Nevernight

by Jay Kristoff

  The bed was a bright, crackling ball of flame now. Smoke was being drawn up into the ceiling along with the aspira, but Mia’s eyes were still watering, her throat burning. One by one, she pried the nails free, dropping them to the floor with dull metallic plunks. Finally, enough were loose that the door was barely secured, and a few running kicks saw it burst its remaining anchors and sail into the corridor.

  Mia stumbled free, coughing, blinking tears from her eyes. Spiderkiller and Mouser were standing at the end of the hall. The Shahiid of Pockets was marking off names in a leather-bound ledger. The dour Shahiid of Truths favored Mia with a smile.

  “Mornmeal will be served in the Sky Altar in fifteen minutes, Acolyte,” she said.

  Mia caught her breath, stepping aside as two Hands entered her room to douse her bed. She saw Carlotta’s room was open, the lock shattered like glass. Osrik’s door was a charred ruin. A long tube of rolled-up parchment protruded from under Hush’s door, the sound of steady breathing spilling from its mouth. As she watched, the apparently jammed lock on Ashlinn’s door still somehow clicked open, and the girl sauntered out into the corridor, pocketing her picks with a wink.

  “Morning, Corvere,” she grinned.

  Mia’s eyes found Tric’s door, relieved that it was already ajar. Leaving the stink of aspira and smoke behind, she and Ash trudged up to the Sky Altar, found Tric and Osrik already sitting at table with Carlotta. Tric was watching the stairs, visibly brightening when he saw Mia. Lotti was bent over a leather-bound book, scribbling notes and asking Osrik quiet questions. The boy was leaning close, radiating easy charm, his lips curled in a handsome smile.

  Fetching breakfast, Ash and Mia sat down beside the trio. A glance told Mia that Carlotta was working on some kind of poison, though oddly, it didn’t seem related to Spiderkiller’s formula. Her notes were written in code—looked to be some variant of the Elberti sequence mixed with homebrew.

  Clever work for a former slavegirl.

  “Well, I’m not surprised to find Lotti up here first. If it’s venom, she knows it.” Ash glanced at Tric. “But how the ’byss did you get out so quick, Tricky?”

  “O, ye of little faith.”

  “Let me guess. Bashed the door down with your head?”

  “Didn’t have to,” Tric waggled his eyebrows. “I smelled the aspira before they had a chance to jam the locks. Poked my head into the corridor to see what was happening, Mouser called me a rude word in Tongueless and sent me up here.”

  Ashlinn grinned. “Quite a nose you’ve got there, Tricky.”

  Tric shrugged, glanced to Mia. “How’d you manage it?”

  Mia was watching the stairwell. More acolytes were filing into the Sky Altar now. Jessamine, Hush, Diamo, Marcellus … but there were still half a dozen acolytes missing. Ash was already joking about it, but downstairs, some of their number were likely dying. People they knew. People who …

  She realized the others were looking at her expectantly, waiting for the particulars of her escape.

  “Pressure differential,” she explained. “Hot vapor rises through the hole in the ceiling. Draft under the door brings in fresh air. Simple convection, outlined by Micades back in fourteen…”

  Mia’s voice died beneath three blank stares.

  “She set fire to her bed,” Carlotta finally offered, not glancing up from her notes.

  Ash looked between Mia and Tric. Opened her mouth to speak as Mia cut her off.

  “Not. A. Fucking. Word.”

  With a knowing grin, Ash turned back to her meal.

  Three turns later, Mia was sitting on her brand-new bed, the charred smell of the old one still hanging vaguely in the air. Another of their number had perished during the Blue Morning—a quiet lad named Tanith who’d honestly never been much of a master of Truths. Another unmarked tomb in the Hall of Eulogies.

  Another acolyte who would never again see the suns.

  Mia was surrounded by notes, working again on Spiderkiller’s formula. Cigarillo propped on her lips, she pored over Arkemical Truths and the dozen tomes the Shahiid had given her novices. Mia had to admire the beauty of Spiderkiller’s quandary—trying to solve it was like trying to find a single piece of hay in a stack of poisoned needles. But still, she delighted in the riddle. Like that little girl and her puzzle box. Her mother’s voice ringing in her head.

  “Beauty you’re born with, but brains you earn.”

  Don’t look.

  “… you will miss dinner, mia…”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “… your stomach seems to be growling some forgotten dialect of ashkahi…”

  She looked up from her notes, the formulae still dancing in the air. Put a hand to her rumbling belly. The answer was there, she knew it. But still tantalizingly out of reach.

  “All right. This will keep.”

  The Sky Altar was filled with acolytes, mouthwatering smells wafting from the bustling kitchens. The Shahiid weren’t present—no doubt at some faculty gathering to discuss progress among the novices—but black-robed Hands bustled about, serving wine and clearing away crockery.

  Mia heaped a plate with roast lamb and honeyed greens, plopped down beside Ash and Carlotta and started shoveling her meal down without pause. Lotti was busy scribbling in her notebook. Ash was talking about a bar brawl she’d seen when the girls were in Godsgrave looking for secrets; a few malcontents had spoken against Consul Scaeva and his “emergency powers” and had been set upon by half a dozen braavi thugs who apparently found the consul’s rule more than satisfactory.2

  “City seems angry,” Ash declared around a mouthful of lamb.

  Mia nodded. “More Luminatii on the streets than I’ve ever seen.”

  “Prettier than the soldier boys I’m used to seeing in Carrion Hall, too.”

  “One-track mind, Järnheim.”

  The girl grinned, waggled her eyebrows as her brother studiously ignored her. Mia looked to Carlotta, still busy scribbling notes.

  “How goes it?” Mia asked.

  “Slowly,” the girl murmured, scanning the page. “Just when I think I have the tiger by the tail, it turns and bites me. But I’m close. Very close, I think.”

  Mia’s belly did a flip. If Lotti beat her to the punch in Spiderkiller’s contest …

  “You think it’s wise to bring those notes to dinner?” Osrik asked.

  “I should leave them in my room so Dona Busyfingers here can lift them?”

  Carlotta raised an eyebrow at Ash. The girl had scored dozens of points in Mouser’s game by filching items and jewelry from other acolytes. Mia knew it was nothing personal, but she made damn sure to stay out of Ash’s reach when she could. Even Osrik sat away from striking range at dinner.

  Ash tried to muster protest around her mouthful, almost choked herself, and finally settled for raising the knuckles.

  “As I say”—Carlotta turned back to Mia—“safer to keep them clo—”

  “Look out!”

  With a curse and a crash, a passing Hand stumbled and fell onto Carlotta and Mia, dropping his laden tray with a bang. A half-filled jug and dirty dishes smashed over the table, splashing the acolytes with leftovers and wine. Carlotta snatched up her notes as the liquor soaked them through, the ink running and blurring. She untangled herself from the horrified servant, sodden pages crumpled in her fist. And as the Hand asked forgiveness, she stood, glaring at the tall Itreyan boy who’d knocked the servant over.

  Diamo.

  “Terribly sorry,” he said, helping the Hand to his feet. “My fault entirely.”

  Carlotta gave the boy her dead-eye stare, not even blinking.

  “You did that on purpose,” she said softly.

  “An accident, Mi Dona, I assure you.”

  Mia heard soft laughter. Turning, she saw Jessamine watching the proceedings with a poison smile. Carlotta heard the sound too, staring as Jess raised her glass in a toast. Soaked papers in hand, Lotti walked calmly over to stand before the redhead.

 
; “My notes are ruined,” she reported.

  “I hope they weren’t important?” Jessamine smirked. “You’re not fool enough to bring your venomcraft to the table, are you, little slavegirl?”

  Carlotta’s hand rose to the cheek where her arkemical brand used to be.

  “No man owns me,” she said softly.

  “I’ll own you if you don’t step away, little bookworm. Spiderkiller’s not here to save you now.” Jess turned back to her meal with a sneer. “Now take your precious notes and go weep in a corner before I gift you a new hole.”

  Diamo’s face split in a smug grin. Mia and Ashlinn shared a pained glance. It was no secret Jessamine was one of Solis’s favorites, and one of the most skilled acolytes in the Hall of Songs. Carlotta was booksmart, but no match for Jess in a knock-down scrap. The redhead was just rubbing Lotti’s nose in it now, knowing the other girl was too smart and even-tempered to start a fight she couldn’t win.

  Carlotta looked at the acolytes around her.

  Crumpled her notes in her fist.

  “I’ve a better notion with what to do with them,” she murmured.

  And drawing back her fist, Lotti slammed it into Jessamine’s jaw.

  The redhead flew back off her chair, a look of almost comic shock on her face. Lotti fell atop her, flailing and spitting, her usually stoic facade shattered to pieces. She grabbed Jessamine’s throat, slammed her head back against the stone and proceeded to try and feed the girl her sodden notes as Jessamine thrashed and kicked. The pair tumbled about in a flurry of curses and sopping pages. Jessamine landed a hook on Carlotta’s jaw, Lotti smashed her notes into the redhead’s nose, the wet crunch making Mia wince.

  There were no Shahiid present—nobody to break up the brawl. Diamo seemed to arrive at the same conclusion Mia and Ash did, stepping into the fray and pulling Carlotta and Jessamine apart. Lotti was thrashing and bucking, cursing hard enough to make the most hardened sailor give up the game and become an Ironpriest. But Jessamine was insane with rage, face twisted, nose gushing, slicking her lips and chin with blood. She clawed at the air, bucking in Diamo’s grip, eyes locked on Carlotta.

  “You’re dead, bitch,” she spat. “You hear me? Dead!”

  “Let her go!” Carlotta roared at Diamo. “Let her go!”

  “I’m going to feed you your fucking heart! I’m going to g—”

  “ENOUGH!”

  The bellow brought stillness to the seething mass of acolytes, and all eyes turned. Mia saw Ash’s brother Osrik standing on the bench, cheeks blotched with rage.

  “What in the Maw’s name is wrong with you two? We’re disciples of Niah, not fucking braavi. We stand in the house of a goddess. Show some damned respect!”

  Osrik’s tirade seemed to knock the worst of the heat from Carlotta. Mia and Ash were hanging on to an arm each, slowly loosing their grips. Diamo eased off Jessamine, and with a final, poisonous glance, the girl wiped the blood from her chin and sat back at table, eating as if nothing had happened. Cold and hard as a barrel of ice.

  Mia and Ash helped Carlotta gather her scattered notes. The trio were crouched over the wreckage, Carlotta trying to arrange the pages into some sort of order. Her work was a shambles, soaked to ruin in places. Her shoulders were slumped, her usually stoic facade in tatters. Weeks of labor undone in a moment. Mia found herself feeling sorry for the girl. Lotti was sharp as a razor, and good company to boot. Next to Ash, the girl was as close to a friend as any she really had in these halls.

  “Don’t trouble yourself about what that bitch said,” Ash whispered, glancing at Carlotta’s flawless cheek. “That’s not who you are anymore.”

  “It was never who I was.”

  Carlotta’s hands fell still. Her stare growing clouded.

  “It was just who they made me.”

  Mia threw Ash a warning glance, thinking it best to leave the sore spot alone. Gathering more pages, she handed them to Lotti along with a change of subject.

  “I keep my notes in my room,” she said. “I’m perhaps not as far along as you, but you can borrow them if you like.”

  Carlotta blinked. Seeming to return from whatever memory she was lost in, her mask locking back into place. She spared Mia a small smile.

  “I’ll be all right. I’ve memorized much of it. I’ll ask Spiderkiller for permission to work late in the hall. Should be able to catch the rest up if I miss a little sleep. So my thanks for the offer, but I’m still going to kick your arse, Corvere.”

  “Be careful,” Ash warned. “There’s someone who wants to kick yours worse.”

  Carlotta glanced at Jessamine. The girl was calmly eating her meal, acting as if she had her nose punched bloody all the time. Showing no pain. No weakness. Jess was an insufferable cow, but Mia had to admit it: The girl had stones.

  “Let her try,” Carlotta said.

  Lotti glanced over her shoulder, looking Osrik up and down. The boy had resumed his place at table after his tirade, scowling at the post-brawl mess. “You know, your brother’s a bit of all right when he gets all shouty, Ashlinn.”

  “O, Black Mother, shut your mouth before I spew.”

  Carlotta rose and padded over to Osrik, spoke to him quietly, sodden notebook in hand. Oz smiled his handsome smile, fingertips brushing Lotti’s own.

  Mia waggled her eyebrows at Ash. “They’ve been getting cozy. I saw them working together on some concoction a few turns back. And they seem to get paired up in Truths an awful lot.”

  Ash ballooned her cheeks, pretended to vomit under the table.

  Mia smirked, but inside, she found herself more than a little uneasy. Initiation was creeping closer. Friction was rising. Knives were out. The knowledge that not everyone would become a Blade hung between every breath, the idea that fellow acolytes were competition coloring every moment. It’d become easy to think that way. Seeing their fellows drop by the wayside, one by one. Every death turning them a little colder. The Church’s tests were becoming more dangerous, the Ministry’s regard for the acolytes’ lives ever more cavalier. Mia knew it was idiocy to worry about anyone but herself.

  That was the point, she supposed. What was it Naev had said?

  This place gives much. But it takes much more.

  Stripping away the empathy. The pity. Piece by piece. Death by death.

  And what will be left in the end?

  Mia looked about the Sky Altar. The faces. The bloodstains. The shadows.

  Blades, she realized.

  Blades.

  1. A language spoken entirely in gestures of the hands, fingers and face. Utilized by a master, a conversation in Tongueless can appear as little more than a series of tics, winks and subtle nods, completely unremarkable to anyone not trained in the art.

  Newer practitioners often appear to be pulling silly faces in the midst of a seizure, but practice makes perfect, as they say.

  2. The braavi are a loose collective of gangs that run much of the criminal undertakings in Godsgrave—prostitution, larceny and organized violence. For hundreds of years, the braavi were a thorn in the sides of various Itreyan kings, and even after the Republic was formed, they remained dug into the Nethers of Godsgrave like particularly stubborn ticks. Their predations wore at trade, cut into profits, and it seemed no amount of Luminatii raids could permanently remove them.

  It was a newly elected senator, Julius Scaeva, who first proposed the notion of giving more powerful braavi gangs—such as those who control the docks and warehouse districts of Godsgrave—an official stipend from the Republic’s coffers. He argued that it would be cheaper to pay the thugs than organize an official police force to combat them, and that the gangs themselves would benefit from a period of stability. Scaeva financed the first payment from his own personal fortune, and was rewarded virtually overnight with an astonishing drop in the crime rates of the Nethers. This saw his popularity skyrocket—among the merchants who plied trade through the docks, the citizens who had previously been caught up in the wars between the Luminati
i and braavi, and from the thugs themselves, who rather enjoyed being paid for simply getting paid. It was after this coup that Scaeva first came to be known among the mob as “Senatum Populiis”—the People’s Senator.

  The names his opponents called him behind closed doors, of course, were far less flattering.

  But only when the doors were firmly closed.

  CHAPTER 25

  SKIN

  Two weeks later, everything began to change.

  The flock was gathered for mornmeal as usual. Mia’s head was fuzzy after hours working on Spiderkiller’s formula. Carlotta spent the entire meal working in her salvaged notebook on the Shahiid’s quandary, barely speaking a word. She’d been pulling late hours in the Hall of Truths to make up for the destruction of her work, her eyes bloodshot and bruised. And though Lotti didn’t speak of it, her feud with Jessamine hung in the air like poison. Ashlinn filled the gaps with talk about some new beau she’d found last trip to Godsgrave; a senator’s son who apparently talked about his father’s business in his sleep.

  As the acolytes were shuffling from the Sky Altar, Mia saw Shahiid Aalea take Tric aside, speak to him in hushed tones. Beneath the ink, Mia saw the boy’s face visibly pale. He seemed set to argue, but Aalea cut his protests off at the knees with a smile as sharp as gravebone.

  The turn’s lesson was in the Hall of Songs, and Solis had been focusing on the art of ranged weaponry over the last few lessons. A series of strawman targets were suspended from the ceiling by oiled iron chains. Standing an acolyte in the sparring circle, Solis equipped them with crossbows or throwing knives, and instructed their fellows to swing the targets at their backs and heads. The strawmen were heavy enough to knock you flying if they struck home, and not getting clobbered by one proved solid motivation indeed. Mia was just grateful that a switch from sparring matches meant a break from serving as Jessamine’s training dummy, but in this particular game, she discovered she had an advantage her fellows didn’t.