He jumped in the chair, startled awake. Ariana sat perfectly whole in front of him, glaring with an unusually potent frown. His leg stung. Did she kick you? He was in Jal’s study. His head hurt, and he felt sickly hot. The excursion to the hamlet had used every last ounce of energy. He flexed his hands, dried blood beneath his ragged bandages cracking. Today of all days, he could have done without Jal’s existential ramblings.
Social class was the topic of debate, the discussion veering uncomfortably towards mixed marriage. As usual, Mist did her best to derail proceedings with catty remarks and obtuse arguments. She was in a foul mood today, irritating company, although the tirade she’d delivered in Rossi’s face upon their return to Garrison, where she’d been lying in wait, had been a thing of beauty. She aimed her venom at the High Mistress. “Only a halfbound would think pure bloodlines an advantage,” she said. “I had a purebred cat once. She was stupid as hell.”
The Ordinates tutted like old ladies in a brothel. Jal sighed. “Hardly relevant, Emeldra. Animals cannot be Bound.”
“I think it’s a valid point,” Ariana interjected. This was notable. She never agreed with Mist on anything. Jal stiffened, The Ordinates exchanged glances. “My father owns several vineyards,” Ariana said. “Crossbred vines survive where pure strains yield to blight.”
“Neither do we Bind plants, Ariana.”
“I am aware,” she returned. “But it seems to me, if Binding is less effective for some, the fault lies with the concoction, not those we treat with it.”
“The evidence is quite clear,” Jal said. “Mixed race extractions Bind poorly, no matter the concoction.”
Mist huffed. “What about Guyen? He’s half-Krellen. There’s nothing wrong with his Binding.”
“He doesn’t look well on it today,” Jenthyl sniped. “He’s the colour of porridge.”
Ariana lifted her chin. “Krellen vigour and Sendali refinement too much a match for you is it, Merchant?”
Guyen gripped the armrests. Swallow me up, chair, he thought.
Jal touched his leg. “Guyen is a special case. The exception which proves the rule.”
“Perhaps he disproves it,” Ariana sniffed.
“Ah, the innocence of youth,” Jal murmured. “Such a precious commodity.”
Ariana darkened.
Jal touched her temples like a migraine approached. “I think I’ve had enough of you all.” She rose. “We shall meet again next Bannocksday.” The Ordinates got to their feet. “May I have a word, Guyen?”
Mist looked between them. “I’ll see you outside,” she muttered, and headed downstairs. The door slammed behind her.
Jal glided to the window, silk skirt rippling in the draft. Behind her, the Arch of Culture faded out against the dusky sky. A log popped a spark onto the rug. Time hung in the air. She turned back, eyelids fluttering.
“How do you feel your mastery of Politique is progressing?” she asked.
“Well, thank you, Mistress.”
“Are you sure? Your background puts you at a disadvantage to the others. You lack their refinement.”
“I like to think I’m edgy.”
She let out a breathy laugh. It seemed genuine. “Well, you’re certainly that, and witty—a most endearing quality.” His cheeks heated. She noticed, enjoying his embarrassment. She stepped a little closer. “Unfortunately, wit and bravado will take you only so far at the Devotions. You must learn to fit in, to play the game amongst civilised company. And to do that, you must be fluent in Etiquette. I would instruct you in the matter.”
A one to one with the woman? He didn’t need that, even if the idea raised a tingle. How did he decline gracefully? “I’m happy slurping my soup,” he managed.
“Indeed.” Her nose wrinkled. “Nevertheless, let us say Ebbensday at eight. My husband will be away. I could use the company.”
Warning bells rang. “That’s rather close to curfew, Mistress.”
“Jal, Guyen, please, and I am perfectly aware of Ordinate curfew, but eight is the hour for High Supper.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I shall inform the Watchers you are to suffer no penalty. You’ll come to the house.”
He racked his brains for a way out. “It’s a kind offer—”
“Not at all,” she said. “By which I mean, it is not an offer, it is a requirement if you wish me to sign off your attendance record.”
She had him over a barrel. “In that case, I would be delighted,” he said, overdoing it somewhat.
“Excellent,” she said. “I shall take you as my pet project. Consider your education already begun, your first lesson the proper time to eat. And in our next I shall teach you how to dine with a Lady. You will clean up beforehand, won’t you? A bath perhaps?”
He nodded weakly.
“Marvellous. Well, you’d best scurry off. Your little puppy will think I’ve gobbled you up.”
His blush turned to beetroot. Don’t go there, idiot. Don’t even think it.
Mist waited in the foyer. “What did she want?” she asked suspiciously.
“To meet with me,” Guyen said. “For personal instruction.”
She huffed. “I can imagine what that means. You know she’s insatiable, don’t you?”
“It’s nothing like that,” Guyen returned tersely. “Surely you think more of me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and she’s married to Devere. That’s a special type of rope bait.”
“I don’t think you’re clever enough to let that stop you.” She sighed. “What are you doing now?”
“Back to the Gate. I have to check the serum.”
Her face fell. “I was going to offer you my couch. Oh well, I suppose I’ll just have a miserable night in on my own then.”
Darkness had begun to drape the city. He had to meet Nyra and get some food, if he could stomach it, but there should be enough time, and the way he felt, he didn’t want to be alone tonight. “All right then, I’ll be back before curfew,” he said.
She brightened. “Good. Bring that Talents book of yours. You can send me to sleep with the glories of Sendal. And I’ll clean up your hands. Reckon those cuts need looking at.” She had a point. They burned like hell.
“What would I do without you?” he said.
She laughed. “You’d manage.”
He headed for the Gate. An hour later, Tishara let him in the studio.
“You don’t look so good,” she observed.
“I’ve felt better. Think I’ve got the flu. Why are you here so late?”
“Problems with that enchanter for Master Zorbis.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No, thank you, it’s just taken longer than it should.” She sighed. “The state of this place isn’t helping in that regard.”
“No?”
“No.” She sent an assessing look. “When I came in this morning, the elementals were all mixed up, and I had to recalibrate the eyescope. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No. Should I?”
She snorted. “Something’s going on. Fetch has been asleep all day. Nyra’s little better.”
“Perhaps he has the flu too,” Guyen suggested. “Where is he anyway?”
“Out back.” She nodded at the curtain separating the studio from the backroom. “I don’t know what he’s up to. There’s something in the Incubator. He won’t tell me what.”
“Oh.” Guyen feigned surprise. “Wonder what that is?”
“Probably something weird, knowing him.” She scooped up shoulder bag and shawl. “I’m spent. See you tomorrow?”
“Yep, see you.”
She slinked off down the corridor. “Don’t forget to lock up,” she called back.
He closed the door and went to find Nyra, passing the storeroom on the way. Fetch slept like a baby on his mattress. Globes! The poor man deserved his rest after the shift he’d put in.
Nyra looked up from his book. “Here you are
,” he muttered. “You look awful.”
“So people keep telling me. Has the Incubator finished?”
“Yes, I was waiting for Tishara to leave.”
“Let’s check it then. I have to get back to Culture.”
Nyra kicked back his chair. “The sooner the better,” he said. “Gigi’s cooking something special. It’s our anniversary. Five years today.”
“Congratulations.”
He grunted thanks.
They returned to the studio and undid the Incubator’s retaining bolts. Nyra lifted the lid. The machine hissed, invisible gas escaping. The inner chamber appeared, shrouded in a misty haze. Guyen wiped the condensation from the glass bulb. Cobalt-blue liquid filled it, a ringer for the concoction.
“One patch serum,” Nyra said, “if that’s what it is.” He removed the bulb. “Let’s test it then. The moment of truth, no?”
Sudden nervousness took hold. What if it didn’t work? It would all have been for nothing. He retrieved the remnants of Yemelyan’s blood from the back of the cold store and they set up a sample with a medium quartz. Nyra added the serum. The effect was instantaneous. As the solutions combined, the sparking, agitating cells calmed, repairing themselves, the plasma clearing, Bind Markers forming. Guyen breathed out. This was victory. It was hope.
“Let me look,” Nyra demanded. He bent over the eyescope, and whistled. “This could work.”
“Could, or will?”
“Impossible to say until it’s administered, I’m afraid.” He frowned. “Tell no one of this, Yorkov. The Office would not appreciate the scientific breakthrough.”
That was for sure. “You’ll write up the results though?” Guyen said.
“Of course.” Nyra grinned. This was everything to someone like him. The science. It was all about the science.
Guyen decanted the liquid into a vial. “What would happen if we gave this to someone other than my brother?” he asked.
“It’s matched to him,” Nyra said. “They would reject it.”
“What if we could fix that? Couldn’t we make a new concoction this way?”
Nyra grimaced. “Interfere with the Binding? You want to give them another reason to kick you out?”
“What if I were feeling suicidal?”
“The concoction is generic, Yorkov. A patch serum is not. Especially when it relies on your blood to make it work.” He narrowed his eyes. “What happened last night? What made you add your blood to the formulation?”
“A hunch.”
“How did that much stem not kill you?”
“Must be a Purebound thing.”
Nyra sniffed. “How does that explain it? And what of Fetch?”
“What about him?”
“We should examine his blood.”
“Good luck with that,” Guyen said. The dullard wouldn’t understand them coming at him with a knife.
Nyra reached for a slide. “Put a drop of your red on here. We should check it—you may have been poisoned.”
Ages! They’d only find bad news there, what with the sickness today. “I don’t know what you expect to find,” Guyen said.
“Well, we shall not know until we look, no?”
Suppressing a curse, Guyen found a pin and pricked a drop of blood from a fingertip, dabbing it on the slide. Nyra slotted the slide under the eyescope and adjusted focus. He peered, silent for a moment, then looked up, expression concerned.
“What is it?” Guyen asked.
“Take a look.”
Worry surging, Guyen peered through the viewport. His blood had deteriorated, swarming with decaying cells, and there—a spark—then several more. Damn. The stem powder had poisoned him after all. That’s why he felt so rough. Unless… He’d been struck down by a similar malaise after playing the streethawk’s dice game. Maybe manipulating Faze had done this to him? Whatever the cause, having Unbound blood was nothing to shout about. “Do me a favour,” he said. “Keep this under your hat.”
Nyra shook his head doubtfully. “Are you sure you’re well? Of mind, I mean. You’re not hearing voices or anything, are you?”
“No.”
He looked unconvinced. “You should see a doctor, fella. You’re pale as a ghost.”
“I’m fine, really.” Guyen picked up the serum. His hands shook, the trembling spreading up his arms.
“At least rest up,” Nyra said. “Give yourself a chance to recover.”
“Rest is for the dead,” Guyen muttered.
Nyra snorted. “Well, you’ll probably get plenty then, the way you’re going. What did you do to that canister?”
“What?”
“The canister. You did something to it when you touched it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you think me an idiot, Yorkov?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, don’t treat me like one then.” He huffed. “I’m not sure I believe anything you say these days.”
“Believe what you want.” The comment stung like a hornet, no energy for civility, tired, aching muscles taking their toll.
Nyra picked up his hat. “I’ll leave you to lock up.” He stormed off.
What was his problem?
Guyen reset the Incubator, shuttered the sodalamp, and locked up. He trudged up to his room, then stowing the serum and syringe pack he’d lifted from the stores in the safe, he picked up his satchel and the Book of Talents and headed for Six Sisters, body shivering, thoughts racing. He had to get to Tal Maran, deliver the serum—it was too important to post. He had an idea how, but it would wait till tomorrow.
It was another shadowy, malevolent night, the damp forcing tendrils under the skin. Toulesh lumbered ahead, still sulking, foggy streets muffling their footsteps. They kept to well-lit ways, the tinhats on patrol for once a comfort—no hope of outrunning a cutpurse tonight. Next time he felt like this, he’d definitely take a cab. It was a few minutes before curfew by the time he arrived at Six Sisters. Mist waited for him at the gatehouse. After a cursory security check, the guards waved him through to join her.
She regarded him soberly. “Ages, Greens, you look rough as timber.”
“I know. I should be in bed.”
She cocked her head. “Was that a joke?”
“Yes. Well spotted.”
“Cos beds have timber in them, right?”
“Exactly.”
She grinned. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour. Come on, let’s go up to my room. Think you might appreciate a quiet one, eh?”
He smiled gratefully. A night on the town was definitely off the menu with this debilitating tiredness. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he said. “I wanted to show you something anyway.”
She looked interested. “Really? Nothing filthy, I hope.”
He rolled his eyes. “Definitely not.”
“Shame.” She giggled.
They headed across the plaza, making for her rooms, and had just passed the Statue of Labour—the last of the six Sisters—when a dishevelled figure hurtled around the corner. The Book of Talents went flying.
“Watch it!” Guyen snapped, bending down to pick it up. The blood rushed dizzyingly to his head.
“Sorry,” the man croaked. Firelight from a nearby brazier revealed Sark, Devere’s halfbound slave. He let out a hacking cough. “I should look where I’m going.”
“Advisable,” Mist said. “Specially when there’s a big hole in front of you.”
Guyen shot her a withering look. The torture pit was no laughing matter. He considered the halfbound. He didn’t seem well tonight either. “What’s the rush?” he asked.
“I’m on an errand for the Prime Wield,” Sark said. “One doesn’t dawdle.”
“An errand?” Mist said. “That sounds intriguing. What kind of errand?”
He wrung his hands. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, Mistress.”
“Oh good,” she chimed, “a riddle. I’ll go first.” She tapped her chin, feig
ning concentration. “Is it women? Jal Belana’s had enough of his stinking cock so you’re off to the whoremaster to source some tarts?” Sark looked abashed. “Don’t worry,” Mist said. “Everyone knows he likes paying for it.”
“I didn’t,” Guyen said.
She ploughed on. “Not that, slave man? All right.” She thought for a moment. “I have it—the deer are all dried up so you’re sent to round up some Unbound street brats for him to hunt. Or maybe he’d like to screw those too?”
“You should watch your tongue, Mistress. If you value it.”
“Are you threatening me, halfbound?”
“No, girl. I merely offer a warning.”
She looked him up and down. “What’s that?” She pointed to the parchment in his hand.
“A letter,” he muttered. “The object of my errand.”
“Who’s it for?” Guyen asked.
Sark hesitated.
“Tell him, slave man,” Mist said.
“I’d rather not.”
She grabbed it, reading the address. “Commander Cotes?”
Cotes? Guyen thought. Two mentions in one day?
Sark snatched at the letter. Mist dangled it out of reach. “Mind if we take a look?” she taunted.
“I would rather it remained sealed,” Sark said, gritting his teeth.
“What use is that?”
“Ignore her,” Guyen said. “She’s just bored.” He prised the letter from Mist’s reluctant fingers, glancing thoughtfully at the seal before handing it back. “Has Devere put you down any more holes recently?”
“No, Maker.”
“Where is he? I heard he might be travelling.”
“He rides for his estate shortly. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Sark wiped his nose. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can I go?”
“You don’t have to ask permission,” Guyen said.
“I wasn’t. I don’t need permission from you.”
“No, you don’t.”
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