Jal smiled at this, as if it were just what she wanted to hear. She caught Guyen looking. He hurriedly turned back to his doodles. He should probably be scribing something more meaningful, but it was good to look busy.
“We must put the motion to the floor,” Volka demanded.
Wilhelm scoured the faces around the chamber. “You do not have the votes, Gourdamein.”
According to a passage on Council etiquette in The Book of Talents, the Grande Prime could cast two votes in a ballot. He’d only need the support of two others to block Devere’s plan. Guyen risked a sideways glance at Rialto. The Prime stared daggers at Devere. Well, that was one less vote for his plan.
“Are you all stupid?” Devere stormed, mood darkening by the second. “You’d better pray to Issa this isn’t a tipping point into something that would shock even Hayern himself.”
“Calm yourself, man,” Rialto said.
Devere stalked up to Wilhelm. “You’re an idiot. You know what is at stake, yet you sit there in your ivory tower puppeteering your…” He waved at the Scholar Second. “Sheep.”
“You go too far, Devere,” Ferranti said.
But the Culture Prime was in full flow now. “Unbound hide amongst us like a disease. The citizenry believe we have lost control of the streets. It is difficult to deny, given the number of foreigners that inundate them.”
Piercing eyes stared again. Toulesh broke free, rearing up, snarling. The Grande Prime bustled to his feet, facing off nose-to-nose with Devere. “Give way, Arik,” he fumed. “Or we shall expel you from Council. Or do you doubt I command the votes for that?”
“Enough of this,” Berese barked.
Devere straightened his white cravat. “You will be sorry. You will all be very sorry.” He sent a sharp hand gesture Jal’s way and swept from the chamber.
She rose smoothly, enjoying the attention, and glided after her husband, glancing down as she passed.
Only a fool would return that look.
28
Traitor Comb
The statue of the founding Maker faded up into the darkness, features vague shapes, a grey silhouette against the purple dawn sky. It was the next morning, a Bannocksday, and Guyen shivered in the quad, waiting for the run to start. Today would be cold and damp. He nodded to Tellen, an Ordinate with a Talent in Glass. He was a friendly type, a good sort really.
“Morning,” Guyen said. “Sleep well?”
Tellen busied himself, stretching, methodical when it came to his hamstrings. “I think I’m getting chilblains,” he muttered.
“I thought your country was supposed to be hot,” Guyen said.
“Not in the winter, Yorkov.”
The giant clock struck six. Nyra strutted up, examining a list. “Where is Harbrath?” he griped.
Tellen shrugged. “We’re not his keepers. Can we go?”
“If he thinks he can avoid the run just because Felix is away, he’s in for a shock.”
“Perhaps he’s ill?” Guyen suggested. “I vote we head off.”
“Absolutely not,” Nyra said. “We wait, and if he’s not here soon, I shall send a warden to his room. And see how he likes that.”
Guyen suppressed a groan. Nyra was taking his new responsibilities a little too seriously. Several minutes later, Harbrath appeared. The other Ordinates shot him sour looks.
“Where have you been?” Nyra snapped. “Have you seen the time?”
“Cork yer gas, D’Brean.”
Nyra poked him in the chest. “You had better take this seriously, Ordinate. Felix left me in charge. That means I get to put you on report if you mess me about.”
Harbrath snorted. “I don’t take orders from foreigners.”
“Right! I warned you. That is a note for insubordination added to your permanent record, right there.” Nyra scribbled furiously on his list.
“Ages, D’Brean. I was only messing.”
The pantomime entertainment aside, it really was quite cold for a Novum morning. “Shall we go?” Guyen asked hopefully.
Nyra threw his hat at the base of the statue. “Yes, and no slacking!” He shoved Harbrath forwards.
They headed out through the west arch, past the allotments, following the usual route. Guyen took up a place near the front, breathing the chill air deep into his lungs, feeling alive. Much as he’d hated the Slog when he’d first arrived at the Gate, it was now something to relish—the chemicals it released were a tonic for the rest of the day. He opened up a gap, Toulesh trailing behind. It was better to run in solitude, just the chatter of birdsong and the occasional early rising duck for company. This morning, he could run forever.
Sprinting over the iron bridge for the second time, Nyra interrupted the delicious solitude. “How are you this fine morning?” he panted.
Guyen lessened the pace to an easy jog. “All right. You?”
“Good, thank you.” They ran in silence for a moment. “I hear you attended Council with Rialto yesterday,” Nyra said.
“That’s right.”
“He could have found me.”
“I wish he had,” Guyen said. “I don’t think there was time.”
“What happened?” Nyra asked. “He was in a disreputably bad mood last night.”
“Ah, Devere insinuated he was incompetent. It all got rather heated.”
“Why so?”
“Have you heard of Bind Weakening?”
“Huh?”
Tellen ran past. Once he was out of earshot, Guyen relayed events from the meeting, majoring on Devere’s claim the Binding was broken.
“Sounds far-fetched to me,” Nyra said. “More likely their certificates of Binding were faked. There has been a swathe of forgeries recently, ever since that new printer set up in Alesmound.”
“Maybe,” Guyen said. “Come on, let’s catch up.”
They picked up the pace. Annoyingly, Nyra was unshakeable this morning. “You know Rialto left for West Port last night?” he said.
“Has he?” This was news. West Port was hundreds of miles away. “Why has he gone there?”
“Makers have a wayhouse supplying the navy,” Nyra said. “Sub Prime Jenk oversees it. There has been some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“One of the Wields. Hands in the till. Apprehended by the wayhouse clerk. He took it badly.”
“How badly?”
“Very. He murdered him.”
“Shit. That’s bad.”
“He mutilated the body too. Deranged, they say.”
Deranged meant only one thing in Sendal—the maddenings, but for a Wield to succumb… “You think Rialto suspects Bind Weakening?” Guyen asked.
“I’m sure I’d be the last to know.”
Guyen offered a playful jab on the arm. “Your flavour not in season anymore, Ny?” The senior Maker grunted an irritated, out-of-breath laugh. They rounded the far side of the allotments. Unpleasant drizzle fell. “I won’t get a better chance than this,” Guyen said.
“Chance for what?”
“To make the patch serum for my brother.”
Nyra pulled them into a walk. “A patch serum is too difficult, even for you, Yorkov. Ages, Rialto himself would struggle.”
“I’m sure you could make one.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“I have my brother’s blood.”
Nyra frowned. “Really?”
“Yes, it came on Wizenday. Think of the science, Ny. You could publish a Paper.”
He berated some stragglers coming up behind. They overtook, outlined by the crimson dawn sky. “You forget something,” Nyra said. “You need stem, and the only supply in the city is locked away in Rialto’s office.”
“I know. Mist has a plan.”
He stifled a curse. “You must be desperate.”
“I am. You have to help, Ny.”
“It will never work,” Nyra said.
An exasperated tsk slipped out. “Fine,” Guyen managed. “I’ll do it on my own.”
Nyra ground to a halt, horror gripping his face. “Do you have any idea what happens if stem powder cascades out of control? You have seen the Desolate Gardens, no?”
A city block filled with new buildings. Nothing grew there, not even weeds. “Stem did that?”
“Yes,” Nyra snapped. “You could poison half of Carmain.” He began to rant. “Rialto would not like that. If you did not kill me in the process, he would kill me when he returns.”
Guyen set his jaw. “I’ll be careful. But I have to try. You must understand? It’s the only point to me being here at all.”
“Nonsense,” Nyra said. “There are many reasons for you to be here.”
“Not for me, there aren’t.” Guyen offered his best serious, and he hoped, persuasive look. “If you’re not going to help, don’t get in my way. I’m doing it though, with or without you.”
By the time fifth hour came, the dark, drizzly afternoon had infected Guyen’s room with enough damp to wet a towel. Outside, clouds rushed by, while a buffeting breeze shook the window shutter. He opened it to find a Red Talon perching on the sill. The beautiful creature squawked, beady eyes looking up like an intelligence lay behind them. He threw it some scraps of pie crust, leftovers from lunch, and glanced across the quad at the clock. Its hands didn’t seem to be moving at all. Why did time have to pass so slowly when you wanted it to go fast? Still, at least it hadn’t stopped altogether like it did during those worrying breaks with reality.
He sat back on the bed and prised the fake silver from his boot. He flicked it up in the air, trapping it on the back of his hand. It lay harps up—set that way. Should he try changing it? Toulesh glared at the thought. Guyen ran a finger over his scarred palm, the nightmare in the alley flashing across his mind. No, he’d leave it be—charming things was probably dangerous. He’d avoided manipulating Faze like slugs avoid salt ever since the dice game, and had been feeling better as a result. Why risk the madness today of all days?
What was the streethawk doing now, Guyen wondered. Turning cards in some dive of an alehouse? Relieving some decrepit High Mistress of her lifesavings? He took the dice from his pocket, throwing two Crows again—no change there then. Those visions he’d survived betting on them—the whirlpools of colour, the creeping shadow beasts, the water damaged world… Had that really happened? Perhaps the whole thing had been a horrific dream? Seeing Faze was one thing, the weird nether light glinted and shimmered all over the place these days and didn’t seem to do any harm, but that other stuff—the madness overlaid on the solid world, and that place where his countless simulacra lived… the thought was too disturbing.
Someone knocked at the door, shattering the daydream. Nyra. As expected.
“Where is it then?” he demanded.
“Where’s what?” Guyen teased.
“Your sweetheart’s magic box.”
Mentioning the Mimic’s unique capabilities had been a desperate last attempt to pique Nyra’s curiosity, and it had apparently worked. Not that Nyra was predictable or anything… Guyen retrieved the box from the safe and flipped the lid. Mist’s Pledge sat beside his, both stones pulsing with the dim red light. She’d taken a risk leaving it with him all day.
Nyra ran a finger over the jagged blue surface. “What is it made from?” he asked reverentially. “Dumortierite?”
Guyen offered a shrug. “Could be.”
Nyra prodded it curiously. “That is some mighty fine factoring, if I do say so. Are you sure it works?”
“Haven’t had a visit from the Watchers so far.”
He tutted. “Just remember, if we get caught, you forced me into this at knifepoint.”
“That won’t happen. Mist’s too canny.”
“That’s one word for her.”
“Admit it, you’re excited.”
He sniffed. “The only reason I’m coming is to stop you wiping Carmain off the map with a stem cascade. Can’t I talk you out of this?”
“No. Just put your Pledge in the box. And she’s not my sweetheart. Don’t even joke about it. Especially not when she can hear you.”
“If you say so, fella.” He unclasped the stone and dropped it in next to the others. It pulsed in unison, ruled by some universal rhythm.
Guyen locked the Mimic in the safe and picked up his hat. “Let’s go,” he said. “Mist will be waiting.”
They headed down to the quad, but rather than leaving by the main entrance, too risky without wearing their Pledges, they turned left through the west arch and walked around the refectory, following an alley at the back of the kitchens. A door opened, and a server strolled out with a bucket. She threw its contents into an overflowing bin, paying them no heed, and returned back into the warmth. Two dogs competed for the fallen scraps.
Rain spotted, and a chill gust blew Guyen’s coat open. He fastened the buttons. Nothing would deter him tonight. They passed the usually colourful Memory Garden—named for the saplings planted in remembrance of departed Makers—and reaching a section of the east wall obscured by several large oaks, he retrieved the rope he’d been using these past few weeks to leave the Gate unseen. Nyra was hardly pleased at the prospect of climbing down, but did nevertheless, and ten minutes later they’d circled around to the front of the Devotion.
Mist waited behind the Fountain of Ages, a gaudy water feature opposite the main entrance. “You took yours,” she said brightly. “All set?”
“All good,” Guyen said. “You get everything?”
She patted the holdall slung over her shoulder, considering Nyra. “You’re all right with this, are you?” she asked.
“Theft from a Prime’s office?” Nyra muttered. “No, not really. Shall we go before I change my mind?”
“You have the key? The hair?”
“Yes.” He cursed. “I’m not cut out for this. Are you sure there’s no other way?”
“Not if you don’t want to feature in the Devotoria’s duty logs,” Mist said. “Unless you can think of a plausible explanation why you need access to Rialto’s office?”
He puffed out his cheeks.
“I didn’t think so,” Mist said.
“Is she always this irritating?” he complained.
“Oh yes,” Guyen said. “But you get to like it.”
Mist snorted. “Well, Greens, that almost sounds like a compliment.”
“Yes, well, it’s good of you to help.”
“The pleasure’s all yours,” she said.
It was gone six by the time they arrived on Devotions Avenue. The rain had stopped, but fast clouds steamed by overhead, racing across the crescent moon. The Devotoria loomed into the darkening sky like a fortress, light glaring from high windows, heightened activity at the entrance, patrols on the street. Security would be tight for the ambassador’s reception this evening, representatives from every nation invited.
They ducked into an alley. Mist rummaged in the holdall. “Here,” she said, “uniforms… paperwork…” She pulled out clothes and three city passes.
Nyra took the forged booklets, holding one up to the streetlight. “If they catch us with these,” he muttered, “they will expel us from the Devotions.”
“Oh, they’ll hang us, for sure,” Mist chimed. Did she have a death wish? Given her history, that was possible. You’re cursed to repeat your parents’ mistakes, it’s one of those inescapable truths.
They stepped onto the street, transformed. Guyen wore white overalls and a floppy hat, Mist and Nyra crisp black and white server’s uniform. Mist straightened her blonde wig, admiring the overalls. “Look at that, I got your size just right,” she said.
Nyra clipped a cufflink closed. “This will never work.”
“Just act confident,” Mist said, “like you belong.”
“As a servant? I hardly think so.”
Guyen smiled to himself. “Don’t be unlikeable, Ny. Come on.”
Keeping to the shadows, they walked around to a tradesman’s entrance leading into the mound’s bowels. Two guards stood
on duty.
“Good evening,” Mist said. “We’re here for High Mistress Belana’s reception. Madame Confit’s staff.” The guards exchanged a look. “The caterers?” she added.
“You’re late,” one said. “The rest of your lot got here this afternoon.”
She offered a patient smile. “Madame sent for us at the last minute. Extra hands.”
“Lamplighters, are yer?”
Blank looks.
He rolled his eyes at his nonplussed companion. “Make light work? No?” He snorted a laugh. “Gods! No one’s got a bloody sense of humour these days. Papers then.” They handed over their forged passes. He held up his lantern, squinting at the maroon booklets. “What they eating up there tonight then?”
“Etruscan truffles,” Guyen said—well, it was probably some such mulch.
Mist nodded at the quick invention. “Reckon we might send down some leftovers,” she said. “Assuming we’re not so late we get the sack.”
The guard grunted. “Well, if there’s anything spare.” He turned to his partner. “I’ll only be a minute, Hurk.”
“Take your time,” the man said.
“Right, this way.” He marched inside. That had all been far too easy. But then, easy followed Mist around like a good smell. It was a worry—easy things were hardly ever good things.
They wound through the building, passing the Underbelly, and took a narrow, servants’ staircase up to the main level. A grand ballroom appeared, dimly lit and quiet inside, tonight’s action taking place in the carpeted area surrounding it. Buffet tables and recliners filled the space, a cellist setting up in the corner. They approached a man in a tailcoat.
“Maître d’,” the guard said. “Three more for you.” He handed over the forged passes.
The maître d' frowned. “Madame Confit scraping the barrel, is she?” Guyen returned the none-so-warm welcome with an even, blank stare. The man peered down his nose, comparing him with his papers. “Aleyandro?”
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