Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (25 page)

Though neither demon nor Gen, the prefect seemed somehow above base human nature. A wild golden mane fell almost to his shoulders, from which hung a crimson cloak threaded through metal rings; casting him as a soldier of some ancient martial empire. But the man's left arm demanded most of Jaren’s attention. The limb was cleverly fashioned from steel, and Jaren would’ve bet his own arm that it was powerfully Worked.

Jaren only realized that he'd been staring at the metal arm when its owner spoke. “A long age has passed since the Freehold received one of Gennish blood,” he said in a clear, even voice, “and half-Gen are rarer still.”

Jaren tilted his head. “How can you tell I'm only half Gen?”

“Your lineage is writ upon your face,” said the golden-haired judge, “and in your bastard’s eyes, which burn with Gen ardor and human rashness.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Sulaiman Iason, prefect of Midras and master of the Freehold.”

Jaren’s fascination tempered his outrage. Sulaiman was claiming membership in a priesthood long thought purged by the Guild. It was like talking with Almeth Elocine or another figure from his father's tales.

The return of Sulaiman's judging stare woke Jaren from his daydream. “Your men abducted my crew,” Jaren said, hoping to dispense some judgment of his own.

“I saw your fall,” the prefect said. “The Leviathan spat you out.”

Jaren’s anger flared. “If you knew we were stranded, why did you attack us?”

“A strange question from one inclined to despoil weaker prey.”

Jaren’s curiosity exceeded his shock. “How did you know that?” he asked.

The hall's bronze-paneled door burst open, and Jaren turned to look by reflex. Four guardsmen stood in the dusty street, flanking an odd delegation of Nakvin, Teg, and a plain-looking girl. The child stormed in without a second look at Jaren and climbed the steps to the throne, where she pressed herself against Sulaiman's leg. “These folk waylaid me,” she whined, jabbing a finger at Teg. “He shot me through and through!”

“Jaren!” Nakvin said as she charged through the door. Seeing him lounging on pillows brought a puzzled expression to her face. “I thought they’d be torturing you.”

Jaren extended his palm toward Nakvin. “I'm in the middle of—” he began, but then he rounded on Teg. “You shot a
child
?”

“She was already dead.”

“More than that,” said Sulaiman, “I’ll warrant her ill handling was deserved. Is it not so, Ydahl?”

Ydahl's fawning posture suddenly turned violent, and she gnashed her teeth at Sulaiman. The prefect pushed her away with one foot on her back and one hand clutching her hair. Jaren looked on in morbid fascination as the young maid writhed and spat, her fingers clawing furiously at Sulaiman's hand, which remained just out of reach.

“Ydahl led a colorful life,” Sulaiman said. “We both hailed from Mithgar, though her day came long after mine. All her clan perished in a blaze, and she lived on the alms of strangers. To some she sold flowers. To others she dealt death. She still delights in flaying the unwary. We cannot keep knives from her for long.”

Nakvin gasped—probably not, Jaren knew, because of the violence being done to Ydahl—but because she must have recognized Sulaiman's account of the child’s life. The slayings that had terrorized Ostrith’s seediest district had been the stuff of avid speculation on Mithgar and beyond for generations. The plague of faceless men's, women's, and children's corpses had been attributed to everyone from an itinerant pedagogue to a prominent merchant, but Jaren shuddered at the thought that the Byport Gouger stood thrashing and hissing before him—until Sulaiman sent her crashing to the floor with a final, well-timed shove.

Ydahl lay upon the rough stone tiles, her body convulsing with muted sobs. “Please,” she wept. “Just once, let me see my father and mother.”

“If you held them so dear, perhaps you shouldn’t have slain them,” Sulaiman said.

Ydahl rose to her hands and knees and turned to stare at the man on the throne. “Will I ever suffer enough for you?” she asked, trembling. “Will I ever leave the Freehold?”

“The answer depends on your behavior,” Sulaiman said. His sky blue eyes weighed each of the visitors, “and the choices of these pirates.”

The current baals of the Nine Circles all hailed from the known order of creation. Not even Mephistophilis claimed otherwise; less still the one whom the damned called Gibeah.

Gibeah sometimes reflected upon his beginnings as a noble elemental of the Fire Stratum. His fall had proceeded at the pace of drifting continents, but in due course the former creature of fire had descended as close to the Void as he’d once been to the Well.

Nor was he the Fourth Circle’s first lord; merely the latest in a series of decreasingly potent heirs. The makers of the Nine Circles had long since departed, and Gibeah had profited from the ceaseless wars of succession.

Though Gibeah’s power paled before his predecessors’, he’d known at once when the living had stumbled into his war with Tyrmagan. Seizing the living men’s ship had been child's play. The vessel's crew had merited no interest until one of them displayed some control over the Circle. Tyrmagan’s meddling had prevented Gibeah from blocking the upstart’s escape into Iason's brutal hands, but admiring the irony, he’d ejected the rest.

Sulaiman
—thoughts of the mad priest evoked equal parts amusement and hatred. The ancient mortal with his so-called Freehold was a scandal to the other baals, but the lord of the Fourth saw no harm in letting a half-crazed human manage his own kind. Occasional raids served to remind the Freeholders of Gibeah’s mastery.

The baal didn’t know the human ship’s workings, but moving it had been no more difficult than diverting its occupants. The vessel now hung in the sky beside Gibeah's mountain, though he didn’t covet the ship itself. To him, the human contrivance was no more than a novelty. The prize it contained was the object of his most fervent search.

Immediately upon coming aboard, Gibeah had seen signs that made him reconsider his disdain for the living men's handiwork. Those who knew what to look for could find traces of something otherworldly lurking beneath the surface. The construct wasn’t a ship all, but a colossal shell—or perhaps a leash. The baal had to laugh at such hubris.

It wasn’t the humans’ relict prisoner, but another of the ship's secrets that Gibeah sought—thus far in vain. He’d expected the treasure to be well hidden, but its elusiveness transcended human cunning.

The baal briefly regretted banishing the crew, though at least two of the ship’s occupants remained. Finding either of them would likely mean finding his prize, but both had proved just as evasive.

Gibeah didn't allow greed to shorten his patience. The solution simply required time—which he had in abundance. He would win his reward, and thus overthrow Tyrmagan, Philedonius, and finally Mephistophilis.

Teg, Jaren, and Nakvin walked the Freehold’s unpaved streets escorted by two stone-faced guards. Ydahl tagged along, trolling snippets of antiquated folk songs.

Teg, who’d been watching the girl closely since her introduction by Sulaiman, fell in beside her. “I'm sorry about shooting you earlier,” he said. “Frankly, I admire your work.”

Ydahl regarded Teg as one would a friendly seeming dog with a history of biting.

“I have to know,” said Teg. “What did you do with the tongues?”

The girl paled and quickly looked away.

“I understand if it's a trade secret,” Teg persisted, “but please—and I never say
please
—tell me, and I promise I won’t ask anything else.”

The group continued in silence for half a block before Ydahl spoke. “I fed them to Mr. Clanshe's hogs.”

Teg nodded and quietly repeated the answer to himself.

“Ydahl, who is Sulaiman?” asked Jaren.

The child's face brightened. “Lord Sulaiman’s the founder and prefect of the Freehold.”

“I know that much,” Jaren said. “I’d like to know how a priest of Midras ended up here.”

“The old folks tell of how Sulaiman came up from the lower Circles,” said Ydahl.

“I hate to think what she considers
old
,” Teg muttered under his breath.

“How did he get here?” Nakvin asked.

“Folk say the gods left us,” said Ydahl, “but Lord Sulaiman's still got some of their touch.”

“What do you mean, ‘
their touch
'?” Jaren asked.

Ydahl shrugged. “It's hard putting words to it. The prefect always knows what folks have done—the bad things, mostly. He can make fire in his hands, and he can call the light. It shines with life, and the demons hate it.”

“No one can channel pure prana outside the ether,” Nakvin said, “especially not a dead man.”

“Lord Sulaiman’s alive,” said Ydahl. “He’s the only one here who’s not dead. Leastways till you came.”

The march continued in silence past the acrid smoke and metallic hammering of a smithy and the sour reek of a tannery. At last the guards stopped at a squat building of mortarless field stone. “Lord Sulaiman has ordered that the living be billeted here,” the lead guard said.

“You mean
imprisoned
,” said Teg.

“Just go along till I meet with Sulaiman again,” Jaren said. “I’ll show him we’re allies; not enemies.”

Jaren entered the stark, musty barracks and saw that the pirates and the sailors had divided the single large room in half.

Mikelburg clapped Jaren on the shoulder. “So you’re still alive,” he said. His broad chest shook as he chuckled.

Deim held his palm out to the engineer. “You owe me a guilder.”

“Let me call my banker on Temil,” Mikelburg said.

Jaren raised a hand to call for quiet and got it. “We just met our captor,” he said. “He’s a priest from ancient Mithgar. Before we came, he was the only living person in the Freehold.”

“A priest?” Stochman asked from across the room. “You've left us at the mercy of a superstitious zealot?”

Deim gave the commander a withering look. “He might be a zealot, but only an idiot mocks mercy while he’s standing in hell.”

Stochman answered with a grunt.

“Sulaiman’s in charge here,” Jaren said, “but he can be reasoned with; and we have a pretty hefty bargaining chip.”

“What do we got except the clothes on our backs?” Mikelburg asked.

“The
Exodus
,” said Nakvin.

The mechanic nodded his bald head. “That'd be a mighty sweet plum,” he said, “if it was ours to give.”

Jaren flashed a smile at Nakvin. “It doesn't take a Magus to know what Sulaiman and his people want,” he said. “The
Exodus
is their ticket out of hell, and they need us to get it.”

Stochman bolted from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “You're proposing a bargain?” he asked. “I've shared my ship with thieves; now you want me to take on savages?”

“It’s not exactly
yours
at the moment,” said Teg.

“We still have the Guild to deal with back home,” Jaren said. “Those savages might come in handy.”

With a sneer, Stochman trudged back to his place against the rough wall.

Jaren resumed his pitch. “While we're cooling our heels, Sulaiman will use the time to satisfy his curiosity. He’s already sent a squad to bring the rest of us in—except for Vaun.”

“Why did he get singled out?” asked Mikelburg.

“Sulaiman says Vaun’s a necromancer,” said Jaren.

The color drained from Nakvin’s already pale complexion. “A what?” she asked.

“I know it sounds stupid,” Jaren said, “but remember, Sulaiman’s from a backward time.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” Nakvin said. “In fact it makes perfect sense.”

“Human Factors called Gen shamans necromancers to discredit them,” said Jaren.

“Misusing a word doesn’t disprove its original meaning,” Nakvin said.

Jaren sighed. “Fine, but that doesn’t justify making Vaun a pariah.”

“What Kelgrun taught me about necromancers might,” said Nakvin.

“Why?” asked Jaren. “Aren’t they just another tradition of Factors?”

“Fashioning prana is a craft—a science,” Nakvin said. “Necromancers seek occult knowledge. They might use Workings to get it, but they don’t stop there.”

“Doesn’t sound so different from what Vernon and his pals were doing,” said Teg.

“I know,” said Nakvin, “and that worries me. Real necromancers will stoop to anything: grave-robbing, human vivisection; even summoning demons—which I didn’t believe till I got here—all for greater knowledge of Teth.”

A shiver ran down Jaren’s spine. “Teth?” he asked.

“It’s what necromancers study,” Nakvin said. “They call themselves Teth Disciples.”

“Whether he’s right or wrong about Vaun,” Jaren dissembled, “We need to curry Sulaiman’s favor.”

Deim scrubbed a hand through his dark hair. “Why do we care about Sulaiman?”

“Because he has knowledge of this Circle and a small army,” said Jaren. “We’ll need both against Gibeah.”