Nether Light

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Nether Light Page 41

by Shaun Paul Stevens


  “What ya doing, Maker?” she shrilled. “Is private back there, dun ya know?”

  He did know. He didn’t care. He ran into the yard. A section of wall low enough to vault backed onto an alleyway. He jumped it, landing heavily on the dirt. Ankle smarting, he loped to the end of the passageway, turning out on Mortuary Avenue—one of the less uplifting thoroughfares in Carmain. The undertakers’ shops were dark, heavy grills secured against lazy grave robbers. He hurried past, keeping to the shadows, one eye on the pavement behind him. Damn cloaks. What were they up to? Following the most obscure route he could, he eventually turned onto the Bustle, the lights of the Makers shining a welcome beacon. He might still get food if he could talk round a serving girl or cook.

  “Yorkov!”

  He jumped. Where the fuck did that come from? He scanned the street.

  “Maker!”

  The voice came from over by the Fountain of Ages. He pulled his knife. “Who’s there?” he called. Was it a trick? Toulesh swept over to investigate, folding back in a moment later with no fear. Cautiously, Guyen approached, straining to see. The weather wasn’t helping tonight, sleet stretching the limits of vision. A shadow of a man formed from the darkness—Devere’s slave.

  “Maker,” Sark wheezed, “I had to see you.” He looked nervously along the boulevard. “You said if I ever needed anything.”

  Guyen pulled his coat in tighter. “I meant it, but life’s a bitch at the moment. I doubt I’ll be any help.”

  “But you’re my last hope.”

  “Last hope for what?”

  “I’m dying.” He coughed into his handkerchief as if to highlight the point.

  Guyen recoiled. “I’m not a healer. You should get yourself down to Whitefriars, see a doctor.”

  “They wouldn’t treat me, even if they could. I have no papers.”

  “I could ask Mist, you know, the girl—”

  “No,” Sark snapped. “I’m beyond healing.”

  “Well, what do you want then?” Patience was close to evaporating. This weather was loathsome. He’d never get warm tonight.

  Sark turned away as a wagonload of tinhats passed. He leaned in close. “You remember I told you about my daughter?”

  “Yes.” Guyen pulled his collar over his mouth, not wanting to breathe in the man’s sickness sprites.

  “Would you take a message to her?”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I’m forbidden. I’m sure I told you.”

  “Probably,” Guyen said. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “We all have our burden to bear, Maker. At least you’ll see winter’s end.”

  “I wouldn’t lay coin on that.” Guyen sighed. “What is this message then?”

  “My sister’s address. She will be my daughter’s only kin once I’m gone.”

  “You’ll be all right, I’m sure a—”

  “No!” He stamped his foot. “I’m not a child, Maker. At least do me the honour of an adult conversation.”

  Guyen raised a placating palm. “All right, calm down. Where does she live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He fixed him with a bitter look, wasted in the darkness. “Then how do you expect me to deliver a message?”

  “She’s assigned as a lace seller at the Keg Market.” The Keg Market was renown in Carmain, centuries old. An underground warren of caverns protected from Faze by the copper in the bedrock, so they said. Mist claimed you could buy anything there. Sark bent down, withdrawing a folded note from his shoe. “Here, this will explain everything.”

  Guyen took it gingerly, the parchment likely harbouring a plague’s worth of disease. He tucked it inside his jacket, and a thought occurred. “Didn’t you say your daughter was an artist?”

  “One of the best,” Sark confirmed. “The Office altered her Assignment.”

  “What, just like that?”

  “My master had a quiet word.”

  “Really?” Guyen murmured. “Who with? Who’s in charge over there?”

  “A man named Illenbach.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s rarely seen in public.”

  Guyen snorted. “I bet! Probably prefers not getting lynched, eh?” Another thought occurred. “Do you think your mistress could get me in to see him?” he asked.

  “She can do most things when she has my master’s ear, but that’s a rare occurrence these days.” Sark paused. “Why? What do you want with Illenbach?”

  “The Office arrested my brother. They claim he’s Unbound.”

  “Oh.” Sark shrank back. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  His words sounded like condolence. Globes. He was probably on the money. “Your master had something to do with it.”

  Sark wrung his hands. “What do you mean?”

  “He signed the arrest warrant. Any idea why he’d do that?”

  “He signs many things,” Sark said. “Always at it, hunched over that inkwell of his.”

  “You think it’s a coincidence?”

  “As much as you wining and dining his wife, you mean?”

  Guyen shuddered. “Are you saying I brought this on myself?”

  “Just be careful of him, Maker. And of her.”

  Two sentries marched into view atop Gate’s battlements. “I have to go,” Guyen said. “How will I know your daughter?”

  “Her name’s Sabetha,” Sark said. “She’s your friend’s height—the rude girl. She has brown hair, my eyes, and an heirloom—a purple amethyst. She told me she’d never be parted from it. You will find her, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do my best.” Guyen pulled his collars up. “The Signs be with you, Sark, and seriously, I’d get to a healer.” He left him coughing and spluttering in the shadows. The halfbound would be lucky to see morning, let alone spring.

  The next morning, the Slog offered little in the way of cheer, the sodden ground infecting Guyen’s feet with trench foot inside his disintegrating boots. Rialto’s upbeat mood irritated further as they gathered in the studio. Having decided they should at last investigate Bind Weakening, he put them to work running through Milkins’ usual tests on samples taken from Bound citizens recently succumbed to the Affliction. Tishara and Moran got to work identifying Bind Markers, and Guyen helped Nyra run Faze tests, hardly a word passing between them. The thick atmosphere was all he needed. Still, they got the work done, confirming the samples were indeed cases of Bind Weakening, the victims having lost their immunity to Faze. Any attempts to treat the samples with concoction resulted, as expected, in terminal cellular breakdown.

  After lunch, Guyen returned with Tishara and Moran to the studio to find Rialto and Nyra waiting for them. Something was wrong, Rialto’s expression grim. He wagged an accusing finger. “I hear you had some success with an experiment while I was away?”

  Toulesh threw his head into his hands. Shit! Rialto knew about the patch serum?

  Nyra pursed his lips. “Sorry, I had to say something. There’s the bigger picture to think of.”

  Rialto glared. “When were you going to tell me, Yorkov?”

  “I didn’t want to implicate you in anything illegal, sir.” It was the best he could come up with.

  “D’Brean tells me you stole stem powder from my office?”

  The girls’ mouths dropped open. What could he say? There seemed little point denying it. Why had Nyra risked telling him? They’d all be for the chop.

  “Sorry, sir.” Gods! That sounds pathetic.

  Rialto shook his head disappointedly. “Do you have any idea what would have happened if there’d been a cascade?”

  Fetch glanced up, passing with his broom. Praise Norgod he couldn’t talk. But how much had Nyra said? Not the whole story, apparently. “It was idiotic, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  No one spoke. Tishara and Moran looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. Guyen waited for the inevitable. But it didn’t come.

  “Yorkov, I like your initiative,” Rialto said
. He cocked his head. “Tell me, is it true you used your own blood as a precursor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You did,” Nyra said. “Of course you did, I wrote it up in the notes.”

  Rialto frowned. “Well?”

  “It was a joke,” Guyen sputtered. “I didn’t expect him to take it seriously.”

  Nyra scowled. “He lies, sir. How can you deny it, Yorkov?”

  The answer to that was simple—it wouldn’t do to become a human blood bank. “I’m sorry, Ny.” Guyen sent a warning look. “It’s not funny now I think on it.”

  Nyra glowered. But he couldn’t push it. He was on thin ice too.

  Rialto looked between them. “I see.” He tapped his cane on the bench. “Well, you may have been on the right track with a patch serum, Yorkov. Your method might tackle this Bind Weakening situation.” That seemed unlikely given how difficult it had been, but Rialto was the expert. “We shall have to risk more stem work,” he said, “but with the proper precautions, we’ll be fine. This time we work together though. No more going behind my back.”

  “No, sir.” Toulesh puffed out his cheeks, rolling his eyes with relief. Actually, this was good. Things were out in the open now, and it looked like Rialto would protect them from any blowback from the Office. Perhaps they should have trusted him in the first place.

  “Have you tested it on your brother yet?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” Guyen hesitated. He had nothing left to lose. “My brother’s been arrested, sir, by the Assignments Office.” The others exchanged glances. What the hell, they may as well know it all. “The paperwork was signed by Lord Devere, sir.”

  Rialto raised an eyebrow. “Was it now?” His eyes wandered to the louvre windows. “Leave it with me. I shall pull some levers, find out what’s going on.”

  “Thank you, sir.” At last, someone on your side. A cloud lifted. With Rialto’s connections, they might actually find Yemelyan. And you’re in the clear, Guyen thought, so long as he doesn’t find out about any of your other abilities—that really would piss him off.

  The next day, Rialto met with Jenk all morning, delaying preparations to trial stem solutions, so Nyra insisted on a stocktake. Elementals running low, Guyen offered to go for supplies. Anything was better than Nyra’s foul mood. Arriving at Draizon’s shop, the Althuisan was busy with his pestle and mortar, apparently testing a new delivery for purity. Guyen placed the list of required chem on the counter.

  Draizon scanned it. “No strange requests today, Maker?”

  “No.”

  He tutted. “Am afraid me out of Sulphurous, Chlorate, and Ether. Had big order come in. Ain’t none nowhere in city.”

  “What order?” Guyen asked. “You know we get priority.”

  Draizon shrugged. “Business is business.”

  “Who made this order? Corpus?”

  “No, Maker, was private order. A merchant.”

  Well, this was annoying. Guyen tapped the list. “These are base ingredients for the concoction, Draizon. Regulated. You can’t just sell the lot to some random merchant.”

  He raised his palms. “All legal, Bindcrafter. Draizon no law breaker, is he?”

  “That’s not for me to say, is it? Who was this merchant?”

  “Man gave name as Haskel. Paid gold, he did. I not ask questions if the gold ain’t soft, do me now?”

  Guyen arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re tempting a visit from the Office.”

  Draizon feigned offence. “I not know what ya mean, Maker. Me honest man, as day long.”

  “It’s winter,” Guyen pointed out.

  Draizon chortled. “You’s too clever for the likes of me, Bindcrafter.”

  You could only fake so much stupidity with a bad accent. “How long will it take to get more?” Guyen demanded.

  “A month?”

  “You must be kidding! We’ll grind to a halt in the studio.”

  Draizon shrugged. “Maybe ya buy it back from this Haskel. I’s sure he not turn down a request from the Prime.”

  “And how would I find this fellow exactly?”

  “Put out feelers?” Draizon suggested. “Ask the grapes?”

  Guyen projected cold anger.

  The Althuisan winced. “I not usually give out customer information.”

  Guyen leaned in. “I could just report you?”

  Draizon snorted. “Fine.” He opened his ledger. “Warehouse on East Road. 512 Eastgate.”

  Guyen hesitated. Why did that ring a bell? Damn. Wasn’t that the same address the Krellen rebel had given as a dead drop? He’d forgotten to pass that titbit on to Dasuza. Perhaps he should have. “512?” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

  “The boys delivered order there, as day is short.” Draizon boomed a laugh.

  Coincidences were one thing. This didn’t smell like one though. “What’s at that address?”

  “How should I know, me don’t make the deliveries, is it?” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “So, what about rest of order? Ya still want?”

  “Yes, deliver it to the Gate. And it had better all arrive.”

  He offered a dirty look. “Ya know where ya’ll find me if it not, sadly.”

  “Indeed, I will,” Guyen said.

  The address lay at the far edge of the city limits, past Eastgate. If there was anything in it, Dalrik or Rialto might be interested, and the more useful he could be, the more chance they’d help find Yemelyan—that was the way things worked, wasn’t it? Scratching backs, and all that…

  Guyen headed across town, past Garrison, up through Alesmound, and hit the East Road. An hour later, he stood next to Toulesh outside a rundown inn just beyond the city walls. Opposite lay a warehouse. He pushed into the inn, and ordering a mug of black tea to assuage the barkeep’s stares, he took a seat at the front window and loosed Toulesh to wander. The simulacrum appeared outside, leaning up against a lamppost.

  Guyen spun the fake silver on the table, staring across the street. Faze fizzed in the air. He made sure not to touch it. Men came and went, the usual kind of labourers, but several uniformed figures in the red of War stood out. Rankers? What was going on over there? Wagons trundled out from the loading yard, heading east away from the city. He couldn’t get any closer without risking attention, and after a while the barkeep got suspicious, so he gave up and headed back to the Gate, mulling the implications over.

  It meant something, it had to, but what, and who did he tell?

  35

  The Underground Market

  Draizon’s order arrived the next day, minus the missing elementals. It was a problem—without them, the studio’s work would be severely curtailed. The others weren’t in, and Rialto was busy preparing to leave for his estate, but not too busy to throw a hissy fit when Guyen explained the reason for the lack of stock.

  “Merchants buying up elementals?” the Prime groaned. “In those quantities? Whatever for?”

  “It’s a good question, sir.” Guyen hesitated. “I went to the address they were delivered to. A warehouse past Eastgate. Seems a bit suspicious.”

  “You went to a warehouse in Eastgate? Some kind of detective now, are you?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  “And what did you find at this warehouse?”

  “Rankers, sir.”

  “Rankers?” Rialto looked thoughtful. “What were they up to, these rankers?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I couldn’t get close.” He left it at that. There was little point mentioning Cotes, no evidence had surfaced to implicate the Sub Commander in anything, yet.

  Rialto donned his hat. “Leave it to me. I’ll track down this merchant and see what he has to say for himself. We must have priority on critical supplies. By the Ages, we are Bindcrafters, are we not?”

  “The last time I checked, sir.”

  “And, Yorkov, I’d keep this warehouse business under your hat until we know more.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  He flicked a test-tube of
scarlet plasma. It gave out a satisfying ping. “The timing’s most unfortunate,” he muttered. “We can’t very well conduct experiments into Bind Weakening without the required elementals.”

  “I hope we’re not giving up,” Guyen said. The phenomenon had to be connected to his curse somehow—answers would be nice.

  “I’m no quitter, Yorkov.” Rialto held the test-tube up to the light. “Talking of experiments,” he said, “I should take a look at this patch serum you concocted. We must understand how it works.”

  Guyen swallowed. The last thing he wanted was Rialto getting his hands on it. He might discover his blood really had been the missing ingredient. Then they’d lock him up for sure. “It’s in my safe,” he managed. “I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”

  “Could you not pop up to your room now?” Rialto pressed. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”

  “I left the key at a friend’s,” Guyen lied.

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see, well, the next time our paths cross then. An analysis would be of great benefit, I’m sure.”

  Guyen nodded. “Shall I run the Beramide tests on those samples anyway?”

  “Yes. If the results are negative, we can rule out plaque growth. You’ll be all right on your own, will you?”

  “I have Fetch for company, sir.”

  Rialto chuckled, glancing at the dullard. “I hope the conversation doesn’t get too intellectual for you then, Yorkov.” He picked up his cane. “Right, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” And with that, he swept from the studio. Fetch watched him go, then went back to oiling the door hinges.

  The Beramide tests took all day, but showed up nothing. After supper, Guyen collected the serum from his safe and headed over to Six Sisters. He’d ask Mist to look after the vial for now. It seemed wiser somehow.

  For once, it was her who was surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” she said, hanging onto the door.

 

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