Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  Guyen fixed him with a dark look. “Are you mad? You can’t see Faze. And you can’t see into the future.”

  “Yes,” the streethawk considered, “that is rather unusual.”

  Given the circumstances, it was as good an explanation as any. But the man sounded like a lunatic. Visible Faze?

  The streethawk pressed the fake silver back into Guyen’s palm. “Here, let us agree we are both cheats, and say no more about it. Cermonthyl has a reputation to keep up.” He pushed off with his cart. “A word of advice, Maker, leave the world how it wants to be.”

  Cermonthyl, if that really was his name, rattled off up the street, a jaunty whistle on his lips. Guyen adjusted his collar, watching him go. Had he just learned something important? Or been suckered in with a load of old horseshit? The way he felt right now, weak, thoughts a jumble, he was in no place to judge. He had to get back to the safety of his room.

  The clamour back to its usual high-pitched, ignorable drone, he summoned Toulesh. This time the simulacrum didn’t resist. Thoughts racing, wondering what the fuck had just happened, he traced a southerly route back to the Makers. Passing a whitewashed wall in the dimming evening light, streaks stained his vision. Staring at the counter had made a lasting impression on his eyes. Hopefully, it wasn’t permanent.

  18

  City of Devotions

  First things first,” Rialto said. “In order to understand Binding, you must first understand Faze. Take a look.” He nodded at the device on the bench—an eyescope, he’d called it.

  It was the next day, and they were in the Bindcraft studio on the third floor—a laboratory dotted with a myriad of strange instruments. Bottles and flasks lined shelves, glass-fronted cases held rare-looking rocks, and a fine collection of volumes filled a bookcase covering most of the far wall. A refreshing draft blew through open, glass-panelled doors, beyond which a balcony looked out onto the Bustle, the market boulevard in front of the Devotion packed with its usual traders and street artists.

  Nyra and the other two Bindcrafters, both women, huddled over apparatus at the far end of the studio. The older woman went by the name Moran, the younger, fair-haired girl, Tishara. She was only two or three years Guyen’s senior and had smiled pleasantly upon their meeting. One other person stalked about the room—a slow-witted, silver-haired man with an unkempt beard. By the brand on his neck, he was a dullard—the lowest of the slave classes, a caste so brain-damaged by the Binding they were considered little more intelligent than dogs, and not nearly so loyal. He pushed a broom, constantly sweeping, staring into the middle distance with piercing grey eyes. The others ignored him. He seemed happy with that.

  Guyen looked through the eyepiece at the blood sample Rialto had prepared, and balked—the magnification was incredible, a scientific marvel. Descriptions of blood cells in anatomy books were all very well, but to see them with your own eyes was amazing.

  “What you are looking at is a sample from a correctly bound individual, Yorkov. Notice the flecks?”

  Examining the sample more closely, tiny, hair-like strands floated between the cells. Intriguing. “What are they?” Guyen asked.

  “Bind Markers,” Rialto said. “All the Bound have them. They limit movement within the plasma. May I?”

  Guyen shuffled back to let him view the sample. Tishara eyed him with interest across the bench. He looked self-consciously away at the back of Rialto’s curly, black hair. “Where do Bind Markers come from?” he asked, keen to break the silence.

  “The body produces them during Binding, Yorkov.” Rialto swapped the slide for another. “Here, observe this one. This is Unbound blood.” He moved aside.

  Guyen bent over the eyescope again. These cells were more active. He shivered. Where did you get Unbound blood from? Nowhere good, probably.

  Rialto continued. “As you know, Yorkov, Faze affects blood, but it is a subtle creature. It lingers rather than revealing its chaos in plain sight. We only see its effects by exposing the sample to more concentrated levels of Faze. See what happens when I introduce this piece of quartz.” He placed a palm’s width tablet of purple crystal in a purpose-built tray underneath the eyescope’s stage, slotting it into place. The effect was striking, the blood cells skating around the slide as if infused with energy. The unusual white sodalight shining through the eyescope glittered in the sample, sparks jumping between the cells.

  “You see the effect, Yorkov?” Rialto was more animated. “The cells agitate. This is what causes all the problems—when blood isn’t bound, the cells collide, creating damage.” He paused expectantly. “Any questions at this point?”

  There were lots of questions, not least why the cells sparked like that? Maybe it was his eyes. He tried a more mundane tack. “Why use quartz, sir?”

  “Good, Yorkov. Correct question. And a straightforward answer. Quartz attracts and magnifies Faze.”

  Attracts Faze? Wasn’t that what the streethawk had claimed his quartz counter did? Maybe he knew what he was talking about.

  Nyra had moved on to cleaning some vials in the sink behind them. Taps delivered running water from a reservoir on the Circle’s roof, it was all very fancy. Rialto turned to him. “Tell our young apprentice here how we found out about the properties of quartz, D’Brean.”

  “The people of Ranatland,” Nyra said. He turned off the tap, placing the last cleaned vial on the drainer. “After the Turn, the maddenings came to them first. The bedrock there contains deep deposits of quartz. Milkins writes extensively on the subject.” He retrieved a tome from a row of encyclopaedic volumes in the tall bookcase and pressed it into Guyen’s hands.

  Faze. Vol. 1. An Introduction to Faze and Binding the Affliction.

  The weight was something else, The Book of Talents light reading in comparison.

  “You can hold on to that,” Rialto grunted. “You’ll be needing it.”

  Guyen nodded dutifully. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need it at all. He had to get out, away from the Devotions, this place was draining the life from him. But how did he do that with no money, without landing his family in trouble? He placed the book on the bench, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  Rialto signalled the slide. “So, besides the movement in the plasma, what other differences do you notice between the two samples?”

  Guyen gritted his teeth and rechecked. The wiry strands that lay between cells in the Bound blood were absent here. He could mention that. “There aren’t any Bind Markers,” he said.

  “Good. Anything else?”

  Misshapen, red blotches floated within the sample. “I can see—er—mutated cells?” It was a best guess.

  “Excellent, Yorkov. Gold star. Cellular breakdown—that’s what leads to the maddenings. We’ll make a Bindcrafter of you yet. Anything more?”

  Should he mention the sparking? He didn’t want to look like an idiot. “What was it you wanted me to see, sir?”

  “Well, I don’t know, do I?” Rialto snapped. He seemed disappointed. Damn, things had been going so well… He sighed. “Fine, let us try something else. Hold out your finger.”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Just a pinprick of blood, Yorkov. No need to panic.” The others gathered around now, all eyes. Rialto withdrew a pin from his lapel. “Quick now,” he said. “I haven’t got all day.” Reluctantly, Guyen held out his hand. Rialto pricked the pad of his index finger. Guyen bit his lip, leaving Toulesh to wave his hand wildly about, a disgusted expression on his face. A bead of blood formed. Rialto took a fresh slide, marshalling a drop onto it. Tishara offered a strip of clean linen to stem the flow.

  Rialto placed the slide under the eyescope, hunched over the machine, and peered through the eyepiece. Toulesh hopped foot to foot, staring at his ear. Guyen swapped nervous looks with the others. What was the Prime looking for? What would he see? After a moment adjusting focus, swapping out the quartz drawer, muttering unintelligibly, he looked up. His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “A world first!” he proclai
med. “Not another living soul will have observed Purebound plasma at this level of magnification before. By Hayern, praise be to the glassmakers, eh?” He beamed. “Well, are you going to look or not?” He stepped back, nodding meaningfully down at the slide.

  Toulesh dived to get first look. Guyen pushed him aside, and stared into the eyepiece. It was fascinating to see your own blood at such a scale. Again, the translucent cells—his cells—jostled slowly in the pink plasma. They looked healthy, that was something, but as with the Unbound blood, there were no wiry strands between them—no Bind Markers. What did that mean? Had he never been Bound?

  Rialto placed a quartz tablet under the slide and the cells suddenly danced, the same frenetic fever ballet the Unbound blood had performed, minus the sparking. A clammy sweat broke. What was he? He stared through the sample, adjusting focus with the brass wheel to the side of the eyescope, plunging into new and more complex layers. A puff of gas hissed deep in the mechanism, as if complaining he saw too much.

  But what was he seeing?

  It wasn’t just the movement of the cells. It wasn’t just the lack of Bind Markers or absence of cellular breakdown. He focussed on a single cell. It glimmered, pulsing in time with the clamour—now gently chiming. That wasn’t natural.

  Rialto drummed his fingers on the bench. His rings click-clacked like a miniature, galloping horse approached. “What do you see, Yorkov?”

  “It’s the same as the Unbound sample,” Guyen managed, “but there are no Bind Markers.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “The blood is healthy?”

  “That’s right, Yorkov. Extraordinary. No cellular degradation, yet your blood reacts to Faze.” He paused. “Is that it?”

  “Were you expecting something else, sir?”

  Rialto signalled for the others to look. He frowned. “Do you know why Purebounds are selected for Bindcraft, Yorkov?”

  “Because we react to Faze?”

  “Yes, but why does that matter?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Which was true. Exactly why the statutes required him to be a Bindcrafter wasn’t something he’d considered.

  Rialto regarded him as if he were stupid. “Wrath of the Ages, Yorkov! You react to Faze, therefore you should be able to observe it somehow. I was hoping for a little more insight than I don’t know.”

  Tishara smiled sympathetically. That was good, any kind of ally in this place would be a miracle. Nyra looked up from the eyescope, eyes wide. “Amazing,” he murmured.

  Rialto heated. “And that’s your most profound scientific observation, is it, D’Brean?”

  Nyra flinched.

  No one spoke. The dullard glided past, sweeping.

  Rialto sighed. “All the advances in concoction design over the Ages were made by Purebounds, Yorkov. We’ve always assumed they had special gifts.” He perched on a stool, rubbing his leg. “Take formulation eighty-seven.” He waved at one of several portraits of stuffy old Sendalis hanging on the wall, the varnish peeling, colours fading. It depicted a studious man in Makers finery—green robes and flouncy white collars.

  “The first modern variant to derive directly from the Seed,” Rialto said, “designed by the legendary Purebound, Annis Molina. It was said he could see Faze as I see the blue sky. If you were the same, just imagine, you might be able to design an entirely new formulation from scratch, one which could invigorate the Talents, reduce mortality rates, give us healthier, saner existences…” He trailed off.

  It was a lot to take in, and he seemed to have exhausted himself. As a result, he lost all exuberance, replaced by a grey matter-of-factness for the rest of the morning. He was a good teacher though, providing a comprehensive tour of the studio, introducing the seventeen elemental powders, and the quartz…

  Of course, everyone knew Faze and quartz were connected, certain varieties prized beyond gold, but the fact had never seemed important before. However, the assessors had made Guyen drink it, the streethawk had manipulated his mind with it. The stuff was obviously more important than he’d realised. Rialto stocked every known variety, in a spectrum of colours, all carefully labelled and arranged in a glass cabinet the Bindcrafters referred to as the locker. Nyra explained the system, the stronger, blue varieties organised on the right. Guyen brushed a finger over some, receiving a static shock for his troubles. Surely that wasn’t supposed to happen? Nyra didn’t notice. Best not mention it. Best not mention anything that might get him thrown in a hole and experimented on.

  By the end of the morning, the basics of Bindcraft were familiar, although it would surely take years to master the subject. But then, it was all irrelevant, as soon as he could, he was out of here. He would have one misgiving though—what with the strange happenings of these past few months, and the revelation his Binding was at best messed up, these people might have been able to help him.

  As the Faze clock in the quad announced half-past-midday in a series of tinkling chimes, Nyra offered to accompany him to the refectory for lunch. There was no reason to decline, it wouldn’t do to appear churlish. They took a circuitous route, walking the top of the ancient outer-wall of the Devotion, Toulesh folded out, strolling unseen beside them, while Nyra offered a revisionist’s guide to Maker history.

  “They built this wall to defend the Devotion from the southern duchies,” he said. “Back in the old days, when Makers were the main power.”

  “And to keep out the commons, I assume?”

  Nyra raised an eyebrow at the sardonic tone. “Actually, we support several charities which help the poor.”

  “Just so long as they stay in their own quarter though, eh?”

  “That is a cynical head you have on those young shoulders of yours, Yorkov.”

  “I say things as I see them.”

  Nyra nodded approvingly. “Good, I like honesty in a man. But things are not always as they seem. This wall has served Makers better keeping out the other Devotions than the poor.” His eyes glinted mischievously.

  “And the barracks?” Guyen asked. “Are the guardsmen for keeping out the other Devotions too?”

  Nyra grunted a laugh. “Yes, but the last fighting between Devotions was a hundred years ago. These days, well, the sergeant-at-arms struts around like he commands a regiment, but he hardly has a company. The military are all consolidated at War.”

  “Makers gave up their army? Why would they do that?”

  “It is how the system works,” Nyra said. “War are independent, loyal to the Primearchy, sworn never to attack the other Devotions.”

  “Sounds unlikely to me,” Guyen observed.

  “It’s civilisation, Yorkov. Far more efficient than the monarchy in Althuisa.”

  They passed an old Maker sat on a shady bench. His robes were fine, cloth expensive, shoes the best leather. Everyone in this place dressed like lords. Nyra was no exception in that regard, and despite his foreign heritage, spoke perfect Sendali Common with no hint of an accent. Guyen fanned himself with his tricorne. “So, what’s your story?” he probed.

  “Sanity over Affliction, Yorkov. The glorious Sendali Binding. I came here to study.”

  “Why would they call a foreigner to the Devotions?”

  “My father struck a deal with the Sendali High Commissioner on the robak course. He parted with a good amount of gold to get me here.”

  “He bought you the Assignment?” Guyen sputtered. “I thought the Assignments system was all about meritocracy for the good of society.”

  Nyra shrugged. “Gold talks, and it was an easy sell, Bindcrafters are in short supply. Besides, my tutor wrote a glowing reference.”

  “Just how rich are you?”

  He laughed. “You don’t tie your tongue, do you! My family is big in antiquities. You know the kind of thing.”

  “No. The only antiquities in my family are our clothes.”

  Nyra took in the threadbare shirt. It was embarrassing. “If you need money, I could lend you some?” he offered.

  Guyen shook his hea
d. “My father always said it was better to owe your stomach than a man.”

  “He sounds like a wise man.”

  “Not anymore. He’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s the least of my problems.”

  Nyra looked sympathetically over, as if trying to work out just how bad things were. Guyen returned a forced, cheerful smile, as a thought struck—if he was going to get away, he’d need money. He didn’t even have the meagre foundry wage now.

  “Is there any way to earn coin around here?” he asked.

  Nyra considered. “The Assignments Office grant permits for the less glamorous work.”

  “Less glamorous?”

  “Anything not described as a Talent. You might find something in the sewers, rubbish collection, you know the kind of thing. Not many want to employ Krellens, mind, even for the worst jobs.”

  “There’s a surprise.” The irritation slipped out, he hadn’t meant it to, he was trying to be guarded. It was this damn weather—how hot could a country get? They passed a sour-faced sentry sweating away under his thick collar.

  “Ordinates should get a salary like Sworns do,” Nyra said. “I’ve always thought so.”

  A cynical laugh escaped. “But not paying folk makes for a more exclusive club,” Guyen said. “Imagine the vagrants they’d attract if they offered them money to walk in here.”

  Nyra grunted appreciatively. “Can your family not support you?”

  “Things are tight back home. My brother’s ill.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What ails him?”

  “He had an accident. It affected his Binding.” Nyra raised an eyebrow. “He’s not Unbound,” Guyen added quickly, “just has some of the symptoms. I’m hoping he’ll recover, but no one knows how to help him.”

  “He sounds like the ideal candidate for a patch serum.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A concoction. One which can reset a weakened Binding.” Nyra gestured at the book in Guyen’s satchel. “Last chapter in Milkins, if you get that far.”