Free Worldsoul by Liz Williams

to the far end of the harbour, where a thistle-head of bridges indicated the start of the West-East Canal. Here, the gates were being opened. She could hear the creak and tear of the winch and knew that a ferry was waiting, riding up in the womb of the lock, and Mercy’s spirits rose with it. Soon, the boathouse came into view and then the ferry itself. A small crowd was already present, bags and children clutched in eager arms, to take passage to the Eastern Quarter. The ka plucked at her boot with a claw.
    “I am not sure, mind,” the ka whispered.
    “I know. But you said you heard something. ”
    “Rumours are like dandelion clocks. They spread on the wind. There is no substance to them.”
    “But sometimes seeds take root, and there are dandelions all over the city, Perra.”
    The ka’s small solar face turned up to hers. “As I told you, a demon says that there was something by the Eastern Wall last night. It attacked a woman and lost a hand.”
    “Who was this demon?”
    “Only one of the small, the lesser, not a duke or an earl. Those would not talk to me, I am too lowly. But the little spirits like to gossip. It had no reason to lie.”
    “They can be malicious.” Yet this tale sounded too specific, somehow. She thought of Roke, the blood snatcher, and felt herself grow still. Who had he been? She was still sure that she’d seen him somewhere before, but an odd dizzy moment blanked him out. Now that she thought back, he was becoming difficult to recall.
    “It spoke of cold,” the ka said, then fell silent. “The woman is an alchemist. The demon could not remember her name.” It looked briefly disapproving. “They have minds like mayflies.”
    “We’ll take the ferry anyway,” Mercy replied. “It will be a nice day out.”
    With the rest of the passengers—mainly Easterners, in all manner of dress—Mercy and Perra queued briefly, then climbed the walkway to the ferry. Standing in the prow, Mercy could see the canal snaking across the city, all the way through the Western Quarter to the banners and flags of the East. And then, with a creak, the ferry cast off.

• Eleven •
    In his laboratory, back at the Court, Deed held the phial to the light and smiled. Alchemical science tells us that there are demons in the blood, and all manner of spirits flock to its red light, drawn like moths to fire. He was looking forward to seeing what might be attracted to the blood of Mercy Fane, what manner of thing might be conjured out of it.
    Mercy Fane. Until now, she’d been just another Librarian and not particularly worthy of attention. But that was before she met the disir. Deed wanted to know whether there was a connection: was she a recruit of Loki? Was it just chance that she’d been in a flower attack? If Mercy decided to investigate the disir’s presence, Deed wanted her under observation.
    He took a dropper and extracted a small quantity of fluid from the phial, then set it into a glass dish. Around it, he drew a triangle in chalk, then stepped back. Another circle, and then he spoke a word and set the chalk alight, a fire that flickered across the floor in eternal containment. Deed, in shirtsleeves, raised his hands and uttered the name of Mercy Fane, three times. The blood hissed and writhed.
    “Come on,” Deed said, enticing. A shadow fell across the blood and stepped forth, coming up abruptly against the triangle’s invisible wall. “Oh,” said Deed, intrigued. “Now what might you be?”
    But in fact, he knew all too well. The thing was tall, grave, golden-eyed. It had a long muzzle and graceful hands. A wolf-headed man.
    “Now,” Deed said. “You’re from the north. One of the wolfclans. What were you? Her grandfather?”
    “I shall not speak,” the wolfhead said, glaring.
    “Oh, but you will. Don’t be difficult. It’s boring. You know what I am.”
    “Loki’s blood,” the wolfhead said, and growled.
    “Of course. I am disir, but not only disir: I have many ancestors,