Vale cursed. “It’s a wonder your mother didn’t split in two when that thick skull of yours crowned.”
“Don’t disrespect Mama. She was a wonderful woman.”
Vale let out an exasperated tut. “I’m sure she was twice as intelligent as you, my old friend. Which would make her as clever as a fish.”
Yannick growled.
Guyen tapped Mist’s shoulder. “I know them,” he whispered. “They brought me to Carmain. Adjuncts.”
“Not quite,” she replied. “The thin one’s Devere’s barber.”
“Barber?”
“Yep. And leaky cock’s his tailor.”
“You must be kidding?”
“Why?” she asked seriously. “They’re both good with a blade. You got to admire that in a person, right?”
The Book of Talents
The Oath of The Echelon
From ‘A History of Sendal,’ Kaleg, hg.1560
In the presence of thy benign and limitless Malice, do I solemnly swear allegiance to the spirits of our ancestors. Long may they shape and sustain us.
I pledge protection to the sanity of this land, and to give freely of my blood so that the pure may be nourished. So shall I strive to preserve the sanctity of Hayern’s sacrifice, knowing without prejudice that The Echelon will receive his benefit tenfold over those whose blood is tainted.
I shall strive to elevate the Great Houses over all others, and will not anger a brother or sister, or otherwise meet violence upon them, except in defence of The Echelon. And will I obey all well-met summons sent to me by any brother or sister, and will I keep Echelon secrets impenetrable by those of tainted blood.
All this I solemnly swear, with honest heart and unwavering resolution, to do without hesitation, lest my head be sliced from my body, and my entrails fed to the ravens.
NOTA:
The oath repeated during initiation into the Echelon remains unchanged since its inception. According to Echelism’s pseudo-religious belief system, Shapers are those spirits believed to sustain and remake the world. This belief is sacrilegious to the gods of most mainstream religions, and problematic to a scientific understanding of Faze.
In 1526, the Separatists of Harvic, a chapter of the Church of Holy Fire infiltrated by Echelon, attempted to destroy the Concoction, their aim to impose blood rites back upon the people. Soon afterwards, the Primearchy outlawed Echelism for its barbaric bloodletting practises.
S.G.
25
Alley of Talons
By the following Ebbensday, a creeping damp had taken hold within Carmain’s persistent smog. It seemed worse near the river. Guyen headed past the Devotoria on his way to Whitefriars, the city’s only hospital accessible to the poor. He had Corpus service with Mistress Dina. Unusually, Tishara had arranged to join him. Today presented a rare opportunity, for Makers at least—the chance to witness infant Binding.
Despite this interest, Guyen’s mood was dismal. It wasn’t like him. He could usually find some kind of upside, even in the worst of times, but there’d been no news from home, and he was no closer to making the patch serum for Yemelyan. The Devotoria’s brick facade loomed high above, a line of ivy-cuddled windows peering out—the Primes’ offices. If Nyra was right, an answer to at least one of his problems lay up there—the stem powder required for the serum. Unfortunately, it was locked away in Rialto’s state-of-the-art safe.
Pulling his jacket in tighter, he headed deeper into the old city’s narrow lanes, crossing a square with an impressive gothic church at its centre. A string of brothels surrounded it—convenient for the congregation. A scantily clad woman looked over. He offered an awkward smile. This city never ceased to surprise. There was always that upside to take your mind off the stinking-high murder rate. Two old men played dominoes outside a cafe, billowing white clouds issuing from their clay pipes. They glanced up, offering knowing looks. He hurried past.
The river came into view at the end of the next road. The Galt cut the city in two here, spanned by the impressive Love Bridge. The central of three crossings, a latticework of wooden triangles supported its timber walkway, defying physics. Like most bridges in Sendal, it was a feat of engineering. He headed across, brushing a sea of colourful ribbons tied to the rail—charms left by pining lovers hoping to woo back their sweethearts. Maybe he’d leave one for Ariana someday.
Stepping onto the east bank, the tantalising smell of fresh bread made his mouth water. Just past the bakery in question, a crowd filled an adjoining alleyway, their attention on a stall. A black-brimmed bowl hat bobbed above the fray. Guyen’s skin pricked. It was Cermonthyl, the tatty yet finely dressed streethawk, the one who’d explained Faze signatures. He looked over, tipping his hat. If anyone could explain the recent breaks with reality, he could. And damn, do you need an explanation.
The conman stood behind a foldaway table. Atop it sat something resembling a birdcage draped with a dog-eared cloth, beside that a pair of dice and a betting sheet divided into six squares—one for each Sign of the Ages.
“Who’s feeling lucky?” the streethawk bawled. “Pick a Sign, if it comes up, I pay triple. Match both dice and I’ll triple it again.” He scanned the crowd. “Roll up, ladies and gents, I’m lopping me own knackers off here.”
Guyen drew closer, and an uneasy feeling rose up, a shiver tingling his spine. The clamour whistled. Toulesh hung back, shaking his head. Something suspicious was going on here—the dice shimmered like the fake silver did sometimes.
He stepped back as a burly seafarer shoved past, and the clamour receded, the unease lifting. Intrigued, he stepped closer again. It was like passing through an invisible curtain, the nervousness at the pit of his stomach returning, the clamour peaking. Stepping away once more, the presence lifted. He took the fake silver from his pocket, half-expecting it to be shimmering like the dice, but it looked perfectly normal. What was going on here? Another trip into dreamland?
The seafarer threw a silver down on the betting mat. “Rat,” he grunted. The streethawk pushed across the dice. The man threw them, lost the bet, and promptly cursed. “Horseshit!” He banged a fist. The table’s contents jumped.
The streethawk pocketed the silver with a sympathetic frown. “Unlucky, guv. Another try, eh?”
The man snarled. “Damned fixed shenanigans.” He drilled the hawk with a see you down a darker alley sometime kind of look and stormed off. Another punter took his place.
Guyen stepped up to the table again. The fake silver blurred in his palm, the clamour rising. That was new. He stared at the shimmering dice. What did they have in common with the coin that might explain any of this insanity?
The streethawk cleared his throat. “All right, guv. Long time no see.”
“Not long enough,” Guyen muttered. He nodded down at the table. “Interesting dice. Mind if I take a look?”
The streethawk cringed with mock embarrassment. “Absereffinlutely, guv, when I smell yer money.”
“I only want to see them.”
“No coin, no play. Sorry.”
Damn. The man was infuriating. A pug-faced woman elbowed forwards. “Out of my way if you’re not playing,” she snapped.
“Oh, but I am,” Guyen said. “Silver is it?”
The streethawk beamed, tapping the betting sheet.
Guyen drew a shill from his purse and placed it on the Crow symbol.
“Good choice,” the streethawk said. He pushed the dice across.
Guyen took them. A rushing wind rose up, or the sound of one at least. The dice prickled, charged with energy. Now that he held them, they blurred like the coin, the etched Signs on their faces unidentifiable. He ran a thumb over one, feeling for indentations. The die was smooth as silk.
The streethawk drummed his fingers on the table. “When you’re ready, guv.”
It was too late to back out now. Guyen threw, and a banshee wail filled the air. The dice bounced. And froze three inches above the table, tumbling in slow motion. The alley blurred like
a water-damaged painting, eddies of colour bubbling up from the paving—red, gold and blue threads of cotton candy, misty nether light. Cermonthyl’s black-brimmed hat dripped down the side of his face like molten liquorice, the out-of-focus crowd distorting, frozen in place. Chiming harmonics peppered the banshee sounds, and the dice continued to tumble, defying gravity, logic, sense. He’d done it this time. Fucked up. Lost his mind. Panic rose.
—CHOOSE—
Something spoke. A voice? An idea?
—CHOOSE—
There it was again. Choose what? Sanity? No, this was more specific. The dice. They called. He focussed on one. It burst into life, spitting orange light like the molten metal at the foundry. The six Signs of the Ages pulsed across its faces, flickering in and out of being, vying for dominance. Power welled, the clamour a crescendo.
Crow, Guyen thought, and held on to a fleeting symbol.
The image jittered, complaining, trying to free itself.
BECOME!
The die solidified in a mist of blue nether light, the bird etched black on every side. Had he done it right? This was almost fun. He turned his attention to the other die, repeating the process. Crow burst into existence on every side.
And there it was. But still the dice tumbled. Now what?
Something flapped up from the flagstones. What the fuck was that? A stone crow circled the alley, lifting off into the sky. Then, defying logic, the table’s shadow rose from the floor, taking on fangs and slit eyes, rearing with an angry hiss. This was insanity. Was it hallucination? If so, it couldn’t hurt you, could it? Something brushed his leg, beating wings, then more behind him. And a storm of crows exploded from the ground, stone turning to feather, flapping, swarming. There was no batting the creatures away—he couldn’t move, stuck in the invisible mortar of a dread nightmare.
More shadows morphed at the edge of vision—a howling wolf, a giant rat, a rabid panther. Shooting pain spread, lancing shoulders, arms and fingers. Tight chest. No breath.
He screamed, even as air refused to leave his lungs.
As if in answer, the shadow serpent roared, slamming its tail into the wall. Shifting masonry creaked.
STOP!
With a sound like a reverse thunderclap, the visions evaporated, and the banshee sounds died away, leaving only a high-pitched ringing. The streethawk and his punters roared back into motion, the alley in focus. The dice lay at rest on the table, Crow-side-up, perfectly usual looking. A piece of masonry smashed on the ground. A girl screamed. Guyen winced. His hand hurt. He unclenched his fist, wrapped around his blade. A bright scarlet cut stared back.
More shouts. The shroud covering the birdcage caught fire.
The streethawk shook it, trying to extinguish the flames.
Whistles rang out at the end of the alley. “Tinhats!” someone yelled.
The crowd broke. The streethawk scooped up his tablecloth and ran, birdcage in hand. Still shaking, vision swimming, Guyen took off after him, barging an oncoming tinhat into the midst of another scuffle. Toulesh waited at the end of the alley. Guyen glared. He folded in without complaint. Turning the corner, the streethawk was already disappearing. He wasn’t getting away that easily. He caught up to him in front of a posh restaurant and pushed him against the wall, anger overflowing. He struggled for words. “Where are my winnings, bastard?” It was a dumb question, but a start.
The streethawk struggled to free himself. “All right, guv, easy, you’re getting blood on me threads.”
Guyen released his grip, grimacing at his bleeding hand.
The streethawk grunted. “Lucky for you I ain’t carrying me shank, or it’d be in yer guts about now.” He straightened his tie and swore at his cage. “Look what you did to my Chancer!”
Guyen glanced down. The cloth had burned away, revealing an intricate device inside. Mounted on a cylinder, an inverted half-dome contained two orbs—one silver, one gold, like the orbs on the grandfather clock in Chapel House. They’d melted into each other somehow. “What is that?” he demanded. “Another Faze device? I knew you were cheating.”
The streethawk raised his palms, expression innocent as a baby. “It’s just an ornament,” he said.
Guyen growled. “Give me a break!” The rage was too much. You need to calm down, Maker.
The streethawk huffed. “Oh well, I don’t suppose there’s hiding anything from you.” He adjusted his hat. “Disrupts Faze, don’t it, works with the betting mat. It tells where a coin’s placed. Makes it more challenging to throw the right dice. That’s how it used to work before you came along anyway.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a cheating bastard,” Guyen muttered.
“Cheat?” the streethawk protested. “That’s an ugly word. Cermonthyl’s got a reputation for the highest quality street games.”
Guyen fixed him with a sceptical look. “What are the orbs for?”
The streethawk rattled the device as if to enliven it again. A piece fell off, clanking on the bottom of the cage. He swore. “It’s just yer basic Overteller. If they’re good enough for the likes of your lot, eh?”
“Overteller?”
“Do you repeat everything, guv?”
Guyen shook his hand. It really bloody stung. “Are the dice bogus too?” he pressed.
“Absolutely not,” the streethawk said.
“Well, in that case, you won’t mind if I have a look.”
Cermonthyl shrugged, producing them from his waistcoat pocket.
They looked perfectly normal now, all the animalistic Signs etched on their respective sides. On a whim, Guyen threw them on the window ledge. Both landed Crow. He tried again, with the same result. “I knew it,” he declared, “they’re weighted.”
The streethawk regarded him curiously. “That’s strange.”
A laugh escaped. “You certainly have a face for Jacks, Hawk, I’ll give you that.” But the man actually looked surprised.
“May I?” he asked.
It was a ridiculous charade, but Guyen handed them back. The streethawk rolled them on the ledge. Several times. He too could only throw Crow. He tutted. “How’d you do that then?”
“Do what?” Guyen snorted.
The streethawk threw them again, one at a time. They weren’t about to stop being weird though. “How odd.” He tried once more, this time giving them a lucky blow as a well-to-do Carmanian glared out the window over his luncheon. The dice landed Crow again. He tested them in his hand. “I can tell weighted dice,” he growled. “These aren’t.”
He seemed sure. But if they weren’t weighted…
The thousand crows, the bestial shadow creatures, they were hallucinations, there’d been no time for that to happen, but had he actually done something to the dice, switched them like the coin, the same principle? Perhaps some honesty would bring forth answers.
Guyen looked him in the eye. “I changed them,” he said.
The streethawk stared back. “What?”
“I saw Faze signatures, and I told them how I wanted them to be.” That’s what happened, wasn’t it?
Cermonthyl grimaced. “You charmed them? Didn’t I tell you not to mess with Faze?”
“You can’t talk,” Guyen said. He does know something.
“There’s a difference between employing the positive benefits of a Chancer,” the streethawk groaned, “and communing with Faze. That’s just plain dangerous.”
Guyen breathed, searching for calm. “Look, if you have any idea what’s happening to me, now would be a good time.”
“There are many things we don’t understand in this world, guv. And Faze is the biggest mystery of all.”
“But you have a theory, right?”
The streethawk hesitated. “Well, there’s probability theory.”
“What?”
“It’s an ancient paradigm. Imagine every way something can be—round, square, different colours, in different places…”
“Yes?”
The streethawk’s voice took on a magic
al quality. “Well, Faze causes things to conform to their most likely state. But the Layer contains their other states too. Many alternate versions of everything. The theory proposes you can swap things for other versions of themselves by stealing probability from elsewhere. It’s all about probabilities, hence the name of the theory.”
“What the hell is the Layer?”
“The Void, the Otherwhere… it has many names.” Cermonthyl paused. “I wouldn’t go messing with it though.”
“Why not?”
He offered a bemused look. “Only a fool would invoke a power they don’t understand, no? You could change things in ways you can’t predict.” He frowned. “You’ve heard of Hanvik the Bard, right?”
Guyen offered a blank stare.
“The Bindmaster. One of the Six Hundred?”
“No. What of him?”
Cermonthyl grinned. “He was a kinky fucker. Tried using his powers to alter his wife during some kind of sex game. Anyway, he got it all wrong. Instead of changing her, he added to her—called up so many versions at once that she split under her own weight. Her guts drained out on the bed, so they did.”
Guyen rolled his eyes. “He fattened her up with Faze?”
“No, she was the same size, just heavier. A side effect of bringing so many of her into existence at the same time. Casting Mass, they call it.”
“That’s ridiculous. What lesson am I supposed to learn from that?”
The streethawk shrugged. “One woman’s enough for any man? Always keep a spare set of bedsheets handy?”
Guyen laughed despite himself. “You can’t believe that crap.”
“That’s probability theory for you,” Cermonthyl chimed. “It is rather improbable.”
“I’ve heard a hundred better explanations for Faze.”
“You pay yer coin, you take yer pick.”
That was a point. “Talking of coin,” Guyen said, “what about my winnings?”
“Winnings, guv? By rights, tis you who owes me for my Chancer.”
Nether Light Page 27
