Vale stared. “Really? How do you know that?”
“I’m a sniffer.”
Guyen shuddered. So he’d been right about something. She was interested in Toulesh.
Vale turned back to the crone. “I don’t see what that proves. Simulacra are common with the young.”
“Not with the Unbound, Mister Vale. Not at all.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I must do one further test to classify the boy.”
“What test?”
“We shall administer Karotin.”
Mistress Uther gasped. Guyen’s heart beat double. Toulesh escaped, fizzing worriedly around the room, watched by the crone’s ghostly copy. Karotin? What is that?
Vale growled. “For the love of the gods! It is late, old woman. What do you mean?”
“A dose of Karotin. We shall see if he lives. Then I will be sure.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Yannick said. “We need an arrest, Vale, not a body.”
The crone tutted. “In that case, I shall have to issue him a certificate, and you will send him back to his family.”
Vale let out a groan of frustration. “But you said he wasn’t Bound?”
“It is in accord with the statutes. If he can’t be shown to be Unbound, there is no reason to deny him a certificate.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Preposterous,” repeated Yannick.
“Actually, it’s perfectly posterous,” she returned.
Vale cursed. “Fine. Do what you must.”
“You will need to restrain him. The substance must be injected into his spine.”
“No!” Guyen jumped up again, shoving the adjunct back. He had nowhere to go, it was a stupid move, as with so many moves over the years. Mister Yannick moved quickly for a big man, lassoing him round the neck with a cord, pulling it tight. Panic rose, breath lost. The recovered adjunct gripped him tightly by the shoulders, planting him back in the chair. Yannick released the pressure. Precious air returned. Guyen panted, blinking away tears, grit and terror.
The crone hobbled around the table, a syringe in one hand, a knife in the other. “Calm down, boy, soon be over,” she cackled.
Fear reigned. Toulesh struggled to escape like a puppy in a sack. Not now. I need you.
Rough hands slammed his face against the table. Cold pressure on the back of his neck. Sharp, searing pain. He screamed. “No!”
A deep, stabbing pressure.
Pain made exquisite.
Icy claws snaking towards the brain.
Sudden quiet, dead quiet, the clamour gone. The weight of men holding him vanished. He straightened. And gasped. All that remained of the basement room was an impression of the walls, his chair, the table, and the three oil lamps, burning blue now rather than yellow. The air was sweet, thicker than it should be. He stood, spinning round, trying to orient himself. Was he dreaming? Are you dead?
Figures emerged from the vague walls, dozens of them. No, they couldn’t be… they were all him, or rather Toulesh. One of the apparitions brushed against him, solid. Adjusting focus, the room’s other features outlined—the door, the chairs, the apparatus, then vague impressions of other people hazing in and out of solidity.
The old crone spoke. “Can you control them?”
He whirled round to see her, or perhaps it was her simulacrum. She gestured at the many Toulesh. What was the answer to her question? Could he control them? What were they? He tried summoning one. Nothing happened.
“There’s only you, you know,” she said.
Something clicked, a change of viewpoint or focus. Suddenly, the many Toulesh were gone, leaving only the crone’s likeness. “I’ve seen enough,” she said, and pushed him back into the chair.
Sharp pain stung his neck. He sat bolt upright, back in the room as it had been. Eyes drilled into him. The crone straightened and hobbled back to her seat.
What just happened? Did you pass out?
“I have made my deliberation,” she said.
“Well?” Vale exploded.
She eased down into the chair. “The young man is Purebound.”
“He’s what?”
“Purebound.”
Vale growled. “What the hell does that mean?” It was a markedly good question.
“Don’t worry, Mister Vale. You will get your warrant after all. This citizen is to be requisitioned to the Devotions with the utmost speed.”
Vale turned to Justice Bartholm. “You heard her. Sign the warrant.”
“On what grounds?” Bartholm pressed. He looked to the crone.
“National security, Lord Justice. And all that is right and proper.” She slumped back, exhausted by her night’s work.
Bartholm stepped forwards. “Do you have a quill?”
The Book of Talents
Traditional Rhyme
Hayern’s iron and Hayern’s might,
Did switch the plight and make us bright.
Grist father Hayern, the final slain,
Give us your blood and make us sane again.
NOTA:
Many traditional folk melodies and rhymes take their inspiration from the legends of the Bindmasters. Thought to ward off evil, such motifs can be heard sung on any street corner in Sendal.
S.G.
13
Cold Company
The sun was barely risen as Guyen waited outside Tal Maran’s rundown coach house. It was already warm despite the early hour. The two Cloaks stood within spitting distance, tending to their horses. Technically, he was under arrest, but for some reason wasn’t being treated like a criminal.
The old crone had declared him Purebound, whatever that was, and he was now property of the Devotions. The thought sent shivers racing up his spine towards the welt on the back of his neck. The Devotions, the highest authority in Sendal, were fanatical, and by all accounts hated foreigners. And the Cloaks were determined to deliver him to them. What would happen then, they wouldn’t say, darkening when he brought up the subject. All he knew was they were headed to the capital, Carmain.
He would escape at his first opportunity. He just needed to seize the moment when it arrived. But something about the two cloaked men, especially the thin one, Vale, and his vicious crossbow, suggested they weren’t to be underestimated.
An adjunct trotted up on a grey. He eyed Guyen curiously and passed Vale a satchel. “His possessions,” he grunted. Toulesh wandered over for a better look.
Vale searched the bag, pocketed Guyen’s knife, and handed the bag over. Guyen checked the contents—clothes, his flask, his empty purse, and The Book of Talents. He removed the flask and swung the satchel over his shoulder. “Why don’t you just give me a horse?” he said.
“Can you ride?” Vale asked.
“I’ll pick it up.”
Vale ran his comb through his hair. “The weather is inclement and we need to make haste. You wouldn’t last two hundred miles on the back of a horse, not in this heat.” He admired his reflection in the coach house window and slipped the comb into his waistcoat pocket. The scrag was certainly dapper, you had to give him that.
Guyen tried again. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Not for me to say, my young friend.”
“Am I permitted to fill my flask?”
“Of course.”
He slunk over to the rusty pump at the side of the road and filled the flask, taking a drink from the tap. He poured some water over his head to freshen up—he hadn’t slept, and his thoughts were bric-a-brac. He made the effort to summon Toulesh. The simulacrum folded in, and his head cleared a little.
They waited the good part of an hour, coaches coming and going, until a more formidable stagecoach appeared along the street. Springs supported its iron-rimmed wheels for an easier ride, a team of four snorting black mares pulling at the front. The coachman and guard were heavily armed.
Vale turned to Yannick. “Get him aboard, I’ll explain the situation to the driver.”
Yannick put away his sketchpad. He’d been drawing what looked like a design for a tailcoat. Perhaps he sewed in his spare time. He offered a poke in the back. “You heard, get in there.”
Reluctantly, Guyen climbed the steps and pulled open the door. He blinked. Two familiar passengers stared back—Ariana, the blonde girl from the Assignments Office, and her cranky old chaperone.
“Yes?” the chaperone demanded.
“Pardon me,” Guyen offered, doffing his hat. He pulled himself in opposite. Ariana regarded him curiously.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the chaperone protested.
“The same as you, I suppose.” He placed his satchel in the rack.
Ariana fixed him with a withering look. “Going far?”
“To the capital.”
The chaperone snorted. “How does a boy with clothes such as yours afford the fare to Carmain?”
Guyen shrugged. “I’m not paying.”
As if on cue, Vale appeared at the door. He tipped his bicorn to Ariana. “Top of the morning, Mistress. What a pleasant surprise.”
She regarded him with disdain. “Good morning, sir.”
He twitched. “We’ll be right behind you, Yorkov,” he grunted. “Don’t try anything cute.” He slammed the door. A few seconds later, the coach lurched forwards.
They sat in silence for a while, Ariana and her chaperone swapping occasional nervous glances. The coach wound up the cliff road, affording a clear view of the immigrants’ quarter on the other side of the river. How would Mother be coping now? How would they fix the door without him? How would they live at all? The damn Sendalis had no compassion. He checked behind. True to Vale’s word, the two Cloaks followed on horseback.
Ariana spoke. “What did you do?”
He met her gaze. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she questioned. “Like fighting with Kaelan nothing, you mean?”
Guyen shifted uncomfortably. She was referring to Rossi. “He started it,” he muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. “Really, I heard it was whatever your brother keeps inside his britches that started it.”
“Well, I never,” the chaperone breezed. She cooled her face with a pink feather fan. “Isn’t the weather close today?”
There was no reason not to offer the truth. “If you must know,” Guyen said, “they finally got round to testing my Binding.” Both women tensed. “It’s all right, I’m perfectly safe.” He smiled. “Where are you headed?”
Ariana recovered herself. “Also to Carmain. I have been called to serve the Devotions.”
He considered her. “I thought you worked for the Assignments Office.”
She threw back her chin, crystal blue eyes sparkling. “Not quite,” she said. “Although I can see why you may have assumed so. Actually, I am assigned to the Truths. I am to take a position with the Scholars.”
“My Lady’s father is the High Justice Thurl,” the chaperone added, a warning note in her voice.
“A lawyer?” Guyen observed. “Impressive.” That sounded sarcastic. He hadn’t meant it to. Ariana’s eyes frosted over. He grimaced. “I’m headed for the Devotions too.”
She sniffed. “I find that highly unlikely.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t been called. I think they’re just going to torture me.” He offered a grim laugh.
“I see.” She ended the conversation and went back to studying her book, Livenstein’s Law, if the silver lettering on the cover was accurate.
They headed inland, and Guyen turned his attention to the scenery outside. The journey south from Tal Maran to Carmain, Sendal’s northern capital, would take two or three days if his grasp of the geography was sharp. They’d need to negotiate marshland, plains and mountain ranges to get there. He’d never travelled so far. Spending the journey in such cold company would be a chore.
They soon joined a well-maintained highway, and within a few hours, the landscape changed, flattening into plains as the vegetation became greener and the air more humid. The wildlife changed too, sheep giving way to wolves and wildebeests, seagulls to complex formations of migrating silver geese. The sky went on forever, unbroken pale blue interspersed by the occasional fluffy white cloud, mesmerising, hazy veins of yellow and purple nether light there one minute, gone the next. A Red Talon, a bird of prey common in the Midlands, circled majestically above, as if in pursuit.
Conversation limited, Guyen made do with reading The Book of Talents and admiring the view. Occasionally, Ariana glanced over, only to pretend she hadn’t, while the chaperone, Madame Belafonté, remained fixated on her embroidery. Toulesh bored, Guyen loosed him to sit up front with the driver. At least one of them could escape the stuffy company.
The journey allowed plenty of time for introspection, and as the coach swept along the highway faster than he’d ever travelled anywhere before, Guyen tried to make sense of everything that had happened recently. Why was being Purebound such a big deal? Could it be related to the unexplainable incidents of these past few months? He replayed events in his mind, everything from the trauma crossing the Haffa Straits to the time the cadet’s reins had snapped, to the disaster on the Impossible Bridge. And then there was the coin and the hallucinations during his testing. Was he imagining it all? That was certainly possible, yet he felt changed. Free of some restraint.
The obvious explanation filled him with anxiety: he was descending into the maddenings. Did being a Purebound allow for that? What even was a Purebound? Hard as he tried, he could find no reference to the term in the book. Flicking through the pages, something fell out, fluttering down to his feet. Ariana glanced over as he picked it up—an envelope, the paper silk thin. It was addressed to him, but the handwriting wasn’t Mother’s. Worry spiking, he broke the seal.
Guyen,
Word comes that you have been arrested, and your Binding divined in a somewhat unusual state. I can only assume you are in the custody of the Devotions and on your way to the capital.
Do not fret on your mother and brother, I will take care of them. In return, I would have you do something for me. I have interests in the capital in which you could be of use. If you are able, please call on Dasuza at the Junction.
CdG
The initials were Dalrik’s. How had he learned of his divination so quickly? And what were these interests he talked of? The man was a mystery, and mysteries were best avoided, but he was the only Sendali ever to help them and he held Mother and Yemelyan’s fate in his hands. Whatever his game, he required careful handling, but maybe this Dasuza fellow would help? It would mean staying alive long enough to make the appointment, of course.
“Bad news?” Ariana asked.
Guyen looked up, rubbing his sore neck. “Not exactly. Have you heard of a place called the Junction?”
Her brow wrinkled. “No. Why?”
“Oh, no reason,” he muttered. To bemused stares from his travelling companions, he ripped the missive into small fragments—it wouldn’t do for anyone else to read it. Then he pulled the curtain back from the window and scattered the paper on the wind, glancing behind. The Cloaks still followed like wasps after a jam jar.
That night, they boarded at an isolated inn serving the highway. The Cloaks paid for a room two doors down from Ariana’s. The portly man took the bed and the thin one the chaise, leaving Guyen the floor. Apparently concerned he might take the opportunity of their snores to slit their throats, they tied his hands and secured him to an iron hoop mortared in the wall. He slept fitfully, dreaming of colours in the sky and songs on the wind. He was power, he was energy, he was everywhere, then nowhere, one minute in the coach, the next abandoned in the dry desert to bake in the oppressive heat. Wolves bounded up and he willed them into other less dangerous animals. But they changed into equally frightful, malformed creatures with countless, scurrilous legs and smooth skin where their faces should have been. He woke stiff as a board.
They made good time on the second day, barrelling through majestic redwood forests,
devouring luscious, undulating valleys etched with wide crystal rivers. Conversation inside the coach remained minimal, the atmosphere cold despite the heat. A little more information about the six Devotions came to light though. Each had a headquarters in the capital headed by a Prime Wield, these six leaders comprising the Prime Council, the seat of government. This Council operated out of an institution called the Devotoria, their final destination. According to Ariana, Makers, Culture and War Devotion were the most influential of the six factions, although she insisted Scholars held most prestige. In truths, who cared?
It also transpired, sourly, that Rossi had been called to Carmain—taking a position at War Devotion. He’d left a couple of weeks ago. No doubt his father being so high up in the military had smoothed his passage. As he’d claimed, Ariana and he were childhood friends. Guyen pointed out it was the cadet’s fault his brother was in a coma and she didn’t mention him again. They boarded that night in a small hamlet.
On Wizenday morning, as the heat once again started to build, they approached a peaked escarpment a few hours west of Carmain. Ariana looked up from Livenstein’s, interrupting Guyen’s flicking between sections of random interest in The Book of Talents. Her nose wrinkled. “I wouldn’t let anyone catch you with that book,” she said.
“Why not?” he grunted. “It’s only a book.”
“It has no stamp.”
“Stamp?” he queried.
She sighed. “Books have to be approved. To discourage dangerous thoughts.”
“Sedition, you mean?”
She shrugged. “I suppose so.” She waved disparagingly at the cover. “What are those people doing?”
Guyen considered the illustration. “That’s the Talents. Different occupations.”
“What does it have to do with your Assignment?”
“I told you, they stripped me of my Assignment.”
She tapped her neck. “Everyone has an Assignment.”
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