his breath. Valkyrie raised an eyebrow as the woman neared. Vengeous’s wife wore a grey shapeless dress made of sackcloth and her bare feet were chained at the ankles, forcing her to take small, quick steps. There was a small piece of wood hanging from a cord around her neck, into which were carved the two circles. With her hair shaved off and not one trace of make-up on her pale, drawn face, it took Valkyrie a moment to recognise her as Eliza Scorn.

“They were at it again last night,” she said, not even glancing at Valkyrie. “Graffiti on the cathedral door. Scrawled obscenities and crude pictures. They need to be stopped. You have to stop them.”

Her voice rose as she spoke, became shriller, echoing around the tunnel. Vengeous held up his hands in a comforting gesture, but stopped just short of touching her.

“I’ve alerted the City Mages,” he said. “They’re increasing their patrols in the area. Now please, I’m with a prisoner and cannot—”

Scorn shook her head. “Not good enough. These blasphemers need to be hunted down. You need to send your Diablerie after them.”

“My love, the Diablerie have their duties—”

Fury twisted Scorn’s face. “Someone is defiling the cathedral!” she screeched. “When they defile the cathedral, they defile us all! Are you going to do nothing while your own wife is defiled?”

For some bizarre reason, Valkyrie felt the need to look away to spare Vengeous the embarrassment of arguing with his clearly insane wife in front of a prisoner. Then she remembered that she was a prisoner, and so any awkwardness fell away.

“No one is defiling you,” Vengeous said, keeping his voice down. “These are troublemakers and miscreants and they will be caught and punished.”

“Miscreants?” Scorn repeated incredulously. “These are terrorists! They are openly blaspheming against the Faceless Ones and if you don’t put a stop to it, this will spread. Do you hear me? It will spread.”

Vengeous nodded. “I’ll triple the guard.”

“You need to hunt them down!”

“And I will do so. They will not escape our justice.”

Scorn’s hands rose to the wood around her neck. “You should question those in the dungeons. They know. They know who’s doing this. That girl. Who is she?”

“We don’t know yet. She’s working with the Resistance.”

Scorn whispered, but even so Valkyrie could still hear her words. “Question her. Pull her fingernails off. Cut out her eyelids. She knows who is doing this.”

“Hi, Eliza,” Valkyrie said.

Scorn stiffened, turned away, and Vengeous glared.

“Do not speak to my wife,” he snarled.