Mist vanished as the soldier neared the Chestnut. “How’d you get out here?” he grunted. “Stupid creature!” He caught the mare’s reins and began leading her towards the door. This was it. Time to man up. Distract him, she’d said. But how? If only the damn simulacrum were more useful at such times. Unless… Smoker hadn’t much cared for Faze back on the road. Might that work?
Guyen banished Toulesh, and the clamour rose, nether light outlining horse and ranker. He concentrated on a pink thread, teasing it as if he might find a different version of horse and man at once. That kind of Faze manipulation was likely impossible, but the effort made the thread jump like a feather excited by a breath, and Smoker broke free, catching the ranker with a kick.
The man cursed, oblivious to Mist stepping silently up behind him. “Dumb fucking animal,” he growled.
The watermelon sound of a knife burying itself in flesh punctured the quiet. The man let out a faint, breathy gasp and collapsed where he stood, his fall broken smoothly by his dispatcher. All remained quiet up on the wall. Guyen breathed in the cold air, ugly feelings surging. Wasn’t revenge supposed to taste sweet? This didn’t. They dragged the body behind the rubble and the man’s petrified expression caught in Silvera’s light. This was wrong. It was all wrong. He’d only been doing his job. There had to be more to this plan than plain murder.
Mist picked up her pack. “You’re a ringer for him,” she whispered. “Put his helmet on and lead the horse inside. I’ll go on top.”
“On top?”
She pulled a blanket from Smoker’s saddlebag.
“You’re crazy,” Guyen hissed.
“In a fun way though, right?”
There was nothing fun about this. He gritted his teeth and summoned Toulesh. This was for Yemelyan. It was all for him. He scooped up the dead man’s helm and strapped it on.
Mist boosted herself up on Smoker’s back and lay face down. “Cover me,” she instructed.
“Shit.”
“Just do it, soft boy. Hurry.”
There seemed nothing else for it, so he pulled the blanket over her and stepped back. She’d moulded into the horse’s shape. “This will never work,” he muttered, mostly believing it. Still, he gathered the reins, composed himself, and led them through the open door.
The guard on the other side was busy with his pipe. “I’m fucking freezing,” he moaned.
“Me too,” Guyen grunted. Was that a good enough approximation of the dead ranker’s brogue? The door slammed shut.
Heart beating like a drum, he put one foot in front of the other. Slow and steady. That was the best way, wasn’t it? Guilty men shuffled or hurried. Something resembling a long-forgotten parade ground stretched out, dark, fallen buildings surrounding it. Groups of soldiers sat beside braziers—smoking, drinking, playing cards, every inch filled with horses and wagons, the scent of manure heavy in the air. On the walls, torchlight revealed cannon and gunpowder barrels at regular intervals. Rossi was right—Cotes was prepared for anything.
Wending their way through the tightly packed battalion, they came to a small corral on the other side of the main gate and Guyen tied Smoker to a post beside a line of other horses. Rankers abounded everywhere. This was a nightmare. Mist slid down, offering a manic grin. Hopefully, no one would look inside her bag—a clutch of homemade grenades would be difficult to explain. The reality of the situation sunk in. How had they gotten this far? How would they get out again?
They ducked behind a hut as a groom approached. He scratched his head when he saw the Chestnut, but fed her anyway. Guyen pointed to an archway at the top of some steps. They had to find their way to that tower. “Let’s try through there,” he suggested.
Mist signalled agreement.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped from the shadows and put his best foot forwards, copying Rossi’s irritating swagger. Mist followed under her own natural bluster. They climbed the steps, unchallenged, and a torchlit hall presented, repurposed as a canteen judging by the empty trestle tables and lingering smell of broth. Men slept around the edges. Mist shook her head and pointed back outside.
They tried the next building along. Equally decrepit, what had once been a block of offices now housed only a single door in a frame. Voices came from the room beyond.
“It’s only a matter of time.” Oil light illuminated the speaker through a crack—Cotes.
“Well, we begin shipping in a few hours,” an unseen voice returned. “He’s probably at the club drivelling into his whisky tumbler.”
Guyen’s skin crawled. “Vale,” he whispered. Mist nodded.
“Don’t underestimate him,” Cotes said.
“The man who lost the battle of Gormik then snatched defeat from the jaws of victory at Hershel?” Vale scoffed. “I wouldn’t like to overestimate him.”
“Still, I need more time to persuade the others of his incompetence.”
“Do not concern yourself with that, commander, once they see the lay of the land, they’ll fall into line. Berese will get the rope and you will have several new boxes of toy soldiers to play with.”
Cotes grunted a nervous laugh. “So long as she doesn’t forget how useful I’ve been.”
“She rewards loyalty, commander.” Vale coughed. You could hardly blame him—the insidious damp infested Encasa like mildew. “I assume the wagons are ready to be loaded?” he said.
“The grooms prepare the horses now,” Cotes replied.
“Forty teams?”
“That’s right. Every wagon with a company of four outriders, as agreed.”
“Excellent. And you’ll send your men to secure the East Road?”
“Everything is in hand.”
“Your certitude warms my cockles, Cotes.” Vale paused. “As soon as the last wagon is out, get the rest of your men moving. Take everything. We won’t be coming back.”
“What about the prisoners in the tower?”
“Bring them down at dawn. Some will accompany me back to Carmain.”
“And the rest?”
“Put them out of their misery. And bury the bodies deep. We can’t risk blowback from the Council.”
Cotes grunted. “Not much honour there, Vale.”
“It’s for the good of the country, commander.” A chair scraped. “Well, we’d best get to work.”
Mist pulled Guyen into the next room—a dark, empty office strewn with rubbish. Vale and Cotes passed by and their footsteps receded. She peered out into the corridor. “You hear that? The tower? Confirms what that scrag in the woods told us.”
“Yes, well, let’s find the bloody thing.”
They slipped outside again and picked their way along the northeast edge of the ruins where the fort projected over the river. Moonlight played on the ripples below, torches lighting glimpses of red uniforms on a small jetty. Up top, several men warmed their hands around a fire, guarding a zigzagging path leading down. A large building loomed, the main structure—it should connect to the tower. A side door was open.
“Over there,” Guyen muttered.
“Right with ya, Greens.”
They wandered nonchalantly past the fire as Toulesh disappeared into the building ahead of them. He didn’t return. The coast must be clear. They followed, and stepping over the threshold, a waft of Sulphurous hit. A high-ceilinged room lay before them, scientific apparatus lining the walls in between flickering sconces. More familiar smells attacked the senses—elemental powders, Chlorate, Ether—and trays of used-up quartz littered tables. A domed metal cylinder the height of three men towered at the centre of the room, snaking pipes running out and across the ceiling, connecting to other bizarre devices. Guyen walked up to it and pulled open a hatch. An enormous glass bulb revealed at the heart of the machine. It was an Incubator, it had to be—it possessed all the elements of the one in Rialto’s studio, albeit a different shape and much, much bigger. Was Jal responsible for all this? Was it a Corpus operation? Where did the rebels fit in?
“What do you think?
” Mist said. “Could that thing make concoction?”
“Reckon.”
“So where is it?”
Beyond the solid world, unusual Faze signatures lingered in the air, faint vortexes of colour. Whatever had happened in here was long over. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Come on.”
They slipped out through a door on the other side of the makeshift studio and the clamour rose like a choir. A cavernous space extended as far as the eye could see, rows of pallets stacked with thousands of boxes, angry red nether light coiling around them. Well, that mystery was short-lived—the new concoction.
Guyen pulled Toulesh in close to suppress the visions and they ducked behind a pallet. He reached for a vial. “You wanted concoction,” he breathed, “it’s your lucky one.”
Mist quirked a grim smile.
He slid the vial into his pocket. With Rialto’s help, he’d prove the formulation was dangerous. Surely that would be enough to bring the Council’s wrath down on Jal and whoever else was involved. Further along the warehouse, a dozen rankers moved supplies on wheeled trucks. “The tower must be the other side of those bastards,” he said. “What now?”
“Pays to be brave, Greens. You just got to play the part.”
She was right. Sometimes obvious was as good as invisible. And they’d come too far now. He took a deep breath. “Right, let’s do this.” He stepped into the aisle.
Hand resting casually on his sword, chin up, he strolled along. Mist played her part, feigning banter, offering a punch on the arm for good measure. She might have been enjoying a leisurely Aylesday picnic by the river. She was good like that—an accomplished actress, unless she really didn’t care at all. Passing faces showed no sign of suspicion. Cold sweat broke out. This was insane.
But somehow they reached the far side of the warehouse unmolested. Breathe, Maker, breathe. Several yards away, two guards sat on steps in front of an open door, betting on dice. Given the layout, that had to be the entrance to the tower. “Let’s see if we can get a look in there,” Guyen muttered.
Mist nodded, unhooking her pack. “I’ll just stow these,” she said. “Save the scrags searching me.” She pushed the grenades under the last pallet. Well, that was one less worry. It put you on edge thinking you could be obliterated at any moment.
A tray scattered with half-eaten food lay discarded in an alcove. Guyen picked it up, reorganising the bread and lumps of meat into the semblance of a meal. They approached the door.
One of the guards looked up. “What’s that for?” he asked, getting to his feet.
“Supper,” Guyen said, masking his accent.
“They’s already eaten, lad.”
“It’s a special one. Last meal or something.”
“Oh, right. Poor bastards. Go on then.” The ranker stepped aside. How had the idiot not noticed his shaking hands?
The tower, like the rest of Kasimar, was a wreck. Damp and decay hung in the air, stone work missing, handrails askew. Mist dropped her hood and took a torch from the wall, and they headed up a flight of winding, stone steps.
A shut door inset with a barred window greeted them on the first landing. Guyen put the tray down. “Give me the torch,” he whispered. Mist handed it over. He poked it through the bars. The light illuminated two young girls shivering on the floor of a small cell. They stared into the distance, coal for eyes, oblivious to the intrusion.
“Hallo?” Guyen called. Nothing. Not even a blink. What was wrong with them? He tried the handle. Locked.
Mist offered a dire look. “We should help them.”
“How?”
“I could let them out.”
“Then what? They can hardly stand.”
“Ages, I know.”
Guyen cursed. “The best we can do is get out of here and raise the alarm.” They both knew it was a cop out. Mist offered a resigned nod. Toulesh regarded them both with disdain. I know! Guyen sent. What would you have me do? The simulacrum stared cold ice into him. Just go, tell me what’s up there. The apparition gave a sharp, serious nod and streaked up the stairs.
They continued their ascent. Halfway up the next flight, the parade ground appeared through an arrowslit. Cotes was assembling his horse teams. They really were out of time. Another locked door presented at the next landing, pungent odour wafting through the bars, the room beyond filled with men. Half-lain on top of each other, they sported a multitude of injuries, at least two dead. But Yemelyan was not among them. The man closest to the door growled, pulling himself up against the bars, eyes wild like fiery barleycorns. He threw his head back as if to roar, but whined like an injured cat. The bastards had removed his tongue, or he’d bitten it off. It made little difference. He reached through the bars, gnarled fingers clawing at the air.
Guyen jumped back.
Mist gasped. “What have they done to them?”
“Fuck knows. Experimented on them by the looks of it. We have to keep going.”
She nodded agreement, and they continued to the next floor. This cell contained a solitary woman naked from the waist up, face a yellowing parchment sheet with holes for eyes. Her hair fell over her breast in rattails, matted in vomit, and she clasped a small bundle. Was that a child? How did you mask your horror? How did you impart dignity to someone so dehumanised?
“Are you all right?” Guyen called.
She let out a terrible whine, a most pitiful cry, and face contorting in a silent scream, hurled the child at the door.
Guyen jumped back. The infant bounced, just a doll.
“Easy, Greens.”
“Sorry,” he panted. “That’s messed up.”
Mist peered through the opening. “Poor bitch.”
Toulesh suddenly folded in. Terror. Exhilaration. Triumph. He’s found something.
Guyen charged up the stairs and stumbled onto the final landing. The top of the tower. A door lay before them. He peered through the grill, catching his breath. This room was bigger. He pushed the torch through the bars, making out vague outlines of furniture and a bed. Someone lay there, unmoving. He strained for a better view.
“Hallo?” he called. No response. “Mist, can you get this door open?” As he spoke, a beam of moonlight entered through a high window, illuminating the sleeper’s face. A familiar face. No! Oh gods! “It can’t be.”
“Is it him?” Mist demanded.
He tried to speak. He tried again. He looked back through the opening.
“What?” Mist pushed him aside and peered into the gloom. “Who’s that?” she grunted. “One of the rebels?”
“No.” This was impossible. He was dead. “It’s—that’s my father.”
“Have you lost your—”
“Get this door open!” Mist pulled out her picks. Nothing made sense now. Was it a trick of the light? Maybe it was the exhaustion, more hallucination? How could it be him? Why the hell would he be here, even if he was alive? “Hurry up!”
“I’m trying,” Mist objected. “It’s a complicated lock.”
Finally, after several gauges of pick, a click emanated. She turned the handle and the door swung open.
Guyen rushed to the bed. “Father?” It was him. How? He shook him by the shoulder. No response. He looked dead, his face gaunt, lifeless, the skin around his bare arms stretched where he was tied so tightly to the bed. He pulled off his gloves, laying a hand on his forehead—still warm.
“Look,” Mist breathed. She pointed to a small glass bulb inserted into Father’s left arm. Full of blood, a tube connected it to a set of bellows underneath a tall, copper cylinder, from which another tube snaked back into a similar valve in his other arm.
Panic rose. “Father!” Guyen shook him more violently. The big man’s expression flickered. “Wake up!” He tore the glass bulb away and blood jetted in weak pulses. This was too much to take. Frightened, he pressed against the wound, the warm ichor pooling beneath his hand. Efficient as a field medic, Mist tore a length of linen from the bed sheet, fashioning a makeshift bandage. She tied
it tight then removed the valve from his other arm, bandaging that too.
Guyen shrank back, shocked and confused. How could Father be alive? It was impossible. After all this time. Why was he here? He unclipped his flask and dripped water onto the big man’s lips, his face a lighter shade of ghost. He murmured something unintelligible.
“Father, it’s me, Guyen.”
“Son?”
“What are you doing here, Father?” He smoothed matted hair away from the big man’s good eye. “Have you seen Yemelyan?” No response. Was he drugged?
“What now?” Mist said.
“I carry him.”
She snorted. “You’re not serious? Don’t you think the guards might notice we’ve swapped a supper tray for a full grown man?”
Father’s hand searched weakly. He opened his eye. “Must—destroy it.” He strained to raise his head then gave up.
“Destroy what, Father?”
“Concoction.” The word emerged as a breathy gurgle.
“I don’t care about that, Father. Can you walk?”
His head lolled, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.
“He might have a point,” Mist said. “Maybe we need to see the bigger picture.”
“What do you mean?” Guyen snapped. “This is the bigger picture.” He knelt down, trickling more water into the unconscious man’s mouth.
“What if the Council don’t like your proof?” Mist said. “What if we don’t get there in time? You’d let them do this to my country?”
Father opened his eye again. He was fighting. That was good. “Jail for the soul,” he muttered.
“What was that, Father?” The man was delirious.
“Lose themselves,” he jabbered. “Lose their souls.” He gave in to sleep once more.
What could they do? Mist was right—they couldn’t just walk out with him. That decided it. “We’ll wait until they move him,”
Guyen said. “We’ll take our chance on the road.”
She looked doubtful. “Reckon they’ll find that dead scrag out front before then, Greens. Besides, what if they don’t plan to move him?”
Nether Light Page 55
