Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

“Well, how comes I’m not at the lousy foundry shovelling coal then?” She didn’t answer. The day darkened and she drew back the curtain shielding them from the sun’s rays. A rock wall thundered by at close range. They’d entered the pass through the escarpment. The deep crack was so straight and deliberate it might have been hewn by a long-since-forgotten civilisation rather than geology.

  Ariana seemed to read his mind. “You see the white crystals?” She waved at the passing glints in the rock. “Salt, the whole range is thick with it. That’s why they call it Giant’s Teardrops. Legend says it was cried into being by the last giant on the death of his muse.”

  “Fun story,” Guyen observed.

  “Sweet, isn’t it?” She smiled sarcastically.

  A few minutes later, their driver swore as the coach slowed. Toulesh folded in.

  “What’s the matter?” Ariana asked.

  Guyen poked his head through the open roof hatch. They neared the end of the pass but a rockfall blocked the way. The Cloaks were nowhere to be seen. They must have slipped back. “There’s an obstruction on the road,” he said. “I don’t think we can get by.”

  She pursed her lips, muttering something unladylike beneath her breath. The heat and travel was getting to her. She opened the door, hitched up her skirt and climbed down.

  Thwack. Something bit into the side of the coach.

  And again. The guard cried out, falling to the road. The driver bellowed. Figures moved in nearby scrub. Ariana scrambled back up. Guyen slammed the door.

  “Brigands!” Madame Belafonté gasped.

  Within seconds, a dozen men armed with crossbows, pistols and machetes surrounded them. The coach door swung open and a wild-eyed man snarled up, face covered in scars. He pulled himself up on the runner and scanned the compartment. “Get out,” he ordered.

  Guyen touched his waist where his knife should have been. Damn the Cloaks.

  Ariana scowled. “You should know who my father is before you rob us.”

  A flicker of interest passed over the bandit’s face. “Really, lady,” he sneered. “And who might that be?”

  Guyen sent a warning look. She pursed her lips.

  The brigand darkened. “Get out!” He clawed at her skirt.

  Guyen jumped up, blocking the door. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  A knuckleduster connected beneath his ribs. Air exploded out. Toulesh broke free, attacking aimlessly. Guyen staggered backwards, slumping on the seat, trying to gasp, diaphragm locked. What a sap, falling for that. The brigand reached through Toulesh and yanked Ariana out by the hair, throwing her down in the dirt. Guyen went to get up. The bastard pointed his machete.

  “All right, easy,” Guyen muttered, staying put. Toulesh folded in. Madame Belafonté sent a desperate look.

  The bandit jumped down beside Ariana, pushing the carriage door shut behind him. “What’s in the trunk?” he demanded.

  “Personal possessions,” she snapped. “Books, that kind of thing.”

  “What are we supposed to do with books?” He spat the word as if he’d bitten a lemon. “What about golds?”

  “Do I look like a bank?” she spat.

  He grabbed her necklace, wrenching it from her neck. “I’ll have this for starters.”

  “Give that back,” she protested.

  He turned to his men. “Strip her.”

  That was too much. Guyen planted a kick on the unlatched door. It shot open, catching the arsehole on the side of the head. He staggered, cursed, then whirled round, raising his machete. Thwack. He cried out, dropping his blade, falling to one knee, an arrow sticking from his back.

  Galloping hooves, and a black-cloaked rider suddenly entered the fray. Mister Yannick thundered past, wielding a branch like a small tree, batting two men over like skittles, trampling a third.

  The brigand coughed, blood misting the dry air. “Get him!” he rasped.

  The nearest man moved to nock an arrow. Thwack. A bolt appeared through his neck, killing him instantly. Guyen pulled Ariana into the coach and scanned the bluff. Vale stood there, hard at work.

  Yannick came again. This pass, he took out two more men with his branch as a further fell to Vale’s crossbow. A pistol shot rang out, missing, as the driver recovered his cutlass. Then Yannick rode up, swung down from his mount, and stalked forwards, hefting his longsword like unstoppable death. One man tried to run. Another of Vale’s bolts cut him down. The rest were efficiently slaughtered, starting with the man with the pistol. It didn’t take long, the wounded despatched with a slit throat, blood freed to drain in the dirt. Honour was for the birds today.

  Five minutes later, Yannick and the driver sat drinking water, while Ariana comforted Madame Belafonté. Vale rode up. He swung down to inspect the corpses.

  “Idiots,” he said. “So predictable. Get these rocks shifted, Yannick. I’m getting my quarrels.” With that, he retrieved his bolts from five men, wielding his cutthroat like a maniacal surgeon—a casual butchery which he seemed to enjoy.

  Ariana’s hands trembled, even if her bruised face was hard. She’d ripped her dress and lost her necklace—an emerald set in silver, expensive no doubt. Guyen jumped down from the carriage, and ignoring Vale’s suspicious glare, combed the dirt. The jewellery appeared, glinting in the sunlight. He wiped it down and climbed back into the compartment.

  “Look what I found,” he said.

  She took it with a smile. “Thank you, it was my mother’s.”

  “It’s beautiful.” He returned her smile with one of his own, a real one.

  They were soon travelling again, leaving the corpses to the vultures, except for their guard whose body was wrapped in linen and secured to the roof. Madame Belafonté was a mess, shaking, tearful. Her coldness had disappeared though. Ariana had regained her composure quickly, determined eyes stoic.

  “Thank you,” she offered once the Giant’s Teardrops were left behind.

  Guyen met her eyes. “What for?”

  “For getting in that man’s way.”

  He shrugged. “Any time.”

  Two hours later, passing a Damorian trade caravan heading west, a smudge appeared on the horizon to the east—Carmain. They neared, and the smudge became a blot, then a shadow, then a living, breathing city. The road widened and buildings improved, wooden structures replaced by stone, then by brick-built dwellings with manicured treelines. The opulence was overbearing, the sculptured merlons topping the city walls containing more craft hours than a whole Krellen house. A crowd of refugees milled outside the portcullised south gate and the coach slowed. The Cloaks presented their identification and the guards waved them through. Lines of men in white-hooded robes looked up as they passed.

  “Who are they?” Guyen asked.

  Ariana scowled. “Echelista.”

  It took a second for the name to register. That hateful organisation with the totem for a crest. “What is it with those people?” Guyen grunted. He thought back to the cold arsehole who’d thrown him out of the pub in Tal Maran. Why couldn’t people just get along?

  Ariana sighed. “Stay away from them.”

  “Why do they believe that shit?”

  “Who knows? It’s a religion of sorts, not that they worship a god.”

  “Who do they worship then?”

  She paused. “Shapers.”

  “Shapers?”

  “Spirits which shape reality. As far as religions go, it’s one of the more colourful.”

  “It sounds like a joke.”

  She pursed her lips. “They’re not very funny. They keep slaves for ritual sex and one of their beliefs is in blood sacrifice.”

  “What, like killing people?”

  She grimaced. “There are stories of people volunteering to be sacrificed, but mainly they share blood between themselves, or kill animals. As far as they’re concerned, if the Shapers are satisfied, the Binding is protected. That’s all they care about—the Binding.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “I
suppose so, but not like them.”

  The coach jolted. Outside, Vale berated someone. “How do you know so much about Echelism?” Guyen asked.

  Ariana glanced at Madame Belafonté. The chaperone shook her head. The conversation came to an abrupt end.

  The Book of Talents

  The Makers Charter

  The Principle Scroll of the First Order of Makers, hg.582 from the library at Theslovarska

  Know that out of reverence for The Authority, and for the salvation of our souls and the souls of our ancestors and successors, Makers will be the chosen architects of a new hope.

  As superstition and blindness shackle us in dirt and ignominy, a new order will arise, made aspect in craft of stone, metal and wood, the Affliction no longer a curse, the new Binding a gift of The Authority to his faithful servants.

  And know that the Makers will bring this deliverance by The Authority’s gracious hand, and they will be most revered. Woe unto those who scorn these the most blessed of The Authority’s creation, or seek to impede a Maker’s path.

  NOTA:

  The first recorded history of Makerage in the Feyrlands and the beginning of the Enlightenment, marking the commencement of the Age of Enlightenment.

  S.G.

  II

  HALLOWED HALLS

  14

  Spoils of War

  The stagecoach funnelled into narrow, overcrowded city streets. Soon, the majesty which had been apparent at a distance was lost to crowds of Carmanians inundating grimy thoroughfares. Teetering shops and misshapen apartments leaned in overhead, obscuring the fine steeples and high palace domes which had glittered so impressively from afar. Decaying bodies hung in cages suspended from tall pillars, rooks pecking at their bones—Carmanian justice, lest anyone forget their manners. Guyen loosened his collar. The day was sweltering now.

  The coach rolled to a stop in front of the Devotoria, deep in the heart of the old city. The grand, hexagonal building sat atop a towering mound, its footprint a whole block. Security was heavy, the outer walls spiked to prevent climbing. Ariana had explained that this jewel of Sendali government was run jointly by the Devotions under a system known as the Primearchy. The Book of Talents described the Primearchy as a political creed, but in practical terms more of an umbrella organisation designed to keep the peace. If the six Devotions had interests in common, they were less likely to go to war with each other. That was the theory anyway.

  Vale opened the door. “Out you get.”

  Guyen nodded to Ariana. “Best of luck.”

  She frowned, glancing at Vale. “Isn’t somebody going to escort me?”

  He laughed. “You want him to escort you?”

  “If we’re going the same way.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If it pleases you, Mistress.” He turned back. “Just get a move on, Krellen.”

  After a tearful goodbye to Madame Belafonté, who was to stay with friends in the city before returning to Tal Maran, Ariana joined Guyen on the pavement. The driver helped the waiting valets with her trunk, showing as much respect as possible to the murdered guard on the roof, while the Cloaks handed off their mounts to a groom. Guyen picked up Ariana’s traveling bag, his own satchel swung over his shoulder. Beyond the iron railings, hundreds of steps led up to an imposing entrance. He folded Toulesh in tight, stilling himself.

  They walked up to the gate in the outer wall, Yannick bringing up the rear. The heavily armed guards who greeted them checked Ariana’s papers, and on the strength of Vale’s credentials, whatever they were, waved the rest of them through. The steps snaked around flower borders and water features. Halfway up, the city stretched out in every direction—rows of rooftops, steeples, the river glistening in the sunlight. Ariana made small talk on the view, but with every step, the sense of impending doom grew.

  They reached the towering bronze doors. Guyen wiped sweat from his brow. “After you,” he said.

  Ariana set her chin and strode inside. The Devotoria’s atrium was lavish, the marble and precious metals shamelessly proclaiming Carmanian wealth.

  “Halt!” a guard shouted. Several men stepped forwards, blocking the way, swords drawn. They waved Ariana on. She took her bag, and offering a sympathetic smile, sashayed away with a clutch of fawning stewards.

  The Captain of the Guard stalked up. “What do you think you’re doing in here, citizen?”

  “He’s with us,” Vale said, stepping into view.

  The captain bristled. “And who might you be?”

  “Drayfus Vale. Please, don’t make a scene, captain. It’s been a long day.” He showed him his identification—a maroon booklet with a silver Star of Devotion stamped on the front. “I need to see Rialto, at once. Is he here?”

  “Er, yes, Mister Vale, please, follow me.”

  Vale glanced over. “Stay with him, Yannick. Don’t lose him.” Yannick grunted his agreement, and Vale hurried off with the captain. The guards kept their swords pointed, muttering insults, as finely dressed men and women passed by, throwing disgusted looks. Twenty minutes later, the will to live almost exhausted, the captain returned. An athletic-looking man of about thirty accompanied him. He wore a plain-but-stylish brown tweed suit. The guards stepped aside at his signal, still keeping careful watch.

  He looked Guyen up and down. “Yorkov, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The name’s Felix, Secondus to the Prime Wield.” He held out a hand. Manners? From a Sendali? Guyen swallowed his surprise, reciprocating. Felix clasped the hand, leaving his on top as was Sendali custom for someone of higher status. “He’ll see you in his study,” he said.

  “Who will?”

  “Why, Rialto, of course.”

  Guyen offered a blank look.

  The Secondus frowned. “Saijan Rialto? Maker Prime Wield?”

  A shiver raced up Guyen’s spine. Had he heard right? A Prime Wield? A member of the Council? Why would he want to see him? “Are you sure there’s not been some mistake?” he asked warily.

  “No mistake. Come on, best not keep him waiting.” The fellow grinned. “A Krellen at the Devotions, eh? Who’d have thought it?”

  Who indeed.

  Leaving Yannick behind, they took a side door from the atrium, climbed two flights of corkscrewing staircases, and navigated several narrow passageways. No one followed. Perhaps they didn’t think he was that dangerous after all? Maybe this was his opportunity to escape? No, you could only escape once you knew what you were escaping from. Events would have to play out for now.

  Felix had a fondness for talking and had soon imparted half his life story. As Secondus at Makers Devotion, he was Rialto’s right-hand man. The position, he explained, was not to be confused with that of Sub Prime, Rialto’s deputy—he was stationed in another part of the country. This year was to be Felix’s last in post as he’d shortly head to Ranatland to supervise Maker business there. Apparently, his Assignment as Substantive charged him with the development of new types of cloth. He seemed particularly proud of a new weave he’d developed for sail making.

  They emerged past a sentry into a carpeted lobby reeking of rotten meat. Light streamed in through a stained-glass window, crystal chandeliers sending rainbows onto floral-papered walls. Six ornate doors faced them, each more overbearing than the next. Felix motioned to a chair outside a polished, red-oak door replete with gold inlays and upholstered panelling. After a perfunctory knock, he disappeared inside, reappearing a few seconds later. “He’ll see you now. Good luck.” He held the door open.

  Guyen took a deep breath and walked through.

  A tall, stocky man of mid-years stood the other side of an expansive desk. Wavy black hair hung over the high collars of his finely tailored jacket. Several overlarge rings set with glistening gems cosseted his fingers. The lines on his face suggested a fellow of good cheer who only remembered the better times. “Citizen Yorkov?”

  Guyen offered a tentative nod.

  “Welcome. Take a seat. Saijan Rialto at your serv
ice.” He beamed.

  Guyen lowered himself into the chair, perching his hat on his lap. Why the hospitality?

  Rialto strolled to the window, taking in the view. “It’s a wonderful achievement, the Devotoria, built entirely on the spoils of war and the backs of foreigners, you know.” He paused. “Your ancestors probably paid for it with their blood.”

  “My lord?”

  “Rialto, please, let us not stand on formalities. Forgive my manners, it’s not every day a Purebound walks through my door. Can I get you some refreshment?”

  “Er, water would be good.”

  He provided a glass from the jug on the sideboard. “Long journey?”

  “Er, yes. Why am I here, sir?”

  “Did Citizen Vale not fill you in?”

  “No, sir.”

  He tutted. “Damn rusty. Very well, let me explain. You are Purebound, Yorkov. I assume you know what that means?”

  “Not really.”

  “No?” He took his seat. “It means you are naturally Bound. You have innate protection against the Affliction. It’s extremely rare, I can’t remember a case for twenty years. That makes you a valued commodity, one protected by the statutes.” He gave it a moment to sink in.

  So, being Purebound wasn’t a bad thing? What was this talk of a valued commodity? Protected?

  He continued. “It is well established that the Purebound excel in the Talent of Bindcraft, and Assignment law follows the same logic. The moment you were declared Purebound, your Assignment became Bindcraft.”

  “Bindcraft, sir? But I’m assigned to Metallurgy. What’s Bindcraft?”

  “Bindcraft. The study of Faze and the Affliction, manipulation of the Binding. Surely you’ve heard of it?”

  Guyen offered a blank look.

  Rialto grunted. “Well, it is my Talent. And my studio at Makers Gate is the only facility in the city able to study it.”

  “So, I’m not under arrest?”

  “Not at all.”