Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Oh.” She paused. “And are you still mischievous?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The bucket came back up. He lifted it onto the wall and untied the rope.

  “I’ll carry it,” Evgeniya said.

  “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

  “You think I’m weak cos I’m a girl, don’t you?”

  “No, I’m just being polite. Repaying your hospitality.”

  “There’s no need. You won’t be staying long anyway, will you?”

  He pursed his lips. “We start work at the foundry tomorrow, then we’ll have coin, enough to find our own place.”

  “Good.” She paused. “Not that I don’t like you, it’s just—”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I know, it’s cramped. It’s fine, we don’t want to stay a moment longer than we have to. We’re just grateful you’ve lent us your roof for a few days. Now, are you going to let me carry this thing?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  The girl had spirit. They’d have to let fate decide. He reached into his pocket for the fake silver coin, holding it up in the oil light. “I’ll flip you for the honour. Heads or harps?”

  She frowned. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s not legal tender, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

  “But it will do perfectly well for settling an argument,” he said. He placed the oil lamp carefully on the well wall, it wouldn’t do to break it. “Call it.”

  She huffed. “Harps then, I suppose.”

  He tossed the coin up, catching it on the back of his hand. “Heads. Bad luck. And that’s pure chance, so you can’t accuse me of being sexist now, can you?”

  She muttered a surly response. “No, I suppose not.”

  He picked up the bucket.

  6

  The Magician's Gift

  Molten steel cascaded down the channel, spitting fiery droplets, flowing into the mould, spilling over the side. It took some nerve to stand this close, the heat was something else. The leather apron the foundry had provided offered scant protection.

  “Move the josel,” the foreman screamed, slapping Guyen about the head with his glove. Guyen pushed the spout along to the next mould, which began filling. The foreman rounded on Yemelyan. “Now, you—put it in the water.”

  “But it’s on fire!”

  “Just do it, you little shit.”

  Yemelyan stooped down, pulling the full mould gingerly away with a long gripper.

  “Careful.”

  “He is being careful,” Guyen snapped.

  “Don’t talk back to me, Krellen.”

  Red mist descended. Guyen kicked his half-full mould. A slug of liquid metal jumped over the side, narrowly missing his boot. Yemelyan dropped his mould awkwardly in the water trough. Steam issued.

  The foreman shook his head. “You won’t last long here. I’ll see to that.”

  The two simulacra surrounded him, snarling in his face. Luckily, he was blissfully unaware. Guyen turned his attention back to the josel.

  “Well, this rots hell,” he said, once the foreman had moved on. They’d been slaving away in this infernal nightmare for three weeks now. The foundry was hot, noisy and suffocating, an apocalyptic vision of the Holy Fires, if you believed in such dogma. Huge vats of molten iron smoked and sparked above them, suspended on vast pivots, and wherever you looked was something which might maim or kill you. The carts delivering ore and coal were constant, and to make matters worse, the foundrymen had discovered they were refugees, engendering a psychopathic disregard for their safety.

  Today, they were casting billets, workable chunks of metal to be sent on to the foundry’s smithy, where they would be forged into longswords. Despite the conditions, filling the moulds wasn’t the worst job in the place, stoking the furnace took that credit. Men stumbled from that room red-raw and grim-faced. Every so often, the foreman would mention moving them down there. If he was trying to get them to work quicker, it was an effective strategy.

  They’d cast a dozen more chunks of metal when the unfriendly bastard reappeared. “Right, shirker,” he said to Guyen, “put that down and go find Scaaco. The smithy’s short-staffed and there’s loading to be done.” Guyen scowled. The foreman laughed. “What, you gonna miss the place? Don’t worry, still be plenty of metal to pour when you get back.” He growled. “Get to it. Now.”

  Guyen nodded to Yemelyan. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Don’t be if you can help it,” he replied sourly.

  Guyen made his way gratefully outside into the cool air and joined Scaaco, a typical foundryman—big, scarred, and unfriendly. The scrag informed him the militia were on their way to take delivery of a batch of swords. And that he had a bad back. They skirted the main building, passing the smithy, heading for the loading bay. The foundry was vast, the principal metalworks in the north. As well as casting steel, they made weapons—blades and gun parts—and ironworks for the shipyard.

  A single white mare waited patiently inside the main gate, hitched to a cart, her nose in a hay bag. A few dozen swords lay piled up, ready to be loaded. Scaaco touched the small of his back, face screwed up at some supposed pain, and leaned up against the wall. He took out his pipe and pointed at the cargo.

  Suppressing the urge to start a fight, Guyen went to begin loading. He took a sabre from its scabbard, testing the weight. The metal contained numerous imperfections, they’d stolen dozens better from dead Sendali army rankers when they were kids, learning how to defend themselves from the Unbound, secretly hoping to use one against a drunk redcoat late at night. Still, it was sharp enough and Scaaco wasn’t looking, too busy engrossed in his tabac. Perhaps you should cut the bastard’s head off, he thought. Get the timing just right and you might make a smoke ring. But then, such artistry probably wouldn’t go down well with the foreman.

  He threw the sword in the cart, hating himself. They’d probably use it to cut down his countrymen.

  Ten minutes later, all the weapons loaded, a small party rode in through the gate—red jackets, brown riding boots, sword pommels glinting—the militia. They were pristine compared to him and Scaaco, who more resembled chimneysweeps. One of the cadets was familiar—the one with the arrogant sneer who’d picked them up that first day. What was his name? Rossi?

  They dismounted, and the others disappeared inside the administration block with Scaaco, leaving Rossi tending the horses.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he sneered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Working, what does it look like?”

  “You’ve been assigned?” His eyes went to the tattooed anvil, visible and healed well.

  “What’s it to you?” The damn symbol was detestable, a leper’s mark. Most Sendalis had either long hair or high collars to cover them. He’d buy a new shirt soon, one which would spare his embarrassment.

  “This place suits you,” Rossi crowed. “Rather you than me though, eh?”

  “If you say so.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Well, I do say so.” He walked around the cart. “You load this, did you? Doesn’t look very secure.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  He grunted a contemptuous laugh, unsheathing his sword, then with a quick glance over at the administration block, slashed the horse’s tether. “You should have tied this animal better, Krellen.” He smacked her rear with the flat of his blade. She took off, dragging the cart after her, weapons clattering onto the road.

  Guyen swore. “Fucking arsehole.”

  Rossi grinned.

  The foreman came rushing out with Scaaco, closely followed by the militia captain and his lieutenants. He threw his hands up in disgust. “Right, Krellen, this is your fault.”

  Bastards. What could he do? There was no point saying anything, no one would believe a refugee foundryman over a well-heeled cadet. He retrieved the horse and cart, the Sendalis watching, Rossi smirking, and reloaded the weapons, passive-aggressive comments about the
incompetence of foreigners ringing in his ears. By the time he’d finished, his head ached and the clamour buzzed. How good it would feel to pick up a blade and bury it in that scrag Rossi’s gut right now.

  The militiamen remounted, one of them getting aboard to drive the cart. They headed out through the gate and Rossi sent back a sarcastic salute.

  Fuck you. Blood rushed. Guyen’s heart missed a beat, clenching in his chest. The cadet cried out, falling back in the saddle. He stared in surprise at the snapped reins in his hand. Guyen laughed, wiping clammy palms on his apron. Toulesh glared.

  What? You have to admit that was funny?

  But the simulacrum wasn’t laughing. The clamour pinged wildly. It wasn’t usually this loud, it had only ever been this distracting once before, aboard the slavers’ ship, just before the thing had split in two.

  No, that wasn’t you, you’re being paranoid.

  He commanded Toulesh to return. The simulacrum folded in. The clamour returned to its usual high-pitched whine.

  At the end of their shift, they went to see the foreman, only to be told they still weren’t getting paid. “A month in lieu,” he informed them.

  Well, fuck him too. Toulesh buzzed around the man, seeing in vain if he could sniff out a simulacrum. He couldn’t, of course, the bitter old bastard would be well past having one.

  Back at Zial’s, they again went through the ritual of laying the extra place for Kiani, and sat down to eat marinated lamb served with figs and rice. At least Zial and Father had been paid, and none-too-poorly judging by the expensive bottle of port they’d already sunk several goblets of.

  “We had a visitor today,” Nazhedra said.

  “You did, woman?” Zial glanced up, wiping gravy from his beard with a piece of bread.

  “Yes, husband. Strange it was. There we were, wondering how cold and wet you must be up on the dam in this weather, when that croc of shite Knaxti knocks on the door to ask why you’re not at work.”

  Zial exchanged a look with Father. “Change of plans today. We had business to take care of.”

  “You’d better not test me, Zial. If you lose that job—”

  “Bah! It pays shit anyway. Don’t you worry, me and Olvar have ideas to make real dough.”

  Mother raised an eyebrow. Nazhedra huffed. “You won’t go taking risks with their future.” She nodded sharply at the three girls. The atmosphere was icy. “What kind of business?”

  “Men’s business.”

  She rose to clear the plates, glaring at her husband, but said no more.

  It was a relief to finish eating and step into the yard for some air. Guyen perched on the trunk, the oil lantern for light, playing absentmindedly with the fake coin. Could they prise out the trunk’s gold inlays to sell? If only he could get his knife underneath, but he’d tried that to no avail. He tossed the coin up and landed it on the back of his hand. It lay heads-up. He did it again with the same result. He tried several more times. It would only ever land heads. It made no sense—even a weighted coin should land both sides some of the time. He spun it on the trunk instead. It revolved for ages then slowly died, wobbled, tipped over and landed heads-up again. He turned it over, staring at the harps side. Toulesh drifted away to sit on the low wall opposite.

  He spun it again. Land on harps, he thought, gazing into the blur as the coin strobed between the two images. He felt for it, willing it, and the clamour rose, breaking out into those weird harmonics again. The coin flickered. He blinked. What the—

  The clamour was silent. The coin lay harps-side-up.

  It was cold. Toulesh was far away.

  The thing about simulacra is you don’t miss them till they’re gone. They’re so much a part of you, you take them for granted. Most of the time you don’t notice them at all—when you’re sleeping or concentrating they usually fold in so tight as to be invisible—but to lose one altogether, it felt like losing your soul.

  Mouth dry, he sent a desperate summons. Toulesh returned a second later, folding in tight. Calm descended. He examined the coin, spinning it again. It landed harps. He tried several more times. It would only land harps now. Was he going mad?

  A noise broke the spell. Yemelyan stood there. “You all right, brother?”

  Guyen stumbled to his feet. “I think so.”

  Yemelyan glanced at the trunk. He beamed. “How did you do that?”

  Guyen whipped round. The trunk had popped open, a thin crack now visible. “I don’t—” Suddenly excited, he bent down and lifted the lid. The chest was lined in purple velvet, and contained an unexpected treasure.

  Yemelyan groaned. “Books? Is that all?”

  The Book of Talents

  The Writ of the Six Hundred

  Translation from the Sedari Tablets, circa hg.80

  In repentance, the Council commands the Six Hundred to combat this Affliction we have unleashed upon the world, this plague of death and madness. Through our misdemeanour did we create our unseen foe, so must we strive to defeat it.

  NOTA:

  The six hundred Bindmasters lived from the Turn (hg.0) until the death of the last Bindmaster circa hg.178. According to legend, it was they who unwittingly let Faze energy (the unseen foe) into the world when they imprisoned the earth’s divine spirit in the Layer. This Layer was filled with every possible version of every thing, animate and inanimate alike, to be called forth at a Bindmaster’s will.

  S.G.

  7

  River of Portent

  As the weeks rolled by, life in Sendal only became more difficult. And it mainly came down to coin. Mother took sewing work, but it was pin money, and Father wasted most of his pay on liquor. The foundry had still provided no wages, docking a month’s pay in advance for getting into a fight on the foundry floor. It had been impossible not to react to the scrag’s bigoted insults. Bust lips all round and the certain knowledge they were both idiots, as well as slaves. If not for the charity of a Krellen merchants’ fund, they’d surely have been out on the streets—Zial certainly couldn’t afford to keep them.

  The lack of coin only added to the tense atmosphere back at the cottage, a mood none improved by another visit from labour master Knaxti, who complained Father and Zial had not shown up for work two days straight. The following evening, the next-but-one cottage burned down. The local youths watched on, smirking. What did they care if they made a few more Krellens homeless? It all added to the stress, and a growing unease.

  The only good thing, apart from the nifty cocked hat Evgeniya had sewn him, had been the trunk and its contents—five glorious books, one particularly striking example making up for the loss of his previous collection by itself. Beautifully bound in rich brown leather, illustrations adorned the front cover—people at work in the rooms of a tenement block, a cutaway cross-section revealing soldiers, whores, judges, actors, and plenty more mystery occupations. Embossed silver lettering on the spine entitled it The Book of Talents. True to its name, its subject was indeed the Talents, complex tables listing the required skills for each Sendali Assignment. Interspersed passages of folklore, myths and legends added colour. It was the finest book Guyen had ever owned. Fearing Father would make him sell it, he persuaded Yemelyan to keep the discovery to himself.

  However, more fascinating than the book was the trunk. It was Yemelyan who’d worked it out. Get the coin to land heads-up again, and the trunk relocked itself. There was no click. Globes! There wasn’t even a lock as far as they could tell, yet the lid wouldn’t budge. When Guyen had managed to get the coin to land on harps again, the trunk had opened once more. He’d experimented that whole first evening, locking and unlocking it, until his head had filled with clamour and he’d become too tired to concentrate. How the magic trick worked was a mystery, but it couldn’t be a coincidence both trunk and coin had come from the dead magician.

  For some reason, the silver would only change which side it landed when it was near the trunk, the rest of the time it was stuck one way or the other. And Yemelyan couldn’
t get it to switch at all, a peculiarity as perplexing as it was delicious, brotherly competitiveness being what it was. As they trudged back along the clifftop after a hard day at the foundry, Yemelyan tossed the coin in the air, trapping it on the back of his hand. He swore, passing it over. “This thing’s cursed, I reckon.”

  Guyen slipped it in his boot. “It’s probably me that’s cursed.”

  “Meet a witch down a dark alley, did you?”

  “I must have, my luck’s not getting any better. It was probably my fault that poor sod died.” The sod to whom he referred was the unfortunate foundryman crushed by a runaway cart in the furnace that afternoon. It would have been easier to feel sorry for the man had he not been one of the worst to rip into them on a daily basis.

  Yemelyan offered a friendly slap on the back. “You couldn’t have known the brake wasn’t working.”

  “Everything messes up around me these days.”

  “You’re imagining it.”

  “I don’t think I am.” The sound of cheering came on the rise and fall of the wind. “What’s that noise?” Guyen asked.

  Yemelyan cupped his ear. “Flags?”

  Further up the road, a hexagonal-shaped arena sat in a natural bowl in the cliffs. They’d passed the hexium, as it was known, every day on the way to the foundry, getting progressively more curious about what happened inside. According to the foundrymen’s constant banter, Moth Canyon, the local Flags team, were a pathetic bunch who didn’t deserve to wear the colours, not that it stopped them incessantly discussing the sport—Flags was a national obsession, and Assignment to it the highest honour.

  As they neared, the hubbub grew louder. Annoyingly, due to the high wall, the only feature visible from the outside was a chrome time teller set on a high tower. Its single hand showed the match three-quarters spent.

  “Want to try and get in?” Guyen asked.