“No, I’d have noticed if I’d blown it up though.”
Hielsen glared. “Just put some clothes on. If you’re not dressed in one minute, we’ll drag you naked through the residence.”
“Fine, all right.” The sergeant was a lot braver now, wasn’t he, with his dickhead subordinates for backup? Guyen threw on his shirt and britches, mind racing. What did adjuncts want with him? They oversaw the Binding. What did an explosion at the market have to do with that? Even if they were investigating it, surely they couldn’t think him involved? He blew his nose, thick black mucous ensuing. Everything smelled of smoke—it was inside him.
“Hurry up,” Hielsen barked.
“Oh, I’m hurrying, sergeant.” Guyen forced on his still-sodden boots and trudged out into the corridor. Toulesh appeared, nervously pacing between the guards.
Hielsen locked the door behind them and shoved Guyen towards the stairs. The lackeys clanked along behind. “What were you doing at the Keg?” he asked.
“Buying these boots.”
The sergeant glanced down at them. “You picked a bad day for shopping. Krellen fanatics, they’re saying. That’s who’s to blame—your lot.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Hielsen whirled round, grabbing a fistful of shirt. “I’m just doing my job, Bindcrafter.” He sneered. “I’ve a mind to release you into their custody.”
“Rialto wouldn’t like that.”
“The security of the Gate is my responsibility, Yorkov, and you’re a risk to it.”
The man’s arse hung over the top of his britches. He couldn’t even secure a belt, never mind the Devotion. “I may be many things,” Guyen said, “but I’m not a terrorist.”
“We’ll see about that. Come on.”
They arrived at the detention block on the first subfloor and Hielsen shoved him into a dark room lit by a single torch. It was so damp the walls grew moss. “Take a seat,” he hissed, nodding at a table and chair. He turned to one of his men. “Secure him.”
Guyen groaned. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Ignoring his protestation, the guard forced him into the chair and tied his wrists to the armrests. Toulesh ranted unseen in the doorway. The guard wrapped the cord several more times, painfully tight, then stepped back. “All done, sir.”
Hielsen inspected the knots. “Good work, Vario.” He stepped towards the door. “Don’t go anywhere, will you, Yorkov.” He ushered his men outside and disappeared off down the corridor.
Guyen took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, taking stock. He ached all over. He must have torn several muscles carrying the girl. But his lungs had come off worst. He coughed again, gripping the rough armrests. The table was covered in dark stains. How had they gotten there? He shouldn’t have come back to the Devotion. The Junction would have been safer. Was this how his short-lived Maker career would end? Framed for a crime he hadn’t committed?
Toulesh backed away from the door, expression suddenly manic. Footsteps approached.
The Cloaks strode in.
Fear flooded up. What the hell were they doing here?
“Don’t leave me with them,” Guyen called, but the door was already closing. He tensed in the chair, automatically testing the restraints—morbidly secure.
Vale threw a tatty brown case on the table. “Get the door, Yannick. We don’t want to be disturbed.” The rotund man produced a key, locking them in. Vale took in the room. “Bindcrafter Yorkov, not too busy to see us, I hope.” Toulesh snarled at him.
“What do you want?” Guyen demanded. If only he were better with Faze, he might turn the bastard into a waxy frog.
“What do I want?” Vale stroked his chin. “Well, I’ve been looking for a Darlot Third Dynasty bottle vase for a while? Or a toothbrush, I hear they’re all the rage now?”
Yannick snorted. “Bit late for that.”
“Yeah,” Vale muttered. “Fucking teeth. Who needs ‘em?” He sighed. “Fine. To business. We visit to offer a mutually beneficial exchange, don’t we, Yannick?”
“Information,” the tailor grunted.
“That’s right, information, which you will provide in exchange for your health.” Toulesh reared up, snapping at the maniac’s face. Vale opened his case, oblivious. “But first—” He sorted through the contents. “Something to keep the mess off your fine clothes. What colour do you think, Yannick?”
“Your perversion, your choice, Vale.”
He pulled out a stained silver smock. “An old friend for an old friend, eh.” He threw it around Guyen’s neck, tightening the cord. It cut like cheesewire. He grabbed a handful of hair, yanking it up like he’d rip it from the roots. “Such a thick pelt,” he said. “I could do something spectacular with this.”
“Scalp it?” Yannick offered. “Fuck.” He punched himself in the head. “By Issa, I was doing so well.”
Vale retrieved a cloth roll from his case, unfurling it to reveal a selection of cutthroat razors, pristinely sharp. They glimmered in place, Faze humming through the metal. Globes. Why so much on them? He selected one, flicking the tip. The air powdered with orange nether light, the metal vibrating with a subtle ting. Guyen pulled harder against the rope. Pointless. The chair was too strong.
“Of course,” Vale said, “if you answer a few questions, I might see my way to a trim and tidy rather than anything more extreme.”
They wouldn’t kill him in here. Not with witnesses outside the door. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t hurt him though. “I told the prefects what I saw,” Guyen spat. “Ask them.”
“Oh, I did,” Vale said. “Imagine my surprise when I found out a Devotee had swum an injured girl out of there.”
“You do what you have to.” Where was this going?
“Why were you at the Keg?” Vale growled.
“Buying some boots.”
“Wrong fucking answer.” He leaned in, smelling of waxy cologne, and brought his knife to bear. He slashed off a lock of hair.
Guyen flinched. “You can’t do this. When Rialto finds out—”
“You actually think you’re one of them?” Vale laughed. “Devotions material? I don’t think so.”
“There’s no reason for this. I’ve done nothing.”
“Is that so?”
Guyen swallowed smoky phlegm. What did they know? About the Network? About the patch serum? About his abilities? How had they passed themselves off as adjuncts? It wasn’t the first time. Vale’s blade pressed against his neck.
“Why were you at the Keg Market?”
Silence. Heart beating. Yannick’s heavy breathing.
“Come now, Maker. Most of my customers take the opportunity of a trim to wax lyrical about every tedious little aspect of their drab, insignificant lives.”
More silence.
He cursed. “We’ll have to do it the hard way then. Yannick.”
“I don’t want to,” the abdominous man grunted.
Vale put his head in his hands. “I can’t very well cut him with Maker security outside the door, can I?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know anything.”
“Yannick, remember young Alice.”
The tailor cursed and punched himself in the side of the head again. Guyen flinched again. The deranged man took a tin from his waistcoat pocket. It rattled. He looked torn, then seemed to decide. “Very well, give me room.”
Vale nodded approvingly, stepping aside.
Toulesh put up a magnificent defence, but Yannick walked straight through him. Panic rose. “Stay away from me,” Guyen screamed, struggling in the chair. He shouted at the top of his lungs. “Sergeant!”
Vale whipped his handkerchief from his breast pocket—embroidered D.F. in gold thread—it’s funny the things you notice. He forced it into Guyen’s mouth. He retched. But he wouldn’t give in to fear, not while the anger well was full. He shook his head wildly. Instinctually. Pointlessly.
“I advise you to stay still for this,” Vale said. “If you value your
sight.”
Guyen snorted in breath, panic turning to dread.
Yannick opened his tin, retrieving a pin. It glinted with Faze.
“I’m sorry about this,” he muttered.
He didn’t look very fucking sorry.
He produced a pot of balm, dipping the pin in the contents. What the hell was that? Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. Guyen pulled at the ropes. No joy. But could he fight back anyway? Could the Layer help him?
He focussed in on the high-pitched drone at the back of his head, relaxing into a seeing state. Clamour rose up, a regular, melodic pulse. Nether light burst into life around the torch and the two men. What use was that? He tried focussing on the pin, but it was insubstantial, no useful image appearing.
Yannick’s ham of a fist grabbed a handful of hair, locking him in place. He brought the pin up. Guyen closed his eyes.
Burning pain. A point of excruciating hell in the fleshy gap between cheekbone and eye. Toulesh doubled over. Guyen screamed, the muffled sound unheard outside the cell. He snorted air through flaring nostrils. “Stop, make it stop,” he moaned. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all, diaphragm in spasm. He panicked, pain snaking down his arms. Legs locked. Heart clenched.
Whoosh. Oxygen exploded back in, thin and sparse through his narrowed airways. Grey fog filled his vision.
“There, happy now?” Yannick growled. He stepped away, muttering what sounded like prayers.
“Calm down,” Vale hissed. “It’s only work.”
New pain radiated from the pin, a singularity of hurt, deepening, multiplying, sending fiery fissures through his skull.
Vale tutted. “You know your problem, Maker? You think you’re too clever to get caught.” He pulled the smock cord tighter.
“I had nothing to do with the attack,” Guyen tried to say, but the words came out as meaningless grunts.
Vale waved at Yannick. “Another one.”
Yannick stepped up and repeated the process, this time inserting a pin at the base of Guyen’s nose. The pain doubled, arcing between the two points like a lightning rod. He bit down on the cloth, moaning at the pain, tears streaming. Stop! Make it stop!
Vale yanked the handkerchief out.
Guyen gasped in precious air, eye sockets burning, temples pounding. “The bargeman was Sendali.” A rasping, panting defence. “It was nothing to do with me.”
“I don’t care about the barge,” Vale said. “Tell me about the girl.”
“What girl?”
He signalled Yannick. The rotund tailor cursed, bent over, and pushed in another pin. The pain triangulated. Guyen screamed, body taut, eyes bleeding crimson cobwebs. Toulesh deformed, limbs stretching, cracks appearing through his translucent skin. Sleep would come in a moment. Sweet relief it would be.
The door rattled. “What’s going on in there?” Hielsen bellowed. “Let me in.” Something heavy clattered the oak. “Get a ram to break this door down with, corporal.”
Vale grabbed Guyen’s chin, forcing his head up to meet his vicious eyes. “What’s her name, Yannick?”
“Sabetha von Deliau,” Yannick said.
“Yes, Sabetha.” Vale paused. “That an Ordinate so friendly with the Culture Prime’s wife should save that particular woman? The Feyrlands are filled with coincidences, I suppose.” He flicked one of the pins. The pain ignited afresh. “Why did you meet with Von Deliau?”
Guyen pursed his lips. He wouldn’t let Sark down.
Hielsen banged on the door again. “You have ten seconds before my men break this door down, adjuncts, or whoever you are.”
Vale cursed. “No? Not biting? What about this then—how did you escape the Keg alive?”
“Luck,” Guyen returned.
“What about the hexium? What are they up to down there?”
Another wave of pain crested. “Big men, horses,” Guyen gasped. “They fight each other. You must have seen the posters?” Crack. Vale’s fist smashed the side of his head. Vision swam.
“Take this as a warning from our foremost, Maker. Stay out of business which doesn’t concern you.”
Guyen swayed in the chair, unable to think. Was Devere out to get him now? Just because he’d saved Sark’s daughter? Unless it was something else. Jal? Yemelyan? He looked up, and hatred drove him. “Where’s my brother?” he snarled.
“Brother?” Vale frowned. “Yannick, do we know anything about a brother?”
“Don’t think so, Vale.”
Hielsen bellowed out in the corridor. “Right, we’re breaking this door down.”
Vale cursed. “Yes, don’t bother, we’re coming out.” He leaned in. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned, Maker.” With an annoyed grunt, he stepped back and signalled Yannick. The tailor bent over, whipping his pins out like Guyen was a curse doll. The pain was to the very core, primordial, beastly, control and humiliation of the darkest kind. The tailor dabbed at the pinpricks with a rag, and Vale removed the smock. He threw it in the case along with his other accoutrements. They’d leave no evidence. They were professionals.
But they’d get what was coming one day. And when they did, it wouldn’t be quick.
Yannick unlocked the door. Hielsen burst in. He glared at Vale. “What have you done to him?”
“Come now, sergeant. You wouldn’t stand in the way of Devotions justice, would you?”
“Do you have evidence of a crime, sir?”
“A mountain, I’m afraid.”
Hielsen frowned. “Once Rialto has eyes on this evidence, perhaps he’ll release him into your custody.” For once, the sergeant’s officious streak was a gods-honest blessing.
“I shall be sure to deliver it to him personally,” Vale said. He walked to the door, turning back at the last moment. “You should upgrade your facilities, sergeant. Pay me a visit. You’d be surprised at the inventiveness one might bring to an interrogation.” He grunted a laugh and strode off down the corridor. Yannick followed.
“Escort them from the Devotion,” Hielsen ordered his men. “Straight out, no diversions. They’re to see no one, touch nothing.” They ran after the Cloaks. Hielsen turned back. “Bloody Office!”
“They weren’t the Office,” Guyen corrected.
Hielsen twitched. “Why is your face bleeding?”
“Please, sergeant, just untie me. I don’t feel well.”
Hielsen stepped up, removing the restraints. “What did they want?”
“They think I was involved in the attack.”
“Were you?”
“No.” Guyen pulled his hands free, forcing himself to standing. He swayed, dizzy, the floor at an angle. The aftereffects of the pain? Of the poison?
Hielsen straightened. “Well, you should be thankful I intervened before they did anything unfortunate to you. Not that you wouldn’t deserve it.”
“Bah! Whatever.” Guyen rubbed his face, massaging the sore points. The pins had left three numb spots. “I’m going back to bed,” he grunted.
“Oh no,” Hielsen said. “Jenk wants to see you. Right away.”
37
The Trouble with Gravity
The clock in the quad was all wrong. Sped up. It had been for days now, chiming a good minute before the rest of the clocks in the city. Guyen watched it through the window as he waited outside Tishara’s door, wondering why. A strip of moonlight flickered across its face, creating a fleeting shadow where the minute hand should have been. He adjusted his waistband.
The door handle turned. He stepped back. Tishara stood there, transformed in a flowing emerald-green gown, hair straight, shoes strappy. Not the same girl from the studio.
He whistled. “Not bad.”
She smiled, performing a sardonic curtsy. “You don’t look too rough yourself.”
His dress suit, a loan from one of Vadil’s manservants, was certainly a finely tailored affair. A crisp white shirt and neckerchief had come with a green and black check waistcoat, black tailcoat and britches. The ensemble was a perfect fit but couldn’t h
ave been more uncomfortable. Sendalis could keep their high-fashion.
She took his arm. “It’s going to be all right. I shall look after you.”
“And I’ll try not to embarrass you,” he said.
She laughed. “I shouldn’t worry on that count. I’ve a feeling you will be the darling of the Reverie. Come on.”
They’d arranged to share a coach with Nyra and wife Gigi and were soon trundling through the dark streets. Guyen covered his mouth, coughing. The irritation had been constant since the disaster at the Keg.
“How are you holding up?” Nyra asked.
“Still alive.” Guyen said. He offered Gigi a smile. She returned it thinly.
“Any news on your brother?” Nyra asked.
Guyen sighed. “Nothing. It’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” The others looked on sympathetically. This Reverie was the last thing he needed tonight. The previous day’s visit to the Junction had turned up no news of Dalrik. He was stuck in limbo. He changed the conversation to the more light-hearted topic of their attire.
Twenty minutes later, in the shadow of the Devotoria, the carriage came to a stop in the middle of an angry crowd. “Keep your head down,” Tishara cautioned. “Mourners—for the Keg.” Gigi whipped the curtain across, shrinking back in alarm. Nyra took her hand.
“This is already an interesting night,” Guyen observed.
Nyra peered worriedly out through a sliver of crack in the curtain. “It might turn out more than interesting if they realise there’s a Krellen in here.” Guyen ducked back in his seat. The ill feeling towards his countrymen had definitely ramped up in the last few days.
“Posh bastards!” a woman shouted. The coach began to rock. “Scabs!” another protester called. That jibe was probably aimed at the coachmen.
A brick smashed through the window, showering them with glass. Gigi screamed. Guyen jumped up with Nyra. He was about to suggest they make a run for it when whistles blew and a line of tinhats broke through the crush, cudgels flying. They surrounded the coach as another missile bounced off the carriage roof. The horses reared, and the coach lurched forwards. Guyen stumbled into Gigi. She looked up in alarm.
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