Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Forget that. I need to tell you something.” He lowered his voice. “Before my master died, he and my mistress were working on a scheme to combat the new disease.”

  “New disease? You mean Bind Weakening?”

  “Yes. They have created a new concoction.”

  “Pardon?”

  “They’ve created a new concoction.”

  Guyen stared, not sure he was understanding the man’s Common correctly. “But that would be illegal.”

  “Yes, Maker.”

  This sounded most unlikely. “They don’t have the expertise,” Guyen observed. “Or the equipment. And we would have heard about it.”

  Sark shook his head. “They’ve been operating out of sight, somewhere to the east, a place called Kasimar. I’ve seen the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  His eyes darted to the door. “We were at his estate in Perrinia, a weekend affair, you know the kind of thing—shooting, drinking, whoring. He brought some prostitutes to play with. They got more than they bargained for though. Gave them this new concoction, they did. They almost died, only shells afterwards. Did what you told them, like halfbounds, dead behind the eyes. But they wanted more. They were desperate for it.”

  “Did Jal know about this?”

  “Yes, Maker, she had it too. They all did, but only the whores took ill.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dalrik needed to know about this. “But Devere was no Bindcrafter,” Guyen said.

  “He had help from Krellens.”

  “Krellens? Rebels?”

  Sark nodded.

  Guyen sent a measuring look. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Sark gripped him with both hands, face earnest. “Your brother, they—”

  Crack. The air thrummed. Sark gasped, knees buckling.

  A shadow moved at the window.

  Sark sagged, an arrow protruding from his back.

  Guyen dived behind a chair. The shadow moved again. “Help!” he yelled.

  A second bolt split the air, planting itself in the poor man’s neck. His rasping ceased.

  “Murder!” Guyen screamed, panic engulfing him. He was a sitting duck. Another bolt fizzed through the air, burying itself in one of the chair slats. He leapt across the room, pressing himself flush against the wall. “Guards!” He shouted up to the window. “Whoever you are, you’re fucking dead!”

  The door flew open, and the captain rushed in. He stared at Sark’s lifeless form.

  Guyen pointed up. “Assassin!” A scraping sound came from the window.

  “I see them,” the captain barked. “Stay here.” He rushed out, collecting guards in his wake.

  The pitiful man on the floor looked peaceful in death, but the two quarrels stuck in him told the real story—there was nothing peaceful about those barbed assassins. Stay here? Not bloody likely.

  42

  Den of Refuge

  A tide of guards crashed past in the opposite direction, clanging alarm bells ringing out. Guyen struggled through the melee and emerged into the brisk afternoon air as the Devotoria’s great doors slammed shut behind him.

  Mist waited anxiously at the top of the steps. “What’s happening?” she demanded.

  He grabbed her shoulder, keeping up the pace. “Sark’s dead,” he said. “Murdered in the cells, right in front of me. An assassin at the window.”

  She pulled her blade. “I spent the last two days babysitting that man. I thought this place was secure.”

  “I don’t think so. Hallo, by the way. It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, Greens.”

  They hurried down the steps, clearing the guard post without stopping, and pushed through a small crowd of protesters still mourning the victims of the Keg Market. Guyen glanced behind them. Two tan-clad adjuncts emerged onto the street. He quickened the pace, loosing Toulesh to walk ahead.

  Mist strode alongside, eyes on doorways and roofs. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece,” she said.

  “Yep, just about. Thanks for not giving up on me. I’m sure I don’t deserve it.”

  “Yes, well, you seem to get a lot of things you don’t deserve.”

  He met her eyes. “Are we all right now?”

  She smiled. “Never better. And I’m not leaving your side again.”

  The adjuncts followed at a steady distance. “What’s been happening?” Guyen asked. “Is that my satchel you have there?” It was, obviously. She handed it over. He slung it over his shoulder. “So, what have I missed?”

  She offered a worried look. “Nothing good. They’ve set up detention camps south of the city. No one knows what happens in them. Word is, it’s a living hell—every beggar for themselves. Unbound in there too. If you don’t have the right papers, the prefects cart you off. Worst thing is all the homeless kids on the street now.”

  “In this weather?”

  “I know. And it’ll only get worse. They’re scheduled to begin retesting the Binding in three days. You know about that?”

  “Yes, certificates won’t be worth the parchment they’re inked on.” They took a right down a side street. “I have to get back to the Makers,” Guyen said. “If they think I’ve absconded, they’ll have another excuse to arrest me.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Mist said. “I went to your room. It’s been ransacked.”

  “The safe?”

  “Broken. All that was left was your stupid Talents book. It’s in the bag.”

  He opened the satchel, searching the contents as they walked. The Book of Talents, his knife, his flask, some clothes… “What about my brother’s serum?” he asked.

  She tapped her jacket pocket. “Thank yer lucky ones you’re such a paranoid bastard.”

  He smiled gratefully. “Now I just have to find him. Sark mentioned a place out east before he died. They’ve been experimenting with the Binding there. Something to do with this retesting. You know Devere signed my brother’s arrest warrant? I think they might have taken him there.”

  “What would Devere want with your brother?”

  “I don’t know.” The tan-clad men turned out onto the side street. “Have you seen those scrags tailing us?”

  “Course.”

  “We need to get off the beaten track. Somewhere no one will think to look.”

  “Hmm.” She stroked her chin. “Ah! What about the Den?”

  Silver’s Den? Well, it wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find two Devotees. “Fine,” Guyen agreed. “We’ll head there and work out what to do.”

  A shout came from behind. “Hey!”

  He whirled. Rossi rounded the corner.

  “What does he want?” Mist groaned.

  “Probably come to rub salt into the wounds,” Guyen muttered.

  The cadet hurried up, skirting the adjuncts stopped in front of a tailor’s—seemingly engaged in casual conversation. As usual, he was impeccably attired, red jacket and black, gold-trimmed britches crisp, sword pommel gleaming. A small box swung from his shoulder. He cast a disapproving eye. “You’re out then?”

  “Of course I’m out,” Guyen grunted. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “If you say so.” Annoyance flitted across Rossi’s face, briefly overwhelming the smugness. Perhaps he was angry Ariana had donned her Justice’s robes.

  “Well?” Guyen prompted. “Spit it out. What do you want?”

  Rossi’s lip twitched. “Berese has ordered me to accompany you.”

  “He’s what?” Mist exclaimed.

  “I’m to accompany Yorkov and make sure nothing happens to him, more’s the pity.”

  The cadet would only make them a more obvious target. “We don’t want company,” Guyen said. “We’re trying to be discreet.”

  “Yeah,” Mist agreed. “You stick out like a sore one. You’re so… red.”

  He frowned. “This is regimental uniform. What would you have me wear?”

  She grinned. “No
t much if it was your lucky night.” She wrapped a braid seductively around her finger.

  He snorted. “I have to look the part. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of polish on your buttons. You two should try it.”

  “And what’s that?” Guyen poked the brown box dangling at the cadet’s waist. It didn’t go with the uniform.

  “Bird,” Rossi said. “In case I need to send Berese a message.”

  “So you can spy on us, you mean?”

  “No.”

  “Forget it.” They set off again. He fell into step behind them. Was he deaf? Or dim? “You can’t accompany us if we don’t want you to,” Guyen growled.

  Mist winked. “Let’s take him along. It’ll be like having a dog.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Woof, little doggie. You gonna be a good pup?”

  “Shelve it, lady.”

  Guyen laughed. “I always wanted a pet.”

  “Well, if he can be a trustworthy little pooch.”

  “You’re serious?” Take Rossi with them? How could that be a good idea?

  “He could be useful,” Mist said.

  Well, he wasn’t the sort you’d send as a spy. “I’ll say this much,” Guyen observed. “He doesn’t have a devious streak. He hasn’t the brains for it.”

  Rossi cursed. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. All those hours training to babysit you sluts.”

  “Don’t then.”

  “Orders, gutterfill. Damn! If only I hadn’t said I knew you.”

  “Yeah, you never did know when to keep your mouth shut.” But if there was one thing the cadet was good at, it was following orders, and the extra protection might come in handy. Besides, despite their stupid feud, it was too easy to think the worst of people—a habit worth breaking. Guyen relented. “If you can keep up, I suppose we’ll just have to put up with you.”

  “I’ll have to put up with you, you mean.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say.” Then again, perhaps he’s just the same old arsehole. “What’s the plan then?” he muttered.

  “First job, we lose those two,” Mist said. She nodded behind. The adjuncts matched their progress. “This way, quick as.”

  They took a right past the headquarters of the prefecture, and cut into an alley, emerging further along Justice Road. Then, breaking into a jog, they took another two turns in quick succession and skidded to a stop in front of a small, ivy-ravaged church. The worshipful had seen better days, the tableau completed by lines of crows perched atop sunken, crooked gravestones.

  “In here,” Mist panted, flinging open the gate. The rusty hinges screeched in complaint, the blood-curdling sound frightening the birds up into the gargoyles. At the end of the path, they pushed through a heavy door into the church. A host of candles twinkled in the gloom, the place empty of worshippers. Mist ran up the aisle, collecting a candelabra from the altar, and ducked through a curtain. They followed her down a flight of stairs. What was it with the girl’s penchant for the macabre underground?

  A tight, musty crypt revealed, pitch black apart from the borrowed candlelight. Mist whipped a fresh torch from her pack. “Light that,” she instructed, and turned to examine the sarcophagi.

  “What the hell are we doing down here?” Rossi demanded.

  “Looking for a way out.” She wiped away dust, pouring over inscriptions. It was better not to ask with her. As the torch flared into life, she let out a triumphant grunt. “This one!” She looked down on an ancient slab carved with the figure of a sleeping priest.

  “You can’t be serious?” Guyen protested.

  “Why not? Come on, let’s shift it.”

  Reluctantly, he lent a hand. The slab moved with little effort, the material more a light alabaster than heavy marble. He steeled himself for whatever horror lay inside, but rather than a corpse, a hollow chamber appeared.

  “Excellent,” Mist said.

  Rossi tensed. They were having the same thought—dark. Sounds of movement came from up in the church.

  “Quick!” Mist blew out the candles, grabbed the torch, and clambered inside. They climbed down after her.

  The coffinous space danced in the yellow flame light, revealing a carpet of small animal bones and detritus, crunchy underfoot. A tunnel stretched off into the darkness. Rossi manoeuvred the slab back into place, strong as the ox whose intellect he’d stolen.

  “Well done,” Mist said. “Now give me your Pledge.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do it,” Guyen hissed. Maybe bringing the dimwit had been a mistake after all.

  “Oh.” Realisation dawned. “So they don’t track us?”

  “So they don’t track us,” Guyen parroted in deliberate, sarcastic fashion.

  To his credit, the cadet merely shrugged and slipped the chain from his neck. Berese’s orders obviously took precedence over any trouble he might incur for discarding the stone. He handed it over, and Mist threw it in the corner, covering it with dirt.

  “This way,” she said, and headed into the tunnel.

  Guyen hadn’t missed the catacombs one bit, and Rossi seemed equally unimpressed, but Mist was more at home here than on the surface, a spring in her step. The confining tunnel weaved several hundred yards, passing an underground stream, then joined a more familiar passageway lined with dirty marble slabs—the way to Almington’s. They came to the same locked gate as usual, which Mist cleared in typical, efficient fashion, and soon emerged into the shadows at the back of the brewery. She extinguished the torch, and the brewers, hard at work, stared in surprise.

  “Afternoon,” she chirped.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here,” a boy said.

  “Quality control.” She traced a finger through the white froth leaking down the side of one of the gargantuan vats. “Needs more yeast,” she observed. The boy stared after them.

  They pushed into the yard, avoiding the foreman, and arrived a short while later at Silver’s Den. Apart from a few regulars, the inn wasn’t busy.

  Lyla looked up from behind the bar. “By the Signs! Is it ghosties I see afore my eyes?” She took in Rossi. “Who’s he?”

  “A friend,” Guyen said.

  She frowned at his box. “What ya be bringing in my pub there? Is that a bird?”

  “Blackcap, ma’am,” Rossi said. “I won’t let it out, don’t worry.”

  “Make sure as ya don’t. What ya’ll be having then?”

  “Actually, we were after a room,” Guyen said.

  “I don’t do rooms.”

  “We’re desperate, Lyla. Got trouble with the Devotions. You know how that is, right?”

  She hesitated, still not taking the bait.

  He tried a winning smile. “Please, we’ll take anything. What about the attic?”

  She scanned their faces, expression softening. “I suppose you could take for few nights. Ya’ll be doing me some work in return though. What’s that stink?”

  “Him,” Rossi said. He poked Guyen with an accusing finger.

  Guyen pushed him away. “You’d stink too if you’d been where I have these last two weeks.”

  “Oh, and where’s that?” Lyla asked.

  Didn’t she read the news sheets? “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me, Maker. Bath’s in yard. Ya will want to use it.”

  She showed them up a rickety wooden staircase to a tiny room in Silver’s Den’s roof space. It was barely big enough for its double bed, chair and dresser, but was clean and had a small skylight. “There don’t be no chamber pot,” she said, “and bed linen’s stale, I’m afraid.”

  Guyen nodded appreciatively. “It’s a lot better than what I’ve been used to recently.” Could they trust her? They had to. “If anyone asks, you haven’t seen us,” he said.

  She quirked an eyebrow. “Seen who?”

  The first job was to get clean. The use of a bath was a rare luxury, and certainly not to be avoided with the scum and villainy of Stallenhall sticking like glue. The Den had hot water thanks to a
copper tank built in over the main hearth, so they carried several large pots out to the yard, dumped the contents in the tin bath, and the others left him to soak. He sunk down, aching body relaxing, and loosed Toulesh to explore. He drifted, far away. Guyen let his focus wander, listening to the sounds of the city, allowing the clamour to rise and fall in time with his breathing, colours swirling in the smog-laden sky.

  Far too soon, the water cooled, and he climbed back out into the freezing air. He got dressed, thankful for Mist’s foresight in collecting his clothes, and went inside to find her. She’d been busy in the kitchen, preparing pork, cheese and bread, a mouth-watering prospect given the slop he’d endured inside. They took the provisions up to the room with a pot of black tea, and Lyla put Rossi to work in the yard. Guyen recounted his time in Stallenhall and events at the Reverie, leaving out that he’d slept with Jal—some mistakes were just too embarrassing to admit to, and he could do without the disapproval.

  “I need to find this Kasimar place,” he said, wrapping a lump of cheese in some bread. “I’m sure that’s where my brother is.” He shovelled it in his mouth.

  “What if he isn’t there?” Mist asked.

  “Then it’s a chance to look at this new concoction. If I can get a sample to the Council, it might be enough for them to indict Jal. Messing with the Binding like that’s strictly forbidden. You know how hot your lot are for the statutes.”

  She considered him curiously. “I’m surprised you care. Wouldn’t you rather just let us Sendalis rot in our own stink?”

  He necked some tea. “I promised Ariana I’d try. Besides, it’s personal.”

  “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He touched her hand. “I can’t ask you to come with me. It could be dangerous.”

  “Only could?” she teased. “You’re not selling it to me.”

  “Fine, it will probably be very dangerous then. Being anywhere near me usually is.”

  She brightened. “In that case, I would be delighted to accompany you, Greens. It’s been a while since I did any peeling. A girl should keep her hand in.”

  “Well, it’s your lookout.” He smiled. “Thank you.” He stood on the bed and poked his head through the skylight. Rossi swept the yard below, Lyla’s yappy dog, Pooki, bounding around his ankles.