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‘We’ll be out of this soon,’ Aradeus told her soothingly.

I wondered if he knew he was lying. Mages’ Grave was close enough to the devastation that the blood soot was probably just a fact of life for those who lived there. In all likelihood, every crop was grown with a red husk, every child born with a racking cough.

Corrigan and I stopped and stared at each other, leaving the others to trudge on.

‘You know what I’ve been thinking, Mister Ombra?’

‘No, Mister Blight. What have you been thinking?’

He gestured to the haze ahead of us. ‘I’m thinking this is no big deal.’

‘The fog?’

‘The whole job. I mean, the diabolic told us there’s a wonderist waiting to join us in Mages’ Grave, right? Someone already committed to the gig?’

‘That is what he said, yep.’

‘Saves us hours of negotiations, right? No haggling over shares of the money, no special requirements like having to run off and rescue a fucking angelic because a rat mage caught a nasty bout of. . . what’s that disease Aradeus has?’

‘Conscience?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘You know,’ I said, brushing away more of the blood soot from my coat, ‘I believe you’re right, Mister Blight. Who wants all the hassle of choosing their own crew, anyway?’

‘Not us, that’s for sure.’ He scratched at the ash stuck to his beard. ‘When you think about it, the Infernals, the Lords Celestine, that old master of yours, they’ve all done us a favour.’

‘You think?’

His face split into a wide-mouthed grin. ‘Easiest job ever. Practically a vacation.’

The two of us resumed our march along the path, sharing the occasional rude comment about our teammates, hanging on to the pretence that any of us had any say in whatever was awaiting us in Mages’ Grave. But I couldn’t stop watching Galass, the way she stumbled all the time, how she was shaking as if chilled, even when the sun began to beat down on us. I’d made one stupid promise to myself, just one: that whatever happened, I’d keep her alive and sane until this mess was over and I could give her a chance to find a better fate than the one to which she’d been consigned.

So far I wasn’t doing so well.

Chapter 31

The World’s Most Aptly Named Town

Imagine for a moment that you’re just a regular person living out near the edge of a desolate, spell-blasted desert. Probably every spring you think about packing up and moving somewhere else. Somewhere more temperate. Somewhere the crops grow a little easier and your skin doesn’t prickle every time a southern wind sends the blood soot swirling in the air. You don’t leave, though, because, well, you were born here. Your mother and father told you tales of better times and warned you about how things down south are just as bad, and how getting by only gets tougher when you’ve got no kin, no history there.

So you stay, even though the crops grow more bitter each year, even when the blood soot is getting closer and closer to your own front door. Even when you start to wonder if maybe your neighbours aren’t getting a little meaner lately.

‘What a shithole,’ Corrigan muttered as we walked into the town square.

People stared as we passed, but not nearly as much as we’re used to– and not nearly as much as they should have been, given one of us had bat wings protruding from her shoulder blades.

‘You the spellers?’ a woman asked. She was different from the others, but only because she was striding towards us with a sense of purpose instead of shuffling silently away in any other direction. She stopped a few feet away and gave each of us a glance before answering her own question. ‘Guess you must be.’

‘We are indeed wonderists,’ Aradeus said, offering her a bow and reaching for her hand to kiss it. ‘Might we know your name, gracious lady?’

She eyed the rat mage for barely a second, and in that time she’d weighed and measured his attempt at courtesy, decided it was either patronising or sleazy, and turned to me. ‘I’m Vidra. Mayor of this town. I suppose you’ll be wanting directions to the fortress like all the others?’

‘The others?’ I asked.

Instead of answering, she turned and headed deeper into town, not bothering to see if we’d follow. I guess she knew we had no choice by now.

I caught up to her, and noted that Vidra was young, probably younger than me, but the skin of her cheeks was dry and cracked like red leather. The others milling around the town square had looked the same. Wind and grit accounted for the roughness of their skin; I guessed the blood soot explained the unusual colouring.