Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (10 page)

“It's definitely Worked,” Nakvin said. “Old, too. I had one like it back on Mithgar.”

“Was there a secret to opening yours?” asked Deim.

Nakvin shook her head. “Mine wasn't Worked. It was just made in a similar style.”

Jaren strode forward, his sword's blade humming. “I'm getting tired of this.”

“You saw my knife,” said Teg. “If you want to see that pig-sticker fly, keep it up.”

Jaren sullenly returned his blade to its sheath. “
What
then?”

“I don't know,” said Teg. “Fallon told us where to find this thing; not how to open it.”

Hearing their dubious benefactor’s name gave Jaren a flash of insight. He gestured at Deim. “Hand me Fallon’s card.”

The junior steersman complied. Jaren held the thin slice of smoked crystal up to the light. Luminous rows of text scrolled across its face, reiterating the terms of their agreement and giving speculative directions to
The Eye of the Void
. Jaren crouched down and slid the crystal sheet into the seam under the chest’s lid. He tried to prevent the card from going all the way in, but it slipped through his fingers. Taking a deep breath, the captain tried the box once more. It sprang open so easily that he almost fell backward.

Jaren steadied himself and peered into the crate. He saw a smooth stone surface etched with evenly spaced, perpendicular lines.
It must be a secondary vault
, he thought. Turning to Nakvin he asked, “Is it Worked?”

“Not Worked,” she said. “Glamered.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Teg.

“Objects are Worked,” Nakvin said. “
Living things
are glamered.”

Deim glowered at the crate as if it contained a large and aggressive spider. “You think it's transessence?”

Nakvin regarded the box with a puzzled frown. “They don't seem like inanimate objects given artificial life. More like the other way around.”

Jaren reached carefully into the crate and gingerly slid a four inch stone cube from its resting place. Its weight was strange in his hand: far lighter than he would have expected.

“There must be a hundred of these things,” said Teg.

“Yeah,” said Deim, “but what should we do with them?”

“We go to the nearest friendly port,” Jaren said, never taking his eyes from the cube. “And we sell them.”

Marshal Malachi traipsed along the main concourse of the Mithgar shipyards. The transparent wall on his left granted a stunning view of the First Sphere from the orbit of its moon. The elemental air sealed in by the glass had an intangible quality more befitting a lush forest floor than a space station.

Adept Raco Tavis, his guide on this frivolous tour, had been saying something, but Malachi's attention was elsewhere. Though the Shipyards' administrator exceeded the Master’s height by six inches and his rank by one degree, Malachi didn’t suffer wastrels, no matter their station. He waited till Tavis paused for breath to interrupt his prattling. “Have you read the Ambassador's Island report?”

The Adept's eyes weighed Malachi, though his narrow face was disaffected. “I skimmed it last night,” Tavis said. “Something to do with catching pirates. All part of your quest to rid the Middle Stratum of storybook monsters, I'm sure.” He stopped and looked down at Malachi. “Is this some heavy-handed attempt to impress me?”

It took all of Malachi’s will to keep from scowling. “I’m not concerned with the captured pirates, but with those who escaped.”

“Ah, yes,” Tavis said. “Such things happen when you reach for one handful too many. Still, a lone fugitive gang is a trifle.”

“I hardly think that
trifle
describes an ethereal event resulting in the loss of three corvettes with all hands, plus widespread property damage and civilian casualties.”

Tavis shrugged his broad shoulders. “The Pebble Mill is a hazard to begin with, and warnings are duly posted. The losses are regrettable, but they keep this facility running.”

Tavis gestured grandly toward the window, indicating the skeletal hull being laid in the adjacent dry dock. “
This
is the labor that currently demands the bulk of my attention—and of our considerable resources.”

Malachi hadn't meant to encourage the administrator's hubris, but this time he judged Tavis’ boasting justified. The Shipwrights were attempting a truly colossal feat. Despite its skeletal form, a hull like a massive rounded arrowhead could be seen taking shape behind a labyrinthine lattice of struts and beams.

Despite Malachi’s best efforts, Tavis noted his awe. “Behold the
Serapis
,” he said in a reverent near-whisper, “magnum opus of the Mithgar Shipwrights.”

“It certainly is impressive,” Malachi said, “but isn’t the sheer size counterproductive?”

“You refer to the current practice of building smaller, more efficient vessels,” Tavis said. “Though much publicized, the prana shortage is merely an alarmist fad.”

Malachi didn’t voice his dissent. Yet the facts spoke for themselves. Ether-runners drew their fuel from the White Well, a vast reservoir of prana that drove the universe and shaped all living things. But the Well wasn't—as the Gen had thought—a god. Like any natural resource, it was finite.

“The vessel's tonnage isn't its only impressive feature,” Tavis said. The
Serapis
is the first of the new
Disruptor
-class men o' war that our facility has been commissioned to build.”

The Adept pointed to a semi-ovoid dome protruding from the ship’s keel. “See there? That is a weapon unlike any other. When activated, it projects a spherical disruption field centered upon the ship. Any ether-runner within a keel-length will have its Wheel suppressed and its engines disabled. Perhaps the loss of a few corvettes is for the best. Lesser ships will become obsolete once the Brotherhood's fleet of
Disruptors
is launched.”

Malachi nodded pensively. The great ship approached the historical limit for ship size. Its power requirements would also be unprecedented. The siphons which fed ether-runners’ engines had become ever more powerful with time: an innovation driven by the growing difficulty of tapping the reservoir. “The Guild would be wise to weigh the costs of its new fleet.”

Tavis gave a derisive laugh. “No Shipwright would patronize a whore if doing so would put him over budget. Rest assured. Our coffers have never been fuller.”

There are prices beyond the monetary,
Malachi thought. Entire plant and animal species had been disappearing for quite some time. Formerly hospitable worlds were wasting to deserts almost overnight, and birth rates were declining. Some even blamed the Well's emptying for the fall of gods and Gen.

Malachi dismissed the latter claim out of hand. The Well's energies were potent, but they were nothing more than fuel for metabolic processes. His thoughts turned back to the dark ages of primitive shamanism, opulent religious ritual, and quack charlatanry that mankind had endured before they’d refined the science of Workings.

“Do you still think your fugitives worth pursuing?” Tavis asked.

The Adept's taunt roused Malachi from his meditation. He’d minced words overlong. It was time to do business. “I need a cargo vessel modified for bulk human transport,” he said. “Preferably something two or three generations out of date.”

“Your tastes are as humble as they say. Mine are more refined. What do you offer me?”

“You manage a single facility,” Malachi said. “I control a world. My gratitude will reflect that difference.” His business concluded, the Master continued on his way with brisk strides, leaving Tavis to play with his ships.

Four days' voyage from the Jeweled Sea, the
Shibboleth
limped into orbit over Crote. The bridge canopy showed Jaren vast ice sheets marching from the poles, leaving only a narrow temperate band a few degrees north and south of the equator. “Don't bring us down in the torrid zone,” he sent down to Deim on the backup Wheel. “Too much civilization. Head for the northern latitudes of the western hemisphere.”

Following these vague directions, Deim guided the ship through reentry over an endless glacial expanse. At that point, Jaren gave him a rough set of search parameters and told him to keep heading north.

“Everything looks the same down there,” said Deim. “What am I looking for?”

“An opening big enough to fly through,” Jaren said. “Its location moves with the glacier.”

It was an hour before Deim called again. “I think I see something,” he said. “Either that, or my brain is so sense-deprived that I'm hallucinating.”

“That's it,” Jaren said when a dark blue-black gash appeared on the horizon. “Take us into that crevasse. It should lead all the way through the ice.”

“And if it doesn't?” the steersman sent back.

“Either way, our troubles are over.”

To his relief, Jaren’s navigation proved right. It was a close fit, but the
Shibboleth
nimbly plunged down the deep, almost vertical chasm. The sight that greeted him when the shaft opened up evoked a sense of awe that never diminished no matter how many times he saw it.

Crote’s glaciers had grown so thick that they'd covered an entire mountain range. The
Shibboleth
soared above a narrow valley between two steep ridges whose slopes vanished in the icy ceiling above. Meltwater falls fed myriad pools and streams, and shafts of sunlight slanting down from myriad small fissures in the glacial dome sustained scattered greenery. On the far side of the valley, a natural amphitheater had been converted into a terraced ship dock. Many of the berths were occupied.

“I thought this place was supposed to be a secret,” Deim sent to Jaren.

“It probably is to the Guild,” Jaren said, keeping the intercom open while facing the bridge crew. “Concordia is too small to attract their notice, but it's a favorite haunt of local traders. I'll settle the docking fees and get a price for repairs while Teg and Nakvin find a buyer for our cargo.”

“What about the others?” Nakvin asked.

Jaren considered the question. Recent crew attrition meant that ten men were doing the work of thirty. The weary remnant definitely deserved some shore leave. “They’re free to look around,” Jaren said. “But stick together. We'll meet back at the
Shibboleth
in two hours.”

“How did it go?” Jaren asked Nakvin when she and Teg rejoined him dockside in the crisp, cool air of Port Concordia.

“Horrible!” she said, throwing her hands up in disgust. “None of the merchants in this icebox have any idea what those rocks are for. We were laughed out of every shop!”

“There was that novelty dealer who offered us fifty guilders for the whole set,” said Teg. “Thought they'd make nice paperweights.”

Jaren shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “At this point, I'd consider it.”

“Come on,” Teg said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Let's have lunch.”

The three pirates wandered the port, descending broad walkways that fronted the terraces until they agreed upon a modest eatery located in a hillside recess. A blend of savory and yeasty aromas filled the alcove. Its interior was dim, but its open front afforded a dramatic view of the sweeping green slopes and roaring waterfalls below.

Jaren chose a table off to one side. No sooner were he and his companions seated than he started reciting an itemized account of the
Shibboleth’s
repair estimate.

A perky young waitress approached and handed out menus. “Can I take your drink orders?” she asked.

“I'll have water,” Nakvin said glumly.

The meal proceeded in silence. Jaren ate sparingly of a mixed green salad. Teg's lunch consisted of eight small glasses of dark brown liquor. Nakvin stuck to water. After staring across the table at Jaren for several minutes, she finally asked, “What's the plan?”

Jaren took a large swig from his own water glass. “I don't have one.”

“We could stay here,” Nakvin said. “Start over.”

Jaren was about to speak, but the waitress returned with the bill. Teg snatched up the slip of paper and scanned the handwritten figures. “I win,” he said with slightly slurred pride.

Fingers like white sausages plucked the bill from Teg’s grasp with surprising delicacy. Jaren looked up to regard the newcomer.