Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 6

  Blackwell stared back dumbly. A low, guttural snarl issued from just beyond the door.

  Nakvin smiled. “I don't need you between the sheets.” Maintaining eye contact with Blackwell, she wove a subtle glamer as she said, “Jones, your partner’s about to put a hole in your back.”

  The younger man jumped up and rounded on his associate, his face a mask of betrayal and fear. He shot from the hip and missed. Blackwell turned and fired in one startling motion, his slack expression unchanged. Jones fell among the sleepers, who seemed none the wiser for bunking with a corpse.

  Blackwell had started turning back when a hideous lupine shape burst through the door and charged him. The gunman cracked off two more shots, but the beast’s wounds closed as soon as they were made. The look of vapid confusion never left Blackwell's face as a wolf the size of a young bull crushed his neck in its jaws.

  Nakvin cringed. Soon her monstrous guardian would finish the fat man and gorge itself on sleeping pirates. She’d seen more than one such feeding frenzy; the wolf’s unpredictable intervention made limiting collateral damage difficult. There were only two constants: the beast never left until it had its fill of victims, and she was never one of them.

  As Blackwell went down the monster’s gullet whole, Nakvin ransacked her memory for a Working she hadn’t tried before or a glamer that hadn’t failed to contain the beast.

  The wolf trotted over to Jones, made short work of his corpse, and began sniffing the closest man on its left. If the pirate was lucky, he would die without ever waking.

  Nakvin assaulted the beast with a single desperate thought.

  Stop!

  To her amazement, the monster looked up from its chosen prey. Its burning eyes left afterimages in her vision.

  Leave, she thought with greater focus. Nakvin doubted it would work. She needed words to implant suggestions, and animals were oblivious to her mental signals. She’d only tried out of blind panic.

  The wolf stared at Nakvin for another breathless moment. Then it slowly turned and loped back through the door, melting into the shadows outside.

  When she was sure the beast was gone, Nakvin woke her friends.

  10

  Jaren found Dan lying behind the bar. He bent down beside the old man on reflex and felt sticky warmth soaking the knee of his pants. Perhaps Dan recalled that they'd shared something close to friendship, or more likely he refused to die quietly. Either way, his pale hands fumbling at his gas mask indicated that he had something to say.

  Nakvin stooped down and peeled off the battered respirator. Dan’s face looked like a creased white sheet. Bloody drool stained his beard. “You folks clear out!” he wheezed. “Guild’s on their way.”

  “The gas was their idea?” Jaren said.

  The gurgling in Dan’s throat might have been a chuckle. “No sir. That was mine. Now get gone. They’re already in the hangar.”

  Jaren shook his head. “Somebody played you, old man. The Guild won’t risk their ships in the Pebble Mill for a few scrawny rats.”

  “Old man?” A grin split Dan’s blue-tinted lips. “I’m just a whelp, next to you.” The shopkeeper’s pallid face grew stern, and he clutched Jaren’s arm. “What the Guild will risk depends on the Master who sends the ships, and the one who shook me down would trade a whole fleet for you and your lady.”

  Jaren furrowed his brow. “Who squeezed you, Dan?”

  “New Guild minister. Ambitious pup. Sent you on that scavenger hunt.”

  “What happened to the old minister?” Nakvin asked with transparent concern.

  “New pup’s got him by the balls,” said Dan.

  “So they finally changed the guard,” Jaren said. “Still, I can't recall a minister who did more than burn down some nomad camps and make a few token arrests.”

  Dan sucked in a series of quick, shallow breaths that Jaren thought were a desperate attempt at laughter. “This one razed the Cut.”

  “It's been done before. They'll rebuild.”

  “Can’t build on sixty acres of glass,” Dan said. “I missed the fireworks. They picked me up in Shabreth. Waved a stack of old warrants under my nose. Said they’d clear the slate if I set you up. Blackwell got me first. So where's the harm in telling?”

  “Then tell me who fucked us,” said Jaren. “Give me a name.”

  “So you can get yourself killed gunning for him?” Dan asked between ragged breaths.

  “So I know what to carve on his headstone.”

  Dan’s face strained with effort, but he only managed a whisper. “Marshal Malachi.”

  The nagging dread left Jaren's mind. With his last hope shattered, only cold numbness harboring a thirst for vengeance remained. “We're leaving,” he called to Deim, Nakvin, and Teg.

  “How?” asked Nakvin. “They’re waiting for us in the hangar.”

  Teg stopped looting the sleeping pirates, pocketed his ill-gotten gains, and started toward the kitchen. “Follow me,” he said.

  “What about them?” Deim asked, taking in the sleepers with a wave of his arm.

  Jaren shook his head. “If we’re caught, we can't help them or the ones Malachi took on Tharis. Getting away is job one. Payback’s a close second.”

  Deim’s dusky face took on a sullen expression, but he fell in behind Teg and Nakvin. Jaren followed them into a cramped pantry smelling of rot where Teg stooped and ran his hands over the floor tiles. At length he motioned to Deim. “Get over here and earn your keep.”

  Teg and Deim took up positions on opposite ends of a large packing crate. They lifted the box with belabored grunts; then set it down to one side with a heavy thud. This job done, Teg reached down and pulled on a groove gouged into the tiles. A square section of flooring swung upward, revealing a shadowy crawlspace beneath.

  “It leads to the hangar, before you ask,” said Teg.

  “How did you know about this?” asked Deim.

  “I ran contraband for the last owner back when I was greener than you.”

  “Dan's an information broker,” Jaren said. “And he's not our friend. How can we be sure the Guild doesn't know about this exit?”

  “My employer was in competition with the man bleeding out on the floor back there,” said Teg. “I’m the last one alive who knew, and I sure as hell never told Dan.”

  The martial echo of rushing footsteps filled the bar. A muffled voice barked orders.

  “We go through,” Jaren said.

  The pirates scurried down the shaft. Teg sealed the hatch, immersing them in darkness and the musty odor of neglect. “Stay close behind me,” he said.

  Jaren questioned whether his swordarm could navigate the dark tunnels by decades-old memory alone. Yet he followed without complaint. Several moments passed before a chorus of muted screams echoed from above.

  What do you think that was? Nakvin asked silently.

  Jaren knew she’d queried everyone when Teg said, “People dying in the hangar.”

  Deim’s voice fell to a whisper. “The Guild’s executing prisoners.”

  “I doubt it,” Jaren said.

  “Why’s that?” asked Deim.

  “No gunshots. And a Working big enough for the job would’ve been even louder.”

  The pirates fell silent and pressed on. At last the tight passage gave way to a storeroom cluttered with dusty crates where narrow shafts of light penetrated the gloom. Jaren detected the thunderstorm scent of ether and vestiges of something foul and acrid.

  “The hangar's right above us,” said Teg. “We’ll get in through the floor grate.” A series of fruitless clicks signaled his toggling of a light switch. “Rats must've gnawed through the cables.”

  Teg’s ether torch left a green afterimage floating before Jaren’s eyes. The darkness retreated, revealing a thin blond man in a black suit. Tinted lenses hid his eyes, which stared unflinching at the bright jet of rose-colored flame.

  Jaren’s cold dread returned. Nakvin gasped, betraying that the figure had somehow eluded her night vis
ion. Deim began the cycle of hand motions and controlled breathing that preceded his Workings.

  A zephyr flashed into Teg’s free hand. He trained its barrel on the stranger. “We need to stop meeting like this,” the mercenary said.

  “Is this the one who took a stroll in a dust storm?” Jaren asked, drawing his sword.

  Teg nodded without taking his eyes off the stranger.

  “Yes,” the slim figure said in a voice like a crumbling iceberg. “We were well met on the trackless dust. I saw you laid low in the town beyond the cleft. Know that you are avenged.”

  “Thanks,” said Teg, who kept his gun aimed at the thin man.

  “You’re not Guild,” Jaren said.

  The stranger turned his shaded eyes to Nakvin, who stood as if transfixed. The storeroom became a freezer as he spoke. “I am a bondsman given charge to treat with you.”

  “You're offering us a deal?” Jaren asked.

  “I would make plain the terms, should you wish to learn them.”

  “We could use the work,” Jaren said, “but there's a swarm of Enforcers between us and our ship.”

  “I have opened the way,” the stranger said. “Would you hear the terms?”

  “This is a bad idea,” said Teg.

  Deim’s sudden stillness announced that he was done fashioning, his extended hands poised to release a Working. Looking to Jaren he said, “Just give the word, and Teg’s stalker is a greasy smudge on the floor.”

  Jaren motioned for Deim to stand down. “What's your name?” he asked the stranger. “I like to know who I'm dealing with.”

  The man may have said, “Fallon,” or Jaren may have heard a glacier crack somewhere across the depths of space. Taking a card of smoked crystal from his jacket's inside pocket, Fallon continued. “The Jeweled Sea claimed a freeman’s ship, which sailed at our behest. Her cargo is yours for the taking.”

  Deim took the card. “Another treasure hunt,” he said. “Worked out great last time.”

  “Deliver your prize to a port of your choosing,” Fallon said. “There will be a buyer. You shall have the due price, even to the last copper.”

  The ether torch guttered, and the storeroom fell back into darkness. The work lights came on soon after, but Fallon was gone.

  Jaren almost gave the order to move, but he noticed Nakvin standing stock still; her silver eyes wide. “Are you all right?” he asked, gently shaking her shoulder.

  Nakvin started like a woken sleepwalker. Facing Jaren, she managed an unconvincing smile. “I just want to leave,” she said.

  Jaren opted to save his questions for later. He gestured for Deim and Teg to remove the overhead grate. All four of them climbed to the hangar.

  Jaren stood in the dock among a dozen privateer ships. He saw no movement and heard no sound. Everything seemed normal but for a familiar acrid odor that dissipated swiftly in the recycled atmosphere.

  “You’d never know that someone massacred an Enforcer squad in here,” said Teg. “Fallon covers his tracks better than the Byport Gouger.”

  Nakvin shuddered. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Master Kelgrun used to keep me up at night with stories about that face-slashing ghoul.”

  “What?” said Teg. “You’re scared of an old ghost story?”

  “The Gouger was real,” Nakvin said. “I grew up right across the river from Byport, and the story wasn’t as old when I was a girl.”

  Jaren led the way to the Shibboleth and nearly had his head caved in by Mikelburg, who dropped from above and behind the hatch with a pipe wrench in his mitts.

  “Thera’s bed!” the engineer cursed. “Let a man know you’re not the Guild come calling at his door.”

  Jaren waved Nakvin, Teg, and Deim inside before following behind with Mikelburg. “Where is everyone?” the captain asked when he noticed the ship’s deserted look.

  “You had them pulling their puds aboard ship for weeks,” Mikelburg said. “They decided to stretch their legs.”

  “How many stayed?”

  “Everybody who’s on shift.”

  Jaren groaned. Besides the senior crew, only ten men remained of the Shibboleth’s original complement.

  “You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Mikelburg asked.

  “If we live,” said Jaren. He brushed past the engineer and ran to the bridge. The other three officers were already at their stations. “Take us out Deim,” he said.

  The Shibboleth leapt out of the hangar and into the waiting jaws of four Guild corvettes. A lump formed in Jaren’s throat when he saw their segmented hulls. Deim made straight for them, gaining speed as he went. The Guild ships opened fire without bothering to hail their prey.

  “Eager, aren't they?” Nakvin quipped as she clung to a railing.

  “They don't know what they're up against,” said Deim. He pitched and yawed to avoid the worst of the barrage. The grazing shots that did connect were buffered by the Shibboleth's aura projector. Deim straightened his course and rotated the ship ninety degrees, narrowly slipping between two of the blocky corvettes.

  Jaren’s mind raced. His crew had survived the opening volley, but they were still in serious trouble. The Shibboleth was nimbler than the corvettes but would’ve been outgunned by one; never mind four. “Make for the ether, Deim,” he said.

  The steersman obliged, causing the color inversion that attended ether jumps near planetary bodies. Ubiquitous haze blurred the stars and orbiting rocks.

  “They jumped in behind us,” Deim said.

  Jaren knew that running and fighting were equally hopeless. The Shibboleth could outpace its pursuers, but not before their cannons tore it to shreds.

  The captain mused darkly that the enemy had never gotten so close. Then he corrected himself. They’d gotten closer at Melanoros. He shot a glance at Teg and found new inspiration. “Take us deeper,” Jaren told Deim.

  “I doubt that’ll shake them.”

  “I know. Do it anyway.”

  Deim’s jaw clenched as he intensified the Working that brought ships into the ether. As the Shibboleth delved deeper, the rocks became blurry outlines before disappearing altogether. Finally, the stars gave way to a murky, rose-colored limbo.

  “We've passed the second transition,” Deim said.

  “Are they still there?” asked Jaren.

  “Right off the stern.”

  “Maintain course and speed.” The captain rose from his chair and turned to Nakvin. “Take over for me,” he said, bolting from the room before she could reply.

  Jaren remembered his father comparing the ether—that exotic universal medium through which light traveled—to the dust of Tharis. On the surface, the grit was fine and loose. It would flow through one's hand like water, but the weight of the upper layers compressed the lower strata until they became solid rock. This analogy was imperfect because, unlike concentrated ether, sandstone wasn't explosive.

  Jaren raced through the Shibboleth’s corridors, finally ascending to the fourth and topmost deck, which was dedicated to housing the ship's four retractable grappling arms. He forced himself to relax as he worked the controls, sure that the guildsmen wouldn't be stupid enough to open fire at such a depth. They'd certainly destroy their target, but the clumsy corvettes would have no hope of escape. The Shibboleth, on the other hand, with its head start and outgoing trajectory, might weather the worst.

  Jaren deployed a grappling arm, extended it fully to aft, and scrambled up the boarding tube. When he reached the end he drew his rodcaster, removed the silver shells that had filled all three cylinders, and loaded a single brass round.

  “Deim, pull us back to normal space!” Jaren sent as he jammed the gun’s muzzle through a special port in the hatch and squeezed the trigger.

  A thunderous roar smothered his last word. The grappling arm lurched so wildly that he feared it would snap off, but the shaking subsided, leaving his body aching but the ship intact.

  Jaren peered into the misty expanse beyond the porthole slit. He sa
w three Guild corvettes. Two had no visible damage. The middle ship's third hull segment began bulging outward—an unmistakable sign that its engines were about to blow.

  The realization that he was still in the ether sent an electric burst of panic stabbing down Jaren’s spine. One incendiary round had crippled a ship. The inferno unleashed by her ruptured engine would consume the last two corvettes, and probably the Shibboleth as well.

  Jaren watched in mute terror as the corvette’s engine blew.

  11

  Marshal Malachi sat in the Tea Room perusing the contents of a thick black binder. The piping cup of Cadrys black set before him exhaled a nostalgic aroma. He periodically glanced across the worn clay table at his predecessor. Narr’s hawkish features were backlit by the dawning desert vista framed in the window behind him. The old Master had forgone his robes in favor of a cotton dress shirt and a pair of slacks.

  More than a month had passed since Malachi’s installation as Guild minister. But having neither family nor business awaiting him elsewhere, Narr had opted to stay in his service. For his part, the new minister relished the challenge of rehabilitating his elder Brother. He’d feared Narr incorrigible, but he’d also seen untapped potential.

  Malachi admitted himself pleased by the old Master’s progress. They had already conducted successful raids on eight pirate vessels, made over a hundred arrests, and seized thousands of tons of contraband. Those figures rivaled global monthly statistics for a populous sphere like Temil. For a backwater jurisdiction like Tharis, they were staggering.

  Malachi felt the warm glow of vindication. The Cards’ smothering bureaucracy would never have afforded him such results. Yet sobriety tempered his pride. He wasn’t on Tharis to roust vagrants, hence the reason why one particular file commanded his interest.

  Malachi passed the binder to his colleague. “I'd like your thoughts on this,” he said.

  Raising his cup in one hand, Narr accepted the file with the other. He sipped his tea, returned the cup to its saucer, and thumbed through the pages. “There’s been progress in the Peregrine case?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Narr adjusted his glasses and set to reading the most recent entry.