by Ben Galley
Spittle chased him towards the door, where Kalid promptly shut him out. The colonel ambled towards her, mulling over words. When he finally thought of something to say, Horix cut across him immediately.
‘Temsa—’
‘Has come a long way from hawking dubious shades at the soulmarkets. Already a tor, and now attacking another noble in daylight. He must be mad, brave, or favoured by somebody. And now he is after Caltro.’
Kalid cleared his throat. ‘Do you trust the spook to fetch Caltro?’
Although the widow did not trust in anybody or anything except herself, silver could buy the closest thing to it. Meleber Crale was worth every silver, or so Kalid’s contacts had said. A good spook was hard to come by in this city. Illegal according to the Code but employed by many, a spook was a tool for getting into places flesh couldn’t – or wouldn’t – go. Needed to eavesdrop? Sneak into a rival’s tower? Poison a stew? Hire a spook. It was dangerous work, but well-paid. As such, plenty of free shades across the Arc offered similar services, but only the good ones survived more than one job. Crale had been working Araxes for years. That made him a master.
Horix sighed irritably. ‘I know you are eager for a scrap, Colonel, but aside from hoping Caltro somehow returns by himself, that spook is currently our only hand to play.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
She swept to her shelves to prod at scrolls and trinkets. ‘We bide our time for now. Tell Yamak to double the workforce in the cellars. Buy more shades if you have to. Double the guard, and no visitors. Leave me to think about our new foe.’
Kalid said the only words Horix wanted to hear. ‘Aye, Widow.’
Chapter 13
Shifting Sands
Greed cannot be blamed on a poor foundation, but on the man that continues to build atop it.
Arctian Proverb
‘And now a fire, of all things. I cannot remember the last time I saw a tal’s tower blaze so, and I am fifty years dead!’
Sisine knuckled her forehead. Boon had been incessant during this session of the Cloud Court, discussing Sisine openly with his neighbours, offering a remark for every one of hers, going on tirades for far longer than necessary. She had wanted chaos in the city, but not the kind that gave windbags like him more excuse to exercise their jaws.
‘Serek Boon!’ she bellowed. ‘Will you please let somebody else speak!’
‘Fine!’ He threw up his hands and looked to the benches around him, urging others to pipe up. It took an age for somebody to do so. Finally, another half-life serek stood. His shoulder-length blue hair wafted languidly around his face as if he was underwater.
‘I agree with Serek Boon, Majesty. Something more needs to be done about this lawlessness.’ The Court sighed in concurrence.
The empress-in-waiting made sure to look as offended as possible at the ignorance of her efforts. ‘Not two days ago, for the first time in centuries, I welcomed eleven phalanxes of battle-hardened soldier shades into this city. Two days, and already you expect miracles, Sereks!’ In actuality, she had made sure General Hasheti’s shades were spread so thinly across Araxes, they may as well have still been fighting in the Scatter Isles.
Boon could not stay quiet for long. ‘Not miracles, Majesty. Order.’
‘And you will have it, Boon, you and the rest of you!’ Sisine argued. ‘And perhaps then you can stop quaking in your golden shoes.’
Sisine met the muttering discontent with her practised glare, daring them to press her further. Once again, Boon took up the challenge.
‘But when, Empress-in-Waiting? The murders are getting worse, more violent. The Nyxwater still dwindles. The Chamber continues to be overwhelmed. If the army cannot help us, then perhaps Chamberlain Rebene needs further aid from those willing and eager to wipe evil from our streets. From those with the knowledge and resources to do so! And considering that shades are already being used by the Chamber—’
‘Spit it out, Boon. This court is not a stage for your oratory.’
‘The Cult of Sesh have expressed their desire to help by setting up patrols—’
Sisine wished she had a wineglass in her hand to hurl at him. The session had taken a sharp turn towards absurdity. She needed to rein them in. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘You would refuse their help so quickly?’ Boon tried to click his fingers, momentarily forgetting he was made of vapour.
‘No, Serek, I would deny them based on their treachery against my family and this empire. There is a reason they were – and still are – banished from the Core Districts. I highly doubt their aspirations have changed much in two decades.’
‘You let fear cloud you, Empress-in-Waiting,’ Boon accused.
Sisine laughed, brashly and openly. ‘If I had any fear, Serek, I’d be hiding in my own Sanctuary like my father.’
There was a pause in their muttering. Not once had she spoken ill of the emperor. Now, with barely an insult, they looked at her in shock. Sisine realised then that, despite all her efforts, her father’s authority still hung over her head. She bared her teeth.
‘I will pass the matter to our wise emperor for consideration. Since it was he who removed the Cult from this tower, he will have his say.’
She waved her scroll, indicating the subject was done with and the session over. The sereks obeyed, and filed out along their rows, many of them conveniently forgetting to bow on their exit. Too busy muttering and complaining. Only Boon stayed, sitting on his bench, hands upon knees and head tilted down at her.
Sisine crossed her arms. ‘When you warned me of ambition not so long ago, Boon, you didn’t warn me of your own.’ She looked to the gleaming throne behind her. The light shining through the crystal stained the marble around it blue. ‘You want it, shade? Try to take it. No shade has ever sat on the throne of Araxes. You won’t be the first.’
Boon said nothing as he rose and walked for the doors. They held each other’s gaze until he disappeared into an archway.
‘That man,’ Sisine hissed to herself. ‘That half-life.’
Royal Guards in tow, she left the Cloud Court and ascended the stairs to her father’s Sanctuary at the very peak of the Piercer. The stained-glass windows showed her heights that would have dizzied a bird. Sisine didn’t care. She had been born in this tower; her stomach had long since hardened.
For the second time that day, she walked the long corridor to the Sanctuary. Her father’s Royal Guards had come to attention and were already tending to the grand door. Sisine bustled past them into the lamplight of the antechamber, and they closed the doors behind her. She hovered near the sandalwood bench, still clutching the scroll in her hand as she glowered at the vault door. The more she stared at the complex loops of gold and copper and the engraved scenes, the more she throttled the papyrus as if it were an enemy’s neck.
When Sisine felt the pop of the scroll’s wooden spine in her palm, she launched the scroll at the Sanctuary door with a banshee’s shriek. Papyrus tumbled like an unravelling ribbon as pieces of varnished wood flew to opposite sides of the small chamber.
Before they settled, Sisine was already pounding her hands on the vault. Over and over, her fists met the cold, immovable metal. Though the blows made something inside the door ring, there was not a sound from the other side. No murmur of apology. No questions of care. No answers for her.
She cursed the empress then, too. Not in words, but with more frantic pummelling. Spit flew from her bared teeth. Her mother had abandoned her, proving herself as cowardly as her father. Though Sisine was closer to the throne than ever, she hated them for being so weak; for leaving her such a farce of a court and country.
Spent, Sisine retreated to the bench. Her hands and chest shook, but there was not a tear in her eyes. She had none to spare for her emperor and empress; just a host of promises. In truth, she somewhat enjoyed the resentment; like putting coals in her shoes, it spurred her to keep going.
‘You’ll see, Father. You’ll see,’ Sisine snarled. She turn
ed away from the complexities of the Sanctuary door and burst out into the corridor, sending the guards scattering. She would have liked to replace them with her own, but the Sanctuary guards would not move for any order but the emperor’s. That was something else she could not wait to change.
Winding down the tower to her own chambers, she threw the door aside to find Etane practising his sword-dances with his sword Pereceph. The big blade gave off a faint white mist, as if it were freezing cold. Caring not, Sisine bustled past him.
‘You tell that dog Temsa to stop making messes and start making progress instead,’ she ordered without breaking her stride. ‘Else he’ll find himself dangling by his toes from the top of the Piercer, food for the crows.’
Etane put the point of his sword on the stone, making the metal chime. ‘I’ll tell him exactly that. Anything else, Your Gloriousness?’
‘Yes, actually. Why don’t you throw yourself from the roof while you’re at it?’
The balcony door slammed shut behind her with a bang, and she soaked herself in the buffeting of the wind and roar of the city far below. Even then, emptying her mind, her eyes snapped to every scrap of red they spotted.
Temsa was enjoying the musical clank of his guards’ new armour. He’d chosen his favourite colours: black and rusty brown. Leather and russet scale covered the guards from chin to toe, and on each of their heads was a classic copper skullcap. His men had protested at having their heads shaved, but Temsa had threatened them all with a beating as well as indenturement. After that, they’d fought to line up for the razor.
Temsa’s new armoured litter, carried by mute shades, was also pleasing. He’d spared no expense for the cushions, and through the fine chainmail curtains, he could stretch out and watch the streets slide by him like the scenes of some grand theatre.
The day was hot, and most on foot clung to the street-side awnings and the shade of palms. On wider streets, umbrellas were hawked by young shades. Those with a silver or gem to spare found respite. Those without continued to bake in the onslaught of the noonday sun.
Temsa watched Ani and Danib marching alongside the litter. Both their brows were furrowed in the heat, Ani’s flesh sweating and the shade’s steel plate glittering. Both wore their new armour: cuirasses of mirror-like metal, chainmail kilts, spiked pauldrons detailed with scarlet copper. It was a gift that hadn’t been well received. Both had preferred their own armour, they’d said, or in Danib’s case, grunted. All worn in, apparently. But Temsa had insisted on it.
As he went back to his idle staring, he noticed a hooded figure tracing them through the crowds. A young Arctian man, sprightly and long of stride, with no colours about him but black cloth and sand. He was on the opposite side of the street, but had plenty of glances for Temsa.
For a time, Temsa watched him trail the litter, until the man was lost in the shadow of a tower and the press of the crowd. The litter ran on with the carts and the carriages.
Temsa had decided to have Ani fall back and follow the man when he heard the voice: shrill, and full of stress and passion. The words were muddled, but it was enough to cut through the roar of the bustle.
Temsa moved aside his chainmail curtain to find a small crowd had gathered in the shadow of a thick spire. They were huddled around a shade in a blood-red cloak. The shade held some sort of picture splayed across a board, tapping it repeatedly with his glowing fingers as he gave his speech.
‘Ani, I want to go over,’ Temsa ordered, making Danib look up.
Miss Jexebel tapped the carrying-shades with a stick and had them approach the crowd. Temsa propped himself up from his cushions to listen to the preacher.
‘It is he who gave the gift of binding, stolen from jealous gods who would seek to keep man and woman slave to their promise of afterlife! To keep us dutifully praying! It is nothing compared to the second chance we owe to Sesh today. Mine is no half-life, but a second life. That is why we praise him—’
A voice interrupted, sounding so close Temsa thought its owner’s lips were in his ear. ‘I did not take you for a man who has the time to listen to speakers on the street.’
He wrenched himself up, finding one of the Enlightened Sisters, Yaridin, standing amongst his guards. They flinched away from her, surprised.
Yaridin gently moved their spears from her face, their copper edges sizzling against her fingers. ‘I intended to speak with you at your establishment. Alas, you were not at home.’
‘So you tracked me down.’ Temsa’s gaze slipped to Danib, whose face was more impassive than usual.
The sister smiled. ‘A happy coincidence.’
Temsa wasn’t sure their definitions of happy matched up, but he beckoned her forwards anyway, half-listening to the preacher as he squawked on about Sesh.
‘…the lies that he is a wrathful god, a trickster god, or even a vengeful god; these are but rumours spread by other religions throughout the last thousand years. And yet only ours has endured…’
‘You have more names for me?’ he asked, once she had floated around the litter to face him.
‘You have yet to take care of the ones you were given. And those you have not followed in order.’
‘There was no order to them.’
‘Of course there was. The order we gave them to you in, what else? There is always order. See?’ Yaridin gestured to the preacher, as if she knew the sermon better than he did.
‘…because we believe in order in all things, and we believe in the order of this great city. It is an order we want to uphold, as Sesh wanted. And so we have, brothers and sisters of Araxes…’
Temsa snorted. ‘A blatant lie if ever I’ve heard one. Is this what you wanted new shades for? So you could prop them up on street corners and have them spew nonsense at crowds? Neither the Chamber nor the royals will stand for it.’
Yaridin waved her arm in a wide arc, showing him the small crowd that had gathered around the preacher. ‘These people do. Who knows how many more are listening at this very moment around the city.’
Temsa dreaded to think.
‘The list must be executed in order, first to last,’ said Yaridin. ‘Tal Kheyu-Nebra wasn’t even on our list. We trust you are not getting tips from other interested parties, or taking initiative?’
He scoffed at her. ‘I will do what I like, Sister, but if you must know, the tal was nothing to do with me. Silly old bat left her lamps burning, or so I heard.’ He saw Yaridin’s gaze slip over his shoulder and affix itself to Danib.
‘Perhaps a clumsy shade, dropping a taper,’ she replied softly.
‘Perhaps,’ Temsa grunted. ‘Is that all? Is my unwarranted scolding over?’
‘It is, but the betterment of your soul remains. Perhaps you should stay awhile, listen to my brother’s words.’
Temsa prodded his gut. ‘I would, but I’m no half-life. I can’t join your little club.’
‘Can’t you? Perhaps that will change.’ Yaridin slipped backwards into the crowd, one hand raised to the blue sky and burning sun.
‘…and we have realised a great and terrible error, friends. A misunderstanding that has gone on far too long!’
The cultist preacher paused for effect. Temsa wished he had a triggerbow to pause him indefinitely.
‘And so, we recognise that Sesh’s wisdom and love are not just for the dead, but for the living also. And so, we announce that we open the Church not just to shades, but to any who wish to join. The Church of Sesh welcomes you all as brothers and sisters, and together, we can restore this city to the glory Sesh foresaw.’
As a small cheer erupted, Temsa hawked and spat, accidentally catching the chainmail curtains. He curled his lip. Church. He saw then what the cultists wanted: respect. A fresh foundation on which to rebuild themselves. Temsa chuckled. Let them play their games, he thought. He didn’t give a sideways shit as long as it meant more half-coins for him.
Ani poked her head between the chainlink. ‘Where now, Boss?’
‘The Slab,’ he snapped at
her. ‘And it’s fucking Tor!’
‘What did you see?’ Heles asked as the proctor came to a breathless, skidding halt.
Jym took a moment to find some air. ‘Nothing but some new armour for his men, a fancy litter, and his two big guards.’
‘And their names?’
He scrunched up his eyes. ‘Miss Ani Jexebel, and the shade Danib… Danib Ironjaw,’ he recited.
Heles pulled her hood forwards; she could feel the sun on her nose. ‘Good boy.’
She could tell he had been dying to ask all morning, so it was no wonder the question finally popped out now.
‘So… what did you see at Tor Busk’s?’ he breathed.
Heles wished she had a grander answer to give him besides two locked doors and a lot of clattering around within. Half the night she had spent playing the part of a slouched drunkard, lying in a gutter near a busy corner. One by one, she had watched the lamps of Busk’s tower fizzle out. Only a single figure had emerged early in the morning, and that had been Ani Jexebel. By that time, dawn was starting to burn away the night, and Heles’ eyes had drooped. Pretending to be drunk always had the strange effect of making one feel drunk. She’d had to fight like a mad hyena to stay awake long enough to return to her modest lodgings and straw bed.
‘Enough to make me suspicious of the man,’ came her answer.
‘So you think he’s the one behind the murders and the fire? This Temsa?’
‘Right now, he is one suspect of many, Proctor. This whole city is full of suspects. They’re all guilty of something.’ Masking a yawn, Heles stared out over the huge square, with its churn of living and dead and armoured vehicles. She distracted herself by watching a giraffe being carted through the crowds on the back of a wagon.
A crate enveloped most of its body, leaving its neck and head to tower above. The beast was humming irascibly to itself, swinging its head and table-leg horns in low arcs at its captors. Heles watched a man get batted into a stall of pottery with a crash. She waited for the roar of laughter to subside before she spoke.