Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “Sorry,” he said.

  A few seconds later, they arrived at the bottom of the Devotoria steps. A worried footman opened the door. Tinhats held back the angry mob on both sides.

  Guyen took Tishara’s arm. “Let’s get this done.”

  She offered a wan smile. “How romantic.”

  They headed up the steps, a snaking corridor of flaming torches lighting the water features and exotic planters. Devotees thronged around the imposing entrance, their silk and high-tailored fashions little protection in the chill wind. They joined the back of the queue. A minute later, Rossi and Ariana walked up, the impeccable couple.

  “I didn’t think they invited fanatics to these things,” Rossi said.

  “Good evening to you too.” Guyen nodded to Ariana. “I trust he’s taking care of you.”

  “Far better than you could,” Rossi retorted. Toulesh reared up, taking a swipe at him. Would he ever learn that didn’t work?

  “I’m fine,” Ariana confirmed. “We both are, aren’t we Kaelan?”

  Nyra cleared his throat. “Who do we have here then, Yorkov? Friends of yours? I didn’t think you had any.”

  “More like acquaintances,” Rossi muttered.

  “He asked, I wasn’t interested,” Guyen countered.

  Rossi snorted. Ariana put a restraining hand on his arm. “Play nicely now.” She sent a smile. Why did she have to be here with him? Tonight couldn’t end soon enough.

  “Oh gods!” Rossi blurted. “What’s Lofty doing with her?”

  Mist appeared on the steps in a flowing, wine-red dress. A familiar face accompanied her—Tarobert, Rossi’s squad Second. They laughed together. Was she flirting? They joined the queue, and Guyen caught her eye. “Evening, how are you?” he asked.

  “Superb, Greens.” She kissed Tarobert on the cheek.

  “Keep her away from the cutlery, I would, cadet,” Rossi said. Mist’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll be sure to note it in my journal, sir,” Tarobert returned. “The next time I shit one out of my dick.”

  Rossi scowled. The queue shuffled along.

  Dark Carla called over. “Howdy-do, boys.” She sidled up. “Good evening, Bindcrafter. I heard you were at the Keg Market.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “You heard right, cadet.”

  She whistled. “Shittin’ hell! How’d you get out?”

  “One of the canals.”

  “You were at the Keg?” Rossi sneered. “Start the fire, did you?”

  The scrag was tiresome. Immature. He deserved a smack in the mouth. Tishara tugged at Guyen’s sleeve. “Look, Felix is back from Ranatland. We should say hallo.” It was a thinly veiled attempt at a diversion, but there was the important matter of a replacement coat to discuss with the Substantive. The anger could stay in its bottle. For now.

  The Devotoria was transformed. Wild flowers hung from the walls, clusters of red and green berries decorated tables and picture frames, and rather than trying to ply Guyen with the points of their swords, the staff offered him aperitifs. Guests milled around the Sanctum, encircling the hexagonal ballroom with laughter and clinking goblets. Through the green glass brick wall, hundreds, maybe thousands of candles lit the dancefloor like a galaxy of twinkling emerald stars.

  The Prime Wields had formed a cabal, Devotoria security keen to separate them from the hoi polloi. They chatted amongst themselves, Rialto dressed to the nines, hands gesticulating with the towering, dark Berese in his gleaming dress uniform, Ferranti and High Mistress Volka sharing a joke, Devere and Jal—he stiff, cold, and paler than his powdered wig, she elegant, refined, and as alluring as ever. Guyen caught himself. He had to stop these thoughts. How could he find her attractive? It was ridiculous. She was too old for him, and certainly too dangerous.

  Making their way into the ballroom, the night served up a feast of pretentious arseholes concerned only with each other’s dresses and the sizes of their estates, brinksmanship the currency, arrogance the oxygen of so-called polite society. It should have been a relief once the formal dancing began, but it was complicated. How difficult could an Althuisan waltz be? Very, it seemed, despite the hour Tishara had spent showing him the basics.

  It didn’t help that the floor was so distracting. One of the six wonders of Sendal, the quartz inlaid within it lit up red as dancers passed over it, a mirror to the invisible Faze inhabiting them. The effect was remarkable. Loosing Toulesh to wander free in an attempt to improve his dancing, something else appeared in the floor, something only Guyen could see—fiery flashes of nether light arcing like grounding static—the other possible steps of the dancers. He averted his eyes, no intention of accidentally catching a spark and transporting himself back into the Layer.

  For the best part of an hour, the Devotees, watched by pairs of carefully positioned Devotoria guards, twirled, laughed and drank. Ariana and Rossi seemed to be having a great time, more the pity—luckily, there were no nearby walls to punch. Scholar Wilhelm swept in, sporting a high-collared black jacket set off with a red sash and the bouncing white curls of his ostentatious wig. A ceremonial sword hung at his waist. Fawners gathered around him, but he dismissed them, quite impolitely. Every so often, one of the other Primes danced by—Rialto with a succession of impeccably dressed women, Merchant Ferranti with his partner, and Devere and Jal—she glancing over at every opportunity, igniting more dangerous feelings. The woman was probably bored, dancing with that stiff corpse. Every time Devere whirled past, Yemelyan’s forgotten voice called out for justice. He knew something about his disappearance. He had to.

  Wine flowed freely and the atmosphere relaxed, the dancing liquefying. Guyen refilled his and Tishara’s goblets several times, even though it was probably a bad idea to get drunk tonight. He was doing so again when Wilhelm, Devere and Jal walked up, their conversation heated. Toulesh slunk off into the crowd.

  “I meant only that the queues were too long,” Devere said.

  “I know what you meant,” Jal snapped. That tone would freeze lava.

  Wilhelm cleared his throat. “Ah, the Krellen. Still with us, I see.”

  Guyen offered a perfunctory bow. “At your service, Grande Prime.”

  “There’s an offer,” Devere muttered.

  Wilhelm ignored him. “I do hope this incident at the Keg Market hasn’t made your life more difficult, Yorkov.”

  “I’m just keeping my head down, Grande Prime.”

  “Yes, very wise. For what it’s worth, we don’t all tar every Krellen with the same brush.”

  “How ironic,” Devere said.

  “Excuse me, Arik?”

  “Citizen Yorkov is a suspect in the attack, are you not, Devotee?”

  Guyen tensed. “It was nothing to do with me, my lord.” He didn’t add, ‘which you should know seeing as you had your thugs torture the six Ages out of me.’

  Wilhelm tutted. “Of course not, a Devotee involved in such a despicable act?” He shuddered. “We’ve already culled too many from our family in recent times.”

  Jal passed the Grande Prime a drink. “Citizen Yorkov is too intelligent to get involved in anything like that.”

  “But would you put it past him,” Devere said, “given his stock?”

  Guyen gritted his teeth. “I told the prefects, my lord, the men who committed the crime were Sendali.” Not that my word’s worth a salt. If it was time for accusations, perhaps he should accuse the bastard of abducting Yemelyan, in front of everyone… How would that go down?

  Wilhelm frowned, taking a mouthful of wine. “The investigation is progressing. No doubt the truth will be uncovered in due course.”

  Devere shook his head. “But whose truth, Titus?” He took Jal’s arm. “Shall we, my love?”

  She scowled, pulling her arm away, and bristled back towards the dancefloor. Devere stalked after her.

  “By Hayern, the wine is terrible this year,” Wilhelm said, swilling the liquid around his glass. “Do you not think?”

  “I’m no ex
pert, my lord.”

  Scholar Sub Prime Kynsley walked up. He bowed, dark eyes smoking. “The Pravos chapter have arrived, Grande Prime. You really should take a moment with them.”

  Wilhelm muttered a curse. “You would have me taking a moment with every breathing soul in this place if you could. And suck the last breath from my chest in the process.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Kynsley’s face. “I know it’s a long evening, Grande Prime. But we shall endure, no?” He waited expectantly.

  Wilhelm finished his glass, grimacing at the taste. “Very well, lead on then. I shall just have to try my dandiest not to expire from the tedium.” They swept away, leaving Guyen alone with two full glasses. Jal glanced over. He went to find Tishara.

  A half hour’s dancing later, the orchestra played a short refrain and applause broke out as the Grande Prime stepped onstage. Speech time. Guyen ushered Tishara towards a table of hors d'oeuvres alongside Rossi and Ariana. The scholar had her arms crossed, and the cadet’s face was a pug scowl. Good. Maybe they’d been arguing.

  “Dear Fellows,” Wilhelm boomed. He paused, taking hold of the lectern for support, examining his script. “At this time of year, I usually like to reflect on our achievements. There have been many—our fearless military continue their campaigns with honourable success, our scientists make ground-breaking advances, while we wonder in the arts and our new cultural renaissance, yet, tonight our exuberance is dampened, for our thoughts are with the victims of the underground market and their families.” A murmur of agreement washed over the ballroom. “Yet while—” He trailed off, then picked up his script, waving it at Scholar Kynsley. Kynsley hurried over and they exchanged words. Wilhelm shooed him away. He returned to the lectern, staring out over the ballroom for a moment. Guyen caught Ariana’s eye. She looked away.

  “Fellows, as some of you know—” Wilhelm broke off again, scratching his head. Discontented grumbling filled the air. He tried again. “In the town of Basen—” He stopped dead, swatting an invisible fly. Full-blown chatter rose up.

  Rossi snorted. “When’s he going to get to the point?”

  “Blood!” Wilhelm screamed. The hubbub died. “Blood on all your hands! A curse on your Houses!” He froze, staring manically out over the ballroom.

  The Devotees stared back, and the hubbub reignited twice as loud.

  “What’s going on?” Tishara exclaimed. It was a good question. Wilhelm seemed to be having a nervous breakdown. Kynsley approached the Grande Prime, placing a hand on his shoulder. Wilhelm swore, shoving him back. Kynsley stumbled, teetered on the edge of the orchestra pit for a tense, lingering second, then lost his balance and fell in. The sound of clattered brass floated up.

  Merchant Prime Ferranti edged onto the stage as, remarkably, Wilhelm pulled his sword. Ferranti stopped dead, raising his palms. Wilhelm stalked towards him, then suddenly took a swing. The audience gasped. Ferranti jumped back, tangling in the heavy curtain.

  This was unprecedented entertainment, even for Sendali High Society.

  Wilhelm whirled to face two guards approaching from the side of the stage and unleashed a torrent of abuse, waving his sword like a madman. Shouts of ‘do something’ and the sound of drawing steel filled the ballroom. Wilhelm charged, then tripping on some invisible obstruction, fell flat on his face. His sword skittered across the stage. He pulled himself to his knees, put his head in his hands, and screamed.

  Silence fell, clamour filling Guyen’s ears to compensate. Lady Wilhelm bustled over to her stricken husband as Ferranti came to the lectern.

  “Let us offer our thanks to Scholar Wilhelm for his enlightening speech,” he boomed, clapping enthusiastically. The audience joined in half-heartedly, still murmuring. “I call the toast, to the brotherhood and to the Primearchy.” He raised a silver goblet. Glasses clinked like a giant crystal millipede. He signalled the pit, as a dishevelled Scholar Kynsley climbed out. “The dancing will continue,” he proclaimed. The orchestra struck up a lively Standard, and the Devotees circulated again as if nothing had happened. Were they deluded?

  Tishara took Guyen’s arm. “We should dance.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Let’s not make a scene now,” she hissed. “You promised, remember?”

  It was a fair point. They merged with the crowd. All eyes focussed on the stage, as the shaking Wilhelm was led away. What was wrong with him? Was he ill? Another thought surfaced—hadn’t Devere promised to make a fool of him? To convince the Council he’d succumbed to the maddenings? This had that cold bastard’s fingerprints all over it. But how could he have done it? Poison?

  “I need some air,” Guyen said to Tishara after several circuits. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She rolled her eyes. “As much as you can take, is it? Fine. I need to powder my nose anyway.”

  They withdrew from the melee and Guyen left the stink of the opulent ballroom behind, heading up the grand staircase to the mezzanine. Ignoring dirty looks from quaffing Devotees, he let himself out a side door onto one of the upper balconies. The temperature had dropped again, the city spread out like a frosty canvas. In the distance, torches lit up the Basilica’s tall towers against the black sky, as barge lamps crept up the Galt. An orange glow burned somewhere off towards Alesmound—another house fire?

  “Having a good evening, Yorkov?”

  Guyen jumped. Nyra sat against the wall, ensconced in shadow, puffing on his pipe. “It’s certainly an entertaining one,” Guyen observed. “Did you see Wilhelm’s breakdown?”

  “Yes. No one’s Binding’s safe these days.”

  “You think?” Guyen strolled over to the railing. Devere stood below, talking to the two Cloaks. Sark lurked in the shadows. Globes! Did he know about his daughter? If only there was a way to find out how she was.

  The balcony door opened and a chirpy voice called over. “Hey, Greens, D’Brean.” Mist sauntered up.

  Guyen offered a relieved smile. At last, someone normal, sort of. “I haven’t seen you all night,” he observed. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Needed some air.”

  “Ah yes, it does rather stink down there.”

  She smiled. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Not now.” She glanced at Nyra. “In private.”

  Tarobert pushed through the door. “Oh, here you are.” He fixed Guyen with a dusty stare.

  “And there you are,” Mist said. She took his arm. “Come on, let’s go find Rossi and poke fun at his shoes some more.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Guyen called after them.

  “It can wait,” Mist called back. The odd couple disappeared into the warmth.

  He turned back to the railing with a silent sigh. Down below, Sark and Yannick had vanished from Devere’s party, leaving the Prime alone in conversation with his unhinged barber. One of the lingering pin wounds itched.

  Nyra sidled up alongside. He stared down at Devere. “Did you ask him about your brother?”

  “What’s the point? He’d only deny it.”

  “You can tell a lot by a man’s expression,” Nyra said.

  “Not him, he’s as expressive as pondweed.”

  Nyra puffed on his pipe, a chuckle turning into a cough.

  Devere and Vale turned towards the ballroom as two newcomers stepped onto the terrace—Ariana with a stiff man in robes.

  “Who’s that old codger?” Guyen asked.

  “The High Justice,” Nyra replied. “Why’s he with—”

  “Oh, he’s her father,” Guyen said, the pieces falling into place.

  “A more honourable escort than that drunk oaf in the colours,” Nyra said.

  “Who, Rossi? A toad’s more honourable.”

  The High Justice greeted Devere with a slap on the back, and they exchanged words. Then he headed inside with Vale, leaving Ariana alone with the Culture Prime. The loathsome man put an arm around her. Her body language screamed a silent protest.
<
br />   Guyen seethed. “What kind of father leaves their daughter alone with a perverted fuck like that?”

  Nyra blew a smoke ring. “Perhaps he plans to marry her off.”

  “Devere’s already married.”

  “Jal Belana would not be the first wife he’d lost.”

  Guyen’s blood heated. The High Justice might not care about his daughter, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. He whirled, heading for the door.

  “Don’t be hasty,” Nyra called, but he was already halfway down the stairs.

  He pushed out through the double doors, storming onto the terrace. “My lord, Mistress.”

  Devere’s glare was as icy as the frosty gargoyles. He took a step back from Ariana. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. “Well, if it isn’t Rialto’s gifted Second,” Devere growled. “Hero of the underground market. What do you want? This is a private conversation.”

  “My apologies, Prime Wield, I thought you were her father.”

  Devere’s lip twitched. “You play a dangerous game, Krellen.”

  “Game, my lord?”

  “I suppose you think it’s clever, trying to make me look a fool?”

  “You’re mistaken, Prime Wield. I have no interest in how you look.”

  Devere darkened. “She would have died down there, but for your meddling. And I would have had justice.”

  Ariana looked between them, brow lined in confusion. The door opened and Yannick appeared. Devere raised a hand, arresting the tailor’s progress a few feet away. “You want to be careful out here, boy, the ice is slippery, and it’s a long way down.” He dropped his glass over the balustrade. A distant, tinkling smash sounded. He glanced at Ariana. “A joke, Mistress, of course.” He let out a single breathy laugh.

  The problem with alcohol is you can never have too little. “What have you done with my brother?” Guyen exploded.

  Devere frowned. “You have a brother? How delightful. Sadly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Liar!” The world distorted, purple nether light gathering on the floor. “You signed his arrest warrant!” Guyen stormed.

  “I can’t be expected to remember every scrap of paper I sign now, can I, Maker Yorkov?”