Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “And one of these patch serums could help him?”

  Nyra considered. “Perhaps. But I have never seen one crafted, and it is unheard of, you know, to lose your Binding.”

  “Where would I get one?”

  “They are not the kind of thing you pick up at an apothecary, fella. They have to be specially made, tailored to a man’s own blood. Besides, such medicaments are outlawed.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well, all forms of Binding are controlled. If it was for a High Lord, you might get a license to experiment, but a sick peasant not so much.”

  So this was how he regarded him? A slum dweller?

  Nyra noticed his clumsiness. “Sorry, I did not mean—”

  Guyen waved a dismissive hand. “This serum,” he said, “could it be made at the studio?”

  Nyra came to a halt, wiping sweat from his brow. “I would help,” he said, “but messing with the Binding… my wife would not forgive me if I lost my Assignment.”

  Who cared about Assignments? None of that mattered next to Yemelyan’s sanity. But the more Nyra explained, the more difficult making this serum sounded. The process was complicated, requiring Yemelyan’s blood, and he was hundreds of miles away. But perhaps, Guyen considered, fate had brought him to Carmain for a reason. Bindcraft might offer his brother a cure.

  He would put his plan to abscond on hold, at least until this avenue was exhausted. He’d skip straight to the last chapter in Milkins. He’d teach himself how to make a patch serum. He’d send home for some blood. He had to try.

  An ivy-covered tower came into view at the end of the rampart. Guyen pointed. “What’s that?”

  Nyra followed his finger. “Ah, the Lookout. You want to go up? The view’s spectacular.”

  Guyen shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  Reaching the tower, they pushed through the heavy oak door and climbed the stairs, Toulesh zipping up ahead of them. A moment later, they emerged to a panoramic view of the city.

  If Makers Gate was Carmain’s heart, the sprawl of streets and buildings extending from it were its veins and arteries. Cranes and steeples dissected the skyline, shrouded in acrid grey smog despite the sizzling day. As the hour struck, bells pealed in every direction, the hollow clangs of church bells overpowering tinkling chimes from public buildings and grand houses.

  The other five Devotions lay at various compass points, dominating their surroundings. Nyra pointed them out as Guyen looked through an eyeglass mounted on a wooden frame. The Culturalists occupied an estate to the northeast—Six Sisters—just visible on the horizon beyond the imposing mound of the Devotoria. It was heavily defended, in part by a winding tributary to Carmain’s main river, the Galt, in part by thick walls. Above it, a monolithic arch swept through the sky, casting a ribbon of shadow in the midday sun.

  To the southeast, a giant metal sculpture of a broadsword rose several stories into the sky, glinting red and gold over a walled-off collection of barracks, training arenas and armouries—Garrison—home to War Devotion. To the north, a tower of stacked, hexagonal buildings shot unstably into the air like a pile of discarded clam shells, its grey shadow in a constant state of near tumble. “Scholars Keep,” Nyra said.

  “Do they live there? The Scholars?”

  “Yes, there are apartments on the north side.”

  Guyen moved the eyeglass again. A bazaar stretched out to the south, a warren of markets and lanes. At its centre stood an impressive sandstone building topped with an indulgent golden spire.

  “Merchants Devotion,” Nyra said. “That is their counting house. Ridiculous, no?”

  It was a vulgar display indeed.

  Finally, he pointed out some gardens dotted with white buildings and a distinctive red treeline to the east, an oasis of calm amongst the urban sprawl. This small enclave, he pronounced, was home to Corpus. Supposedly, they were devoted to studying Anatomy, but by the looks of it spent the majority of their time landscaping artificial brooks and meandering paths.

  All in all, Carmain was a vast, sprawling collection of landmarks, people and activity. It would take several hours to traverse it by foot.

  As Guyen was about to step back from the eyeglass, a series of black domes caught his eye, just past the city walls to the north. “What are those?” he asked.

  Nyra checked the view. “That is Karonac, Yorkov. Best not talked of in polite company.”

  Ariana’s words came back. ‘It’s where they take the Unbound, to fix them.’ Even the name was foreboding. It was nowhere he would visit.

  “Seen enough?” Nyra asked.

  “More than enough for one day.”

  He smiled. “Good, because I am about to expire through lack of sustenance.”

  They headed back down the winding steps and left the wall at the end of the section, taking the short walk to the refectory. A sprawl of Makers lounged on the grassy bank outside in the shade of tall elms. Inside, the old hall bustled with activity. Hopefully, there would be some food left.

  As they approached the entrance, the balding Sergeant Hielsen stepped out in front of them.

  “Hey, Cloves,” he said, “you’re going the wrong way. Bins are over there.” He pointed down an alleyway at the side of the building.

  Toulesh reared up.

  “Is that the best you can do, Hielsen?” Nyra snorted.

  Hielsen laughed. “Rialto’s monkey’s got his own pet now, eh?” He exchanged a smirk with the guardsman beside him.

  The arsehole wasn’t worth the effort. Guyen pushed past.

  “Don’t forget to use the cutlery,” Hielsen called.

  The Book of Talents

  Karonac through the Ages

  From ‘A History of Sendal’, Kaleg, hg.1560

  The site of Carmain’s Karonac Domes dates back before written histories. Its original purpose is unknown, scrolls denoting it a place of human sacrifice before the Turn. The writings of Karlac date the construction of the Domes themselves to the early Age of Sighs, when they were built by the Bindmasters to execute those connected to the Layer.

  The stonework from which the seven domes are constructed defies modern architectural principles of weight distribution, the rotundas too weak to support an estimated 40,000 tons of material, in the case of Dome Major. Unlike modern equivalents, the principle vaulting material used is an unidentified quartz-stone compound.

  Scholars (Levin hg.1528) speculate Dome Major may once have rotated. This theory stems from the six minor domes which surround it, the canopies of which have turned by degrees over the centuries. It is not fully understood how they move, the weight of stone contained in each estimated at 8,000 tons. Faze interaction between the metalwork in the rotundas and the composite material in the domes is assumed to be the primary mechanism. The minor domes’ alignment is said to reflect the state of Binding within the Feyrlands, although there is no agreed upon theory of measurement for such a system.

  NOTA:

  Today, the Karonac estate is administered by the Rachnoo, a quasi-religious order sworn to protect the Binding. It is predominantly used as a facility for the treatment of the most dangerous Unbound.

  S.G.

  19

  Six Sisters

  For the next week, Guyen studied hard in the studio. There was a lot to learn, but no talk of Purebounds, Rialto preferring to concentrate on the less exciting basics of Bindcraft. Strange sights presented themselves in the eyescope and glints appeared in everyday objects as the clamour grew more erratic. It was a worry, the aberrations were almost certainly Faze signatures. They had to be. No one could know what he saw. They’d lock him up.

  By night, confined to his room, he played with the fake silver or read, then slipped into dark, terrible dreams. And every day more sanity leaked away.

  Nyra had been right about the chapter in Milkins. It detailed everything you needed to know about patch serums and how to make one. If he could, it might just work, might just save Yemelyan’s sanity, and his life. He had to tr
y. He’d keep his head down, avoid unwanted attention, and find a way, he was a Bindcrafter, after all. However, despite studying the textbook every night, the equipment referenced remained unfamiliar and the ingredients complex—different bases, types of quartz, and a mysterious elemental powder called stem. It wasn’t one of the seventeen referenced in the long list in chapter one.

  It was too complicated. He needed help. All the while, there was his family to worry about. Was Dalrik really looking out for them? He wrote Mother a letter, outlining news of his new vocation, making subtle enquiries into Yemelyan’s health. He’d track down that contact Dalrik had mentioned in his note, perhaps he’d be able to get it to her—the prying eyes of the postal service couldn’t be trusted.

  It was just as well plans to escape were on hold—the Gate was as good as a prison. Rialto laid out a full schedule, and Guyen’s role was made clear—he was a dogsbody. If anything needed cleaning, if there were deliveries to lug, or supplies to log, it was up to him. When not in the studio, he was expected to keep Wields Hyel and Nekic happy. They had their own workshops on the lower floors where they expounded their Talents in Intricacy and Elementals. Service with them went well, and before long he was assisting in their experiments, miniaturising musket mechanisms, and developing new types of gunpowder. The work was challenging, but a whole lot more interesting than being stuck at the foundry.

  Meanwhile, Nyra hung around like a shadow, appearing every day for the Slog—as the Ordinates nicknamed the gruelling, morning runs. He was always in a good mood and as light on his feet as a butterfly, never breaking a sweat, forever dropping his pace to fall in step and fire off questions about Krell and Guyen’s Binding. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to care how unpopular associating with a Krellen made him. He was soon a firm friend.

  On Bannocksday, the opportunity to venture outside Maker walls presented itself, an opportunity that took some nerve to grasp. Unfortunately, the Wield Belana responsible for Politique had indeed been Devere’s wife, the High Mistress, and she’d promised a seat at one of her fabled discourses at his first opportunity—which she’d made clear in her message was today at two. He was to call on her at Six Sisters, Culture Devotion’s walled enclave. Hopefully, Ariana had been telling the truth about taking service in Politique or the torture would be for nothing.

  Stepping outside the Gate with only the Pledge and Toulesh for company, the world changed. It was the busiest part of the day and the Bustle was packed with shoppers and stallholders of every kind, grocers, butchers, tallowmen and herbalists plying their wares to every flavour of Sendali. Barefoot children sitting cross-legged in front of stalls looked up from their cleaning and sewing, panda eyes holing dirty faces. The crowds jostled in the tight space, barefaced beggars at intervals, mimes, buskers and fortune tellers in between. Any gaps in the throng were filled by escaped chickens. How could this many people coexist in such a tight space? How did you ever find anywhere in all the confusion? Despite having committed several maps of the city to memory, Carmain still seemed too vast to make sense of. He’d have to rely on his wits and a good sense of direction.

  Leaving the market behind, he turned left up Weaver’s Street, heading northwards. Six Sisters was the other side of the Devotoria, the best part of an hour’s walk, but slower in the suffocating heat. Soon out of water, he stopped to refill his flask at a fountain outside a rundown, gothic church. Across the square sat another speciality shop selling rare tea and spices. Carmanians had plenty of coin to waste on luxuries.

  Skirting the wide footprint of the Devotoria, he crossed the river and ambled side-by-side with Toulesh through the heart of the old city, the crumbliest, most misshapen buildings for company. He paused in the shadow of the towering Basilica, wondering at its height, then continued northwards, taking in a new marvel around every corner—fine bridges spanning canals, impossible arches connecting buildings either side of cobbled streets, ornate Faze clocks adorning high columns. And the women… well, Carmain was a feast for the eyes.

  Two Krellen cutpurses passed by, muttering to each other in the mother tongue. They nodded a greeting which seemed to say sorry you’re here too, brother. But what if he wasn’t sorry to be here? Despite Carmain’s downsides, he was a young man, and young men need excitement. The city offered plenty of that.

  Nearing Six Sisters, the avenues widened, grand buildings dominating major intersections. Just as he thought he was making good progress, he turned a corner only to face a crowd blocking the way. They focussed on some out-of-view entertainment, young children on parents’ shoulders waving in derision at whatever was going on, as their parents fed them sweets and savouries provided by roving food sellers. He pushed through the throng.

  An imposing building dominated one side of a crowded square, its tall pillars supporting a triangular gable, a set of scales carved into its limestone frontage. A court. In front of the steps and twin statues of Justices on horseback, the source of the entertainment grimly revealed—a platform supporting a row of gallows. Five figures bound at the wrists and ankles teetered precariously atop wooden crates, nooses dangling limply around their necks. A row of dour-faced prefects lined up in front of the platform, tall shields interlocked, cudgels in hand. Like the other prefects in the city, they wore distinctive tin hats with a black stripe down the middle. The dismal sight was quite at odds with the bright summer afternoon.

  Standing to one side of the gallows, a figure dressed in the purple of the Culturalists read from a book. “By authority of the Prime Council and the Devotions,” he boomed, “for the furtherance of the purity of Binding and the glory of Sendal—”

  Guyen loosened his collar. Public executions were hateful. He’d always kept away from rope feasts, as they were known back in Krell. What kind of people brought their children to a hanging? He caught a street sign—Accession Square—so this was probably the Court of Accession. He’d heard of it—the highest legal authority in Sendal. An old man watched on dispassionately near the back. Guyen caught his eye. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  The old man glared. “What does it look like, lad?”

  “What did they do?”

  “Middle one, they’re executing him for crimes against the Binding. The rest are his kin.”

  Gut clenched. The condemned man was familiar, Higuen, the Devotee whose death sentence had been passed by Congress. Disgust turned to horror—the last rope was taken by a sobbing boy no older than nine or ten. The Pledge chain seemed suddenly heavy as an anchor.

  The old man lowered his voice. “Talk is, they’re Binding deniers,” he muttered. “Refused to be tested, so they did.”

  A horn blew, and the crowd grew louder, impatient for action. A dozen men in white robes chanted in monotone near the front—Echelista—the fanatics were everywhere. Two men hovered nearby with a cart, waiting to take the corpses away. This was too depressing. Time to go. A boy peered at him from behind a woman’s skirt. She cradled a baby in one arm and held another, younger child with her free hand. Her black-stained eyes focused on the condemned man occupying the furthest gibbet. His colouring was like Higuen’s. His brother perhaps. Was she his wife? The kids his children?

  The boy’s oversized cap fell from his head, landing next to Guyen’s boot. He picked it up, offering it back with a kind smile. The boy paused as if wondering whether this turn of events was worthy of his mother’s attention. He decided it wasn’t and snatched the cap back, cradling it to his cheek. Then, without warning, the woman’s other child slipped her grip and ran into the crowd, heading towards the platform.

  “Toran, come back here,” she scolded, but the child had already vanished in a forest of legs. She scanned the crowd. “Toran!” she screamed. The boy with the cap looked up at his mother, arm wrapped tightly around her leg. Her eyes were desperate, at breaking point.

  Guyen touched her shoulder. “Hey, miss, you want me to fetch him?”

  She whipped round, nodding frantically. “Thank you,” she rasped.

 
Guyen turned in the direction the boy had gone, pushing through the crowd. Toulesh darted ahead, passing through people like light through water. The boy appeared briefly. Guyen dived for him. He evaded capture by an inch then flashed into view again several steps later. “Stop, kid!” He grabbed a handful of tunic.

  Smack. A heavy blow sent shooting pain through his head. A tinhat towered over him. Seeing the mother behind him, he loosed the boy into her care and scrambled to his feet.

  The tinhat shoved him back hard in the face.

  “Fuck off!” Guyen exploded, returning the push, strength overflowing with unnatural anger.

  The prefect stumbled. People turned to look. Two more tinhats stepped in front of their colleague. The one he’d pushed unsheathed his sword. Fear and anger let loose, Guyen reached for his knife.

  A hand touched his before he could withdraw the dagger. “Come away, Greens, there’s no helping.”

  He whirled round. It was that girl, Mist, the one he’d met at Congress. The one with the blade. The one who wouldn’t shut up.

  “There’s nothing to be done here,” she said, “we should go.” She grabbed his arm, eyes focussed on two tan-clad adjuncts pushing towards them.

  A horn blared and the ugly sound of splintering crates filled the air. The crowd gasped, shrieks fading to awful silence. Guyen looked up at the platform and wished he hadn’t. The child on the end gibbet kicked frantic legs in empty space, chest heaving.

  Time slowed, ability to move forgotten. The clamour rose, a rushing, whining wind, and the crowd hazed, constricting pain blossoming like he hung there himself. He was responsible for this, he was a Devotee now, the blood on his hands whichever way he’d voted.

  Mist yanked his arm. “We have to GO.” He focused on her voice. “No one will believe you’re a Devotee,” she urged. “They’ll run you through before anyone fills ‘em in, sure as beggars.”