Free Scar Night by Alan Campbell

in the direction of the dock.
    Mark Hael was waiting for them in the dock anteroom. The aeronaut commander’s face was pinched but lean, with desert skin, mud-brown against the white of his uniform. Three stripes of gold braid looped each cuff. “We left the body outside,” he explained. “The smell.”
    A faint, meaty odour hung in the air. Fogwill held his breath, then opened the doors leading out to the dock.
    Weathered and overgrown with weeds, the basalt wharf extended some fifty paces out from the temple wall. It was wide enough not to require handrails, but high up enough to make Fogwill miss their presence. Moored to gantries at the far end was the
Adraki
. Trapped by a web of cables, its silver envelope towered over them, flashing violently in the sun. Portholes and brass fittings gleamed in the gondola. Deepgate sprawled dizzily far below, slumped in its chains under the blue sky.
    “Good lord,” Fogwill gasped, pinching his nose. His perfume stood no chance against this.
    “We came in from Sandport overnight,” Mark Hael said. “Ran our tanks dry to get here in time.”
    But Fogwill wasn’t listening; he was looking at the corpse.
    The thing that had once been General Edward Hael lay on its back, with blackened fingers curled at its chest. Dry blood and ash-caked scraps of uniform matted the cracked skin, and there were charred, empty sockets where eyes should have been. The naked soles of the feet reminded Fogwill of burnt hams.
    Sypes coughed. “Are you certain it’s him?” he asked.
    Mark Hael nodded. He reached into his pocket and handed something to the Presbyter. “Heshette savages brought the
Skylark
down near Dalamoor. She must have landed heavily, ruptured a gas tank. Took us a while to clear the area and get down to the wreckage. No survivors—the crew were all…like this.”
    Sypes was looking at what he held in his hand. “Nasty business,” he said.
    “He’s dry as leather,” Fogwill said.
    “We’ll send the soul down today,” Sypes said.
    “But—”
    Sypes raised a hand, and Fogwill saw that he was clutching a fistful of medals. “Clearly some blood was lost, Adjunct. Some. Little enough for Edward, he’s full of it, brimming.” He gave the body an uneasy glance. “He was devout, a good soldier, a good man. I think it fair to say his soul survives intact.”
    Mark Hael had his head bowed. “Presbyter…,” he said.
    “You may leave us, Commander,” Sypes said. “The Adjunct and I will attend to this.”
    “Very good, Your Grace.” Hael turned to go.
    “Commander.”
    “Your Grace?”
    “I haven’t informed your sister yet.”
    Mark Hael nodded and went back into the temple.
    As soon as he was gone, Fogwill threw up his hands. “Look at this body, it’s a husk! There’s not a drop of blood left in its veins. The soul is already in Iril.”
    “Mark Hael’s a fine lad,” Sypes murmured, almost to himself. “He’ll make a fine general one day. Good blood, eh? Won’t do to have friction between the Church and the military.” He squinted into the sun, gazing out over the desert. “Not
now
.”
    “You can’t bless this
thing
! Ulcis would be furious.”
    Sypes made a dismissive gesture. “Pious soldiers like General Hael are rare. The god of chains needs good men.”
    “But his soul is in the Maze!”
    “Nonsense.”
    Fogwill shook his head. “I’ll fetch some bearers,” he grumbled, eager to be away from the stench.
    “No, Fogwill. There’s not much time before the Sending. Try to round up Devon, will you? He ought to be there, too.”
    Fogwill frowned. He opened his mouth to argue, then changed his mind. Why bother? Sypes seemed determined to obstruct him. Finally he said, “I’ll send a boy.”
    “I’d rather you took care of this personally.” Sypes pinched the bridge of his nose with two ink-stained fingers, leaving more blue smudges. “If you send a messenger, Devon will just have the lad off scrubbing vats in that infernal factory and