Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “I’m trying,” Tishara cried. His little body twitched and shook like a hanging man. The midwife made an incision and drove in the syringe. She injected the liquid.

  Excruciating pain won. Guyen’s knees buckled. The room disappeared.

  Quiet calm. Blessed relief from the harpy screams. Then other sounds—rhythmic thuds and the din of stonework. Guyen stumbled to his feet. He was outside, the sweet smell of summer and roses in the air. It wasn’t day. It wasn’t night. Somehow, he stood in a walled garden, a place from his childhood. The last time he’d been here, it had been full of herbs and rare flowers, now it boasted only a rockery and mossy lawn. But around the garden, a completely different sight presented. Behind the wall, circling three-hundred-sixty degrees around him, men lined up, desperately building up the stones. He gawped—they were him, all of them. Simulacra? Outside the tranquil garden, a chaos of shadowy grey forms battled to breech the barrier.

  What was this place? It wasn’t the real world, that much was certain. But he’d been transported somewhere like it before—when they’d injected him at the Assignments Office in Tal Maran. He’d seen the many hims then too. He grimaced, trying to make sense of the scene beyond the wall—forms with horrid features, vicious teeth, scampering limbs, childlike, baby-like. This place was unreal, yet palpably dangerous. It made no sense. Soon he would make no sense either, and all would be lost.

  He ran to the wall, ignored by the other versions of himself—they focussed on stopping whatever was beyond from getting in. He scanned the circumference, but the defensive line was contiguous. No way out. He prodded one of the figures. The other him flinched, solid as mutton. It glanced round, grim-faced, then returned to its task, slamming another stone down on top of the wall, crushing a shadowy form with a satisfying crunch.

  Now what? How did this all end? How did he leave? Out of ideas, he retreated to the rockery at the centre of the garden, as the creatures continued to slam into the wall like heavy rain. Was he stuck in this purgatory? How did any of it stack up? It was no use—thoughts didn’t run straight here, wherever here was.

  He watched on, engrossed in the bizarre defence around him, until after a while the battle line began to thin. Strange. He’d not noticed any simulacra depart. And the crunching sounds beyond the wall—were they dissipating too? Soon, gaps opened up where the wall stood true without reinforcement, only the occasional gnarled fingers clawing at the stones, quickly repelled by the few remaining hims. Then only two simulacra remained, then one, then none.

  Silence. Outside the wall, the landscape devoid of activity or life wasn’t just featureless, it was absence, as if nothing could exist there. No escape. For a moment, he forgot where he was, and why he was here, then he noticed his bandaged hand and remembered the hospital. Fresh fear nailed his gut. He had to get back.

  His hand was wet. He looked at where it rested on the rock. Water wept from the stone, pooling on the mossy ground, a stream taking hold like it had always been there. A bunch of lavender sprouted up beside it. He knelt down and picked a posy, touching it to his lips to test how real it was. A sliver of shadow appeared in the air in front of him. Knowing he must, he reached for it.

  The cubicle faded back into existence. Instead of mossy grass, he knelt on rough floorboards. A girl sobbed. Tishara stood over him, white as a ghost.

  “Are you all right?” she stammered.

  He wasn’t. How could he be? But at least he was back. “What happened?” he asked, scared of the answer. “The kid?”

  She shook her head.

  27

  Prime Council

  Carmain was disconcerting in any number of ways. The sky had a permanent yellow tinge to it, the water tasted strange, and people didn’t look you in the eye. If they did, it was a bad sign. Columns of hooded monks from any of a dozen sinister sects processed along the streets, chanting unknown languages, burning incense, while cutpurses lurked in dark doorways, watching the world go by, waiting for their next victim.

  And then there was Fetch.

  The dullard was on fine form today, skulking vacant-eyed about the studio like a lobotomised guard dog. What he cared about was a mystery, apart from his broom—he loved that. When he wasn’t using it for sweeping, which was hardly never, he sat in his chair, tending to the bristles. He never left the studio, always skulking in some dark shadow. Didn’t the damn man ever take a break?

  It was Ebbensday, a week since Whitefriars, and Guyen was busy. Very busy. Last night, on leaving the junction, Dasuza had pressed a package into his hands—a vial of Yemelyan’s blood and a letter from Mother. The news was worrying. Yemelyan had attacked a visiting nurse in his sleep, the incident reported to the Office. Time was running out, and with the arrival of the blood, there were no excuses now—somehow, the patch serum had to be made. So it was, Guyen hunched over the Incubator, filling the inner bulb with priming solution, deciphering how the device worked. The chrome cylinder was a key piece of equipment. Once pressurised, it produced serums from seed solution. If he could get the seed right, the machine should take care of the rest. That was the theory, at least. The tricky part would be doing any of this without Rialto cottoning on.

  Guyen topped off the reservoir and placed the glass beaker carefully on the side, mulling over Mist’s words. Just take it, she’d advised when he’d mentioned his other problem—the stem powder locked in Rialto’s safe. You couldn’t fail to admire her direct, all-action approach to things, but according to Nyra, the safe was a Nerstolen, state-of-the-art, impregnable to a fault. Sometimes reality was a little more complicated than a girl like Mist allowed for.

  True to erratic form, Rialto burst into the studio. The door smashed into the dullard, knocking his broom to the floor. The Prime paid no attention, instead striding up to the mirror to check his wig. He wore his best suit. “Where is everyone?” he groused.

  “Left for the day, sir.”

  “Wrath of the Ages! You’ll have to do then. I need a Second.”

  “A Second, sir?”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Devere has called a meeting of the Prime Council. All Primes must attend with a deputy.” He picked a cane from the umbrella stand. “It is one of those fine traditions the Devotions uphold to make my life more difficult.”

  Going anywhere near a meeting of the highest authority in Sendal did not sound like a good idea. “Couldn’t Felix do it?” Guyen asked.

  “No,” Rialto said. “He departed for Ranatland this morning.” He tapped his cane agitatedly on the bench. “Quick then. We’ve ten minutes to get to the Devotoria.”

  “Of course, sir.” This was obviously not a refutable offer. Guyen closed the Incubator’s lid, picked up hat and satchel, and followed the man’s erratic gait downstairs.

  Rialto’s coach waited in the quad, two black mares munching hay from a trough. Guyen climbed in after him, taking the opposite seat. This would be awkward. You couldn’t avoid conversation in a space this cramped. The driver, Hawkins, a quiet, business-like man, unshaven with a round face, went to close the carriage door. His jacket rode up, revealing a pistol holstered at his side. Why did he need one of those?

  They rattled out of the Gate, tardiness uppermost in Hawkins’ mind, judging by the regular crack of his whip. Pedestrians jumped aside as the coach fought its way through the packed streets. Guyen held tightly onto the seat.

  “How are things in the studio?” Rialto asked. “Do I detect dour faces?”

  “Sir?”

  “You and Tishara have been depressed as a plunger since your visit to Whitefriars.”

  Guyen pursed his lips. “A child dying like that, it’s difficult, sir.” The follow-up had been hard too, a migraine pounding his head till Aylesday.

  Rialto grunted. “You need to buck your ideas up, Yorkov. If you’d completed your reading, you would have known Binding can fail.”

  “I’ve read the statistics, sir.” They passed a lame child begging on the street. “I’ve also read up to Milkins Volume Three, sir.
Several studies show the concoction is more dangerous to those with common blood. If you don’t have lineage to one of the Houses, you’ve a good chance to end up dead or halfbound, or a dullard altogether. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “There’s still a majority for whom the concoction works perfectly, Yorkov, hand in hand with proper Assignment. That’s where these foreign types get it all wrong, misunderstand the relationship between Binding and the Talents.” Rialto’s eyes narrowed. “I hope this isn’t an insolent streak rearing its ugly head. Things are what they are. Now is not the time to be questioning them, not in the current climate.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you would prefer the maddenings spread to all?”

  Ha! No, just to all Sendalis, Guyen thought. That would be a sweet, deserved justice.

  A short while later, the coach skidded to a stop in front of the Devotoria. The driver’s hatch slid across. “We’re here, Prime Wield.”

  “Thank you, Hawkins.” Rialto waved at him. “The finest driver in the city. What a Talent! Try telling our man here Binding doesn’t work.”

  Hawkins remained stony-faced.

  They disembarked, cleared the gatehouse, and headed up the steps. Reaching the top, Guyen wasn’t out of breath in the slightest. He had to be fitter than ever now. As they stepped into the Atrium, the two guards on duty drew steel, hurrying to intercept him.

  Rialto shooed them away. “He’s with me.”

  They resheathed their swords, standing apologetically to attention. Guyen mopped up their dark stares.

  Rialto led the way up a grand staircase to the next level. From a mezzanine, they took a wide, carpeted corridor lined with portraits of famous Sendalis, an even spread of luminaries from all six Devotions. A high-ceilinged lobby presented, dotted with exotic ferns and miniature palms. Four Devotoria guardsmen blocked a set of imposing black doors, the motto of the Primearchy emblazoned above in old middle tongue—Brotherhood of Talents, or some such horseshit. A handful of Devotees sat on benches, Devere’s slave, Sark, among them, guarding several bags. It was good to see him out of that pit in one piece. It wasn’t so good to see the Cloak, Vale, hovering behind him. He admired an ornate vase, one of several on display. He looked over, sending an icy frown. Cold sweat broke. Why did Devere need his barber for a Council meeting?

  The guards opened the doors, and Guyen followed Rialto into the chamber. Cracked redwood panelled it floor to ceiling, the woodworm smell of a church in the air. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through high windows, fighting the smoky gloom. The Grande Prime, Scholar Wilhelm, occupied a central desk. The other four Primes, each with a Second, sat at desks positioned equidistant around him like spokes on a wheel. They were all here—General Berese, Corpus High Mistress Volka, Merchant Prime Ferranti and Devere—and beside him, Jal.

  Rialto strode towards the remaining empty station and collapsed in the chair, throwing his feet up on the desk. He couldn’t have looked less concerned at their late arrival. Guyen took the seat beside him, dropping his bag on the floor, perching his tricorne on top.

  Devere pointed. “Who is that?”

  Rialto offered a wan smile. “I thought your Culture spies told you everything, Arik. This is my new apprentice. He will be my Second for today.”

  Every bastard lord stared. Guyen examined the inkwell. How was he here? He was a damn hobo. Had Rialto brought him to make some kind of point?

  “Council matters cannot be discussed in front of a Krellen,” Devere objected. “We are at war with the savages.”

  Rialto shrugged. “The boy is a Sendali citizen. I am quite entitled to have him here.”

  How did Devere know where he was from? Weren’t floors supposed to swallow you up at times like these? Toulesh strained to escape. Guyen held him in.

  Grande Prime Wilhelm raised a hand. “Very well, you will vouch for the boy, Rialto. What is his name?”

  “Yorkov, Grande Prime.”

  “Make a note,” Wilhelm said to his Second. “Very well, Council is in session. Seeing as you dragged us here, Lord Devere, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us why?”

  Devere stood. “I require Council to pass funding for a project.” His voice was smooth as oil, and quite as greasy.

  “If this is what I think,” Wilhelm said, “you waste the Council’s time. I have already made my deliberations on your project.”

  “I am afraid, Grande Prime, circumstances have changed. The situation has worsened, as I predicted. Unbound have infiltrated Jalibar. Our soldiers fight hand-to-hand in the old town.”

  General Berese, fuzzy-bearded, square-jawed, quite the brick shithouse of a man, nodded solemnly from his station, thumbs hooked in his crisp red uniform. Another redcoat sat beside him, a commander judging by the epaulets on his shoulder.

  “And closer to home,” Devere continued, “the crisis in West Port complicates matters. Despite Damorian claims to the contrary, they send Unbound across the Pearl Sea. We are inundated on every border.” Murmurs of concern rippled around the chamber. “However, my lords, my lady, we have more pressing concerns than the immigrants. As you know, there have been several Unbound attacks within the city. You will be aware of last night’s tragedy.”

  The Primes nodded gravely. What was he talking about? What tragedy?

  “What we haven’t made public yet,” Devere said, “is the nature of the two Unbound who perpetrated the horror.” He looked meaningfully around the room, savouring the drama.

  “Do get on with it,” Wilhelm muttered.

  “Yes, Grande Prime. The culprits were Sendali citizens.”

  Merchant Prime Ferranti, beady-eyed with painted-on black hair and a tidy parting, waved a hand. “But you said they were Unbound, Devere?” Eyes turned to him. His pencil moustache twitched.

  “That is correct,” Devere said.

  “Well, how can that be?” Ferranti said. “If they were Sendali citizens, they must have been Bound. I thought they were old men?”

  “Indeed, my lord. And there is no doubt they were properly bound—I have seen the certificates.”

  High Mistress Volka spoke. “Are you saying they lost their Binding, Devere? Both of them?” Her tone was noticeably flat, as if she expected this.

  “I am afraid so,” Devere said. “It seems Bind Weakening has taken hold. Some are calling it an epidemic.”

  Rialto sat forwards. “There is no need for drama, Arik.”

  “What would you call it, Saijan?” Volka sneered. “These are no longer isolated cases.”

  Rialto waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps not, but there is no such thing as Bind Weakening.” Several voices murmured in agreement.

  Devere shook his head. “Tests on the bodies confirm it.”

  “Impossible,” Rialto said.

  Volka cleared her throat. “My lords, it is clear the concoction has failed. I move we commission a new formulation. Let us grant Corpus a license to experiment.”

  Rialto let out a derisory laugh. “Formulation of the concoction is Maker domain, Gourdamein, and you do not have the required Talent to design a new one. Unless you have a new Seed to derive it from?”

  She scowled.

  Devere raised a hand, fixing his attention on Rialto. “I have to say Saijan, she has a point. Perhaps if your methods were more effective.”

  Rialto darkened. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Arik. I suggest you confine your interests to matters within your purview.”

  “My interests are the nation’s,” Devere said. He paused. “Perhaps your Purebound prodigy will save us, if you can’t?”

  Guyen sat straighter, the entire chamber staring. Talk about fame preceding you…

  “What does all this have to do with your funding request, Devere?” Ferranti asked. “You might have sent this news by messenger.”

  “I have devised a policy to deal with this new wave of Unbound before they slaughter us in our sleep, my lord, and it requires a change in the law. I propose we retest the population, identify those at risk of B
ind Weakening and put them out of harm’s way.”

  The Council took a unison sharp breath.

  “There is no such Test,” Wilhelm snapped.

  “Ah, but I have discussed matters with the Chief Inquisitor,” Devere said. “He believes there is a way.”

  “Preposterous.”

  “No, Grande Prime, it is doing nothing which is preposterous.” Muttering broke out.

  “As I made clear to your good wife, Devere, the cost for such a scheme would be unfathomable. And I am still unclear as to how you would deal with those who fail this new Test.”

  “That is simple, Grande Prime, we shall reassign them to public works—the Drazic dam or Antilles mines, for instance—somewhere we can monitor them.”

  “And when prefects start dragging families from their beds in the middle of the night?” Ferranti objected. “How long before the slums take up arms against us?”

  “I agree,” Berese rumbled. “The population will not stomach it. My men are stretched, and the prefecture are neither armed nor trained for street battles.”

  Devere battled on. “Did you not receive the same report I did this morning, Ferranti? One of your caravans attacked and destroyed on the Ranatland Way. Eight Merchants, all found with their throats ripped out, vultures feasting on their innards. Given this new information, for all we know the attackers were Sendali citizens.”

  Ferranti shifted uncomfortably. “A shocking incident, but hardly evidence of your claim, Devere. One caravan we can bear the loss of, but civil unrest would destroy the economy.”

  “Quite right,” Wilhelm said. “A little common sense is all that is required. The General will deploy units on the highroads. And we shall instruct the prefecture to increase patrols.”

  “Increase patrols?” Devere growled. “Is that your best suggestion, Grande Prime? Perhaps we should revisit your appointment. Council needs strong leadership at a time such as this.”

  Wilhelm thumped his desk. “I will have you remember your manners, Arik. It was a Council vote put me in this chair, and I will fulfil my obligations—to the whole of Sendal—not just to the Culturalists. We have wars to fight on many fronts, and we do not need civil unrest on the streets.”