Mist peered out. “Is he for real?” she asked.
“I told you, he’s too thick to have an agenda.”
“You two don’t see eye to eye, do you?”
“He’s spoilt and narrow-minded.”
She offered a friendly dig in the ribs. “It takes one to know one.”
Toulesh appeared in the yard as a gust of wind blew, redistributing a pile of leaves as if the simulacrum had kicked them over. Rossi cursed. Guyen shook his head, unfamiliar sympathy bubbling up. “Come on,” he muttered, “let’s save the scrag.” He called down. “Oi, gardener, meeting, two minutes.” Rossi looked up with a scowl.
He joined them at a table in the saloon, and Guyen relayed the plan to find Kasimar.
“I didn’t sign up to go gallivanting around the countryside,” Rossi complained.
“Well, we don’t need you,” Guyen retorted. “So feel free to get lost.”
“You’ll wish I had,” he muttered.
There was no time for bickering. “How do we find this place?” Guyen asked.
Mist shrugged. “How do you find anywhere, dumbass? A map.” She pointed at the yellowing chart hanging behind the bar. “Let’s put it on the table. Lyla won’t mind.” They cleared a space and spread the map out in front of them. They poured over it, searching for the name Kasimar, while Toulesh watched on from the spare chair and Pooki chewed at Rossi’s ankles. He shooed the terror away.
“To the east?” Mist questioned.
“Yes,” Guyen said. “It can’t be far.”
She scoured the map for a while. “Are you sure you heard the name right?”
“Pretty sure, yes.”
“Well, I can’t see it. Maybe it’s too small to be marked at this scale.” She huffed. “We can’t go scouting the countryside for it on the off-chance.”
Lyla appeared behind the bar. “Hey!” she protested. “What ya doing with my map, Maker? Don’t ya dare rip it.”
“Of course not, Lyla.”
She sighed. “Ya want some rakha?”
“Please.”
Rossi pushed Mist aside. “Here, let me look.” He traced the roads and riverways with his finger. The ink had run in places, making large parts of the hand-drawn map illegible. “What did you say this place was called?”
“Kasimar,” Guyen repeated.
“How are you spelling that?”
“Kas-i-mar.”
Lyla bustled over with the drinks. “Swamp fort?”
Guyen looked up. “What did you say?”
“That’s what it means, Maker. Kasimar. Is Althuisan. Kasi—fort, Mar—swamp.”
Rossi tapped the map. “Here.” His finger hovered over an area marked as swampland upriver on the Galt, about ten miles east of the city. Written there was the word Encasa. “I’ve heard of that,” he murmured. “A fort. The Twenty-third planned to station a division there, but it was too derelict.”
Guyen slapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m an idiot. I knew I’d heard that name. There’s a bloody big mural in the armoury at the Junction. Vadil told me it depicted a game against an old War outfit known as the Knights of Kasimar—they ran out of a fort on the river. That must be it.”
“Ooh Vadil,” Rossi said sarcastically. “Gutterfill, friend to the stars.”
That didn’t deserve a response. “It’s the perfect place to hide an illicit operation,” Guyen observed. “Deserted, isolated. We need to get out there.”
“And how am I supposed to protect you if you go putting yourself in harm’s way?”
Mist grinned. “Oh, that’s sweet. He really cares.”
“Actually, I couldn’t care less about Yorkov. It’s Berese’s orders I’m concerned with.”
Guyen ploughed on. “We’ll need horses. Perhaps Berese can help there?”
Rossi shook his head. “Not a good idea. He specifically said to stay clear of Garrison.”
Mist perked up. “Really, and why is that?”
“I can’t say.”
“Oh, all right then.” She turned back to the map.
Rossi sighed. “Cotes is missing.”
“Is he?” Mist murmured, feigning indifference.
“Not just him,” Rossi said, all discretion forgotten. “His whole battalion. No one’s seen them since Noxen. Berese is trying to pin down his movements, but it’s tricky—other commanders could be involved. There’s no way to know who’s loyal right now.”
“Did you ever find out if Cotes had a connection to the rebels?” Guyen asked. “You know he was meeting with Devere?”
“So what?”
He tapped the map. “I think we may have found your missing battalion.”
A thought furrowed Rossi’s brow. “If I’m the one to locate Cotes, that could mean a promotion.”
Guyen groaned. “Is that all you care about?”
“Stop it,” Mist scolded. She poured some rakha, a spicy ginger variety. “We should arrive after dark,” she said. “That way we can have a scout about.”
Rossi frowned. “What, just like that?”
“Why, you think it will be difficult?”
“It’s a fort,” he sneered.
“A ruined fort,” she corrected. “Maybe the defences are ruined too.”
Guyen kicked back his chair. “Fine,” he declared, “let’s go find us some horses. I know just the place.”
Mist and Rossi exchanged a look. “Perhaps I should make some enquiries first,” Mist said carefully. “Firm things up a little. It would be a mistake to ride all the way out there on a whim. Besides, you still look like shit.” It was true, he didn’t feel the best. Were they conspiring to look after him? “You stay here,” she added. “War Boy can guard you.” She laughed at Rossi’s frown.
Lyla beamed. “In that case, Maker, ya’ll be lending a hand in the kitchen.”
“He’s an ace with a dishcloth, aren’t you, Greens?” Mist winked.
Toulesh put his head in his hands. Guyen sighed. “Very well, take me to your pots.”
“Put the map back first,” Lyla said. “T’was my pa’s favourite objet.”
He returned it to the panel behind the bar, committing the area around Encasa to recall. He ran his tongue around his teeth for a memory aid—infallible, assuming Rossi didn’t knock them out.
As darkness fell, Mist sloped off to make her investigations, and Guyen decamped to the attic room with Rossi, a safer option as the Den filled with strangers. They lounged on the bed, and Rossi produced a pack of cards.
“You know how to play White Rummy?” he grunted.
Guyen rolled his eyes. “Every five-year-old knows how to play. Deal.” Rossi shrugged and dealt the cards, and Guyen slipped focus. The room outlined with Faze. That was good. He could see it at will now. They played several hands. The effect was subtle, but the nether light hugging certain cards offered a distinct advantage. There was no fun to the sport though. He looked up after a run of wins. “Sorry, I’m cheating.”
“I knew it,” Rossi muttered. “How?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Bah!” He threw the pack up, raining cards down on the bed, and sat back, a tired scowl on his face. “I gave her permission, you know.”
“What?”
“Ariana, I gave her permission to represent you.”
“Oh.” That sounded unlikely. Ariana wasn’t the sort to seek permission to do anything. “She’s one in a million,” Guyen offered.
“Don’t get any ideas, Yorkov. You’re not her type.” A knock rattled the door. Rossi jumped up, grabbing his sword. “Yes?” he called.
“It’s only me,” came Lyla’s drawl. He let her in. “I need ya,” she said. “Got couple drunk idiots downstairs. Ya get rid?”
He grinned. “Looks like a job for the muscles.” He followed her downstairs, shutting the door behind him.
Guyen lay back on the bed, exhausted, and fell asleep.
He awoke to Mist standing over him. “What time is it?” he grunted.
�
�Ten.” She perched on the bed. “Rossi was right. I broke into the land registry. Encasa is a fort. The land’s private, and I couldn’t find out who owns it, but it was definitely known as Kasimar back in ye olden days.”
“Good,” he managed, and went back to sleep.
He dreamed of Faze, and the red lightning, and of his sister and brother. Yemelyan lay on the blood lake again, calling for help, but upon reaching him, it wasn’t him at all, just a naked body with no face, pink skin stretched over a smooth skull.
Sometime before dawn, he was shaken awake. Pooki barked somewhere. Lyla loomed, an urgent expression flickering in the candlelight. “Maker, we got big problem.” Banging sounded downstairs.
“What’s happening?” Mist murmured, coming round beside him. Rossi woke with a start in the chair, interrupting a snore.
Go! Guyen sent.
Toulesh folded out, flashing downstairs to see what the commotion was.
Someone shouted. “Open up, innkeeper, or we’ll break the door.”
Toulesh returned. Guyen started. Something familiar had scared him.
“Quick,” Lyla said, “in there.” She pointed to a half-height door in the eaves, not a cupboard for buckets and brooms then. In fact, the space was empty save for the cobwebs, and they squashed inside. She threw their bags and Rossi’s bird carrier in after them. “I try get rid,” she panted, and shut them in. There was a scraping sound as she pushed the dresser in front of the opening, and her footsteps faded down the stairs. Darkness reigned.
“You think they’re looking for us?” Rossi whispered.
“Yes,” Guyen breathed. “Be quiet.”
“I am being quiet.”
“Shush,” Mist hissed.
A few minutes later, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, Pooki’s yapping getting louder. “Fuck off, dog!” a man cursed. The footsteps stopped inside the room. “You have no guests?” the man growled.
The sore spot on Guyen’s face pinged. Damn. Vale’s grating tone. What was he doing here? And he wasn’t alone by the sounds of it—several more men clattered downstairs.
“That’s right, sir,” Lyla said. “I have gentleman friend uses room from time to time. He not here now though.”
“Ranker is he?”
“Ah that. Yes, he leave jacket behind.”
Rossi took a sharp intake of breath.
“I see he doesn’t bother making the bed,” Vale growled.
The others breathed too loudly, and the joists inside the roof space creaked. They were bound to be discovered. Guyen braced himself. If only he could slip his knife from his satchel, but it was pitch black, and the movement would give them away. He could spring at the bastards when the door opened, lay a punch, and Mist would have a blade, she always did—but they’d have longer ones. Damn. If only Faze could help. It was so unpredictable though.
Vale stepped across the squeaky boards, stopping a foot away. You could almost smell him. “Show me the yard,” he grunted. Footsteps receded downstairs.
Guyen breathed out, heart thumping like a hare’s hind legs. “How did they find us?” he whispered.
“Who knows about this place?” Mist asked.
“Us, Tishara, Nyra—they wouldn’t say anything though.”
“Right odd then, ain’t it.”
It took an age for Vale and the other scrags to search the rooms downstairs, but eventually, doors slammed and the sound of horses clip-clopping off down the street filtered up through the lattice of roofing materials. Guyen took deep lungfuls of air. The tight space was claustrophobic as a trunk.
Minutes later, Lyla reappeared to let them out, and Pooki confronted them, excited at the easy opportunity for a face lick. “Those nammajacks were looking for you two,” Lyla said. “Ask by name, they did. Course, I not say nothing—me no bleat.”
Guyen crawled out, patting away the dog’s enthusiastic welcome. “Thanks, Lyla. Who were they?”
“Adjuncts, Maker. Not slimy one who came up here though. He not wear the tan.”
“He’s not an adjunct, he’s a barber.”
She looked doubtful. “Ya owe me, Maker. You too, girl.”
“Well, if you need anyone hurting?” Mist said.
“Is few tabs running wild. I let ya know.” Lyla hesitated. “Ya’ll might need new hideout now, ay?”
They’d outstayed their welcome at the Den. “It’s all right,” Guyen said, “we have a swamp to visit. After tonight, we’ll either be dead or back at the Devotions.”
“Don’t ya’ll be getting dead,” she said. “I can’t collect from corpses, can I now?”
The Book of Talents
The Dispute over Binding Rights
Duty log of Jerus Andovus, Chief Meister to the Makers, hg.1431
23.6
This morning, we are surrounded on all sides of the Gate by fellows of Culture and War, as the dispute over Binding rights continues into a third day of armed conflict. A Wield and two Ordinates are reported dead on the battlements this morning, taken by arrows. We hold firm.
24.6
We are overrun by rats, diseased creatures sent into the estate by agents of the Culturalists. By some method, the enemy confine them within our walls. The stream has been dry for two days now, the water diverted into a culvert. Work continues on the Overteller, but I fear progress is not rapid enough.
25.6
They pound the walls day and night with their catapults, and we thank our ancestors they built the Gate strong. Even still, the mortar begins to crumble. We shall not sustain this fight much longer.
26.6
Lack of water takes its toll, as does the death count, forcing us to recombine companies. A successful breakout during the night by Fourth Section has yielded no results, and our allies are too weak to come to our aid. The artefacts of Makerage have been gathered together in the inner keep. We shall defend them with our lives until the end.
26.6 [2]
The Overteller is operational. Wield Primus of the Bindcrafters assures me it is only a matter of hours before they test it.
27.6
Praise be to Issa! The device works. The great mirror atop the leaning tower even now projects Faze beyond the walls, and the enemy retreat.
2.7
An accommodation was today realised in respect of Binding rights. It is agreed that Maker providence will prevail in the concoction’s design under the auspices of the Bindcrafters, its application overseen by a joint Council comprising members of all three Devotions. A separate entity to be known as Corpus has been agreed upon, into which we shall combine our best healers to administer it.
Truly, this day, peace has broken out. By Hayern’s grace, long may it prevail.
NOTA:
This account marks the first recorded usage of an Overture—a mechanical device used for harnessing Faze. This advance established Bindcraft as a science and legitimised Bindcrafter control over the concoction. The joint Council established during this period was forerunner to the Primearchy and the amalgamation of the six Devotions.
S.G.
43
Horse Thief
As the city’s clocks pealed third hour, Guyen slotted The Book of Talents between the dusty tomes in the Den’s bookcase, then fastened his new coat. It had belonged to Lyla’s father, but the bear fur lining was thick enough for even a Krellen winter. He’d need it today.
“Ready?” Mist asked.
He pulled down a borrowed woollen hat. “The serum?”
“In the cold store.”
“Good. Let’s go then.”
Rossi kicked back his chair. “I’m not happy about this,” he grunted.
“We know,” Guyen said. “Why don’t you write it on a flag or something?” He exchanged an aggravated look with Toulesh and pushed outside.
They soon hurried through the backstreets, wind flaying, flurries of sleet hammering like shrapnel, and crossing the river via Devil’s Bridge, they arrived at the Junction unmolested. The hexium was quiet, just a bareb
ones staff on duty. All the better for what they had in mind. The shivering guard at the entrance nodded them through, taking a second look as Rossi passed, and they headed down into the Guts.
“This is a terrible idea,” Rossi groused. He’d moaned all the way from the Den. It was getting tiresome.
“Go home then,” Guyen suggested.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Well, shut up then.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. “Berese commanded me to protect you, not take your orders.”
“I thought you liked taking orders.”
Mist cursed. “Will you two give it a rest? All this banter is bloody irksome. Where are these horses?”
“Not far,” Guyen said. Rossi was an arsehole of the highest order. It was impossible not to rise to his idiocy. They followed Toulesh along the main passageway, and two pitmen turned out of the furnace room.
“Up the Outlaws,” Guyen called, holding up a palm.
One slapped it as he passed. “Outlaws for the win, Yorkov.”
Mist glanced after them. “They seem to like you around here, Greens.”
“Familiarity breeds indifference.” He sniffed. “It’s just up—” The stable door swung open. Toulesh folded in with a rush of adrenalin. “Shit! Hide!”
Mist and Rossi ducked behind a barrel-laden cart.
The mountainous Vadil strode up. “Hallo, Maker, long time since I saw your ugly face.”
Guyen offered a broad smile. “I’ve been caught up with Devotions business, sir Knight.”
The Outlaw raised an eyebrow. “Too busy to pop in and see old Vad? Put a rip in my man’s dress suit, did you?”
This was awkward. “I’m getting it cleaned.”
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