Although the Psikamit College of Advanced Workings was the largest and most prestigious university in Mercia, the campus itself barely stretched three city blocks. The facilities were old; the buildings’ brickwork overgrown with dead ivy, their roofs patched with different coloured tiles, the graffitied walls blackened with ancient grime and soot. Every few years, someone new would lead an effort to clean up or renovate the College, but their undertakings were invariably met with failure. Grunge had seeped and settled into the bones of the institution; it spread like a wild fungal bloom.
“You seem to know your way around,” said Ferain.
Karys cut across the scorched grass commons to the main administration building. Students between classes lounged in the morning sunshine, chewing osk and smoking. Two women leaned against the trunk of a chestnut tree, kissing.
“Not really,” she muttered. “I just use their library.”
“It’s open to the public?”
“No, but I have a card.”
“Do a lot of reading?”
“Some.”
Her shadow rolled along at her side, matching her movements effortlessly. “I would think that, as an independent deathspeaker, you’d be very popular at the College. Insights into the Ephirite and their workings, firsthand experience of the Veneer, a slightly better temperament than the average New Favour saint…”
“New Favour wouldn’t like that.”
“Well, I didn’t intend it as a compliment.”
“No. I meant me talking to the College about Ephirite matters.” She climbed the steps up to the admin building doors, past a huddle of students who were all peering at some kind of luminous yellow caterpillar in a glass jar. “They’d regard it as disloyalty. Sharing our masters’ secrets.”
“Wouldn’t the College offer you protection from them?”
Karys snorted derisively. She pushed open the murky glass door and walked inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Thirty years ago, the entrance foyer might have been grand, but it had long since fallen into disrepair. A pungent odour of curried samp, sweat, and mothballs lingered in the air, and the patterned green carpets had worn so threadbare that Karys could see the grey foundations through the holes. A row of mismatched desks served as the reception area, where a pale, black-haired student sat, looking singularly unimpressed. A man in a grey uniform loomed over them.
“Speaking of New Favour,” murmured Karys.
The saint was younger than the woman she had seen at the bazaar, little more than a teenager. Like her, his head was half-shaven, and his left arm was bare, proudly sporting livid burns like the coils of a snake. New Favour practised self-mutilation as proof of devotion; the organisation’s Supremes preached that reshaping the flesh to resemble the appearance of particular Ephirite would earn adherents greater honour upon their final Summons.
“—reputation for deviance, which is why we want to be sure,” the saint was saying.
The student behind the desk replied with thinly concealed impatience. “I already told you, the College doesn’t maintain records of who visits the campus, and even if we did, we wouldn’t be obliged to share them with your organisation.”
“The Harvester Agreements clearly state—”
“New Favour’s edicts are not binding at academic institutions. You have no authority here, as I’m sure you are aware.” The student shrugged their shoulders. “And besides, the records don’t exist.”
The saint’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. He turned abruptly and strode toward the door, nearly colliding with Karys.
She did not step aside.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked.
The man’s attention settled on her. He had dark eyes, strangely lightless and unreflective, and a heavy jaw. He regarded her like he was studying an obstacle, and deciding how best to clear it from his path. Karys offered him a tight-lipped smile.
“I heard from a friend that there’s a reward,” she said.
The saint nodded, although his expression retained the same unpleasant blankness.
“Criminal elements,” he said. “We have reason to suspect that one or more Vareslians might have infiltrated the city with the intention of undermining Mercia’s local authority.”
Vague. “Do you know what they might look like?”
“We are still gathering information. In the meantime, anyone suspicious should be reported to our local Haven.”
“I’ll keep an eye out. Good luck with your search.”
He nodded again. “Excuse me.”
Ferain held very still as the saint left the building. Karys could almost feel his tension seeping into her. The door swung shut. She crossed over to the reception desk, where the student eyed her with wary scepticism.
“They seem to be casting a wide net, don’t you think?” she said.
They shrugged. “I try not to get involved.”
“I wonder what money they’re offering.”
“Oh, enough to tempt. It’s an ugly business, riling up old angers against the reekers. Someone’s going to get hurt.” They shook their head. “Anyway, what can I do to help you?”
Once the student had told her where to go, Karys thanked them and headed back outside. Walking down the steps, she rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension in her back and neck. She never liked talking to saints. That boy had looked so young too—nineteen, maybe twenty. Barely any older than she had been when she formed her compact with Sabaster. A sour taste remained in her mouth: part fear, part anger.
“New Favour are looking for Vareslians in Psikamit?” Her shadow collected underneath her, dark and bunched in the midday sun. “When did they begin searching?”
“Yesterday at the latest,” she murmured. “But it might be a coincidence. Could have nothing to do with you.”
He sounded unconvinced. “Maybe.”
The Department of Higher Biological Workings was on the sea-facing side of the campus. No one paid Karys any attention as she hurried down the weed-strewn paths of the College. A young lecturer hosted a tutorial on the lawns outside the Marine Sciences Department, demonstrating a Bhatuma-derived working to draw salt out of water. A crowd of bored undergraduates listened as he droned on about the history of the authorisation’s origins, and a small mound of salt grew beside the tank.
“I’ve never heard the term ‘reeker’ before,” said Ferain. “Seems unflattering.”
“Not many people around here care to flatter Varesli.”
He made an amused sound. “I’m sure. I just thought it was a strange term. ‘Reek’ as in to smell bad?”
“Because Vareslians wear too much perfume.”
“Oh. Interesting.” A short pause, as if he was deciding whether to be offended. “Descriptive.”
Karys sighed heavily.
The Higher Biological Workings building stood three storeys tall, rickety and overrun with grey-leaved creepers. Beneath the vines, the plastered façade was a weathered yellow. Sweeping silver maples grew in the surrounding garden, home to a flock of cooing, flapping pigeons. Someone had strung a collection of bird feeders from the branches.
Karys was ten feet from the main entrance when she noticed the woman crouched behind one of the trees. The stranger was watching the birds with a singular, burning intensity, and mumbling to herself. Not wanting to startle her or the pigeons, Karys coughed politely. When that didn’t work, she coughed louder.
The stranger looked around. Like Busin, she was Toraigian; she possessed the near-translucent paleness characteristic of the island nation’s citizens. Her hair fell in a black shock around her narrow features, and she wore round glasses with delicate gold frames. They magnified her tawny brown eyes so that she looked slightly birdlike herself—an owl blinking in bright sunlight.
“Hello,” she said.
“I didn’t want to disturb the birds while you were observing them.” Karys gestured at the pigeons. “Do you mind if I pass?”
The woman smiled and shook her head. She stood up, causing the birds to fly off to the building’s roof.
“It wasn’t going well anyway,” she said. “I was trying to isolate the quality of their hover flight pattern. It’s why the feeders are greased, so they can’t perch.”
“Right.”
The woman brushed off her long patterned skirt. She wore a slim-fitting brown vest and traditional beaded corset. Gold bracelets slid up her wrist when she held out her hand to Karys.
“Winola Diasene,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Karys Eska.” She shook the woman’s hand. “I’m looking for Professor Ersthazen? I was told he might be able to answer some questions about bindings applied to living organisms.”
“Oh, you just missed him.” Winola rested a hand on her hip. Despite her foreign attire, she spoke without a trace of an accent; by her voice, she could have been Psikamit–born and raised. “Living bindings, huh? That’s a fairly broad field. Forgive me, but I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
Karys shook her head. “I’m not a student. This is just a matter of personal interest.”
“Were you looking for Professor Ersthazen in particular?”
“Not exactly. Administration pointed me in his direction, that’s all.”
“In that case, maybe I can help you instead.” Winola’s easy smile grew brighter. “My current research focuses on animal motion replication, but there is considerable overlap with more traditional workings theory. Do you want to come up to my office?”
Karys was slightly taken aback by the offer. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” Winola gestured toward the bird feeders. “As I said, my observations hadn’t been going well anyway.”
The office proved to be a tiny room in the loft of the building, with a desk crammed between the wall and an overflowing filing cabinet. A single greenish-white etherbulb hung from the ceiling, producing a persistent ticking sound, and a Toraigian sunburst shawl hung like a tapestry from the wall. Flowers wilted in a vase on the windowsill. The space was airless and warm; Winola cracked open the window, and offered Karys a battered old chair.
“No one in the department ever retires,” she said apologetically, moving a box of papers off her own seat. “I’m hoping they might allocate me a downstairs office one day.”
A worked device—something like a feathered spinning top—hissed across the desk. Winola caught it deftly and stuffed it into her drawer, where it continued to buzz around ominously.
“Karys, you said?” she inquired, manoeuvring her legs to fit under the desk. “That’s a lovely name. What is it that you do?”
“I’m a deathspeaker.”
“Oh?” The scholar’s eyebrows lifted. “I would never have guessed. Not with New Favour, I take it?”
“Independent.”
“That’s unusual. I’ve always wanted to talk to a deathspeaker about their experiences; you must have some fascinating insights into the Ephirite. Who is your compact-holder?”
When people learned of her profession, usually their response was to pity, fear, hate, or shun her. Karys was not sure what to make of Winola’s breezy curiosity.
“Sabaster, Prince of Scales,” she replied, guarded.
The scholar gave a low whistle. “Oh, I’ve read about him—he’s in the upper echelon. What is he like?”
“Absolutely terrifying,” muttered Ferain.
“He’s … imposing, I guess,” said Karys. “I rarely see him; he has many other vassals.”
“Doesn’t he also hold the compact for the Supreme of Psikamit’s chapter of New Favour? From what I remember, he’s a kind of elected Ephirite royalty.” Winola tilted her head to one side. “For how long have you been a deathspeaker?”
“Six years,” Karys lied.
A flicker of feeling passed over the scholar’s face. She fiddled with the bracelets around her wrist. “It must be difficult.”
And there it was: the old, familiar pity. “I still have time.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Winola smiled again, although with less conviction. “It’s variable, isn’t it? Sometimes up to fifteen years. Can I ask what made you form a compact?”
The same question, posed for the second time in the space of a day. It rankled.
Winola seemed to sense that she had made a mistake. “Sorry, you just don’t look, well…”
“Like a raging Mercian nationalist?”
“That wasn’t the impression I received.”
Karys raised and lowered her shoulders once: careless, indifferent. It was common knowledge that almost all deathspeakers formed compacts in order to become New Favour saints. Some pledged their souls for the sake of knowledge or power, others saw the Ephirite as new, better heralds, but most were lured in by the stories of the organisation’s past glories—the founders’ success in calling upon the Ephirite to put an end to the Vareslians’ twenty-year occupation of Mercia.
“I didn’t do it for my country’s sake, no,” she said. “But I had my own reasons, equally stupid. It can’t be undone now.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It doesn’t bother me.” Much. Karys nodded toward the shawl hanging on the wall. “That’s pretty. Family design?”
Winola blinked. The question was abrupt, clearly meant to change the topic.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, my father’s motif—it was a coming-of-age gift, back when I still lived in Toraigus. That was, oh, ten years ago?”
“What brought you to Psikamit?”
The scholar adjusted her glasses. “Well, bilateral workings practice, I suppose. I wanted to learn about Ephirite and Bhatuma derivations, and, at the time, Psikamit was the only place that offered a practical education in both.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Toraigian workings practitioner before.”
Winola gave a little laugh. “You know, I hear that all the time. Seems contradictory, doesn’t it? Like the setup for a joke—‘what do you call the job of a successful Toraigian?’ ‘Not working.’ Still, the College gave me an office here, so I must have done something right.”
Karys wondered whether she had offended the scholar. Winola did not look upset, but a weariness had entered her voice—the tone of a person accustomed to having to prove herself in order to be taken seriously. “No, not contradictory.”
“No?”
“Passionate. If you gave up your home to pursue workings, I think you must care about them a lot.”
Surprise crossed the scholar’s face, followed by a hint of pleasure.
“I do,” she said. She crossed her legs at the ankle, and leaned forward slightly over the desk. “So, you wanted to know about bindings on living creatures? What specifically are you interested in?”
Karys hesitated.
“It’s a controversial topic,” she said.
“Intriguing.”
“I’d like to understand how human binding functions.”
Winola’s eyebrows drew together.
“I … see,” she said.
“To avoid performing that kind of working,” Karys added hurriedly. “A friend of mine is investigating the emergency applications of some experimental time-based workings, and I’m worried they might hurt someone. Accidentally.”
The scholar was quiet. Karys cursed her own fumbling; she should have approached the conversation more carefully.
“They don’t plan to bind two people together, of course,” she said. “They explained it to me: they want to use a worked device to freeze time around the body of an injured person, and then bind that same device to a second person as a tether. That wouldn’t constitute human binding, would it?”
Winola rubbed her jaw. Karys’ nerves were strung tight as a wire. Tell me that Balusha was wrong. Come on.
“I guess it would depend,” said Winola.
“Depend on what?”
The scholar sighed. She folded her hands on the desk in front of her.
“Before I answer,” she said, “does your interest in this subject have anything to do with the binding scar on your left palm?”
Karys’ shadow swore. Karys rose from her seat, but Winola quickly shook her head.
“Wait,” she said. “I want to help, if I can. Tell me what happened.”
“We should go,” said Ferain tightly.
Karys wavered. Winola remained seated, her expression focussed but not alarmed. She held out a hand across the desk.
“May I see?” she asked.
The Split Lapse scar looked old; it had faded to a pale tracery of the original, the mirrored script written white into her skin. Winola’s thin fingers gripped Karys’ wrist as she peered down at the marks.
“Bhatuma authorisations,” she muttered. “Almost certainly a Vareslian relic, for it to be this sophisticated. It … holds back time? Holds old time in place, separately? The inscription is only a summary of the working’s nature, but the herald who made this must have been extraordinarily powerful.”
“The man who gave it to me called it a Split Lapse,” said Karys, who very much wanted to pull her hand out of Winola’s grasp. “A device that generates a dimension of the recent past. He used it to conceal himself from the present.”
Winola nodded, but her eyes were still fixed on the scar. Without shifting her gaze, she reached into her desk drawer and found a compact mirror. She held it beside Karys’ hand to read the inscription more easily in its reflection. Her lips moved slightly, like she was sounding out workings invocations. Her skin felt cool and smooth against Karys’.
“It’s remarkable,” she said. “If this description accurately summarises the device’s function, it would have been one of the most powerful time-manipulation relics ever made. There’s no way the workings could ever be fully derived by human beings; this is … I’ve never seen anything like it before. Do you know the progenitor?” She shook her head. “No, not the point, of course. So you bound this ‘Split Lapse’ to your body with someone inside the active time-locked dimension?”
“In order to get him to help,” said Karys, biting back her impatience. “I tethered him beyond the Veneer inside the Lapse. Once I find a suitably qualified mender—”
“Is there any way you could manipulate the Veneer to forcefully sever that tether?”
“Now, in your office?”
Winola nodded. “You need to break the connection as soon as possible.”
“But if the Lapse collapses, he’ll die.”
“And if you fail to remove the binding, you both will, horribly. Trust me. Break the connection before he wakes up.”
Karys stared at Winola.
“But he’s already awake,” she said.