by Ben Galley
‘And we do not like… cluelessness.’ The voice was like a blade being dragged down the strings of an arghul, each vowel the shifting of dunes.
‘No, Lord,’ chorused the sisters.
Yaridin spoke up, less confident than Liria. ‘I apologise. My sister is right. Better we know and have time to adjust our plans.’
Red veins ran through the dark pile of churning sand, puffing more acrid smoke. ‘Adjust away. Adjust. Adjust,’ replied the voice.
‘We know where she is. A brother in the outermost southern Sprawls has spotted them,’ said Yaridin.
‘We will strike tonight, and rescue our brother Caltro. See he is delivered to the right hands,’ added Liria.
Again, the dark pile of sand glowed crimson, hotter this time. Angrier.
‘We draw closssse…’ The sibilance was drawn out as the sand in the forge settled down, turning in circles as though something burrowed into the hot stone beneath it. No more shapes rose. The smoke began to settle in thick black dust, coating the edges of the stone altar. The coals beneath the slab cooled to a dim russet glow.
Liria pulled her eyes away from it and turned to her sister, who was glowing brighter now the light had diminished. Yaridin yanked up her hood and led the way out of the room.
The corridor beyond its low ceilings and tiles of polished stone was cooler, airier. They followed it up a set of intricately zigzagging stairs that hugged huge square pillars, touching the doorsteps of one room for just a moment before jutting up to the next. Always up, tracing the edges of great vaults and caverns. Shade-glow bruised them blue and purple. Red cloaks flowed like blood in living hearts, swelling in open chambers. Myriad feet made hardly any noise on the white stones.
On a level far above the forge’s room they found a particularly swollen chamber of hewn rock, packed with blue and red forms. There were raised voices deeper into the press.
‘Move aside,’ spoke Yaridin, and the crowd of shades – and a large number of still-living brothers and sisters – parted eagerly.
‘Away, all those with less than five decades under their feet,’ Liria ordered, and almost all of the room departed with muted whispering. There remained half a dozen shades, standing stoically at a channel cut into the far side of the chamber. Its walls had been plastered and painted. Black, for the most part, but with crimson stars echoing the map of the heavens above.
Liria and Yaridin approached, gauging the looks of the other shades. Two living members of the church stood to the side, hooded heads bowed but hands firmly grasping the edges of stained barrels.
‘The matter, fellow brothers and sisters?’
One of the living spoke, one of their own Nyxites for their private stream of Nyxwater. ‘It has turned to a trickle, Enlightened Sister. Sesh’s Vein is failing us.’
Another spoke up in a squirrelly voice. The pins beneath his white feather told them he was a scholar. ‘For the first time in centuries.’
Liria went to rest her hands on the edge of the sandstone channel. Above it, on the wall, five stars had been painted. Four hung lower, simple dots, while the fifth that sat higher in the black sky was drawn in great flourishes of red. It held her eye for a moment before she looked down.
The channel ran across the back wall, from one side of the room to the other. Its sandstone had been smoothed but not eaten by the years the Nyx had flowed over it. The dark stain the waters had left on the channel was the evidence of its waning. Halfway down the channel, the sandstone turned ashen, then a dark grey, and at its base, a rivulet of inky water no thicker than a decent rope.
‘But it still flows, yes?’ she asked the small crowd.
One of the Nyxites spoke up. ‘Yes… Sister, but—’
‘And how many hekats have you stored in the cellars below us? Or the warehouses above? Or across the city?’
The two Nyxites looked at each other, lips quivering as they silently spoke numbers. A conversation of shrugging followed before one of them turned back and said. ‘Tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, Sister.’
Liria waved her arm, dismissing the two men to continue their work. ‘Then keep gathering.’
‘Keep storing,’ said Yaridin. ‘And the rest of you should know better than to gawk and gossip. You especially, scholar. Do not let talk of this spread.’
The shade in question smiled at her. ‘The time is near, Sisters,’ he said, before hustling down a set of stairs.
‘Almost, Brother.’
The two sisters paused for a moment, gazing out over the red and blue masses that teemed below them. There seemed to be more every day now. The preachers had been plying their trade across Araxes, journeying further all the time. Their sanctums across the city had swollen in size and number, but here, deep beneath the Avenue of Oshirim and the statue of the old god himself, the Great Vault could have been a city in itself.
Yaridin broke their silence first, sharing the same thought. ‘City of Countless Souls indeed, Sister Liria.’
‘You are not wrong, Sister Yaridin.’ She sighed, somewhat wistfully. ‘South, then?’
‘South it is.’
The city had lost its spine. In the baking heat of the sun, only hooded shades trod the dust or flagstones, and even they were decimated in number. The only living that dared to walk amongst them were either drunk, stupid, or paid to be there. Outside the Core Districts, soldiers in red cloaks were often found standing in clumps at crossroads, preachers at their back. Inside the Core were Royal Guards, proctors, scrutinisers, and soldiers from the Scatter Isle skirmishes. They crowded into guard posts and patrolled in great formations, trying to restore the peace – what little of it there was now crime had apparently become a war-game.
Despite the presence of armoured shade and flesh, the city had no taste for the bright and sunny morning. It could be wagered that almost every door in that vast city was locked, and locked tightly.
The usual clamour of the High and Low Docks had become a low whisper, and a surprising number of ships and dhows had wandered off in the night. The horizon was full of sails.
The Royal Markets were closed. Half the Fish District was barely trading; what few merchants there were sung their offers half-heartedly, timid as songbirds when a cat prowls close by. Also taking an avian stance were the few nervous clusters of nobles, seen peeking over the parapets of their high-roads and towers, owl-like in their hungry stares.
The Avenue of Oshirim, and the grand streets leading from it into the banking districts, were grimly silent. Even commerce didn’t halt for war on the streets; a small smattering of the grander banks stayed open, trusting in their fortresses and small private armies of guards. But it seemed few had the heart for trading silver or half-coins today, and the patrons showed it in their absence. Those whose interests lay solely in riches always had a strong desire to stay rich, and that meant staying alive. It was why they always cowered over their glittering piles before they became corpses, and slaves to a half-life.
Temsa took another twirl around, waving his cane in a wide circle. A lack of crowds was a special thing in this city, especially here, in its beating heart of commerce. Even his soldiers had spread out, eager to be away from their sweaty comrades. Temsa was glad for it too. He had kept them working since last night for their idiocy and inability to do simple things like storm a tower. The breeze and the heat were doing nothing for the stench, but they would learn. And he was more stubborn than they would ever know.
‘What a glorious day, wouldn’t you say, m’dear? Danib?’
Two matching grunts came from behind him, where his two pets lumbered sullenly. They’d been in foul moods since the failure; since the escape of both Horix and Caltro. A shit-show, Ani had called it, and though Temsa was inclined to agree, he was beginning to hate every word out of her mouth. Danib at least had the decency to stay mute, hiding behind the thick steel of his horned helm. Only his white, burning eyes showed through its slits.
The tor pointed his cane at the bright blue sky
, where the sun hung low and fresh in the east. ‘I said a GLORIOUS DAY!’ he roared. The echo bounced around the vast stone plaza between the banks that soared up into the sky. Ani and Danib listened to the question three times before it died.
‘Fine day, Tor. Though I am still wondering if this is the right time,’ Ani elaborated, though at Temsa’s stare, she added, ‘For your safety.’
His reply was taut, but genuine. ‘I appreciate the concern,’ he said, walking on towards Fenec’s Coinery. The sweeping curves that softened its sheer sides reminded Temsa of leg bones, and where they met, sockets and knuckles. An elongated yawning skull could be made out of the patterned tiles surrounding the huge, inverted triangle of a doorway. Temsa’s black-clad soldiers formed up once more, and he was reminded of their stench. Perhaps bringing fifty was too many. Not to mention the hundred he had manhandling the wagons of half-coins.
Inside, the mood was even more sombre. The impossibly tall desks were largely empty. The bank guards remained, but the clerks and sigils and coincounters had mostly disappeared. Those that remained sweated profusely even in the cool of the bank, hands flashing over scrolls and papyrus like they were being whipped. Stacks of documents fell in great heaps every now and again, down into the waiting hands of runners, who scampered off into a myriad of doors. A handful of customers stood tapping toes, each clutching something precious to them, their guards tightly pressed against the next in line’s.
Temsa could have laughed as he and his entourage entered. Fifty soldiers probably was too many.
The sun shone behind them, casting many-fingered shadows across the elaborate marble. Gasps and clanks filled the grand chamber, but Temsa strode forwards with his spare hand high and empty.
‘Just another customer, good people, fellow citizens. A fellow tor here for Fenec’s trusty services,’ he told them, worrying more about a fight than for their safety. He simply could not be bothered with another. He was scrapped out for the time being, even though Boon was high on his list of priorities. The “shit-show” at Horix’s tower had soured his mood, the princess’, and most likely the Cult’s. Neither of them had tried to contact him as yet, and even as he strode past the frightened commoners straight towards the upper level, Temsa wondered if he was still under Sisine’s protection, or meant for a sister’s dagger.
The serek was last on both their lists. Killing Boon would set at least one of them straight, hopefully both. Not that Temsa cared about honour, or duty to either of them. He simply didn’t want a cult on his back, nor his admittance to the Cloudpiercer revoked. Horix’s bold grab for power had stirred a vigour inside him, as if he had finally found a match worthy of competition. The old bitch had made her first move, and it was a strong one. He had to catch up. What better way to kill a serek than to become a serek? Ani had called it vanity, much to his sour displeasure.
‘Tor Fenec and son!’
Both Fenec the elder and younger had emerged from their grand office, and were clasping their hands the way people did when telling somebody of a death. Their eyes stretched even wider as they watched Temsa’s soldiers begin to roam about the desks, flicking nods to the guards and generally making everybody present uncomfortable. There were a handful more clerks here, and they peered over their desks warily, drops of sweat falling from their arched noses.
‘Tor Temsa. What a surprise,’ Tor Fenec greeted him with a low bow. His son, Russun Fenec, bowed even lower. When he came up, his eyes seemed to have become glued to the marble.
‘We missed you last night, Russun. And the night before.’ Temsa used his shorter stature to creep into the sigil’s eye-line. Russun met his stare only once, and then flinched away. ‘Fortunately, our business had to be postponed, so no harm done.’
‘Forgive me, I’m confused…’ Tor Fenec’s blood vacated his cheeks. Whether he knew of the hold Temsa had on his son and played along, or he had just figured it out, Temsa didn’t care. It only mattered that the tor’s face was taking on a pale hue.
‘Not a good trait, for the director of a bank as proud as this, Tor. Now, I have come to be Weighed. Today.’ Temsa waved his cane to the bangs and thuds from the lower level as his other men began to unload the barrows and boxes. ‘Business has been going well. I believe a serekdom is at hand.’
‘Yes. Today…’ The tor wrung his hands. ‘And a serek now, you say…’
‘A problem, Fenec?’ Temsa took a step, clanging his foot on the marble near the man’s toes.
Tor Fenec sniffed. If the man had whiskers, they would have twitched. There was something rodent-like about the man. ‘A slight issue, Tor Temsa. There is a new royal decree.’
‘From whom?’
Fenec looked bamboozled. ‘Why, the Cloudpiercer, of course.’
‘Empress-in-waiting, or Emperor Farazar?’
‘The… emperor? Who else, Tor Temsa?’
Temsa found himself letting that reply linger in his ear a little longer than necessary. The pause had dragged out too long. He found Ani staring sideways at him, eyes burrowing into him as if she read his thoughts.
‘And what decree interferes with such simple business as a Weighing? It must happen forty times a day here.’
‘It does, Tor, but a shift from tal or tor to serek requires a recommendation from a serek, and said serek to be present, and then a presenting to the Cloud Court. But now the Cloud Court has been disbanded – temporarily, we hope – the emperor has discounted all Weighings until this state of emergency is over.’
Fenec spoke as if he’d written the decree himself and memorised it in front of a mirror. Temsa considered violence, as he always did, but instead he pinched his forehead and sighed.
‘Do it anyway.’
‘But—’
‘I said do it anyway.’
‘Tor…’ Ani muttered, but Temsa held up his hand.
‘Is there a decree banning Weighings?’
‘No, only… they don’t count.’ Fenec had realised the walls of his argument had crumbled.
‘Then weigh my half-coins, add them to the contents of my vaults, add it to your scroll, and tell me where I stand in this fucking city,’ Temsa said with a smile. ‘That way, you’ll be ahead when the decree is lifted, won’t you, Tor Fenec?’
It took a moment for the man to further realise he was wasting precious time, and the faster he moved, the faster Temsa and his soldiers would be out of his bank.
‘Fetch Tallier Nhun,’ Fenec whispered to his son. Russun whispered something back behind a hand, and the tor snapped, ‘Then wake him! It’s the middle of the morning, dead gods curse it!’
Temsa had to smile. They had no idea what a relief it would be when he decided to leave them alone. Like a dunewyrm, it was not often Temsa let his prey go. Sometimes, though, enough torture was enough torture, and death was not needed. But not yet. Not until he found another bank to bend over.
The great doors slid open as before. The lamps were lit to make the copper of the scales burn. Ani and Danib saw to the opening of other, smaller doors that led securely from the street to the Weighing Room. The first time, Temsa had been making a point. This time, he could afford to follow the procedures, and watch how the shadows played on the stone as barrows and wagons full of his coins began to flood the room.
Tallier Nhun came sleepy-eyed from the adjoining office and nearly stumbled at the mere sight of the scene. It wasn’t often, Temsa guessed, that a tallier got to preside over a tor rising to a serek. It usually made the rumour mill, and it hadn’t for some time.
‘Let it begin,’ came Tor Fenec’s hoarse shout, and as before, figures in white robes appeared from alcoves to grab the coins from Temsa’s men.
Half-coins tumbled musically into the vast pan in initial trickles, but before long they flowed like a copper river. Though in Temsa’s mind, this time the river was wider, and fiercer. He let his gaze get lost in the glittering.
He came to as Nhun shouted once more, ordering his helpers back from the sides of the scale, where they held
coins in place with brushes. The pile was threatening to landslide.
Fenec had almost been fascinated by the tumble of half-coins. ‘Sigil, fetch the Ledger of Bindings.’ Russun went to fetch it from the office. When he returned, carting the trolley and enormous scroll, and when Nhun finished bending over by the measure, the tor cleared his throat ceremoniously.
‘And the Weight is?’
Nhun moved over to Fenec’s side to show him the numbers. ‘Again,’ said the tor, and the tallier repeated his counting. Only when Nhun had come back to show him undoubtedly the same numbers did Fenec relent, and start to stalk up and down the Ledger as Russun rolled it out. A dark line of glyphs lay across it near the top, where a thicker, grander golden line separated all but a few names. They were redacted for royal eyes only.
Temsa couldn’t help but stand over them, casting as much shadow as he could while Russun and his father’s fingers prodded at names and glyphs. To his annoyance, they kept dancing close to the line, but only once past it.
‘Another problem, gentlemen?’
‘Here… Tor Temsa.’ Fenec placed his finger between two names he didn’t recognise. They were a good handful of entries below the red line between tor and serek. The finger was shaking. ‘I… if business continues at this rate, I am sure in a few weeks – days – you will be a—’
CLANG!
Temsa’s talons pierced the thick scroll and dug into the rich marble beneath. The noise echoed around the Weighing Room.
‘Tor Temsa, I must insist!’ cried Fenec as he rose to his feet. He instantly withered, but it was good to know the man still had some spirit in him. His son, however, kept to his place on the floor.
‘Insist what, Fenec?’ Temsa challenged him. ‘You’ve got your coins. You’ve added my considerable worth to your vaults. More leverage to your dealings. Stock and share, I believe you call it? The coin within coin.’ Temsa leaned closer. ‘And let us not forget your life. If that is of any worth to you.’
Fenec nodded, and withdrew so that Temsa could tug his talons from the papyrus. He wondered if he had by chance skewered any names he had skewered in life, but there was little time for whimsy or irony.