Nether Light

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Nether Light Page 42

by Shaun Paul Stevens


  “Aren’t you going to let me in?” he asked.

  “Sorry.” She stepped aside. Her rooms looked different, the sideboards bare, a case ready at the door.

  “Going somewhere?” Guyen enquired.

  She gave him a serious look. “I have to be ready to relocate. Orders from on high.”

  “From who?” She gave him one of those looks which suggested he neither needed to nor should know. “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “Fine. Busy.” She offered a weak smile. “You?”

  “Yeah. Not bad. I’m after a favour.” He took the vial and syringe pack from his pocket. “My brother’s cure. I need you to look after it, just until I can find him.”

  “What do you mean, find him?”

  “The Office arrested him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Shit!”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been avoiding polite society. What happened?” He filled her in. She twisted a braid around her finger. “If I’d known…”

  “You weren’t to.”

  “Well, I should have.” She muttered a curse. “I’ll ask around. Do you have a plan?”

  “Yes. Find him, and give him the serum. If he recovers, they’ll have to let him go.”

  Her eyes turned hopeful. “So, you’re staying in Carmain?”

  “I’ve no choice. If the Office have him, making myself a fugitive won’t help. And crazy as it sounds, I might use my Assignment to my advantage.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous game, Greens.”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same in my position?”

  “Oh, that’s different. I’m cut out for dangerous.” Her eyes glinted, a hint of the old Mist. “Find anyone to go to the Reverie with yet?” she asked.

  “What, the stupid dance? Do I need to?”

  “Yes, if you’re staying on. Attendance is compulsory for Ordinates.”

  “Mist?”

  “What?”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  She pursed her lips. “Nothing you can help.”

  The usual spark between them had vanished, and it felt rude to impinge further, so after thanking her several more times, he made his excuses. He had done something wrong then. But what? The thought flitted, not for the first time, that she might want more than friendship. Perhaps she’d shared her bed hoping something would happen between them. Instead, she’d become his nurse. But wasn’t that just ego talking? What could she possibly see in him? He wasn’t her type. Not that he wouldn’t—he’d taste that dish in a heartbeat if only the sex wouldn’t spoil things between them. But it probably would.

  He headed back to the Gate through dark streets, alone tonight, only himself to rely on. No change there then. At least Carmain was familiar now. After a while you got a feeling for the types to avoid late at night, and failing that, countless back-alleys and shortcuts riddled the city if needed. Still, he walked briskly, sending Toulesh ahead. There was a chance, albeit small, that he’d sense any danger and send a warning. The simulacrum took to the rooftops, running along, darting behind chimney pots. What would it be like to see through those eyes?

  In a further bid to improve his chances, Guyen searched out Faze signatures. Just seeing the nether light seemed safe. Changing things was where the danger lay. Controlling the visions came easier now, and if he could learn how to interpret the dim patterns in the dark, it would be an invaluable addition to regular sight, especially if those dim patterns outlined approaching, sharp metal objects. Thankfully, none presented tonight.

  On Pixenday, Nyra missed the Slog. It was unlike him. When he finally showed up at the studio, he batted away Tishara’s pleasant good morning with a disconsolate grunt and slammed a list down on the bench.

  “Instructions from Rialto,” he said, “deep clean today. He wants the place sparkling.” Fetch looked over, face unreadable, mood not. Cleaning was his domain.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be working on Bind Weakening?” Moran said.

  “We’re out of elementals,” Guyen offered helpfully.

  She frowned. “I’m sure we had enough last week.”

  “Well, we don’t now, do we?” Nyra snapped. “Let’s get to work. The sooner we clear this list, the sooner we get out of here.”

  “I don’t see the point,” Tishara said. “The place is perfectly clean.”

  “Well, when you see Rialto, you may tell him of his folly.”

  She sent a dirty look.

  “Come on,” Moran said, “I’ll help you with the Baker.” The Baker preserved blood, turning it into an amber-like substance which lasted years. It was a pig to clean.

  “What shall I do?” Guyen asked.

  “Strip the eyescope down,” Nyra muttered. “And change the soda crystal. It’s spent. Can you manage that?”

  “Of course.”

  Nyra grunted an acknowledgment and tramped into the storeroom. What was with him? He seemed worse than ever. The chance for an early release from his foul mood never came though, the chores lasting most of the day. It was frustrating. Surely Rialto knew the cleaning was pointless? The time would have been better spent looking for Yemelyan.

  Guyen turned in for the night. Hopefully, tomorrow would be more productive. He had an appointment with Scholar Renchat in the morning, assisting the old astronomer with his calculations. He’d visit the Junction on his way back and get an update from Dasuza. Time was running out, and the search for Yemelyan required a lot more urgency. The Network wanted help? Well, that was a two-way street. They’d better dole out something useful soon, or he’d hunt Dalrik down, like a dog if he had to.

  The next day, the first frost of the year descended upon Carmain, on schedule now it was Decum, and the Bridge of Facts, the narrow walkway spanning the moat around Scholars Keep, had iced over. The old porter on duty looked up as Guyen walked into the entrance lobby.

  “You want to get a bit of sand on that bridge,” he said. “It’s a deathtrap.”

  “Not my department,” the porter grunted. “Pass?” Guyen offered the maroon booklet. The man scanned it, uninterested, and handed it back. “Scholar’s best to you.” He nodded towards the musty halls. Guyen wandered through. If the Scholars employed men-at-arms, he’d yet to see any. He hurried along the wide, deserted corridors, past exhibits and paintings, getting colder by the second, and came to the stairwell he was looking for. He trudged upwards.

  Seven flights later, he pushed through into the observatory at the top of the building. A fifteen-foot starscope presented, ensconced in a wooden frame riding on a circular, toothed track. The sky opened up beyond a crumbling stone parapet. You might as well have worked in a cold store. Scholar Renchat sat behind a desk, his crazy white comb-over and wispy beard accessorising a suit so stiff it might have been made of wood. The leading astronomer in Carmain, he studied the sun, convinced it was the source of the Affliction. Despite his undoubted brilliance, he was crazy as a marsh rat—proof it wasn’t only the Unbound who lost their minds in the Feyrlands. This was senility rather than anything more sinister though.

  He looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “It’s me, Yorkov,” Guyen said.

  “Yorkov?” Renchat glanced nervously at the door. “What do you want?”

  “Er, you’re expecting me, sir.”

  “I am?” He frowned, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Ah yes, the Damorian.”

  “Krellen, sir.”

  “You are?” His hand sidled to a paperweight. “What do you want?”

  Guyen sighed. It was going to be another of those sessions. “You have some tasks for me, sir. I’m to assist you with your observations.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He put the paperweight down. “Now that I recall, I did request an assistant.”

  There was no point mentioning they’d met for the first time on several occasions. “What would you have me do, sir?” Guyen asked.

  Renchat sh
uffled over to a slanted desk pinned with diagrams and lists of numbers. “Here, my most recent observations,” he said. “We need to buck our ideas up, laddie, the Grande Prime has tasked me with looking into these strange storms. You know, the black rain?”

  “Yes, sir. People are worried.”

  “Quite. And for good reason. The storms must be related to solar activity, which is powered by the movement of the planets. If I can hone my calculations, I shall be able to predict the weather! What do you say to that?”

  The same thing he always said. “It’s a marvellous theory, sir.”

  Renchat beamed. “Can you interpret star charts, laddie?”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d shown him several times already.

  “Good,” Renchat said, “they haven’t sent me a complete novice then.” He tapped a column of numbers. “Here are the lines of azimuth and elevation of the planets over the past week. If you would plot the movements on the skymap?”

  “Right away, sir.” Guyen sat despondently at the desk, rubbing his hands together, breath steaming. The Scholar wouldn’t have done badly in Krell, what with his complete disregard for warmth. He got to work, plotting the observations, but it wasn’t long before Renchat jumped up from his desk with a startled yelp.

  “Guards!” he called. None appeared. He stared. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “Yes, sir. Yorkov, sir. I’m your assistant.”

  He hesitated, then nodded uncertainly. “Ah, of course, Yorkov, keep up the good work.” He returned to his calculations. Guyen readjusted his ruler, plotting another movement line on the chart. Seconds later, the Scholar’s chair scraped the floor again. He stalked up. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  Guyen explained once more, much to the old man’s confusion, and not a little to his. Why the madman had agreed to mentor him in the first place was anyone’s guess. He’d probably not notice if he never turned up, and both their nerves would surely have benefited if he hadn’t.

  The outbursts came and went, and Guyen continued plotting points and drawing lines until his mind was as numb as his fingers. The observatory’s clock turned deathly slow. No regular Faze timepiece, the exposed, rotating orbs above identified it as an Overteller, a theory Renchat had previously confirmed. Like all Overtellers, the device projected a ‘quality’ into its surroundings, its timekeeping ability an added bonus. According to Renchat, this one enhanced astronomical observations. Whatever its effect, its influence was uncanny, the same sense of foreboding oozing from it as the grandfather clock in Chapel House. If only there was a way to speed up its hands. This session was scheduled till two. He’d never survive that long.

  Boredom beat good judgment, and he thought back to Mist’s globe atlas. He’d sped that up, hadn’t he? What if he did the same to those orbs? Would the clock speed up too? It was several yards away, a challenge… He slipped focus. The orbs, one silver, one gold, shimmered like mercury. Could he? Should he? What the hell. He caught a Faze signature—an alternate version of the silver orb a hair’s breadth out of place.

  BECOME.

  Familiar power surged, the orb speeding up, only a little, but enough that a few seconds later it clanged gently into its twin, pushing it ahead. The minute dial on the clock face moved by a couple of notches. Renchat didn’t notice. It had taken little effort, so he caught a version of the other orb, repeating the process. The machine shuddered, and the hands whizzed round. He glanced at Renchat. The Scholar’s eyes were elsewhere. Power coursed, and in a moment he was lightheaded. He needed to release the effect. Recalling his technique, he slipped focus again, catching versions of the orbs trailing behind themselves, and switched them out. They reverted to their usual languid rotation.

  Two o’clock. Perfect.

  He donned his tricorne and walked up to the Scholar. “I need to be getting on, sir.” He nodded at the Overteller.

  Renchat looked up. “Crow’s breath! Is that the time? Work is slow today.” He sighed. “I shall see you at our next appointment then, I suppose. When is that?”

  “It will be after Noxen now, sir,” Guyen said. Hopefully, they’d never see each other again.

  “Very well, laddie,” Renchat croaked. “Enjoy the festivities.”

  “Oh, I will, sir. You take care now.” Guyen nodded to Toulesh and made for the stairs. By the time the old codger realised the clock was fast, they’d be long gone. He ducked into the Keep’s refectory on the way out, vaguely hoping he might bump into Ariana. He didn’t, but took a bread roll and apple as compensation. Heading back over the frosty bridge, thoughts turning to the Junction, his hand fell on the letter nestled in his coat pocket—Sark’s missive to his daughter. He recalled a map of Carmain, locating the Keg Market. It was on the way to the hexium with only a minor detour, and he’d promised the man. Besides, the Keg would be a good place to buy a pair of boots. He headed west.

  An hour later, he walked up a street paved in zigzagging red brick deep in the northwest quarter of the city. A weavers factorage loomed up on one side, on the other a collection of tenements and alehouses. Carmanians hurried past in thick furs and winter hats, eyes hard.

  “Copper a candle,” a tallow seller called, her head just visible outside her blanket. Guyen threw a coin, not bothering to take the candle. According to the map, the market should be around here somewhere, but the entrance wasn’t obvious.

  He was about to risk asking a Sendali for directions, when a squat stone turret came into view, protruding from the paving like the top of a steaming kettle. He walked around it as two women emerged from an archway carrying a fruit-laden stretcher between them. Steps led down into semi-darkness. A man with an overload of boxes pushed past, looking to enter.

  “Make way!” he bellowed.

  Guyen nodded at the steps. “Is this the Keg?”

  “What do you think it is?” the man griped. “A well?” He disappeared inside. Guyen gave the unfriendly bastard a moment to vanish completely, then followed.

  The winding staircase made for an awkward descent, the sconces lighting the way dull, the carved steps dusty and irregular. How traders transported goods up and down narrow shafts like these was anyone’s guess. As the daylight disappeared, the air grew warmer and humid, and a muffled roar rose up like breaking waves. A minute later, the stairway came to an abrupt end, revealing another world altogether.

  Condensation dripped from the low ceiling, glints of copper glistening in the rock. Strings of oil lamps lit the ways. Stalls and ramshackle buildings stretched off in every direction, and the packed-in people jostled for space like ants. It made sense now why so many Carmanians refused to venture down here—the underground market had the atmosphere of a swarming crypt.

  Tucking his hat under his arm, Guyen took the lane ahead, noting the unusual sights—bizarre, caged animals, exotic food, quacks and hatters, fortune-tellers and contortionists… Wherever you looked, a marvel jostled for attention, as the ghostly faces of shoppers, traders and tinhats floated by in the gloom. Someone bumped into him, the strap on his satchel tightening. He tugged back, and turned to see an emaciated youth, blade in hand. He glared, and the youth doffed his cap, vanishing into the crowd with a wild grin.

  The lane narrowed, turning into a tight tunnel as a warm breeze ruffled his hair. He emerged into a much larger cavern, and passing several more stalls, crossed a small bridge. A canal meandered below, a barge laden with furs and pottery gliding along. Twenty yards ahead, the channel disappeared into the blackness, loading platforms and teetering store backs blotting out the view. Well, that explained how traders moved their goods.

  He headed for the lace market, marked on a map Mist had drawn for him some weeks ago on the back of an Outlaws match day programme. She was good like that. Unfortunately, her idea of a map didn’t include any of the ways, rather it was a dotted anthology of her favourite establishments and traders. To anyone else it was probably a list of places to avoid. He came to a T-junction, and Hubris, a poisons me
rchant masquerading as an apothecary, loomed into view for a second time. He held the map up to a lamp, trying to make sense of it. Music emanated from behind a stall—a fiddle and squeezebox. It sounded different, clear.

  It took a moment to sink in. The clamour was gone.

  He listened—the ting of metal hitting stone, a fizzing oil lamp, a dog panting. Glorious, unadulterated sound. Something else was missing—Toulesh. The simulacrum was nowhere, not just gone, but like he’d never existed. Guyen scanned the area for Faze signatures. Nothing presented. So, it was true then—the underground market was cocooned from Faze. Was it coincidence the clamour was gone? Could Faze be responsible for the unholy sounds? He’d considered the possibility countless times, but never been able to test it. Another thought occurred—perhaps Faze made Toulesh too? That thought sent a shiver up his spine. It didn’t feel right to be separated from the simulacrum, but it was something new. He set off again, enjoying the empty sensation like a runaway escaped from their parent. He’d feed from the thrill, at least until his courage ran out.

  He took an alternate passage and came to Kanning’s Blades, a niche weapons outlet built into a naturally formed cave. Mist had marked it on the map, but its location relative to where he’d just been made no sense. The map was next to useless without the infuriating girl to decipher it.

  “You there,” a voice barked. Guyen jumped. A hand clamped his shoulder. “State your business.”

  He spun. Tinhats. Two of them. Come to think of it, there were a lot of prefects out today. “I’m shopping,” he said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You have papers, I presume?”

  Great. A couple of jobsworths. Guyen took out his city pass. The tinhat inspected it and looked up. “Devotions? Dressed like that? Do you know what the penalty for forgery is, lad?”

  “I can assure you it’s genuine,” Guyen said.

  “Oh, you assure me!” He exchanged a knowing look with his partner. “Ain’t that a Krellen accent on you, boy?”

  This wasn’t going well. “Look, I can prove who I am,” Guyen said. He pulled out his Pledge.

  “What’s that for?” the tinhat grunted.

 

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