Grim Solace (The Chasing Graves Trilogy Book 2)

by Ben Galley

Danib hauled me up with no more effort than it cost Temsa to lift his pipe. His thick vapours and steel plate pinned my arms and pointed me at the door.

  ‘I shall call for you shortly,’ Temsa shouted after me.

  The ghost muscled me downstairs and into a large room I hadn’t seen before. It was sparse, holding nothing more than a writing desk, chair and cot, but it was better than a sack or wardrobe. Danib shoved me inwards and promptly locked the door. I pressed against it, but the copper in its metal nipped my hands.

  I looked around my meagre surroundings and abruptly realised this was the first room I had been given since my murder. No alcove or storage for me this time. Whether it was a bribe or an insult in that I had no use for the cot, I found myself prodding at its straw-stuffed bedding.

  A clatter drew my eyes to the small, barred window set into one wall. If I stood on the desk, I could stare into the street at ground level and admire the passing feet of the crowds, or the armoured cartwheels, or the hooves of horses and spines of insectile legs. I pressed myself closer, then yelped as the copper bars stung my nose.

  By angling my head, I could see into the junction that the Rusty Slab occupied a thick chunk of. With one eye shut, I could stare along the flank of the tavern to its entrance. The press of bodies was thick, but between its ebb and flow, I spied the great lump of Jexebel standing guard in the sun. She held a hand over her eyes, beckoning to somebody. I pressed my face against the bars once more, ignoring the hiss against my vapours.

  I caught a streak of red in the crowds: a figure with a hood pulled low, head bowed and walking straight for Jexebel. Before I saw them enter, a large shape stole them from view.

  I heard a scrape of hooves and turned to find a plump and piebald cow sidling up to my window. Her breath was laboured, her eyes crossed and her knees shaking. Flies had already begun to gather about her foaming nostrils, as if sensing an end. I saw the great load on her back: wooden chests and blanket rolls piled high, all cocooned in rope. The knotted fibres had chafed the beast’s belly to blood. The owner was berating her in some dialect I didn’t understand. His switch scourged her black and white flanks.

  With a great moan, the cow sought the comfort of the earth. As she collapsed with a thud, I was sprayed with sand and rank spittle. Fortunately, most of it passed right through me, though I couldn’t say the same for the desk below.

  I looked into her bulging chestnut eyes, buried beneath great swirling horns now wedged against the sandstone and the street. I saw a panic in them over the fight to get up or lie down. She stared at me through the bars, and I at her.

  Several pairs of feet gathered around the cow’s head, and some sort of argument ensued between the drovers. A honey-coloured boot jabbed her in one leg. A finger hooked inside her foaming mouth. The eyeball I stared at was opened wider by a dirty thumb.

  The cow’s breathing quickened in a last rally of life. She made a struggle to get up, but it finished her. A great, hot wheeze ruffled my vapours and her head thumped into the sand for the last time. She blinked at me, resigned now, as I heard the harsh sigh of a blade being drawn. It plunged into the back of the cow’s skull, right behind the horns, and twisted with a crackle of bone. The beast twitched once before her tongue lolled out. Her stare had wandered, looking past me and into a void I knew all too well.

  I recoiled as the cow’s dark blood began to pool around my windowsill. One adventurous drip slipped over the wall and drew a straight line down the brick. I edged over to watch the men go on to argue over the luggage that was now strapped to a corpse.

  The cow’s body jiggled as they saw to the ropes, making her gasp in death with leftover wind. I wrinkled my lip.

  ‘Caltro.’

  I looked to the door at first, and then, as I realised, rolled my eyes back to the cow.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. Another visit was well overdue. ‘Who are you this time?’

  The beast’s dead gaze swivelled to me. The rubbery lips barely moved as it talked. The tongue flicked around in the dust. Her breath was hot and laboured.

  ‘Basht said she had doubts. And you have proven her right, dear.’ The voice had the texture of the cow-blood: liquid, oleaginous, seeping into my ears.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘If you must know, dear, I am Haphor, and you are wasting our time.’

  ‘If you haven’t noticed,’ I said, gesturing to my new cell, ‘time is all I have at the moment.’

  ‘Even an immortal knows time is finite, Caltro. One shouldn’t presume to know the universe when one hasn’t seen more than a grain of it.’

  There I was, being chastised by a dead cow. The corpse bucked again as the drovers cut its load free. The bulging eye blinked at me, waiting.

  In recent days, I’d learned that there is a recalcitrant child we all keep hidden within ourselves, even into our elder years. The years never truly change us, nor evolve us. They merely wrap another skin around us and tell us the lie that we’ve grown.

  ‘It’s not my damn fault! You haven’t told me anything meaningful about this flood I’m meant to stop. Or the Cult you and the rest of this city dislike so much. All you’ve done is give me some strange power and told me to get on with it. With what?! I’m just one ghost, and all recent events considered, a pretty shit one at that. What makes me so special that you continue to plague me?’

  The cow sighed. Its breath was now colder than me. ‘Sense is hard to make across such distance, such dimensions… through flesh. Even now, I am most likely confusing you.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re doing better than the cat.’

  ‘I am stronger than my sister and more patient than all my brethren. Yet you are still wasting time.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘You had a chance and squandered it. The Cult are still working towards their goal, seeking to ruin what we built.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘The why?’ Haphor took a moment as the men pushed her bovine body further against the wall. Her white horns clanged against my bars. ‘For our brother.’

  ‘Sesh.’

  ‘That’s him, dear. The how… is difficult. The river you call Nyx is souring. It will flood the world. Turn it upside down. Life will become death. Only death. We gods are not dead, but we starve, Caltro. That is why we gave you the power, as you call it. Our gift. It is so you can fight for us.’

  ‘What do you mean, “starve”?’

  She took so long in answering, I thought the goddess had departed. When she did respond, her foaming lips managed to wobble slightly. The sandy tongue flicked at me. ‘For every soul that passes the gates into duat, we live on, the same as you. The gates were closed the… how do you say… day Sesh killed the boatman and reversed the Nyx. The day we imprisoned him. So it has been since. It has choked us. Choked duat.’

  Pointy’s stories, spilled from the mouth of a dying cow. I felt Haphor’s panic in my chest, and through some connection, the concentrated fear of her brethren beyond, in a place I couldn’t begin to fathom. I thought of the crowded space standing before five faded stars, and finally understood its vastness.

  Perhaps the Cult did seek to flip the world. Perhaps I had been called upon to finish some celestial battle, but as much as that awed me, it did not change Haphor’s words.

  ‘You use us?’

  ‘Time is wasting, Caltro.’

  I thought of the millions denied heaven, waiting and screaming in the dark, and why the gods wanted them. Not for the continuation of their creations’ existence, but for their own survival. They, like the rest of us, had been sold a lie.

  ‘We are nothing but fuel to you, are we? Sustenance.’

  ‘Not fuel. Symbiotes.’

  I had never heard such a word, but I doubted its definition would have satisfied me. I felt cheated somehow.

  ‘Am I just a tool to you, as I am to all the rest?’

  ‘As Horush would say, all men are tools in war.’

  ‘Then why me? Why is this my fucking responsibility?�
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  Haphor twitched her head, making the nearby men yell in surprise. The one with the sword was already priming himself for another stab.

  ‘Would you like me to say you’re special, dear? That you’re our chosen hero, destined to save this world?’

  It would be nice.

  She wheezed as the men came to prod at her again. ‘I cannot. There are no heroes; only those who do their duty no matter the price. You aren’t special; you simply died at the right time. A locksmith in a land of locks and doors sounded perfect. Even so, I knew you were a bad choice, and dear, so far you’ve proven me right. We gave you a gift, and you took it to the nearest tavern. Be selfish if you want. Drink and whore in borrowed bodies until the skies turn black and the sun bleeds. We have no more power to give to another. We cannot stop you, but you will suffer with the rest of us.’

  In came the knife again, into a spot beside her jaw. Her words came as a faint whisper.

  ‘Or you can believe our words, and do the duty we ask of you. You have no love for your common man? Fine. Seek to save yourself, at least. Maybe in the process you’ll save the world you’re part of.’

  Ichor trickled from her nose, and that was the last I heard from the dead goddess Haphor.

  I recoiled from my window as the sand turned scarlet. Retreating to the cot, I sat in the shadow of the cow’s corpse and watched her blood paint the wall, line by line. I felt like a boy again, bade to sit on the step in silence, meditating on the sting of a belt across my arse cheeks.

  Duty. Duty was a sharp word for a man who’d lived a life working for himself, taking whatever he pleased. It was why indenturement held such a sourness for me. I had become the opposite of myself: alive to dead, master to servant, thief to lackey.

  I had wrestled over which path to take towards freedom, and now I had three to choose from: Temsa, Horix, or the dead gods. A soulstealer, a promise, or fending off some sort of apocalypse. The potential of freedom lay with all of them, and it caused a battle to rage in my head. Loyalty duelled with selfishness. Pride with moral fortitude. Trust with fear.

  The hours that followed were torturous.

  Temsa watched on as Sister Liria paced along the bars without expression, watching the naked shades crowd each other. There must have been a hundred to each cell. The weaker ones were pressed in so hard they almost merged with their neighbours. Their glowing eyes wandered between the sister’s face and the white feather on her robe. Whispers followed in her wake. Blue light flooded the cellar.

  ‘Silence!’ Temsa struck the bars with his cane. ‘Never had so many in these cells before,’ he said to Liria. ‘And there is a warehouse that has a key with the Cult’s name on it.’

  ‘Is it as full as these cages?’

  ‘It’s as full as your seventeen percent, that’s for damn sure. All spoils from the names you gave me.’

  Liria turned, face glowing brightly. He could almost see the wrinkles her skin had worn before her death, however many centuries ago that had been. ‘And the other names we did not give you?’

  Temsa took a wide stance and crossed his arms. ‘I’ll have you know, Enlightened Sister, that what I do in my own time is none of the Cult’s business.’

  ‘Church.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We are a church, not a cult.’

  Ani, ensconced in a corner like a thug in an alley, scoffed. ‘You are no church,’ she said.

  Liria approached in slow, measured steps, hands clasped inside her vacuous sleeves. ‘If you can be a tor, we can be a church. The Church of Sesh.’

  Temsa shook his head irritably. It was an insulting comparison. ‘The shades we agreed on are yours. Have we any further business? Any more names for me?’

  ‘We may have, once the list is completed in order. That is most important.’

  He waved his hand. ‘Yes, yes, your sister has told me that already, and it is still none of your business if I seek opportunities elsewhere.’

  ‘It is the elsewhere part that concerns us most. Habish. Merlec. Urma. Kanus. Ghoor. Horix. Finel. Boon. That is the order that must be followed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dominoes fall in sequence, not randomly. These names must fall in the same way.’ She sighed softly. ‘Why Tor Busk, might I ask? Why such a minor noble?’

  ‘He had something I wanted.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A new locksmith. He refused to give him to me.’

  ‘A locksmith.’

  ‘Yes, if you must know. One of the best in the R—city.’

  The sister nodded slowly. ‘Interesting.’

  Temsa realised he’d said too much and swiftly diverted the subject. ‘How are you transporting these half-lives?’

  Liria watched as an extremely young shade, standing barely as tall as her hip, pawed through the bars for her red cloth. She did not move away, but she ignored his fawning touch. ‘We had hoped you might have the means to do so.’

  Ani threw up her hands. ‘Oh, you’d hoped, had you?’

  ‘Miss Jexebel, calm yourself, m’dear,’ said Temsa, a smile growing. ‘We can arrange it. At the cost of one percent, of course.’

  Liria was good at keeping a straight face, but not perfect. He saw the swirl in the vapours of her cheek. He had spent years dealing with shades. He could read them like he could flesh.

  ‘That is fair,’ she said, though he couldn’t see her believing it. ‘Tomorrow evening?’

  ‘And the following two. I’m not stupid enough to transport that many shades in one go. They’ll light up a whole street like a beacon.’

  ‘Acceptable. And they are in good condition? The warehouse shades?’

  A few in the cages groaned in disagreement.

  Temsa yanked a long and toothy key from his breast pocket. ‘Care to check for yourself?’

  Liria dwelled on that for a moment, eyeing the key dangling before her. ‘No. I have many other duties to attend to.’

  ‘The busy life of a cultist, eh?’ Temsa winked and gestured towards the stairs. ‘Tomorrow night, then. You will have your first shipment.’

  Her sapphire stare became piercing. ‘Trust is being provided in great quantities, Tor Temsa. You wouldn’t seek to betray us or otherwise let us down now, would you?’

  Temsa stood his ground as she floated past. ‘I’m insulted you even asked the question, Sister Liria.’

  ‘Remember, Tor. The list. In order.’ Liria paused to produce an envelope from her pocket, one sealed with blue wax and what looked to be a smudge of lip-paint. ‘You will need this for Ghoor.’

  He held her stare until the curve of the stairwell took her, Ani bristling behind him.

  Chapter 16

  Reparations

  Secrets, holds the deserts plenty,

  full to brim but seeming empty.

  And though the sand might look like naught,

  trust you not to paths unwrought.

  Friend or foe or lost to nether,

  many ways to fade forever.

  Older times still walk the sand,

  and ancient ones still claim the land.

  Better here, ’neath city lights,

  than twixt the dunes on fearful nights.

  Nursery rhyme from the Outsprawls

  Nilith’s body jolted awake, but her eyes remained closed. She felt the grit at her fingertips, felt the weakness of the campfire. The night breeze had stolen its heat. The soft wall at her back gently rose and fell. Anoish was dead to the world.

  She heard the shuffle of sand and cracked an eye open. Only embers remained of the fire, but their faint ruby glow still lit the crags of a face sitting opposite her. For a moment, she thought it was Ghyrab, and then noticed the long, lank hair, and a hunch far too crooked to be the bargeman.

  Slowly propping herself onto her elbow, Nilith’s other hand slid to the dagger on her thigh. She’d taken it from the wrecked Ghoul camp under the light of morning, once the dunewyrms had eaten their fill. The scimitar was embedded in the sa
nd near her head. She had also taken another triggerbow from a dead soldier, with three bolts stuck in it.

  Nilith met the woman’s eyes. They looked like spheres of grey wool hiding diamonds in their centres. There was something familiar about them, and about her clothes, if a bundle of rags could be called clothing.

  ‘Beldam,’ Nilith whispered. Her hand stayed on her blade. There were more lines in the woman’s face and deeper bags under her eyes than last time she had seen her. There was a quiver in her chapped lips.

  ‘Aye,’ she croaked.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘With better fuckin’ luck than you did. Got into some trouble, I see?’ The woman raised a shaky hand to point at the bruises still spread over Nilith’s face like a faded map.

  ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘I ’ave.’

  The beldam must have been short on customers to trail one this far, Nilith thought. ‘I can’t pay you for any—’ She was interrupted by a short gasp.

  ‘Healin’. Is that what you want?’ Quivering hands dug deep into pockets, and a pinch of dust was thrown to the fire. The embers sputtered, turning green.

  Nilith pulled the dagger from its sheath as the beldam began to shuffle around the fire towards her. The old woman halted at the glint of the blade as it caught the sickly glow.

  ‘What’s wrong, witch?’ Nilith challenged her, whispering lest she wake the others.

  Black teeth came to gnaw at flaked lips. ‘I took too much.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘From you. I took too fuckin’ much and now the balance is skewed.’

  ‘I—’

  The beldam scratched at her head furiously, as if a horde of lice had made camp in her ragged hair. ‘Winds’re changing. Sands shifting. The Nyx sours…’ She faltered, looking north. The lights of the distant city were like the coals of countless dozy fires, scattered across the horizon and blurry in the haze. ‘Life is not what it was for a woman of the old ways. When I saw your gems, your belief, I took too much. Ma’at dictates I make amends.’

  The beldam’s hands clawed at the sand, as if the imbalance she had spoken of had needles that pierced her skin. Nilith’s eyes were growing heavy in the green light. Something about the thick smoke wafting from it made her head loll.