by Ben Galley
Temsa joined a short line and adopted a bored expression. The trick to looking rich, he’d recently discovered, was to constantly appear as if everything was beneath him. Queues easily fell into that category. Leave queuing to the Skol, he thought. Those buggers seemed to have a passion for it.
Half an hour must have passed before a shriek pulled Temsa from his reverie.
‘NEXT!’
He stepped forwards under the watchful eye of four soldiers. As usual, their attention immediately shifted to his foot.
‘Name?’ asked the clerk.
‘Tor Temsa, here to consult with Her Majesty the empress-in-waiting.’
‘Your papers?’
‘I have none.’
‘Have you been formally invited?’
‘I have not.’
The woman’s face, which had previously been puckered up tighter than a fish’s arsehole, cracked into an enormous grin. She even went so far as to nudge the guard standing atop her podium and chuckle.
‘New, are we?’
Temsa jutted out his chin.
‘Right.’ She crooked a finger and a young messenger in a turquoise tunic came sprinting over. Barely a whisper later, he was on his way again, leaving the podium so immediately it look as if he had been fired from it. Temsa watched him thread his way through the diminished crowds to the central column: the colossal root of the building above. There, the clockwork and shade-pulled lifts led to the skies.
‘He’ll return momentarily. Move aside,’ the old woman instructed. ‘NEXT!’
Temsa spent those moments watching the crowds mill over the patterned marble or loiter between the pedestals holding obsidian statues of dead gods. Each of the deities’ heads had been removed, but their bodies allowed to stay, frozen in proud or demure or nimble shapes. Personally, Temsa would have removed the whole lot of them and sold them for scrap. There was a lot of silver to be made in the obsidian trade.
The messenger burst from the crowds and scaled the podium to the clerk. He whispered breathlessly in her ear before sprinting back the way he had come. Temsa waited patiently near the podium for the woman to beckon him forwards with her dried twig of a finger.
‘No,’ announced the old gatekeeper. ‘It appears you have no appointment.’
Temsa’s hands moved to his hips. ‘It is very important.’
The clerk showed the whites of her eyes. ‘It always is, Tor. A thousand times a day I’m told how important this or that matter is. Do you know how many important people there are in this city? Do you? Because to me, it seems the entire population of Araxes deems itself important enough to swagger in here and demand an audience with a noble, or a serek, or a royal. Know your place! Step aside now, if you please. You have been asked to wait outside.’
‘What? By who?’
‘Did I mumble? The reply ordered you to wait outside. Nothing more. Now step aside, Tor.’
Temsa did as he was told, but with as much scowling and scraping of his claws as possible. The screeching of metal on marble made his spine crawl, but it was worth it to see the clerk and three whole queues wince. He had them all cowering by the time he made his exit. Petty, yes, but he was known for pettiness when he was insulted.
With the hollering of, ‘NEXT!’ echoing in his ears, he made his way back to the thin plaza that surrounded the base of the Cloudpiercer. He found his guards slouching up against a marble column, picking their noses and scratching other choice areas. They made a fine target for his anger.
‘Stand up! Look sharp, damn it! And put that fucking flask away!’ he barked.
‘Aye, Boss!’ they chorused.
At his glare, the corrections came stuttering.
‘Tor!’
‘Tor Temsa.’
‘Aye, Tor!’
Temsa sighed. ‘Useless drab pricks, the lot of you! I should have you all fired or given to Ani as toys for her axes. You don’t see other nobles’ guards acting this way, do you? Look, there!’ He pointed out a formation of guards marching smartly around their master, some woman with fiery hair. There wasn’t a single scratch or dent in their suits of fire-blackened steel. Their boots met the flagstones in perfect time, and they moved with the synchronicity of a flock of starlings.
‘See?’ Temsa hissed.
‘Please, Tor Temsa. We can shape up,’ one man had the cheek to whine. After seeing how lightly Tooth had been treated, Temsa didn’t blame him.
Another had too much cheek: a man with a split lip and scruffy yellow locks. ‘Just need the silver for it, see?’
Temsa stepped up to him, forced to look up at his height. ‘Are you saying I don’t pay you handsomely enough for lounging about, scratching each other’s arseholes?’
‘No, Tor, I—’
‘Because that’s all I see you doing! You’re lucky you’re getting any silver at all.’ Temsa rested one of his claws on the man’s boot. The others shuffled away, not wishing to have blood spray them. But Temsa was more civilised than that, especially in the great shadow of the Cloudpiercer. ‘Want more coin? Be worth more coin.’
A polite cough intervened. Temsa whirled to find Sisine’s house-shade standing behind him, dressed in a silk suit cut off at the shins. Velvet slippers clad his glowing feet. The golden feather on his chest caught the light of the sunset. Beside it was a seal that caught Temsa’s eye: a black circle, crossed daggers and a desert rose within it. Just like a seal Temsa had taken off a corpse not too long ago.
‘Interrupting something, am I?’ Etane asked. ‘What is it?’
Temsa shut his gaping mouth. ‘Nothing. Just you, is it? Well.’ He adjusted his coat and smirked. ‘A little training, house-shade, nothing more. The living need it too. Shall we?’
Etane followed his gesture and led him along the wall until they were between entrances, where it was quieter. Temsa didn’t give him chance to speak.
‘I came to see Her Highness, and yet I find myself turned away like a commoner. I am an Arctian tor now, and considering our deal—’
Had Etane been alive and in possession of spittle, Temsa’s face would no doubt have been decorated in it as the manservant launched into a tirade.
‘You cannot simply turn up asking for Her Majesty whenever the mood strikes, Temsa! It is improper, and arouses suspicion, and the empress-in-waiting will not have it. You are not so high and mighty yet that you have that right. You may be a tor, Temsa, but you are one of thousands in this city!’
‘I am more than that. You and her best remember it.’
‘Giving orders to a royal now, are we? What’s it been, four days? Already your head is outgrowing the rest of you.’
‘You mind your tongue, shade.’ Temsa had never had a half-life speak to him so.
Etane bared two rows of perfectly ordered blue teeth. ‘You do not hold sway over me, Temsa. I am not some fresh shade you’ve scraped off the docks and bound for market. I was a lord of this empire decades before you were even a tingle in your father’s mouldy balls.’
‘And look at you now, with a gold feather on your breast.’
‘Shall we continue bickering, or would you prefer to tell me why you came here?’
Temsa matched Etane’s scowl for a moment, testing which one would break first. In the end it was Temsa, but only out of lack of patience. He hissed. ‘It’s the calibre of the opportunities Her Highness has given me. So far, they are proving… unrewarding. Time-consuming.’
Etane tutted, a strange sound through ghostly lips. ‘I highly doubt that. I helped compile the list. Distant from the Core. Alone. High-ranked. Wealthy. Prize targets, some might say.’
‘Kheyu-Nebra was alone and a wealthy old bag, sure enough. But the vault she had was damn near impregnable. She refused to play nice. She left me no option.’
‘No option? What did you do?’
‘Oh, she’s been removed, don’t you worry. But the haul was barely worth my time.’
Etane scoffed. ‘Excuses! Are you sure you don’t mean to say these opportunities are
proving too difficult for you?’
Temsa ground his claws against the flagstones, sending a spark flying. ‘Do you have any real purpose, shade, or do you just insult people on the empress-in-waiting’s behalf?’
‘What the fuck is it you want, Temsa? You said you could deliver what Sisine needs, but on the very first try, you fail. Did you just come here to make excuses and grovel?’
The notion of failure was like a needle in Temsa’s throat. ‘If these are the kind of bounties the empress-in-waiting wishes to have taken care of…’ He paused, unused to asking favours. He normally just demanded them. ‘Then I need a new locksmith.’
Etane raised an eyebrow. ‘And what do you expect myself or the heir to the throne of the Arc to know of locksmiths? You’re the criminal. That’s why we hired you.’
‘Keep talking, half-life…’ Temsa growled.
The shade looked around as a group of pale-faced traders came to touch the sandstone flanks of the Piercer in reverence. In recent decades, the mighty spire had become a place of pilgrimage for many parts of the Reaches, and these men had reached their journey’s end.
Once they’d had their moment and wandered on, the damnable shade made a show of thinking. The years had clearly taught Etane many things, but acting didn’t seem to be one of them. His whispered tone brought Temsa closer.
‘I might know of one man who could help you. A rather good locksmith, in fact. He was due to come to the Piercer for some business a few weeks ago, but he never turned up. Fallen foul of some soulstealers, or so I hear.’
‘Is that so?’ Etane didn’t fool him. It appeared the empress-in-waiting was in the market for a locksmith.
‘It’s the only explanation.’ Etane wagged a blue finger in his face. ‘You’re a soultrader, aren’t you? Maybe you can track him down.’
‘I can’t do anything without a name or description, can I? And even then—’
‘Basalt. Caltro Basalt.’
Temsa vaguely remembered the name, but he played dumb. ‘Caltro…’
‘Basalt. Heard of him?’
‘Perhaps. Famous, is he? Sounds Krass.’
‘That he is. Surprised a man like you hasn’t heard of him. He’s one of the best in all the Reaches. Maybe the best, or so they say. However, if you find him, you must inform us.’
‘Caltro Basalt…’ Temsa repeated the name as he backed away, too busy thinking to bid the shade farewell.
‘You think too much of yourself, Temsa. Ambition is a wild horse. Ride it too hard and it’ll turn around to bite you. We can only protect you so much,’ hissed Etane.
Temsa couldn’t have cared less for the shade’s advice. Nor could he care for his guards’ oafish looks, or stomach their presence any longer. He shooed them away and strode out into the sunset-orange streets alone, eyes downwards and contemplative.
‘But Tor…’ the guards called to him.
Another wave and more threatening gestures saw them gone. Temsa needed silence for his mulling. That was all the mind ever needed: silence and the slow march of steps to knead out an answer.
Temsa’s answer took just over a mile to come to him.
Basalt. He had read that name somewhere, inked into papyrus. He could almost see the face that came with it: a pudgy face constantly in a petulant scowl.
‘Caltro Basalt.’ He spoke it aloud. ‘A “C” and a “B.”’
If Temsa wasn’t mistaken, they had been Busk’s own words. He set his jaw as he looked up at the horizon and saw the first wisps of smoke rising several districts away.
Chapter 9
Troublesome Seas
Emperor Farazar has been a war-maker from the moment he bound his father and took his throne. No other emperor has assigned so many of his half-life stock to military usage. No emperor has built so many troop-ships, or spent so much silver on arms. But, in fairness, nor has any emperor claimed as much territory in as little time as he, not for several centuries.
An Internal note from The Chamber of Military Might
The morning held a fierce heat, as if the sun was exceptionally eager to get on with its business of roasting the earth, and those forced to crawl upon it.
The chill breeze washing off the Troublesome Sea did nothing to ease it. The glitter of the waves exacerbated the glare, making fleeting, miniature suns on every swell. It blinded the eye even under the shade of an umbrella.
Sisine held no love for the sea, as she knew many of her subjects did. It held some men’s attentions like the promise of a witch, but for her, it was a wetter kind of desert. Merely something for her gaze to sweep over as she looked out from her balconies.
This morning, however, she knew a little of the wonder the sea held. Not because of its shining blue, its power, or its unknown edges, but because of what was travelling across it. That was why she stood on the very edge of the stone quay with her entourage spread behind her, her eyes fixed on the warships.
They were taking their sweet and merry time getting into the harbour. Something to do with tacking against a cross-shore wind, or so a serek by Sisine’s side informed her. He was mistaken if he thought her impatience was down to lack of knowledge. A ship was either at sea or tucked into a harbour. Whatever happened in between was unimportant to her.
Oars were put to work as golden sails were taken in. As the warships turned, great painted eyes on their sleek bows leered at the gathering on the quayside. They were old eyes, chipped and salt-gnawed, but defiant in their glowers. Scars of countless battles could be seen across the warships’ hulls; scorch marks from naphtha, arrow-cuts, and deep dents from disagreements with other vessels. The once-sharp points to their prows looked like tree-stumps used for practicing swinging an axe.
It took an age for them to sidle up to the quay. The warships rose high above the small crowd, and not just in their thick, slanted masts. Weapons, armour and cargo were the only weight an Arctian warship carried; one of the benefits of crewing ships with the dead. The only living souls aboard were the captain, the soldier-general and a cook to keep them fed. It was what made the Arctian navy the most dangerous in the Far Reaches.
The soldier-general was leaning over the bulwark. He hollered down to the hands on the quayside waiting to catch and tie off heavy lines. There was a squeak as the bundles of reeds positioned between the water and the stone caught the ships’ weight, and saved their sides a few more scratches.
Boards were lowered and leaned at sharp angles. Orders were issued, and Sisine heard the responding clank of armour. Shades began to flow down the gangplanks in single file, each of them a facsimile of the soldier behind. They wore identical helms, tall and ridged with spikes. Simple steel plate armour covered them, and beneath that, smocks of royal turquoise, bleached to a pastel shade by sun and salt. Round shields – embossed with a crossed feather and spear – hung in one hand, tridents in the other. Curved short-swords were strapped to their hips.
The beat of their march carried them to dry land. Not a word was uttered. Training, not orders, ushered them into smart lines. Once several hundred shades had flooded the quayside, colouring the white stone a light blue, the captain and soldier-general disembarked.
The captain was a rotund man, but he walked in a way that suggested a lot of muscle hid beneath his fat. He had a face like a wineskin left in the heat, adding years that he didn’t own. The soldier-general was a skinnier man, wearing finer armour than his soldiers and more of it, too, as those who gave orders were wont to do. He wore a skirt of mail and a giant, plumed helm with a small window for his red and sweaty face. The tight-fitting steel gave him the look of a pig being squeezed through two fenceposts.
Both of them prostrated themselves on the warm stone before the empress-in-waiting. One of her guards took the sword the general was proffering. It was customary for every officer to surrender their weapon when standing before royalty; an old rule born out of a history that featured far too many military coups.
‘Rise,’ she said to them.
‘Tha
nk you, Majesty.’
‘Thank you.’
Sisine waved to the leather-faced captain. ‘You may attend to whatever nautical duties need your attention, Captain. I only need the general.’
The man in question bowed again. ‘Soldier-General Hasheti, Majesty.’
She couldn’t care less. ‘Mm.’
‘Care to view your soldiers, Highness?’
Sisine vacated the shadow of her umbrella and followed the officer towards his soldiers. As she began to tour their glowing ranks, Hasheti hovered nervously. She could almost hear the words fighting to get out of his mouth. Her eyes roved lazily across each of the soldiers, counting the dents in their steel, or the white scars punctuating the vapours on their necks and forearms. Their white eyes were glazed, fixed on the horizon.
There was one aspect of shade armies she did enjoy, and that was the lack of stink. Living soldiers tended to carry an odour with them: sweat, fear and trench dirt. These shades carried only the smell of sea salt and blade oil.
Another benefit was that most of these shades were mute. Their tongues had been cut out with a copper knife to make sure they could only follow orders, not give them. Spreading dissent was hard without a tongue.
‘How many have you brought me, General?’
‘Three hundred and fifty-two. Eleven phalanxes. The rest are still fighting in the Scatter Isles under Lord-General Mardok.’
‘And what battles have you fought in the name of my father’s ambition?’
‘Nine successful bouts in Phylan territory. One defeat. Battled shade-pirates in the northern Scatter for the last year.’
‘What about law-keeping? In a city or town?’
‘We held the fortress of Zantae for several weeks, both against siege from the outside and revolt from the inside.’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Executed every last traitor. Bound them to replenish your army and the emperor’s cause.’