Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  One of the adjuncts shouted over.

  “Fine,” Guyen grunted. He summoned Toulesh, shaking his head clear of the clamour, and they pushed out of the dispersing crowd, making it unseen into a side-alley. They ducked into a doorway.

  Mist risked a look back. “Think we’re all right,” she said.

  “Thanks for that,” Guyen muttered. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Don’t mention it, Greens.”

  Why does she have to call you that? He let it go, regaining his composure. “I should be off,” he said. “High Mistress Belana is expecting me.”

  Mist brightened. “I know. She’s expecting me too.”

  “Is she?”

  “I have a Culture Talent, remember? Politique’s compulsory for me.”

  “And how did you know I chose Politique?”

  She shrugged. “Saw your name on a list.”

  “How observant.”

  “All part of the ways of Intrigue, being observant. You should try it.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I notice everything.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Shame you don’t notice your own rudeness then, when a girl’s trying to help.”

  He squirmed. She was right. “I apologise,” he mumbled. “I just get a bit uncomfortable when someone knows my business.”

  “Can’t help noticing a name, can I?” she huffed. “Especially if that name belongs to a Purebound.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Everyone knows about that, Greens. I bet none of the other Wields turned you down, did they?”

  Coming to think of it, they hadn’t.

  Six Sisters was a campus of tall, white-stone buildings, pristine despite its long and distinguished history. Clearing security, Mist led the way to the top floor of a grand, airy building near the main entrance, Calipoli House. Home to the diplomatic corps, it was filled with exotic busts and tinkling, indoor water features. She knocked on Jal Belana’s study door.

  “Enter,” called a voice.

  She opened the door and they walked inside. The room was more boutique than office, every surface covered in soft fabric with a leaning towards plush purple suede. Silk throws hung over the furniture, a vanilla scent flavouring the air. A tall hat stand carved with animal heads dominated one corner, and an oversized indoor palm sprung up opposite, leaves clouded by fruit flies. Ariana sat in front of the draped window, her flyaway blonde hair tickled gently by a welcome draft. It was good to see her again, although she hardly looked up.

  Jal Belana regarded them. “Citizen Yorkov, I presume?”

  Guyen nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

  Her eyes flicked to Mist. “And an accomplice—let me see—Emeldra, isn’t it?”

  “Mist to my friends,” Mist said. “Please, call me Emeldra.”

  Jal managed a half-laugh. “Ah, a live one.” She patted the cushion on the red-leather recliner beside hers. “Take a seat, Guyen—may I call you such?”

  “Er, yes, Mistress.”

  “Please, we don’t rest on formalities here, call me Jal.”

  Did she remember him from Tal Maran? Probably not. He dropped his satchel on the floor, placing his tricorne on top, and lowered himself into the chair. A dozen Ordinates on a variety of velvet-cushioned, antique chaise and recliners glared daggers. No surprise there then—he looked like a tramp snuck in to steal lunch compared to them in their pressed suits and fashionable dresses. Ariana was the only one to spare him the disapproval, instead staring studiously down at the book on her lap—Livenstein’s, the book of the Truths, the same volume she’d been reading on the coach journey. The girl was nothing if not dedicated to her Assignment.

  “What about me?” Mist demanded.

  “You can sit there,” Jal said, offhandedly waving at an uncomfortable stool in the corner. Mist took it, eyes glaring, and assumed as unladylike a pose as possible.

  Jal was as stunning close-up as she was from afar, high cheekbones, flowing auburn hair, skin smooth as butter. She had big, hazel brown eyes and her lips were full, painted in pale blue to match her eye shadow. She suggested the Ordinates offer their names for the benefit of the rest of the group, which they did.

  “So, let us begin,” she said, plastering on a smile. “First, welcome to you all.” She spoke in soft, even tones, her Sendali Common poised and precise. “I know some of you would rather not be here,” she said, eyes flicking to Mist, “so I do hope my tedious revelations will not burden you unduly. But for those of you who come with willing hearts and open minds—” She broke off, leaning in. “It is so gratifying to be asked for by name,” she purred. Her silky, mauve dress brushed Guyen’s arm. The thin material clung to her breast. He looked away, face heating.

  She returned her attention to the room. “It is my intention to learn as much from you as you will from me, although I admit that is unlikely.” She paused for a reaction to the witticism. When only stony silence greeted her, she broke it with a half-laugh. “So, who hankers to get ahead in Politique?” This seemed like a rhetorical question.

  “My life’s dream,” Mist muttered. The atmosphere in the room thickened. That sarcastic attitude would get her into trouble if she wasn’t careful.

  But Jal’s face was a mask of serenity. “Very well, Emeldra, your first lesson will be in morality. Why do we care whether our actions are ethical? We all want to fulfil our potential, do we not?” The room murmured in agreement. “So,” she said, “why impose the restrictions of a moral code on our behaviour?”

  “Because we don’t want to harm others,” Ariana offered. “Because we are all human, and we all hurt and suffer the same.”

  Jal smiled at her as if she were a child who didn’t understand fire was hot. “If only it were that simple, Mistress Thurl. The truth is we only protect ourselves through our morality, not others. We guard our sense of identity, the lie we are good people. It is protecting that lie which makes us weak.” Her eyes scanned the room. “We care because we are weak, and we are weak because we care.”

  Concentration waned. The room was stuffy, the vanilla scent overpowering. Toulesh roamed, nervous, unable to settle. He disappeared behind the drapes. Did anyone else in the room still have their simulacrum? If they did, they were probably better behaved.

  “Let me tell you of morality,” Jal continued. “It is a construct, nothing more, and it has no place in Politique.”

  “I disagree,” Ariana said. Her tone was bellicose, combative even. The Ordinates exchanged nervous looks.

  Jal’s eyes flashed. “Go on.”

  Ariana sat straighter, if that were possible. “Without morality, without kindness, those who would govern, command no legitimacy in the eyes of the commons.”

  “And your point?” Jal pressed.

  Ariana glanced over. “Well, consider immigration, the statutes treat foreigners no better than dogs. Setting the bar that low leads to the ill-treatment of all the working poor. Why should they respect us in such circumstances?”

  Jal laughed as if embarrassed for her. “The poor are hardly relevant to a discourse in Politique, Ariana.”

  “Even if they outnumber us?” Ariana said. “Surely a tenet of Politique is sympathetic governance, the kind which does not lead to riots?”

  Where was this argument going? What was it even about?

  Jal iced over. “To feed a dog steak rather than mutton does not improve its ability to fetch a stick or increase its loyalty, Mistress Thurl. The lowborn know their place, their Talents are limited by the impurity of their blood. They neither require nor deserve such generosities, and do not possess the capacity to appreciate them.”

  “They know when they are hungry,” Ariana countered.

  “Are you planning to advocate for the commons, young lady? There is hardly a career along that path. I suggest you refocus your sights if you wish to make progress here.”

  “I shall follow where my Assignment leads, Mistress.” The words had flavour, forged in fire. Why was there so much
animosity there? Hadn’t she been the one to sing the High Mistress’s praises?

  This seemed like a good time to contribute to the discussion, if only to avert all-out war. “Are you saying we should be immoral?” Guyen asked.

  Jal turned back, replacing her frown with another suspect smile. “I do not presume to know what is right for you, Guyen, I merely point out that our moral superiors, the do-gooders, are destined to be dealt weak hands, whereas the more flexible amongst us get to play with the picture cards.”

  Ariana tutted, turning back to Livenstein’s.

  Jal ignored her. “Let us consider corruption, a subset of morality. Everyone agrees in polite company that corruption is a dreadful thing, but realistically…” She touched Guyen’s leg. “Realistically, nothing would be achieved without it.”

  A tingling sensation vied for attention. Globes! They were all staring. This was embarrassing.

  Her hand moved away. “Government would break down without bribes and nepotism,” she continued. “Before we knew it, thieves and murderers from the slums would be running things.”

  “I thought this place was already run by thieves and murderers,” Mist chimed.

  Jal sighed. “To the common folk, tax collectors are thieves, my dear. To a Krellen, I dare say redcoats are murderers. It is a matter of perspective.”

  All eyes burned into him. Why couldn’t the bastards mind their own business?

  “From my perspective,” Mist said, “the Devotions are filled with incompetents and bigots.”

  “Thanks be to the Ages we have girls like you to prepare the ground for new blood then,” Jal returned.

  “Cover the ground in new blood, more like,” a Merchant Ordinate sniped.

  “I can paint with you first if you like, Jenthyl.” Mist flicked open her blade, drawing in the air with its point. Jenthyl’s eye twitched. He shut up.

  They debated for an hour on the finer points of morality. Despite Guyen’s best efforts at intellectualising, his contributions were met with laughter and derision. He gave up trying to engage. Jal made him uncomfortable, and the conversation between Jal and Ariana, Ariana and Mist, Mist and Jal, was a triangular headache of cattiness and disguised insults. The torture couldn’t end soon enough.

  Eventually, she dismissed them. Disappointingly, Ariana left for the Scholars without a word of goodbye, and Guyen found himself accompanying Mist through Six Sisters’ central plaza in the shadow of the monumental arch. As a Culturalist, she had rooms in the palatial building in front of them. She was clearly unimpressed by the High Mistress of Politique.

  “They say her Binding enhances her allures,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

  Well, that was a question worthy of a blush. No older than thirty, Jal was attractive, far too young and good-looking for Devere. “She seems pleasant enough,” Guyen managed. Mist snorted. He offered an awkward smile. “Is she serious about all that morality horseshit?”

  Mist laughed. “I doubt she’d recognise a moral if it bit her on the tit, and if she did, she’d ignore it. Dark currents run deep beneath that makeup, mark ‘em, Greens.”

  “Mark what?”

  She frowned. “My words, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  She huffed. “Trouble with her is she thinks she’s so much better than everyone else. Did you notice the hat stand?”

  “What about it?”

  “Those animal heads carved into the base—remind you of anything? A certain symbol perhaps?”

  He considered. “Not really.”

  “Well, you’re new around here. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “Heard of what?” Actually… the six animal heads, the Signs of the Ages arranged on top of each other like a totem, they did remind of something. “You don’t mean Echelism, do you?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So you do know some things then. Like I said, dark currents.”

  He grunted a laugh. “I think you’re reading a bit too much into a hat stand.”

  “Like I said, it’s good to be observant.”

  Interesting as the girl’s observations and obvious grudges against the woman were, the machinations of Sendali Highborns were of zero interest. No, there were more pressing matters to attend to, like contacting Dalrik to find out if Yemelyan was all right. A Faze clock on a white tower signalled fourth hour. He had time. “Have you heard of the Junction?” he asked. It was the place Dalrik had referred to in his note, where he might find that fellow, Dasuza.

  She cocked her head. “Of course, Greens. It’s the Flags hexium, down the West End where the Five Ways meet. Why? You asking me out?”

  He definitely blushed now. She was pretty in a quirky way. “I just wondered where it was, is all.”

  “You could always follow the smell of blood.”

  “In this city? That could take me anywhere.”

  She laughed. “Ah, well that’s true enough, I suppose. Fine, take Boulevard Alaton west from the Devotoria and cross Devil’s Bridge. Then sniff, you won’t miss it from there.”

  20

  The Junction

  Thousands of Flags fans filled the hexium. A blue half and a gold half all intent on shouting the other side down. Spine-tingling waves of battle chants and songs rolled along the teetering, wooden terraces ringing the six-sided arena, the highest spectators shrouded by roiling white and black smoke.

  The Junction was on a completely different scale to the hexium at Moth Canyon. Rising like a manmade mountain from the paving at the intersection of the five roads, its sheer brick facades dwarfed everything around it. As Mist had promised, the chants had been audible a half mile away. A small army of tinhats patrolled outside, banks of them waiting in side alleys alongside mounted squads. Impending violence, it was fair to say, hung in the air.

  Having cleared hexium security on the pretence of applying for one of the jobs advertised at the entrance, Guyen stood behind a barrier, pitchside, next to Toulesh, enjoying the remnants of the afternoon’s match between the Carmain Outlaws and visiting team, the Hackers. The grounds marshal he’d been sent to talk to looked a little busy at the moment, arguing the toss with a tinhat. It may have been something to do with the fighting which had just broken out in the northwest stand.

  On the pitch, the Outlaws’ star player dominated the game. Vadil was a huge man, even more impressive riding his mountainous black stallion. The crowd roared as his horse ploughed into the opposition footmen, tossing the retreating shell team aside like they were children. The opposition bannerman was revealed, metallic blue armour all-encompassing, shortsword in one hand, in the other a long pole flying the Hackers’ rippling blue and yellow flag.

  As three Outlaw knights harried the recovering shell team, Vadil turned back on the bannerman, bringing his broadsword to bear. The bannerman, to his credit, held his ground, parrying the attack, only for his blade to shatter. For a split-second, he stared at the stumpy point, then dropped it and ran. Vadil looked up to the heavens and charged. Swinging low, he swept up the flag, depositing a pile of trampled blue metal in his wake.

  A guttural roar enveloped the stands. The triumphant Outlaw stood in the saddle, waving the captured banner as the crowd chanted his name. A bugle signalled a point to the Outlaws. A slender but significant lead.

  Men sprinted on to stretcher off the Hackers’ bannerman as a triumphant chorus rose up amongst the spectators, a familiar tune hammered out in time to booming drums. Over by the opposition dugout, the Hackers’ squadmaster prepared two substitutes for their injured footmen, tightening their breastplates. The men pulled down their visors, and a blue nether light enveloped their helms. Guyen rubbed his eyes. More hallucinations? He exchanged a look with Toulesh. The simulacrum folded in. The glow disappeared. What the hell…

  He loosed Toulesh again and scanned the arena, allowing the clamour to peak. Now that he looked for it, all the players’ helms exhibited the same blue radiance. Was it Faze? With all these visual disturbances lately, Rialto’s claim that Pu
rebounds could see it didn’t seem so farfetched. But what was he supposed to do with this newfound skill? And why had it chosen him? The sight was too disconcerting. Return, he sent. Toulesh reintegrated, and the visions abated.

  The teams reformed at their respective ends and a boy scrambled up a ladder to hang a number two in the giant scoreboard’s home column. The bugle sounded again, and the horsemen charged afresh, devilish war cries ringing out over thundering hooves. They came together at the centre of the arena and a Hacker knight jumped from his mount, landing smoothly in a crouch between two oncoming Outlaws—no small achievement in a full suit of armour. He ducked down, and pulling two swords from the crossed scabbards on his back, thrust them out on either side.

  Metal tore flesh, the blades slicing gashes in the galloping animals’ legs. The horses whinnied, one throwing its rider then buckling several strides later. It skidded to a stop feet away, spraying up damp sawdust. Guyen spat out the foul mixture. Globes, what kind of vile purification did that contain?

  The thrown Outlaw pulled off his helm and roared. The Hacker followed suit. The Outlaw swung his flail menacingly around his head, and the Hacker sliced air with his blades. They ran at each other, intent on their own private war.

  KILL—KILL—KILL, came the crowd’s bloody chants.

  They attacked, parrying blows, aiming for each other’s unprotected heads. Three black-robed men watched on from a judges’ box halfway up one of the terraces. They had the gong. Only they could stop the match. They did nothing.

  After several exchanges, the Hacker caught the Outlaw with a slash to his arm. The flail fell from his grip, thudding into the sawdust. He turned and fled, his opponent in hot pursuit. They’d made it halfway to the edge of the arena when another Outlaw horseman broke formation, setting his charger to intercept. The crowd roared rabid warnings but either the Hacker didn’t hear or was too engrossed in the kill to care. A ton of sinewy muscle smashed into him, flipping him like a skittle. He lay quite still. Could a man survive such a hit?