by Ben Galley
From ‘The Binding Light’, by the Nyxite Shamas
Her footsteps fell with the steady but fervent beat of a smith’s hammer. They echoed along the voluminous corridor, making her sound like a dozen. Ahead stood a grand doorway of varnished foreign wood, copper and gold. On either side of it were stationed two Royal Guards. They stood at attention, with their wicked, hooked spears raised high and at arm’s length. She watched them intently as she marched, daring them to move: a twitch, a shift of their features through their golden faceplates, a ripple in their turquoise capes. Anything for an excuse to ruin their perfect poise. To her annoyance, they remained like statues. On any other day, she would have walked leisurely down the sun-painted corridor and made them tremble with the effort. But on a day like today, Empress-in-Waiting, Sisine Talin Renala the Thirty-Seventh did not have time for such torture.
‘Out of my way!’ she yelled from a dozen paces away. The guards withdrew rapidly with bowed heads.
‘The doors, curse you!’
‘Yes, Highness!’
Shining gauntlets yanked at ropes, and the doors swung open just wide enough for her to enter.
After the opulence of the corridor, the antechamber beyond felt austere. A solitary bench, all sandalwood and silver swirls, sat in the centre of the circular room. Aureate lamplight spilled from plated sconces set into the plain marble. Another door stood in front of her, far mightier than the one behind her and far more decorative. It was not tall or square, but circular and formidable like the door of a half-coin vault. And rightly so, for this was the emperor’s Sanctuary; her father’s answer to the cutthroat tendencies of his family and countless subjects. A fine solution for the person inside it, but highly inconvenient for all those outside.
The Sanctuary was armoured with gold and copper, and across the flawless metal were engraved scenes of ancestral battles and hordes of subjects prostrate before pyramids. The royal seal of a spiked crown and half-coin hung above them, surrounded by a bloom of desert flowers made of steel. At the doorway’s centre, five holes were arranged in a circle. No jewels were clasped there, and no jewels ever would be, for the gods were dead and these were keyholes for highly coveted keys. Only one jewel graced the door, and that sat between the keyholes: a diamond the width of Sisine’s palm, glowing gold with the lamplight. A deadlock, they called it; a lock that would rip the soul from any that tried to tamper with the Sanctuary. Sisine’s fingers traced its frozen, glasslike surface.
If one looked closely at the door, they might have seen fine gaps that betrayed hidden hatches. One such hatch was placed at the bottom of the door, and it was perfectly scroll-sized.
Sisine rattled through the ritual. First she knelt, then bowed to recite the salutation. ‘May your reign be long and prosperous, my emperor, powerful of strength and mind, lord of all the sun touches. May both the living and the dead remember your name throughout all ages to come.’
Two knocks sounded and the small hatch popped. A stubby scroll was pushed through. No sooner had she grasped it did the hatch shut with a clang. She knocked twice on the door, and waited.
‘Father?’ she called softly. ‘Can you hear me?’
No answer came. Just the whack of a hand against the other side of the door, several feet away.
‘Suit yourself,’ Sisine snarled. ‘The Cloud Court awaits me.’ With the scroll gripped in both hands, she swept from the room, her raven-coloured hair trailing behind her like a banner.
Several floors below the Sanctuary, a phalanx of Royal Guard waited to escort her into the court chamber. They added the clanging of armour to her staccato march, but it did nothing to drown out the court’s bickering. Sisine heard it long before entering the cavernous hall. The soldiers peeled away from her, left and right, and with her skirts swishing against the marble, she took her place in the centre of four great pillars that held up the ceiling.
Sisine looked up at the gathered sereks of the Cloud Court. A hundred strong, they perched on high balconies and sat pretty in grand chairs. The multi-coloured swathe of silk and velvet and gold stretched almost halfway around the chamber. The sun pouring through the slanted windows made one half of the chamber glow and cast the other in shadow behind glare. Bold blue sat beyond the light, cloudless and empty. Not a single tower in the city was tall enough to peek into the Cloudpiercer’s court.
She stood with her arms folded, scroll clasped to her breast, and waited for silence. It was a long time coming, and once the sereks’ conversation and arguments had dried up, Sisine bowed to the throne at the southern side of the court as if her father were sat upon it. The grand sculpture of turquoise quartz was empty. Half a decade had passed since his backside had last graced it, but to bow was traditional. He had ruled since through that damnable hatch, his rulings delivered solely by his wife – and now daughter – to a court that was growing increasingly ambitious in his absence. In this city, ambitious had the same meaning as murderous.
‘Sereks! I have our glorious emperor’s latest decrees!’ She lifted the scroll high. ‘Perhaps they will put an end to your clamouring. I wonder if the court was this discourteous when it was the empress who delivered your emperor’s words?’
As Sisine’s tawny eyes wandered over their pouting faces, she noticed more empty seats than usual. For the most part, this was due to the fear of travelling even short distances across the city. Even the high-roads weren’t completely safe. The richer an Arctian noble, the more skittish they became, and for good reason. A serek was a high prize indeed for a soulstealer.
Two minor nobles, Tal Askeu and Tor Yeera, had disappeared in the last month, along with their entire stocks of shades. Sisine was of the opinion it served them right. That’s what they got for keeping their half-coins in their towers instead of in Araxes’ great banks. It never paid to sit on one’s fortune and trust too much to lock and key. She wished her father was aware of such wisdom. Her line had built a tower that could scratch the heavens, and still the emperor hid in a vault with his half-coins.
Disappearances weren’t uncommon. The churn of Araxes’ upper echelons revolved around unexpected disappearances, accidents and untimely deaths. What usually followed soon after would be a certain member of society receiving an equally unexpected windfall. A ‘business deal’ gone favourably, perhaps. Or a ‘relative’ dying. There were all sorts of ways to spin it, and that was the knack. As long as the half-coins were physically in possession to be Weighed, and the banks could be given good enough proof of a lawful exchange, somebody would climb the societal ranks. The truth would be told in whispers behind closed doors, but never spoken aloud. That was the great game of Araxes, only now it appeared that somebody wasn’t playing by the rules.
Nobody had claimed the nobles’ half-coins. That was highly unusual. Why play the game if not to rise in the ranks? Judging by the empty seats around the court, such events had made the sereks even more skittish than usual.
Sisine opened the scroll and scanned it before she read aloud. She held back her sigh. In the month since she had started standing before the Cloud Court in place of her mother the empress, her father’s decrees had grown ever more bizarre. They seemed to focus almost entirely on his precious shade-claiming wars against the princes of the Scatter Isles.
‘The emperor’s decrees are as follows! Ten phalanxes of the Dead Rats to be reassigned to Harras to protect our ports there. Withdraw support from Prince Phylar and prepare for a siege on his fort on Corfin. We must also stockpile our steel reserves to increase their trading price.’ She paused, gaze lingering on the last glyph. ‘And that is all. His Imperial Majesty speaks.’
In the silence that followed, she watched the looks of dissatisfaction spread around the court, until at last one of them found the balls to shout out: a greying serek with a thin, braided beard bound with gold.
‘And what of the Nyxwater shortage, Empress-in-Waiting? Surely—’
Sisine pointed the scroll at the serek, silencing him. ‘I cannot decide whether you ar
e accusing my father of ignorance, or of ineptitude? Which is it, Serek?’
‘Neither, Highness.’
‘I should hope not. My father is well aware of the rumours surrounding the Nyx. If he deems it to be an issue, he will surely take action.’
‘Is there truly nothing else?’ called another voice, one she recognised immediately. It was Serek Boon.
The shade was splayed across his chair, easy to see in the shadow of the western seats. A gleaming feather motif of white jewels sat on his chest, over where his heart should have been. The blue vapours beyond his puffy sleeves glowed darker than those of other shades, something to do with the fire that had claimed his body fifty years ago. Few free shades ever rose to the height of a serek unless they died in the position and managed not to be claimed. Boon belonged to this narrow minority.
Sisine stared at the shade, hoping he could see her simpering smile. The sereks were a prideful club. To be a serek was to be one of the richest citizens in the empire, bar the royal family. The title meant a serek was supposed to govern their own districts, but Sisine had come to realise they instead spent most of their time bringing her complaints. As the emperor still held the most shades, the sereks held no sway over the crown’s decisions, but tradition stated they were the voices of the city. That made them dangerous to ignore or insult.
‘Dissatisfied, are we, Boon?’ she said, giving him the floor.
‘Nothing about the real issues at hand? The rampant soulstealing? Or what about the empress’ absence? Or, as the esteemed Serek Warast has already mentioned, the rumours of the Nyx drying up? Is there nothing being done about these matters?’
Others took up the cry. ‘Hear, hear!’
Sisine fought not to scowl at the mention of the empress. There had been plenty of rumour and speculation over her mother’s disappearance, but Sisine knew the truth: the woman had forsaken her duties and her family, leaving her belongings, her scant account of half-coins, and a slip of papyrus with the simple message of “gone east” inked onto it. Brief and cold, as usual. Sisine’s mother had no Sanctuary of her own, but over the years she had become just as unreachable and detached as the emperor. Sisine was glad the bitch had finally given in. Instead of making her own gambit for the throne like a true Arctian royal, the empress’ disappearance had left Sisine as the only royal voice in the Piercer.
In an effort to buy herself a moment of thought, she searched the scroll for words that were not there. Her father had been strangely brief today; barely half the scroll had been used. She pulled it further apart, revealing more virgin papyrus. Her eyes glazed. The temptation she’d harboured for weeks bloomed afresh. She chewed the inside of her lip. What else was she to do? Sisine strongly suspected her father was beginning to lose his mind. The emperor was obsessed with his Sanctuary, too afraid of daggers and deception to leave it. Perhaps justly so, seeing as his ascent to the throne had meant skewering his own father. And yet, for all his security, his reign was slipping from his grasp, slowly but surely, and like Sisine, the sereks could sense it. She would burn the Cloudpiercer to the ground before she let those wild dogs anywhere near her throne.
‘Silence!’ Sisine yelled, and when the sereks had given up their muttering, she prodded at the blank space at the bottom of the scroll. ‘I see now that the emperor has included a footnote. His Imperial Majesty has decreed that the price of Nyxwater barrels is to be further increased to limit usage. It seems your fears are unfounded, Serek Boon! Are you content now?’
The shade nodded, speaking for the court. ‘Somewhat.’
Sisine’s eyes toured the half-circle. ‘And the rest of you?’
A rustle of acquiescence came and went like a wind chasing leaves. It was not entirely convincing. Sisine raised her chin. According to the Code, fabricating an emperor’s decree was treachery at its kindest. If the court smelled deception, it would be a fine excuse to decry her, and lay claim to her half-coins.
Growing up in a web of cutthroat politics – literally speaking – tended to teach a girl a thing or two about power. Power wasn’t all about half-coins. Half-coins had a habit of bringing mobs to front doors. No, power was about controlling the mob. Sisine knew the best way to achieve that wasn’t with steel gauntlets, or broad smiles, or charity. It was a matter of discovering what the mob wanted and then dangling it in front of them, like a beetle chasing vegetable scraps. For the sereks, in that moment, it was action.
Sisine held up her hands, forcing a smile. ‘If it also pleases the sereks of the Cloud Court, I will also summon the commander of the Core Guard and order him to increase patrols around the central Nyxite storehouses and Nyxwells. I’m sure the emperor, in his everlasting wisdom, would see the sense of such action. As for Her Imperial Majesty,’ added Sisine, with a forced smile, ‘she is attending to family matters in the east and is no reason for concern. I’m sure she will return, and soon.’
‘Let us hope so, Empress-in-Waiting,’ Boon called out, rubbing his sharp chin.
Sisine swiftly made her exit, leaving the sereks to their chattering of Nyxwater and extra guards and stronger locks. Royal Guards tramping by her side, she ascended to her chambers.
When she came crashing through the armoured doorway, she found the chamber-shades were still busy polishing in her grand lounge. If shades were perfect for one job above all it was polishing things. The dead left no greasy fingerprints. And yet it didn’t mean they did it with any alacrity.
‘Out!’ Sisine shrieked. ‘All of you!’
As the shades gathered their rags and fled for the door, another emerged from a side room, hands clasped behind his back. This shade wasn’t going anywhere. He had a scar in the shape of a V on the right side of his bald skull. There was a royal shape to his jaw, echoes of an older family line. He had chosen a charcoal suit today. It fitted him poorly; too baggy around the waist. Dark powder clung in patches to his face in an effort to give the effect of makeup. It fell away with every movement, no matter how small.
Sisine scowled darkly at him. ‘Why do you insist on following the fashions of the free shades, Etane? You look frankly absurd.’
The shade frowned, more powder falling across the lapel of his suit. ‘After ten decades dead it’s nice to have something to occupy yourself with.’
‘Do I give you no chores? Have you no sword training?’
‘Call it individuality, then.’
Sisine scoffed. ‘Wear a robe like every other chamber-shade of mine. I’ll make it an order if I must. You are not the empress’ property any more, remember? You are mine.’
‘Robes feel too half-life for me. Too… cultish, Highness.’ He sighed. ‘I think I need a different tailor. If Serek Boon can manage it, I—’
‘Bah! That fucking shade!’
Sisine moved to a window, eager to glower at the muddle of buildings and towers below. Her eyes darted over the sea of white and tan stone, interspersed with blooms of bazaar awnings, kaleidoscopic in colour. The streets were knit tightly, the buildings piled tall, the districts overlapping. No inch of land was wasted, and where the city collided with the turquoise sea, it bunched up along the coastline for a hundred miles both east and west. Even now, on this bright day, Araxes’ distant reaches were lost in factory smoke and dust blowing in from the deserts. In all her life, she had never seen the city’s edges: the Outsprawls.
‘Have you any news for me, Etane?’
‘Plenty as always in this city, Your Loftiness. What in particular?’
Sisine tutted. ‘Of your Krassman locksmith!’
‘Nothing, other than that he is still late. Unusual for a man of his reported reputation.’
‘You made a mistake in choosing the Krassman,’ she snapped, pushing open the windows to hear Araxes’ roar. It was an ocean of noise: voices and footsteps, animals braying, birds keening, the banging and crashing of workers and toil. ‘We should have chosen that Miss Everass instead.’
Etane came to stand by her side, eyes skyward. ‘You said she was too well
known, and unlikely to get involved.’
Sisine gave him a dark look. ‘Must I remind you yet again of your station, shade?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s probably been caught in a squall. The summer heat tends to stir up the sea, make it as troublesome as its name. I wager he will likely dock within a few days. Then you can carry on with your…’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘Dealings.’
With any other half-life, Sisine would have fetched a copper poker and handed out a battering, but Etane Talin was not the average indentured. Irritating though he was, he was family: some distant great-great-great something, over a hundred years bound and as bitter as the day an arrow had found its way into his skull during a coup for the throne. He had served the Talin Renala line ever since. Until she had vanished without a word, Etane had belonged to Sisine’s mother. His position as her personal shade and bodyguard fetched him slightly more respect in the Cloudpiercer than the usual chamber-shades were afforded. Not to mention he had practically raised Sisine in place of the empress, given she had been too absent to do so. For that, Sisine held no gratitude towards him, and only more spite for her mother.
Sisine swept from the window and wound an angry path around the chamber. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be putting our faith in a Krassman.’
‘Old Emperor Milizan seemed to trust his sort.’
‘Grandfather trusted a lot of people, especially the Cult of Sesh, and look where it got him. A sword up his arsehole, skewered on the latrine by his own son, my father. And banishment for Grandmother.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Etane grimaced. ‘Not the most ladylike way to put it, but I see your point.’