The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

  Inside the wide, arched doors, the vacuous atrium was marble cool and full of clamouring voices. Heles wormed through the lines, full of figures in foreign-cut clothes and a spectrum of skin tones, from milky pale to the darkest charcoal. A few desert nomads stood in a group, taller than the crowds even though their backs were as curved as longbows. They looked miserable despite their vibrant cloth wrappings. The nomads chattered away in an unknown dialect, but all Heles paid attention to were the stubs of short horns poking from their foreheads, and their goatish eyes, the pupils of which looked like slots meant for coins.

  At the centre of the atrium was an immense core of marble and steel. Sweeping stairs led up into the Chamber’s countless rooms. A seawall of desks parted the crowded marble expanse, dividing the offended from the black-clad officials. Heles caught their broken sentences.

  ‘But I’ve been waiting for six months!’

  ‘The Code clearly states a three-year wait.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘He stole me, curse it! Stole me!’

  ‘Permits for the white feather is the other line, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My children!’

  Heles was deaf to it all. She strode past the desks, met the challenges of the guards, and passed into the innards of the grand building. Three flights of stairs took her to a vaulted hall where towering stacks of papyrus rose from every desk. One of several halls within the Chamber, here sat the great pile-up of the city’s Code-related crimes. Unfortunately for the Chamber, that was pretty much the city’s only brand of crime. Every claim, every complaint, every accusation and petition – all of it entered through these halls and waited years to escape.

  To Heles, it looked as if they were recreating the skyline of Araxes in papyrus. A good number of the stacks rose to scratch the marble roof. Here and there, wooden stairs and scaffolding encircled the bigger towers. Clerks and proctors waded through the paper canyons, or wobbled up high, plucking through scrolls piled on lofty, buckled shelves. Others ran wheelbarrows piled high with files through the maze of desks. Their job, like hers, seemed never-ending, and therefore without satisfaction.

  At the foot of one tower she passed, a crew of clerks were busy shoring up a desk with bricks. It wasn’t unheard of for a desk to crumble under the weight of countless documents, and come crashing down. If there was anything that introduced more clerical work and time to the Chamber’s backlog, it was a tower of a thousand files exploding. Not to mention those who had been unfortunate enough to be splattered under their weight.

  It took Heles seventeen flights of stairs, a rickety lift and innumerable corridors to reach the offices of the chamberlain. Good silver had been spent on tall doors, drapes and gold leaf, when it could have been spent on scrutinisers, proctors, or perhaps diminishing the soaring piles of claims in the halls below. Heles glowered at the patterned marble as she dug into it with her boot heels.

  The ring of guards around Rebene’s desk parted to admit her, and she stamped her foot as she halted. Chamberlain Rebene looked up from his papyrus, looking almost surprised. The man was perpetually sweating, even in the cool of the Chamber. His black hair, normally slicked to the side to cover his balding patches, fell in greased curls.

  ‘Scrutiniser Heles, reporting as ordered.’

  Rebene placed his writing reed in its inkwell. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon, Scrutiniser.’

  ‘The clerk did say “immediately,” sir.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am not used to such punctuality.’

  ‘This city seems to have forgotten the word, sir. But I have not.’

  Rebene leaned back in his grand chair of mahogany and silver palm frond. ‘And that is precisely why I summoned you. We have an issue, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘We have many issues, Chamberlain. To which do you refer?’

  ‘The disappearance and possible soulstealing of several nobles. A handful of medium-level tors and tals.’

  Heles had no love for noble blood. She couldn’t respect those who idly watched the poor and the dead from their lofty windows while drinking from golden goblets. ‘Allow me to guess: the Cloud Court have clicked their fingers now it’s their kind getting murdered. Funny, that. They don’t normally spare a drop of piss when it’s commoners or tourists.’

  There fell an awkward silence. One of the guards cleared his throat.

  ‘Careful, Heles. I’ve demoted others for kinder words, but I’ll give you leeway considering the recent death of your colleague, Scrutiniser Damses.’

  Heles bit off the end of his sentence. ‘Murder. The recent murder of Scrutiniser Damses. Nobody has a knife shoved through their teeth and down their throat by accident.’

  ‘Fine. Murder.’ Rebene sighed. ‘In any case, he was a good man.’

  ‘He was a terrible man. A drinker, a cheat, and as faithful to his wife as a vulture is to a corpse. But he was a fine scrutiniser. He believed in the salvation of this city, and that’s hard to find these days.’

  ‘As do you, I hear?’

  ‘Passionately, sir.’

  ‘Well, these recent developments may give you a chance to bring such a fable into existence.’

  Heles cocked her head, bringing her eyes down from the back wall to his.

  ‘In fact, it’s Her Highness the empress-in-waiting who’s asked me to solve this matter. To put a stop to these disappearances… or murders. Find out who’s behind them and hunt them down. Bring them to justice any way we can: subterfuge, bribes, torture, the lot. Paperwork be damned. I’ve decided I want you leading this matter.’

  ‘Why?’

  Rebene templed his fingers. ‘Because, Heles, despite what the rest say about you, nobody has cleared as many claims nor sent as many stealers to the boiling pots as you have in the last ten years.’

  ‘Twelve. And do you expect me to do this on my own?’

  ‘Hardly. I have other scrutinisers across the city tackling this as well as you. The princess and the emperor have provided silver.’ He took a moment to wet his lips. ‘And shades for districts outside the Core.’

  Heles almost laughed. ‘Shades? Working for the Chamber?’

  ‘I don’t like it either, but these are dire times—’

  ‘You’re right about that. I bet Ghoor and the other magistrates jumped at the chance to spend more time on his bloated arses.’

  Rebene flushed. ‘Mind your tongue, Scrutiniser!’ The cracking of his voice withered him, and he pressed his sweaty palms together, prayer-like. ‘Do we have an agreement, then? I can leave this important matter in your hands?’

  Heles put her fists to his desk and leaned over the sea of papyrus that adorned it. ‘I want independence. Autonomy, I think they call it. And first say over resources.’

  ‘No scrutiniser has ever—’

  ‘Autonomy, or you can pass this job onto Scrutiniser Faph and the others and watch the tors and tals disappear one by one. Don’t call me the best and then treat me like the rest.’

  ‘This is serious, Heles.’

  ‘Deadly serious, sir.’

  Rebene threw up his hands. ‘Fine. You have it.’

  An ordinary person might have grinned, or at least smiled, but Heles curled her lip. With a squeak of boot leather on mosaicked marble, she left the chamberlain to his scribbling and headed for the bowels of the great Chamber building. To the torture holes with their white plaster-wall corridors filled with screams. They were a good place to glean some rumours from the underbelly of Araxes. Plus, there was nothing like seeing a criminal suffer to make her feel marginally better about the world.

  Chapter 2

  A Fresh Hell

  When examining the rise and fall of empires, one forgets the forces of fashion. I do not mean threads and silks, but the power of obsession. Indenturement was a fashion once, and it dissolved religion. Then came phantoms, ripping souls from animals. That led to deadbinding and strangebinding. Despite those fashions being banned, each further dehumanised the soul and s
olidified the Arc’s obsession with death. Now look at it: the so-called greatest empire ever known. More dead than alive. More wishing for breath than taking it. I fear their greed will one day overtake my borders.

  Writings of Konin Felust, philosopher and current ruler of Krass

  The wardrobe was fancy. Gilded, carved and solidly made. There was barely a joint to be seen in its construction, and only one thin sliver of a seam between its doors to peek through. Not that I could see much through the rough sacking that covered my head. Just a featureless line of a grey, unlit room. There was just my glow, blue wood, and iron spotted with black rust. Nothing to tell me of my exact whereabouts.

  Nowhere good, I know that.

  The sacking over my head had convinced me of that rather quickly.

  Somewhere I shouldn’t be.

  That, too, was obvious.

  A tower or mansion.

  I’d heard the squeak of feet on marble. Felt the ascent up stairs. Many stairs.

  But whose?

  I was sure I would find out. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

  The manner in which I had been seized and attacked pointed to a theft. A ghost-napping, we called it in Krass. It was like stealing cattle, or sheep, but it came with a higher penalty. It was much the same in the Arc, I was sure. In any case, I fumed. I had been robbed twice. Physically and personally. To land myself an opportunity for freedom only to have Vex interfere was infuriating. That eyeless bastard of a ghost would get his, I swore it. Either I or Horix would see to that. I had a sneaky suspicion it was the latter, and felt no disappointment in that. Justice at the hands of others can still be justice well served.

  All I could focus on now was not thinking of how much the wardrobe felt like the sarcophagus. Whenever I reminded myself, I was thrown into a cyclical argument of not thinking about it, and therefore thinking it, over and over.

  Mercifully, at last I heard a scrape of a key in a lock. I tensed and wondered briefly whether I should come out swinging. Before I made my decision, just as I was leaning away from violence, the door was wrenched open and a bright light stunned me.

  Lamplight filled the room, making the stone and furnishings glow yellow and an inordinate amount of metal sparkle. At first I thought I had been stashed in an armoury. I eyed the room between blinks, and found it somewhat lacking compared to Horix’s tower. This place was still opulent, but the widow had been classier.

  It was no armoury. It was a sitting room disguised as some sort of tasteless gallery. Glass and stone and metal mixed freely. Curves clashed with corners. Naked sculptures had been draped with furs and dressed in silks. Ancient things poked from the walls between gaudy nomad tapestries. Rugs of all colours and threads battled for domination of the floor. Decorative weapons jutted from hooks in the low ceiling. I counted a Krass halberd, a bow of oryx horn, and a black sword on the mantle of a fireplace. In the corner, a full suit of armour had been encrusted with gems.

  The man was clearly a collector of some kind. As a thief, I would have cheered; this was the sort of house that deserved to be burgled, even just to jilt its owner for his poor taste. As a fellow appreciator of fine things, I was disturbed.

  Four shapes stood against the light. One was wearing a vast coat. The others wore white tunics, dark gloves, and skullcaps of bronze. They held clubs that shone with copper. I was immediately grateful I hadn’t chosen the fighting option.

  The one in the coat spoke. A dark smudge of a moustache lurked beneath his nose, as if he’d wiped his lip after playing with charcoal. Though the rest of him was balloon-shaped, his pasty northern face was as narrow as an axe-head. I remembered noticing a man of similar description not so long ago, amongst the crowd of a soulmarket.

  ‘Will my men need to instil some manners in you, or are you able to talk like the man you once were?’

  I got to my feet, looking at the bronze-capped men standing around me. Their arm muscles bunched, straining against their sleeves. They were clearly eager to use their clubs.

  ‘I’m perfectly able to be civil,’ I replied.

  With a hand heavy with golden rings, the man gestured to a nearby chair. ‘Then if you please?’

  I was pushed into it before I could shake a leg. It was a great armchair; the kind that swallowed a person in an embrace that was far too comfortable for its own good. The kind that were perfect for pointing towards fireplaces and counting time in the crackling of flames.

  I found no comfort in this one, just more uncertainty. The man stayed standing between me and the guards, who looked somewhat disappointed.

  This was the first time I’d been ghost-napped, but not the first time a sack had been forced over my head. It was how many dealers in my trade liked to say hello. If word was put out that somebody wanted to talk to somebody, that word had a habit of growing legs and scampering around where it didn’t belong. That’s why it was normal to forgo the invite and use some strong men and a sack instead. The result was the same, just with less talk scampering around town.

  ‘What is your name?’ enquired the man.

  ‘Jerub.’

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘I thought you were able to talk as a man? I order you to tell me your name.’

  ‘I am still bound to Widow Horix. You can’t order me to do anything.’

  ‘Very well, shade.’ He nodded to a house-guard, who promptly came to batter me across the head. I took four blows before the bastard clicked his fingers.

  ‘Enough!’

  The copper stung me, sizzling down my back. I twitched involuntarily. Normally, a summoning by sack ended in a shake of hands, a lucrative offer of shares in some shady deed, and took barely any time at all. With this moustachioed prick, I got the feeling I would be sitting there some time, and eventually end up doing something for the terrible price of yet more strife.

  He sat down across from me, keeping a glass table between us. The table looked to have real tiger’s legs at each corner. Their claws had been painted a bright red. I had half a mind to smash it.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked him.

  ‘Your real name.’

  ‘And I told you. Jerub.’

  He tutted.

  ‘Do the tors of this city make a habit of going about thieving other people’s property?’ I challenged him.

  The guard raised his club. I put up my hands, ready to dampen another beating, but the man had other ideas.

  ‘It’s a kind of sport in this city, Jerub. Haven’t you heard? It’s how we stay sane in this strange world the Arctians built. We do it quietly, cleverly, usually taking our time. Unfortunately, in this case, certain elements have forced my hand.’

  With a thumb, I prodded the widow’s seal on the chest of my smock. ‘Tal Horix won’t be pleased. She’ll come for me. She’ll realise it’s you, whoever you are.’

  It was a clumsily cast line, and he didn’t bite. The moustache shivered as he chuckled. ‘A lowly shade like you? Why is that?’

  ‘I’m not lowly. I’m rather important to the tal.’

  ‘Then I take it she has discovered your… past, shall we say?’

  That stalled me. Clearly this man also knew of my past, otherwise I’d have been swiftly reminded of my place in society. Ghosts didn’t have a past unless it was either useful or worth coin.

  I played nonchalant. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘If you must have it, my name is Tor Simeon Busk. I collect rich and expensive items, and have made my fortune doing so. I have a knack for seeing the value hidden under smears of dust and decay. An eye for detail, they call it. Looking at your rounder jaw, I know a foreigner to the Arc when I see one. Krassman, I’d guess?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’m a Skolman myself. Arrived in this city aged thirteen. Since then, I’ve worked myself up to tordom, and made a space for myself amongst the nobles.’

  A lowly one at that, I silently wagered.

  ‘A man doesn’t
manage that without learning to accept the true business of ascension. One must sometimes consort with less savoury characters to accomplish it. I’ve known many in my years.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Busk grinned, showing golden caps at the back of his mouth. ‘The unscrupulous come in many forms, as you know. Tors, tals, generals, all the way to fences, thugs, even locksmiths.’

  Here we have it. Perhaps it wasn’t just Widow Horix who needed to recite a soliloquy before circling to a point. Maybe it was how Arctian nobles did their business. Krass lords, on the other hand, liked to spit the truth at you like an apple seed, and I preferred it.

  As he spoke, Busk dug into his coat pocket and withdrew something narrow and long, like a reed. I heard the clink of metal as he laid it on the glass table. Leaning closer, there was something familiar about it.

  A second piece came down, thin and flat like the other, but with a hooked end. This piece I knew well. I had battered that hook into it with my own hands. And a hammer, of course. I was no wizard.

  Another and another came, until there were six. I raised my impassive gaze to his, giving nothing away. His eyes were avid with expectation. I held back a sigh as I plotted where this conversation would lead. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I knew of one locksmith in particular. Bright young fellow once, up and coming. Knew his way around all sorts of doors and vaults. Fell off the map until only recently. Bad reputation, or something. Had a peculiar name even for a Krassman.’

  ‘And what might that be, I wonder?’

  ‘Something with a C and a B if I remember rightly.’ Busk held up one piece of metal and tapped it with his finger.

  ‘How interesting.’

  This time, Busk didn’t spare me the club. It struck me across the shoulders, knocking me half out of the chair. The pain clawed at my skull.