Nevalya

  Nev stands outside the little house, smiling fondly at the flower boxes in the windows. It looks just the same after all these years—this dingy little house, in this dingy little alley, that she came to so long ago with a different name, in a different body.

  The old woman who answered the door that day regarded her with suspicion. Today, she beams up at her.

  “Nevalya! Come in!”

  She reaches up to the much taller Nev and pulls her down into an embrace. Inside, she makes fresh coffee and offers Nev some undefinable baked good that smells of lemon and sage and tastes like reassurance and safety.

  “So you’ve come at last,” she says when they are settled at the cheery little table.

  “I’ve come, Matriya.” She uses the Koltari word for mother, instead of Magda’s given name.

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t half expecting you.”

  “Then you’ve guessed my plan?” Nev sighs in mock disappointment. “I had hoped not to be so predictable.”

  “No one could ever predict you,” Magda says affectionately. “But I know the gala is coming up, and if you are ever going to have a chance to get near the Custodian, that will be it.”

  Nev nods. She has forgotten how direct Magda can be. There is no careful dancing around the point with her. It’s straight to business, just as it was seven years ago when she sat at this same table, looking at the stack of letters Magda had shown her. The letters that would change the trajectory of her life—or, more accurately, give it a trajectory where there had been none.

  After Halim’s death, Nev had been adrift. The Citadel would not release his body, would not allow her to bury him, and eventually threatened her with arrest if she kept pestering them. The best way she could think of to honor him instead was to come here: to see Magda. She and Halim had been saving for years to afford the procedure that only Magda, outside Citadel-appointed mage physicians, could perform.

  And Armand was right: this was what she wanted and that made it what Halim wanted as well. What they had saved, she had repurposed as bribe money to arrange his release after the arrest and then… and then there was no one to bribe because Halim was relentlessly, irreversibly gone.

  Using the bribe fund to pay for Magda’s compassionate skill had probably saved Nev’s life. Even so, even after the procedure was complete and she could feel Halim’s joy from beyond whatever had served as his grave, she hadn’t known what to do or where to go from there. There was sorrow that he had never gotten to see her become herself, there was joy, but there was no purpose. Nothing else to look forward to.

  Not until, during one of her many visits to this little house where her last shred of hope had been nurtured with such kindness, she asked Magda about her magic. It was common knowledge in the Undercity that Magda’s skill far surpassed that of any hybrid mage or non-Committee magic dabbler. Nev wanted to know why Magda, who clearly should have been a Committee-member herself, was instead hiding in a tiny dilapidated house in the part of the city where keepers feared to tread.

  Then had come the letters that suggested everything she’d ever known might be wrong. Then the research, the false starts, the dead ends, and finally, the answers about the Siphoning. Then had come the rage. Or rather, the rage that had been simmering in her since the day of Halim’s death became a narrow, white-hot beam, laser-focused on one goal: to kill the Custodian.

  It wasn’t just that his policies had killed Halim—though that would be enough. It wasn’t even that he had lied, rewritten actual history to prop up his position of power, though that certainly would have been enough. It was the casual cruelty stamped on the face of every answer she found.

  “I’m not a revolutionary,” she told Magda at the time, and that is still true now. She possesses neither the inclination nor the skill to lead an uprising against the Citadel.

  She knows only that the Custodian himself must not be allowed to feel invincible; even if he practically is.

  “So you managed to get an invitation I take it?” Magda’s conspiratorial smile is an invitation. Nev can’t help but return it.

  “I did indeed. I had to seduce the train conductor, but I’m in.” She laughs at Magda’s grimace and tells her the rest of the story.

  “Ruthless,” Magda says about the framing of Tali, but there is a note of approval in her voice. Nev suspects the woman has had a ruthless moment or two in her own life.

  “So,” Magda says when Nev has finished, “what’s my role in this?”

  Straight to business. Nev grins.

  “I need a few mods. Top tier, obviously. Also would you know where to get a gun?”

  Magda arches an eyebrow. “Going the old-fashioned route?”

  “If it ain’t broke…” Nev shrugs. “Besides in the center of Citadel magic it seems like the most reliable option.”

  “How do you plan to get either mods or weapons into the Complex?”

  “I got lucky on that point.” Nev opens her slate to show the old woman the blueprints of the tunnel system under the complex that she found on the old library map.

  “They won’t have keepers posted at the entrances to these,” she says. “Whatever I need to smuggle in, this is my best option.”

  “Keepers, maybe not,” Magda agrees. “Wards though? Almost definitely. And how do you know they’re not in use? You might pop in and find them crowded with tunnel mages, or whatever they built them for.”

  “Well that’s where the mods come in. Hoping you can help get me past the wards.”

  Magda frowns, thoughtful. “I don’t know of any general anti-ward mods, especially any that would work against Committee-level magic. I’d need more information about what you’re up against.”

  “I can get that,” Nev states with a certainty she doesn’t remotely feel.

  “You’d better do it fast. And if you get caught sniffing around the tunnels you’re cogged. Got anyone you can trust to do that part for you?”

  Nev almost laughs. Lucas was the only person that could even come close, and he’s gone. Afflicted by conscience, he abandoned her for his thoroughly doomed attempt to make amends to Tali. No use going into all that.

  “Not unless you do,” she says instead. Magda looks unhappy at this. She certainly has plenty of contacts in the Undercity, but Nev guesses most of them are just mercenary enough to preclude trusting their loyalty when the stakes are this high. Infiltrating the inner sanctum of the Committee Complex offers the possibility of significant reward for selling out the perpetrator.

  After a moment she gives a non-committal nod. “I might. But no promises.”

  Nev agrees to find out what she can and return with her findings. The coffee has gone cold by now and the pastries are gone. Nev rises to leave.

  “Be careful,” Magda warns her at the door. “If you’re seen coming here…”

  Nev squeezes her hand. “I know. I will.”

  The warning is unnecessary but she’s familiar with the natural human urge to give voice to it. To vocally acknowledge the danger feels like the smallest of guards against it.

  By the time she returns to the room she shares with Charlie, he is there, returned from a day of debriefings and committee lunches. She’d been hoping for a chance to study the blueprints in his absence but that will have to wait.

  He glances up from his slate when she enters and gives her a tired smile.

  “Long day?” She hangs her bag on a hook by the door, careful not to glance toward it, or the slate emerging from it.

  He holds a hand out and when she takes it, pulls her toward him. She forces her body to relax, but he just leans his head against her lightly, then releases her.

  “Everyone looks at me like my post is the least desirable of them all, but you know what? I would go crazy if I had to be here all the time.”

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  “Nothing like a little bureaucracy to help you appreciate the little things in life.” She runs her fingers through his red curls.

  Not for the first time, she thinks he wouldn’t be so bad, if she didn’t know all she knows. He is gentle, and sweet, and thoughtful most of the time. It would be only too easy to let herself get used to him.

  In the empty space of an expectant pause, she realizes he’s asked her a question.

  “Hm?”

  “I said what did you do today?”

  “Oh. Not much really. Window shopping in the city.”

  “That reminds me. Do you need something to wear to the gala? I’ll buy whatever you want, obviously.”

  Nev blinks. “Oh! I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about what to wear,” she says truthfully. She’s been planning obsessively for the gala, but hasn’t once considered dressing for it.

  Charlie smiles, misunderstanding her expression. “Sorry. I know it’s a bore. We will stay for the minimum amount of time necessary.”

  Nev laughs and sits on the bed, folding her legs under her. “It sounds nice, actually.”

  Charlie arches an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

  “Sure. It’s nice to get dressed up and go somewhere formal once in a while.” She considers her next words carefully. She’s avoided asking direct questions before now, not wanting to appear too interested in the event, but here at last the conversation lends itself naturally to her curiosity. “Do all Committee members have to go?”

  He nods. “Plus a few local politicians and high-ranking keepers. To celebrate another year of successful custodial service.”

  He says it half-sardonically but the words chill her—a reminder of the great betrayal she has come to set right. “And the Custodian himself I assume?”

  Charlie sits on the bed beside her and lies back, staring at the ceiling. “Yep. And the Custodian.”

  She glances at him, surprised by his tone. He speaks like a man disenchanted. Maybe he is.

  “You sound thrilled,” she probes gently. “Not a fan, I take it?”

  “Of the Custodian?” He laughs. “Of course I am. He is our diligent steward after all.”

  Nev watches his face, wondering for the first time if there’s more to him than she’s assumed. This is not the way an ardent disciple speaks. She almost probes further but thinks better of it.

  It’s a big leap, she reminds herself, from being a bit disillusioned with your boss to being gung-ho about assassinating him. It’s not that she was tempted to let him in on her plan—nothing so insane as that—only that she’s tempted to see him as an ally. It’s a little alarming how quickly that desire sprung up at the slightest provocation.

  “I’m taking a shower.” She pats his hand as she stands up. A tiny ‘see you later’ to signal that she’s not inviting him to join. She needs to be alone so she can think.

  7 Years Ago: Nevalya

  Before the door is fully open, Nevalya holds up the sheaf of papers, waving them at Magda.

  “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  She’s been coming back to see Magda regularly since the procedure. First, for followups while she adjusted to living in a new body, learning its quirks, settling into her skin. Then, after a while, just to talk. It was during one of these visits that Magda had showed her the letters she now thrusts in the old woman’s face.

  Magda’s eyes widen in alarm and she ushers Nev quickly inside.

  “Depends on what you think it means.”

  “Come on. You know what I’m asking.”

  “Okay. Then I guess it depends on how reliable my grandmother is as a source.”

  The letters Magda had given her were penned by a woman named Madhoun, who was apparently Magda’s great grandmother. Madhoun had written them to her sister before the Siphoning, and they were mostly filled with mundane details about her life—husband, children, local politics, and the like.

  Eventually, however, the letters had taken on a tone of growing concern, and even fear as they described a series of increasingly rigid laws passed by the hardline factions in the government. More and more sanctions on magic use, more enforcement raids by police squads—the predecessors to the current keepers, Nev gathers—and more invasive acts of surveillance were reported every day.

  The missives contained maddeningly few details: an attempt, no doubt, to avoid becoming victim to the very monitoring about which Madhoun was concerned. But what they said was enough to shake Nev’s understanding of the world.

  “The Siphoning?” she demands, once again shaking the sheaf of letters in her fist. “It didn’t happen?”

  Magda laughs. “Oh it happened, love. Look around you. There’s no question about that.”

  Nev frowns at the old woman’s back as she follows her to the kitchen. Even in her current state of unrest she won’t turn down a cup of Magda’s signature Jasmine tea. Especially in her current state, actually.

  “So help me understand,” she says when they are settled at the kitchen table. “Because this reads like it’s saying everything we know about magic isn’t true.”

  Magda blows on the steaming surface of her tea, thinking for a moment before answering.

  “I don’t fully understand it myself,” she admits. “But there are a few things we can certainly gather from it, assuming it’s true.”

  “You think it might not be?”

  Magda shakes her head, “No, I think it is, but it’s just one person’s experience. It’s anecdotal and vague. Not a lot to go on if you’re questioning the entire foundation of our current society.”

  Nev nods but doesn’t answer, waiting for Magda to elaborate. After a tentative sip of her tea, testing the temperature and drinkability, the older woman goes on.

  “What it means, at a minimum, is that there were a lot more mages than we were led to believe. And if there were a lot more then, odds are there still are.”

  “Like you, for instance,” Nev prompts.

  “Like me,” Magda agrees. “The Committee has always allowed for the existence of people with a mild strain of hereditary magic who can’t do much with it. Probably what the old stories would call ‘hedge witches.’ And they’ve always admitted the existence of unsanctioned mods and meds. They had to.”

  “But?”

  “But I think it was more than that. I think most likely a significant chunk of the population was made up of magic-users. And now that isn’t the case.”

  It takes Nev a moment to absorb the significance of the woman’s words. After a long pause, she asks, “The Siphoning?”

  “The Siphoning,” Magda nods again. “It happened, it just didn’t happen like they say it did.” She sips her tea then adds, “Probably.”

  “Not a few skilled mages having the power sucked from their blood by a crowd of resentful upstarts.”

  “Almost the opposite. The way my grandmother talks, it was more like there was widespread power, and the government didn’t like that. Started cracking down, trying to consolidate, keep it all in the family as it were.”

  “But if there were powerful mages all over Salus, that would be impossible,” Nev says.

  “Exactly. Too much power in the populace, you might say. Hence, the Siphoning.”

  “You think they did it on purpose.”

  “I’m damn near sure of it.”

  Nev leans back in her chair, her own tea forgotten and cooling. “How do you think they did it?”

  “Could be any number of things. Probably some sort of massive collaborative spell meant to suppress the power of anyone other than themselves possessed. Who knows whether they meant it to do so much. Maybe they didn’t know it would suck the nutrients out of the earth itself. Maybe they did, and didn’t care. Maybe that was the point.”

  For the hundredth time since reading the letters, Nev lets the implications of this revelation wash over her. The borders and governments of three nations dissolved. The soil no longer able to yield crops without direct intervention from the Committee mages. Water needing to be diffused with supplements only the Committee can provide. Every single thing from transportation to electricity being powered by mods that are either sold by the Committee at prohibitive prices, or found off-market and running the gamut from unreliable to outright dangerous.

  And the Pall. The wasting disease that kills slowly but not before wrecking its victim’s body from the inside out. No one even knows what it is, only that before the Siphoning, there was no Pall. All the regular viruses and cancers were bad enough, but there was nothing like this. The most plausible theory Nev has heard is that it’s related to the lack of nutrients in the soil. Which, if true, means it’s a direct result of… this.

  These are all realities she’s accepted her entire life. Unfortunate, but there was no one living to blame for them—just what happens when people get jealous of what they don’t have. The letters have turned all that upside down. This doesn’t just mean the system that killed Halim is flawed. If what Magda and her grandmother are saying is true, then that system isn’t flawed at all. It’s working exactly as designed, to keep the power in the hands of a select few and trample anyone outside their circle who questions it.

  “But what about you?” Nev asks after a moment. “You’re not a low-level bush witch…”

  “Hedge witch.”

  “Whatever. The point is, you have just as much magic as anyone on the Committee.”

  Magda holds out her hands, palms up in a ‘who knows’ gesture. “No spell that large is perfect. It was always going to miss a few of us. I’m just one of the lucky ones, I guess.”

  Nev leaves the letters with Magda when she heads home, but the full weight of what she’s learned doesn’t lift from her consciousness. She waits for it to fade, and allow her to live some semblance of a normal life but there are some thresholds, she discovers, that can’t be crossed a second time. Now that she’s on this side of understanding the world, there’s no going back.

  Only knowing and not being able to do anything with the knowledge feels like going insane. Should she try to start a movement? Publish the letters somewhere? Spread the word and organize against the Committee?

  She wouldn’t be the first to do so. People don’t need to understand the details of how a system is crushing them to know that they are being crushed.

  The problem, as every other uprising has learned, is that the Committee not only has the power to take punitive actions—as they punished Halim, and by proxy, herself—they hold the key to all resources. People can’t grow their own food or raise their own livestock. There’s no way to communicate outside of the local siloed networks maintained and monitored by the Committee. It has not been difficult for them to stamp out veins of resistance as quickly as they formed.

  Still, they have formed, and some of the people who formed them must be out there. When Nev seeks them out, it’s not to start a new resistance. She has no desire to build a movement. She’s just so damn lonely. Someone out there somewhere is as dissatisfied as she is with accepting only one possible way of life. There has to be a connection she can make to give an outlet to everything she knows before it builds up to an unbearable pressure inside her.

  So it is that Nev finds herself once again seeking out Armand. She doesn’t tell him about the letters—there’s nothing he can do about them. She simply enjoys being around other people who share her dissatisfaction.

  She gets to know Armand’s connections in the Undercity, and eventually starts helping him move illicit mods and meds. She rents a room near him and drinks with him and his friends at the unlicensed bar around the corner.

  For a while, it’s enough. And then it isn’t anymore. The thoughts of Halim, which never subsided but took on a warmer tone for a while, turn dark again. Halim, who only ever wanted to help people, who is dead now because any tiny use of unsanctioned power is a threat to the Custodian’s rule. Halim who never got a trial, or a chance, who was murdered with the passionless tap of administrative fingers on a slate.

  Selling mods, she now understands, is not enough. Not while the Custodian breathes free air. Together, she and Armand form the bones of a tentative plan. Armand doesn’t want her to go. He says it’s too dangerous and there are too many variables. He says he feels responsible for her in Halim’s absence. But he sees the steel behind her eyes and puts up only a weak resistance.

  His last favor to her is to forge her assignment to the Talavar. After that, he says, too many strings will lead back to him. She leaves without saying goodbye.