Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  They forced them into the bedroom. Yemelyan lay on the bed, jabbering softly.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the rotund Cloak rumbled, bass voice as thick as gravel.

  “It’s just a fever,” Mother blurted.

  He placed a hand on Yemelyan’s forehead. “He doesn’t feel hot.”

  The thin Cloak took in the still boarded-up window. “Glass out of fashion in these parts, is it?”

  “Locals don’t like us,” Nazhedra muttered.

  “You got off lightly, my dear.” He ran a comb through his greasy black hair. glancing at his partner. “What do you think, Yannick?”

  “Dunno, Vale. Could be.”

  Yemelyan murmured, waving a hand in front of his face. His eyes opened wide, and both men jumped back. He wasn’t awake, it was one of his vacant stares, he’d been doing a lot of those recently. The Cloaks left a man guarding him and bundled the rest of them back into the parlour.

  Vale signalled the table. “Sit down.”

  Mother and Nazhedra sunk into the two closest chairs. The adjunct leashing Guyen pushed him down into another. And the interrogation began. Who were they? What did they do? How long had they been here? Where were the menfolk? But the two Cloaks already seemed to know the answers to most of these questions. When they started digging into exactly what had happened at the dam, Mother began to cry. Oh, to jump up, grab one of the bastard’s swords, and cut their head off. But a blade at your back does not afford you that kind of luxury.

  Eventually, Vale got to the point. “So, would you care to tell us about the incident?” He sneered the word.

  Guyen seethed, rooted in the chair. “What incident?”

  “Don’t test me, citizen. The bridge. You dumped a thousand tons of the finest Sendali engineering into the sea, remember?”

  “That was nothing to do with us. We were the victims in the whole thing.”

  “Is that right?” He snorted. “Well, of course, you would say that, you’re hardly likely to admit your fanaticism. You’ll understand why I won’t be taking your word for it though.”

  “You think I’m a terrorist? You can’t be serious?”

  “What you are is not for me to say. You’ll come with us, we have more questions, and some tests.”

  “What sort of tests?” Globes. Going anywhere with these bastards was the worst idea.

  Mother shrieked. “Why him? Take me.”

  Vale sneered. “With respect, madam, I do not want you.”

  Toulesh exploded free, racing around the room like a crazed bull. Bile rose in Guyen’s throat. What would they do to him? Stories of the authorities abducting immigrants were commonplace. As were the speculations surrounding the unmarked graves they ended up in.

  Evgeniya appeared at the bedroom door. “Please, sir, you can’t take him.”

  “Go away,” Vale drawled.

  “No,” she screamed, “you go away.” Her sister pulled her back inside.

  Vale laughed. “Wild.” He waved at the front door. “Get him outside.”

  Guyen tensed. Should he resist? To show he had nothing to hide? Globes, what was the use? The adjunct pulled him roughly up from the chair and shoved him towards the door.

  “At least give him his shoes,” Mother pleaded. Vale nodded. Guyen slipped them on, hands shaking, and picked up his hat and jacket.

  Vale offered an elegant bow. “Once again, ladies, my deepest condolences for the loss of your menfolk.” He paused. “And for the damage to your doors.” He whipped round, his cloak cracking the air, and strode out into the damp night, Mister Yannick at his heels.

  The adjunct manhandled Guyen outside after them. “I’ll be back soon,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”

  It was an empty promise. Would he ever see them again?

  The Book of Talents

  The Trading Post

  From the works of Siegfriel, Bard of Beladon, circa hg.463

  After the Turn, but before Binding, a town called Blancian lay at the edges of Myra. A significant trading post and gateway to the east, the settlement was built upon a tower, an eruption in a gorge between two mountain ranges, the Zagkros and the Eastern Apelites. Two wondrous white rope bridges connected it on either side, and the mountain wolves and flicker beasts in the gorge below persuaded all but the foolhardiest travellers through the town. And so were the Blancians bestowed with great wealth, but due to their isolation, with little immunity to the Affliction.

  A group of merchants and their families, healthy by means of blood rites, escaped the madness in the west, setting off in caravan. Ten days out of Carmic, they crossed the west bridge with their twelve wagons and arrived in Blancian. Their horses and packs exhausted, they decided to rest, dealing golds with the townsfolk for their hospitality.

  The Blancians were generous hosts and offered up their womenfolk to care for the infants, while the merchants and their wives were bathed and fed and their thirsts quenched with the best red wine. Glad of soft beds, they slept soundly, as their animals recovered strength for the onward journey.

  Dawn broke, and the travellers stirred, for several turns, with foggy heads, enjoying the soft sheets. Then they remembered their offspring, and so made haste to the nursery, but on arrival, saw not their children, but only their shoes. Perturbed, they rushed to the town’s chief elder.

  “What have you done with our children?” they asked him.

  The elder glanced over from his own children, busy over bowls of dark red broth. “A toll you must pay to pass this way. Your children have satisfied the contract. And now, our line will inherit your resistance to the Affliction.”

  The womenfolk screamed, and the men pulled their swords. And a bloodbath ensued like no other in the history of the ancient trading posts.

  When the slaughter was complete, just one of the caravan survived, a young man by the name of Gravius. Upon his escape to the Wildlands, he began his life’s work to spread immunity to the Affliction without the need for blood.

  NOTA:

  Gravius is credited with the invention of modern-day Binding, developing the first concoction, a serum which could protect from Faze without bloodletting. Despite this advance, bloodletting continued for hundreds of years. According to the writings of Heroditus, Gravius had access to a direct descendant of the Bindmaster Hayern to develop the seed for his serum, variants of which are still used as the base for the cure today. Gravius is widely known as the First Bindcrafter.

  S.G.

  12

  Army of Me

  Three oil lamps lit the gloomy, windowless room in the basement of the Assignments Office. Damp hung in the air, combining with an acrid odour like rotten eggs. Guyen sat with his hands bound at a roughhewn oak table across from two assessors from the capital, women in plain grey robes. One was old, but the other was ancient, probably in her nineties, skin shrivelled like a raisin, her crooked smile several teeth short.

  They’d brought a collection of instruments with them which they laid out on the table—glass tubes, vials, ominous cases containing gods-knew-what. And they’d spent a long time carefully setting up a metal cylinder with a swinging arm attached to it, and a while pouring liquids into an unseen device built into a wooden box.

  An adjunct stood close by, ready to use force should Guyen think of standing. Meanwhile, the two Cloaks paced impatiently. The uncomfortable chair had been home for at least twenty minutes, during which time remaining calm had been the battle, difficult when you had no idea what was about to happen to you. All questions had gone unanswered. It was as if they preferred to torture him with the unknown.

  His nerves weren’t being helped by another presence in the room—a ghostly version of the old crone, her simulacrum, he was sure. It was disconcerting to see another one. That she was so old and still had one was remarkable in itself, but more worryingly, it floated around as if hunting for something or someone. Toulesh, perhaps? If you could see someone’s simulacrum, they could see yours, so it was said. Guyen fol
ded him in tight.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The grey leather-panelled door swung open, revealing Justice Bartholm and Mistress Uther, the assessor who’d assigned them to the foundry. The thin Cloak, Vale, beckoned them in. “About time,” he griped.

  Guyen stared at Bartholm. “Why is he here?” he stammered. He wished he sounded less afraid, they’d probably take that as a sign of guilt.

  “It is required by the statutes,” Vale said. “We are not gangsters, are we, Yannick?”

  The rotund Cloak glanced up from the notebook he’d been sketching in. “We are not, Vale.”

  Mistress Uther regarded Vale. You could have wrung the apprehension from her face. “Couldn’t this have waited till morning?” she whipped.

  “The Office doesn’t sleep, my dear.”

  “You’re not with the Office.” She turned to the younger of the grey women behind the table. “Are you in accordance with this, Mistress Hoburn?”

  “Just following orders, Mistress Uther.”

  “And you, Mistress Gilphrani?”

  “Fulfilling my Talent, Uther,” the crone squawked. She pulled a grotesque face, gnashing her pink gums together. Uther looked away in disgust, turning back to Vale. “What is the meaning of this? What possesses you to ride all the way out here, for him?”

  “Let me allay your fears, Mistress Uther,” Vale replied. “We are not here to punish you for your oversight, merely to use your facilities.”

  She snorted. “Fears? I have no fears.”

  “That is a singular achievement, dear lady, and good to hear.”

  “This is my office. You will answer me.”

  “Let us call it an audit,” Vale returned. “But shall we keep the questions to a minimum? I am sure we would all like to see our beds before dawn.”

  Guyen had the feeling that didn’t include him. The Justice took a stool in the corner. He glared over. Guyen rubbed his eyes, a migraine coming on. He tried Vale again, as politely as he could manage. “Sir, please, what is this about?”

  “Did I ask you to speak? We are here to test your Binding. If all is well, you will be issued a certificate.” He paused. “There’s no reason all should not be well, is there?”

  “No,” Guyen snapped, heart beating faster. What if he hadn’t been bound properly? Techniques were different in Krell. Would they account for that?

  “Shall we begin?” Vale said.

  “With pleasure,” replied Mistress Hoburn. She muttered something to the crone and opened a case, digging around for something. Glass clinked inside.

  “No, the lapis,” the crone wheezed.

  Hoburn grunted and pulled out a black glass vial. She pushed it across the table. “You’ll need to drink this, citizen.”

  Guyen shifted uncomfortably. Father had always said never to drink anything you couldn’t trace three steps from a spring. He’d been worried about the cleanliness of the drinking water, but his words were pertinent now. “What is it?” he asked.

  “A mineral solution,” Hoburn said. “Just a precursor to aid us with our deliberations. Drink up now.”

  He didn’t move. “What if I’m allergic?” A blow clattered the back of his head, nearly knocking him from the chair. Throbbing, disorienting pain hit.

  Vale grabbed a handful of hair, yanking him up. “Drink,” he snarled, garlic breath mixing with waxy cologne, “or I shall instruct Mister Yannick to restrain you while I pour it down your throat.”

  Despair blossomed. This was it, they’d torture him and not give up until he was dead. He caught Uther’s eye. She nodded encouragingly. Well, there was no choice. He picked up the vial and sniffed. The solution smelled sharp, the blue-grey mixture the consistency of mercury. Against his better judgment, he tipped it down his throat.

  The initial bitterness was followed by a burning sensation that spread out, cascading through chest, arms, legs, then fingers and toes. Sudden heat, then foggy thoughts, then pure fear. Toulesh fought to fold out. Guyen held him in, swaying in the chair. A sweet almond smell filled the air. His heart pounded, blood rushing, clamour peaking, chiming whistling filling his ears. Anxiety rose, then elation, then panic. The two old women stared expectantly, Hoburn tapping her blurring pen on the table as orange sparks flowered from the nib. What had they given him, a hallucinogen? A minute later, the fog cleared, leaving only a warm glow and ringing ears.

  “How do you feel?” Hoburn asked.

  “Fine,” Guyen lied.

  “No strange urges?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, can you recite your citizen number?”

  “12,995,466.”

  She murmured something under her breath, then the two women conferred again, it sounded like gibberish, and annoyed Vale. He smashed his fist on the table. “Will you get on with it?”

  The crone hissed. “Do you want this done quickly or correctly, young man?”

  “Both, you wrinkled prune.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She turned back. “Lean forward, boy. Let me get a better look at you.” Vale shoved him across the table. She stared. “Green eyes,” she warbled, “how unusual.” She began muttering to herself again.

  Vale bent over the table, trying to look the old woman in the eye. “What are you waiting for? Give him the damn test.”

  She looked up, forcing the Cloak back with a withering glare. “He really doesn’t display any of the classic symptoms, does he?” Her voice was suddenly prim and proper, like that of a Lady at court. “If the boy was Unbound, he would be a jabbering idiot with that amount of quartz in him.”

  Quartz? Is that what you just drank?

  Vale let out an exasperated breath. “Try harder, you leathery old witch. It’s there if you look, I’m sure of it.” He exchanged a terse glance with Yannick. The tension was palpable. Worth cutting with a knife if the bastards see fit to lending you one, straight after it’s opened up their necks. Why was this so important to them? Why are you? Is it the bridge? Do they know you did something?

  “Mister Vale,” Hoburn bit back. “If you require a deliberation before dawn, I implore you, sit down and let us do our job.” Vale growled, but stepped away. He pulled his comb from his waistcoat pocket, slicking back his hair.

  “Boy,” the crone intoned. Guyen met her eyes. “We require blood, boy. Take it from him, Mistress Hoburn. I shall prepare the solution.” She turned to the device they’d spent so much time measuring liquids into, stirring its contents with a large spoon. A hexagonal reservoir was built into the case, a few inches of liquid in it. At each of the six corners of the reservoir sat a differently coloured gemstone, like the six degrees on the Star of Devotion.

  Hoburn stood, knife in hand.

  Guyen jumped up. “What are you doing?” he sputtered. Should he try to escape? The odds of surviving such an attempt were not good, several more adjuncts waited upstairs. Shame he couldn’t bet his freedom on the fake silver nestling in his boot.

  The adjunct pushed him back down. “Don’t worry,” Hoburn said, “my Talent is not in murder. Hold out your hands.” Her tone was brisk and impatient. Protest was pointless. He offered them up and closed his eyes.

  A sharp cut burned at the end of his finger. He muffled the cry as Toulesh broke free, hazing around him like an aura. He forced him back in, breathing heavily. Hoburn held his dripping finger over the device, decanting blood into the reservoir. His eyes watered. He blinked the wetness away. Every last Sendali could go to hell.

  “What is that thing?” Vale said, staring down at the contraption. “Why do you not use parchment strips?”

  The old crone cackled, perhaps an affectation once, now likely a tick. “You know nothing of Binding divination, Mister Vale. This Crucible was made before you were born and is much more accurate than dropping blood on parchment strips. So, if you’ll allow us to continue?”

  He pulled his cloak about him and fixed Guyen with a deathly look. The crone added another solution to the reservoir and stirred the mixture. Hoburn offered a rag for t
he bleeding finger. Guyen pressed it onto the wound between his tied hands. He watched on helplessly.

  Uther approached the table, peering over the crone’s shoulder. “What are you looking for?”

  “A change in the crystals, Mistress Uther.”

  “But they’re not doing any—” She stopped dead. The gems around the outside of the hexagonal reservoir began to glow, a yellow one lighting up brightly in the gloom, then dimming, then a red one, then all of them, seemingly at random.

  The crone cackled.

  “What is it?” Guyen asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “Bound blood does not do that.”

  The adjunct laid a hand on Guyen’s shoulder.

  Vale crowed. “Excellent.” He turned to the Justice. “If you will be so kind as to sign the arrest warrant, Bartholm.”

  “Wait,” the crone warbled.

  “What is it now, hag?”

  “Really, Mister Vale. Did your mother teach you no manners?”

  He glared. “You said it already. He is not Bound. Get over here, Bartholm. Sign this warrant.”

  The Justice made to get up.

  “No!” shrieked the crone, her voice grating like a macaw chalking a blackboard. “I only said he was not Bound, not that he was Unbound.”

  Vale shook his head, exasperated. “Woman, you percolate with nonsense. Perhaps your senility has gotten the better of your senses. Shall we get you home? Tuck you into bed with a nice mug of malt, eh?”

  “You insolent boy.” She pulled herself up to what passed for straight, vertebrae complaining at the long-forgotten pose. “He has an inclination,” she snapped. “That is never so in the Unbound.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Crucible divines Talent, Mister Vale. And this young man is inclined towards all of them. If he were Unbound, he would be inclined to none.”

  “That’s just an Assignment issue.”

  Her spine cracked. “That’s not all. He has a simulacrum with him.”