Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1)

by Brian Niemeier

  Sulaiman paused as though deep in thought. At length he asked, “What was your errand aboard Craighan's ship?”

  “That ship is as much mine as it was Craighan's,” Jaren said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “My father designed the Exodus, but the Guild murdered him before it was built.”

  “You were engaged to finish that labor?”

  Jaren couldn’t help but puff out his chest. “I was,” he said.

  Sulaiman fell silent once more. His eyes gleamed in the incense-clouded candlelight. “I will treat with you,” he said at last.

  “What was the meaning of those questions?” asked Stochman.

  The prefect’s voice cut the thick air like a bullwhip. “I will share my counsel when I deem you meet to hear it,” he said. “We have much to discuss, and time grows short. You have come to the Freehold in your need. What do you ask of its master?”

  “Monsters seized our ship!” Stochman blurted out, doubling Jaren's urge to throttle him.

  “To wage war against Baal Gibeah,” Sulaiman inferred, “Is that what you wish of me?”

  “Yes,” said Jaren.

  “The baal is a wily foe,” the prefect said. “I do not raise arms against him lightly.”

  Jaren saw his opening and laid out false bait, knowing that Sulaiman would reject the first offer. “Help us take back the Exodus, and we'll use its weapons to crush Gibeah. With him gone, you could rule the whole Circle.”

  Sulaiman shook his head on cue. “I am no petty demon, forever scheming to expand my domain. I have no desire to play the baals' endless game.”

  Jaren closed his trap. “You help us get our ship back, and we'll grant passage topside for you and all your people.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Stochman hissed. “Opening my doors to thieves is a mistake I don't intend to repeat.”

  Jaren glared at the commander, but Sulaiman cut him off before he could speak. “You are the ship's rightful master,” he told Stochman. “I will bargain no further without your consent.”

  Jaren opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden thought stilled his tongue. I have the only steersmen who can pilot the ship. Instead of stating his objection, Jaren held his peace. A new plan took shape as the first turned against him.

  Stochman assumed an insufferably flattered look. “Well,” he told the priest. “It seems I’ve misjudged you. Here's my counter-offer: I am prepared to grant transit to you and any passengers you name if you help us retake the ship and guarantee my claim against Peregrine.”

  “I accept your terms,” Sulaiman said, “and I would name Jaren Peregrine and his people with mine, upon his pledge to aid our cause.”

  Jaren struggled to keep his face blank, fearing that any sign of mirth would alert Stochman to what he’d overlooked in his pride. “What choice do I have?” Jaren managed to ask without laughing. “You’ve got my support.”

  Sulaiman laced his flesh and steel fingers. “We are agreed,” he said.

  Teg paced across the pirates' makeshift quarters, his long coat flapping behind him. The Mithgarders had gone to dine with the prefect, so there was plenty of room. “I'll go and kill all of them right now,” Teg told Jaren. “Just say the word. Hell, I might go without your word.”

  “Easy,” Nakvin said. “We still need their help to take back the ship.”

  Teg’s normally even voice echoed from the stone walls. “Who cares about the ship? Damn thing's been nothing but trouble since day one.” He jabbed a finger at Jaren. “You didn't listen when I said we should cut our losses. Listen now. Forget the Exodus. We don't need it.”

  “No!” Deim cried, “I won't leave her!”

  Teg stared at the young steersman, who started as if unaware that he’d spoken. “The ship, I mean,” said Deim. “My great-grandfather helped Falko design her, so she's my birthright as much as Jaren’s. Besides, what other way is there?”

  “The locals move between Circles without ether-runners,” said Teg, “I say we retrace our steps. If Nakvin can open the gates, why don't we just walk home?”

  “I told you,” Nakvin said, pressing her palm to her forehead. “We need Gibeah out of the way first.”

  “Then we call Sulaiman’s bluff and sit out the fight,” said Teg. Use the distraction to slip past the baal. You did it last time.”

  “That would mean leaving the ship with Stochman,” said Deim. “We’d deserve to stay here for blasphemy like that.”

  Jaren signaled for his crew’s attention. They gathered around him as he spoke. “Let them think they won,” he said. “We have the advantage as long as the Exodus won’t accept any steersmen but Nakvin and Deim.”

  “Why didn’t you share that little detail with Sulaiman?” asked Teg.

  “Playing along with Stochman and Sulaiman is the best way to make them do the heavy lifting,” Jaren said. “We’ll sneak aboard while the navy and the Freeholders distract Gibeah—get rid of them all in one move.”

  Teg’s sour face lost all expression but the faintest hint of a smile. “This is why I like working here,” he said.

  “Believe me,” Jaren said. “Working with Stochman galls me plenty. Once we have the Exodus back, you have my blessing to kill him and Sulaiman.”

  32

  “Where did you get that?” Nakvin asked when Ydahl brought the prisoners breakfast.

  “From the guardhouse kitchens, mum,” the girl said.

  Nakvin inspected the tray of unleavened bread, cured meat, and whole milk—hardly an extravagant meal, but even such simple fare seemed out of place in hell. “Why do you have food at all?” she asked.

  “The lord of the Circle took tribute in grain and cattle from his living servants,” said Ydahl. “Sulaiman makes us tend both field and beast as penance.”

  The food smelled of steam more than anything. Nakvin sampled it. The meat tasted a bit salty, and the bread was harder than she liked; but two days of hunger proved adequate spice for the meal. “Gibeah sounds like a real glutton,” She said between bites.

  “The offerings came long before Gibeah,” the girl said. “He don’t care for the old baal’s stock. He’d just as soon let the whole place rot, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Breadcrumbs dusted the front of Nakvin’s robe like snow flurries in a night sky. She brushed them off. “I’d pardon a lot worse,” she said.

  After breakfast Nakvin sat on a bench outside the barracks with Ydahl, who took the chance to satisfy her curiosity about the Steersmen's craft. “Flying a ‘runner sounds so exciting!” she said. “Tell me what it’s like.”

  “It’s hard to explain without getting technical,” said Nakvin.

  The girl knitted her brow. “It doesn’t sound so hard—except for the Workings.”

  “I'll try to keep it simple. You know everything’s made of prana from the White Well?”

  Ydahl nodded.

  “You can shape it into almost anything, but it's very hard and takes years to learn.”

  Ydahl cocked her head, making her mousy hair go lopsided. “Seems simple enough.”

  “Imagine we’re standing on top of Ostrith’s Guild house,” Nakvin said. “Steersman's Square is filled halfway to the roof with colored balls. No two are the same size.”

  Ydahl paused for a moment; then giggled.

  “Now what if I asked you to pick out one specific ball while blindfolded?”

  The smile vanished from Ydahl's face, replaced by a wide-eyed stare.

  “The balls are thought patterns that tell the prana how to behave,” Nakvin said. “To fashion a Working, you have to use exactly the right formula. So choosing the wrong ball—even if it’s almost the right size and shade—would make the Working fail…or go wrong.”

  The girl's jaw dropped. “How can anyone do that?”

  “The Guild tested energy patterns for centuries until they found the right ones. They also came up with shortcuts for the formulas and ways of focusing thought. The Steersman's Compass is the most common.”

&n
bsp; Ydahl's eyes lit up. “Can you show me?”

  A smile touched the corners of Nakvin's lips. “Deim's better with the Compass. I'm sure he'll show you a few minor Workings if you ask him.”

  “I want to see how you make them!” the girl insisted.

  Nakvin thought for a moment. “Give me your ribbon.”

  Ydahl untied the strip of drab cloth from her hair and held it before her. “It's not a proper ribbon at all,” she said glumly.

  Nakvin took the frayed scrap and sang in a soft, lilting tone. Ydahl sat quietly and stared, her expression unreadable.

  “That was one of the first minor Workings I learned,” Nakvin said as she passed the object in her hand to Ydahl.

  The child's face fell the instant she saw the Working's effect. The plain band of cloth was gone. In its place was a delicate ribbon of finest white silk. Ydahl stared at the pearlescent strand for nearly a minute before casting an injured look at the woman beside her.

  “Is this your way of scolding me?” she asked.

  “No,” Nakvin said gently, taken aback by the girl's response. “Of course not.”

  “It's a reproach, whether you mean it or not,” said Ydahl. “You come down here where you've no rightful place, and you've got everything I haven't: friends, fancy clothes; even a prettier singing voice.”

  “I just thought you deserved something nice after the way Teg treated you.”

  “Begging your pardon, but he had the right of it. The prefect knows what I deserve, and I get no less every day.”

  Nakvin struggled to meet the girl’s eyes without pity. “You were so young,” she thought out loud. “How did you die, Ydahl?”

  The child looked into the desolate distance for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice sent chills up Nakvin's spine. “I thought I’d see my mother and father again, but they weren't here.”

  Nakvin reached out to touch the girl’s shoulder, but Ydahl flinched and glared at her. “Nothing you can do will help me,” she said. “This place has a way of turning kindnesses to hurt. Better just to leave it be.”

  “Then I'll get you out of here,” Nakvin said.

  Ydahl emitted a short, rueful laugh. “It wouldn't matter. I could go back to the living, but where then—Byport, with all its ghosts?”

  “You could come with us.”

  “You'd have me? Knowing what I've done?”

  “I've killed people,” Nakvin said. “I bet Teg's killed ten times more than you did.”

  Ydahl's eyes hardened. “Don't joke about that!” she snapped. “No, mum. I can't come with you, and I won't go back to the living world again. I'd just bring hell with me.”

  “Sulaiman thinks he can reform you—all of you.”

  “No offense to Lord Sulaiman, but he's wrong. Our life-cords are cut.”

  Ydahl grasped Nakvin's hand in both of hers and squeezed it tightly. “Our time for changing is done, but you're still alive. Do you understand?”

  Nakvin felt the weight of all her sins on her shoulders. The crushing feeling stole her breath, and she pulled free of Ydahl’s grasp. “Jaren was right,” she said. It’s worse when the myths are true.”

  Jaren marched under the red sky in a column of soldiers and pirates; living and dead. Sulaiman Iason strode at its head, resplendent with his blood-red cloak and gleaming arm. Sulaiman’s face was stern as always, but his blue eyes held a joyful glint that made Jaren uneasy. Stochman hovered at the prefect’s ear, buzzing like fly, which made Jaren furious.

  Sulaiman has honor, Jaren thought, but he’s plain crazy. Meanwhile, Stochman is stupid and conniving. I can’t trust them, but I only have to put up with them until Nakvin’s aboard.

  Before the first day was out, Jaren saw a sheer white pyramid towering over the distant mountains. This peak, the Freeholders said, was the Ogre Fang: tower of the Fourth Circle's baal.

  After two days, the mountain dominated Jaren’s field of view. He craned his neck to see the summit thrusting dagger-like into the sky. It commanded clear views of every possible approach. His stomach lurched as he realized the futility of trying a surprise attack.

  At the end of the third day, the company reached the glacial valley at the mighty peak’s feet. Sulaiman ordered the men to make camp amid a forest of Ice pillars resembling the teeth of colossal beasts. While the others slept, Jaren shared his concerns with him and Stochman. “If he knows we're coming, can't he just kick us out of the Circle?”

  Sulaiman, who'd had centuries to study their foe, shook his head. “He has shut the gates to guard his prize. He retains the means to harm us, but in this the baal cannot trust the eyes and ears of spies. He must see us himself or sense another usurping his dominion.”

  “We might be safe now,” Stochman said, “but what if Gibeah does come for us?”

  The prefect stirred the campfire with a splintered bone. The flames’ warmth seeped into Jaren’s numbed limbs.

  At length, Sulaiman spoke. “I have given the question much thought. She of raven hair and silver eyes is apt to be our shield.”

  Stochman’s mouth puckered. “Would you elaborate as to how?”

  “At first I deemed the lady Steersman a base cambion,” Sulaiman said. “I amended my judgment when I learned the words of Gibeah's messenger.”

  “He looked like he’d seen death itself,” Stochman said. “Kept spouting riddles. If you ask me, the poor bastard’s touched.”

  “Arrovet is perverse,” Sulaiman said, “but he has lived longer in the Circle than any man save me alone.”

  “He called Nakvin by another name,” said Jaren, “like he mistook her for someone else.”

  Sulaiman fixed grim eyes on Jaren. “Zebel,” he said in a near-whisper, “consort to Mephistophilis of the Eighth. Pray you never meet her.”

  Jaren voiced a thought that had plagued him since the last stand on the bridge. “Nakvin is Zebel's daughter, isn't she?”

  “They are the same blood,” Sulaiman said. “It was not unheard-of for demons to make trysts with men, though the practice had all but ceased before my day.”

  “I knew something was seriously wrong with her!” Stochman said. He was about to say more, but Jaren cut him off with a cold stare.

  “Nakvin’s not much older than me,” Jaren told Sulaiman, “and I'm far younger than you. If demons had left the Middle Stratum by your time, why would the Nine Circles start dealing with humans again?”

  “They had need of something men possessed.” Sulaiman said as he rose. “We’ve dwelt on the matter overlong. The baal cannot banish us, but he may give battle at any moment.”

  “What do you suggest?” Stochman asked.

  “At first light I will send a small party to scout each side of the mountain. When the ship is found, your crew will set out to reclaim it.”

  Jaren bit his lip when Sulaiman said “your crew”, implying that the ship and the pirates were under Stochman’s command.

  “Meanwhile,” Sulaiman went on, “my men will ascend the main path to the summit, drawing out Gibeah's strength.”

  Stochman grimaced. “You don’t expect us to capture the ship by ourselves?”

  “I will accompany you,” Sulaiman said, “in case Gibeah discerns our ruse.” He cast a piercing look at Jaren. “And to safeguard our bargain.”

  Early the next morning, Jaren was helping Sulaiman and Stochman lay out wool coats and rope in preparation for the climb when a chill colder than the glacier’s wintry air seemed to blow right through him. Peering over his shoulder, he saw a familiar cloaked shape. “Vaun,” he said. “I was starting to think you got lost.”

  “You thought, or you hoped?” Vaun asked.

  Sulaiman rounded on Vaun before Jaren could answer. “Thrall of Teth,” he growled, “have you forgotten my ban?”

  “You banned me from the Freehold,” said Vaun, “which this certainly is not, unless you presume to take the baal’s place.”

  Sulaiman advanced on masked man. “Lacking cause to suffer your company, I sh
all extend the ban to my presence. What business have you here?”

  “I sleep little and can move unmarked,” said Vaun. “I passed the night walking the mountain's base and saw a great green eye staring from the cliffs below the western summit.”

  “A tale I’d trust, were it told by my scouts,” Sulaiman said.

  “That will take time we might not have,” said Jaren. “I understand your doubts, but Vaun has as much at stake as we do, and he’s been right so far.”

  Stochman scratched his chin. “Mr. Mordechai has been fairly objective,” he said.

  Sulaiman’s eyes flashed between Jaren and Vaun. “Ready your men,” he said. “We ascend the west flank at once.”

  It was noon—or the Fourth Circle's version of it—when Sulaiman called a halt in a high snow gully. Jaren had expected a difficult climb, but he’d been unprepared for the mountain’s brutality. Of the ninety men laying siege to the slope, fourteen of the living—mostly navy—had joined the ranks of the dead. Luckily, most of them caught up with the group.

  Though the climb had begun in freezing darkness, Jaren was sweltering in the glaring light. Let Sulaiman defy the heat in his crimson cloak and steel breastplate. Jaren was glad to unfasten his Freehold coat and recline in the soft snow.

  After only fifteen minutes, Sulaiman gathered the sailors and pirates around him. “The time of our final division has come,” he said. “We must catch the baal at unawares, or our cause is undone.”

  The prefect singled out Stochman, Jaren, Nakvin, Teg, Mikelburg, and Deim. “You will accompany me to the summit cliffs, and thence aboard the ship.” He waved his hand over the assembly. “The rest will await our summons here.”

  “Why split up?’ Stochman asked. “The more force we bring to bear, the better.”

  “Stealth is our ally at the outset,” Sulaiman said.

  “Exactly,” said Jaren. “We send a small boarding party into the hangar. They’ll secure the airlift and bring up the rest.”

  Skeptical furrows lined Stochman’s brow. “The lift can only bring up twelve at a time. Attacking at full strength is a better option.”