Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  But could his newfound abilities really be like the ones the Bindmasters had possessed? Such powers couldn’t exist. It just wasn’t logical. Mind you, so much wasn’t logical these days… It was a disturbing prospect. He’d changed the canister in only a minor way. What if he’d done something more? The worry, such constant company these days, welled up again, surging like a flood. If there was any way to cure himself, to regain his sanity, he’d bite that hand off in the blink of an eye.

  Something scraped at the window. He almost jumped off the bed. Damn, his nerves were shot. More scratching sounds. What was that? He put the book down and edged over, pulling open the shutter. Two beady eyes caught in the candlelight—the Red Talon. It stared into the flame, two tiny torches in its pupils. The bird had brought him a present by the looks of it—a dead mouse, a mess of grey fur matted with blood, pink wormlike veins dangling from all the wrong places. Well, that was nature. The Talon looked up, beady eyes inquisitive.

  “I wonder how Faze affects you?” Guyen murmured.

  If the creature knew, it wasn’t telling. He reached out a hand to pet it. It flew off. Of course it did—it was a wild fucking animal. He went back to bed.

  He managed to sleep again, and awoke on Wizenday in a much better mood, flulike symptoms lifted, pink skin covering the cuts on his hands. Still not ready to face the Slog, he headed down to the refectory for an early breakfast, wolfing down grainy bread, sausage and cheese, strength returning with every mouthful. He’d certainly be able to fulfil his rostered duty at the hexium today, which would give him the chance to ask about the Tal Maran trip. Until then, he’d avoid Nyra. He’d only find him tedious chores to do, and offer sour looks. There were still notes to make on Faze distribution for Rialto, filling in blanks not covered in Milkins, so he headed for the library.

  The dusty haven had seen better days, the chair coverings threadbare, the tables scored and stained. But the surroundings were irrelevant—the library housed a galaxy of interesting books, and as no one ever went in there, peace was guaranteed. It presented on two levels, the more obscure manuscripts on the upper tier, a selection of dull volumes lining rickety shelves downstairs. After several visits, the librarian, a grey-haired old Wield called Mistress Portesque, knew him by name.

  “Good morning, Ordinate Yorkov,” she said, looking up from her card filing. “And how are we today?”

  “Well, thank you,” Guyen returned. “How are you?”

  “Yes, mustn’t grumble, dear. Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, actually, I’m researching Faze Convergence. I’ll take anything you have. And I’ll need to see the maps.” Actually, scouring the maps would serve another purpose—he might plot an escape.

  “I’m not sure we have anything on that,” Mistress Portesque said.

  “I’m interested in geodes,” Guyen added. “How to measure them.”

  “Geodes?”

  He dug Milkins from his satchel, opening it at his feather bookmark. “Here.” He turned the book round, tapping the paragraph that had been bothering him. She scanned it, reading out loud.

  Faze falls across the entire world, stronger towards the poles, but despite its even spread, it concentrates in localised pockets known as geodes, giving rise to bizarre and dangerous phenomena. Some scholars blame quartz deposits, others the alignment of the planets, others still, random chance.

  She looked up. “Quite the dilemma. How do you measure something you cannot see or touch?”

  “I thought there might be a device for it?” Guyen offered.

  She frowned, tapping her cheek in thought. “Hmm, there was something in a digest…” She sidled over to a nearby bookcase, pulling out an overlarge volume made up of cuttings and yellowing parchment scraps. She placed it on the desk, turning the cumbersome pages, likely to disintegrate given their state. But she seemed to know her books.

  “Ah, here we are.” She turned the scrapbook round for him to see. It was an account detailing expenditure for an expedition some hundred years ago. Several expensive pieces of equipment were detailed—a Ranthoon, a Cyleoscope, a Distal Counter. A party of Makers had travelled up through Krell, their mission to take readings of Faze strength in the far north. These must have been devices for measuring it. Unfortunately, the extract stopped at an irate note from an accountant. The group had never been seen again. The writer warned of the pecuniary challenges of research, suggesting future expeditions be better tested for cost-benefit before being approved.

  “Interesting,” Guyen muttered.

  “Everything in the library is interesting, Maker Yorkov.”

  “And you have nothing more specific?”

  “Nothing I can bring to mind, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind, I’ll look at the maps then.”

  She picked up her cards. “You know where to find them.”

  Nodding thanks, he followed Toulesh up the corkscrew staircase to the upper level. Light streamed in through the tall window, picking out dust particles in the air. Toulesh wandered over to look down on the quad and main entrance, and Guyen walked up to a line of cubbyholes. He pulled a detailed chart of the Midlands from one and unrolled it on the table, pegging out the curly corners with some random books. Then, sketching a rough copy on a fresh piece of parchment, he plotted the twenty geodes Milkins referenced across the Midlands. They sat in mainly uninhabitable areas, some wild forests, others tiny points of interest with supposed magical properties. He stared, scratching his head. What was the point of them? Something had to be responsible for their existence.

  He threw a slide rule down on the chart, tracing imaginary lines. You could draw a line between any two geodes, it meant nothing, but interestingly, lining up the ruler across two in particular, it also cut through two familiar landmarks—a renowned geyser called Capstol Fuera, and the shifting plain of Gathorzaan, an uninhabitable desert region within an otherwise lush woodland near Alomar. Both were mentioned in The Book of Talents as sites of cataclysms—those natural disasters caused by the passing of a Bindmaster.

  Coincidence? He scanned the map for other cataclysm sites. Another geode lined up with two more—a naturally occurring crystal tower named Nebrasnicht and a sinkhole called Turellian’s Well. He made another line connecting three more points and something even more interesting presented—the line intersected with the first one he’d drawn at the exact location of Capstol Fuera. He picked another geode, testing various angles. Sure enough, that appeared between a pair of geological wonders too. Were they also cataclysm sites? Was there a pattern here? What if it wasn’t the lines connecting geodes which were important, but the lines between cataclysms—more specifically, where they intersected? Could you predict the locations of other, undiscovered geodes at those crossings?

  He looked up. Toulesh appeared over his shoulder, an acid look on his face, judging again—but he was right, there were plenty more qualified people to delve into such theories. He had more pressing concerns. His eyes wandered over city names he’d never heard of. Surely there was somewhere they could disappear to in this enormous country? Unfortunately, without local knowledge, the map’s labels provided little insight. They’d need somewhere off the beaten track, but if he absconded, he’d be a wanted man—his Purebound status would see to that, and nowhere was out of reach of the grasping tentacles of the Devotions. Perhaps they could buy passage aboard ship—a return to Krell, or along the coast to Ranatland, Devotions sway was weaker there. But neither was a great option. Ideally they’d stay in Sendal. If only there was a way to get the authorities off his back.

  Of course, unless Yemelyan could be cured, it was all academic.

  Taking an early lunch in the refectory, determined to shovel in as much energy as possible for his work at the hexium, he was pleasantly surprised to meet Tishara in the queue.

  “Hallo stranger,” she said. “And where have you been?”

  “In my room,” Guyen said.

  “Skiving, you mean?”

  “No
, feeling like shit. And trying not to get bitten by poisonous snakes.”

  Her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

  Oh, this was a good anecdote, she’d like this. “I had a visitor yesterday,” he informed her. “A Taipan.”

  “In your room?”

  “Yep. Woke up to it slithering under my blanket.”

  She looked suitably shocked. “How, by Lily, did a Taipan get into your room?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Killed it. Stamped on its head.”

  Her expression turned to disgust. “I didn’t even know those things lived round here.”

  “Me neither.”

  “What if it had bitten you?”

  “Well, then I’d be looking a little less healthy.”

  She considered him. “Maybe the shock did you good. You’ve the glow of a pregnant woman about you.”

  “Are you saying I’ve put on weight?”

  She laughed. “No, only that you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

  “Well, that’s not down to the snake. Mist sorted me out. I think she has Corpus Talents.”

  “Good for her.” Tishara poured some water, sparing the serving girl a gracious smile, and they found a table. Guyen started on his spicy chicken and rice dish, hunger limitless.

  “So,” Tishara said. “Now you’re feeling better, how about a night out?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No can do, I’m afraid. I have a date.”

  “A date? With a woman? Who’d want to go out with you?” She offered an impish smile.

  “Only a certain High Mistress of Culture.”

  She frowned. “Jal Belana?”

  “Yes. Well, I was being humorous. It’s not actually a date.”

  She shook her head. “You know it’s not funny if you have to explain it.”

  “It’s not my job to get my own jokes, is it?”

  She tutted. Sergeant Hielsen strolled past, sparing his usual dirty look.

  “She’s invited me over for High Supper,” Guyen said. “Apparently, I need private instruction on how to put food in my mouth.”

  Tishara stared back, incredulous. “World’s gone crazy.”

  “She told me to wash.”

  “She didn’t? You know she’s married to Devere, don’t you?”

  “He’ll be away, apparently.”

  “Well, that sounds suspicious.”

  A nervous laugh escaped. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “I hope so,” Tishara said, “for your sake. You want to be careful. There’s stories about her. And Devere’s free with his liaisons too. They don’t respect normal moral codes, the High Houses. Too much inbreeding.”

  Guyen smiled wryly. A few months ago he’d have pegged someone like Tishara as just such a highborn inbred, but there was always someone above to despise and someone to look down on, whatever your station. Actually, she came across as—well—normal. It was annoying. The longer he spent in this damn country, the more Sendalis he didn’t hate as much as he should.

  They finished their food, and she filled him in on progress at the studio, but thoughts of Jal were all-consuming. “Do you think Devere cares what she does?” he asked.

  “How should I know?” Tishara polished off the last of her rice, blotting up the spicy sauce with a chunk of bread. “I wouldn’t cross him,” she said. “There are rumours.”

  “What sort of rumours?”

  She shrugged. “The bad kind—cover-ups, suspicious deaths—that kind of thing. I don’t think Rialto trusts him.”

  None of this was good news. He sounded like a man to avoid. “What’s their history, him and Rialto?” Guyen asked.

  Tishara sat back, studying him, sipping her water. “They were Ordinates together. Best friends once. After Devere’s House was banished, Rialto helped him recover his titles.”

  “Devere was banished?”

  “Not him, his father. There was a big scandal. A coup or something. Anyway, House Devere lost its lands and exiled to Krell for a time. They executed Devere the elder upon his return, a condition of his rehabilitation, would you believe.”

  “Globes! That’s a dark bargain,” Guyen observed. “I knew your lot liked an execution, but volunteering for your own—that’s a whole different level.”

  “Quite.”

  He grimaced. “Is Devere’s house powerful?”

  She nodded. “One of the oldest in Sendal. Their wealth is tied to Red Oil. Their lands farm most of the red maize in the country.”

  Sendalis used Red Oil as the base for the concoction. Devere’s lands would bring in a regular and sizable bounty. Guyen pushed his plate away, taking a drink of ale. “So, you think he’s dangerous then?”

  “Put it this way,” Tishara said sternly. “I wouldn’t wash.”

  After eating, Guyen set off for the hexium. There was a match today, the semi-final of the cup, and the arena would need preparing—a gargantuan task. He’d make himself so useful Selius would demand he travel with the team. As he tramped across the quad, heading out of the Devotion, Rialto came into view, back from West Port. Damn. Even if expected, it was still annoying. Everything had been a lot more relaxed with him away. An unfamiliar man accompanied him, stout, red-cheeked, dress practical apart from the sizing—the brass buttons on his tweed jacket straining at his girth.

  They met at the centre of the quad. “Afternoon, Yorkov,” Rialto said. “Off somewhere special?”

  “Another shift at the Junction, Prime Wield.”

  The other man beamed. “Outlaws, eh? A noble calling.”

  Rialto swung his cane. “It’s hardly fitting, Jenk, a Maker sweeping the floor at the hexium.”

  “I don’t know, Saijan, an honest day’s work never did me any harm.” The beaming man held out a hand. “Wield Jenk, Sub Prime.”

  “Ordinate Yorkov,” Guyen said, allowing him to place his grip. Even as he did, that familiar spike of hatred for all things Sendali reared its ugly head.

  “So you’re the Purebound, and a Flags fan?” Jenk rumbled. “What’s your team?”

  “Moth Canyon, sir.”

  “Commiserations.” He winked. “I’m a Portian myself.” Jenk was hardly a typical Sendali lord—brusque and unrefined, he was the antitheses of what most Sendalis considered cultured. That had to be a good thing.

  Rialto cleared his throat, apparently bored by the conversation. “You managed without me then?”

  “We did our best, sir.”

  “Anything to report?”

  “Not really, sir. Business as usual.” Guilt oozed from every pore. Nekic had better have forgotten about that hole in his ceiling.

  “He seems a solid enough fellow,” Jenk said, waving his hand over Guyen as if sprinkling holy water. “Can’t see what all the fuss was about.”

  Guyen smiled politely. Which fuss was he referring to exactly?

  Rialto frowned. “How did you get on with your studies?”

  “Good, thank you, sir. I finished all the sections in Milkins and set up the experiments as you instructed. Oh, and I have a theory about Faze Convergence I wanted to run by you. I plotted Milkins’ list of geodes on a map along with some landmarks. The results are quite interesting.”

  “Are they?” Rialto seemed rather less impressed than he should have been. Bloody man. He rapped his cane on his toes. “And everything is all right with you personally, is it? I heard a rumour your brother was sick?”

  Toulesh jumped back, face contorting in panic. Shit. How did Rialto know that? Had Nyra said something? Why had he brought it up now? Did he know about the patch serum? “He is, sir,” Guyen said, keeping his tone flat. “But we are enduring.”

  “If there’s anything I can do, Yorkov?”

  “You’ll be the first to know, sir.” He wouldn’t, probably, but shit, unless he was a very good actor, it sounded like he only wanted to help. So he probably didn’t know about the s
erum then. The game was still afoot.

  Rialto grunted. “Well, you’d best be getting off to your horses or whatever they have you doing down there.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Nodding to Jenk, Guyen turned towards the gate. Halfway to the exit, he glanced over his shoulder. Rialto stared darkly after him. It was all right, the plan to get to Tal Maran still held. He’d let Rialto know he was leaving with the team at the last minute. He’d have no time to object. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but it wasn’t an arrestable offence—anything to do with Flags was an honourable calling in Sendal. Even the Office of Assignment agreed on that.

  By the time Guyen arrived at the hexium, a palpable excitement filled the air, the semi-final an important game. Selius put him straight to work, rubbing down, feeding and watering the mounts, and Guyen polished the brass until it shone—it would do to make a good impression before broaching the subject of the Tal Maran trip. His thoughts turned to Mist as he rubbed. Why had she been so cold yesterday? Had he upset her somehow? The girl was an angel, one of the few people in this city who’d given him the time of day. He’d take her out, find out what the problem was.

  Selius appeared. “Good work, Yorkov.” He looked him up and down. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Fit as a flea,” Guyen replied. Actually, he really was, completely recovered.

  “Good,” Selius said, “because I’m putting you pitchside this afternoon.”

  “A runner?”

  “Yes. Up to that, are you?”