Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “That’s right,” Guyen said.

  “You’ve a rich accent there, my friend. Where do you hail from?”

  “Many places.”

  The maître d' snorted. “Sound bloody Krellen to me.” He waved at some double doors. “Kitchens are that way.” He turned to Nyra. “And who do we have here then?” He examined the passbook. “D’Aghoula? What kind of name is that?”

  “Althuisan,” Nyra replied.

  “Of course it is. Well, D’Aghoula, we do things the Sendali way here. Are you sure you’re trained in the correct etiquette?”

  “I will manage,” Nyra replied, a little too tersely. He stole an aggravated sideways look. The maître d’ was a xenophobic bastard.

  The man rounded on Mist. “And where are you from? Damor, I suppose?”

  “Beggars, no!” She laughed. “Local girl, mister. Born and bred.” Her accent was broad, certainly not her own, yet perfectly authentic. You had to give it to her, she was good at this stuff.

  The maître d' sniffed. “Fine. You two find the wine steward.” He signalled a man busy examining glasses for smears at a nearby table. “Go on, get to it.” He waved them away.

  Mist sashayed off. She seemed to have acquired a new gait. It was the way she held herself rather than the clothes or wig which made her disguise brilliant. Guyen caught sight of himself in a mirror. He stood out like a sore thumb. Just as well he’d be consigned to the kitchens—if Jal saw him, the game would be up. The soiree’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect though. Servants were never noticed. That was the point of servants. And not being noticed was the point tonight.

  The head chef, immediately unfriendly, set him to work washing up. In moments, the pile beside the sink was a teetering mountain of greasy, food-ingrained pans. Toulesh wandered, peering over the cooks’ shoulders with interest at whatever sauces bubbled in their pans. Jal appeared through the servery window, inspecting the cut flowers and plates of h'ordeuvres. She looked sexy tonight, a glimpse of thigh visible through a high slit in her gown. She turned towards the kitchen. Guyen ducked behind a shelf, unobserved, cursing his manly urges.

  The guests arrived, and soon an over-privileged herd of dignitaries swarmed. Now and then, Nyra or Mist passed by the servery, carrying silver trays laden with crystal goblets. At one point, Mist even offered Jal a drink. Brazen. But the High Mistress didn’t blink an eyelid, preoccupied as she was by a golden-robed man with a train of servants.

  Ambassadors and their entourages were ravenous types, and as plate after plate emptied, and bottles sunk, dishes, goblets and cutlery replaced the pile of pans in the sink. Mist’s plan was looking increasingly misguided. The point of this charade had been to get inside the building, not to spend an evening sweating in the greasy kitchens. However, another hour of toil and several minor burns later, Mist’s familiar whistle sounded in the yard behind the kitchen.

  She waited with Nyra. “I thought that would never end,” Guyen griped. The air out here was refreshingly cool. It wasn’t raining, but residual water ran down a sloping wall, gathering at a lip to drip tinnily on an upturned bucket.

  Mist ignored his foul mood. “There’s a back staircase up to the studies,” she said. “It should be deserted.”

  “It had better be,” Nyra muttered.

  “Will this take long?” Guyen asked. “The chef’s a right stickler.”

  “Not if we’re quick,” Mist said, with no sense of irony at all.

  Guyen glanced back at the kitchen, overhearing the chef’s foul mouth—the other porter was already getting it in the neck. Perhaps Nyra was right, maybe this was insane? But they’d considered every option—this was the only way to get into Rialto’s office undetected.

  They took the staircase to the upper floor, Toulesh loosed to wander ahead in the hope he’d sense any danger. However, he preferred to walk behind them, which was no use at all.

  “What is it?” Nyra asked, noticing his annoyance.

  “Nothing,” Guyen said. He wasn’t about to admit to him he still saw the apparition. It had been a mistake mentioning it to Mist, even if she hadn’t believed him. They followed a narrow passageway, ducking into an empty storeroom in time to avoid two Devotoria guardsmen coming the other way. The men strolled past, complaining to each other about the Outlaws’ recent lack of form. Their footsteps faded.

  “That was close,” Guyen breathed.

  Mist tutted. “Grow some, Greens. You don’t know the meaning of close.”

  “Say what?”

  “Close is a blade at your throat, that was merely nearby.”

  Nyra let out an exasperated breath. He fiddled nervously with his lapels. “Let’s go,” he urged.

  “Of course,” Mist said. “I thought we were.” She set off in the lead again, unhooking a lantern from its wall bracket. A minute later, they reached the lobby outside the Primes’ offices. All was quiet as the ancestors, the guard post deserted, candelabras unlit.

  “Got that key?” Guyen asked.

  Nyra grunted in the affirmative, handing it over. Guyen stepped up to Rialto’s door.

  “Still reckon I could have picked it,” Mist said. She sounded annoyed at not having had the chance.

  He put the key in the lock and twisted. The mechanism clicked. He opened the door. “After you then.” Mist shoved Nyra inside. Guyen followed, locking the door behind them.

  “Very swish,” Mist said, holding the lamp up to inspect the room. She rounded the desk, oblivious to Toulesh lounging in the Prime’s comfortable chair. “Better safe than,” she murmured, pulling the window shutter closed.

  “He mustn’t know we have been here,” Nyra said. “I mean it. Touch nothing.”

  Mist picked up a globe atlas from one of the shelves. She spun it. “Ooh, nice.”

  Huffing, Nyra turned to the large cube in the corner of the room. “Come on, do your thing, girl.”

  “Girl?” She banged the globe loudly down on the shelf.

  Guyen flinched. “It would be better if we weren’t caught,” he said.

  “Spoilsports! A girl only wants to have some fun.” She chuckled to herself. “Let’s see it then.” She sidled over, sitting cross-legged in front of the safe, stroking the smooth granite surface. If it wasn’t for the boards underneath, you’d have mistaken it for part of the building. She whistled appreciatively. “Third generation Nerstolen. Impressive.”

  “Where’s the door?” Guyen asked.

  “Nerstolens do not have traditional doors,” Nyra said. “They use a chem reaction to unlock. This one is keyed to Rialto’s blood.” He looked at Mist. “Are you sure this method of yours will work?”

  “I’m a cup-half-full kinda girl. You got that brush?”

  He fumbled in his jacket, offering her an ivory comb. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect.” She produced a small tin from inside her bodice and prised off the lid. The contents stank.

  “What’s that?” Guyen asked. “Makeup?”

  “No, acetone,” she said. “Don’t breathe in.” She unwound a strand of hair from the comb and placed it in the tin lid, then added some of the acrid-smelling paste. She stirred it with a hairpin. The solution fizzed. Apparently happy, she wiped some on the safe’s featureless front and smeared the substance over with her sleeve. A second later, the safe emanated a faint, grinding sound, as a shallow panel extruded from its front face.

  Nyra whistled. “These things are supposed to be impregnable.”

  “Nothing’s ever truly secure, Maker,” Mist said seriously. “That’s the first lesson in security.” She pressed the panel. It clicked inwards and swung noiselessly open. She moved the lamp, revealing piles of official-looking documents, books, and several strange devices. She removed some of the books and Rialto’s Devotion seal.

  “There it is,” Nyra said, leaning in to retrieve a small box.

  Guyen peered over his shoulder. “That doesn’t look very impressive.”

  Nyra shrugged. “Looks can be deceiving.” He
placed it on the floor and opened the lid, revealing a many-pointed, shiny metal container inside, the shape of an exploding star. He picked it up carefully. The vacuum spherico was a work of intricacy even Wield Hyel would have been proud of. At its centre floated a glass capsule, a storm of sparks visible inside. Guyen was sure only he could see those. He forced the illusion away.

  Nyra took a cigar-shaped metal canister from his pocket and fitted it to a valve on the side of the spherico. Taking the whole supply of stem had never been an option, or a necessity. The eighteenth elemental powder could regenerate, so they needed only a tiny amount. Rialto would be none the wiser. “Last chance to change your mind,” Nyra said.

  “Just do it,” Guyen hissed.

  Nyra shifted position. “This might take a while. Once I start the transfer, we need to wait for the vacuum to hold before I can let go.”

  “You’ve done this before, right?” Mist asked.

  The silence was answer enough. Guyen glanced at the door, pulse racing.

  Nyra took a breath. “Here we go.” He twisted the canister into position. The effect was immediate, multi-coloured nether light snaking around the spherico, the visions too intense to block out. As usual, the supernatural illumination cast no shadows, despite being as bright as the sun. It was mesmerising, and frightening. If only the others could see it, perhaps it would make more sense. Fat chance there though.

  Mist rifled through the papers. “Do we take anything else?” she asked hopefully.

  “No,” Guyen said. “We’re not thieves.” His eyes slipped to the several books laid on the floor. He picked one up. Fanower’s Secret. A novel, the seedy kind. He passed it to Mist.

  “Ooh, I heard about this,” she giggled. “Supposed to be racy.”

  He offered a wan smile, glancing at Nyra. The Maker had a look of supreme concentration on his face. He picked up another book, a black leather-bound volume. The pages were thin like rice paper, the front cover titled with silver hieroglyphs. The inner text was indecipherable, the glyph pictorial. “What language is this?” he whispered.

  Mist examined it. “No idea. An old one? Looks religious to me.”

  “I didn’t think Rialto was a man of faith.”

  Nyra looked up. “He places his faith in science, fella, as all right-minded men do.” That was debatable, but now wasn’t the time for philosophical discussion.

  One more volume vied for attention. Poorly bound, its threadbare, hessian covering was flaky to the touch. It had to be hundreds of years old. It carried no title. Scrawling, handwritten script covered the inside pages, this time written in Sendali Common. The dates in the margins suggested some kind of journal. Guyen scanned the first page and a name—Annis Molina—jumped out at him. It took a moment to register. Wasn’t there a portrait of a man with just such a name hanging in the studio? The revered Purebound Bindcrafter many centuries dead?

  “How long left?” Mist asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nyra said. “A few minutes?”

  Guyen returned his attention to the book, flicking to the back.

  I do not have much time. Whatever ails me is beyond my control, the price of this new Seed.

  The entry ended abruptly. Guyen sampled the rest of the pages. Was this Molina’s personal diary? Elemental equations and notes filled the journal, interspersed with rough sketches of experiments, apparatus, and people with strange devices connected to them. Globes! Had he used human test subjects?

  A scraping sound came from the door. Mist reacted fast as a cat, slipping the lamp inside the safe. The room fell dark. Nyra let out a soft whine. Outside, voices grumbled amidst more scraping.

  “Vache!” a man swore. “What’s wrong with this thing?”

  “I thought you could pick these?” another man said.

  “I can normally.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Vale.”

  “Gods! Why don’t you open it then? Oh, I forgot, you don’t have any skills over and above the rearrangement of a man’s internal organs.”

  The Cloaks? What were they doing here? Mist’s switchblade clicked open. Guyen summoned Toulesh.

  “I could bust it down,” Yannick said.

  “How does breaking it sit with our foremost’s need for discretion?” Vale muttered.

  “This won’t go down well,” Yannick said.

  “You think?” Vale cursed. “We’ll just have to find a key, come on.” They padded away. A door slammed in the distance.

  All was quiet, apart from the three Ordinates’ fast breaths. Mist pulled the lamp from the safe. “Just as well you left the key in the lock,” she whispered.

  She wasn’t wrong. Nyra’s hand trembled, muscles tiring from pressing the canister onto the spherico. “Hasn’t it finished transferring yet?” Guyen asked.

  Nyra shook his head slowly, still concentrating. Mist crept to the door, placing her ear to it. A few seconds later, the spherico gave a gentle hiss.

  “Is that it?” Guyen breathed.

  Nyra let out a sigh of relief. “All done. Seal’s holding.” He held the canister up to the light, flexing his tired hand.

  “How safe is that thing?” Guyen asked.

  “Indestructible.” Nyra pocketed the canister and began repacking the spherico. “Who were those people?”

  “Devere’s scrags,” Mist said.

  “Devere’s… what, exactly?”

  “Hmm—I suppose you could call them his personal assistants.”

  The Cloaks’ dark work on the road to Carmain was still fresh in the memory. “They assist people with getting dead,” Guyen said. “And they’re very good at it.”

  Mist tutted. “There’s the Truths. I bet they do the corpses up nicely though.”

  It wasn’t much of an upside.

  They put things back to how they were inside the safe, and Mist relocked it, the Nerstolen soundlessly transforming into a smooth granite block again. Even if Vale and Yannick had broken into the room, they likely wouldn’t have been able to steal anything important. Unless what they sought wasn’t in the safe? Whatever they were up to, it wouldn’t be good for Rialto, that much was certain. But then, as Dasuza had pointed out, the High Houses were always bickering. Maybe Rialto sent Hawkins breaking into Devere’s offices when he was out of the city too—the coachman looked the type.

  They crept cautiously out into the corridor, locked the study behind them, and retraced their steps back to the soiree.

  The maître d' accosted them on sight. “Where have you been?” he rattled, running an accusing glare over them. “You, rough lad.” He poked Guyen. “There’s a pile of washing up taller than the Sword of War waiting for you.” The man had such a punchable face. “And you two,” the maître d' said, addressing Mist and Nyra. “Help clean up!” He slapped Mist’s arse. “Don’t just stand there, get busy, blondie.”

  Guyen winced. The maître d' was a dead man.

  But Mist only smiled. “Cheeky,” she said playfully, and followed Nyra over to the wine steward.

  There was no escaping their duties, not without attracting attention, so once again Guyen scrubbed pot after greasy pot and pan after pan. His palms were soon pruned, and his mind bored. He thought about the patch serum. He’d attempt it first thing tomorrow. Nyra would help. They’d do something brilliant. It was only a shame Rialto would be none the wiser, it would surely impress him to pull off such a feat, if they could.

  The kitchen door opened and Jal appeared. Guyen shrank back behind a tall shelf. The head chef hurried to her, bowing low. “Mistress, I trust all is to your satisfaction?”

  “It is,” she said. “And I would be grateful if you will pass on my thanks to the staff for their work tonight.”

  “Yes, Mistress, of course. It is an honour to have served you. Madame Confit beseeches me to pass on her best wishes, and I am to let you know she is available for all future events.”

  Jal raised an eyebrow. “You would need to talk to the maître d’ about that. I do not book caterers.”


  The chef wrung his hands. “No, Mistress, of course not. You enjoyed the food, I hope?”

  “It was adequate.” A crash sounded outside. She muttered a curse and swept out to investigate.

  Guyen emerged from his hiding place to join the rest of the kitchen staff peering interestedly out through the servery. The maître d' lay on the floor, clutching his leg, fragments of broken glass and spilt wine in a puddle around him. In one hand he held the bloody stem of a wineglass. Mist stood over him, striking a forlorn pose. Nyra hovered behind her, stiff as a board.

  Jal marched up to them. “What is going on here?” she snapped.

  The maître d' winced, waving the broken glass at Mist. “The girl stabbed me, High Mistress.”

  Jal cocked her head. “She what?”

  Mist bowed low, a ruse to hide her face. “I’s sorry, Mistress,” she whined, slum accent unplaceable. “I tripped, is all. One of them goblets broke. Was an accident.”

  Jal waved a dismissive hand. “Get this cleaned up. Madame Confit will receive the bill for the glasses.” She turned on her heels and strode off towards the exit, a maid in hot pursuit.

  Toulesh’s absence suddenly burned. Return, Guyen sent.

  The simulacrum folded in like cold fog.

  Panic spreading. Darkness. Death.

  Guyen clutched the sink for support, legs weak with fear. He took a deep breath, heart beating out of his chest. What was that? He took a stretch, and another breath, and the adrenalin leaked away. What the hell just happened? What had Toulesh seen? But it was late. He was tired… Damn simulacra were more trouble than they were worth. If the day ever came when he finally lost his spectral companion, he’d not mourn it.

  The Book of Talents

  The Legend of Craxor

  From ‘Hern’s Tales for Wicked Children,’ hg.1701

  During the Age of Sighs, there lived a Bindmaster, a woman named Craxor. So boundless was her power, not only could she create defences inside the Layer to protect herself in the real world, she could also carry mortals inside with her. Craxor had a lover, a woman of flesh named Beltyra—her utmost desire and greatest weakness. When Craxor’s enemies within the Grey Sect heard of this lover, they stole her to the Temple of Nusin, which once existed on the slopes of the sleeping volcano, Mount Vadarak.