Lye Street by Alan Campbell, Dave McKean Page A

gut-sticker.
    "Hey! Just a–"
    Cope jabbed the tip of the blade into Ravencrag's shoulder
    "Ow!"
    Cope brandished the weapon's bloody tip. "Thank you, Mr Ravencrag," he said. "Mr Greene and I will return when we need some more."
    The phantasmacist grumbled and rubbed his shoulder. "Damn you, Cope, that hurt." He chewed his lips. "If I help you to release him... willingly, I mean. What'll happen to me?"
    "Basilis may decide to reward you," replied Cope, "or he may punish you for all eternity."
    Judging by the Ravencrag's expression, this was not the response he had hoped for. "And if I don't help to release him?"
    "Certain punishment."
    The phantasmacist thought for a long moment. Then he faced Greene. "You and your damn grimoire." he said.

Chapter Twelve
    A fierce northern wind dragged clouds across the heavens, obscuring stars and moon. Deepgate's chains whistled. In places streets and houses rocked gently in their ironwork cradles, while out in the League, the ropes and walkways flapped and creaked like rigging. The end of autumn often brought such winds from the north, carrying rain across the Deadsands and the promise of colder weather to come.
    Carnival heard music.
    An eerie melody floated across the chained city. Mournful yet discordant, the song seemed to rise and fall with the wind.
    The angel had never heard anything so beautiful before. Curious, she flew towards the sound.
    The district of Bridgeview encircled the Church of Ulcis. Whitewashed townhouses overlooked that moat of air and chains around the temple itself. Space here was limited, and the buildings had scrambled over each other's shoulders to fill it. Gables elbowed chimneystacks. Walls shouldered walls, nudging stonework this way and that. Windows glared at each other in mute defiance. Even the tangle of chains stitching it all together looked like the result of a war among weavers. It was an ongoing contest among the noble families who lived there, a slow but steady conflict waged over hundreds of years.
    Normally Carnival would not have flown so close to the temple. Spine assassins used the naked foundation chains to travel to and fro that monstrous building. Yet the mournful music intrigued her. Swallowing her fears, she flew on, and soon discovered the source of the lament.
    A terrace near the summit of a ramshackle dwelling had been filled with crystal wine flutes of various sizes, the vessels placed side by side so as to cover every inch of the paving stones. Gusts of wind plucked notes from this strange arrangement of glass and carried them out across the city rooftops. Was this intended to be a warning system against club-footed intruders? Such a measure seemed excessive given the proximity of the temple. Carnival crouched on the terrace balustrade and looked up at the vast dark building, at its gargoyles and crenellations and blazing windows. Scaffolding clung to the stonework, rising to reckless heights.
    Each flute had been polished to high sheen. Light spilling under the roof terrace door illuminated crystal stems. Someone was inside the house. The angel almost fled back to the derelict places she had come to fear. But she stopped. Above the door, half obscured by ivy, an open hatch led to what appeared to be a storage space under the roof.
    She padded along the balustrade and peered into the hole.
    It was hardly an attic, more of a triangular tunnel, but it was invitingly gloomy. Carnival's uncanny vision probed the depths of it, but she couldn't see any messages.
    She folded her wings against her back and climbed inside.
    Silently, so as not to disturb the occupants in the rooms below, she crawled along the tunnel on her hands and knees. Through cracks in the floorboards she caught glimpses of a hallway leading back into the house.
    The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, shaped like the inside of a pyramid. Apart from a water tank in one corner, the space was stuffed with thousands of rings. There were huge mounds of them, all gleaming