Nether Light

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Nether Light Page 48

by Shaun Paul Stevens


  “Why don’t you do it?” Guyen asked.

  “Can’t get close to him, brother, else I’d slit that turkey’s neck in a heartbeat.” He offered a crooked smile.

  “Well, I’m no killer.”

  “If you ain’t a killer in here, you’re a victim, brother.” He took some seeds from his other pocket, dropping them into the bird’s mouth. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said, “if you’re lucky, he’ll slit your throat before he fucks you.”

  “There must be some rules in here,” Guyen said.

  The Krellens broke into laughter. “Don’t you get it?” Uoth said. “He’s Top Dog. The guards are all in his pocket.”

  Fresh despair summited. That was about right. A soulless pervert with the run of the place, and somehow he’s on your back? Globes! He palmed the shard, pushing it up his sleeve. “Thanks for nothing.”

  “Still standing, aren’t you?” Uoth snorted. “Now, get lost. You know what to do.” He proffered a vicious shove.

  Guyen went back to walking on his own, both crews regarding him with hateful stares. After the exercise period, returning to the cell, he hid the makeshift weapon in the slop bucket. He’d no intention of killing anyone. Perhaps he could stay in the cell and avoid meeting One Ear altogether. The thought of wasting away in the dank hole was a depressing one though.

  With nothing else to do, he played with the coin, determined to change it. What was the point in having powers if you couldn’t use them when you wanted to? He held the silver in his palm and stared, but as hard as he tried to slip focus, he couldn’t, the coin remaining set, the clamour a dull, faraway buzz. Toulesh complained at the attempts, waving irritably in front of his face. I’m not summoning you, Guyen sent, it weakens my power.

  Toulesh skulked away and he tried again, this time spinning the coin on the table. Vague Faze signatures surfaced. That made sense. Faze was attracted to uncertainty and spinning the coin produced that. The effect was still too weak though, and he could neither charm the coin nor develop the clamour’s elusive harmonics. Toulesh faded, and a blinding headache came on. Time to stop. It riled. What was the point of this damn power if he couldn’t access it when he needed? It felt like some kind of block. If only his gift had come with a rulebook. He cleared a space on the bed, tearing away the latest incursion of Creep, and lay back, exhausted.

  A few hours later, a commotion sounded in the corridor, the other inmates on the block howling and whistling as doors slammed. Guyen peered through the grill as the jailor walked up to the cell, a cloaked figure behind him.

  “Stand back, inmate,” he ordered. Guyen did. He unlocked the door and the cloaked figure swept in.

  She pulled back her hood. “Hallo Guyen.”

  It couldn’t be? “Ariana?” She glowed, a surreal vision of beauty in the putrid dungeon. “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t leave you to rot, could I?”

  The jailor cleared his throat. “I’ll wait, Mistress. If you need to get out, bang on the door.” He passed her his lamp and locked them in.

  Toulesh sidled over towards the slop bucket, trying unsuccessfully to obscure the view. This was embarrassing, filthy and stinking like a diseased goat.

  Ariana tried not to show her disgust, but it was writ clear on her face. “How are you doing?” she asked, placing the lamp and a briefcase on the table.

  “A lot better for seeing you,” Guyen replied earnestly. “I thought the outside world had forgotten me.”

  “I’m sorry, I had to argue my case to get in here.”

  “You did?” A glimmer of hope produced a weak smile, and then a tear. Stallenhall was getting to him. He wiped the wetness away with his sleeve.

  “Don’t do that,” she said. “It makes you look even filthier.” She hugged him, despite the dirt. The warmth of her touch was nectar.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. “Why would you risk your reputation associating with me?”

  She stepped back. “We’re not all vapid careerists, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean that. It’s just—you’ve got so much going for you, whereas I’m nothing.” He waved at the cell. “Less than nothing.”

  “Now, come on, you know that’s not true.” She wrinkled her nose, a sympathetic smile touching her eyes. “I’ve always thought you were sensitive, and intelligent, and kind. Those are rare qualities in a man.”

  “You meet the wrong kind of men.”

  “Ha! Touché.” She pursed her lips. “You’ve got friends, Guyen. Really you have, you just need to let them in.”

  “Like who?”

  “Mist, for one. You know she worships the ground you walk on?”

  “I don’t know about that. She deserted me at the Reverie.”

  “She left early with Tarobert. And she regrets it.”

  “She left early? When?”

  “I don’t know. Around ten? Why?”

  “We were supposed to meet.”

  Ariana frowned. “She didn’t mention that. When she heard what happened, she was all intent on hunting down whoever did this to you. I had to stop her. She says you’re different, special, that you might be able to fix the Binding.” She looked thoughtful. “I didn’t realise being Purebound was so important.”

  “I don’t think it’s just that.” He searched her eyes. “I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, not like it would stand up in court, but I’ve never seen you hurt anyone.” She paused. “What did happen?”

  He was the biggest lowlife in the Feyrlands. He could never tell her what he’d done up there with Jal, could he? “I don’t think you’ll believe me,” he mumbled.

  “Believe what? Come on, he won’t give us long.” She glanced at the door. The jailor’s shadow hovered beyond the grill.

  Guyen lowered his voice. “I’m telling you—you won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Jal killed him.” The words sounded ridiculous.

  Ariana’s eyes hardened. “Well, there you go, I believe you. That was easy, wasn’t it?”

  “But I haven’t told you what happened yet.”

  She sent a withering look. “Well?”

  “Jal drugged him and tied me up. I was worse for wear.”

  Ariana frowned, concerned but not condemning. “She did all that by herself? Threw him from the roof with no help?”

  “She had help all right, from Devere’s lackeys, the ones who brought me to Carmain.” He hesitated, a thought troubling him. “Why was Devere harassing you at the Reverie?”

  Her expression turned to disgust. “He was propositioning me.”

  “But he’s old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “Yes, well, silver linings—doesn’t look like that will be happening anytime soon.” She offered a weak smile. “Jal must have found out. It’s the perfect motive.”

  “How do you know them?” Guyen asked. “I assume Devere didn’t just pick you from a list?”

  “He used to take board with us on the estate in Tal Maran, they both did. To be honest, I’m glad he’s dead. But her—she’s worse. She has a hold over my father. It’s killing him.”

  “What kind of hold?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Anything to do with Echelism? Your father’s a follower, isn’t he?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Rossi.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was Devere one too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Jal?”

  “I don’t know what she believes. But she’s not right—no morals.” Ariana faltered. “Devere raped my mother, you know, and Jal watched. She egged him on.”

  Guyen stared, dumbfounded. She said it so straight, so flatly. “He raped your mother?”

  “He would have called it an act of worship, but she had no choice.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry. When did this happen?”

&nbs
p; “Years ago. I was thirteen. But I saw it all, hidden in the hay loft. Mama killed herself a year later—threw herself from the Eastcliff.”

  He cursed himself. He’d never thought to ask Ariana about her family. And you thought you had problems. “I’m so sorry,” he managed.

  She shrugged. “Life’s a whore sometimes.” She blinked away a tear.

  He should take her in his arms, tell her it would be all right, but it wasn’t. And he wouldn’t demean her courage that way. “How could you sit in the same room as her after all that?” he asked gently.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve been biding my time.” She perched on the bed, doing her best not to pull a face at the grime. “She’s put it around that no one should represent you. They’re all scared of her since she took over the Council.”

  “She did what?”

  “You don’t know?” She sighed. “On Devere’s death she became de facto Culture Prime. After Wilhelm’s breakdown, which by the way they’re calling Bind Weakening, she forced a vote in Council to make her acting Grande Prime. But that’s not the half of it.” She glanced at the door again. “She’s issued an edict to rebind every citizen in the country. Anyone who objects is to be deported.”

  “She’s lost it,” Guyen muttered. “You can’t give the concoction to adults. Thousands will die.”

  “I know.” She paused, regarding him uncomfortably. “The streets are tense and the Devotions are in turmoil. What with Wilhelm, then Devere, and the maddenings spreading. Talk is rife of an epidemic. No one else has a plan.”

  “That’s not a plan,” Guyen said. “It’s genocide.” Toulesh paced the cell, fingers intertwined, grumbling to himself. It wouldn’t do to stare—if Ariana found out he could still see the simulacrum, she really would think him a lost cause.

  “No one’s exempt,” she said. “Not even Devotees.”

  “You mustn’t let them give it to you. It’s dangerous.”

  “I know.” She pursed her lips. “We need to get you out of here. The Council have set a date for your trial.”

  “When?”

  “Five days.”

  He grimaced. Was the short timeframe good or bad? On the one hand, all he wanted was to get out of Stallenhall as quickly as possible. On the other, the chance of a fair trial or any kind of believable defence was a forlorn hope.

  She noticed his expression. “Cheer up. At least you have representation now.”

  “I do? Who?”

  She folded her arms, sitting straighter. “Me.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, why not? I’m properly assigned to the Truths, as the statutes require.”

  “Your father will never stand for it.”

  “My father needs help. I never thought I’d say this, but you may be his best chance.”

  Guyen snorted. “And how did you work that one out?”

  Her face turned earnest. “If you’re as good a Bindcrafter as Mist says, perhaps you can find a cure for this plague. Then the Council might see sense, and my father with them.”

  This all sounded wonderful, but what were the chances it would work out well for him, for Ariana? He couldn’t let her do it. “You can’t represent me. It will ruin you.”

  She set her chin. “I don’t care. It will be worth it to see her face.”

  He tried again. “Maybe I should get someone already qualified as counsel.”

  She darkened. “The Truths have been in my family for generations, law’s in my blood. Besides, no other counsel will touch you with a bargepole.”

  Trying to talk her out of it was a waste of breath. He nodded agreement.

  She retrieved a quill and parchment from her case. “So, where do we begin?”

  Only one possible witness might stick up for him. “Find Devere’s slave,” Guyen said.

  40

  Last Man Standing

  It was easier to feign illness than face the gangs, so when the guard came to take him to the exercise yard the next day, Guyen moaned as if he had a fever. The screw wasn’t taking any chances, and left him locked up. The dank light was depressing and the cell’s stench stomach-turning, but it was a hell of a lot better than facing One Ear without his payment. And at least there was hope now. People outside cared about his predicament. They cared about him. He could do this. He could survive, at least until the trial.

  The newfound optimism wasn’t the only change. His senses were heightened today, weak nether light threading around the most unlikely objects. Scouring the mossy cell for sources of probability, he’d found Faze in the slop bucket, in the water jug, even in the cobwebs on the ceiling. They glistened with the subtlest, most insubstantial Faze, taking on the appearance of spun, golden thread when he slipped focus. He charmed the coin using one of them, and the web turned to dust, the spider at its centre falling down dried and dead.

  Time passed slow as a glacier. He paced the cell, listening to the comings and goings, to the arguments between inmates. Loosing Toulesh to explore, the simulacrum never disappeared for long, soon folding in, only imparting violence and depravity. More gruel came and the guard refilled the water jug. If only there was something to read, not that he could have made out much in the dim light. Defecating in the slop bucket was the day’s lowlight. But still he hung onto his new hope.

  That night, he swept like the wind over foreign lands planted with upside-down forests, and flew through shifting mountains made of molten glass. He was Faze itself, proud of the world he’d made. A Song rose up around him, whispered crystal melodies, before he twisted into vicious shapes, hungering for chaos. He ravaged cities, transforming men and women into monsters and their children into a faceless army ranged thousands of columns across a vast desert. And as he watched, each child plunged a dagger into their own heart. He awoke, panting, dripping with cold sweat, the clamour musical.

  The cell looked different, the flickering light around the grill bent as if the door were wonky in the frame. Nether light sketched the room like a line drawing, dim pink and gold threads describing everything in the blackness like some kind of bizarre night vision. He sat up, the Creep falling away where its tendrils had entwined. Was he awake? Dreaming? Both? The world had changed like this before—when he’d played the streethawk’s games, when he’d overloaded with stem in the studio. This was different though. Now he was perfectly calm.

  It was a sinister state. Like the Layer overlaid on reality. A place between. A place where the world flickered and strobed in a multitude of possibilities. He felt for Toulesh. The simulacrum was distant. Leaving him roaming, he waited, closing his eyes, wondering if things would return to normal when he opened them. They didn’t. Maybe it needed time?

  Sounds of the prison punctured the quiet night as the clamour rose and fell in his head. Nothing bad happened, not like before when the shadow beasts had come. Maybe there wasn’t enough Faze in Stallenhall for that. Cautiously, he edged off the bed and inspected the cell. The moss-covered walls, floor and door remained solid despite their glimmering appearance. He examined the slop bucket. It flickered with violet Faze. He touched the handle. It vibrated, sending out molten pink sparks. He poked the cobwebs. They reformed before his eyes, intertwining into new, subtler weaves.

  Returning to the bed, he took out the fake silver, laying it on the blanket. It flickered and strobed with no apparent effort. He slipped focus, and it began cycling through a myriad of versions as the sounds of the prison muffled. Could he do more than charm it in this state? Like what? Replicate what he’d done to the canister? Change its mass? He thought back to the studio, for that feeling. Instinctively, he added another version of the coin to itself. It was a lot easier than working with the canister. Red vapour sprung up from the water jug, sizzling through the air towards the coin. The coin pulsed once and the sound of the prison returned. The water jug bubbled.

  He picked up the coin. It weighed double. That worked then. Could he make it lighter again? Perhaps he shouldn’t. His head hurt, and despite feeling the power at
his fingertips, it felt dangerous to continue. He summoned Toulesh. It took a moment, but he returned, folding in tight. The world solidified and the clamour dissipated.

  Success.

  Stirring in the morning to the disturbing howls of a neighbouring inmate getting beaten by the guards, Guyen pulled the blanket over his head, depressed he’d woken up in this reality again. More gruel was served, and he ate, and pissed in the bucket, and cursed. Still three more days till the trial. Perhaps it would be a blessing if they hung him. Anything was better than this.

  The guard appeared at the grill some hours later and caught him pacing the cell. “If you’re well enough to stand, you’re well enough to get some fresh air,” he said, unlocking the door. “Out!”

  There was no point arguing, so Guyen trudged to the yard, avoiding eye contact with the other inmates. This strategy worked for several minutes until the Sendalis surrounded him.

  “Where have you been, Krellen?” One Ear snarled.

  “Fever,” Guyen muttered, coughing for good measure. “Don’t get too close.”

  One Ear didn’t seem to care. He pointed at Uoth. “He still lives.”

  “I told you, I’m not a killer.”

  “I assume you have my drugs then?”

  Toulesh readied himself. Guyen weighed his options. “I’m working on it.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  The bone shank outlined in red Faze. Guyen recoiled, straight into another Sendali, who shoved him roughly back into harm’s way. Would the guards sanction his murder in plain sight? Surely not, if he was that important to the Devotions. But he couldn’t rely on that. He had to get away, out of the yard. He’d have to start the fight, take the advantage. One Ear glanced at the guards. The nether light around the bone dagger intensified, Faze preparing for something.

  Guyen lurched forwards, throwing a right hook at the lump where the Sendali’s ear should have been. His head snapped back, and he growled, as a red Faze arc streaked through the air. A premonition. Guyen weaved away from the weapon’s path and smashed a fist down on One Ear’s wrist with all the force lifting and carrying at the hexium had bought. The shank tumbled into the mud.

 

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