Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “I’m rusty, but I can parry a strike and dodge around a bit.”

  “Dodge around a bit?” She laughed. “There’s shady people at the Devotions. If they find out you’re passing on sensitive information to the Flags Network, they’ll come for you. Then you’ll be sorry.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Really?” She whipped round, face maniacal in the torchlight. Cold steel touched his throat. He reached for his blade. Damn! Where is it?

  She grinned, lowering the knife. His knife. She offered it hilt-first. “Still think you’re streetwise?” she chimed.

  “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “No, well, that’s usually the way for victims of senseless violence. Which is what you can expect if you go messing in Devotions business.”

  “I’ll take what’s coming then,” he retorted, all drunk bravado.

  With a disapproving shake of the head, she turned and continued along the tunnel. Several minutes later, they came to the passageway leading to the residence. She pulled up. “Beggars! What’s happened here?”

  The way was blocked, dust heavy in the air. A rockfall. Damn, they’d have been buried alive if they’d come along a few minutes earlier. Guyen took a slug of rakha, taking in the flaking ceiling. “I knew these tunnels weren’t safe,” he groused. “It’s a deathtrap.”

  “It’s bloody annoying, that’s what it is,” she muttered. She sighed. “Oh well, there’s always another route down here. Let’s try this way.” She squeezed past, heading back the way they’d come, and switched direction down an unfamiliar tunnel. Another gate appeared, again locked and bolted from the other side. As usual, she made quick with her picks and they emerged into a dank, cavernous space. White marble flickered yellow in the torchlight. A crypt?

  “Where are we?” Guyen whispered.

  She waved the torch at various stone slabs for a better look. “Bed chambers for the dead. Entombed Culturalists. We must be under the House of Conquerors.”

  He shuddered. The cold, white-marble temple sat beside the river in Six Sisters’ grounds, he’d encountered it a few weeks back. It appeared to adhere to no specific denomination, as far as he’d been able to make out—doubly creepy—faith was a thing to respect in people, even if he had none himself, but a temple without a god was just downright suspicious. He caught a sound. It reverberated dully around the chamber like a monotone drone. “Can you hear that?” he asked.

  “Sounds like chanting,” Mist said.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Guyen suggested. “Find another tunnel?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know any other routes into Sisters. Keep ‘em peeled. We’ll be all right.” She headed up some steps. He staggered after her, dead drunk, Toulesh long gone. The chanting grew louder. What if they got caught in here? Oh well, in for a drucket. Mist extinguished the torch and a dull glow appeared at the top of the steps. They crept upwards.

  The temple flickered in dim oil light, huge pillars supporting a vaulted roof suggested by vague, prancing shadows. Statues and busts lined the edges. Stalls filled the nave. Guyen stole a look around a pillar. The source of the chanting revealed—a dozen figures in white cloaks kneeling in front of the altar. Echelista. A figure stood over them, wielding a knife. He or she—it was too dark to see—pulled up their sleeve, drew the blade across their arm, and processed along the line, pausing over each kneeler in turn.

  Guyen’s breath caught. Surely they’d be spotted, his too-loud beating heart had traitorous intentions. This had to be one of those banned Echelista ceremonies people talked about. They wouldn’t welcome uninvited guests.

  “What are they doing?” he whispered as the chanting intensified.

  “Fortifying,” Mist replied. “One’s dripping blood in the others’ eyes.”

  “In their eyes?”

  “Yep. They think it strengthens the Binding.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She shrugged. “Looking for immortality, aren’t they? Half of them probably still tuck up with a simulacrum every night.”

  She’d never mentioned simulacra before. No one did. Guyen caught her eye. “And that would be bad, would it?” he whispered.

  “Do they look like children?”

  “I still have mine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do, normally, when I’m not drunk.”

  “I can never tell when you’re joking, Greens.”

  He let it go. “I wonder who’s under the hoods,” he murmured. One of the figures glanced back as if they’d heard a noise.

  Mist pulled him further behind the pillar. “That way,” she hissed, pointing across the nave to an open side door. “Keep low.” She ducked down behind a stall and edged towards the exit. Guyen followed, breathing a sigh of relief as they made it outside into a cloister, also lined with shadowy statues. He glugged more rakha, the gravel path crunching loud underfoot, and the main gate appeared in front of them. A taller statue looked down.

  “Gal de Farari,” Mist said, looking up at the figure. “Remember, he came up at discourse last week.” Ah yes. The last Culture Prime. He’d died after a fall from the top of Chapel House some years previously. Displacement, Jal had charmingly called it. A door slammed. Mist grabbed his arm. They hurried through the gate. Thoughts turned to her couch.

  They crossed the Agora, a three-acre ceremonial square adjoining the House of Conquerors. It was good to leave the dark temple behind—cults like Echelista messed with your mind, the less you saw, the better off you were. The horizon wobbled, and halfway across the square, walking gave way to staggering along in diagonals. Mist made a humorous attempt to push him over. He pushed back. “Stop! I’m trying to walk straight,” he complained.

  “You don’t walk right at the best of times,” she snorted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You plod like a camel.”

  “Only when I’ve got the hump.”

  Mist giggled. “You’re funny! Come on, this way.” She cut across some scrubland. This had better be a shortcut. An indistinct path weaved through tall grass, and they approached a copse—a circle of drooping elms. Mist stopped at the treeline, raising a hand.

  “What?” Guyen said. He could really do with lying down about now.

  She cupped a hand to her ear.

  Breeze whispered in the leaves. The distant hum of the city.

  Then he heard it too—rasping, wheezing breaths. A person?

  “Come on,” Mist hissed. She stepped into the foliage. Caution ringing a muffled warning, the rakha firmly in charge, Guyen followed.

  Silvera shone down, her ghostly shimmer illuminating a clearing. A dark shadow occupied its centre—a hole in the ground too wide to be a well. Nearing it, a low brickwork ledge was revealed, a collar for the hole. The wheezing emanated from within.

  “What is this?” Guyen whispered.

  “A hole,” Mist said.

  “I can see that, Peeler.” He peered in. It was too dark to make anything out. “Strike a light, will you?” he grunted.

  She dug a torch from her pack and sparked it into life. The circle of elms shot up around them, a sinister dance of gnarled shadows. She held the light over the hole. The indistinct form of a person moved twenty feet below.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Guyen called. The wheezing continued. He turned to Mist. “We need to help. They must have fallen in.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “We could find a warden,” she suggested, “Let them deal?”

  “There’s no time. Listen.” Whoever was down there, their breathing sounded worryingly laboured. Options? There was no ladder. But on the other side of the clearing, something lay piled next to a tree stump. He snatched the torch and went to investigate. It was a coiled rope. Something didn’t feel right. “You think maybe they didn’t fall in?” he muttered.

  “They climbed down?”

  “Or someone put them in there.” He tugged the rope. It was tied securely
around the stump.

  Mist scanned the shadows. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Greens. You’re drunk. What if you fall?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He pulled at one of several loops in the rope. “Look, footholds!”

  She shook her head, all disapproval. But this had to be done. A life could be on the line. And your conscience is already creaking. Mist took back the torch and he threw the rope over the side of the hole, then finding a loop for his foot, he climbed down. His hand caught between the rope and brickwork, pinching painfully. “Fuck,” he swore, “I can’t see. Hold the light out.” She extended it, and he felt for the next foothold. His foot found thin air, and he scraped down the side of the hole, landing in thick mud. “Throw me the torch,” he called.

  “Are you sure?” Mist’s unplaceable lilt reverberated around the brickwork like a dozen cheery psychopaths.

  “Of course I’m sure, I can’t see shit!” The torch dropped, a bead of burning tar landing on his cheek. He cursed, rubbing it away, and picked up the light before it fizzled out. The prone figure revealed—a man, covered in mud. The wheezing continued, face part-submerged. Guyen rolled him over—Sark, Devere’s slave. What was he doing here? He wiped the unfortunate man’s nose and mouth clear with his sleeve. “Hey, wake up!”

  His eyes flicked open. “Leave me alone,” he croaked, succumbing to a hacking cough.

  Guyen shrank back. It wouldn’t do to catch the chills. “Are you injured?” he asked. The death rattle continued. Guyen called back up. “Mist, throw down my bag.”

  The silhouette of a head appeared. “Who is it? Are they all right?”

  “It’s Devere’s slave. I’m not sure. Throw the bag.”

  The satchel dropped in the mud. “Hurry, will you?” she called.

  He fumbled with the clasp, eventually pulling out his flask. He unstoppered it and held it to the bedraggled man’s lips. Sark sipped the rakha then coughed some more. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here,” Guyen said.

  “Just get away from me.”

  “Sark, isn’t it? You want some food?”

  The slave’s yellow eyes shut again.

  “Wake up!” Guyen slapped him across the cheek, eliciting a grunt of pain and surprise. He offered the flask again. “Here, drink.”

  Sark took more rakha, screwing his face up at the taste.

  “My name’s Guyen.”

  “I know who you are,” Sark said. “You shouldn’t be here. Only be trouble for you.”

  “I’m used to trouble,” Guyen said. “How long have you been down here?” From the state of him, it could have been days.

  The man stared blankly back as if that were the dumbest question ever. “They know where to find me if they want to,” he grunted.

  “You mean someone put you in here? Who?”

  “My master.”

  Guyen shifted position. “He can’t do that.”

  “Yes, he can.”

  “Why, because you’re halfbound?” Globes. That was the rakha talking again. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  Sark sniffed. “I was a citizen like you once.”

  What was he talking about? Halfbounds couldn’t become citizens. “You can’t have been,” Guyen said. “It’s not allowed.”

  “Think you know it all, boy? Ha!”

  Guyen took back the flask. The man was rather ungrateful considering all the trouble he’d gone to. He’d scraped his hand, probably ripped his britches. He might not even be able to climb out of the damn pit considering how much he’d drunk. “What was your Talent then,” he grunted, “if you were a citizen?”

  “I was assigned to High Art, if you must know,” Sark said. “A sculptor in the House of Conquerors. Did you mention food?”

  “Oh right.” Guyen reached into his satchel for the pork scratchings. “That’s an impressive place, the House of Conquerors.”

  “Did you see the sky vault, Maker? The scene of the Sacrilege took two years of my life.”

  “What’s the Sacrilege?”

  “The birth of Sendal, when the Bindmasters were vanquished. I thought it was a fine depiction, but as usual my judgement was fogged. My master called it idiotic. Said I made the Bindmasters look like victims when they should have been monsters.” He coughed again, spitting out some vile putrification.

  “I don’t get it,” Guyen said. “How can you become halfbound? Isn’t that decided when you’re a kid?”

  “I was reclassified. At the age of thirty-five.” A sad laugh escaped his lips. “Devotions humour, I suppose.”

  “But how?” Guyen pressed.

  “By lies, Maker. The Office claimed they retested me, but it never happened. They signed the order anyway.” He coughed again. “Mind you, over the years my master has done his best to break me down to the same level.”

  “Why don’t you escape?”

  “If I do that, my original punishment will be reinstated.”

  “Original punishment?”

  Mist tugged on the rope. “Get one on will ya,” she complained. “I’m bored up here.”

  “Just a minute!” Guyen called up. He turned back to Sark. “Why don’t you just disappear? They won’t be able to punish you if they can’t find you.”

  “You don’t understand. It was my fault.”

  “What was?”

  “A boy died during the restoration work. A young Highborn. It was his first job. They said the ladder wasn’t properly secured.”

  “You killed someone?”

  “He fell. It was an accident.”

  “And they wanted to execute you?”

  “Worse than that.”

  “I don’t understand,” Guyen groaned, not sure he ever would. His vision was blurred, his head spun. He was getting drunker, if anything.

  “My daughter’s life was demanded as compensation,” Sark muttered. “It was permitted under Devotions law. Juris Personae, they call it.” His eyes glazed over. “She must be your age now. Her Talent is High Art, like me.” He scowled. “I am not permitted to see her.”

  “Why not?” Guyen prodded. Was there any point to this conversation? The rakha had rendered it unintelligible.

  Sark took some pork scratchings. “Have you heard of the Hundred Days Strike?”

  There’d been reference to that in a scroll in Makers library. “The artisans refused to work?” Guyen said. “Something to do with the labour laws.”

  Sark nodded. “That’s right. The foremen were tired of being charged with murder every time a stone fell on someone’s head, which happened a lot. Anyway, with all the unrest, the Prime Council suspended my execution. That’s when he invoked Juris Personae.”

  “Who did?”

  “My master.”

  “Your master? Devere? Hang on a minute.” Guyen rocked on his haunches, the rakha bogging his thoughts down like bread in gravy. The pieces clicked into place. “You killed Devere’s son? Shit! He must hate you.”

  Sark groaned. “He does.”

  You could only pity the mud-caked man. No one deserved this. “What about the rest of your family?” Guyen asked.

  “My wife died during the birth, my daughter is my only blood. So you see, if I were to escape, they would go after her.”

  Guyen shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, it sounds rotten. There must be a way I can help?”

  “There isn’t. And even if there was, I’m the last person you should help, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Mist tugged the rope again. “Quick,” she hissed, “get back up here. Someone’s coming.”

  Guyen jumped up, heart suddenly pounding against the intoxication. “Sorry, I have to go.”

  “Yes, you should,” Sark agreed. “And don’t come back.”

  Guyen extinguished the torch in the mud and stowed it in his satchel. “I’ll think of something,” he grunted, “don’t worry.” Cursing the lack of light, he felt for a foothold and scram
bled up the rope. Somehow, he reached the top.

  Mist dragged him over the ledge, cursing under her breath. “Idiot,” she muttered, pulling up the rope. “Quick, over there.” She pushed him towards the treeline.

  They ducked down. Torches approached. And two familiar figures emerged through the trees. The Cloaks—Vale and Yannick. The vicious bastards had been pleasingly conspicuous by their absence since they’d press-ganged him to the capital. They stopped over the hole. Guyen readjusted position, trying not to break any twigs. Circle around silently and get back to the residence, that’s what we need to do, he thought. But curiosity and inebriated swagger left his eyes fixated.

  “Why do we have to keep torturing him?” the rotund Mister Yannick said. “It makes me feel dirty.”

  “Because our foremost trusts us to do the job properly,” Vale replied.

  “I don’t like it. Every time I go near him, I get urges. One of those yellow eyes. Or a tongue. Ages! It’s a most distressing thought.”

  “A fetish for body parts, distressing?” Vale sneered. “Well, who would have thought?”

  Yannick grunted. “Easy for you to laugh at my expense, Vale. I don’t like violence, you know that.”

  “So you keep insisting, gutbile, yet you produce so much evidence to the contrary.”

  “Well, I wish I was more like you.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Your lack of conscience, it would save me much in penance.”

  Vale snorted. “Don’t make me out to be the monster in this partnership.”

  “Bah!” Yannick threw up his hands. “At least monsters look after their own. All you care about is your damn vases.”

  Vale waved his torch at him. “Those damn vases, as you call them, are the finest collection of Dorthan earthenware in the country.” He slicked back his hair and leaned over the pit. “You still down there, halfbound?” More coughing sounded. “Stone the ravens, the vache is still alive!” Vale sighed. “Well, I suppose we should get him out.” He turned to get the rope.

  A trickling sound coloured the night. Sark shrieked. Vale whirled round. “What are you doing?” he barked. “One of us has to go down there!”

  “Too much ale. You know I can’t hold it with my bladder.”