Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (26 page)

“We just need to rob him,” said Deim, “not fight him.”

Nakvin rolled her silver eyes. “Gibeah’s blocking my control over the Circle. We have to deal with him if we want out.”

“Sulaiman will send for me once he’s learned all he can on his own,” said Jaren. “If he’s as sharp as Ydahl says, he’ll see our worth to him.”

True to Jaren’s prediction, Sulaiman summoned him just before dark. Unexpectedly, he sent for Stochman as well.

Looking down from his throne, the prefect studied both petitioners before turning to Stochman. “You claim command of the ether-runner
Exodus
?”

“I do,” Stochman said; his thin lips bent in a petulant frown.

“You were not the ship's master at the start of your voyage,” Sulaiman said.

“That position was held by Captain Craighan.”

“Where is your captain now?”

“He died in battle.”

“You are next in the line of command?”

“Yes.”

Sulaiman fixed his sapphire eyes on Jaren. “You and your men are brigands?”

“That’s what the Guild calls us,” Jaren said.

“You harry and plunder their vessels?”

“That doesn’t affect our business here today.”

“Answer the question,” the prefect said, “or we
have no
business.”

“We do whatever it takes to survive. Sometimes that means stealing our bread.”

Sulaiman paused as though deep in thought. At length he asked, “What was your errand aboard Craighan's ship?”

“That ship is as much mine as it was Craighan's,” Jaren said, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “My father designed the
Exodus
, but the Guild murdered him before it was built.”

“You were engaged to finish that labor?”

Jaren couldn’t help but puff out his chest. “I was,” he said.

Sulaiman fell silent once more. His eyes gleamed in the incense-clouded candlelight. “I will treat with you,” he said at last.

“What was the meaning of those questions?” asked Stochman.

The prefect’s voice cut the thick air like a bullwhip. “I will share my counsel when I deem you meet to hear it,” he said. “We have much to discuss, and time grows short. You have come to the Freehold in your need. What do you ask of its master?”

“Monsters seized our ship!” Stochman blurted out, doubling Jaren's urge to throttle him.

“To wage war against Baal Gibeah,” Sulaiman inferred, “Is that what you wish of me?”

“Yes,” said Jaren.

“The baal is a wily foe,” the prefect said. “I do not raise arms against him lightly.”

Jaren saw his opening and laid out false bait, knowing that Sulaiman would reject the first offer. “Help us take back the
Exodus
, and we'll use its weapons to crush Gibeah. With him gone, you could rule the whole Circle.”

Sulaiman shook his head on cue. “I am no petty demon, forever scheming to expand my domain. I have no desire to play the baals' endless game.”

Jaren closed his trap. “You help us get our ship back, and we'll grant passage topside for you and all your people.”

“We will do no such thing,” Stochman hissed. “Opening my doors to thieves is a mistake I don't intend to repeat.”

Jaren glared at the commander, but Sulaiman cut him off before he could speak. “You are the ship's rightful master,” he told Stochman. “I will bargain no further without your consent.”

Jaren opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden thought stilled his tongue.
I have the only steersmen who can pilot the ship.
Instead of stating his objection, Jaren held his peace. A new plan took shape as the first turned against him.

Stochman assumed an insufferably flattered look. “Well,” he told the priest. “It seems I’ve misjudged you. Here's my counter-offer: I am prepared to grant transit to you and any passengers you name if you help us retake the ship and guarantee my claim against Peregrine.”

“I accept your terms,” Sulaiman said, “and I would name Jaren Peregrine and his people with mine, upon his pledge to aid our cause.”

Jaren struggled to keep his face blank, fearing that any sign of mirth would alert Stochman to what he’d overlooked in his pride. “What choice do I have?” Jaren managed to ask without laughing. “You’ve got my support.”

Sulaiman laced his flesh and steel fingers. “We are agreed,” he said.

Teg paced across the pirates' makeshift quarters, his long coat flapping behind him. The Mithgarders had gone to dine with the prefect, so there was plenty of room. “I'll go and kill all of them right now,” Teg told Jaren. “Just say the word. Hell, I might go
without
your word.”

“Easy,” Nakvin said. “We still need their help to take back the ship.”

Teg’s normally even voice echoed from the stone walls. “Who cares about the ship? Damn thing's been nothing but trouble since day one.” He jabbed a finger at Jaren. “You didn't listen when I said we should cut our losses. Listen now. Forget the
Exodus
. We don't need it.”

“No!” Deim cried, “I won't leave her!”

Teg stared at the young steersman, who started as if unaware that he’d spoken. “The ship, I mean,” said Deim. “My great-grandfather helped Falko design her, so she's my birthright as much as Jaren’s. Besides, what other way is there?”

“The locals move between Circles without ether-runners,” said Teg, “I say we retrace our steps. If Nakvin can open the gates, why don't we just walk home?”

“I told you,” Nakvin said, pressing her palm to her forehead. “We need Gibeah out of the way first.”

“Then we call Sulaiman’s bluff and sit out the fight,” said Teg. Use the distraction to slip past the baal. You did it last time.”

“That would mean leaving the ship with Stochman,” said Deim. “We’d deserve to stay here for blasphemy like that.”

Jaren signaled for his crew’s attention. They gathered around him as he spoke. “Let them think they won,” he said. “We have the advantage as long as the
Exodus
won’t accept any steersmen but Nakvin and Deim.”

“Why didn’t you share that little detail with Sulaiman?” asked Teg.

“Playing along with Stochman and Sulaiman is the best way to make them do the heavy lifting,” Jaren said. “We’ll sneak aboard while the navy and the Freeholders distract Gibeah—get rid of them all in one move.”

Teg’s sour face lost all expression but the faintest hint of a smile. “This is why I like working here,” he said.

“Believe me,” Jaren said. “Working with Stochman galls me plenty. Once we have the
Exodus
back, you have my blessing to kill him
and
Sulaiman.”

“Where did you get that?” Nakvin asked when Ydahl brought the prisoners breakfast.

“From the guardhouse kitchens, mum,” the girl said.

Nakvin inspected the tray of unleavened bread, cured meat, and whole milk—hardly an extravagant meal, but even such simple fare seemed out of place in hell. “Why do you have food at all?” she asked.

“The lord of the Circle took tribute in grain and cattle from his living servants,” said Ydahl. “Sulaiman makes us tend both field and beast as penance.”

The food smelled of steam more than anything. Nakvin sampled it. The meat tasted a bit salty, and the bread was harder than she liked; but two days of hunger proved adequate spice for the meal. “Gibeah sounds like a real glutton,” She said between bites.

“The offerings came long before Gibeah,” the girl said. “He don’t care for the old baal’s stock. He’d just as soon let the whole place rot, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

Breadcrumbs dusted the front of Nakvin’s robe like snow flurries in a night sky. She brushed them off. “I’d pardon a lot worse,” she said.

After breakfast Nakvin sat on a bench outside the barracks with Ydahl, who took the chance to satisfy her curiosity about the Steersmen's craft. “Flying a ‘runner sounds so exciting!” she said. “Tell me what it’s like.”

“It’s hard to explain without getting technical,” said Nakvin.

The girl knitted her brow. “It doesn’t sound so hard—except for the Workings.”

“I'll try to keep it simple. You know everything’s made of prana from the White Well?”

Ydahl nodded.

“You can shape it into almost anything, but it's very hard and takes years to learn.”

Ydahl cocked her head, making her mousy hair go lopsided. “Seems simple enough.”

“Imagine we’re standing on top of Ostrith’s Guild house,” Nakvin said. “Steersman's Square is filled halfway to the roof with colored balls. No two are the same size.”

Ydahl paused for a moment; then giggled.

“Now what if I asked you to pick out one specific ball while blindfolded?”

The smile vanished from Ydahl's face, replaced by a wide-eyed stare.

“The balls are thought patterns that tell the prana how to behave,” Nakvin said. “To fashion a Working, you have to use exactly the right formula. So choosing the wrong ball—even if it’s
almost
the right size and shade—would make the Working fail…or go wrong.”

The girl's jaw dropped. “How can
anyone
do that?”

“The Guild tested energy patterns for centuries until they found the right ones. They also came up with shortcuts for the formulas and ways of focusing thought. The Steersman's Compass is the most common.”

Ydahl's eyes lit up. “Can you show me?”

A smile touched the corners of Nakvin's lips. “Deim's better with the Compass. I'm sure he'll show you a few minor Workings if you ask him.”

“I want to see how
you
make them!” the girl insisted.

Nakvin thought for a moment. “Give me your ribbon.”

Ydahl untied the strip of drab cloth from her hair and held it before her. “It's not a proper ribbon at all,” she said glumly.

Nakvin took the frayed scrap and sang in a soft, lilting tone. Ydahl sat quietly and stared, her expression unreadable.

“That was one of the first minor Workings I learned,” Nakvin said as she passed the object in her hand to Ydahl.

The child's face fell the instant she saw the Working's effect. The plain band of cloth was gone. In its place was a delicate ribbon of finest white silk. Ydahl stared at the pearlescent strand for nearly a minute before casting an injured look at the woman beside her.

“Is this your way of scolding me?” she asked.

“No,” Nakvin said gently, taken aback by the girl's response. “Of course not.”

“It's a reproach, whether you mean it or not,” said Ydahl. “You come down here where you've no rightful place, and you've got everything I haven't: friends, fancy clothes; even a prettier singing voice.”

“I just thought you deserved something nice after the way Teg treated you.”

“Begging your pardon, but he had the right of it. The prefect knows what I deserve, and I get no less every day.”

Nakvin struggled to meet the girl’s eyes without pity. “You were so young,” she thought out loud. “How did you die, Ydahl?”

The child looked into the desolate distance for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice sent chills up Nakvin's spine. “I thought I’d see my mother and father again, but they weren't here.”

Nakvin reached out to touch the girl’s shoulder, but Ydahl flinched and glared at her. “Nothing you can do will help me,” she said. “This place has a way of turning kindnesses to hurt. Better just to leave it be.”

“Then I'll get you out of here,” Nakvin said.

Ydahl emitted a short, rueful laugh. “It wouldn't matter. I could go back to the living, but where then—Byport, with all its ghosts?”

“You could come with us.”

“You'd have me? Knowing what I've done?”

“I've killed people,” Nakvin said. “I bet Teg's killed ten times more than you did.”

Ydahl's eyes hardened. “Don't joke about that!” she snapped. “No, mum. I can't come with you, and I won't go back to the living world again. I'd just bring hell with me.”

“Sulaiman thinks he can reform you—all of you.”

“No offense to Lord Sulaiman, but he's wrong. Our life-cords are cut.”

Ydahl grasped Nakvin's hand in both of hers and squeezed it tightly. “Our time for changing is done, but you're still alive. Do you understand?”

Nakvin felt the weight of all her sins on her shoulders. The crushing feeling stole her breath, and she pulled free of Ydahl’s grasp. “Jaren was right,” she said. It’s worse when the myths are true.”