Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  The barmaid busy at the other end of the bar, he dipped his glass in the rakha jar for a top-up.

  She shouted over. “Hey!”

  He waved a copper, downing the liquor before she could object.

  She bustled over. “What’s your game, duck?”

  “You need more staff. Another.”

  “This ain’t an alehouse.”

  “I am aware.” He pushed the glass and a further copper towards her. “Fill it up, please. I’ll go for the red stuff.” Ariana and her chaperone looked on as if there were a turd in the bath. Well, screw them.

  The barmaid refilled the glass. “That’s your lot. I don’t want any trouble.”

  He snorted. “It won’t come from me.” He wended his way back to the empty table and sat down, wondering what to do. A night out on his own hardly appealed. He turned the fake silver over in his fingers, sipping the rakha. Toulesh took the opposite seat. He was beginning to look vacant.

  A short while later, Rossi walked up. He glared. “You seen my sister, gutterfill?”

  Toulesh rose menacingly over him. “Your sister?”

  “Yes, my sister. Where’s that lad you were sitting next to?”

  Guyen ignored the question. “You know that blonde girl?” He nodded towards Ariana. She stared over.

  Rossi bowed his head in her direction. She smiled back. “Of course I know her,” he said. "Ariana and I are as good as betrothed. One day, I shall marry her.”

  “Lucky her.”

  His eyes glinted. “What about answering my question?”

  An image of the cadet nearly falling from his horse bubbled up. “Never seen him before.”

  Rossi darkened. “Suppose you think you’re a hard bastard, do you?”

  “Hard enough not to worry about you.”

  He scowled. “I think it’s time you were drinking up. Try the docks, the establishments down there are more in keeping with your type.”

  “I drink where I like.” Guyen tapped his tattoo. “I’m a Sendali citizen.”

  “There’s plenty of tramps with marks on their necks, doesn’t mean they’re welcome in a place like this.”

  It took every ounce of willpower not to stand up and lump the scrag around his cloth-eared head. Guyen took a deep breath instead. “Tell you what.” He held up the fake silver. “I’ll flip you for it. Three harps in a row says you buy me another quart of rakha.”

  “And if you lose?”

  He dumped the purse on the table. It still held a good thirty marks. “You get this, and I’ll stop stinking the place out.”

  Rossi raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take your bet, but let us prove you are not a cheat. Why don’t we say heads rather than harps, then I’ll buy you that drink? Otherwise, your pocket money’s mine.”

  Guyen feigned disappointment.

  Rossi sneered. “Not trying to cheat me, are you? Come on, a bet’s a bet.”

  Toulesh shook his head, sending a warning. Would the simulacrum ever accept who wore the britches in this relationship? The cadet was already beaten with the double bluff, the coin would land heads, it would probably land heads forever now the trunk was broken. But it was too much to expect Toulesh to appreciate such subtleties. Guyen threw the silver in the air, catching it on the back of his hand. He revealed the head to Rossi. This was fun. Acting surprised, he flipped it again. Heads. Who would have thought it? He narrowed his eyes. “I expect table service.” He flipped it a final time.

  Rossi glanced down and grinned. Guyen blinked. The damn coin lay harps-up. How had that happened? Rossi hooked the purse up by its drawstring and gestured towards the door. “Goodbye then.”

  Arsehole. “I’ll finish my drink first.”

  Rossi pulled his sabre. The harpsichord music stopped abruptly, nearby tables turning to stare. He touched the point of his blade to Guyen’s ear. “Get lost, Krellen.”

  “All right, I’m going, if you’ll let me.”

  He withdrew the blade.

  Guyen picked up his hat and kicked back his chair. Catching Ariana’s eye, he skulked towards the exit.

  Rossi followed, pushing him towards the pavement as the door swung closed behind them. The street kids looked on over by the horses. “Don’t let me see you around here again,” he snapped, and turned to go.

  It was irresistible. Guyen proffered a shove.

  The cadet stumbled over the step. The street kids laughed. He whirled round. “Cad!” He lunged.

  His sabre missed by an inch. “Bastard!” Guyen swore. “You nearly cut me.”

  He raised his sword again.

  Guyen backed into the pavement menu board. He picked it up. “Get away from me.”

  Rossi laughed. “Why don’t you make me?”

  Pent-up anger and frustration bubbled over. Guyen slammed the board into the arrogant shit, clattering his sabre to the cobbles.

  The door burst open. Ariana appeared in the frame, her chaperone and two of Rossi’s militia friends behind her. “Leave him alone, Kaelan.”

  “Nothing to leave,” Rossi growled, picking up his sword.

  She glared.

  He sent a parting dark look and pushed back inside.

  Ariana offered a sympathetic smile. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  Guyen sniffed. “Nah. I need to find my brother.” He turned and strode off up the street, leaving the girl staring after him. The stuck-up princess could keep her precious rakha palace for herself.

  Yemelyan was nowhere to be seen. He took the next right, coming upon St Frederik’s, the parish church. Silvera hung large in the sky tonight, a ghostly circle with a red tinge down one side. The moonlight caught on the church’s high steeple, drawing his eyes upwards as the architect had intended. Rossi’s sister emerged from the graveyard, drawing his eyes back down again. She adjusted her shirt, hair all over the place, and hurried past without comment. He was about to send Toulesh off to locate Yemelyan, when he too emerged from the churchyard, beaming.

  “Oi oi!” he called. He tipped the rest of what looked like a bottle of red wine down his throat and threw the empty container in a bush, hurrying over.

  Guyen grimaced. “Gods! What have you been doing in there?”

  “Just what comes naturally.” Rikesh hazed into view, an even smugger look on his face than his master’s.

  “You’re playing with fire there. You just screwed a militiaman’s sister.”

  Yemelyan spread his palms. “But it’s our birthday.”

  Guyen sighed. “You dirty bastard.” But he couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Fine, let’s get out of here. Where to?” Their simulacra put their arms drunkenly around each other and looked on questioningly.

  Yemelyan stroked his chin. “The night is still young. Think I heard of a pub down by the port. The Shark and Shackle. Copper a pint.”

  Guyen grimaced, remembering the purse. “Er, I lost the money.”

  “Say what?”

  He relayed the unfortunate events in the rakha parlour, blaming the now not-so-lucky silver.

  Yemelyan tutted. “Well, I’m still thirsty.”

  Guyen produced the silver, holding it between finger and thumb. “I suppose we could spend this.”

  “Shit! Has it come to that?” Yemelyan eyed the coin warily. “Mind you, I won’t be sorry to see the back of it. All right then.”

  They found the river path and headed out of town. The port was located in a small inlet just north of where the bridge spanned the cliffs, the crossing as impressive a sight from beneath as from above. They strode through the arch marking the port entrance, and several tall ships came into view, skeletal cranes creaking high above. Passing a tower of stacked crates, two men sharing a stolen embrace glanced over. They quickly returned to their illicit passions. The Shark and Shackle revealed, nestled within a block of dilapidated buildings opposite the main quay. Fiddle music seeped out through a haze of smoke and bawdy noise.

  They
pushed inside. The pub was packed, elbowroom only, the humid atmosphere tinged with body odour, the smell of old casks and a fishy aroma emanating from an array of fantastical sea creatures dangling from the low oak beams—scales of glass, skeletons outside bodies, reams of teeth, purple-spotted specimens and crazy, bug-eyed lugs sticking one to whichever god had been charged with filling the oceans. A card game was underway, and several drunk men and a cabin boy sang along with the fiddle player in the corner, an old sea shanty extolling romantic liaisons with mermaids. Any seafaring type would tell you they’d seen a mermaid. Perhaps they had, who knew? You should never rule anything out.

  They pushed towards the bar.

  “Don’t look like the kind of place you pay with a bent silver,” Yemelyan muttered. That was true enough, you’d most likely get a good kicking out back for your trouble. He nodded at the card table, where a high stakes game of Jacks looked to be in progress. “Fear not, brother, I have an idea.” Before Guyen could object, he’d tapped the nearest player on the shoulder.

  The man glared. “What do you want?”

  Yemelyan gestured at his empty mug. “Need some lubrication, mate?”

  “Piss off. Do I look in the market for a rent boy?”

  The player opposite slapped the table, impatient for the game to continue. “You seeing my hand, Sid, or what?”

  “I’ll go to the bar for you,” Yemelyan pressed.

  “And why would you do that?”

  “For an ale, mate.”

  “I’m not your mate, friend.”

  “You’re thirsty though, right?”

  He growled. “Will you get out of my face if I say yes?”

  “It’ll be like I was never here.”

  “Bah!” He picked a sixmark from the top of one of his coin towers. “Almaran whisky. And make sure it’s a double. Don’t rip me off.”

  Yemelyan took it. “Coming right up, mate.” He pulled Guyen towards the bar.

  The landlord wasn’t particularly friendly. “Yes?”

  “Single Almaran,” Yemelyan said, “and two ales please.”

  “Where’s yer money?” Yemelyan placed the coin on the bar. The landlord grunted, reaching for the whisky bottle. A minute later, they had an ale each, two coppers change, and what to the casual observer might look like a double Almaran. Yemelyan delivered the ale-diluted whisky to the card table. The man was already drunk and didn’t notice the lighter colour.

  They stood at the bar, drinking quickly, as the old sailor type in the corner attacked his fiddle like music was going out of fashion. They’d finished most of their ale when the landlord turned away. Yemelyan reached for the whisky bottle, dumping a slug in both tankards.

  Guyen winced. “What are you doing? That’s theft.”

  Yemelyan shrugged. “Best get rid of the evidence then. I think I mentioned it’s our birthday. We can’t drink another toast with ale, can we?”

  Well, that was true enough. “Down in one,” Guyen declared. Yemelyan grinned. They sunk the shots and slammed their tankards down. The whisky burned like dark, delicious magma. “Many happy returns!”

  “Ay,” Yemelyan rasped. His cheeks lit up like beetroot.

  The Jacks player shouted over from the card table. “Hey, you there! What’s this piss?” He waved his cup at them. At the same moment, the landlord held the whisky bottle up to his lantern.

  “Time to go home,” Guyen murmured.

  Yemelyan threw his hat up onto his head. “I was bored anyway.” They pushed out into the fresh air, the Jacks player’s curses ringing in their ears.

  They retraced their route, climbing the steep steps to the top of the East Cliff. The alcohol was a good medicament to their troubles and Guyen’s sour mood. With the drunkenness, all sense of Toulesh had evaporated, along with any decorum. “Why do you have to think with your dick all the time?” he slurred. “It’ll be a diseased stick before you’re twenty.”

  Yemelyan paused, catching his breath. “Maybe you should lighten up, get yourself a woman.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Might allay some of that pent-up frustration.”

  “I’m not frustrated, just realistic.” Guyen tested the rope handrail. It was a steep drop. “Get a move on.” He offered a friendly shove. They resumed the climb.

  Eventually, they surmounted the cliff. The bridge appeared before them, lanterns swinging in the breeze. They headed across, but were only halfway when a shout sounded behind them. Guyen glanced over his shoulder. Three riders approached. He was about to step aside when he recognised them. “Shit. That’s your fuckbuddy’s brother.”

  Yemelyan burped. “Is it? I wonder what he wants.”

  Guyen glowered. “You’re a piece of work. Leave the talking to me.”

  “Sure, brother, whatever you say.”

  The cadets rode up and swung menacingly down from their mounts. Whistling clamour began to rise. Why now? Rossi stalked over, a hand on his sabre. He pointed an accusing finger at Yemelyan. “What were you doing with my sister, you immigrant shit?”

  Guyen raised a placating hand. “Now, look here, Rossi.”

  Yemelyan stepped forwards. “What’s it to you, arsehole?”

  “You defiling peasant! I demand satisfaction for my sister.”

  “I thought I already gave her that, redcoat.”

  Rossi glared. “How dare you touch her? She’s not in your league.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I pick food up off the floor. What can I say?”

  “I meant she’s in a higher league, cad.”

  “Well, she fucks like a peasant. Down and dirty. Just how I like them.”

  Rossi snarled. “You’ll regret that remark, Krellen. Defend yourself.”

  Yemelyan darkened. The bastard cadet deserved a good thumping. But this wasn’t a good situation, it was the kind that could spiral out of control. Even in this drunken state, some sense remained. Guyen stepped between them. “Leave him alone.”

  Rossi waved him away. “You stay out of this.”

  The shorter of Rossi’s crew drew his sabre, extracting it from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. He touched the tip to Guyen’s throat. The blade sparkled in the moonlight. What was the chance of relieving him of that without getting cut? Slim. Shit. This was going bad. Shouldn’t have drunk so much.

  Rossi retrained his sights on Yemelyan. “Did you hear me, halfbound? Defend yourself.”

  Yemelyan laughed. “With what?”

  Rossi loosened his belt. His sword fell to the floor. He stepped out of it. “We’ll do it the old fashioned way, shall we?” He put his fists up.

  “Why not,” Yemelyan grunted. He feigned a punch.

  Rossi flinched, and threw a real one.

  Yemelyan dodged.

  They circled each other slowly, measuring, careful, as the clamour grew even more distracting in Guyen’s ears, whining, hissing almost. Rossi lunged again, catching Yemelyan with a right hook.

  Yemelyan staggered, rubbing his jaw. “All right then, I’ll play.” Quick as lightning, he jabbed the cadet on the nose.

  Rossi’s head snapped back. “You’re dead!” he roared, rearing up with an inch advantage in height. Guyen sprung to intervene. The cadet’s sword tip pricked his neck. He froze.

  Yemelyan dodged another jab. “Fucker!” he yelled.

  Rossi threw a combination. Yemelyan blocked, catching him in the face with an elbow. Rossi wheeled round, raging. “Bastard!” he screamed, and came at him like a man possessed. They rained quick, blistering blows on each other, fisticuffs degenerating into something more animalistic as honour was forgotten and survival kicked in. Yemelyan could take care of himself, he was fearless, but the cadet was strong, trained for combat. Guyen stared on, helpless, as the clouds rolled across the reddened moon, and the clamour whined, frightening, invading.

  Yemelyan threw in a head-butt. Rossi staggered backwards, then lunged, grabbing his legs. They crashed down on the roadway. Rossi smashed a f
ist into his head. He’d kill him at this rate. Red mist descended, clamour deafening, a pulsing, crystal wind, chiming, resonating, thrumming. Rossi pulled his knife.

  Guyen yelled. “No!”

  Time stopped, the knife blade a thousand different edges, different shapes, different movements. What the hell. Frozen in place, no, not frozen, moving ever so slowly, the clamour a pulse, pure energy. The knife flashed with that strange nether light, like a burst of starlight exploded from it. And like a crashing wave, time roared back into motion. Rossi’s dagger struck the deck.

  He yelped in surprise, falling on his face next to Yemelyan. A loud snap sounded above.

  The bridge shuddered.

  One of eight thick ropes supporting the structure fell lazily back towards the West Cliff.

  Rossi looked up. “What the—”

  Another rope snapped, pinging down onto the East Cliff. The bridge creaked.

  The other cadet swore. “Shit!” He turned for his horse, the short-arse dropped his sword, right behind him.

  “Where are you going?” Rossi bawled.

  They scrambled into their saddles. “Off this bridge,” the short one shrieked. “It’s not safe.” They turned their mounts around, kicking them into a gallop.

  Guyen stalked forwards. Yemelyan lay unmoving. The clamour still howled.

  Rossi backed away. “This isn’t over,” he growled. Another two ropes snapped above like gunshots.

  The bridge began to rock. There was a loud bang, a cracking sound, and the deck tipped from the horizontal, twisting, corkscrewing, a disintegrating path of splintering timber racing towards them. Rossi ran, his legs finding thin air, as the roadway dropped out from under them.

  Water hit like a brick. Guyen submerged, the ethereal sounds of clamour suddenly replaced by sunken deafness. Survival took over and he pushed up. Cold air smacked him about the face, he gulped in precious oxygen. This was a world of chaos—debris, splashing, salt water, cold. He fought shock and rigidity, thinking desperately, hazily. Yemelyan? He kicked his legs harder, trying to orient himself. “Yem, where are you?”

  Someone splashed in the darkness. “Hey!” Guyen shouted.