Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
Ward looked down at his blistered hands and wondered what he had done. If a vestige of Leah's consciousness remained in the Corpusant, maybe a remnant of Deville's had still been in the skull. Perhaps this had been Jean Deville's last deed in this world.
With a cry Corvus had thrown himself on the spot where the body had been. Ward looked away in shock and shame. He couldn't reconcile that heartbroken sound with the man he knew.
Ward knelt down beside him. "We have to go."
Corvus didn't reply, or take his hands away from his face.
Ward went over and picked up Corvus's staff. It was warm to the touch. He looked into the sphere on the end, but it was once more opaque. His palms burned maddeningly, and the skin on the back of his hand felt tight, as if it had shrunk, but he had no time to examine his hands.
He went back to Corvus and hauled him to his feet. The old man didn't resist. Ward began to pull him towards the gate. Corvus's first couple of steps were stumbling, and he doubled over, his hands on his knees, and retched.
When he straightened up again Ward handed him the staff. Corvus looked at it as if he had never seen before.
He seemed to recover as they neared the Gate. The sun was a plump egg yolk impaled on the spikes that lined the wall above the Gate. Ward couldn't reconcile this morning with the one of the prison raid. It seemed days ago now.
There was a crash from behind them, and Ward turned to see four Reds emerging from the back door of the Courts. They were followed by a huge figure in black: Brother Tamerlane.
"Ward, the Gate." Corvus said, turning to face the oncoming Reds and planting the butt of the staff on the flagstones.
Ward went to the Gate and turned the big wheel that released the lock. He cracked the right-hand door open and slipped through. Then he turned back.
"Come on!" he shouted.
"Run!" Corvus cried. His eyes were fixed on the end of his staff. The sphere had burst into white light again. But in seconds the Reds were upon him like a swarm of birds, dragging him to the ground and pulling the staff from his hands.
"No!" Ward screamed. He tried to throw himself back through the opening, but something held him back. A strong arm was hauling him away. He felt himself lifted into the air, and for a moment he saw only the sky, then he crashed down onto what felt and smelled like straw.
"Go Pickle!" cried a woman.
The ground lurched.
Ward tried to wrench free of Mr Slooper, but the weedy, bespectacled man was stronger than he looked. Ward tore with his fingers at the arm that circled his waist, but it wouldn't budge.
"You can't help him," Mr Slooper said. "You'll only be taken yourself."
Slops was sitting on the bench seat beside his mere. Ward couldn't look at him. He didn't want to see his friend's relief, to accept his sympathy. Black, irrational hate fell over his mind. How dare the Sloopers do this.
The cart lurched only a short way down the road towards Xandra Wood,before turning off into the high grass. All but the tallest spires of the city vanished from Ward's view. Mrs Slooper occasionally gave Pickle a whoop of encouragement; the drass was trotting along at a pace Ward would not have thought possible, and they were in danger of overturning on the rough, narrow walla track that wound through the field.
Only when they reached the river did Mrs Slooper pull up the reins. The drass, her sides shining with sweat and her nostrils huffing, came to a halt. Mr Slooper finally loosened his hold on Ward, but continued to watch him like a hawk. Ward just slumped in a corner of the tray, his head in his hands, his throat burning and his eyes stinging. Distantly he could feel the throbbing of his burned hands, his grazed knees, the trickle of blood down his scalp from where the Brother had torn his hair away – but they were nothing to the black hopelessness in his chest, the shame that rose like bile in his throat. He had caused all of this. He had not only failed to get the dice back, he had failed at everything – failed everyone. He could only cover his face and hope the Sloopers had the decency to look away.
The Sloopers, for their part,stayed silent, and for a while there was only sounds were Pickle's huffing, the calls of the riverside birds, and the rustling of foliage.
It was Slops who eventually spoke. "Let's follow the river round, mere."
"Yes," Mr Slooper said brightly. "That'll bring us out onto the Croakumshire Road. It's the longer route, but the safer."
"Where should we take him?" Mrs Slooper said.
"Carmen's," Slops replied.
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