We cut and we cut and we cut and we cut.
We keep the peace on the edge of the knife.
We cut and we cut to save your life.
We keep the peace along the blade.
We cut to be merry, we cut as we're bade.
THE CITY OF HARDACRE 970 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
David woke, and the scratching followed him. This time there was no hesitation in the sound, the window rattled in its casings. He flung the sheets from him, they didn’t melt into nothing, but they had frozen to his skin; when he hurled them away, they took some of his flesh with them. He dashed the five steps to the window, almost without thought, and though part of him knew that running away from the window might have been wiser, he wasn’t that David any more.
A bleak face stared in, lit by the twin moons. Cadell’s face, though the eyes had none of Cadell in them, they were as white as the train tracks in David’s dream. There was something almost comical about it, something too dire and dark so that it became almost abstract — some rushed and sinister nocturne. Blood bearded Cadell’s jaw like Witmoths had bearded the old woman’s. He smacked his lips almost comically at David. He stood on the ledge outside the window, fingers sliding along the glass, almost as though he had forgotten the nature of windows and how to open them.
David felt a growl building in his throat, he moved closer to the glass, saw an answering growl in Cadell’s face. Was this where the curse the Old Man had given him was headed? Surely he had some choice in the matter, though David could scarcely remember a time when he had had choice in anything.
“Shall we end this now?” David said to the man in the window. “Do you want to come inside or should I go out there?”
The window was small; the glass thick, and ridged with leadwork, but David knew Cadell could make short work of it. He could feel the corpse Cadell's strength. David's body tensed, his jaw ached, and he wilted a little: considered running. Could he even make the door before Cadell was upon him?
And then it was as if the true Cadell was with him, the wit and the wisdom, whispering in his ear. David clenched his hands to fists, chilled the flesh so that it became at once harder and denser; his knuckles thickened with ice, and the blood within his fingers slowed — until his hands felt as though they were something brutal and disconnected from his flesh. Margaret had her guns, and her rime blades, but this was true weaponry.
He tensed, waiting for Cadell to drive his hand through the glass, but the Old Man did not.
Cadell’s eyes dropped to the ring on David’s finger. David realised that it was glowing, even through the ice. Only the moons were brighter. A cloud passed over them and darkness fell.
Now, he will do it now.
A whistle blew shrilly from the streets below and David was once again reminded of the Dolorous Grey. Something smashed on the ground, a roof tile, perhaps, or a stone. More whistles blew and David heard the heavy beat of Cadell’s boots clambering over the rooftops. David flung open the window, a pane cracking with a loud pop when it came into contact with his fingers. He looked down at the street; below him ran dozens of constables, heavy clubs in hand. One of them looked up at him, and David nodded, keeping his ice-slicked fingers hidden.
The constable regarded him for a moment, and then kept on after his colleagues. David slumped against the windowpane, his vision swimming. How had he ever thought that he could fight Cadell? Disposing of the Roiling as he had, while effective and showy, had exhausted him utterly. He touched his face with a fingertip, skin and ice fused. He yanked his hand free and took some skin with it.
What am I? What am I now?
David shed the ice from his fists. It was coloured with his own blood and lymph. His fingers ached. He could hardly move them. He brought them to his chest, but there was no warmth there.
He could smell blood that wasn’t his own. He peered out the window. There was a puddle of blood on the ledge. Not the sort of thing he wanted daylight to reveal to the world — certainly not to Hardacre’s constabulary.
He hurried to the bathroom, filled the bucket there. He scrubbed the blood away as best he could, with fingers that still felt like leaden claws, resisting the temptation to see how it might taste — he knew the answer to that already, the blood scent was in the air. Then he washed his hands in water that was warm, but chilled when it touched his flesh.
Is this my life now? Is this all I am, utterly at odds with my world?
David took a deep breath, walked to the desk, and found his Carnival.
He flexed and released his hands, letting the blood come back to sluggish life. At last, when he could hold his gear with enough delicacy to do what needed to be done, he saw to his addiction.
He half expected Margaret to come bursting through the door. But she did not, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
He let the Carnival do its work and it didn’t matter any more.