Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Then I can leave?”

  He frowned. “If you wanted to break your Assignment, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “I see.” So he was a prisoner in all but name. But then, wasn’t every Sendali?

  Rialto smiled patiently. “So, you’re a Krellen, eh? But a Sendali citizen?”

  “Yes, sir. My mother is Sendali.”

  “Good show. I hope you take after her in your loyalties. No misguided hatred of your oppressors, eh?”

  He seemed to be making a joke. “Of course not, sir.” That was a lie.

  Rialto tapped his fingers on the desk, glittering rings rapping the wood. “Good. That’s good.” He paused. “Bindcraft is a higher Assignment, Yorkov, which means you are now a Devotee—a member of our fine body. And that honour comes with certain responsibilities. I shall mentor you personally and you will report to me, but if you break your Assignment or try to abscond, or cause trouble in any way, you will be arrested and tried for crimes against the Binding. The penalties are the severest. Are we clear?”

  Ah, this was more like it. Good old Sendali hospitality. “I understand,” Guyen said.

  “Excellent. Conduct yourself appropriately, and you may have a future with us, but I would prepare for a certain amount of hostility, most Devotees are Sendali Highborn. You only half-qualify on one count, as for the other, well, I would start with a bath.” He raised an eyebrow.

  The man probably had a point. It must look like a beggar had wandered in off the street. You certainly smell like one.

  Rialto pursed his lips. “Just try to make friends, you will need them. And keep your wits sharp.”

  “I shall make a point of them, sir.”

  He tilted his head. “Is that some kind of Krellen humour, Yorkov?”

  “Just nerves, sir.”

  “Ha! There is spirit in you then. Perhaps enough to make a Bindcrafter of you. I do hope so.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “That is all I can ask. Let us hope your best is good enough.” He handed over a sheet of parchment. “Here is a list of every Talent practised within the other five Devotions. All Ordinates—that’s you in your first year—must serve with each in some capacity. It’s only to keep up appearances, you’ll spend most of your time working on Maker projects, but choose wisely or you might find yourself exceedingly bored. You will have lodgings at Makers Gate. You’ll usually find me at my residence within the grounds there, or in the studio. I try to make myself available when I’m not snowed under with Maker business, but I shall see you most days.”

  The man didn’t seem that bad, for a Sendali—eccentric perhaps, but friendly with it.

  He stood. “Congress is tomorrow at fifth hour. You’ll need to attend.”

  “Congress?”

  “You must cast your vote like everyone else. Felix will fill you in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll have unpacking to be getting on with, no doubt?” He nodded towards the door.

  Guyen scrambled to his feet. “Yes, of course, sir. Thank you.”

  He waved him away, and Guyen let himself back into the lobby. What happened in there? Did they just press-gang you into joining the Devotions? They may not have lumped him over the head with a truncheon in a dark alley, but the effect was the same. Still, it could have gone a lot worse.

  Felix waited. “Commendable fellow, isn’t he?”

  Guyen shrugged. “He seems reasonable enough.”

  “Oh, I nearly forgot, that Vale fellow told me to give you this.” Felix handed over his knife. These people obviously didn’t think him a threat. That was something to cling onto, and their mistake. Felix signalled the passageway. “Come on, let’s get you lodged, daft boy. The sights and sounds of Makers Gate await.” He took off at pace.

  Guyen followed, his mind racing. What did they want with him? Something didn’t feel right. If only he could place what.

  15

  Makers Gate

  The first thing you noticed about Makers Gate was just that—the gate. You could see why the estate took its name from the remarkable sight. Forged entirely in bronze, it towered two stories high, an armoury of interlocking panels shimmering like fire burned inside them. Open as it currently was, it looked folded in on itself, and certainly too heavy to ever move. According to Felix though, it closed perfectly well, and in short order, by means of some ancient, Faze-enhanced mechanism, the panels unfurling like a peacock’s tail at the behest of a few levers.

  The second thing you noticed about Makers Gate were the walls—quite as thick as those protecting the city, they enclosed a jigsaw of turrets and stone arches. It was ancient architecture of the sort found in ruined castles, but unlike a ruined castle, everything looked perfectly operational.

  Then there were the guards, ravaged features joyless, weapons sharp and proddy. However, Felix waved his credentials and they parted peaceably, ushering them through the cold archway, away from the market traders in the street, into the unknown.

  Those first sights and sounds passed by in a blur, too much to take in, apart from the scale of the place—that was massive, but whatever else it was, the Devotion was a welcome haven from the dirty city, and exhausted, it was a blessing to finally be shown to a room high up on the sixth floor of the circular main building. A narrow bed, a battered writing table, a wardrobe, a sink, and a shuttered window featured. A small but solid safe nestled in the wall.

  Felix took his leave and Guyen slunk over to the window, pulling it up, pushing open the shutter for some air. Hundreds of similar ivy-framed openings dotted the upper levels on the opposite side of the Circle. Below, tiny people hurried about their business in a vast, circular quad. He should have been grateful for the view, just hours ago he’d assumed he would be locked in some damp cell, but this place was a prison anyway, the comfortable mattress and smooth sheets sticky traps. The hour-long walk from the Devotoria had revealed a city of overcrowded streets connecting slums and desperate workhouses with pockets of ridiculous wealth, and even the relative tranquillity of Makers Gate couldn’t dislodge the oppressive feeling. True, with the extraordinary city came excitement, but not so much that he’d have difficulty sleeping tonight.

  He pulled the shutter closed, it didn’t exactly fit in the frame, one of the drawbacks of ancient architecture. Then, legs aching, feet sore, he kicked off his boots, undid his britches and collapsed on the bed. He lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of the Devotion floating in through the open window, amongst them the sweet, soothing melodies of a flute. He’d missed music in recent months, there’d always been someone with a shell pipe or accordion to dance to in Krell.

  Fearing he might drop off at any moment, he picked up Rialto’s list. He needed to keep up appearances and pick these other Talents—Felix wanted his choices by morning. He needed to choose wisely too, he had to keep the scrags on side until he’d formulated a plan. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about any of these so-called Talents. This would require some educated guesswork. He summoned Toulesh to better concentrate.

  The list was organised by each Devotion—Maker, Culture, War, Scholar, Corpus and Merchant—with the name of the Wield in charge written beside each Talent in elegant script. Ariana had mentioned Politique, a Culture Talent, so he underlined that, and interested in the stars, he marked off the Scholar Talent Astronomics. For a Corpus Talent, he selected Midwifery—midwives being responsible for administering the Binding, Rialto would appreciate that—and for a Merchant Talent, he picked Trade, for a War Talent, Intelligence. They were all as good choices as any other. Stroking his thumbnail as a memory prompt, he committed the list to his recall, then slipped under the sheet, letting his aching muscles relax into the downy mattress. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

  Someone knocked at the door. He went to get up, but the harder he tried, the stickier the bed became. Then he was opening it to Ariana. She swept into the room, trailing afterimages so thick they turned into solid, woman-shaped tunnels of co
lour, twisting around him, sticking to him, gluing him in place like a fly in a web. Panic rose, chiming sounds filling his ears, his lungs locked, breath an impossibility, and she burst into flames, her perfect, pale flesh melting away like pig fat till only scorched, white skeleton remained. She turned her head, red fire burning in empty eye sockets, and letting out a banshee wail to raise the dead, concertinaed to the floor in a pile of bones.

  He awoke, panting. Pure relief. Just another night terror. He scanned the room. No—impossible. Ariana lay face-down on the floor. How could this be happening? He scrambled out of the bed and rushed to her side, rolling her over. Where her face should have been, ran only smooth skin. The floor disintegrated in splintering timber. He fell.

  He stirred again, clothes drenched, to the sound of an urgent bell. He bit his lip, it hurt, he was properly awake this time. It was dark. It didn’t feel like he’d slept for long. A chilling howl broke the silence. He sat bolt upright. That noise—only one thing sounded like that. Unbound. He scrambled over to the window, bumping his shin painfully on the chair in the process, and flung the shutter open to a warm breeze.

  Figures hurried below, shadowy forms lit by the glowing braziers. The sound of metal on metal and inhuman grunts drifted upwards. Another animalistic scream. Muffled voices. Someone shouted down from an opposite window and the night warden called up for quiet. Guyen waited, watching for a few minutes, but whatever was going on seemed to be over. He peeled off his damp clothes and got back into bed, lying there, listening to the creaks and whistles of the old building for a while. Then, as the adrenalin dissipated, sleep took him.

  Immediately, it felt, he awoke again, except now the early glow of dawn inundated the window. Someone banged at the door. He crawled out of bed and opened it.

  Felix stood there, dressed in shorts and a thin vest. His lantern burned like the sun. “Good morning,” he said. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Guyen squinted, suppressing a growl. He may as well not have slept at all, he still felt that exhausted. “What time is it?”

  “Sixth hour. Exercise time.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He nodded. “Compulsory for Ordinates, I’m afraid. Sorry, I should have mentioned it.”

  Of course he should have mentioned it! Perhaps this was a joke, an initiation jape? But he didn’t look like the japing type. Damn this place. “Give me a minute then.”

  The Secondus stepped back into the corridor.

  Muttering darkly, Guyen slipped into his britches and shirt, and kicked on his boots.

  A dozen Makers waited in the quad beside a giant statue of a man. Ordinates presumably. A couple of the women were even quite attractive. No one looked like they wanted to be here.

  Felix surveyed them. “You lot look spent already.”

  “How long you gonna punish us today?” a tousled blond youth grumbled.

  “Longer if you annoy me with stupid questions, Harbrath.”

  He looked over. “Who’s that?” All eyes turned to stare.

  “This is our latest addition to the Gate—Yorkov.”

  “What sort of a name’s that?”

  “Krellen,” Guyen said. “What of it?”

  “You should have stayed there with the rest of the Unbound, they’re—”

  “Shut it, Harbrath,” another voice interrupted.

  “You can go back to your own shittin’ country too, D’Brean.”

  Felix clipped him round the ear. “That’s enough. Five laps of the grounds and no breakfast for anyone who doesn’t finish. Let’s go.” He set off at a sprint. “Move quicker,” he bellowed, “unless you want to see the Justice.” The Ordinates started after him, leaving Guyen struggling to keep up in heavy boots. The others wore light footwear suited to running, but then, they probably had a dozen pairs of shoes each.

  The course stretched around the Devotion like a never-ending ring of hell, running out through the west arch, under the Circle’s main structure, threading past other Maker buildings and allotments within the outer walls. It was gruelling exercise, but a chance at least to survey the estate’s many points of interest. The lower floors of the Circle housed workshops, offices, a library, and a small barracks. Felix had said the building extended underground several stories. Warehouses, an armoury, facilities which looked like they might manufacture chemicals, and more residences dotted the grounds. Beyond a line of willows, a secluded garden grew up, alive with colourful plants. The Devotion was the size of a small town, a walled-off, self-sufficient subset of the greater city beyond.

  As they jogged past the impressive entrance for the third time, Guyen glanced up at an elegant line of louvered windows.

  “Rialto’s studio,” a voice said. A dark-skinned fellow jogged alongside, the man who’d picked Harbrath up on his rudeness. “Guyen, is it not?” A well-trimmed beard covered his chin, and he didn’t appear to have an Assignment mark. He didn’t look Sendali. And he was not out of breath.

  “Who are you?” Guyen panted.

  “Nyra, one of the other Bindcrafters. Did Rialto not mention me?”

  “Not by name.” Guyen rubbed his side, a stitch rapidly developing. “You an Ordinate too, are you?”

  “Oh no, I’m a Sworn.”

  “What are you doing here then? I thought only Ordinates had to endure this torture.”

  “I endeavour to stay fit, fella, and that yaldson needs help keeping you pups in line.” He pointed at Felix. What was a yaldson? Felix glanced back and Nyra made a rude gesture. Felix grinned, returning a similarly inventive arrangement of fingers. “He’s a gem,” Nyra said. “None finer in the Makers. We were Ordinates together, you know.”

  “Oh, were you,” Guyen managed. They took several more steps. “Where are you from then?”

  “Ah, you noticed. Althuisa. I used to be the exotic one around here before you arrived. Now I am old news.” He threw his hands up in mock disgust.

  They ran back out through the west arch again. A few seconds later, the allotments came into view for the fourth time. Guyen glanced across. “Who told you I was a Bindcrafter?”

  “Your fame precedes you, Purebound.”

  Guyen stumbled, a strewn branch conspiring to trip him. “How do you know about that?”

  “Do I look like I live under a rock, Yorkov? A Krellen at the Devotions is talk enough, but a Purebound too? I wager they did not like that at the Assignments Office.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Yes, well, they prefer a face to fit.” He laughed. “Unfortunate all round, I suppose.” He wasn’t wrong there. “Well,” he said after a few more steps, “I shall see you later. If you need anything, do not hesitate, I am your—how do you say—man. You take care now.” He sprinted off. There was no way to keep up with him. It was hard enough not falling over from exhaustion.

  After the run and a splash of cold water, Guyen changed his shirt and made his way to the refectory on the other side of the west arch. The high-ceilinged, airy hall housed rows of trellis tables and a self-service counter displaying the widest selection of food he’d ever seen—fruited breads and cakes, lightly-spiced buns flavoured with caraway seeds, hot and buttered. Pastries, sausages, eggs, and fruits for which he had no name, honey and marmalade, apple, raspberry and cherry preserves. He collected a tray, mouth watering like the ocean, and piled a plate with bread, sausages and a good chunk of muskmelon, ignoring the stares. He was too hungry to worry about those. As he filled a goblet with what could only be orange juice—a rare luxury indeed—a uniformed man with a ring of receding ginger hair barged past. He knocked the goblet, spilling the contents on the counter.

  “So sorry, didn’t see you there,” he hissed.

  Guyen returned a dark stare.

  Felix called over from the table where he ate with Nyra. “Yorkov, over here.” Guyen snatched up his tray and joined them. Talk was of the commotion from the previous night.

  “An Unbound prefect,” Felix said. “Never thought I’d see that.”


  “The wardens killed him?” Nyra asked.

  “Yes, with help from the rest of his patrol.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “No one knows. His squad lost him near Desolation Square, only realised he was in here when they heard the fighting.” Felix turned to Guyen. “Nasty business, an Unbound inside the Devotion last night, out for blood apparently.”

  “I heard something.” He tore off more bread. “I thought it may have been a dream.”

  “You must have bad dreams.”

  “Recently, yes.”

  The two Makers exchanged a look.

  Guyen shifted in his seat. “Happens a lot, does it, Unbound in the city?”

  “Hardly ever,” Felix said, “but there’s been a few incidents in recent months.”

  “Why would they assign an Unbound as a prefect?”

  “That’s a very good question, Yorkov.”

  “I thought your Assignments system was infallible,” Nyra snorted. “Surely the Unbound cannot complete the training required for the prefecture? How old was he?”

  “Mid-thirties.”

  “It makes no sense. Are they sure he was one of them?”

  Felix shrugged. “They think he attacked that Corper. She’s on a ward at Whitefriars. He mutilated her. Sane men don’t do that.”

  “How long had he been enlisted?”

  “All his life, apparently.”

  “Maybe he was ill from some other cause.” Nyra took a slug of cacao. “What do you think, Yorkov?”

  Guyen looked up from his plate. “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Felix laughed. “Easy, daft boy, no one’s accusing you of anything.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound defensive.”

  “No need to apologise, Yorkov. No need.” The senior Makers exchanged another patronising look. “You got that list of Talents for me?”

  “Ah, yes.” Guyen dug it out.

  Felix scanned it, then pocketed it with an appreciative nod. “Room all right?” he queried.