Grim Solace (The Chasing Graves Trilogy Book 2)

by Ben Galley

  Copyright

  “This book is a work of fiction, but some works of fiction contain perhaps more truth than first intended, and therein lies the magic.”

  – Anonymous

  Copyright © Ben Galley 2019. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, edited, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s permission. Permission can be obtained through www.bengalley.com.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  GSEB1 First Edition 2019

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9935170-7-5

  Published by BenGalley.com

  Map Design by Ben Galley

  Cover Art by Chris Cold

  Cover Design by Shawn King

  Other Books by Ben Galley

  The Emaneska Series

  The Written

  Pale Kings

  Dead Stars – Part One

  Dead Stars – Part Two

  The Written Graphic Novel

  The Scarlet Star Trilogy

  Bloodrush

  Bloodmoon

  Bloodfeud

  The Chasing Graves Trilogy

  Chasing Graves

  Standalones

  The Heart of Stone

  Short Stories

  Shards

  No Fairytale

  Find out more at www.bengalley.com/books

  Praise for

  The Chasing Graves Trilogy

  “Galley’s descriptive prose is simplistically beautiful.”

  – Fantasy Faction

  “To say that the concept of Chasing Graves is grimdark would be an understatement… The world building is fantastic and reminiscent of Michael Moorcock’s Elric series.”

  – Grimdark Magazine

  “Dark, tense and surprisingly hilarious.”

  – Laura M. Hughes, Author of Danse Macabre

  “There’s serious grounds here for building something spectacular.”

  —Emma Davis, Fantasy Book Review

  “Chasing Graves might well be one of the best releases not only for December but for the entirety of 2018.”

  – BookNest

  “Galley’s writing is both simple and elegant, with lovely turns of phrases and clever metaphors and puns… a great first book to a series I sincerely can’t wait to complete.”

  – Novel Notions

  “The writing was smooth, fluid and beautiful at times. It never failed to create an awesome atmosphere. A solid book with a very interesting premise. 90/100.”

  – The Weatherwax Report

  “Galley has created a fascinating world that feels rife with stories that could be mined across multiple series. Its history is rich with detail and there’re so many avenues to be explored.”

  – Adam Weller, Fantasy Book Review

  “Chasing Graves is a dark, compelling entry into a trilogy.”

  – RockStarlit BookAsylum

  “Unique, fantastic worldbuilding, interesting characters, and much more.”

  – The Fantasy Inn

  For James, Lucy and Ben.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by Ben Galley

  Praise for The Chasing Graves Trilogy

  Dedication

  Maps

  Tenets of the Bound Dead

  1. Same Old Beginnings

  2. A Fresh Hell

  3. Weighed & Measured

  4. Old Gods & New Tricks

  5. Murder Most Lucrative

  6. Murder Most Foul

  7. A Hero

  8. A Villain

  9. Troublesome Seas

  10. Old Wounds & Broken Bonds

  11. A Haunting

  12. “Our Worst”

  13. Shifting Sands

  14. Here be Monsters

  15. Damned Fates

  16. Reparations

  17. Cellars

  18. Magistrate Ghoor

  19. A Debt

  20. A Chamberlain’s Day

  21. Spooks & Zealots

  22. Everybody’s Got Dead

  23. Trespasser’s Folly

  Extras

  About the Author

  Suggested Listening

  Join the VIP Club

  Leave a Review

  Tenets of the bound dead

  They must die in turmoil.

  They must be bound with copper half-coin and water of the Nyx.

  They must be bound within forty days.

  They shall be bound to whomever holds their coin.

  They are slaved to their master’s bidding.

  They must bring their masters no harm.

  They shall not express opinions nor own property.

  They shall never know freedom unless it is gifted to them.

  Chapter 1

  Same Old Beginnings

  The first shade ever to be bound was a man named Asham, stabbed through the heart by a man who, after founding the Nyxites, would later come to establish the Cult of Sesh. Asham survived four hundred years in service before he was rewarded his half-coin and immediately sought freedom in the void.

  From ‘A Reach History’ by Gaervin Jubb

  Starting the day with a street awash with blood and gore was sure to demolish any good mood. Fortunately for Scrutiniser Heles, it had been five years, maybe more, since her mood could remotely be classed as “good.” The best she hoped for these days was “mildly disgruntled.”

  ‘This fucking city,’ she muttered, poking a dismembered finger with her black boot. It looked like an uncooked sausage, one that even a street dog couldn’t stomach more than half of.

  A retching sound distracted her, coming from a young man with a face that was swiftly turning green. Milky vomit dribbled from his lips, mixing with the pool of ichor at his feet. Some had made its way onto the lapel of his proctor’s livery.

  ‘First day?’ she asked the lad.

  ‘Second.’

  ‘If you don’t stop vomiting by the tenth day, look for another job.’

  ‘Mhm,’ he said, before another heave saw him flying into the mouth a nearby alleyway.

  There was no mirth on Heles’ lips; just the downward slant the years had carved into them. She began to pick her way through the blood-drenched streets, counting the pools and smears where bodies and pieces had been dragged. Where the blood had dried, she spotted the hoofmarks of donkeys and the sand-smeared ruts of carts. Beside a scrap of skin, complete with long blond hair still attached, she spotted a dirtied handkerchief. Heles reached for it, eyeing the grin of red across its soft white fibres.

  ‘Sloppy job, this,’ she said, hearing tentative footsteps behind her. The young man had recovered, and was busy trying to scratch the stain from his black and silver threads with a threadbare handkerchief. Some vomit had made its way onto the Chamber seal. He scrubbed at it furiously.

  ‘Desperate,’ Heles added.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Scrutiniser.’

  Heles examined him. He only wore one neck tattoo, given his rank. His trews were baggy, his collar askew. The greenish hue clung to his cheeks. ‘Now you do. Come then, Proctor…?’

  ‘Jym.’

  ‘What a peculiar name. Come then, Proctor Jym. Impress me.’

  Jym took a shaky
breath as he forced himself to survey the grisly scene, as if the vomit might pounce again. ‘Murder on a mass scale. No bodies, which means soulstealers.’

  ‘Or made to look like soulstealers.’

  The man tapped his teeth. ‘But the ruts of carts?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Perhaps it went wrong? An alarm was raised, and they had to be quick. Hence the… sloppiness.’ His eyes were fixed on the piece of skin and hair, and would not be torn away.

  ‘How many taken?’

  ‘Seven?’

  ‘Nine. Look at the smears on the walls. The gutters have taken their blood. Who were the victims?’

  ‘City folk, I’d assume?’

  ‘Then you’d assume wrongly.’ She held up the kerchief. ‘Scatter Isles cotton.’

  ‘Scatterfolk traders, then?’

  ‘Or…’

  Jym sighed. Heles looked to the sapphire sky while she waited. Orange tendrils of sand streaked the air where a sandstorm had blown in from the south. The factory smokestacks leaned under its duress. The wind was rising slowly, making ripples in the glassy pools of blood, still only half dry.

  ‘Or refugees from the wars out in the Isles?’

  ‘Refugees is right. Thread’s poorly woven, fraying. A trader is more concerned of his or her appearance. And?’ Heles gestured to the lost finger. ‘Callouses. Hard labour. Hardest work a trader does is count silvers, and that isn’t enough for callouses.’

  ‘I suppose,’ mumbled the proctor.

  Heles stood over him, using her height to intimidate him. ‘Who recruited you?’

  ‘Volunteer, ma’am.’

  ‘Unusual. Why?’

  ‘My brother and sister were taken just like this. In Far District.’

  ‘Outsprawler, then?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I see.’

  Heles swept to the other side of the street, striding carelessly through blood patches and stains. Several onlookers had gathered in the mouth of an alleyway to look at the mess and tut disapprovingly.

  ‘You gawkers see or hear anything this morning? Or last night?’ she challenged them.

  One balding man took offence. ‘Who you calling gawkers? That’s all you lot do. Gawk and rub your chins. Nothing ever comes of it.’

  His equally balding wife chimed in. ‘Always getting here after it ’appens, you Scruters.’

  Heles shooed them away, not caring for their presence any more. In a city drenched in crime, tongues still refused to wag. It was as infuriating now as it had been when she first pledged herself to the Code twelve years ago.

  She was about to turn back to the scene when she caught another flash of red in the alley. Not gore this time, but cloth. A glowing face smiled politely.

  Heles approached cautiously. It was at least a year since she had seen the crimson garb of a cultist. ‘You’re taking a risk. I’d wager we’re a street away from the Core Districts.’

  ‘Then I assume there is no issue me standing here. One street away.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Quite the mess,’ the shade sighed.

  ‘And what would you know about it?’

  ‘No more than you.’

  Heles bared her teeth, like a desert wolf would smile. ‘Don’t your kind excel at gathering information? If so, it’s about time you shared some of it with the Chamber of the Code. Maybe the Cult could do some good for once, instead of lurking in dark alleyways, being unnecessarily mysterious.’

  The sister took a moment to adjust her hood. Heles could see the shade’s eyes examining the tattoos on her hands and bare neck, the dark swirls of her office. ‘You are simply jealous we don’t admit your kind. And we prefer Church these days.’

  ‘I’m happy having a beating heart instead, thank you. Maybe that’s what you lot are in dire need of. Now, if your Church isn’t going to be of any help, you should move along, Sister—’

  ‘Enlightened Sister, Scrutiniser Heles. Enlightened Sister Liria.’ The shade smiled as she walked away. ‘We’ll see each other again soon.’

  Heles thumbed her nostrils and scowled, wondering, not for the first time, why the royals hadn’t completely eradicated the Cult of Sesh. Only once the shade had disappeared did it dawn on Heles that she hadn’t told the sister her name.

  ‘Scrutiniser Heles!’ came a shout. A man was waving to her from the other side of the street, where thicker crowds had gathered to gawk, like pigeons around a muddied loaf.

  Murder was nothing new for a denizen of the City of Countless Souls, but it was a distraction nonetheless. People could always be relied on to stare at tragedy. It made them feel better about themselves; to still be a breathing bag of skin rather than a pool of blood on a dusty flagstone.

  ‘Well, Jym,’ Heles said, turning back to the proctor. ‘Shame to hear of your family, but everybody’s got their own dead. Bought, butchered or lost to age, we’ve all got them. You’re not special, Jym, and the quicker you learn that, the easier it’ll be for you here.’

  Heles swept away from him, buttoning her black robes about her. She was halfway to the waving man when Jym called after her.

  ‘Who did you lose?’

  Heles didn’t break her stride. ‘Everybody.’

  The waving man wore the blue sash and dotted face tattoos of a clerk. A lower rank than her, and he bowed to prove it. ‘Chamberlain Rebene has summoned you.’

  ‘Can’t he see I’m busy?’

  The clerk flapped his mouth as he followed Heles’ gesturing hand to the wash of blood. ‘How could he… I… He would like to see you immediately.’

  Heles sighed. ‘Where?’

  ‘In his offices at the Chamber, naturally.’

  ‘Where else? It would do you dusty fuckers some good to get out onto the streets once in a while, remember what it is you work for.’

  The man’s cheeks twitched as he cycled through a range of expressions, each more unsure than the last. ‘So, is that a yes?’

  ‘He’s my superior, is he not?’

  ‘Yes, Scrutiniser.’

  ‘Then lead the way, man. Stop wasting my time.’

  ‘Yes, Scrutiniser.’

  Through the strangled streets they strode; scrutiniser in front, clerk struggling to keep up with her long legs and sweeping gait. Heles remembered when the crowds parted for her black Chamber robes. Now, only her height and practiced scowl moved them aside. And her elbows, for good measure.

  The Chamber of the Code was a huge building. Not in height, like the Cloudpiercer, but in width and bulk. A giant pyramid capped with gold stood at its core, with twelve wings peeling off from its square base like the teeth of a cog. Each of those must have stretched ten floors into the sky, studded with windows and arrow slits. History had it the Chamber was once the emperor’s fortress, until the nobles turned to height to prove their worth and status. Now, it was a warren of overlapping corridors and dead ends, of honeycomb rooms and cavern halls full of files and men sneezing at dust.

  Heles circled the building until she reached the main entrance. She lost the clerk in the endless queues, full of people clutching scrolls, and shades trying to shield themselves from the sand kicked up by the growing breeze. He no doubt scurried back to his desk, already scorched by his brief outing in the Arctian sun.

  Every day, the unfortunates, the slighted and the outraged came to bleat their claims and file their complaints. Every day they formed their cacophonous winding lines, shuffling forwards maybe a dozen yards, maybe two dozen, before sunset shut the Chamber doors. The next day, they came back to queue again, and so on. A few faces she spied had been coming for almost a year now. Such was the backlog of the mighty Chamber of the Code, sole authority on matters of indenturement.

  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 c
rowds 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.