A few minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Mist opened it to a plainly dressed young woman about their age, long brown hair tied rigidly at her back. “Fetch some cordial, please, Ismela,” Mist said.
“Yes, Mistress.” The glassy-eyed girl’s accent had the lilt of the slums about it. She curtseyed awkwardly and withdrew.
Guyen raised an eyebrow. “Mistress?” Mist didn’t seem the type to rely on the formalities of such proper address.
She shrugged. “She’s halfbound. They prefer it.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.
Guyen wandered over to the window to join Toulesh. Outside, the storm was at its height, energy thick. Flashes of red lightning silhouetted the sweeping Arch of Culture high above the plaza, painting black ribbons on the electrified concourse beneath. Every time a bolt hit, Toulesh blurred and distorted, constantly remaking himself. It was a bizarre sight. Meanwhile, the clamour whined like a ringing crystal goblet. There was no reason to think the storm a threat, but every crack of thunder carried a spike of fear.
On the other side of the plaza, Chapel House made for a ghoulish sight in the storm, window recesses jumping out at every red flash. Devere and Jal would be drunk as judges by now, her putting up with his tirades, him showering her with abuse. High above, another burst of crimson light tore the sky in two. Bang. It grounded on a temple spire on the far side of Culture’s precinct.
He turned back. “Nice globe,” he said, nodding towards the dresser.
Mist considered him. “Yeah, I got that instead of payment for a job, kinda.” She winked. “It’s good for a girl to know the lay of the land, don’t you think?”
“I do think.” He went over and gave it a spin. It was a perfect representation of the planet, one side just ocean cursed with untameable winds and high seas. No one had ever sailed far enough to know what was out there, or if they had, they’d never returned to draw the charts.
The door rattled again. Guyen opened it to Ismela, returned with a tray of goblets and a jug of pink cordial. She shuffled in, eyes on her feet, and placed the tray on the occasional table. “Anything else, Mistress?” she asked.
Mist waved a dismissive hand. “No, thank you, Ismela.”
The halfbound curtsied then retreated backwards from the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Mist poured two drinks, offered one, and took a seat in the upright next to the window.
The cordial was pleasingly cold in the muggy night, a damson or cherry flavour. “Don’t you feel bad for her?” Guyen said after a sip.
Mist considered him. “Who, Ismela? Why would I? Compared to most halfbounds, they have it easy here.”
“So that makes it all right to exploit them?”
“Serving’s not exploitation, Greens, it’s a decent job. You should go see what happens to girls like her in the off-license brothels if you want to know what exploitation looks like.”
“I don’t think I shall.”
“No, well.” She emptied her goblet and clinked it down on the tray. “We should go out.”
He fixed her with a suspicious frown. “What are you talking about? You just told me I couldn’t go back in this weather, remember?”
“Ah, but I know a little place in the artisan district. Best rakha in the city, and we can avoid the storm.”
Avoid it? That sounded unlikely, but the mention of the exotic liquor so good at dimming his worries, now that was of interest. He grunted. “Rakha, eh?”
“Indeed. Are you a convert too?”
He sighed, pulling his Pledge out from under his shirt. The stone Hielsen had called the godsight again felt unnaturally warm in his hand. “What about this?” he said. “I can’t get caught breaking curfew.”
She snorted. “Ha! I knew you had no balls.”
He frowned. She was probably messing with him, but the dig was irritating, nonetheless. “I can’t get into any trouble.”
“What if no one found out?” she said.
“How wouldn’t they?”
“Ah…” Her lips curled in a mischievous grin. She went to the dresser, unlocked the top drawer, and withdrew a crystalline blue box. She held it out as if presenting a platter.
“Your jewellery?” Guyen queried.
“Only certain jewellery.” She handed it over.
His fingertips tingled. Was it made from quartz? He lifted the lid. A dimly glowing black stone lay inside, inscribed Monrovia.o.CUL. Her Pledge. Why was it pulsing red like that? Was he imagining it? He looked up. “Why aren’t you wearing this?”
“I like to give it a rest, once in one.”
“What do you mean, give it a rest?” he gibed. “You’re not supposed to take them off.”
Her eyes glinted. “You’re not supposed to do a lot of things around here.”
He stroked the box’s rough surface, static numbing his fingertips. “What does this thing do?”
“It’s called a Mimic. It keeps the Pledge in balance with its twin, even when you’re not wearing it.”
“Twin?” He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know how these things work, don’t you?”
“Well, I meant to find out.”
She offered a scolding look. “Only an idiot would wear something they don’t understand.”
He grunted a laugh. “I’m an idiot then.”
“Ha! My favourite kind of Krellen.” She shook her head despairingly. “Somewhere there’s another stone, matches this one. They keep them at the tracking station. They can tell where you are at all times.”
“Who can?”
“The Watchers.”
Watchers? Well, they sounded ominous. Why was it so important for the Devotions to know where everyone was? He nodded at the box. “Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift from my uncle.”
“Why does it make the stone glow red like that?”
She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She couldn’t see that? Was it some kind of Faze signature? He’d best drop the subject—she’d only think him insane. “Ignore me, tired eyes,” he muttered. He went to remove his chain. “May I?”
She beamed. “Course, that’s the point.”
He dropped his Pledge in the box. It pulsed, glowing with the red nether light in time with hers. He closed the lid. Now that he noticed it, the box pulsed with a dim light too, this one blue but at a similar frequency to the stones. He opened the lid again, half-expecting that by some magic trick the Pledges would have vanished. They hadn’t, and with the lid open, the box no longer pulsed with the unnatural glow. “How do you know this thing works?” he asked.
“Faith,” she said flatly.
He couldn’t help a wry smile. “So you could be anywhere,” he considered. “As long as your Pledge is in here, they think you’re where it is?”
She grinned. “Yes, the Watchers think I’m very boring.” You had to give it to the girl—she was resourceful. Her uncle sounded like a useful man to know too. She picked up her jacket. “So, now you’re free as, where you gonna take me?”
“Hmm.” He stroked his chin. “I hear there’s a nice little place in the artisan district.”
“Climb down there?” Guyen repeated. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”
They stood in the basement under the residence, a deep and very black hole before them. Mist poked her flaring torch down into it, revealing jagged rock walls and a rusty ladder. “There’s worse things than the dark,” she said.
“The things that live in it, you mean?”
She laughed. “Tough, aren’t you, for a Krellen? Come on, it’s easy.” She stepped onto the ladder and climbed down with the ease of a monkey, taking the light with her.
Once she’d descended far enough that the torch wouldn’t burn him, he followed. The iron creaked under his weight, the bars cold on his skin as the temperature dropped and a sense of unease grew. After twenty feet, the ladder came to an abrupt end. Mist called up that he should find handholds in the wall. He managed the last several
feet by touch and dropped down beside her in a tunnel.
He took a deep breath, peering into the near-blackness as the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. The floor was uneven, scattered with loose chunks of rock. Thick oak braces, powdery to the touch, supported the ceiling. The flaming torchlight reached only a few feet in either direction. Something scurried by, brushing his ankle. He jumped, banging his head on a low overhang. “Fuck,” he exclaimed.
Mist turned the torch on him. “Welcome to the catacombs, Greens. Watch out for the ceiling.”
He rubbed his head. It was dead down here, the excitement of the storm dulled apart from the distant howls of prodigal gusts. For whatever reason, Toulesh refused to fold out. An acrid odour like rotting meat hung in the air. “What’s that smell?” he asked.
“Dunno, have you washed recently?”
“Actually, I’m pretty clean for a Krellen.”
She grinned at his mock offence, white teeth exaggerated in the flickering light. “Maybe it’s the dead,” she said. “Back in ye olden times, the city folk buried their departed down here, during plagues, sieges, that kind of thing.”
He shuddered. “How do you know about this place?”
“Maps mainly. City architects recorded a lot of the tunnels during work on the sewers, and I picked up scraps over the years, even mapped sections myself. They go on for miles. In some places you can see old architecture, like from past civilisations.”
“You spend a lot of time down here, do you?”
She grunted. “It was a convenient route for a young girl who wanted to be out exploring when she was meant to be tucked up in bed.”
The thought of a little Mist strutting around these deathly tunnels on her own—now that was amusing. She was fearless. Guyen pulled his shirt collar over his mouth and they continued along the passageway past adjoining tunnels too narrow to enter. Mist took the turns confidently, checking marks at intersections every so often. He licked his lips, mouth dry, throat scratchy. Without the girl, he’d be lost down here forever.
They passed giant cobwebs and rat’s nests, and yellowing marble slabs set in the tunnel wall to protect the ancient skulls and dry bones. After what seemed like an eternity, they came to a gate barring the way up a rising passageway. Rainwater streamed down the sides of the slope, draining into cracks in the rock floor. As well as the mortice lock halfway up, two thick bolts secured the gate from the other side.
Mist extended the torch. “Hold this, will ya?”
He took it, and she produced a cloth roll from inside her jacket. A set of lock picks. She poked the lock with one. That she would carry such a kit was no surprise considering her assignment to Intrigue. Thievery was probably a required skill.
“Why are there bolts on the outside?” he asked. “Seems pointless if you can just reach through and slide them across.”
She shrugged. “All the gates have them, ones I’ve seen anyways.” The lock clicked.
They slid the bolts and the gate swung open with a low, rusty creak. Mist relocked it and they headed up the passageway, the sound of trickling water growing louder as the tunnel walls turned to brick. Dim light glimmered up ahead, and several steps later, they entered a cellar piled with barrels. The air had a sweetness like fermenting yeast about it.
“What is this place?” Guyen whispered.
“Almington’s,” Mist said. “Best brewery in the city. Their Knights Ale has won awards.” The name was familiar—tavern owners liked to advertise it in their windows. They climbed a staircase and found themselves in a large space dominated by two massive vats, each the height of three or four men. Gas hissed from the tops and white froth leaked down the sides, collecting in sticky puddles on the floor. Mist nodded towards a door and they let themselves into a yard.
The inky rain still fell, but no ice, and the thick, explosive atmosphere was fresher, the occasional rumble of thunder now only a background distraction. They walked a few blocks using the canopies and frontages of furniture makers, haberdashers, pipe sellers and other artisans for cover, and came to a small inn. Raindrops pinged a signboard painted with a picture of a silver lion. Smoke, laughter and music poured out into the street. Mist pushed through the door.
Silver’s Den was busy tonight, and not short on atmosphere. Oil lanterns dangled from the low ceiling, enlivening the varnished wooden panelling, while an old woman enlivened the clientele with a clanking rendition of a traditional folk melody on her harpola. It was nothing like as uplifting as the whispering flute which haunted the Makers, wherever that came from, but poorly played music was better than no music at all.
Mist exchanged pleasantries with several patrons, while several others gave her a wide berth, and they ordered rakha at the bar. The dark-skinned proprietor, Lyla, a woman not averse to brightly coloured floral patterns, provided lemons and limes for the rakha jug, along with pork scratchings, and they took a table on the quieter side of the bar, away from the strangled cats’ guts passing for music.
The rakha had an earthy quality like bitter black tea, which worked perfectly with the lime, and somewhere into the third jug it took effect, in the good way strong liquor makes you forget yourself. For the first time in a long time, this was proper relaxation.
“Do you have any family?” Guyen asked once conversation about the strange weather had waned. He tried not to slur, over-enunciating to compensate.
Mist giggled at the resultant drawl. “Just my uncle.”
“What does he do?”
“Works for the Devotions.”
“Really, which one?” Guyen said.
“Dunno, all of them.”
He offered an appraising look. Was she being deliberately obtuse? “What’s his Assignment?”
She gave the jug a deliberate stir with the provided stick. “Not sure.”
“Well, that all sounds very mysterious.”
She grunted, looking over at the bar. For whatever reason, the topic sounded like a dead end.
He tried again. “So where did you grow up?”
“Here in Carmain,” she replied.
“And when did you know you’d be assigned to Intrigue?”
“Uncle prepared me from an early age.”
Guyen raised an eyebrow. “For what, exactly?”
She threw a lemon up in the air. It landed neatly in two halves either side of the rakha jug. She flicked her switchblade closed. A man at the next table looked away, keen not to attract attention.
“So, you’re an assassin or something, are you?” Guyen said.
She laughed. “I’m an expert in fruit salad. Make a good punch at parties.”
“You ever hurt anyone with that thing?”
She looked offended. “I told you, it’s for peeling fruit.”
“And slicing it?”
“Of course.” She broke into song. “Slicing and dicing, cutting and rutting, mincing while they’re wincing.” The rakha was having an effect on her too.
Guyen stole a furtive glance about the bar. The other patrons vehemently ignored them. He threw a scratching up in the air, catching it on his tongue. Toulesh copied the action, top half protruding from the table top like a disembodied man. He was fading with the inebriation. “What happened to your parents?” Guyen probed.
Mist’s expression turned cold, the sparkle gone from her eyes. “My father fell to the maddenings,” she said.
He hesitated. This didn’t sound like an avenue for jovial banter, but it wasn’t a statement you could leave hanging either. “He was Unbound?” he prompted.
“No, he lost his Binding.”
How was that possible? “I’m sorry,” he managed, a spike of guilt biting. Yemelyan suffered a similar fate, rotting hundreds of miles away. While you sit here playing this insidious Devotions game. “What happened?” he asked. He had to know.
Mist’s eyes narrowed. “He had an enchanter, that’s what happened.”
Enchanters were personal Faze devices. Rialto had been working on one in the
studio. “Aren’t they supposed to strengthen your Binding?” Guyen said.
She scowled. “Uncle says it helped him at first—made him faster in a fight, quiet as the breeze. He was one of the highest ranked Intrigues in the Devotions, you know—” She trailed off, staring into the middle-distance. The harpola player finished her tune. The patrons banged on the tables for more.
“And?” Guyen pressed.
She glanced back. “After a while, Uncle says, he got the hallucinations, then the fear. Eventually, he lost his mind and slit my mother’s throat. The Devotions hanged him.”
Globes! What a tale. Guyen suppressed a wince, trying instead for a sympathetic smile.
She blinked, a tear dropping from her long eyelashes. “And there you go, the unhappy beginnings of Emeldra Monrovia,” she sniffed. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’d want to associate with a Bindcrafter after that?”
He touched her hand across the table. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that, idiot.” She pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, smudging her mascara. Damn, if she didn’t look even more sultry now. Where had the happy girl gone? Couldn’t that spark return?
“Surely you don’t blame Bindcraft?” Guyen said. “Think of all the good it does.”
She snorted. “It’s messed up, if you ask me. I hope you’ve never made one of those things.”
Enchanters were something he still hadn’t tackled, they looked much too complicated. The one Rialto had been working on for the Merchant High Lord was an intricate piece, a small metal orb containing quartz specifically matched to the High Lord’s blood, along with what Rialto had referred to as a timing stone. Apparently, they worked on a similar principle to the helms worn by Flags players, but in reverse. Rather than weakening the Binding as the helms did, enchanters stimulated and strengthened it. Milkins Volume 1 had nothing to say about them. Perhaps they were covered later in the series.
Mist hiccupped, breaking the air of gloom by promptly losing her balance and dropping her half-full mug. It shattered on the ground. A yappy dog bounded over from behind the bar and lapped up the spilt liquid. Lyla shooed it away, shooting them both dirty looks.
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