Deadly projectiles rained down as the fort pummelled the trees, Berese pummelled the fort, and both sides peppered the wasteland with shot and stray shrapnel. The sky lit up with Faze signatures, future echoes of munitions painting spiderwebs of nether light. The ground lit up too, vortexes of prescient Faze swirling where death would soon be hunting. Their route was a cat’s cradle, a maze of streaking nether light and deadly probabilities. To veer from the path would be to die. He yanked the reins, this way, that way, and somehow the horse understood.
Suddenly, blinding, disorienting light exploded in the Layer, the birth of a new star. Apocalypse. Absolution. Death.
One second. Two seconds.
It came. Thunder to the lightning, reality embracing its destiny—a blinding blast of light and heat, wind carrying them through the air like dandelion seeds, shards of rock firing past. And then came the sounds—great, tearing ruptures. Then a rain of stone, and masonry, and soil.
Ringing ears. No sound now, just the vibration from Smoker’s thundering hooves, her mane a blue glow. Behind them, no fort, only cyan fire. Mist flailed. Guyen caught her as a streak of red lightning ripped the sky in two. They hit the treeline, and Smoker pulled up rather than crash into the branches. A squad of cadets surrounded them, swords drawn.
“I don’t believe it,” Rossi said.
48
The Black Domes
The frosty glade sparkled in the moonlight, an eerie quiet lingering in the trees. Mist lay unconscious on her side, breathing, but only just.
Berese’s medic examined the wound on the back of her head. “I’m not sure what it is,” she said. “A piece of flint, metal perhaps. She needs a surgeon.” She reapplied the dressing and handed a bowl of water to Tarobert. “Make sure her head doesn’t move.”
The cadet nodded earnestly, taking the medic’s place. He dipped a cloth in the water, and dabbed soot from around Mist’s mouth. She was far away.
The medic pulled her cloak tighter against the cold. “We have to get the girl back to Carmain, General.”
Berese stared out over the remains of the smoking fort, warming his hands over a brazier. The walls had come down. Inside lay tons of debris. Anything that survived was buried deep, and anyone within it dead. There was no question about that. The sky crackled red on the horizon, the supernatural activity above still watching over them, but the precipitation was gone, blown away by the explosion.
“What happened in there?” Rossi asked, like he didn’t want to know.
It was a good question. The Layer was alive tonight, responsible somehow—it had been more than simple combustion, a shift in probabilities too catastrophic for the solid world to cope with. There were only the facts though.
“We burned the concoction,” Guyen said. “A lot of it. It was more explosive than we thought.”
Berese grunted. “I’d like to say I disapprove, Yorkov, but without your intervention… Damn! I haven’t lost that many men in one skirmish since Nine Ridges.”
This was his idea of a skirmish? Globes. What did he classify a battle? Two weary rankers trudged up carrying a lifeless body, a cavalryman judging by his gauntlets. Everyone bowed their heads as they placed the man respectfully on the back of a cart. Berese took out his pipe, gave it a tap, and lit it with a taper. Nutty tabac smoke wafted. “Anyone get out of there, Yorkov?”
“A few may have escaped on barges, General.”
“Barges? Good, we know about those. What about Cotes?”
The commander had been conducting hostilities from the battlements. There was no way he could have survived. “I presume he’s dead, sir.”
Another unexploded powder keg detonated over in the rubble, more small fires intensifying around the spot. Berese took another puff on his pipe. “Who’s responsible for all this, Yorkov?”
That was still up for debate. Cotes? Jal? Rialto? An ideology? “I believe it to be a wide conspiracy, General, connected to the Echelista.”
“Was Jal Belana in there?”
“Not as far as I know,” Guyen replied carefully. Berese already suspected her? That was encouraging. “Her fixers were in there,” he added, “Vale and Yannick.”
“And where are they now?”
“Either on the river, General, or dead.”
“I see.” Berese sighed. “Is there any evidence what they were doing was illegal?”
Guyen felt in his pocket for the vial he’d scooped up. “There’s this, sir.”
Berese took it. “This is what they were working on?”
“Yes, General. A new concoction, and it’s dangerous, the effects tantamount to genocide, I believe. The Culturalists planned to use it instead of the old formulation.”
“Do you have proof she’s behind it? Any witnesses apart from you two?”
“Mainly dead, General.”
“A paper trail then?”
There was the Merchant that Draizon had offered up. If they found him… “They would have needed a lot of chem,” Guyen suggested. “There would have been receipts.”
Berese considered. “Perhaps Rialto could trace the supply route. Talking of which, where is your mentor?”
A question screaming out for an answer. “I’m not sure,” Guyen said. “In Carmain, I suppose.”
“This doesn’t look good for him, does it, all this illicit Bindcraft going on under his nose?”
“No, General.” It was an understatement of epic proportions. He hesitated. Should he tell of Rialto’s involvement? But Father’s drug-addled recollections were hardly proof. He tried another tack. “Belana and Cotes must have had help designing the formulation, General, they’re not Bindcrafters.”
Berese tapped ash from his pipe. “One of your lot gone rogue, have they?”
“Possibly, General.”
He made no connection. “We shall see what Rialto thinks,” he said. “Perhaps he can run some tests and establish how dangerous this new formulation is, then we shall take it to Council.”
Getting Rialto to determine the extent of his own treachery was not the smart move. “Perhaps I should test it?” Guyen suggested.
Berese looked nonplussed. “Why not your mentor?”
What would sound plausible? “We need to connect it to the High Mistress,” Guyen said. “She and Rialto are friends. I would save him any embarrassment.”
Berese gave a sharp nod. “Very well, you will test it under oversight from the Office, but that’s for another day.” He turned to Rossi. “I’m assigning your squad standing orders to protect the Bindcrafter and his friend. Get them back to the city in one piece and get the girl to a surgeon. You can take my medic. And Rossi—”
“Yes, sir?”
“If anything unfortunate happens to Citizen Yorkov, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
Rossi muttered something unworthy under his breath, but saluted anyway. Perhaps he was sorry they’d survived. It would have been less trouble. Guyen caught himself. He was doing it again—thinking the worst. Maybe it was time to cut the cadet some slack, he’d come through for them, after all.
Berese turned back. “I’ll debrief you when I return, Yorkov. We shall have to hope the death of a thousand Sendali troops earns you a medal rather than the noose.” He waved at a waiting wagon. “Get them out of here.”
The thought sunk in. You’re a mass-murderer.
Would he have fired the warehouse if he’d known what would happen? Given the extra space Mother always set at the table for Kiani, the answer was probably yes. But as to revenge tasting sweet, the more he served up, the more rancid it became.
The cadets loaded Mist into the wagon, and Guyen found a trustworthy-looking groom, a boy little older than twelve. He handed off Smoker’s reins. “If anything happens to this horse,” he said, “something will happen to you.”
The boy shrank back.
You arsehole, weren’t you that age once? “Sorry,” Guyen winced, “it’s been a long night, and I owe this horse my life. Just do your best.”
Toulesh offered a curious look. Guyen found a smile from somewhere. “Oh, and send someone through the forest to look for another Chestnut like her. We left it tied up near the west corner.”
The boy nodded and led the horse away. Guyen climbed into the wagon beside the medic as Toulesh took a position up front with the driver. After some disagreement with Tarobert, Rossi climbed in too. A ranker secured the door, and they set off, the rest of the squad following on horseback.
They crossed the swamp in silence, passing Berese’s scouts on the other side, surrounding the man they’d tied up. There might be questions to answer about the dead rankers hidden in the woods. Oh well, that couldn’t be helped now. Rossi made use of the oil light to clean and reload his pistol, no small feat given the bumpy track. Behind them, his squad bantered amongst themselves. Caustic army humour was a good analgesic for even the most disheartening times.
Rossi looked up. “So, you didn’t find your brother?”
Guyen hesitated. It hurt to recall the last few hours. “No,” he muttered. “I found a dead man instead.”
“What are you talking about?”
The wagon bumped on the rutted road as a colony of bats swooped past, momentarily illuminated by the lanterns. Another tear welled. “It doesn’t matter.” It was too painful, and none of the scrag’s business. He switched the conversation. “What happened to you?”
Rossi snorted. “When you didn’t return, I rode back. I met the General on the way. He set out as soon as he received my Blackcap, but I was able to brief him. I think I may be in line for a commendation for locating Cotes.”
“Well, as long as you’re getting ahead.”
Rossi grinned, perfect teeth yellow pearls in the oil light.
Guyen removed his blood-soaked jacket and cloak—the stickiness was all that remained of Father, but there was no point getting sentimental. He threw the garments into some passing bushes, shivering at the cold. Berese’s medic passed a blanket. He wrapped it around his shoulders.
“What do you think will happen at Council now?” Rossi asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if Jal Belana was behind Cotes’ treason, it puts Culture and War at loggerheads. Berese won’t support her.”
“Good.”
“But others might, some commanders even. I mean, at least she has a plan to deal with the epidemic.”
“Now isn’t the time for switching sides, Rossi.”
The cadet straightened. “I’m not talking about switching sides. But we should all be working together to stabilise the Binding, shouldn’t we?”
In many ways he was charmingly naïve. “As far as I can see,” Guyen said patiently, “the Devotions are turning in on themselves.” Perhaps some colour would help his tiny brain comprehend. “That bitch is the problem, not the solution.”
Rossi huffed. “At least she was doing something.” He called out to Tarobert. “Close the gap, Lofty.” He turned back. “I heard Berese is to deploy peacekeepers in the city. I wouldn’t like to think what will happen if his orders go counter to the prefecture’s. They answer to Culture.”
Berese’s medic interjected. “The General’s not as partisan as you might think. He rescued these two, didn’t he?”
Rossi holstered his pistol. “The only reason he mobilised his insane task force was because Cotes disobeyed orders. He cares as much for the other Devotions as you do for makeup.”
And as much as you do for civility and kindness, Guyen thought. The medic deserved some support. “He cared enough to make you my bitch,” he observed.
The medic laughed.
Rossi glowered. “I should have finished you on that bridge. It would have saved everybody a lot of trouble.”
Guyen let it go. There was no venom there, only tiredness and irritability. Besides, he considered, even a scrag can be right some of the time. He steadied himself as the wagon took a sharp turn, lending a spare hand to keep Mist in place. She looked dead white in the lamp light. Damn you, Peeler, don’t go evaporating on me now.
It was close to third hour by the time they reached Whitefriars, and a welcome sight it was too. The journey had not been uneventful, passage across the ridge terrifying even with War’s skilled lantern bearers to light the way. The wagon and its outriders heading back to Garrison, Guyen followed Tarobert and Yarvil, another of Rossi’s squad, as they carried Mist through the hospital’s dark, uneven corridors. All was quiet, the atmosphere even more macabre than usual in the dead of night. Faze ran everywhere, impossible not to see—outlining blades, trays of surgical equipment, anything which might have some purpose to it. The night’s events—Bind Slipping in the swamp, casting Mass on the lock—they’d all taken their toll, battering the usual defences against the Song’s ebb and flow. And with Toulesh refusing to fold in, it looked like the visions were here to stay tonight.
They waited in the corridor for news on Mist’s condition. Cadet Yarvil donated biscuits and ale, gratefully received, and a nurse produced a spare coat from the mortuary—Damorian suede with high collars and mink fur lining—a quality winter garment, even by Krellen standards. He put thoughts of the coat’s previous unlucky owner from his mind—even the insides of the windows glistened with frost in Whitefriars tonight. Rossi and Tarobert sat playing cards, Rossi looking up occasionally to scowl over. Why were they still here? He didn’t need guarding. He put his head in his hands and stared at the floor, drumming his fingers. He had to do something. Jal would have heard about events at the fort by now. Where was Yemelyan? Did she have him?
The door at the end of the corridor burst open. Tarobert jumped to his feet, pulling his sabre. Toulesh followed suit, his weapon invisible. Rialto appeared, Nyra outlined behind him. Guyen’s gut clenched, blood boiling. What were they doing here? The bastard had experimented on Father like a dog. Every fibre cried out for vengeance.
“Yorkov,” Rialto rumbled. “What in the Ages has been going on?”
Guyen gritted his teeth. So this was how the traitor would play it? He offered a shallow bow. “Prime Wield.”
Rialto looked him up and down. “I hear you were involved in this altercation between Berese and Cotes. Is that right?”
“It’s a long story, sir.”
“Well, you’d best get started then.”
Was this a test? Well, two could play at that game. If Rialto wanted to profess his innocence, better to let him. It would put him off-guard. Tonight’s story would need to be redacted though.
Rialto turned to Tarobert. “Find me something to drink, cadet, something strong. My damn leg’s throbbing like a black eye. And stop pointing that thing.”
“Yes, Prime Wield.” Tarobert lowered his sword.
Rossi stepped forwards. “Begging your pardon, Prime Wield, but I’m the commanding officer here.”
Rialto eyed him darkly. “And you are?”
“Rossi, sir. At your service.”
“I see. Well, command him then, Rossi. I don’t appreciate being dragged from my bed in the middle of the night.” The cadets exchanged a look, and Tarobert headed off down the corridor to find some alcohol. Hopefully, it would be the embalming type. Rialto had a nerve, you had to give him that. He took a seat next to Nyra on the opposite bench. Guyen settled beside Toulesh. The simulacrum glared daggers, arms officiously crossed as if waiting for an explanation.
“Good to see you, Yorkov,” Nyra said.
“And you,” Guyen returned. Was he a conspirator too?
“Out with it then,” Rialto demanded.
Guyen took a deep breath and relayed the night’s events, claiming Father had already been dead, leaving out Jal’s contribution, the fact that they’d fired the concoction, and anything which might suggest Rialto had taken part. Both he and Nyra seemed genuinely shocked at the story and confused as to Father’s involvement. Rossi kept his thoughts to himself.
“My condolences on your father,” Rialto said. “No man shou
ld die like that. Do you have any idea who his torturers were?”
Kill him, a voice instructed. “I suspect foreign involvement,” Guyen said flatly. Well, that was true enough.
Tarobert reappeared with a bottle of brandy. Rialto decanted some into his hipflask and took a slug. Nyra shifted in his seat. “Sir, he needs to know.”
“Indeed.” Rialto beamed. “I have some news which may lighten your spirits, Yorkov. We have located your brother.”
Guyen stared.
Emotions can be confusing things. Especially when you’re sleep deprived, grieving, hardly able to think. Shock mingled with hope, bathed in hatred, dusted with doubt and distrust. Could it be true?
“Really, sir?” was all he could manage. What if Rialto wasn’t behind the new concoction, wasn’t working with Jal after all?
“Yes,” the Prime continued, “it seems Yemelyan was at Karonac all along, admitted under a false name. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good. He is very sick.”
Whether Rialto was a traitor didn’t matter. If he was culpable in Father’s death, that could wait. This was a chance to save Yemelyan. Guyen injected maximum urgency into his voice. “I must see him, sir. I can help him. There’s still the patch serum.”
“Ah yes, your serum.” Rialto’s brow furrowed, then he seemed to battle to a decision. “I agree, Yorkov. If War and Culture can flex their muscles, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. We shall pay a visit to Karonac and take your brother into Maker custody.”
Nyra’s eyes widened. “What of the statutes, sir? The Office?”
Rialto snorted. “This is a test of my authority. We leave at once.” He pushed himself to standing with his cane. Nyra followed suit.
The bastard was right. There was no time to waste, the sooner they stole Yemelyan out from under Jal’s clutches, the better. And if it was a trick, at least it would put an end to these interminable games, once and for all. Guyen stood to join them.
Nether Light Page 59