Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Well then.” He pulled his cloak tighter. “Goodnight then.” He hurried off towards the gatehouse.

  “What a strange individual,” Mist said.

  “You should know,” Guyen said. Another wave of nausea hit. He doubled over.

  She put an arm around him. “You’re not well,” she murmured. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

  A short while later, they stumbled into Mist’s apartment. The three flights had been a struggle. Guyen collapsed in the recliner. Mist removed his boots.

  “Aw!” She screwed up her face. “These stink.”

  “Sorry, I need new ones.”

  “Yeah, or less egregious feet.” She dipped a sponge in a bowl of water and unwrapped his bandaged hands. He winced, dried blood unsticking from the gauze. “This looks nasty,” she said. “You could get an infection. Can you hold still?”

  Suddenly, he was shivering uncontrollably, despite the lit fire. She gave him a blanket, mothering him like an annoying but welcome hen.

  Someone knocked at the door. Mist opened it to Ismela, stood there with the jug of steaming cacao they’d ordered on the way up. “That will be all, thank you,” Mist said. The halfbound withdrew.

  Mist continued treating his hands, her touch gentle yet firm. She dried the wounds, then applied some pink ointment retrieved from her pack. It stung, but in a good way.

  “What is that stuff?” Guyen asked. It smelled of roses.

  “Laniot root,” Mist said. “Stops yer appendages turning green.” Five minutes later, she finished tying the bandages. A professional job. “You’re running a temperature,” she said.

  “Am I? Why do I feel so cold then?” He slumped in the chair, head foggy. If only his room were this comfortable. Mist poured some cacao, and he recounted events from the studio, minus the bizarre trip into the Layer, then desperate to let someone in on what was happening to him, he told her about the bleeding colours and shimmering objects he saw these days, and how he could control Faze. Would she think him mad? Her eyes wandered, thoughts elsewhere. Either she didn’t care or didn’t believe him. Damn her lackadaisical reaction. He’d have to show her. He took out the fake silver. “Heads or harps?”

  She frowned. “What’s the bet?”

  “There is no bet. Just call it.”

  “What’s the point if there’s no bet?” she sniffed.

  “The bet is you can’t call it.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Fine. Harps then.”

  The coin was already set to harps. He’d have to change it. Allowing the clamour to rise, easier in this weakened state, it rushed like a breeze and he ran his finger over the Primearch’s head. The coin blurred, both sides appearing at once. He focussed on heads and the image stopped flickering. Feeling weaker, he let go. The clamour receded. He spun the coin on the occasional table. It landed heads.

  “Unlucky,” he said. “Try again.”

  Mist looked bored. “Harps again.”

  He spun it. Heads—predictable as gravity. “Best of five?” he muttered.

  She glared. “A trick silver. Well done.”

  “Sorry.” He offered an apologetic smile. “It’s not the coin though. This is what I wanted to show you—I can make it land whichever way I want, using Faze.”

  “What are you carping on about, Greens?”

  He swapped it again and handed it back. “Bed for the night says it will only land harps now.”

  Intrigued, she gave it a go. Five spins later, her face lined with annoyance. He swapped it once more. “Now it’s only heads,” he said.

  She tried again. The coin obeyed. But he was tired now, felt vaguer. Charming it was draining him. Perhaps he should be drawing probability from somewhere else, as the streethawk had suggested.

  “That’s not all,” he said once she’d finished examining the silver. He fumbled in his pocket for one of the streethawk’s dice. “Here, try to throw anything other than Crow.”

  Eyes suspicious, she took the die, rolling it on the table. It landed Crow. “Weighted dice,” she grunted. “So what?”

  “It’s not weighted.”

  “Explain.”

  “I charmed it.”

  She laughed. “Charmed it?”

  “Used Faze to take probabilities away from it.”

  “Horseshit.”

  He shook his head.

  “Change it then,” she demanded. “Roll Adder if you’re so clever.”

  He hesitated. Charming dice was on a whole different level to a coin, the step up from two possibilities to six exponentially difficult. He’d have to go deeper, touch more of the sinister power lurking in the Layer. What if he got stuck between realities again? “I’m not sure I should,” he said.

  “Can’t, you mean.”

  Well, that riled! He picked up the die, turning it over in his fingers. Could he change it without losing his mind? Manipulate Faze in a controlled way? He could do it with the coin. This shouldn’t be that much more difficult, should it? Toulesh glowered, starting to fade. “Stay here,” Guyen ordered.

  Mist raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “I was talking to my simulacrum.”

  “Oh, right!”

  She probably thought he was mad already. He let the clamour rise, slipping focus, this time maintaining the effect in a tight sphere around the die. It shimmered in his hand, sides flickering between the different symbols, Crow dominant. He was about to tease out the Adder symbol when a thought struck—he needed to borrow probability, didn’t he? He’d shattered a glass bottle in a pub in Tal Maran in another life. Might that work now? Glass was a strange substance, constantly in a precarious state. Perhaps he could use it as a source. A wineglass rested on the window sill. He reached for it. “I apologise in advance,” he said, placing it on the table.

  Mist’s expression tightened. “Why are you apologising?”

  He returned his attention to the die, allowing it to blur. Wisps of colour clung to it like sentient steam. He glanced at the glass. That too outlined in translucent pink nether light. Locking the image in his mind, he turned to the die. There—a flicker of the Adder symbol—he caught it in his mind. The faces alternated between Crow and Adder. He hesitated. Should he do this? He had to know if he could.

  BECOME!

  The glass imploded with a tinkling crack, disintegrating into a mound of fine sand. He pulled focus back to Mist, and the clamour lifted, the die dulling in his hand. Toulesh watched on. He’d decided to stick around this time? Well, that had only been a little dizzying. But rather spectacular. You’re getting better at this.

  Mist stared wide-eyed at the sand. “What did you—how did you—”

  “It’s Faze. I told you, I can control it.”

  “But how?”

  “I’m not sure. I tell it what to do.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “But how did you do that to the glass?”

  “I took the probability out of it and gave it to the die.”

  “Probability, Greens? Beggars! I’m sure I have no idea what you’re on about.” She ran a finger through the sand. “I ain’t never seen nothing like that before.” Her expression lined with worry. “Are you sure this probability stuff’s not dangerous?”

  “I don’t think so. Try it now.” He offered the die.

  She took it, eyes locked on his, then rolled it next to what remained of the glass. Crow. She looked up, disappointed.

  Had he got it wrong? “Try again,” he said.

  She did, this time throwing Adder. She rolled again, Adder, then again, the same result. Then Crow, Crow again, then back to Adder. “That’s strange,” she muttered. “It only lands on those two sides.”

  She was right. It was strange. He must have substituted the die for a version charmed equally to both. It was certainly a subtler use of Faze.

  She offered an impressed grin. “It’s a good trick, if you could work out what to do with it.”

  “I’m still learning. Charming’s a skill in its own right.”


  “Why? What else can you do?”

  He shrugged. “Make things heavier.”

  “Heavier? How heavy?”

  “Very. And I can see—” He hesitated. “I can see future echoes of things… possibilities.”

  She erupted with laughter. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Do I look joking?”

  “I can never tell with you. Show me something else. Can you change anything? Anything at all?”

  “In theory, I suppose.”

  She glanced around the room. “What about my globe atlas? Do something to that.” She waved at where it sat on the dresser.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you want. Shall I get it down?”

  “No, leave it there.” This was something else to test. He shouldn’t have to touch something to change it, should he?

  He concentrated, relaxing into the feeling, allowing the clamour to build. The sound of rushing wind rose, and the globe jittered in place like his eyeballs shivered in their sockets. He caught a version of it turned a degree from where it lay.

  BECOME!

  His stomach cramped, the globe starting to turn.

  Mist rushed over to it, gawked for a second, then cautiously placed a hand on top to slow it. It stopped spinning. “That’s just spooky,” she said. She let go. It began turning again. “I don’t like it, stop it!” she shrieked.

  Stop it? How did you do that? Guyen forced himself up to inspect it. He placed a hand on top and it ground to a halt. He let go. It started rotating again at the same steady speed. Weren’t the planets supposed to turn like that? This representation of the world was suddenly too real. He stopped it once more, feeling a continued tug under his fingertips like constant momentum. He slipped focus. A line of blue nether light striped the world like another axis of longitude. Could he reverse what he’d done? He teased out another version of the globe trailing behind the current incarnation.

  BECOME!

  The tug disappeared. He let go. The world stopped trying to turn.

  He collapsed in the chair, all energy gone. “I… I don’t know what I did there.”

  “How can you not know?” Mist murmured.

  “I don’t know that either.” A shiver ran up his spine. “The truth is, I’ve no idea what I can do. Or even what I am.” Toulesh looked over from the mantelpiece, throwing his own invisible dice atop it.

  Mist smiled sympathetically. “Lucky I ain’t the reporting kind,” she said. “I’d keep these tricks of yours under wraps.”

  “I plan to,” Guyen said. “I had to show someone though. To make sure I’m not going mad.”

  “You ain’t mad,” she said, “just strange.”

  He nodded ruefully. “I’m beginning to get that impression myself.” He’d been right to trust her with this. She was pragmatic. Nothing rattled her.

  He was tired now, and the clamour rang like a high-pitched bell. His tricks had made it worse. Mist cleared up the sand, then read to him from The Book of Talents. Around eleventh hour, eyes leaden, she led him into the other room. The comfortable bed enveloped him, and the room dimmed, vision hazy. She sat there for a while, sorting through her pack, pulling out lock picks, unlabelled vials of various coloured liquids, medical supplies, several city passes…

  Sleep.

  Jal Belana’s study. Golden nether light outlining the recliners and hat stand. Then the Junction, pitchside, a battle in full swing, maelstroms of colour streaking past, dancing around the players and their mounts. Then Rialto’s study, colours bleeding from the Nerstolen, Rialto sitting there, none the wiser. Strange hieroglyphs floating up from the safe, flickering into new, more exquisite symbols, reforming on command, telling a story in some ancient language, morphing into tiny, toy-sized Red Talons, swooping around the study, hunting oversized mice, until the birds take fright, disappearing through the open window. Reset. Ariana’s bed. Her on top. Warm, soft breath, her lips. “Ariana…”

  The dream melted away. Delicate candlelight made starbursts in blurred vision. Mist mopped his brow with a cool flannel.

  “What’s happening?” Guyen croaked, less than half-awake.

  “You were talking,” she said gently. “Here, drink this.” She put a cup to his mouth. The liquid was bitter, but he had no strength to resist. She took the cup back. He fell into dreamless unconsciousness.

  The next morning he’d overslept. He still felt like death, but now at least warmed up. He stumbled bleary-eyed into the living room. Mist sat staring thoughtfully out of the window. Uncommon behaviour. The blanket lay tousled on the chaise.

  “Morning,” he rattled.

  “Good morning.” She sounded vacant.

  “Thanks for the bed,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have stolen it.”

  “It’s fine. Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but at least he could stand, and his hands stung a little less, the expertly wrapped bandages dry. He put on his boots, struggling with the laces. “Well, I should be going,” he said. “Do you want to meet up later?”

  “I can’t, I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  She looked distractedly out over the plaza. “Stuff.”

  “Catch you later then?”

  She nodded. “I’ll see you at the Reverie, I expect.”

  “You’re going to that thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was your scene.”

  “You really think you know me, don’t you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She threw his hat at him.

  “Did you need an escort to the ball?” he asked.

  “Would you believe, someone already asked me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe it?”

  She turned to the window. “You’d best get off to your hallowed Assignment.”

  He backed towards the door, exchanging a look with Toulesh. The simulacrum hung his head. “I’ll see you then,” Guyen said.

  “Yep, see ya.”

  He stepped into the corridor as a couple of preening Highborns passed. Unable to think of anything useful to add, he shut the door behind him.

  32

  The Knights of Jacinth

  Guyen arrived back at the Gate, exhausted again, all energy drained. Whatever sickness gripped him, it had its claws in deep. Pixenday a write-off, he collapsed on his bed, curling up, pulling the blanket tight around him. His eyes wandered to the safe. He had to get the serum to Tal Maran, but he could hardly move. He slept.

  Dreamlessly.

  The world turned bright again, the chimes of third hour ringing out in the distance, and something brushed his leg. He shifted position, brain attempting to process the feeling. What was that? He forced his eyes open. Toulesh danced around the bed in a frenzy. What was his problem?

  The blanket bulged. Strange. There it was again, that slithering sensation tickling his thigh. Damn. What the fuck? He sat up, and a reptilian head poked out from beneath the sheet, slate-grey, a red stripe down its centre. For a split second, their eyes met. It couldn’t be… a Taipan? Those things were deadly. Adrenalin smacked him awake, heart beating double. The snake coiled amongst the folds. Its mouth yawned open. It hissed.

  He sprang up, flinging the blanket over the creature, diving clear across the room. The material rose up like a magic trick, writhing side to side, muffled hissing sounding beneath it. Shit. Now what? He couldn’t let it escape. He edged back towards the bed and gathered the blanket’s corners together. He whipped it away. The snake writhed, snared within, angry, out for revenge. Fuck. He had to kill it. He looked about the room for a weapon. Not Milkins, not a book, that would be sacrilege. His hat? Too soft. His eyes landed on his boots. They’d have to do.

  He laid the bundle down on the floor, pulling his desk over the ends of the blanket to trap it, and slipped his boots on. Then, taking careful aim at where he thought the head was, he stamped. A crack like a tram
pled snail sounded underfoot. He gave the blanket a cursory prod. Nothing moved. He unwrapped it. The thing was dead all right, an ex-snake, forked tongue lolling on the side of its split skull. He collapsed on the bed, heart racing.

  Toulesh glanced nervously about the room. He had the right idea. How the hell had it got in? Through the ventilation duct? The window? Could snakes climb walls? Taipans weren’t even native to northern Sendal, were they? What was the chance of one sneaking in? Despite feeling like shit, he had to get rid of the mess—he wanted his blanket back for a start—so he pulled on his britches and five minutes later tipped the snake’s remains into the overflowing skip in yard twelve, one of several utilitarian spaces lurking within the Circle’s maze of alleys. He sliced off the strip of blanket where the snake’s head had splatted in case it was coated in venom and threw that in too. A dour-faced Sworn shot him a disapproving look. He returned it with his best dark stare and trudged back to his room.

  He shivered under the cut-up blanket, propped up in bed. Was he seriously ill? Why now? The timing was terrible. He needed to get to the Junction—his plan to deliver Yemelyan’s cure relied on the Outlaws. They had a scheduled league match with Moth Canyon, setting off for Tal Maran in a few days’ time. If he could persuade Selius to roster him as a pitman for the trip, it would be the perfect cover to see Yemelyan. Unfortunately, he barely had the energy to stand, let alone trek over there today.

  He skipped supper. He shouldn’t have, he needed food to get better, but he couldn’t face the hordes in the refectory. Instead, he lay in bed, drifting in and out of sleep as the hourly bells passed and sounds of Makers down in the quad quietened. He awoke from a night terror in the early hours, heart racing. Some grim creature had stalked him, faceless, slithering, part-man, part-snake, part-gator, blacker than nothingness, vicious as hell. In the underworld of night, it seemed too real. He lit a candle to chase away the dark and picked up The Book of Talents. He may as well read for a bit. It would take his mind off things.

  The pages fell open at an account of a battle from the Wars of the Bindmasters. Two mega armies pitched against each other, both sides led by warring bands of sorcerers—that’s what Bindmasters were, weren’t they? The tale told of a desperate fight in the Gorkhen Valley, a luscious strip separating two mountain ranges in the Apelites on the Althuisan-Sendali border. It described the decisive move against the Grey Sect, a colourful story of a forest shrivelling up around their warriors by some supernatural spell, men crushed as the trees knitted together around them. Given recent events, that didn’t sound so farfetched. He’d done something similar to the canister, hadn’t he, compressing it like that? Granted, the scale was different, but the principle wasn’t—if objects could be changed, why not whole forests?