Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  I also send you the first tranche of our new recruits. These youths, faster, fiercer, and more skilled with steel, will excise the foul Althuisan growth from our land like gifted surgeons, the reformulated Binding at last bearing fruit as Askathon predicted. A council established under Ilvid now scours the countryside in search of others who exhibit this unnatural Talent for bloody murder.

  Godspeed, dear brother, through Hayern’s grace shall we stand over the corpses of our enemy.

  Isaar

  NOTA:

  Ilvid’s council, the earliest inception of the Office of Assignment, eventually gained oversight of Binding and Assignment throughout the whole of Sendal. When it was discovered that the new Binding enhanced Talents of every kind, Assignment testing was zealously extended to all trades and occupations, and the statutory age of Testing established at fourteen years.

  S.G.

  33

  High Supper

  The House of Counters smelled of money, the tang of gold coins and inky bills rich in the air. Wealth oozed from the marble and descended from the chandeliers. The administration of this much gold and silver was a serious affair, no smiles evident on mean, mirthless faces. Merchant Harosa, likewise, wasn’t the kind to suffer fools gladly, but rather was one himself if he thought Guyen good with numbers. He’d ensconced him at a polished walnut desk with instructions to copy swimming reams of indecipherable sums from a pile of receipts into a ledger, but the wodge of invoices on the document spike thickened by the minute. This was no way to spend an Ebbensday afternoon.

  Toulesh hovered behind the clerk opposite, eyes glinting at the pile of golds on the desk. The thought was a shared one—pocket a few of those and you’d eat like a king for a year, but then you’d probably die like one too when they caught you, and kings never had good deaths.

  “Speed up, will you,” the clerk in the next seat complained.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” Guyen muttered.

  “Hayern’s Might!” The clerk snorted. “I bet you can’t even count your fingers.”

  It was odd, people using the name of one of your ancestors as a curse, but then a lot of things were odd these days. “If you think I’m doing such a bad job,” Guyen said, “why don’t you tell Wield Harosa? He might find me something else to do.”

  The man grunted. “You tell him. I’m busy, thanks to you.” He whipped another receipt from the spike.

  There’s no helping some people. Guyen dipped his quill in the inkwell and continued scribbling.

  It was impossible to focus, given the looming dinner date with Jal. Despite growing unease, the prospect of being alone with her held a certain fascination, and that was a worry—it meant he was letting his guard down. He couldn’t do that. She loved her games, and her husband was just plain dangerous. It wouldn’t do to attract attention now. The thought occurred it might be better to skip the whole thing, not turn up. But Jal wasn’t the sort you disappointed if you wanted a quiet time.

  Only two more days till the Outlaws departed for Tal Maran. He could make it till then. He had to. He summoned Toulesh to help him concentrate and went back to jotting.

  When the gold-plated clock at the end of the drafty hall finally rang out six ominous clangs, he made his excuses. Harosa would have kept him all night if he could. Stopping off at the Gate for a wash and a change of clothes, best shirt and britches notwithstanding, he cleared Six Sisters security a quarter bell before eight and headed for the Culture Prime’s residence. The mansion was in the northeast corner of the estate, separated by a high wall and a circle of skeletal elms watching over a ribbon of grass. He crunched his way up the gravel drive, climbed the steps to the grand entrance, and pulled the bell cord. A tinkle sounded somewhere inside.

  Devere’s halfbound slave, Sark, opened the door. He glared. “Good evening, Maker.”

  “Evening,” Guyen said. “How are you?”

  Sark snorted. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Guyen thrust back his chin, projecting indifference. “Careful, I might take offence,” he said.

  “So this is why you were interested in the Prime’s travel plans.”

  “It’s nothing like that. Not that it’s any of your business.” He caught himself. He hadn’t meant to sound defensive. “Sorry, long day.”

  The halfbound scowled. “Don’t worry, I’m used to rudeness.” He stood aside. “This way then, if you’re sure.” He arched an eyebrow.

  Sniffing disapproval at the salacious suggestion, Guyen stepped through the threshold. An exquisite marble-floored hallway greeted him, silver candelabras lighting walls lined with fine paintings—landscapes, still life, and portraits—one picturing Devere with a woman and child. The woman wasn’t Jal, his first wife probably. And that must be his dead son. They looked happy as the artist had drawn them. How must Sark feel when he saw that every day?

  Passing several musty red rooms, they emerged onto a wooden veranda at the back of the house. A large garden stretched out, twinkling fairy lights dotting the darkness like stars. Toulesh folded out of his own accord, rushing off amongst the indistinct shrubs. Guyen let him go. When he was that enthusiastic to roam, it was easier to give in.

  Jal sat on a swing bench next to a roaring brazier. He walked over, the heat from the fire neutralising the chill autumn night. She wore an elegant evening dress, perfectly sculpting her slender curves, but offering little in the way of warmth. She stood. “Good evening, Guyen. How punctual you are. And dashing tonight.”

  Was she being sarcastic? Even in his best shirt, he looked more like the gardener than a dinner guest. He bowed. “Thank you, Mistress. You look delightful yourself.”

  Sark made a choked, grunting sound.

  The High Mistress smiled. “Please call me Jal, you promised.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Jal it is.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “I hope you’re hungry. The cook has been hard at work all afternoon.”

  “Actually, I’m starving,” Guyen admitted. “I made a point of not eating.” Truths be told, he’d had no appetite all day.

  She turned to the slave. “Fetch more wood.” He withdrew. She patted the seat. “Join me.” The swing looked like one of those love chairs made for courting couples, hardly wide enough for two. Guyen sat gingerly beside her, placing his hat on the arm rest. She swung them both, compounding his awkwardness. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  “More than anything,” Guyen replied.

  She reached for a small bell. “A man after my own heart.” She gave it a jangle, and as if from nowhere, a steward loomed into view, waistcoat, tails and sharp features highlighting in the flickering flames.

  He bowed low. “Drinks, Mistress?”

  “Yes, Hafeid. A glass of red.”

  “And you, sir?”

  Guyen hesitated. Red, white, blue—what was the difference, it all got you drunk, didn’t it?

  “He will have the same,” Jal said. Well, that was one way to emasculate a man. The steward bowed his head, the hint of a snigger on his lips, and disappeared inside the house.

  “So,” Jal said. “Tell me about your day. What do you Makers get up to, I wonder?”

  “Bindcraft in the morning,” Guyen said, “and an afternoon at the Bazaar.”

  “A full schedule then.”

  “Very.” He scanned the garden’s shadows, searching out Toulesh. There was no sign of him. He shifted in the seat. She was close, her thigh touching his. Small talk would be expected. “Beautiful evening,” he offered, nodding up at the dark sky.

  “Well, the air’s breathable, I suppose.” She paused. “It is a mite on the chilly side though. Do you mind?” She reached across for a shawl draped over the side table. Her hair brushed his face. She wore that vanilla scent she was so keen on. She righted herself, arranging the garment about her shoulders, and locked eyes as if seeking some deep truth. “This garden was designed by Archus, you know. Have you heard of him?”

  Guyen shook his head.


  “An illustrious Carmanian landscaper,” she said. “A hundred years dead.” She took in the view. “Most of the plants are from abroad. When they awaken in springtime, the colours are quite beautiful.”

  “I shall take your word for it,” Guyen said.

  “I suppose you will.” She let out a breathy laugh, turning towards the house. “Ah, here he comes.”

  The steward returned with an uncorked bottle of red wine. He poured a little into a crystal goblet, presenting it for approval. Guyen took it, swilling the liquid around the glass in what he hoped was a sophisticated manner. He sipped. The vintage possessed a dark, oaky flavour, but was light on the palette—an impressive trick on the taste buds.

  “Very nice,” he said.

  The steward poured two glasses, just the hint of a scowl about him, and withdrew.

  They relaxed, swinging on the bench. Jal adjusted her shawl. It fell either side of her breasts. “So, how long have you been in Sendal?” she asked.

  “Since Fevern.”

  “You came over from Krell?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed. “Such a troubled country. Arik was there for a while, you know.”

  “Really?” Guyen feigned surprise.

  “It was before we met,” she added.

  “Oh.” He necked the rest of his wine, keen for its calming effects.

  She tutted. “That is not how one enjoys an aperitif, Guyen.”

  “It is if you’re thirsty.”

  She laughed. “Give that to me.” She took the glass, long fingers lingering on his hand just a moment too long. A shiver ran up his spine. She refilled the glass and offered it. “Now, pay attention,” she said. “You must sip like this.” She picked up her own glass to demonstrate, pinching the stem ever so delicately between index finger and thumb, touching it to her lips as if she might absorb the liquid rather than drinking it. “One doesn’t look at one’s companion while one sips, of course,” she said.

  “Of course,” Guyen agreed, as if that wasn’t the most idiotic rule ever to be dreamed up for polite company.

  She took a drink and caught his eye again. “Mind you,” she said, “this is no way to get sozzled. I often smuggle a hipflask in my garter to attend those hideous functions with Arik. They can be ever so dry, rather like him.” Was she really that bored with her aging husband?

  Sark returned with a pile of wood and fed the brazier. He poked it a little carelessly, and a burning log fell onto the decking, sending sparks into Jal’s dress. She shot up, feverishly patting down the silky material. “Stupid man!” she snapped.

  Guyen jumped down beside her, kicking the burning log onto the grass. Sark shrank back.

  “You shouldn’t have to do that for him,” Jal scolded. “If he was half competent!”

  “Accidents happen,” Guyen observed. “I hardly think a bit of ash will ruin my boots.”

  “That’s not the point.” She rounded on Sark. “You’re lucky he’s here.”

  “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

  “Sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the word. Get out of my sight.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Sparing a darting glance, he fled back into the house.

  “Fool,” she muttered. She sank her wine in one. So it was all right for her to break etiquette? That was hardly fair. A gong sounded inside the house. “About time!” She offered an arm. “It is customary for a man to escort a Lady.”

  Guyen steeled himself. “I would be delighted, Mistress—sorry—Jal.” He took her in hand, scooping up his hat with the other. She pulled him closer. Too close. Was she flirting? Damn, he suddenly felt too hot under the collar for such a biting night. Trying not to tread on her toes, he led the way inside, steering them into a spacious dining room lit by dozens of candles. The servants had laid an intimate table, a regiment of utensils deployed upon its white cloth. The casual observer may have called it for what it was—a romantic dinner for two. He pulled the chair out for her—he wasn’t an idiot—then removed his jacket and sat opposite, scanning the room rather than negotiate her penetrating stare.

  A large painting hung on one wall, depicting a battle featuring hundreds of warriors ranged against each other. A wave of destruction spread out from a group of cloaked men atop a high ridge. Around them, the landscape melted. It could have been a scene from the Wars of the Bindmasters.

  The steward appeared again, decanting white wine this time, and a few minutes small talk later, a serving girl appeared with two plates.

  “Cuttleray on a nest of seagrass,” she announced, then curtsied and backed out of the room.

  Cuttleray was as rare a fish that swam the ocean. Father’s crew had landed one once. They’d drunk in celebration at the unexpected and profitable catch, then sailed out the next night, still three sheets to the wind, holing the boat. It had taken weeks to repair. Happier times.

  Guyen picked up the outlying knife and fork and tucked in, finishing the food in three easy mouthfuls. The wine’s delicate lemon aftertaste complimented the flaky fish perfectly. He patted his mouth with a napkin like he’d seen the well-heeled do in restaurants.

  Jal sighed. “I didn’t realise I would be starting from quite such a low base.”

  He nudged his cutlery to the centre of the plate. What had he done wrong?

  She tutted. “Have you never eaten in polite company, Guyen? A Lady should be allowed to finish her food first.”

  “Should she?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “It is improper for a gentleman to watch a Lady eat. Please, avert your eyes.”

  Sendali etiquette certainly involved a lot of not looking at things. He regarded the painting while she finished, and his eyes wandered to a map of the Feyrlands hung next to it. The geography was all wrong, the Haffa Straits missing, as if Krell connected to the Midlands.

  Jal placed her cutlery together. “A delectable dish, no?”

  “Absolutely,” Guyen agreed. It was settled—the food, at least, got a good review tonight.

  “And you like the wine?” she purred.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. Have another glass.” She refilled his goblet, then rang the bell. The girl reappeared, cleared the plates, and placed another course on the table—a small red egg, complete with shell, sat on a mound of fluffy brown rice. “Erusthian Demon Eggs,” she squeaked. The steward bristled over her shoulder, producing yet another wine, this time a pink variety. He filled the goblets then bustled the girl out before him. The door closed, the handle easing slowly back into position from the other side. Guyen took a swig of wine, this one like bitter cherry. Shit. You could feel the hit. He’d be as drunk as a lord at this rate.

  Jal nodded at the dish. “A kiss says you cannot guess at the proper cutlery for Demon Eggs, Guyen.”

  “Pardon?”

  She smiled. “I’m joking. Of course I am. Still, let us play. Which do you think?”

  He picked up a fork at random. It squeaked in his clammy palm. “This one?” he guessed.

  “A good try, not right though.”

  He swapped it for a spoon. “This?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. More wine?”

  Globes. His glass was already empty? When had that happened? “Shouldn’t I be in charge of the bottle,” he suggested. “I mean, isn’t that the correct etiquette?”

  “I think you’ll find I’m in charge tonight, Guyen.” She topped up his glass, regarding him like a puzzle.

  He ran a finger over the cutlery, picking up another fork. “What about this one?”

  She laughed.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry. I tease. Can you forgive me?” He was out of his depth here. Complicated women, high society, and fine dining were too spicy a recipe. She regarded him sympathetically. “This course requires a more delicate touch than can be provided by utensils.” She placed her hand on his, interlocking their fingers, guiding him towards the egg. His breath caught. This was submission. But it felt good. “One simpl
y pinches the egg,” she murmured, “like so.” She pressed his fingers onto the shell, and it dissolved, dusting the rice with aromatic red spice as a chunk of dark meat fell out. “Now, we catch the demon,” she said, picking up a skewer. She lanced the meat, holding it to his lips like a delicious invader.

  He opened his mouth, and she dropped the morsel in, staring intently into his eyes. He dabbed ashamedly at his chin with the napkin, juice dribbling. The meat was decadent, the most delicate flavour.

  “A little bird told me you’ve taken a job with the local Flags team,” she said, turning her attention to her own dish.

  “Yes,” Guyen grunted, gathering his wits. “At the Junction.”

  “I doubt Saijan is happy about that,” she murmured.

  “Rialto?” Guyen said. “No, not really.”

  “And what drew you to the hexium? It is rather a strange calling for a Devotee.”

  He hesitated, trying to think of something plausible. “I stumbled on an advertisement in the Crier.”

  She regarded him doubtfully. “I see. That was a piece of luck then. I should imagine you see all sorts down there?”

  “It’s just work. I do my shifts. I earn coin. That’s all.”

  “Really?” Her face flickered with curiosity.

  He squirmed. This was turning into an interrogation. He reached for more wine to calm his nerves. She rang the bell again.

  “Tell me about your family,” she said. “Your mother and father are assigned to Maker talents too?”

  “Mother is, yes—a seamstress. My father was a trawlerman back in Krell.”

  “A trawlerman? How visceral. And now?”

  “He’s not around anymore.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”