Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Thank you,” Guyen said. Manners cost nothing.

  She returned a tight smile and went back to tidying a shelf of files. After twenty minutes working their way through the complex forms, Guyen trotted back and cleared his throat. The girl scowled again, obviously a well-honed skill. She spent another minute dusting a perfectly clean row of files then sashayed over. “I’ll let the assessor know you’re here,” she said. “We are rather busy today though.”

  “Busy?” Guyen asked, taking in the empty room.

  “We’re expecting a visitor. Do you have your certificates?”

  “What certificates?”

  “Your Binding documents?” She narrowed her eyes. “You are bound, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Guyen said. “Never had a certificate though, or been asked for one.”

  “Well, they’re obligatory in this country unless you want to end up in Karonac.”

  “Karonac?”

  “Where they fix the Unbound.” She left it hanging. “Perhaps the Mistress will see you anyway, I don’t know. You’ll have to wait.” She nodded at the bench.

  So they sat back down, opposite a poster encouraging the citizenry to report the Unbound to the authorities. Several minutes later, fidgeting took hold. They waited some more. Bored, Guyen turned out the pockets of his brine-damaged jacket. His flint, some stones, and the magician’s silver coin—he’d forgotten about that. It was useless as currency, counterfeit judging by the rogue casting, the harps side pressed upside-down in relation to heads. He spun it absentmindedly on the window sill. It landed heads. “Reckon we could spend this?” he asked Yemelyan.

  “No. Put it away. You’ll get us arrested.”

  He spun it again. It landed heads again. He looked up, the girl frowned over. The door behind the counter opened, and an older woman, the assessor presumably, peered out. She wore the thinnest eyeglasses, frames like silk threads. “I’ll see them now, Ariana,” she trilled. “Before she arrives.”

  A man in tan uniform lounged in the corner of the assessor’s office. “Don’t mind Adjunct Kerger,” the assessor said, “it’s just regulation.” She waved them to sit on two chairs in front of her desk and laid down a thick red book, the silver lettering on the spine titling it Book of Assignment. Twelfth precinct. She sat across from them, exuding irritation.

  “I’m Mistress Uther,” she said. “I will be assessing you today.” She scanned the completed forms. “You’re from Krell, is that right? And you received the Binding there?”

  “Yes,” Guyen said.

  “Yet you have no certification?”

  The adjunct tapped his fingers on the table, glaring out beneath bushy eyebrows. Toulesh crossed his arms, remonstrating with Rikesh just behind them. It took some concentration not to glance back, the apparitions doubly distracting today.

  Mistress Uther’s quill hovered over the paper. “Your mother has a Maker Assignment, I see. Very well, we shall proceed.”

  Yemelyan twitched. “Proceed with what?” he asked.

  Uther frowned. “Why, the Test of Assignment, of course. I always begin with measurement—if you wouldn’t mind standing?”

  Exchanging a bemused look, the twins complied. She produced a tape measure, noting their heights, waists and head size in the book, then judged their skin colours using a chart. Then she came up close, noting facial features, brow prominence, cheekbones, measurements from hairline to nose, from ear to mouth. She peered into Guyen’s eyes. “Green,” she muttered. “How strange.”

  What was the point of all this?

  She signalled a scale in the corner. “If you please.”

  They took turns as she arranged stones on the pan, noting their respective weights. How dismal! What were they? Cattle? Perhaps they’d be sold at some meat market, put into slavery at a price worthy of their poundage.

  She ushered them back to their chairs and took out a scroll, then bombarded them with questions testing math and language. It was impossible to concentrate with the adjunct’s off-putting tuts and the two simulacra protesting at the questions like they took the Test themselves. This felt like being judged for the rest of your life without knowing by which rules. It was horseshit.

  The scroll slid back into its tube and she produced another book, this one filled with inked drawings—more smudges than sketches. She asked what they could see. It was always an animal of some kind. Then she fired word associations at them, then bamboozled them with nonsense questions. Which is sweeter, green or yellow? What does laugher look like? Until this point, they’d answered flawlessly, but questions like these had no correct response. They weren’t supposed to pass this test.

  Eventually, she finished her notes and closed the book. “I’m assigning you both as Makers,” she proclaimed.

  Guyen exchanged a nonplussed look with Yemelyan. “Er, what does that mean?”

  She tutted. “You do know how Assignment works, don’t you?”

  “I thought it was so we could get a job,” Yemelyan said.

  “There’s more to it than that.” She huffed. “Assignment is a calling, a devotion.” Toulesh and Rikesh muttered silent, disparaging comments. Guyen stared straight ahead. “Maker,” she continued, “is the oldest of the six Prime Talents, and covers most of the practical vocations. It’s a fine tradition, some of our most illustrious leaders have been Makers.”

  That sounded all right. You’ve always considered yourself illustrious.

  “So, what job do we get?” Yemelyan asked.

  “The closest Maker Talent I can fit you both with is Metallurgy,” she said. “I shall put you down for the foundry. You’ll fit in there.”

  How depressing. A foundry? Smelting iron? That sounded like hard labour. Guyen dug his nails into his palms, suppressing the urge to jump up and flip the table. He sat forwards. Perhaps if she saw how keen he was for an alternative… “There must be something else?” he pleaded. “Didn’t we do well with the Test?”

  “Positions are scarce, I’m afraid.” She glanced at Yemelyan. “And your scores weren’t so good.”

  “Weren’t so—”

  “Be thankful for small mercies,” she interrupted. “Many assessors wouldn’t have seen you at all, not at your age. At least you may earn a living now.”

  The door rattled and the blonde girl peered around the frame. “She’s here,” she hissed.

  Mistress Uther jumped to her feet. “I’ll contact head office about your Binding certification, but we may as well get you marked up in the meantime. My assistant will send you to Old Jovey for the correct brands. Metallurgy for both, please, Ariana. Get them out of here.”

  Marked up? Guyen thought. Ah yes, the Assignment mark—like Mother’s.

  The girl ushered them from the office, passing a small entourage coming the other way. Toulesh suddenly folded in as the room took on a peculiar chill. A finely dressed woman sailed past, sleek and slender, hair flowing auburn, vanilla perfume sweet. Two black-cloaked bodyguards followed her.

  She nodded to the girl. “Good morning, Ariana.”

  “Good morning, High Mistress,” the girl replied.

  A carriage waited outside the office, a team of six black horses at its front. A six-pointed silver star adorned the coach’s charcoal-grey door, each spike a different design. It was familiar, the same symbol which marked the travel dockets they’d boarded the cursed ship with.

  “What’s that?” Guyen asked. “The star with the six spikes?”

  “The Star of Devotion?” The girl frowned. “How can you not know that?”

  “Well, we have been in your country for two sunrises,” he said. “I suppose we should know everything about it by now.” She needed to work on her attitude, although her scowl suggested she got the sarcasm, a rarity in most Sendalis. “What the hell is a Devotion anyway?”

  “You haven’t heard of the Devotions?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Seriously? One Devotion for each Prime Talent? No?” She offered a despairing look
. “They’re the government.”

  “So who was that woman?”

  “The High Mistress, Jal Belana. Devere’s wife.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Gods!” she snapped. “Do you know nothing? Devere? Culture Prime?”

  “Culture?”

  “It’s one of the Prime Talents, signified by that mark on the star’s second spike, as you call it.”

  “And she’s important, is she?”

  “Someone to know if you want to get anywhere. And a houseguest of mine at the moment.”

  “Ooh,” Yemelyan said, “you do run in high circles.”

  She snorted. “Compared to you two, a rat runs in high circles.” She pursed her lips. “I hope you boys are lucky. You might find life here a trial otherwise.”

  Guyen smiled. “We met you, didn’t we?”

  She hesitated, the slightest suggestion of a blush reddening her cheeks. “Look, there’s no need to get branded,” she said. “You can get inked if you prefer, there’s nothing to say you can’t.” A tattoo adorned her neck, a set of scales peeking out beneath her white collar.

  “I’d prefer that,” Guyen said.

  “Think I’ll stick with branding,” Yemelyan said. “Make a man of me.”

  She sent him a dark look. “Fine. Each to their own.” She scribbled on the pre-stamped chits. “Next to the port, ask for Old Jovey.” She handed them over. “Have a nice life.” She hurried back inside.

  5

  One Place Extra

  Some hours later, the smells from Nazhedra’s stove had Guyen’s mouth watering. A spicy rabbit stew bubbled away, filling the air with the lavender and cinnamon aromas of Grandmother’s house. She was long gone now, of course. The fire roared, keeping away the evening’s chill, but the draw from the chimney was poor and smoke billowed into the parlour at regular intervals. It was hot and stuffy, so overcrowded they may as well have been sitting on one another’s laps.

  Father slouched in the single armchair beside Guyen. He was in a grizzly mood, having just finished his first day at the dam. It had been hard work, and he and Zial had returned to the cottage like a storm, already worse for wear on the drink they’d consumed on the walk back.

  “I spent most of the day trying not to fall off that blasted scaffold,” Father moaned, taking another swig of poteen. He’d definitely had enough, but didn’t think so. He adjusted his eye patch. “What’s your man’s name, Zee, the smartass?”

  “Knaxti,” Zial said.

  “Yeah, him. What an arsehole. I asked for a better safety rope and he told me to f—” Mother coughed. “He told me to get lost. How would he like to carry stone up there? It’s a deathtrap. I should have thumped him.”

  “You want to be careful,” Zial said. “Get on his wrong side and he’ll make your life hell. He’s got connections with the town council.”

  “Town council?” Father scoffed. “What can they do?”

  “Ban you from the labour pool, for one thing. I don’t think begging will suit you, Olvar.”

  “Pah! It’s only a stopgap. Our luck will change soon enough.” They shared a meaningful look. Something unspoken between them. What were they up to?

  Guyen risked a sideways glance at Zial’s daughters. The middle one stared at Yemelyan. Every so often, he slipped down the dressing covering his new brand, exposing the bubbled flesh. She looked away in disgust each time, much to Yemelyan’s delight. The eldest daughter, Evgeniya, smiled tentatively over. Guyen nodded back, absentmindedly touching his own neck, self-conscious of the matching symbol Old Jovey had tattooed on him. He’d used a special ink to make the Assignment mark unalterable. The burning sensation was only just subsiding.

  Father planted an elbow in his ribs. “What’s the matter with you?” he slurred.

  Guyen met his eyes, forcing his hand down to his lap. “Nothing.”

  “Hurts does it?”

  “Not really.” That was a lie. It was all he could do to not try scratching the pain away.

  Father leaned in. “We’ll be all right, son. Soon be out of here, you’ll see.”

  “You’re drunk, Father.”

  He glanced at the mark. “It’s quite fetching really.” He grinned. “It’s good to know you’ll be earning, eh, should anything happen to me?”

  “Is that likely?”

  His eyes flicked to Mother helping Nazhedra prepare supper. “Nah.” He took another swig and clapped Guyen on the back, offering the flask. “Have a drink. Take the edge off.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Not scared of a drab of hard liquor, are you? Don’t you want to be a drunk like your old man?”

  Guyen scowled. Regular drink was just fine, but this stuff smelled rank. He accepted the flask anyway, keen to shut him up, and took a swig. Toulesh slapped his hand down on the mantelpiece, panting. At least the burning liquor offset the neck pain.

  Old Jovey had insisted that once healed, the tattoo would be identical to the anvil symbol he’d burned into Yemelyan’s neck with a red-hot iron. It came with a small star inked directly above it, positioned at the first degree as he’d put it, denoting Metallurgy as a Maker Assignment. In theory, they’d be able to take any work associated with metalcraft, although the foundry job starting in the morning, shovelling coal into a furnace, would offer no opportunity for advancement. That was certain.

  Nazhedra looked over from the stove to where Mother laid the table. “That’s too many places, dear.”

  She looked up. “No, that’s right. Ten places.”

  “But there are nine of us.”

  “I always lay an extra place.”

  “Do you?” Nazhedra laughed, not unkindly, but short on patience. “Why on earth would you do that, dear?” Guyen tensed. This again.

  Father jumped up. “Here, come sit next to me, Liv, someone else can do that.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Olvar.”

  Nazhedra’s hands went to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Livia, I forgot. How cruel of me. Of course you must set a place.”

  Mother slumped in a chair and began to sob. It was all too much for her. It was too much for everyone. The small room became tiny.

  “Think I’ll try getting that trunk open,” Yemelyan said, getting to his feet.

  “We need water,” Evgeniya said.

  “I’ll help you,” Guyen said.

  They let themselves out into the yard, leaving Mother crying in Father’s arms. It was good to get outside despite the cold night. Evgeniya picked up the lantern at the backdoor and pushed out the side gate. Guyen followed her. Zial’s cottage was one of a row. The shutters in the other cottages were closed, light streaming out of cracks into the dark lane. They walked to the well on the corner where the lane met the main road. A distant train of lights approached from the west. A caravan, more traders probably, the route was a busy one. Guyen held the lantern for Evgeniya to see, as she tied the bucket handle to the winch rope.

  She glanced up. “What was that all about?”

  Guyen hesitated. “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  He didn’t want to open up to this stranger about something so painful, but she’d given up her room and deserved an explanation. “I used to have a younger sister. She was killed. It’s a long time ago now, but Mother always lays her a supper place. It’s her way of remembering.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  She finished tying the rope and dropped the bucket into the well. Guyen winched it down to water level, the stiff handle revolving with an irregular squeak.

  “You mind if I ask what happened to her?” Evgeniya said.

  He bit his lip. It wasn’t something he liked to remember. “The redcoats.”

  “The army?”

  His stomach knotted. “We were playing in a building abandoned by the rebels. Not that I knew anything about all that then, I was too young. The Sendalis didn’t know it was abandoned. They
set fire to it, trying to kill whoever was inside. In the end they just got Kiani.”

  “That was her name? It’s beautiful. If I ever have a daughter, that’s what I’ll call her.”

  The rope fell slack. He stopped turning the handle. “They said it was an accident, but I’m not so sure they weren’t happy to see the next generation of Krellen rebels dead.”

  “Oh, that’s an awful thing to say. They wouldn’t deliberately kill children.”

  “No? A week before the redcoats murdered my sister, the rebels set fire to a local barracks, according to Mother. I think it was revenge, pure and simple. It was my fault. I took her in there.” A tear formed. He blinked it away. How could it still hurt so much after all these years? Kiani’s terrified screams and the black smoke still plagued his nightmares. If only he had died instead, but Toulesh had led him to safety.

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Evgeniya said, her voice soothing. “You were only a kid.”

  But he couldn’t let the pain leave, he’d vowed to hang onto it, to keep her memory alive. “I’m not sure my parents saw it like that. They needed someone to blame. Apparently, I was a mischievous child.” He winched the bucket up. “Gods! I was only six.”

  “I’m sure they don’t hold you responsible.”

  “That’s what it felt like.” He composed himself. “I tried to find her, but the smoke was too thick. Anyway, she suffocated and burned, and the only injury I got was my damn clamour.”

  “Clamour?”

  Shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now he’d have to explain. “That’s what I call it. You know like if you cover your ears, you can hear noises inside your head? It’s like that, only worse.”

  “Can you hear it now?”

  He focussed on the ever-present distraction. “Yes.”

  “What does it sound like?”

  “A high-pitched ringing, like whistling wind.”

  “That sounds annoying.”

  “You get used to it.”