“What’s his game?” Guyen grumbled. Twenty paces ahead, the simulacra buzzed around the man like they might interrogate him.
Yemelyan shook his torch, trying to get more light out of it. “Have you seen his shoes?”
They were high quality leathers. The man had money. “I didn’t know Mother knew anyone here.”
“Me neither.”
“He’d better piss off soon, if he knows what’s good for him.”
Yemelyan grunted in agreement.
They returned to the cottage and sat for several hours while Dalrik caught up with Mother’s stories. Apparently, they hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. Guyen tried dropping a few subtle questions into the conversation to find out what the man did. He surely wasn’t a groundskeeper, neither a Flags owner, he insisted. Guyen pushed the point past irritation and Dalrik insinuated he was a trader. That should mean he had a Merchant Assignment, but as high collars obscured his mark, the claim couldn’t be corroborated. All in all, the Sendali was a suspicious bastard, untrustworthy and unlikeable, paying only miserly lip service to Father’s memory. This was supposed to be a wake, not a reunion.
Disgustingly, Nazhedra agreed Dalrik could stay the night on the parlour floor. That would spoil the whole next day. Rather than blow up in his face, Guyen let himself into the yard to clear his head. The Book of Talents sat locked in the trunk. He may as well take another look. It might take his mind off things. He dug out the fake silver and performed the strange unlocking ritual, spinning the coin, willing it to land harps-side-up. It worked after a few goes and he retrieved the book, turning up the lamp wick for more light. The book’s silver lettering sparkled. Would he really have to sell it? How could he? It was such a glorious tome. He perched on the trunk, letting the pages fall randomly open at another interesting passage—a fanciful report of the death of a Grande Prime, that being the highest office of state in Sendal.
Some two hundred years ago, a Scholar named Gustavo Polenka had lived in fear for his life, a constant target for assassins. According to the book, he’d used a Faze device to secure his apartments at his keep in the capital, Carmain. The device was a compact—a folding pocket mirror. Bizarrely, when the compact opened, the door to his apartments locked, and vice versa. The text offered no explanation as to how the thing worked, noting only that it was called a probability switch.
One day, a Damorian spy, seducing the Grande Prime with her wiles, wedged open the door to his apartments to let her accomplices in to murder him. When Polenka went to open the compact and lock the door, he was killed, saving the assassins a job. Creepily, the book claimed, his reflection remained forever in the pocket mirror, screaming into eternity.
A colourful story, as were many in the book, but something rang true in it. Could the trunk be a Faze device too? They were rare, but not unheard of, in fact, some would consider clocks and sodalamps such. If the trunk really was a Faze device, it might explain a lot. Faze could do things no one understood. Perhaps the coin was a probability switch to the trunk, like the pocket mirror in the story was to the door?
There’s a thin line between madness and imagination, but if the trunk was a Faze device, it meant he wasn’t insane. Perhaps he could break the link between coin and trunk, proving it was such an object. A niggling doubt surfaced. He’d just read of someone who’d killed himself doing similar, but then, that was just a story, most likely the assassins had simply got their man.
So, what would happen if he wedged the trunk open like the assassin had Polenka’s door, then tried to lock it? It was worth a go. He found a stone in the roots of the ochre herb bush beside him and slipped it under the trunk’s lid, shutting it save the thinnest crack. He spun the coin. It seemed more reluctant to land heads than before, but on the fifth attempt he succeeded. A sharp twinge pinched his temples, the lamplight splitting into a rainbow of oily colours, the clamour morphing into a howl. He pulled back from the feeling with a start. The lamplight returned to a vague yellow bloom, the howling fading away.
What the hell?
It was cold. Too cold. Like the first time he’d unlocked the trunk. Globes. Where was Toulesh? He bit his lip, centring himself in the pain. The simulacrum reintegrated with a whoosh, filling him like a sail. He relaxed, grateful to be whole again. What had he just done? Something accursed, that was certain.
He inspected the trunk lid. It wouldn’t budge. The pebble was stuck, fused with the wood. How was that possible? Then he noticed the herb bush, or what had once been a herb bush. Now it was just a deathly brown stick, its leaves a carpet of dust amongst its roots. He shuddered. That was wrong, very wrong.
Tentatively, he examined the coin. It seemed the same as always. He’d not play with it again though, not after this.
The Book of Talents
The Deeds of the Six Hundred
Historiae Priori, the writings of Erodius, i.c. , 8.s.
The Age of Sighs. hg.0–hg.152
Fiercely did the Bindmasters wage war upon each other for one-hundred-fifty years, tearing asunder field and forest before them, their minds ravaged by the untameable power they had made for themselves. Unleashing demons, they called forth hideous probabilities from within the Layer, changing all about them, placing men’s hearts outside their chests and their brains beyond their skulls. More still caused the earth to decay at a touch, while others changed form, and others set curses upon every object. Most were soon beset by madness, their mortal souls devoured by the power they had harnessed.
Alliances were forged, and the Six Hundred organised themselves under the great constellations—Scarab, Adder, Wolf, Crow, Cat and Rat, but then the Bindmasters fought amongst each other, greedy to own the magic of the Layer for themselves. Their powers grew, until the few who remained returned as gods to the Midlands for the final battles in the year hg.152, their vast armies plundered from mortal men through fear and loyalty both.
As the world split, so did just one of the Six Hundred survive, his name, Feil Hayern. A junior of his ranks at the time of the Turn, he had ascended over all. His tears were as a river for what his kind had done to the world, for the sickness and insanity they had cursed upon every corner. So did he change himself, turning his own blood into the cure.
And men shared his blood with one another.
So did Hayern become the Sacrifice, the Seed, the Hope.
NOTA:
Translation by Fitch, hg.832
Hayern’s influence in Sendali folklore cannot be understated. His deeds are retold in many traditional songs, and his name used as both a curse and a blessing. He also lends nomenclature to the Hayern Genus (hg) calendar.
S.G.
9
The Impossible Bridge
Happy birthday,” Mother said.
Light streamed into the parlour, far too bright for this early. “Good morning,” Guyen grunted.
“Eighteen!” She sighed. “Where did that time go?”
Presumably where all time went. “Is there any cacao?” He nodded a greeting to the three girls sat at the table, faces in their porridge bowls. They broke into that birthday song, chiming along in unison. He grinned. “Now that is a good start to the day.” They went back to their bowls, happy with a job well done.
Mother offered a cup. “I’m sorry, I haven’t got you a present.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Can I at least give you a hug?”
“Oh, go on then.” He accepted the embrace, trying not to spill cacao down her back.
Yemelyan appeared from the bedroom. “Damn, you got in first again!”
Guyen sent a pleased but empty smile. When they were younger, it had always been a fun competition to see who would get to their parents first on their birthday. And it was always him who did. He was the oldest, after all, and Yemelyan liked his sleep. This birthday was different though. There was no point to the competition without Father.
“I’ll make you boys something to eat,” Nazhedra said. “I have duck eggs.�
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“Thank you,” Guyen said. “That would be very nice.” A pile of blankets lay next to the fireplace. “He’s gone, has he?”
Mother flinched. “Who, Dalrik?” Well, of course Dalrik. Who else would you mean? “He left at dawn,” she said. “Oh, and he kindly lent us some money.” Her eyes fell to an unfamiliar purse on the table.
A scowl took hold. “How do you know each other?”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Really. What sort of friend, exactly?”
She shrugged. “Think of him as an uncle.”
“Ha!” Guyen pulled a chair up to the table beside Toulesh and took another mouthful of cacao, eying the bulging purse. “Whoever he is, we don’t need his help.”
Evgeniya looked away in disgust. Guyen shifted uncomfortably under her heat. He was damned if they were going to start relying on a Sendali stranger with his eye on their mother. But it was difficult to turn down help in the position they were in. He grunted. “If he wants to give away his money, who are we to complain?” This elicited a grin from Evgeniya. She took a big spoonful of porridge.
Nazhedra turned to Yemelyan. “Sit down, love. The least you two deserve is a decent breakfast on your birthday.” He sat, and they ate, enjoying the eggs, the cacao, and each other’s company.
With a rostered day off from the foundry, the twins took the opportunity to repair the cottage roof, damaged during the hailstorm on the day of Father’s death. As evening fell, they headed into town with some of Dalrik’s money. It was their birthday, after all. Besides, Mother had insisted, right after warning them not to drink too much or start any fights. As if that would happen.
It was a crisp, clear evening as they crossed the Impossible Bridge. They descended the steps carved into the East Cliff and wandered into Tal Maran’s narrow lanes, oil lamps lighting the way. The town council were good like that. They passed a goldsmith’s and a tallow shop, a locksmith’s and a store selling women’s dresses—all shut, all quiet and dark inside. The only people out were those looking for a good time. A homeless man extended a hand as they passed. Guyen threw him a copper. Yemelyan gawped, but it wasn’t their money, was it?
Before they reached the main square, they passed a busy drinking establishment leaking harpsichord music out into the lane. A board over the door proclaimed the establishment Etta May’s Fine Rakha Emporium. Guyen peered through the tall windows. Unlike an alehouse, the place was filled with as many women as men.
“What do you think?” He nodded at the smoky scene. He’d never tried rakha before, the craze for the exotic liquor not having crossed the ocean to Krell.
Yemelyan slapped him on the back. “If it’ll get us drunk, I’m game.”
“Right. We’ll have one here then, if it’s no good we can always go somewhere else.”
“It’s a plan, brother.”
“After you then.” Guyen pulled open the door.
The establishment was nothing like a tavern, the floor covered with rich red rugs, the décor feminine. A long bar stretched down one side. An acidic, earthy smell hung in the air—perfume and body odour combining with a fruity aroma. So this was a rakha parlour? It was alive, three-quarters full. This new drink was obviously popular.
They wandered up to the bar. A dozen glass jars of variously coloured liquids lined up on it. The barmaid turned to serve them. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever’s strongest,” Guyen said.
“Well, they’re all strong. Pick one.” She pointed to the chalkboard menu behind her. It listed several flavours. “Can you read?”
Why did people have to assume he was illiterate? One day the misconception might come in useful, till then it was just plain annoying. “We’ll have a couple of pints of the blueberry,” he said.
“We only serve quarts.”
“Fine, two of those then.”
Yemelyan nudged him. “Familiar face over there.” He pointed to a table in the corner. The blonde girl from the Assignments Office sat there, fingers curling a tall glass. Ariana, wasn’t it? She held herself so upright, she might have been tied to a pole. An old biddy sat opposite her, her face a constant frown.
The barmaid pushed two glasses over. “Two marks,” she squeaked.
Guyen handed over two coppers, making sure not to pay with his fake silver, which he palmed. They took a seat near the front window close to the powder rooms where an old woman perched on a stool with a basket of potpourri. The place continued to fill up. He tested the drink. “Not bad.” You could feel the alcohol hit as it went down. “Tastes like fruit, not liquor.”
“I like it,” Yemelyan agreed. “Happy birthday.”
Guyen smiled despite everything. “Happy birthday. Let’s raise a toast to the old man, shall we?”
They took a glug.
“He’d have been proud of us,” Yemelyan said, “getting drunk, I mean.”
“Yeah.” He certainly would have been. Guyen absentmindedly spun the fake silver on the table. Shit, he probably shouldn’t do that, considering the withered herb bush from his previous night’s work. The coin fell heads-up as he’d last changed it. He glanced about, breathing a sigh of relief. All appeared normal, nothing withering. Nothing to see here, if you don’t include a coin that only lands one way up.
They’d just about finished their drinks when some horses trotted up outside, red-jacketed youths astride them. One of the cadets was familiar—Rossi. A young woman sat behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, probably his sweetheart. They dismounted and tied up the horses, and Rossi had words with a gang of slum kids hanging around outside. He passed something to one of them, presumably a bribe to make sure the horses were still there when they returned. They came in. He looked over, his brow furrowing, but passed by without a word.
“That’s the bastard I was telling you about,” Guyen snorted.
Yemelyan stared at Rossi’s girl, thoughts elsewhere. “Look at that. I do like a tart in riding gear.” He sent one of his impudent grins over. She smiled coquettishly back. “I wouldn’t mind,” he muttered.
“I wouldn’t recommend that, brother.”
Rossi and his companions took a table next to the girl from the Assignments office. She allowed him to kiss her hand, and they exchanged words. Perhaps she knew him. Guyen returned to the bar, ordering two quarts of cherry rakha. If he hadn’t already been feeling the effects, he would have sworn rakha couldn’t possibly be alcoholic. His eyes flicked to the corner of the room. Rossi leaned over Ariana’s table, showing off. Inbred.
He took the drinks back to Yemelyan. He still had his eyes on Rossi’s honey. “I think she’s interested,” he said slyly. Guyen placed the drinks on the table and glanced over. Yemelyan punched him on the leg. “Eyes front, arsewipe. I’m playing hard to get.”
Guyen sat. “Didn’t you see who she came in with?”
“So? No harm in looking is there?”
Rossi and his friends glanced over. The cadet had a sneer like a five-year-old. “What’s their problem?” Guyen muttered. He poured the cherry spirit down his neck. Not to be outdone, Yemelyan sank his in one, finishing with a fruity burp.
Rossi’s girl sashayed past, heading for the powder room. She glanced at Guyen’s neck, raising an eyebrow. “Nice ink,” she said. She took a towel from the old woman on the stool and pushed through the white doors.
“Stuck up bitch,” Guyen said, a hand going to his Assignment mark. He really needed higher collars. “I don’t know why they insist on branding people with these things if you’re not supposed to see them. Why cover them anyway?”
Yemelyan looked back from the powder room door. “I think it’s called decorum.”
“More like they don’t want to be reminded how shit their lives are.”
“Don’t start! We’re supposed to be having a fun night, remember? Go get more booze. The more of this stuff I drink, the thirstier I get. The owner of this place is onto a winner.”
Guyen grunted agreement, finished the dregs, and re
turned to the bar. Thirsty clientele jostled for service. He pushed past the crowd to the furthest end, near to where the girl Ariana sat with her chaperone, looking bored. He waited to be served, avoiding eye contact with the locals, and Rossi’s table, too engrossed in comparing daggers to notice him anyway. He caught himself touching his neck again and forced his hand down by his side. These weren’t his people. This wasn’t his scene. He glanced back at their table. Damn! Rossi’s girl perched there, laughing and joking with Yemelyan. What was the idiot playing at?
He turned back to the bar, catching Ariana’s eye. “Come here often, do you?” Oh, you idiot!
She arched an eyebrow. “Actually, never.”
Her chaperone tutted. “Does my lady resemble in any way a commoner to you, sir?” She looked a bitter old maid, if ever you saw one, too much powder covering a boil or some such lesion on her chin.
“No, madam,” Guyen said, “more like a princess.” He winked at Ariana. “A spoilt one, mind.” She glared back.
The old maid huffed. “In that case, don’t be so presumptuous as to engage her in conversation. If she had the inclination to talk to the likes of you, she would frequent the port.”
Ariana’s look turned to a challenge. What was the point in talking to the likes of them anyway? “I beg your pardon, madam. I shall be sure to keep my presumptions to myself.”
The barmaid appeared. “Yes?”
“Two of the gooseberry, please.” He pushed over two coppers.
She dipped her jug, refilling the glasses. Guyen glanced back at their table. It was empty. He scanned the bar just in time to see Yemelyan disappearing outside, Rossi’s girl in tow. The bastard. He’s deserting you. On our birthday. Rossi didn’t seem to have noticed. He wouldn’t be happy when he did. Guyen glared at the drinks. What the hell. He necked one. Toulesh reached for the other, his vaporous hand passing clean through the glass. He snarled, trying again. Guyen put him out of his misery, downing that one too. His bastard brother certainly didn’t deserve it.
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