by Ben Galley
I took the box with me, struggling to balance it on my stomach. It irked me that I had to spend eternity with my large belly. It was my fault for spending the last year patronising a swathe of Taymar’s taverns. Alive, there’s always a chance of change. A spot of exercise. More vegetables. Fewer pints of beer. These could all have helped me. I had never let them, and that was my own fault. Now dead, I was stuck a pudgy fellow, and there was nothing I could do save for wearing a bigger smock. Or an enormous scarf. At least at times like these, with a bit of tensing, my faithful belly formed a useful shelf for heavy things like bothersome lockboxes.
I waddled my way up the stairs, having to readjust the box twice before the summit. It was warm high in the tower, and a hot breeze wafted across my feet. Windows must have been open.
The widow was in her chambers as I guessed, gazing down at the city from her balcony. The drapes had been tugged aside yet they still danced in the rushing air, reaching towards me as I stood in the grand archway.
I was getting the feeling that Horix fancied herself quite the actress. Every interaction seemed staged, every moment with her scripted, or at the very least defined by a beginning and end that she had preordained. Even now, she was poised at the window, no doubt ready to use the vista to manufacture a point or opinion.
I waited for her to notice me. Part of me wanted to see her break form, to turn around and check her audience had arrived. To my irritation, she did not. After several long minutes, I set the box on the table with a clunk and stood before the balcony, hands clasped in front of me.
‘Did it beat you?’ she asked without turning. The hot wind brought me her words.
‘Not in the slightest, Widow.’
‘Ten boxes in a row.’
‘Did I mention I was a locksmith, not a boxsmith?’
‘A lock is a lock, you told me.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Have you ever seen such a grand city, Caltro?’
Here we go.
‘Come.’
I moved to stand by her shoulder and blinked in the bright light of the morning. The sun was behind us, but despite the shadow of the tower, the city’s white roofs and mustard sandstone caught its glare.
Covering my eyes with a hand, I followed the tower’s long black silhouette out into the city. Araxes roared as ever, filling the air with the sounds of commerce and life; the screeching of parrots and mewing of gulls; the dull clunk of marching feet and hooves; a thousand traders working their lungs; and the machines cranking away within factories. Every now and again I could hear a lone clang of a distant bell, or a boom from the docks. Here and there, a scream.
The Troublesome Sea ran along the horizon, reaching out west until it became a blur, indistinguishable from the yellow of the land and endless city. I looked south and tried to see the reaches of Araxes, the Outsprawls. They were as distant as the sea’s horizon. Between them and me, great pyramids and knife-blade towers poked out of the dust like unreachable islands. If I squinted, I could see the orange smudges of a sandstorm against the azure sky.
Horix was playing the guide now, pointing eastwards. ‘The Oshirim District, there, home of banking. The District of Bones, it was once called, when the banks began the tradition of decorating their buildings with painted skulls, many hundreds of years past. See the triangle of towers and that long avenue? That’s the Avenue of Oshirim. His statue is behind that ugly lump of a building. Beyond that, the Fish District. And then the High Docks, home to some of the oldest parts of Araxes, like the Spoke Avenues that spread out from the Grand Nyxwell. Do you see?’
‘I do.’
‘Beyond them to the west are the Low Docks, where you came in, I believe. What was the name of your ship again?’
I’d already told her twice, and I knew her memory was as sharp as a purse-cutter’s blade. ‘The Pickled Kipper.’
‘Indeed. There, you see? That’s Tal Fenili’s compound. Cannot bear heights, that one, which is likely why she built an empire of warehouses. And there, King Neper’s Bazaar. Five thousand stalls sit under those canopies, Mr Basalt. Almost a district in its own right. And beside it, the Spice Groves.’
I saw the vast sprawl of colour between the buildings, like a patchwork quilt. If I angled my head to the wind, it seemed most of the city’s roar came from its direction. I should have headed there for Vex’s challenge.
Her finger moved to the core of the city. ‘Beyond that, you can almost see the horns of the Grand Nyxwell. Behind the Chamber of Military Might, that other great cube of a building is the Chamber of the Code Older than the Piercer, it is. The queues of petitioners and claimants and officials go around and around it like water down a whirlpool. Weeks, they can wait in those lines. No high-roads for the nobles either. Everybody queues before the Code.’
As I was debating how much I hated queues, she turned to me. Her cowl had been shoved back in the wind, and her thin grey hair was trying to escape its tight bindings. She had painted her face today. Thick black lines of paint underscored her eyes.
‘They say Araxes is so vast that not even a free shade could see it all. Now there is a growing community. That oddly-shaped lump of pink over there is Serek Boon’s tower, a free shade who sits on the Cloud Council. He’s not the only one. They live like any other serek, or tal, or business owner, or trader. Free of the Tenets. Is that what you want, Mr Basalt? A white feather on your chest?’
It was, but I made a show of thinking. She saw it as an opportunity to speak some more.
‘After all, why wouldn’t it be? Why else would you try to claim your innocence? Implore me to help you? It makes perfect sense. What else is there for you now except to be free?’
I did not want to stay in this sprawling hell. I turned my head to the wide expanse of grey between the buildings to the east. My home lay far beyond that rippling horizon.
The widow had read my thoughts. ‘A home, I see. Of course, throwing your coin into the Nyx is another type of freedom, but I would guess you would rather be free to make your own choices.’
I nodded. I wanted to shudder at the thought of spending another moment in that dark, endless cavern that I knew waited beyond death. Horix had cut to the heart of the matter. ‘That’s what any person wants, and the only thing left of worth to a ghost,’ I said.
‘Naturally.’ Horix turned back to the city, and half-closed her eyes. It was coming. I could feel the pause lengthen as she built to the point of all her nattering. I wondered if she’d once known a place in politics, or whether eighty or so years in Araxes had just beaten this personality into her. ‘What if I were to make you free? Gift you your half-coin? It would be quicker than spending half a decade in the Chamber’s queues.’
I had to keep myself from blurting out the answer. ‘I would accept, Mistress. But you don’t seem the sort of woman to be so charitable. At least not for free.’
Horix clicked a finger in my face before sweeping indoors. ‘Very astute, Mr Basalt.’ She occupied a spot on a long couch and gathered her frills about her. ‘I want you to break into a vault for me.’
‘Why?’ I always ask. You learn to, after a while.
‘The why is not part of the bargain.’
‘What kind of vault?’
‘A big one. Possibly one of the most complicated locks in the Arc, I hear.’
My fingertips brushed against each other, as they tended to do when I itched for a new challenge. ‘Is it to do with this Cult you mentioned?’ I had been eager to press her on that subject since she had first scowled at their name. She scowled again now.
‘No.’
‘What you’re building in your cellars?’
Her fist pounded a cushion, unleashing a puff of grey dust. ‘Enough! You do not have the luxury of questions, half-life. Give me an answer.’
‘I’m wondering whether I have a choice.’
‘I could command you, of course, threaten you, but then I would not feel obliged to reward you. I find half-lives, just like people, work b
etter when there is something in it for them.’
I remembered the last job I had so hastily accepted. I needed more. ‘I want more information. And assurances. Written assurances.’
Horix’s pleasant face took on a moody slant. Her painted eyes narrowed into dark slits. ‘Do you not take me at my word?’
In truth, I absolutely did not. I tend not to take the word of most people, especially those richer than me. Of which there are many. Nor do I find it easy to trust those who buy my soul at auction and lock it in stone coffins. I said as much.
‘I would have thought the last few days would have changed your mind. I have even overlooked your many, many failings as a chamber-shade. You are a far cry from Vex, but you can still be useful to me. Vital, even. In return, I can be vital to you. Do not wear this opportunity out with stupidity or pride.’
I felt like smiling. In her eagerness, Horix had betrayed my position, and for once it turned out to be a rather good position. She needs me. Whether design or luck had delivered me to her – I was inclined to believe the latter – the old crone was up to something that required me to pull it off. I was the key to her lock.
‘Will you do it?’ Horix pressed me.
‘Where and when?’
‘The where is none of your concern, either. As for the when, it will be when I say so. Weeks, perhaps. No time at all to a creature of immortality like yourself. Now, do you agree?’
Weeks. Biting my lip as hard as I could, I decided to follow this thread and see where it led. Being needed can keep you alive a lot longer than you think, even when you’re dead. At the very least, I got to find out what she was hiding in her cellars. At most, I would earn my freedom, and then my justice. All I had to do was bide my time and play chamber-shade.
‘If you can write it down, we have a bargain.’ Habit made me stick out my hand. Horix regarded it like the proffered hand of a leper and I took it back.
‘If I must.’
‘And I will need my tools.’
The widow tutted sharply. ‘You can have new tools.’
‘Only if my others can’t be found. They are special to me.’
‘You expect me to barter with Boran Temsa for them back? He’s no doubt hawked them by now.’
I lowered my head. Crafting something with your own hands imbues a special kind of worth. It’s why my initials had been so proudly scratched into my tools. I made a mental note to peruse King Neper’s Bazaar or the markets around the docks when I was free and flush, even if there was only the slimmest of chances I might find them there.
‘Will there be anything else, Mr Basalt?’ asked Horix snidely. Her restraint was visible. A blue vein in her forehead throbbed.
I thought about it, but shook my head. ‘Not presently, Mistress.’
‘I’m glad. You may return to your alcove.’
After bowing, I went to turn, but she caught me with a tut.
‘Not that way. Downstairs. Back where you belong.’
‘Down…?’ As her personal chamber-shade, I had been given something resembling a broom cupboard outside the door to the widow’s chambers. Roomier than my last lodgings but no less degrading.
Horix chuckled like a snake coughing. ‘You thought you would continue to be my chamber-shade? I wanted to watch you. I wanted an excuse to test and question you without arousing suspicion. I have done that and now our bargain is struck. You’re quite atrocious as a chamber-shade, and I shan’t live with that. Not one moment more. Vex has been in my possession for twenty years. You have barely been here twenty days. Until there is a vault to unlock, you will continue your duties. In fact, you may go and inform Vex for me. I believe he has just returned from the bazaars.’
With that, she left the library in a flurry of black frills. I stood alone, jaw working away, wondering whether I had heard her correctly. I could not have been “atrocious”.
Just as I was about to leave, Horix returned bearing a short scroll, no thicker or longer than a thumb. She ripped a strip of papyrus from it and showed me a scrawl of Arctian glyphs and a seal of three skeletons stamped into the fibres. I tried to make sense of the handwriting.
‘There. Proof of our bargain and my promise of freedom. Justice you may seek on your own.’
I graciously accepted it, and as I always do when in awkward situations, took a clumsy stab at humour. ‘I will show this to my legal adviser.’
Horix snorted, crooking a finger towards the door. ‘You do that.’
As I reach the corridor beyond, she yelled one final condition after me. I could not see her, but the echoes of her rasping voice chased me.
‘And you are forbidden to go anywhere but the confines of this house! You are my property, understand?’
My response was flatter than the papyrus I clutched in my palm. ‘Yes, Mistress.’
Vex laughed so hard he almost pitched into his pan of boiling water. I had half a mind to finish the job, but the thought of another spell in the sarcophagus stayed my hand.
‘Oho, what a shame, Jerub! What. A. Fucking. Shame!’ He punctuated his words with pokes at me. ‘You had your chance and you ruined it, hmm? I should have placed a few gems on you failing, maybe even a silver. Remind me the next time the widow has a bright idea that involves you.’
What kept me calm was the fact Vex only knew half the story. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been told to go rest in my alcove. Busy day tomorrow, I imagine. You never know, the widow might remember how ugly you are and change her mind again.’
Vex muttered to himself as I picked my way between preparation stations and stoves, heading for my alcove.
Bela and the others looked surprised at first, then somewhat pleased to see me. They traded smug looks across the hallway. Kon was as oblivious as ever to the petty politics of his fellow indentured. He poked out of his alcove and waved.
‘Hi, Jerub. Back, then?’
‘Back,’ I grunted in reply. ‘And call me Caltro.’
Bela opened her mouth. ‘What’s the matter, Caltro? Could the mistress not stand the sight of you no more?’
I smiled as sweetly as I knew how. ‘No. In fact, I requested to come back. I was worried poor Vex might die for a second time with jealousy. And besides, I missed Kon. As for the rest of you? You can all go fuck yourselves with copper spoons.’
An uncomfortable silence fell, and I leaned back in my alcove with my cheeks bent grinning. Like Vex, they were unaware of the papyrus hidden in the pocket of my smock. I was not in the mood to be challenged any longer. I knew I was above them.
I wanted to take it out and examine the glyphs closer, to check the old bat wasn’t cheating me. I would have to know my Arctian better if I were to endure several more weeks of indenturement. Bela looked up at me as I snorted. I wouldn’t be staying in the putrid, conceited hole they called Araxes a moment longer than I had to. I would return home, a deader man but a freer man. Krass was not without its free ghosts. They were uncommon, but then again I’d always been an outsider. A loner. It might even suit me.
There I waited, watching the sunlight in the stairwell slip from yellow to orange. Several more ghosts joined us. They wore curious looks for me, but held their tongues after seeing the others shake their heads.
When they were bored enough to close their eyes and feign rest, I crouched down to find a suitable hiding place for my slip of papyrus. A small gap between the stone tiles was makeshift, but it would do for the moment until I found something more permanent.
I’d mastered a sort of sleep since my stint in the sarcophagus. It was the only blessing out of a mound of curses. I say sleep; it was more a trance where total immersion in my thoughts blotted out all sound, surroundings and, blessedly, the drudging passage of time. Over the past few nights, I’d trained my mind not to slip into dark places as it had in the stone coffin. Now I found I could concentrate on lighter things.
Into my trance I fell, mulling over the widow’s words. My imagination accentuated her features, making her a globular mass
of wrinkles, like the folded black stone of Scatter Isle volcanoes. I thought once more of her mention of fanatics, and how I’d missed my chance to ask more of them. Basht’s warnings were nonsensical without something to fill them with meaning. I still needed context.
I told myself that would come with time, and instead I turned my thoughts to the widow’s promise of freedom, imagining Temsa being hauled away in chains to be hung, or stoned, or whatever these Arctians did to soulstealers…
Chapter 20
Any Port in a Sandstorm
The Duneplains are not just dangerous due to the fauna occupying the barren stretches and salt flats – dunewyrms, skullfoxes, verminous beetles, bandits and the like – but due to its natural forces. The dunes are ever-shifting, so no reliable maps can be drawn of them. The ground is full of rifts and vents. In some places, rain has not been seen for a century. No other stretch of the Far Reaches holds such opposition and bitterness towards human occupation. It is a land meant for the dead, and the dead may keep it.
Excerpt from ‘Reach Around – A Traveller’s Guide to The Far Reaches’
The world had fallen on its side. The dunes and scrub and salt plains slid by as though they fell through an hourglass. Time was not steady, but would pass in clumps and jolts. One moment she would be staring at moonlit scrub and salt, and wonder where the sun had snuck to. A blink later, and she’d open her eyes on bare desert, red and blotchy. Or a distant hill, clinging to a cliff-face of a world.
She skipped through the hours. Even the constant throb of pain was similar. It was a kind of healing sleep, and as broken as it was by the jolting of the horse, it was slowly doing its work.
Nilith had grown accustomed to slumbering against Anoish’s back. She’d had to. It was the only way she could catch shuteye without stopping. The constant shifting of his muscles and shoulder blades had taken time to tolerate, but exhaustion had helped.
Even Farazar seemed tired, for a shade. Maybe he was emotionally scarred, but in either case, he drifted behind them, pulled by his unseen leash. He had been silent since escaping Abatwe, and she was glad. She had no words to offer back.