She was about to call her uncle, but light footsteps on the stone floor told her he was already near.

“Morrígan? Are you still awake?”

“Yes! Yarlaith! Come look! We’ve made another breakthrough!”

“Wonderful!”

Light washed over the table as the old man approached, candle in hand, revealing the finer details of Morrígan’s art. She expected him to cheer, or congratulate her, but instead he gasped with terror.

“Morrígan! What have you done?”

The rat screeched in agony as it rolled over on its broken spine. Two twisted, black wings hung from its back, sewn jaggedly into its shoulders.

Morrígan raised her voice. “I’ve done exactly what you did with Fionn, but better!”

The old man’s face was pale, the whites of his eyes standing out in the darkness. “No… no Morrígan, this is wrong. This is unnatural….”

“Exactly!” She picked up the bloody needle and carefully pushed it into the rat’s belly. The poor creature began flapping its wings furiously, trying to get away.

“See,” began Morrígan. “Naturally, a rat’s brains don’t know how to make wings move like this, but that didn’t matter. His spine is broken, and he can’t move his legs, but look! I’ve given him wings, and he already knows how to use them!”

Yarlaith sank to his knees beside his niece. “No, Morrígan, what you are doing is unnatural. It’s wrong.”

Morrígan stood, feeling taller than the little old man.

“Wrong? What does that have to do with anything? Is it wrong that you saved Fionn’s life? Is it wrong that you want to bring Mother back? What makes this more unnatural than keeping Mrs. Mhurichú alive with all those potions and spells? What makes this more profane than curing a sick child with medicine? All of those things are unnatural, Yarlaith, but who is to say what is right and what is wrong?”

The healer took a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed sweat from his forehead. She noticed he was shaking.

“I don’t know who is to say what’s right and what’s wrong, Morrígan.” He picked up his candle and placed a hand on her shoulder. “But maybe that’s just for the Gods to decide.”

Defeated, the old man bowed his head and left Morrígan alone with her chimera.

For the Gods to decide? Morrígan flicked two flint-rings on her fingers together. They formed a spark, which she turned into a ball of fire with a gentle push from her soul. With half a thought, the flame leapt from her fingers and engulfed the crippled rat, its screeches drowned out by the crackle of burning flesh.

What makes the Gods so special?

Chapter 10:

Chester the Lucky

“Murder! Murder! Aggravated assault and murder!”

The city crier woke Farris with a jolt. The booming voice penetrated the walls of his tiny waterfront hovel.

They must have found the body. He climbed from his bed. The memory of Chester’s corpse floating down the canal the night before was still strong. I was too rash. He didn’t need to die.

Farris stood and carefully pulled open his bedside dresser. The alcohol hadn’t left him with much of a headache or a tremulous stomach, but his movements were slower and clumsier than usual.

He dressed himself in black trousers and a plain white vest: typical attire for a Simian of low social standing. An iron pot of water at his bedside quenched his dried lips, though it tasted metallic and tepid. Under his bed he kept a small pack of bare essentials, which he slung over one shoulder as he reached for the door.

When he emerged into the blinding morning light, he found himself facing a crowd that had gathered around the city crier. The crier stood elevated on a stone wall across the street and held a big brass bell in one hand. There were men and women, Humans and Simians, dressed in a variety of clothes that marked them of high and low stations.

There’s so many of them. What if the crew aboard the ship had also caught wind that one of their navigators was dead?

When the crier spoke for the second time, Farris’s first fear left him, replaced with a heavier, burrowing terror.

“The Chief Engineer of Penance, known as Santos, was murdered by Simian dissidents two nights ago. King Diarmuid, Third and Nineteenth, was mortally wounded in the attack, known now to be led by Argyll the Silverback, terrorist and criminal mastermind of the separatist movement.”

Panic and dread rumbled through the crowd as the crier spoke, and Farris’s knees grew weak.

So that’s that. He turned away as the crier repeated his message. The king really does mean to go to war, and he wants everyone in Alabach to know about it.

Farris considered the only other possible explanation for the assassination attempt, but it still didn’t make any sense. Even though Santos dreamed of bringing Humans and Simians together with his railroad, the Silverback would never murder him for that, especially not in plain sight of the king.

King Diarmuid must be lying. He must be….

As he turned towards the docks, Farris attempted to calm himself for the coming mission.

The gas, that’s the key. He shuffled past a group of young Simian boys drawing on the cobblestones with sticks of chalk. The other spies won’t know that it’s not flammable. It certainly wasn’t much to go on, but as a means of identifying the other agents aboard The Glory of Penance, it was all he had.

Pier Street connected the north and south coast of Cruachan together, acting like a spine through the docklands. The street itself was wide enough for a horse and carriage to be pulled through, but cargo from the docks usually came through the other winding roads of the waterfront, as Pier Street had fallen to overpopulation and neglect over the past few years. Tenement blocks and crooked wood hovels lined the path, their windows open and presenting damp clothes to the world, giving the buildings a dishevelled, patchwork appearance. As he eyed a Simian tramp sleeping uncomfortably close to an open gutter, Farris realised how relieved he was to be returning to Penance.

We’ve got sewers there, and even in the Dustworks, shit doesn’t flow through the streets.

Farris gasped as he emerged from the archway, now with Davis Quay in full view. It was immediately obvious which airship was The Glory of Penance. It dwarfed every other boat, ship, and building of the docklands. The huge, lumbering wonder was as large as the Grey Keep itself, but slender, and pointed at both ends. The body was strong and ridged, unlike the malleable, flexible envelopes of the smaller aircraft.

She was built for power. Farris spotted four external engine-carts extending from either side of the ship, like the outstretched legs of an insect skimming water. Each was attached to the ship’s gondola, which hung just below the massive hull. At the back were two more engines, larger than the others, with their propellers pointed downwards at an angle to avoid grazing off the gas-filled container.

The quay was alive with the typical excitement of an airship about to leave port. It happened in Cruachan every other day, but still the children were always eager to see a ship disappear into the clouds. Farris understood the appeal. In the Dustworks of Penance, seeing the ships leave the city was one of the few things he and the other slumfolk had to look forwards to.

A wooden walkway led up to The Glory of Penance, and two men stood guard at its base, amidst a bottleneck of people looking to board. Fortunately, one of them recognised Farris as Chester the Lucky.

“Ha! There he is! Aodhán told me you won his wages last night!”

Here it goes.

Farris turned his head slowly and squinted towards the Human.

“Who’s that? I was up all night drinking his money, and my brain isn’t working so well.”

The stranger laughed. He was young, barely a man, and dressed like a simple deckhand. He stood with his arms folded, in a stance more intimidating than his appearance.

“Ha! Chester you ol’ sot! You must be in a bad way if you don’t remember your buddy Eoghan! I heard that you’re gettin’ the good cabin today. Probably best you go lie down as soon as possible!”

More people had gathered behind Farris. He stepped aside to let them by, not wanting to confront anybody else. King Diarmuid had mentioned the resemblance, but Farris was somewhat surprised that he was recognised as being Chester, even though Humans often made jokes about how all Simians look alike.

There must be some truth there.