Rialto had splashed out on a bottle of Jorganmeist, an expensive port, to celebrate Guyen’s first successful attempt at making an enchanter. He’d crafted it for a High Lady from one of the Houses. It hadn’t been so difficult—her blood had energised with Faze under the eyescope once he’d shaved the timing stone right. This was all good. Maintaining his persona as the dutiful student was paramount until he had a chance to make the patch serum. Then he’d disappear. Worryingly though, after five weeks, and despite a second message to Mother, there’d been no news from home. He could do nothing without Yemelyan’s blood, even if he could find the stem powder he needed for the serum, which so far he hadn’t been able to.
It all added to the stress of his curse. Every day was a battle, the hallucinations more vivid, his ability to control them slipping. If only he understood Faze, perhaps it would allay his fears, but there was little chance of that. On top of everything, personal security had become a worry too. Returning one afternoon to his room, his shirt had been refolded, and his satchel left open. Felix had provided new bedding after the incident with the rat’s heads, but with no evidence of forced entry, had refused a change of lock. Barricading the door with the writing table became a nightly ritual.
Part of him wondered whether he might not just be suffering extreme paranoia brought on by anxiety. What he needed was some relaxation, a spot of fishing down on the Galt perhaps, but all his time was taken keeping Rialto, Selius, Dalrik—the whole damn lot of them—happy.
Something would have to give soon.
It was Bannocksday in the second week of Octamon, and a welcome coolness had descended upon Carmain. Guyen tramped through the Aloja district, the crisp autumn leaves carpeting the pavements crunching satisfyingly underfoot. An opportunity to source the stem powder he needed had presented itself. With stocks running low in the studio, he’d offered to visit chem dealer Draizon on his way to Six Sisters. If anyone knew where you might get stem, he would. Unaware of the ulterior motive, Rialto had provided a list of required supplies and signed his authorisation at the bottom.
Guyen stopped in front of a leatherworker’s. This was the address Moran had provided, but he was after chem, not new boots, much as he needed some. He scratched his head, wondering whether he’d written the address down correctly, then spotted a brown signboard hanging over the entrance to an alleyway—T. H. Draizon—that must be it. He wandered through, and finding a passageway to the right, pushed open the chem dealer’s door. A bright bell tinkled.
He froze. Translucent threads of multi-coloured nether light twisted through the smoky haze. Toulesh hopped agitatedly foot to foot, drawing shapes in the air with his fingers. What was this? More Faze? Unable to blink the effect away, he summoned Toulesh, and the visions fizzled out of existence. A dull orange glow emanated from a sodalamp on the counter before him, behind which sat a man.
“Afternoon to ya,” Draizon said.
“Good afternoon,” Guyen returned, gathering his wits. A taste like rotten eggs caught in the back of his throat. Pots of powders, solutions, and lumps of crystal lay stacked about the dingy shop. All this chem must have affected him, magnifying his sensitivity to Faze somehow. Mercifully, everything seemed normal again, for now. He approached the counter. “I’m from the Bindcraft department at the Gate,” he said, adding as much authority to his tone as he could muster. “We need supplies.” He handed over Rialto’s list.
The Althuisan was a stocky fellow, long, tangled hair framing a dark face scarred and pitted from gods-knew-what chemicals over the years. “Ay, I have this,” he drawled, “and this—” His finger slid further down the items, and he looked up, narrowing his eyes. “Stem powder? What ya ask me that for?”
Guyen shrugged innocently. He’d added it to the bottom of the list, mimicking Rialto’s handwriting.
“He know I don’t stock that,” Draizon said. “Sulphurous, Beramide I provide, best quality, but I not trade in dark elements. This some Devotions test, ay?”
He looked worried. This was a new feeling. Is he afraid of you? Just because you’re a Devotee? Guyen projected annoyance, tone brusque. “What about the black market?”
“I tell ya, everything right as rain here.” His eyes flicked briefly under the counter.
Guyen pursed his lips. “You know, Bindcrafters are legally entitled to use any element they want to?”
“Yeah,” Draizon sniffed, “but there’s good reasons not to touch that stuff.”
“So you don’t know anyone who might know where to get some?”
“I not know no one, Maker. Draizon keep to himself.” Damn. Either he didn’t know where to get hold of it, or was too afraid to say. Draizon handed the list back. “I send order tomorrow. For available items.”
Guyen suppressed a curse. “Well, make sure it’s all there,” he grunted. “That last order you delivered, half of it was missing.”
“Me assure, Maker, Draizon always provide what Draizon paid for.”
The door chimed, and two tinhats entered. They stared suspiciously.
“He with Devotions,” Draizon said. “He just leaving.”
It would have been nice to ask a few more questions, but the prefects seemed jumpy, so he hurried outside. A dead end then, as far as acquiring stem went. Another dealer had a shop in this area somewhere, but there was no time to find it now, Jal Belana’s torments awaited. Skirting Alesmound, he headed north through the theatre district. Posters advertised the latest plays—tales of legendary Primearchs, notable battles, and fantastical stories about wood nymphs and monsters. In the distance, the Arch of Culture poked up over the rooftops. Nerves took hold, they always did before Jal’s sessions, probably because Ariana would be there—so alluring yet depressingly out of reach.
Twenty minutes later, he sat beside Jal in her study, all the usual faces giving him the evils. The fire was roasting, the room confining and stuffy. She was in fine form.
“Today I will tell you of Persuasion,” she said, voice flowing like buttermilk. “If you are to be promoted to Sworns, you must master the discipline.”
“I’m good,” Mist said. “I’ve made an art form out of it.” She flicked open her blade. And the petty aggravations blossom again.
Jal smiled patiently. “Put that away, Emeldra, violence is the lowest form of persuasion.”
She stowed the blade. “I doubt your husband would agree.”
Jal’s eyes hardened. “What do you know of my husband?”
“Only what I hear in the corridors, Jal. That they call him Disappearer.” She hissed the word.
“Don’t test me, Emeldra.”
The atmosphere congealed. Jal smoothed over another smile. They came easy to her, always touching her eyes, never entering them. She stood and went to the mantelpiece, picking up a crystal pyramid sitting on it. She traced its edges with her finger.
“Power is like this pyramid,” she said. “The higher you climb, the less room for advancement there is. And if you want to advance, as I assume you all do, you will have to excel in the subtle arts to persuade those above you to make way.”
This all sounded like the standard drivel, usually ending up in some morally ambiguous lesson. But the game was familiar now. She liked argument for its own sake.
Guyen cleared his throat. “How do you persuade someone to give up the addiction of power?”
The other Ordinates glared, as they always did whenever he spoke—Mist with disgust, Ariana with embarrassment, the others with contempt. But Jal leaned forwards.
“How would you do it, Guyen?”
He hesitated. This was where it got tricky, when he had to give an opinion. “I don’t care for power,” he said, regretting the pathetic response before the words had even left his mouth. Laughter rippled around the room. Damn inbreds!
“Oh, you were doing so well.” Jal patted his leg, heating his cheeks, prompting an indignant glare from Mist. Jal scanned the gathering. “Who else has some suggestions?”
“Play on their greed?
” Jenthyl offered.
Jal nodded. “Good old avarice, so prevalent amongst the powerful. What else?”
“Sexual favours?” Mist said.
Jal ignored her. “Anyone else?”
“Get them drunk?” offered a girl, a Corpus Ordinate.
“Persuasion is little use if it is forgotten by morning, Kayleiya. No, I was thinking of something more reliable. Let me put it another way, what is the strongest emotion?”
“Love,” Ariana said.
“No,” Guyen said. “Fear.”
Ariana scowled.
Jal smiled. “Yes, Guyen, well done. Fear will motivate most to do what you want. And I talk not of blades, Emeldra.”
Mist shrugged. “They work.”
“Yes, but murder will buy you the rope.”
“Only if they catch you.”
Jal tutted. “A slit throat is as subtle as a whore’s makeup. But fear of a slit throat, well, that can be just as effective, and a lot easier to disavow.”
Mist let out an incredulous grunt. “I thought you said violence was the lowest form of persuasion, Jal?”
“Violence and the fear of it are quite different, Emeldra. A distinction too refined for you, perhaps?”
Mist threw back her head and stared contemptuously out through the leaded window. Why did Jal humour her? Surely her patience would run out soon?
Ariana picked up the thread. “But what of those who know no fear, Jal?”
“All fear something, Ariana—ridicule, insanity, loneliness…”
“And what is your fear, Mistress?”
The question seemed to knock her off-balance, but she quickly recovered. “If you must know,” she said, “I’m no fan of bees.”
Mist laughed. “Fluffy little bees? That’s your greatest fear?”
Jal’s expression soured. “I think that is all for today.”
Ariana glanced over. Guyen offered a smile. She looked away.
He returned to the Gate, head aching from the discussions, mood depressed by a row of fresh corpses in the bone cages along Boulevard Alaton. It was the same brutality that batted you about the head at every turn in this city—homeless kids forced into prostitution, leper houses, Scuff dens, press gangs… Toulesh refused to fold in, unable to bear the bleak company. Who could blame him? Still, a man has to eat. Rice and chicken this evening. A decent meal free of incident, then merciful retreat to his room.
He propped himself up in bed with a candle, reading The Book of Talents until he was tired enough to sleep, but when sleep came, it brought terror rather than rest. Ariana thrashed wildly, out of reach, drowning in inky-black waves, then was suddenly replaced by Kiani’s tiny form, calling out, scared and alone. Then the hanging repeated itself in a dismal loop. The scene felt controllable, but whichever decisions he made, the boy always ended up swinging, chest heaving, face red and engorged as he died again and again. Then it was back to his room, a set of grisly instruments in hand, the boy splayed open on the bed.
He awoke in a panic just before dawn on Aylesday, dripping with sweat but icy-cold. Unable to sleep, he dressed in the dark, and took an early morning stroll along the wall with Toulesh to clear his head. After breakfast, he headed for the hexium. Surviving a day lugging, digging and cleaning up horseshit, he was on his way back, cutting through an unfamiliar area of slum tenements and tin-roofed shacks, when he noticed a cloaked figure following him. They’d been tailing him for at least ten minutes, he’d spotted them a while back. He stopped in front of a tannery, peering in through the window till they passed by on the other side of the road, hood up.
Arriving back at the Gate, already jumpy, he found Mist reclining on his bed. She certainly lived up to her name, forming at will, any time, any place. She was unapologetic at the intrusion, insisting with locks like his, he deserved to get broken into more often. Not wishing to appear a paranoid idiot, he didn’t admit he barricaded the door every night.
Using the Mimic and Mist’s knowledge of the catacombs, they could come and go as they pleased. So it was that they found themselves at their usual table in Silver’s Den that evening. Nyra and Tishara sat opposite, the Bindcrafters at last persuaded out for some fun. It would be entertaining to see what they were like after a few drinks. Guyen’s own promise never to touch rakha again had been short-lived. There was a sweet spot, never go past two jugs—that was key. The logic was likely flawed, but getting drunk was the best way to forget your worries.
Lyla served them at the table, delivering a tray carrying three different flavours of rakha, four mugs, and a bowl of scratchings.
“Put it on my tab, Ly,” Guyen joked, offering a cheeky wink.
She threw her head back, laughing. “Ya think ya cute, Maker? Or maybe ya think me halfbound?” She held out her hand.
He feigned offence. “What do you have to do to get a tab around here anyway?”
“I let ya have one when ya can grow moustache, boy.”
The others laughed, and he joined in. It was a good comeback. He handed over a sixmark. That still left a few marks from his pay at the Outlaws. Lyla returned to the bar as the harpola player struck up a clunky rendition of a familiar folk tune.
“When Children Sleep,” Tishara observed, nodding at the musician. “She’s not bad.”
Guyen raised an eyebrow. “You think?” Surely a worse version of the mournful music couldn’t exist? Not one that would leave a man’s guts in his belly.
“It’s a difficult instrument,” she said, sipping her rakha.
“If you say so.” What made music good was a mystery, but the bad kind was easy to spot. He sat back, finishing his mug, taking in the atmosphere and the clientele drinking around them.
“Shouldn’t you two be back at the Devotions?” Tishara asked. “I thought you had a curfew.”
“Technically,” Guyen said.
Nyra glanced nervously at the door. “So why aren’t the wardens on your back? You are wearing your Pledge, aren’t you?”
Guyen patted his chest. “Of course.”
Mist sniggered. Nyra locked her with a suspicious frown.
The Bindcrafters were excellent company, and Tishara in particular seemed to enjoy the banter and the effects of the rakha, the craze for which had passed both her and Nyra by. It was good to see a smile extend to her eyes for a change. She kept herself to herself back at the Gate and had no discernible friends. But if she was lonely, she hid it well with her sunny disposition.
Guyen nodded at the jug. “So, what’s the verdict then?”
She considered. “I’m not sure about the taste, but the effect is—” She hiccupped. “Perhaps I’ve had enough.”
“Nonsense,” Mist said. “When was the last time you had a night out?”
“A while ago,” she admitted.
Mist picked up the jug. “In that case, I insist you drink more booze!”
Tishara laughed. “Just a little then.”
Several jugs later, Nyra and Tishara made their excuses and headed back to the Gate. It was too early to call it a night, and Mist’s offer to carry on drinking in her rooms was preferable to being alone, so buying some pork scratchings and a flask’s worth of rakha, they wandered back to Almington’s. Mist made quick work of the lax security and they found their way into the catacombs.
Familiar rocks and detritus passed by on either side. Despite the inebriation, the mental map of the worst obstructions held firm. Progress seemed quick, but it was probably the rakha affecting time perception. If only it could affect your sense of smell too—the tunnels still stank of rotting meat.
“So, you’re big into Flags these days?” Mist said up ahead. Her voice had no echo down here.
“Actually, it’s a fun sport,” Guyen grunted. “You’d like the violence.”
She snorted. “What do you do down there?”
“Oh, you know, cleaning shit.”
“Isn’t that what you do for Rialto?”
He huffed. “It’s not all I do.” He took a few more s
teps. “What do you know about the Flags Network?”
She considered. “Lots of meatheads. Too much money. Imbecilic supporters. Why do you ask?”
“I think there’s something dodgy going on down there. Did you know they have hexiums in every major city in Sendal?”
“Really?”
“Yes. And they have their fingers in all sorts of pies.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me, they put anything in those things.”
Guyen sighed. “I’m talking about metaphorical pies.”
“Oh.” She stopped. “I wouldn’t go digging around. Some secrets are best left buried.”
“Why, what do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you tell me if you did know something?”
“No.”
“I see.” How much could he really trust her? Unknown. But he needed an opinion. “I might already have been digging a bit,” he muttered.
She poked the torch in his face. “Why? What have you been up to?”
“Delivering information.”
“Who to?”
“His name’s Dasuza.”
Mist huffed. “Scrawny type? Nasty spots?”
“That sounds like the fellow. Why, do you know him?”
She grunted. “You could say that. What has he got you doing?”
“Spying on Rialto.”
“That doesn’t sound like your scene, Greens.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Espionage can get ugly. And you’re soft.” She set off again.
He followed. “I am not soft.”
“How many fights have you ever had?”
“Enough.”
“What about weapons? Can you use a blade?”
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