“Identification. All Devotees carry them.”
“That could be anything,” the other man said. “Empty your pockets.”
“Really?”
“Really, son.”
Suppressing irritation, Guyen complied. They weighed his purse.
“A lot of coin there,” the first man said.
“Not for a Devotee,” Guyen protested.
He turned to his partner. “You all right with him, Helsior? I’ll find the lieutenant.”
“With him?” He snorted. “Think I’ll manage.”
The first man headed off into the gloom. Guyen cursed, ire rising. “Haven’t you got anything better to do than harass innocent people?” he muttered. He didn’t need this, not today. This was supposed to be an hour’s diversion at most.
“Just keep yer hands where I can see them,” the tinhat said.
“I’m telling you, this is a mistake.”
“In that case you ain’t got nothing to worry about.”
The shadows were plentiful. If he disappeared into them, they’d probably never find him again. “This is because I’m Krellen, isn’t it?” Guyen said.
“I don’t care where you’re from, lad. Just doing my job.”
“What will it take for you to believe I’m from the Devotions?”
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” More faces floated by in the unreal twilight. “How does a Krellen get assigned to the Devotions anyway?” the tinhat grunted. “I thought that was only for hoity-toity types.”
“Statutes,” Guyen said. “You know—my Talent, Office of Assignment, the usual horseshit. It wasn’t a choice.” He regarded the man’s black uniform. “None of us have a choice, do we?”
“I suppose not, lad.” The tinhat relaxed, hand moving from sword hilt to snuff pouch. “I never wanted to chase criminals and foreigners all the time neither,” he muttered. “Thought I’d be a gardener. Would have been damn good at that.”
A man marched up, a merchant judging by his fine tailoring and gold chains. He dragged a struggling boy behind him. A rough woman snapped at his heels, cursing.
“Prefect, I demand justice,” the man barked. “This boy stole my purse.”
“Did you, kid?” the tinhat asked.
“Lies, all lies,” the woman screamed.
“And you are?”
“His mother,” the woman screeched. “He’s a good boy.” The boy’s eyes glinted. He may as well have had guilty tattooed on his forehead.
The merchant shot the mother a dark look. “This witch is probably in on it,” he blustered. “I suggest you arrest her too.”
The tinhat sighed. “Where’s your purse now?”
“I don’t know! The rapscallion passed it on to an accomplice.”
“There’s nothing I can do then, I’m afraid, sir. Not without evidence.”
The merchant snorted. “Typical. I’ll have you know my land runs a thousand head of cattle.”
“Congratulations, sir.”
Ha! A deserved dose of sarcasm for the idiot.
The merchant darkened. “You’d take the word of these street scum over mine?”
“You’ll have to let him go.”
“Don’t order me about, you tin-headed prick. If you won’t do anything, I will.”
“Now, sir, it would be better if you didn’t.”
The merchant slapped the child and began dragging him away.
The woman screamed, beating the tinhat on the arm. “Don’t just stand there, do something.”
He cursed, handing back the city pass. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Krellen. Stay out of trouble.” He took off after the merchant and his prisoner.
Bemused, Guyen continued on his way.
The next lane was stacked with leather goods and footwear of all kinds. This had to be the place to buy boots. He stopped at a stall. “How much for these?” he asked the woman in charge, pointing at some plain-but-sturdy jackboots.
“Those, my dear? One hundred fifty.”
“What, marks?” Guyen said. “That seems a lot?”
“They’re best quality, dear.”
“What about a hundred and a smile?”
She looked him up and down. “How’s the likes of you get a hundred marks to spend on leather?”
Why did he have to keep justifying his money? “I earned it,” he muttered. “At the Junction.”
She brightened. “You’re a player?”
“No, pitman.” Seeing her disappointment, he added, “But I do know Vadil.”
“Really?” The woman cooed. “What’s he like?”
“Oh, you know, full of himself. In a good way.”
“Wouldn’t close my legs to that,” she murmured. Guyen rolled his eyes. She laughed. “I suppose if you’re a friend of Vadil.” She glanced down. “What size are you? Thirty-two?” Guyen nodded. Spot on. “Wait here,” she said, “and don’t steal anything.” She disappeared behind a rail of leather coats, purses and satchels, and reappeared a moment later with a red box. The black leather boots inside shone with high polish in the oil light, much better quality than the pair on the table.
He tried them on—a perfect fit, far superior to any he’d owned before, and far more expensive. “I don’t think I can afford these,” he sighed.
She winked. “Hundred marks to you.”
He stared back. Was she serious? It was a steal. He dug the coins from his purse, pressing them into her palm before she could change her mind.
“Well, the smile was worth waiting for,” she said. “You boys have such good teeth.”
You boys? He let it go. “I don’t suppose you know where I’d find the lace sellers?” he asked.
The new boots felt like walking on air, so Guyen threw the old pair in an overflowing skip. Despite the directions, finding the way to the lace sellers through the countless passageways proved an arduous task, but eventually he entered the biggest, highest cavern so far. A smorgasbord of sound hit—shouts and whistles, clangs and bangs, as a galaxy of stalls stretched out on either side of a wide waterway, swinging lanterns disappearing into the distance like lazy stars in a smoky sky.
An empty, horse-drawn barge passed a vessel stacked with fine furniture going the opposite way. The furniture merchant shouted a warning. The barges were too close. A whining, scraping sound erupted, and the merchant rained a torrent of abuse. The navigator on the empty barge shouted something equally unedifying back. Sendalis were as happy being loathsome to each other as they were to foreigners. It was something to cling onto.
The lace sellers appeared a few rows down, but were unhelpful, even for Sendalis. Enquiring with several along the nearest line of stalls whether they knew Sabetha, they either couldn’t or wouldn’t help. Most likely the latter. Patience running thin, he turned up the next row. An old woman sat behind a mountain of lace, bartering with customers. Perhaps she knew something—she looked like she’d been here forever.
“Excuse me,” Guyen interrupted, “I’m looking for a girl—Sabetha?” The woman ignored him. He stepped right up to her. “Hallo?”
She glared. “I’m serving, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s just a simple question.”
“Never heard of her. Go away.”
He took a breath. “Can I at least describe her? It might jog your memory.”
“What do you want with her?” the old woman snapped.
“I thought you didn’t know her?” Guyen said.
“Course not. There ain’t no lace sellers called Sabetha.”
He smiled. “I didn’t say she was a lace seller.” The woman scowled. “Look, it’s important,” he retorted. “I’ve a message from her father.”
A dark head of hair poked out from behind a pile of lace—a young woman of similar build to Mist. “I might know her,” she called over. “What’s her father’s name?”
“Sark,” Guyen returned.
“Come with me.” She beckoned him to the back of the stall.
Offering the old lace seller an apologetic look, Guyen pushed past. The brunette disappeared through a curtain of silk. He followed, brushing the material aside.
Cold steel pressed against his neck.
He froze.
“What do you want with Sabetha?” the brunette hissed.
He breathed out slowly. He could likely relieve the girl of her dagger, but that would risk getting cut. “It’s as I said,” he repeated, “I’ve a letter from her father.”
“Where is it?”
“Pocket.” He nodded at the jacket slung over his shoulder. She reached across and removed the letter. A purple amethyst dangled from her neck. Notably, in the dead of the underground market, the gem had a Faze signature. She retreated a step, still holding the dagger up, and unfolded the letter with her free hand.
She scanned it and visibly sagged. “You know my father?” she rasped. “How is he?”
She deserved the truth, delivered kindly. “I’m afraid he’s none too well,” Guyen said softly. “He may not have long.”
She let out a whimper. “You shouldn’t be here. If the Devotions find out he’s contacted me, we’ll both be in trouble.”
“I won’t tell them,” Guyen reassured her.
She scanned the message again. “I have an aunt?”
“I gathered as much.”
The stall exploded. A storm of heat and light. Deafness, then high-pitched ringing.
Guyen lay on the ground, loose timbers and sticky lace pinning him down. He struggled free, and an acrid burning smell filled his nostrils. His skull radiated pain. He pulled himself up and stared over the collapsed stall. Impossible! A wall of orange flame licked the cavern ceiling, its brilliance overwhelming.
What the hell just happened?
Sound returned, filled with anguished screams.
On the canal, what remained of a barge flamed like a torch, rings of fire spreading out in concentric circles—the epicentre of the explosion, yes, explosion, that’s what it was—that sulphur smell, that was gunpowder. Bells rang out.
He bent over Sabetha. The girl was unconscious, but breathing. Glancing up, it looked like a bucket line was forming. Common sense, that thing so lacking in Carmain, screamed the effort to contain this fire would be futile. He had to get out. Now. You and a thousand others. The air darkened, his heart pounded, and thoughts flashed back to the fire which had taken his sister. This was the same nightmare all over again—the heat, the smoke. Are you truly that cursed?
He picked Sabetha up and lurched forwards, visibility already down to a few feet. The old woman lay dead beside her customers, their bodies peppered with shrapnel. There was no time to dwell. He fought the crowd, heading back the way he’d come, stepping over moaning figures, puddles of flaming oil light, a dead dog. Where some lay dying, people crouched over them, stunned voices praying, pleading they get up. Others tried to run. But there was nowhere to run to, the ways jammed. Desperate shouts filled the air, coughing, crying folks clawing at the throng. Why hadn’t the stupid Sendalis built more exits?
Panic surged. This was it. Guyen sent up a prayer to a God he hardly believed in. I’m sorry I’m not a better man, but please, help me now.
The orange glow was brighter the other side of the channel, the fire worse over there. That was no help, the air would soon be unbreathable. Dense black smoke stole visibility. He was blind. He’d never find a way out. He shifted Sabetha’s weight. Her necklace fell on his cheek, dim nether light emanating from the gem. He blinked. Tiny sparks orbited within it, a microscopic star system. Gods, what was that? He reached out. The sparks intensified. Faze! How? It didn’t matter. Could he use it? He slipped focus, and the sparks extended beyond the surface, clamour rising—a piercing wind of pure tone. He touched the sound with the edge of his mind.
Cyan light shot out from the amethyst, expanding in every direction. The Keg outlined in weak flurries of confusing Faze signatures, but one thing stood out—the canal, a river of red nether light. Even its direction of flow was obvious—away from the fire.
Sabetha heavy, he stumbled towards the lifeline, crashing through unseen detritus, horrible squelching underfoot. Coughing and spluttering, somehow he reached the channel. Splashing sounded amongst the screams and fire’s roar.
Sabetha in his arms, he jumped.
36
Pin Man
I’ve got her,” the Sendali bargeman shouted. He caught Sabetha’s arm and Guyen let go, all strength gone. A few seconds later, the man reappeared and pulled him from the water. The glassware cargo clinked as the barge righted itself.
An air of quiet shock shrouded the deck, broken only by incessant coughing. The bargemen had barely escaped the inferno themselves. Guyen lay wet, shivering and exhausted as the copper-speckled tunnel roof passed by overhead, the current carrying them to safety. Fading screams drifted on the breeze like ghouls. He was too tired to process those. Eventually, the smoke thinned, and the clamour reasserted itself as they emerged from the underground waterway into a gaping crater touched by natural light. A lock came into view. This had to be that place, the Four Locks—it connected the canals to the Galt. He glanced at Sabetha. Despite the bargemen’s efforts to rouse her, she remained unconscious and deathly white.
The dockside teamed with activity. Men carried stretchers, squads of tinhats lined up with shields, while healers knelt over rescued casualties laid out on the ground. The man at the tiller pointed at the unmoving logjam of boats ahead. “We can’t wait for this lot,” he rasped between coughs. After a short discussion, the Sendalis moored up, then with some difficulty traversed the high wall and hoisted Sabetha up and over. They disappeared in search of a surgeon. You should have taken the gemstone, Guyen thought. That thing might have been useful. Then again, he wasn’t a thief.
He climbed the ladder after the bargemen and pulled himself onto the quay, collapsing on his front. Two tinhats stood over him. “You need a hand there, sir?”
He struggled to his feet. “I’m good, thank you.” He coughed, bending over double.
“You need a healer?” the tinhat asked.
Lungs on fire? Head splitting? Weak, heavy, sick? Of course he needed a damn healer, he wasn’t about to ask for one though. “No thanks, I’m fine,” he said.
The man regarded him doubtfully. “Are you the fellow who rescued that girl?” He pointed at where Sabetha lay on the floor, two healers hunched over her. “Like to tell us what happened?”
“A barge exploded,” Guyen said dismally. “I carried her out. There’s fire and smoke everywhere. People trapped. They need help, damn it!”
The tinhat offered a grim, sympathetic smile. “What’s your name?”
“Yorkov.”
“Assignment?”
“I’m a Bindcrafter.”
“A what?”
“It’s a High Talent. I’m with the Devotions.”
“You have papers?”
That was a good question. Guyen unhooked his satchel and fished out his soggy city pass. “There’s this too,” he croaked, pulling out his Pledge.
The tinhat unpeeled the first page in the pass, copying down his citizen number. He handed it back. “Did you see anything? Any idea who did this?”
“I don’t know,” Guyen said. “It happened so fast. I think the barge that exploded was owned by a Sendali merchant. I smelled gunpowder.”
The tinhat jotted the details in his notebook. “And that’s all you saw?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’d best clear the area, sir. Are you sure you don’t require a healer?”
“I’m sure, thank you. Good day.” Guyen turned away. It would do to put some distance between himself and the prefecture. It felt like he’d just dodged a bullet, even though he had nothing to feel guilty about. He climbed a set of steps carved into the crater’s edge, feet squelching, lungs burning, and surfaced in the street to find Toulesh sat on a wall. He fell into step, and they wandered south. The Gate. They had to get back. He stumbled onwards, co
ughing, shivering and exhausted. It was late-afternoon now, the low sun offering no warmth, and he’d lost another coat, and his hat. Could things get any worse? At least he was alive. How many had died? Globes, being able to see Faze had been a gift for once. It had saved his life.
He passed the turret he’d used to enter the market, or what remained of it. Black smoke billowed, and the roof had collapsed over the entrance. The square looked like a war zone, a horror beyond nightmares. Bodies lay everywhere, so many they’d run out of sheets to cover them. Most were badly burnt. A woman knelt by a still boy, swaying and sobbing in breathless fits. And a gang of labourers gathered on the corner, armed with sticks, rocks and other makeshift weapons.
“Damn Krellens did this,” one muttered to his companion.
Guyen pulled up his collars and ducked into an alley. If the attack had been orchestrated by Krellen rebels, he’d be even less popular in the city now. But had it? The man at the tiller of the exploding barge had definitely cursed with a Sendali accent.
He arrived back at the Gate just gone seven, and collapsed in his chair, lungs still burning from the smoke. Coughing up black tar, he forced off his swollen boots and removed his clothes, dumping them in a wet pile on the floor. Then he locked the door and fell into bed, shivering under the blanket in a foetal position, thoughts of the horror swimming around his head.
He slept.
“Yorkov, are you in there?” Several heavy knocks sounded. “Right! We’re coming in.”
Guyen opened his eyes. It was light outside and the room was cold. He ached all over.
BANG—BANG—BANG
“Yes, all right, I’m coming!”
He opened the door. Sergeant Hielsen stood there, two of his men behind him, expressions serious. “Get dressed,” he barked. “You’re coming with us.”
“What for?” A coughing fit took over.
Hielsen stepped back. “There’s some adjuncts downstairs, here to question you about the Keg attack. You know anything about that?”
“Adjuncts?” Guyen’s skin pricked. “What do they want with me?”
“You deny being there?”
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