Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  Time stopped.

  One—Two—

  A sickening thud. A distant scream.

  She turned back, expression serene, not an ounce of regret, nor soul, nor humanity in it. A dagger glinted in her hand.

  Guyen’s heart pounded, surroundings blurring. “Stay away from me,” he stammered. “I won’t tell anyone. Just go.”

  She knelt over him, a patient smile on her lips, and slashed a strip of material from his shirt. She picked up the chem bottle, wetting the cloth. Panic rose afresh, nether light flaring all around. He was the centre of a great aurora, an uncontrollable chaos of Faze. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, “I’m not going to kill you.” She pressed the material over his mouth.

  There was no resisting the damp almond smell.

  Blackness.

  He was spirit, a beam of light dancing over the city. He saw it all, the buildings, the fire, the winding river stained red with Faze.

  Commotion sounded nearby. Cold. Numb. He opened his eyes. Still on the roof. Alone. Untied.

  He stumbled to his feet, head pounding, and staggered up the path the way he’d come, boots slipping on the icy paving. Banging came from the other side of the door. What was going on?

  He lurched up to it. A key protruded from the lock. He turned it.

  Guardsmen burst through, bundling him to the floor. Blows rained down.

  III

  THE LAYER

  38

  Dangerous Neighbours

  Two demonic red eyes glinted in the darkness. Guyen dared the rat to come closer, within reach of a boot. It didn’t. Stupid thing knows what’s good for it. He pulled the sack blanket tighter against the rigid cold of the cell, exhaling warm breath against his chest. What time was it now?

  The previous night’s events at the Devotoria and subsequent transfer to Stallenhall, the grimmest of the three city prisons, was a waking nightmare. He’d been handled roughly, even by Sendali standards, bruises purpling where the guards had kicked and punched him. Suffering the aftereffects of the wine and whatever noxious substance Jal had knocked him out with, he was dizzy and heavy and his stomach burned. He’d been violently sick soon after they’d locked him in the damn cell. He needed water.

  As the shouting and slamming doors rose to a level suggesting it was well after dawn, jangling keys sounded outside in the corridor. The viewing hatch slid down, bathing the cell in dim torchlight. The jailor looked through the grill. “Next to the wall, inmate.”

  Guyen climbed down from the wooden shelf serving as a bed and retreated to a safe distance. Toulesh sat on the table, legs dangling. The door opened and a familiar figure appeared in the frame, oversized rings glinting.

  “What did you do?” Rialto growled.

  Guyen stared back, words escaping him. He had to convince him he was innocent. This might be his only chance.

  Rialto waved at the jailor. “Leave us.” The door slammed shut. He placed his lamp on the table. It lit the room for the first time, and the view was dire. Rats droppings and thick cobwebs. A festering slop bucket and his vomit, still fresh, an interest for the rats. Slimy green moss grew everywhere, coating walls, floor and ceiling, even climbing the table legs. The Prime didn’t look much better than the cell, eyes red, hands trembling. Still drunk.

  “I never expected anything like this,” he said grimly.

  “I’m innocent,” Guyen blurted. “I did nothing.”

  “You’re charged with murder, Yorkov. I would hardly call that nothing.”

  “It wasn’t me, sir. It was—” No, it sounds ridiculous.

  “Well? Out with it.”

  “Sir, it was Jal Belana.”

  Rialto let out an exasperated laugh. “Have you succumbed to the maddenings, boy?” He hit a rat with his cane, sending it flying. “Wrath of the Ages! I knew Purebound meant trouble.”

  “It’s nothing to do with my Binding, sir.” Deep breath. Must keep control. “I need water, sir.”

  Rialto grunted, handing over a flask. Guyen took several long pulls, tacky mouth mercifully rejuvenating.

  “Let’s hear it then,” Rialto said. “What evidence do you have for this ridiculous claim?”

  “She’s insane, sir.”

  Rialto glared. “I know Common is your second language, Yorkov, but really! I said evidence.” He sighed. “Putting your delusions over Jal Belana to one side, you were caught red-handed, alone on the roof, while Devere lay dead on the concourse below with your Pledge in his hand. How do you explain it?”

  “She set me up.”

  “Why?”

  There was no good answer.

  “Fuck. What a shit show.” Rialto leaned on the table, rubbing his leg. “Can you at least explain why you were on the roof?”

  “I was meeting a friend.”

  “Is this friend a witness?”

  “She never showed, Prime Wield.”

  “I see. How convenient.”

  “The High Mistress tricked me, sir.”

  “She tricked you?” He stared, incredulous. “This isn’t a defence, Yorkov, it’s a joke. A witness overheard your argument with Devere. You accused him of arresting your brother. The prefects claim you followed him up to the roof to have it out with him, and when he refused to look into things, you lost your temper.”

  Toulesh jumped down from the table, gesticulating wildly in the Prime’s face. “It wasn’t like that,” Guyen breathed. “Jal’s men tied me up, then she drugged him and pushed him over the edge. Right in front of me.”

  “Jal?” Rialto frowned. “That’s a rather familiar way to refer to a High Lady.”

  “That’s what she likes us to call her.”

  “You were found alone, Yorkov. Behind a door locked from the outside. How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t know,” Guyen admitted. “She drugged me too.”

  Rialto shook his head in disbelief. “I trusted you, Yorkov, I took a risk. We might have achieved great things together. Now I am a laughing stock.”

  Toulesh head-butted the wall in frustration, sending sympathy pain through Guyen’s temples. Was this all Rialto cared about? His reputation? Perhaps if he knew about Sabetha, and Wilhelm. “Sir—”

  The Prime raised his hand. “I would hear no more, Yorkov. That you would betray my trust, I can believe, but these pathetic lies—I thought there was more to you, really I did.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Jailor!” Rialto picked up the lamp. “No more lies today, I have a headache. I shall do my best to appoint you counsel, Yorkov, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” The door swung open. He shook his head sadly. “How could I have been so stupid.” He tramped out, taking the light with him. The door slammed shut and the cell faded to black.

  Guyen slumped on the bed. Toulesh took the other, withdrawn and sullen. Mother wouldn’t be very proud now, her supposed rock reduced to murderous villainy, locked away with the dregs of humanity. And what of Yemelyan? Was he ensconced in some equally vile hole? Unless he was dead, of course, but that wasn’t a thought worth having. No, Jal was right, he was cursed, his whole family were.

  It was impossible to keep track of time in the putrid cell. At one point, the torch in the corridor ran out and pitch darkness reigned until the next day. The so-called food was disgusting, but complaints to the guard only earned a clout from his cudgel. Checking the blackness for Faze, just the faintest eddies of nether light swirled, the effort required to see them too tiring. Either he’d lost his gift or Stallenhall attracted little of the stuff. Perhaps the lack of hope snuffed it out in here—the hellhole was certainly devoid of that. What it wasn’t devoid of was the damn moss. It grew over everything, at a ridiculous rate, even curling his feet by morning.

  A guard came on the third day. “Stand away, inmate,” he bellowed through the grill. Guyen stood against the wall. The guard unlocked the door. “Out!”

  Would they execute him today? “Tell me where we’re going first,” Guyen demanded.

  “Exercise yard,
” the old bastard barked. He pointed down the smoky corridor where another man scraped moss from the floor. Anything was better than the cell, so Guyen moved. Other inmates already in the corridor shot him snarling looks, one sporting missing front teeth and unnatural carved incisors. Althuisan perhaps? Such dental decoration was popular out east.

  The exercise yard, some thirty paces square, was covered in mud, the sawdust having long since stopped absorbing the squelch underfoot. Patches of the Creep, as the inmates called the pervasive moss, grew up in clumps amidst the mire fighting for survival against constant, tramping feet. The slimy growth maintained complete purchase over walls, manacles and troughs though, giving the impression everything was soft and fluffy. A deception far from the truth. Guards screeched orders from the sides, while a ragtag bunch of the worst of humanity trudged round in single file. Guyen joined the line, keeping his head down.

  “Move it!” a Sendali inmate growled, pushing him in the back.

  Guyen whirled. “Look where you’re going,” he snapped, quickly regretting his words. The man had an ear missing, but his eyes were worse—dead, cold spite.

  It wasn’t at all comforting, putting faces to the howls and curses which echoed around the cellblock at night. Some men were obviously deemed more dangerous than others, encumbered by heavy irons and bound in small groups. One such party in filthy white robes appeared to be Echelista. They chanted as they trudged, palms outstretched in supplication. Had their belief in the Shapers been enough to land them in here? Apart from the Echelista, the inmates divided into two gangs—the Sendalis and the rest. Of the rest, the bulk were Krellen, probably refugees caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, neither group were approachable, the Sendalis aiming obscene curses and vicious threats, while the Krellens blanked him amidst murmurs of traitor and pig. Survival in here would be a chore.

  He slept fitfully that night, waking every so often to dim torchlight breaking through the grill in the door. With only the rats and spiders for company, he replayed events at the Reverie. There had to be a way to prove his innocence, or Jal’s crime, but all the evidence pointed at him and there were no witnesses. Of course, the Cloaks knew the truth, but they were hardly likely to speak up. Sark had been in the building, but where had he got to when all this was playing out? And what had happened to Mist? Why the message to meet on the roof? Surely, she of all people wouldn’t have betrayed him?

  His mistake had been the sex. What was he to Jal? An aperitif to the kill? What had possessed him? It was like she’d enchanted him, unless the alcohol was to blame, but the why hardly mattered—it was done now, and the events on the roof were irrelevant. It came down to the word of a Krellen against that of a High Lady. His fate was sealed. And with it, Yemelyan’s.

  When he did manage to sleep, night terrors reigned. He dreamed of Ariana wrapped in streams of multi-coloured nether light, reaching out to her, trying to touch her. But she flickered and strobed, different versions swarming around him, pressing in, filling his ears with crystal screams. And then the exquisite pressure was too much to take, and he flew over fields and rivers, villages and forests, painting the earth in blood, every living thing withering and dying as he passed over.

  He awoke, dripping with sweat, and went to move his hand. Something stuck it to the bed. He tugged, ripping the Creep away. He sat up, shuddering, scraping the vile growth away from his skin in the half-light. Unable to sleep, he took out the fake silver, still in the pocket of his torn dress suit. He spun it, testing if it was still tilted towards harps. It was, but he couldn’t change it. He couldn’t conjure enough power to do anything in here.

  Another day dawned, and he ate the stale gruel to appease his cramping stomach. The dirty water provided was unfit for animals but, lips cracking, he had to drink it. The guard came again at mid-morning. More exercise in the yard, a light covering of snow brightening the ground today despite the cloudy sky, and so he trudged, deaf to Sendali curses, blind to blank Krellen stares. Walking too close to the Sendalis, a man shoved him back. Another spat on him. He wiped the deposit from his tailcoat and fixed the bastards with a defiant glare. The one-eared man stared back. That was too much.

  After thirty minutes tramping through the dirty brown sludge, the once pristine snow mirroring life in general, the guards signalled it time to go back to the cells and the inmates filed into the passageway. Guyen hung back, bringing up the rear, wishing the moss would grow fast enough to bury him. The Creep wasn’t that considerate though, and a guard shoved him back inside. As he entered the passage, the one-eared man stopped in front of him, barring the way.

  “There’s some as don’t like Krellens,” he said. “You want protection. It’s gonna cost.”

  Adrenalin spiked, the threat of violence unmistakable. The man’s tone suggested he’d be paying whatever happened. But this was how things worked inside, wasn’t it? You coughed up in return for the continued use of your legs. Unfortunately, the man was sorely ill-informed.

  “You think I have coin?” Guyen protested.

  One Ear regarded the remains of his dress suit. “Looks like that used to be a nice pair of slacks once upon a time. Word is, you’re a Devotee.”

  “What of it?”

  “It’s bloody true?” He laughed. “How far they fall.” The door to the yard slammed shut. A grizzled man stepped up behind, a big unit. “I’ll lay a mark with you, Zor,” One Ear said to him, “this lad won’t see out the week.”

  The man nodded. “Take that bet.” They spat on their palms, clamping hands.

  “Please, let me pass,” Guyen breathed.

  One Ear sneered. “I’ll let you pass, Krellen—pass on a message to your benefactors on the outside. I want Scuff—the pure shit—and they’d better provide it if you value your health.”

  “Benefactors?” Guyen laughed wryly, flapping his torn suit in front of the man. “You think anyone gives a toss about me?”

  One Ear pulled up his sleeve, revealing a makeshift dagger—sharpened bone of some description. “Maybe I oughta just kill you now then.” His mouth contorted in a maniacal grin. “Unless… you could always do a little work for me.”

  A little work? That had to be a euphemism for something dire. But outright refusal would be a reliable path to getting killed today. “What kind of work?” Guyen asked cautiously.

  “You’ve met that ugly fellow—Uoth?”

  “Yeah, the Krellen boss. What of him?”

  “I need him dead.” He said it as if requesting he place an advertisement for a manservant in the Crier. Supplying illicit narcotics suddenly seemed preferable.

  “I’m a pacifist,” Guyen muttered.

  One Ear sneered. “What you doing here then?”

  “I was framed.”

  “Well, ain’t that bloody original.” He darkened. “You have your offer, Devotions. Get me the Scuff or kill the Krellen, or you’re dead in two days.” He gave a signal and the other man grabbed his arms. He planted a solid punch in the stomach. Air exploded out. Guyen doubled over, gasping for breath.

  “There, something to remember me by,” the Sendali hissed. “Two bloody sunsets, right? If the Krellen’s heart still beats, I’m collecting, and if it ain’t the drugs, it’s yer life.”

  39

  Scholar's Trust

  The next day was milder, but damp and overcast. A line of crows perched on the grey slate roof of the wing as Guyen trudged through the mud after the other inmates, thoughts torn between his desperate plight, Yemelyan, and how he might get the Sendalis off his back.

  “A day,” One Ear snarled as he passed.

  Guyen looked down at his feet, gritting his teeth as another Sendali barged into him. There was no way to get One Ear’s drugs—passing on a message to the outside was impossible, even if he had known any Scuff dealers, which he didn’t. In here was a different world, cut off from anyone who might help him, and it was a lonely existence. He needed an ally if he was to survive.

  Choices limited, he s
lowed his pace, falling in step with the Krellens. Perhaps they’d take pity on him. His enemy—their enemy. Wasn’t that how things worked in here? The Krellens circled protectively around their leader, Uoth, a man near seven-foot-tall. He nodded, and his men parted, allowing Guyen through. A thick black beard obscured his tattooed face and a hand nestled in his coat pocket, fingers stroking a small white bird. Entertainment was limited in Stallenhall.

  Guyen took a deep breath and projected as much confidence as he could muster. “Hallo brother,” he said in thick Krellen.

  Uoth flashed dangerously. “Ah, the Devotee traitor pig.”

  This wasn’t a good start. “I’m not a traitor.”

  “You’re one of them, so you’re not one of us.” Uoth’s followers glared daggers. “What do you want?”

  “I need protection from him.” Guyen nodded towards One Ear.

  “Top Dog on your back, is he?” Uoth leaned in. “Perhaps he likes you.”

  Guyen shuddered. “I don’t think so. He says I’m a dead man unless I get him Scuff or…” He hesitated. “Or I kill you.”

  Uoth let out a roaring belly laugh. “You’d better get his drugs then, brother.”

  “I can’t, I have no contacts.”

  “Looks like you’re fucked then.”

  Guyen pursed his lips. “Yes, looks that way.”

  Uoth shrugged unconcernedly. “You made your bed.”

  “Traitor’s bed,” one of the other Krellens snarled. He lurched forwards, something glinting in his hand.

  Uoth raised a palm. “Easy.”

  “The pig don’t deserve to breathe, Uoth.”

  “You running the place now, are you, Ichach?”

  “No.” The man tensed.

  Uoth grunted. “I know a way to settle this.” He elbowed his man in the ribs. “Give me that, idiot.” The man passed his weapon, a glass shard. Uoth pressed it into Guyen’s hand. “Here, kill the bastard for us and prove your loyalty. Then you’ll get your protection.”