Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  He took another step, almost losing his footing, and lunged for his target—a trunk. It was familiar, the embossed initials RR glinting in the moonlight. It had belonged to Ruthris, the dead magician. He’d have no use for it now. Grabbing the rope handle, he pulled it from the water.

  Yemelyan took the other side and they dragged it up the beach. “Wonder what’s in it?” he said.

  Who knew? It was locked. Toulesh hovered near the water’s edge, appearing to skim stones with Rikesh. Guyen summoned him. He swept over, studied the trunk for a moment, then poked his head inside.

  Well?

  Of course, the simulacrum wasn’t about to impart anything useful, although it felt like something of value lay within.

  “Let’s carry it,” Guyen said. “I’m sure there’s something worth salvaging.” This wasn’t theft, the magician had no family, that had been clear from his stories. But he’d not been short of money, the silver coin Guyen had won from him proved that. Perhaps he’d hoarded the rest of his fortune in here.

  They caught up with their parents and walked through the night, keeping well clear of the sand wraiths. Dawn broke, and as the sun beamed light but hardly heat into the world, the wraiths were replaced by itchy black mites. After a while, the beach narrowed to rocks, so they cut inland and found a road. They’d been walking for a couple of hours when a wagon and riders drew up behind them. A local patrol. There was nowhere to run.

  The captain rode up alongside. “Where have you people come from?” he barked.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” Father said. “We travel from Attica, visiting family in Tal Maran.”

  “In that case, you’ll have papers.” The Sendali glared, his men’s hands bristling on their weapons.

  Globes! Would they be arrested now? It had all been for nothing.

  “Of course,” Father said. He pulled his shirt up, revealing a watertight bladder pouch strapped around his girth. That had been some foresight. He withdrew a document and handed it to the captain—one of the papers he’d obtained before they’d left, a right to remain in Sendal. How he’d come by it was a mystery, although Mother was a Sendali citizen so it was probably something to do with that. You didn’t ask Father too many questions.

  The captain read it then looked up, expression suspicious. “We’ll take you into town,” he said. “Make sure you get there safely, eh?” He nodded at the wagon. This didn’t seem a refutable offer, so they climbed aboard. As Guyen pulled himself up, a sneering cadet with a flick of blond hair offered a steadying hand. He ignored him, pushing the trunk on, sitting on top of it.

  The cadet glared, blue eyes frosty. “That’s a nice piece of furniture,” he said. “Where did you steal it from?” The wagon rolled and Yemelyan clattered into him, knocking him into another patroller.

  “Watch it, Rossi,” the other patroller said.

  The cadet scowled at Yemelyan. Rikesh took a swipe, but his vaporous hand passed clean through the scrag. Yemelyan didn’t look up, he was less aware of his simulacrum these days.

  The journey flew by in a daze, Guyen staring from the back of the wagon, ignoring the preening, blond cadet. They trundled along lanes bordered by fields of purple heather, passing strange animals, birds and trees, until around mid-morning they crossed a vast suspension bridge, a remarkable feat of engineering. It spanned two cliffs, a wide river merging with an estuary hundreds of feet below. They rolled down a winding lane on the other side and Tal Maran revealed itself, a two-drucket kind of town, its centre rundown, everything focussed on the port and shipyard at the foot of the east cliff.

  The patrol dropped them off at the prefecture and a rotund guard showed them to a cell.

  “You’ll be free to go once we’ve checked your papers,” he said. “Until then, make yourselves comfortable.” He lumbered off, chuckling to himself.

  Guyen curled up in the corner. Sleep and dreams of strange lights in the sky came easily.

  4

  The Office of Assignment

  It was late afternoon when the tired Yorkov family knocked on Zial’s door. He shared a tiny cottage with his wife and three daughters in the immigrants’ quarter, up on the West Cliff—a long walk from the prefecture. Your typical Krellen, heavyset with a bushy black beard, the stink of fish, tabac smoke and poteen clung to him like a coat. He embraced Father and ushered them inside.

  Introductions made, his wife, Nazhedra, set to work preparing tea and muffins, as the girls stared wide-eyed at the new arrivals. The atmosphere was tense, and Guyen had only the energy to sit, smiling politely, craving sleep. After the food, Father set about retelling their horrifying journey and bare survival. The mood turned sombre as the account of the disaster unfolded, and the faces of the dead on the beach flitted through Guyen’s mind like ghouls.

  “Something happened with the weather,” Yemelyan said. “You should have seen it, red lightning, hot rain, it was crazy.”

  “We know,” Zial said. “We saw it too.”

  The girls huddled closer together. Nazhedra shook her head. “That’s not the first time we’ve seen black rain.” She touched the beads around her neck. “Some say it’s a sign of the end days.”

  Zial laughed. “Nonsense, woman. Probably just sunspots or some such thing.” But he didn’t sound convinced. Guyen was too tired to ask what she meant by black rain. She couldn’t mean it literally. Eventually, mercy was shown and they were ushered into a backroom containing a double bed. Toys and dolls lined two rough, wooden shelves, and an array of feathery dreamcatchers festooned the window. The room was small. This would be a trial, what with Father’s snoring. Right now though, not even an earthquake would vanquish sleep. Mother and Father took the bed, the twins making do with straw mats on the floor, and for a short while, Guyen lay listening to the sounds of the house and the daughters in the next room moaning about giving up their sleeping quarters. Then sleep came.

  The next day, Nazhedra provided a breakfast of malt bread and hot cacao—the invigorating brew nutty with a hint of cinnamon. Guyen perched on a stool brought in from the yard, chairs being at a premium. He sipped the cacao, smiling at the three daughters, nine, twelve and fourteen, at a guess.

  “Would you like some honey on that bread, dear?” Nazhedra asked.

  “Please,” Guyen said.

  She spread some for him and the conversation turned to work. There was no time to waste, they couldn’t rely on Zial’s charity. “You’ll need to find the Assignments Office,” Nazhedra said. “It’s in the old town, next to the corn exchange. I’ll scribble some directions for you.”

  “What happens there?” Yemelyan asked.

  “It’s where you’ll get your Assignment, dear.”

  Yemelyan swapped a confused look. “What’s that then?”

  “That’s how they do things here,” eldest daughter Evgeniya said. She sat brushing her hair in the corner. “They decide what you’re allowed to do for a job. They’re very strict about it.”

  Zial snorted. “Damn system. Always trying to put people in boxes.”

  Yemelyan smiled pleasantly. “Why not just let people find a job they’re good at?”

  “Control, son,” Zial said, “and their damn Binding. No one’s a freeman in this country.”

  Rikesh and Toulesh, sat cross-legged by the door, threw up their vaporous hands in disgust. Yemelyan voiced their concerns. “What does Binding have to do with what job you can take?” he asked.

  Evgeniya answered. “The concoction they Bind people with here makes you good at some things, bad at others. People work better if they get the right Assignment, that’s what they say. And they say it’s bad luck if you ain’t matched up right.”

  “Superstitious nonsense,” Zial said.

  Father grunted a laugh. “This country didn’t get where it was by chance, Zee. It’s all connected—Faze—Binding—Assignments.”

  “Yeah, but no one knows how,” Zial said. “That’s the joke of it.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Father agr
eed. “Faze is a mystery. But you have to admit, Sendalis are fucking good at what they’re good at.”

  The girls smirked. Mother frowned. “Olvar, language please.”

  “Their rotten Assignments won’t help when it all goes to shit,” Zial muttered. Father shook his head, sending a warning.

  “More cacao dear?” Nazhedra asked.

  Guyen offered his cup. The refreshing brew was the only thing injecting life into his weary limbs. “So what sort of thing’s on offer at this Assignments Office?” he asked.

  Zial laughed. “Offer, son? There’s no offers, only orders.”

  “Could I get something to do with books?”

  “I doubt that, boy. Not with your accent.” They’d been speaking Sendali Common since they’d arrived, Zial and his family fluent. Guyen prided himself on his command of the language, he’d spoken it as long as he could remember, despite living in Krell. He’d never considered he had an accent till now.

  “Assignment runs in families, dear,” Nazhedra said gently. She turned to Mother. “How were you assigned, Livia?”

  Mother looked up. Her eyes flicked to Zial. “My Talent is Seamstress. I shall visit the local milliners and ask after some work.”

  She didn’t look capable of making it to the bridge in her current state, let alone into town. The voyage, disaster, and long trek had affected her worse than any of them.

  “You’ll go when you’re recovered, love,” Father said.

  Nazhedra exchanged a guarded frown with her husband. She’d be less than happy about new, coinless mouths to feed.

  Zial grunted. “At least you lads’ll earn decent pay. Three times what your father can get. They set a minimum wage, it’s a benefit of being a citizen.”

  “So don’t mess it up,” Father added.

  Mother smiled tightly. “Olvar will put in an application for citizenship, won’t you dear?”

  Zial raised an eyebrow. “You’ll come see Knaxti, Olvar, he always needs more men at the dam.” Migrants laboured on the construction three miles upstream on the Tal. It was black market work, hence the poor pay, but Father wasn’t the kind to shirk his responsibilities.

  A short while later, Zial and Father headed out. Guyen helped clear up then joined Yemelyan in the backyard. The lazy bastard played skittles with the two youngest daughters, bowling a string ball at a row of brightly coloured wooden dolls. He was good with kids—one of his better qualities. The rescued trunk sat where they’d dumped it next to a pungent herb bush, Zial an amateur herbalist judging by the jars of dried leaves inside. Guyen wandered over. How the trunk opened was a mystery, any hinges hidden. As for the lock mechanism, that was anyone’s guess.

  “How are we going to get inside this thing?” he muttered.

  Yemelyan threw his ball at the doll skittles. “Huzzah!” he exclaimed as they fell. The youngest daughter sent him a dark stare. He turned round. “Shame we ain’t got a key,” he said.

  Guyen quirked an eyebrow. “And where would you put it if you did?”

  “Up your—”

  Guyen coughed, glancing at the girls. They doubtless weren’t as innocent as they looked, but it was too early for bawd humour.

  Yemelyan smirked. “We could throw it off the cliff? That might pop the lid.”

  Guyen groaned. “Yeah, and destroy anything inside.”

  “Oh.” He reconsidered. “What about an axe then? Maybe Zial has one.”

  “That won’t do it much good either. It’s a nice piece of furniture, I was thinking we might sell it. Intact.”

  Yemelyan waved at the window to their tiny room. “How long do you want to sleep on the floor? There might be enough coin inside this thing to get our own place.”

  He had a point. How long could the two families coexist in such a tight space before something gave? Not long probably. And they could hardly sell a locked trunk.

  Yemelyan turned to the middle daughter, Osetya. “Hey, sweetheart, you know where your pa keeps his axe?”

  “In the wood store,” she squeaked.

  “Can you get it for me?”

  She nodded, scampering off around the side of the cottage, returning a few seconds later with a decent-sized splitter.

  Guyen winced. “Really? We’re doing this?”

  Yemelyan grinned. “Right, girls, stand back, please.” They retreated several steps and he took aim. The axe thumped into the wood and bounced off. He dropped it and swore, rubbing his wrist. “What the hell is that thing made of?” he muttered. The trunk exhibited not so much as an indent.

  “I think you need a bigger chopper,” Guyen observed wryly.

  Yemelyan snorted. “You do. Smartarse.”

  Guyen groaned. “Just put the man’s axe back and sort your life out. We have to get into town and deal with this Assignment business.”

  Yemelyan sighed. “Fine. But I will get in that trunk if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You wouldn’t fit, brother.”

  “Oh, very funny.” He rewarded the amusing quip with a punch on the arm. That always meant it was a good one.

  They set off, the day bright and sunny, the air crisp, and loosing their simulacra to follow on behind, they crossed the bridge between the cliffs—the Impossible Bridge, as it was known. Far below, crashing waves broke around rocks where the river met the ocean. Along the east bank, the shipyard and port occupied ant-sized men busy sawing and hammering. Further upriver, the town was a patchwork quilt of red-tiled roofs. A gull flew low overhead, swooping out to sea as the bridge swayed unnervingly in the wind. Guyen touched the safety rail, glancing up at the monumental engineering for reassurance—tall ironwork jutting from both cliffs, high towers supporting ropes thick as tree stumps.

  “This bridge is something,” he said. “How did they get the ropes all the way up there?”

  Yemelyan shrugged. “Dunno, monkeys? If this is the kind of effort they put into a boondocks place like Tal Maran though, imagine what the rest of the country’s like. No wonder Sendalis rule the waves.”

  That was far too much praise for the country of their oppressors. “I’m sure it’s an extremely well-constructed cesspit,” Guyen said.

  “Positivity, brother.”

  Guyen snorted. “What the hell are we doing here? When they find out where we’re from, they’ll give us the shittiest Assignment going, I just know it.”

  Yemelyan tutted. “Calm down. We don’t need your temper drawing attention to us today. How legit do you think these papers are?” He tapped his pocket containing the citizenship documents Father had given them.

  Guyen sniffed. “Not very. All right, I’ll be on my best behaviour.” Out to sea, a tall ship headed for port. The same navy bastards that attacked them in the dark? But had it really been their fault the ship sank? He wasn’t so sure. “Has it really come to this?” he grumbled. “Doing things the Sendali way?”

  “We just need to suck it up until we find our feet,” Yemelyan said. “What choice do we have? We need to work.”

  “I hate this place already.”

  He offered an understanding grimace. “It might not be as bad as you think.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be worse.”

  “Think positive, arsewipe.”

  Guyen let out an exasperated grunt. Toulesh folded violently back in.

  Reaching the East Cliff, they headed down steps cut into the sheer chalk face, then followed Nazhedra’s directions into the centre of town. The local branch of the Assignments Office was a grey, soulless building set apart on two floors next to the corn exchange, as Nazhedra had described.

  A young woman around their age stood behind a counter, dress impeccable and business-like, blonde hair tied tight in a bun. “Good morning,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”

  Toulesh boosted himself invisibly up onto the counter, fixing her with a suspicious stare. “We’ve come to be assigned,” Guyen said.

  She frowned. “You’re a bit old for that, aren’t you? Where are you from?”

>   “Krell.”

  She turned to Yemelyan. “And you?”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Same. We’re brothers, twins, in fact.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Guyen said. “What of it?”

  “Nothing.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry, only citizens may request Assignment.”

  “We are citizens, through our mother.”

  “You have proof of that, do you?”

  Yemelyan laid their papers down on the counter.

  She studied them for a moment, then looked up, eyes piercing crystal blue. “You know there’s a central register? If these are forgeries, they’ll arrest you.”

  “12,995,466,” Guyen said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s my citizen number.”

  “I see.” She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you can write?”

  “Of course,” he snapped, exhaustion from the journey bubbling over.

  She scowled. “Very well, fill these in.” She took out a pile of forms, handing two over along with a quill and ink pot. A leaflet fell out of the pile, fluttering to the floor.

  Guyen picked it up, catching the heading, Send Them Back, printed below a totem symbol made out of six animal heads. He read the first few lines.

  Do you struggle to provide for your family? Has your pay been eroded by the influx of foreigners? You are not alone. Can your children walk the streets in safety? Do you sleep soundly in your bed? Do you fear the maddenings the pests spread? You are not alone. Rise up, reclaim your land.

  He offered it back. “Yours?”

  The girl frowned. “These things get everywhere.”

  “What is it?”

  “Echelism. Dead ideas best left to the Age of Sighs. Right-minded people have nothing to do with it.”

  “No friends of ours then,” Guyen said.

  She snorted. “Hardly. They think Binding should favour those of pure blood. That doesn’t include foreigners.” She ripped the leaflet into quarters. “To be honest, I feel sorry for people who think like that.” She threw the remains in a waste basket. Toulesh waved agitatedly at Yemelyan and Rikesh appeared They swarmed around her. Why the aggravation? She pointed at a bench next to the window. “You can sit over there.”