Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “I can manage.”

  “Yes, but I want to.”

  “Oh, you’re a right gentleman.” Her tone was sarcastic. “Tell you what, I’ll toss you for it. Where’s that coin of yours?” He opened his mouth to object. “Heads, I carry it,” she said. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  The mystery of the coin was not something he’d shared with Evgeniya. She thought it was weighted and always landed heads.

  “Fine.” Guyen dug it from his pocket. He threw it up and caught it on the back of his hand. And froze. The chiming, pulsing sound was back, and his skin tingled where the coin lay. He looked around for the source of the noise. “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  He cupped his hand, revealing the coin to himself. It was blurred again. He tried to bring it into focus. It flickered, morphing between heads and harps. What the hell was going on? He forced the hallucination away. Something cracked in the quiet, a sound like moving masonry.

  Evgeniya jumped, edging closer. “What was that?” she breathed.

  “I don’t know.” The coin lay normally now, harps-side-up. The empty feeling returned. Toulesh was nowhere. Guyen felt for him, sending out a summons. He folded back in. What just happened?

  “Well?” Evgeniya said. “Let me see.”

  He revealed the coin.

  She shrugged. “Good, I didn’t want to carry the stupid thing anyway.”

  11

  The Visit

  The next morning, as dawn was breaking, they sat around the wobbly pantry table eating a breakfast of jam and porridge. Nazhedra stormed in the backdoor, lantern in one hand, bucket in the other. “Damn well winch is broken again!” She cursed.

  Mother looked up. “What’s wrong with it, dear?”

  “There’s a crack in the bricks and the pulley’s out of position.”

  “It was all right last night,” Evgeniya said. Guyen grunted agreement. Was this his curse at work again? Something to do with the coin? He should probably bury the thing, pretend it didn’t exist.

  “Vandals, I expect,” Mother said. “It’s about time the council spent some money on this ghetto.”

  “Talking of money,” Nazhedra muttered, “we’ve only enough for a few more meals.” She might have soured milk this morning.

  “I’ll see the foundry master,” Guyen said. “Maybe I can get an advance.”

  “Understanding type is he?”

  He wasn’t. Mother stood to collect the plates. “We could always ask Dalrik for help,” she suggested.

  “He’s done too much already,” Guyen snapped. “We’ll work it out.” It was bad enough the man had helped once already, the last thing they needed was to owe him any more favours. There was no such thing as a free lunch from a Sendali.

  Despite no advance from the foundry master, fascination with the coin outweighed the desire to risk spending it. Amazingly, and worryingly, it blurred regularly, shimmering on demand. Relaxing focus on the world, zoning out, the clamour would morph into that whistling, chiming sound and both sides of the coin would appear at once, or consecutively really fast, it was difficult to say, the images were always vague. Focusing on either a head or a harp, the coin would suddenly look normal again, then only landed that side no matter how many times you spun or flipped it.

  Unlike before, the trick worked anywhere—no need to be near the trunk. So Guyen experimented, shattering glasses, killing his flint, and getting sharp migraines in the process. Toulesh disapproved, acting sullen and withdrawn, but otherwise messing with the coin seemed harmless. It was still bizarre though, and not a little sinister. Why couldn’t Yemelyan be awake to see it? To discuss it with? Anyone else would think it insanity, or worse, the maddenings. Maybe it was. Maybe this was what losing your self felt like.

  But these were desperate times. Whatever blessing or curse had chosen him, whatever madness he suffered, affecting the coin was a valuable skill. He vowed to put the trick to use. A bit of swindling around the taverns, perhaps. Sendalis liked a bet.

  He sat with Yemelyan one warm night to give Evgeniya a break, the girl having become to all intents and purposes his nurse. Disturbing dreams came amidst broken sleep. Flying over valleys, incandescent clouds glowed above, clumps of colour and light, while below, coiled in the forests, devils lurked, shadows of terrible creatures that should never be allowed to exist. He awoke with a start, another headache pulsing, the clamour ringing loud over the night’s quiet. He needed water.

  There was a crack at the window. He whipped round. The glass shattered in a violent explosion of tinkling shards.

  He dived, taking cover behind the bed.

  The sound of crickets floated in through the empty opening, the clamour receded. No movement, no disturbance outside. The bedroom felt icy cold. Gingerly, he peered up over his sleeping brother. It was too dark to see. He felt for the tinderbox, finding it on the side table, and heart beating ten to the dozen, hands shaking, he sparked a candle into life. He got to his feet and edged over to investigate. Outside, the yard was deserted. Strangely, the floor was free of glass. The window seemed to have detonated outwards.

  Nazhedra rushed in. “By Norgod! What happened?” she shrieked.

  Mother appeared, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on, Guyen?”

  “Nothing. The window broke, that’s all. Go back to bed.”

  Nazhedra poked her head through the opening. “What did this?” she stammered.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a bird flew into it.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “No.”

  All eyes turned to where Yemelyan lay, motionless other than the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “Perhaps the glass was weak,” Guyen muttered. He examined the window in the candlelight. A thin layer of glass had melted into the wooden frame. Pea-sized black marbles covered the sill. A wayward bird had not done this.

  Nazhedra let out a cry of frustration. “This is the last thing we need. I thought we could at least rely on the cottage. Now this?”

  Guyen grimaced. “I’ll board it up in the morning. Go back to bed.”

  She returned to her room, sniffing.

  Mother gazed at Yemelyan. “Oh, Guyen.” Her voice cracked.

  “I know, Mother. I know.”

  After work the next day, Guyen paid another visit to the docks. He was good with the coin now, confident enough to try the trick on some unsuspecting scrags. He ventured into the Shark and Shackle. It wasn’t too busy, no card game yet afoot. He took up a place at the bar and adjusted his high collars, smoothing his hair down around his hat. The barman frowned but said nothing. A man took the stool beside him, face scarred, eyes dark. Forearms like thighs suggested manual work, his body odour that he’d recently finished.

  “Canyon’s having a good season,” Guyen offered.

  “You mean the bookies are, kid. Only an idiot would place silver on their back line.”

  “Yeah, well, gambling on sport’s a mug’s game.” He had the man’s attention. “I mean, the odds are so stacked you may as well place a bet on which way up a coin will land.”

  “You’re probably right, kid.”

  “I know I am.” He placed the silver on the bar. “Here you go, I’ll take you for a bet on this. A drink says it’ll land on heads.”

  The man laughed. “You think I’m an idiot?”

  Guyen stared dumbly back, nonplussed. “Far from it. Just thought you were a betting man.” Like all Sendalis.

  “Of course I’m a betting man, son, everyone’s a betting man.” And there you go. He offered a wry look. “I’ll take your bet, if I can call heads.”

  Guyen feigned annoyance, having already made allowance for the double bluff. “Fine, an ale it is then.” He spun the coin, it landed harps.

  The man frowned. “Double or quits.”

  Guyen shrugged. And spun it again, with the same result. The man turned to the barman. “Whatever he’s having,” he grunted. “Within reason.” He turned back to his drink. Guyen ordered a q
uart of ale and bid his benefactor a merry evening. He moved onto his next target. This fellow was an old seadog, his Assignment mark, three wavy lines, just visible beneath his collar. Again, he engaged him in conversation.

  “A copper on the spin of a coin?” the man repeated.

  “Yes, you can call it.” Guyen took a slug of ale. Globes. This place wasn’t going to win any awards for the booze.

  “All right, me old son,” the seadog rumbled. “I call harps.”

  Damn, the coin would need changing. Guyen spun it as he’d practised. It was easier to switch when it was spinning. He unfocussed in the blur, zoning out, and the clamour morphed into that weird chiming sound. The Primearch’s head came into focus. He caught it, a surge of energy seeming to pass through him.

  A man behind him dropped his tankard. The patrons cheered. “Fuck!” the man exclaimed.

  “You feeling all right, Halbert?” his companion asked.

  “Damn handle fell off my mug.”

  On the table, the coin lay heads-up.

  The seadog growled. “Again.” He flicked another copper into play. “This time, I spin. I call heads.” He seemed pretty confident he was about to make his money back.

  “Of course,” Guyen said. Could he still switch the coin if someone else was spinning it? He was about to find out. Several people gathered around the table now. The seadog spun the silver and Guyen stared into the blur, the howling clamour rising again. He fixed the harp in his mind. A bottle behind the bar exploded, sending liquor dripping down the wall. The coin wobbled onto harps.

  “Again,” the seadog demanded, annoyed now. He threw down another copper. “Heads again.” He paused, concentrating on his technique, then gave the coin a good spin between his two index fingers. Guyen relaxed, waiting for it to land. The man lost again and thumped the table.

  “Arses! Stupid game. Go con someone else, bucko.” He pushed a copper across.

  Guyen pocketed his winnings. It was incredible, he’d never made such easy money. He blinked away a growing migraine, looking around for Toulesh. The simulacrum leaned against a wall on the other side of the tavern, watching a game of dominoes. Guyen summoned him. He looked over, but wouldn’t come.

  Not wishing to outstay his welcome, he moved onto the Boson’s Comfort, a tavern at the other end of the quay where the fishing boats moored. Toulesh followed lazily on behind. By the time he’d cleaned the place out, he was up nearly fifty marks. Despite a growing light-headedness, he decided to try one last venue, a small pub up a side-alley. A half-dressed woman fell out of the door in a cloud of thick smoke and raucous laughter. She took one look and ran off. He pushed inside.

  The place smelled of old casks and expensive whisky. Several of the patrons wore waistcoats. This was where your better-heeled sailing types drank, captains and harbour masters. It was a goldmine. He repeated his patter, taking two fools at the bar for a copper each, then a stiff man at a table for another.

  A hand clamped his shoulder. “No gambling in here, friend.”

  Guyen spun round. A sharp-featured man stared back, eyes cold. His oversized ring bore a totem design, the same symbol printed on that leaflet in the Assignments Office, the one laying out the hateful diatribe against foreigners. What were they called? Echelon? He was no friend, despite the greeting.

  “Leave, now,” the man breathed, dripping venom.

  Fear spiked. Thoughts clouded. Nausea hit. The room was suddenly too hot, expanding, contracting, and the clamour screamed like a whistle.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the man hollered. “Don’t you understand Common?” He shoved. “Get out of here.”

  Guyen stumbled back towards the door, not sure where he was. He wandered lost along the alley for a while, but eventually managed to summon Toulesh. As he folded in, sense returned, but the shaky feeling remained. He shuddered. It wasn’t a good feeling. Maybe he was tired.

  Over the next few weeks, he pulled the con trick several times, topping up the money in the tin to placate their landlord and buy food. But he was beginning to attract attention, and it tired him out. Still, immediate needs satisfied, he turned his attention to ways he might help Yemelyan. His brother jabbered incessantly while awake now, scaring them all. A friend of Nazhedra recommended a healer in Kalber, so Guyen trekked there one Aylesday. It was a perfect summer’s morning, the clean air and warm sun filling him with optimism. Upon arrival however, it soon became clear the woman was as mad as a frog, her skin fittingly warty to boot. She pronounced that Yemelyan should be given spoonfuls of Red Oil, the press from red maize, a vial of which she provided for a price. Despite regular infusions those next few days, he showed no visible improvement. At Mother’s suggestion, Guyen reluctantly called at St Frederik’s to hire a priest. Churches were holy, and a nagging doubt persisted he would incinerate upon entry, possessed by a demon as he surely was, but he didn’t. The priest visited, blessing the cottage, but although it made Mother feel better, if anything it made Yemelyan’s behaviour worse.

  The trouble was, losing your Binding was rare. Very rare. Being Bound was like knowing how to swim—once you had it, you had it forever. Consequently, suggested treatments were based mainly on conjecture and leeches. The only thing everyone agreed on was that trying to rebind Yemelyan with the same concoction they bound infants with would likely kill him. He was too old.

  He wasn’t a danger though. Not really. The real Unbound festered in Krell—all vicious madmen, animals almost. As long as he remained immobile and non-violent, the authorities probably wouldn’t be interested. And there was still a chance it was just a fever, wasn’t there? Perhaps the weird things that happened around him were something else. Evgeniya had experienced them too—the sudden cold in the room, the misted mirror, green shoots sprouting from his mattress, the flies and spiders which dropped dead around him…

  The days lengthened further, the same constant drudgery—collect wood, get water, fill up on oats at breakfast—by far the cheapest way to sustain life, then trek down the cliff path, Gerundus, the heat, grime and evil looks of the metalworks all day, then back home, more chores, then collapse on the straw mattress in the parlour, only to awaken immediately, it seemed, and repeat the whole process again. The break on Aylesday was at least something to look forward to, but it was not a rest, far too much work remained around the cottage—mending furniture, chopping wood, cleaning, carrying, and checking the snares for rabbits, then skinning them for Nazhedra. When he wasn’t busy making sure they survived, he helped care for Yemelyan—still a stranger to his senses.

  Places exhausted in which to dupe Sendalis out of their money with the coin trick, that extra income dried up. And the pressure mounted.

  There was another death at the foundry, a Sendali getting caught beneath a faulty pummel hammer in the smithy. And the same day, a half hour before Guyen was due to knock off, one of his xenophobic co-workers nudged the josel as he was filling a mould. He reacted too slowly, a drop of the molten steel landing on his forearm, burning through the inadequate overall. He swore like a whore, rushing to dip his arm in the water trough.

  “Sorry,” the foundryman said. “Didn’t see you there.”

  He’d get his comeuppance, like all the other Sendali scum on the list. Guyen would deliver it personally. If he wasn’t the next to die there.

  He arrived home in a foul mood, with few words, glad when they turned in straight after supper. Tomorrow could always bring a better day. Mother took vigil over Yemelyan, so Guyen settled on the mattress on the parlour floor. He lay awake, worrying. The walls were paper-thin and the mad jabber was a constant reminder all was not well. Mother would get little sleep tonight. It’s ironic, he thought, as his body grew heavier, that Yemelyan’s tragedy might be the one thing to get her through mourning for Father. It was a thin veneer though, liable to crack at any time.

  It was around midnight, and he was finally drifting off, Yemelyan at last quiet, when there was a crash in the backyard. Suddenly alert, he tensed, straining
to hear. Had he dreamt it? Was it an animal? Were they under attack? Did they—

  The front door exploded inwards, wood splintering. Men rushed in, swords drawn.

  “Stay down!” one shouted. The others spread out, bursting into the bedrooms. Guyen’s heart pounded. What was happening? Tan uniforms? They were adjuncts, weren’t they? “Put your hands on your head,” the man screamed. “Do it. Now!”

  Guyen raised them automatically.

  The man pulled him up, holding a blade to his throat. “How many of you are there?” No words came out. Smack. His pommel connected above the eye. Pain throbbed. “HOW MANY?” he demanded.

  Guyen stared back, dazed, eyes watering. “Five, no six,” he stammered.

  “Any weapons?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Two adjuncts dragged Mother and Nazhedra into the parlour. Beyond Nazhedra’s bedroom door, the three girls looked out from the bed, terrified. What was this? What have you done?

  Two black-cloaked men entered, one thin as a rake, the other as weighty and round as a boulder. Both wore finely tailored suits. They looked familiar, the spitting image of the two bodyguards who’d escorted that Highborn woman at the Assignments Office. The thin Cloak flashed a seal under Mother’s nose and addressed the adjunct in charge. “Report.”

  “This is all of them, Mister Vale. There’s three young girls in that room and someone asleep in here.” He waved at the smaller bedroom. “He won’t wake up.”

  Vale turned to Nazhedra. “We have reason to believe you harbour Unbound here.”

  “We certainly do not,” she snorted.

  “We’ll be the judge of that, good lady. Mind if we take a gander?” He nodded at the bedroom where Yemelyan lay sleeping. Nazhedra pursed her lips, eyes betraying her fear. Vale signalled the adjunct holding his sword to Guyen’s throat. “Bring him.”

  Mother glanced over. ‘Say nothing,’ she mouthed.

  He grimaced. They’d probably beat whatever they wanted to out of him anyway.