Breaking Chaos

by Ben Galley

  Nilith and Farazar swapped a glance, one scowling deeply, the other smiling.

  ‘How dare you—’

  ‘Whatever complaints you have, Emperor, I frankly couldn’t care less. And whatever game you’re playing, Empress, this city has enough problems at the moment. But… it’s my duty to protect you now, and so I shall.’

  Farazar wasn’t best pleased by the scrutiniser’s ambivalence. ‘This is outrageous! I’ll have the chamberlain flog you to death when—’

  Nilith was struggling to buy what Heles was selling. ‘You’re telling me you know the emperor’s body is right there, unclaimed, and you’re not considering becoming the next empress of Araxes? Ruler of an empire?’

  Heles’ eyes betrayed her for a moment, shifting to the muddied bundle of stench that hung at an angle from the horse’s side. There wasn’t a person in the world that wouldn’t have spent a moment in wonder, thinking what it would be like to sit at the pinnacle of the Cloudpiercer, to rule the vastest civilisation the world had ever seen.

  That was all it was for Heles. A moment. Her gaze came straight back to Nilith. She brushed rainwater from her face and shook her head. ‘Greater people than me have tried to rule this city and failed. Araxes is unruly by nature. You do what you wish with the body. If you had the power to shove the whole city into the sea and start afresh, however, you’d already be lying dead in a puddle.’

  It was fierce and blunt talk, but Nilith was grateful for it. She was fed up of cryptic answers and slippery lies. Plain talk was what she wanted, and the scrutiniser’s opinions were music to her aching ears.

  She turned to face Anoish and the falcon on his back. Bezel had his wing held flat, leaking blood down the horse’s flank. As Nilith raised a hand to flick a raindrop from her nose, she felt the sting of cold and snatched the ghostly hand away.

  ‘Do we trust her?’ Nilith asked. It was the first time she had asked for advice since striking out to claim her husband. She was like a beggar, asking for alms.

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ Bezel replied, voice hoarse.

  Nilith endured the ache in her bones as she turned back around. Heles had not moved.

  ‘Fine, but first we need rest. And food.’

  Heles wrinkled a lip, but nodded as she squelched away. ‘Just hope there’s some city left to claim when we get back to it.’

  Chapter 7

  The Half-Coin

  It was interesting that copper, not silver or gold, became the most precious metal in all the lands. It was a stroke of luck for a small group of desert mines to the west of the Arc, where seams of copper stretch for miles. Their group – or their consortium, as history recalls them – became richer in silver than any emperor to sit on the throne of the empire.

  From a treatise on Arctian Economic Theory

  The sun rose furiously, as though it felt cheated by being ousted by the rain. The dawn hauled a fog from the ground. It skulked around the buttresses of buildings, thick enough to lose one’s legs in, and marred the blue sky above with indifferent streaks of low cloud and mist. Wherever there was a gap in the murk, the sunlight fell eagerly, draping the city and its mountainous spires in hazy bars of shadow and gold.

  One such lance of light found a slit in the shutters and fell upon the face of a sleeping Boran Temsa. His dreams were shallow, filled with half-coins tumbling like sandstorms, and it didn’t take long for the light to rouse him. With a snarl, Temsa opened his eyes, was immediately blinded and rolled over to escape the glare.

  Thunk.

  ‘Fucking bastard bed!’ he hissed to the terracotta tile against which his face was now pressed.

  He waited for the throbbing in his head to subside before he put his palms to the floor. Pain lanced through his wrist, and he bit his lip. The injuries from the raid on Finel’s were refusing to heal. A twinge in his ribs had also spoken up. He lay still once more, seething while he waited for the pain to die.

  Dead gods, I need to piss.

  Propping himself up on his shoulder, he shuffled his good leg underneath him and pushed. He experienced a good number of clicks and cracks before he made it to kneeling. Time and toil had taken their toll on his body. The mornings were becoming more and more painful. Temsa was glad it didn’t rain often; the moisture always made the stump of his leg ache. He winced as he tested its tortured, scarred end on the floor. The pain raced up his spine, and as always, he was left cursing the Butcher who had taken his limb from him.

  Clutching one arm to his side, he hooked the chamberpot from beneath the bed and sat the gold-plated thing in front of him. His bladder was insistent, and the unbuttoning of his breeches was frantic, and he almost sprayed his legs before pointing at the pot.

  Relieved at long last, Temsa shifted his knee to stand, and in doing so, kicked the chamberpot flying. He would have cursed to the rafters if hot piss hadn’t been dripping down his thighs.

  With a strangled roar he ripped the rest of his tunic open and dabbed at his face and neck. The rest was spattered down his front. Temsa bared his teeth as he thrust himself to his foot.

  As he did so, the door to his chamber creaked open and a shade peered around the jamb.

  ‘Tor? We heard a noise—’ The shade’s voice drifted off as he saw the wet, half-naked Temsa and the chamberpot lying upended on the floor.

  ‘Get the fuck out!’ Temsa bellowed. ‘And fetch some water!’

  While trying to avoid breathing in through his nose, Temsa reached for his golden leg, lying on a table next to the bed. He set it to the floor with a loud clang, thrust his thigh into it, and set about tying the straps.

  By the time he was done, the shade had returned with a jug of water. He opened the door a crack and timidly poked it into the room. The tor thumped his way over and snatched it from him.

  ‘Fresh tunic and breeches!’ Temsa yelled.

  The shade bumbled into the room, bowing so low he was practically doubled over. He scuttled to a vast set of doors along the wall. With the tug of a rope, they parted to reveal a rainbow of robes and tunics, cloaks and silks. Meanwhile, Temsa doused himself in water, and when the shade returned with a purple and green affair, he used it as a towel.

  ‘Gold.’

  ‘Of course, Tor.’

  The shade produced a gold robe with jade beads and Temsa allowed him to dress him in it. At least Ghoor had trained his house-shades well. The half-life’s cold fingers did not touch him once.

  There came a booming knock and Danib strode into the room. He raised his chin at the sight of the puddle and overturned chamberpot.

  ‘What?’ Temsa challenged him.

  Danib blinked.

  ‘Already? It’s barely an hour past dawn. Eager, for a dead bitch,’ Temsa growled. He saw Danib’s blue gaze narrowing. ‘Don’t you give me that look. Fine. I’m ready.’

  As Temsa was handed his cane, he jabbed a thumb at the house-shade. ‘See this one has his tongue cut out.’

  ‘What? No! I—’ the half-life stammered.

  The shade was silenced as Danib clasped his head in both enormous hands and dragged him from the room. Temsa followed, watching his legs thrash, vapours curling in his wake. The morning could go fuck itself for all he cared. It was the evening that occupied his mind.

  Several floors below, in a great hall no doubt designed with orgies in mind, Enlightened Sister Yaridin – or perhaps Liria, Temsa could never tell – was waiting for him on a humongous couch. It dwarfed her, and its regal purple clashed with her glow and crimson robe. Temsa had taken Ani’s surly advice and involved the Cult. Too many corners were being cut, too many threads fraying. The old Temsa would never have moved so fast; he realised that after Finel’s. What irked him about the old Temsa was that he had been poor.

  When he entered, armoured men in his wake, the sister arose and offered him a smile. It was Yaridin after all. ‘We are surprised to see you well, Tor. The rumours say Finel’s was a bloodbath.’

  Temsa chose a nearby armchair, one with manacles suspicio
usly attached to its arms. He kept his hands on his cane, silently vowing to invest in different furniture. ‘That it was, but you will have your shades, Sister. No need to fret. The good serek was kind enough to die.’

  ‘At quite a cost and rather noisily, or so we understand. We hear the Cloud Court is suspended because of your actions.’

  If she was looking for an explanation, or an excuse, or an apology, she was sorely disappointed on all fronts. Temsa shrugged.

  ‘What have you done with him?’ asked the shade.

  ‘The same as I have all the others. Gained their scrawl, made sure they can’t be identified, and then sent them south. To Kal Duat, if you must know.’

  If Temsa didn’t know better, he could have sworn Yaridin hid a wrinkling of her nose. ‘The White Hell. We know of it, and the Consortium that owns it.’

  Temsa waved his hands. ‘Businessmen. They don’t care where their shades come from, and neither should you. Takes a special conscience.’

  ‘Or lack thereof,’ Yaridin replied, managing to sound sweet. She sat and crossed her hands on her scarlet lap. ‘You wished to discuss something?’

  The tor sucked his teeth. ‘Discuss is a strong word. “Inform” is more to my liking.’

  Yaridin stiffened, if that was possible for a half-life. ‘And?’

  ‘The final name on your list will have to wait. Somebody else is more deserving of my time for now.’

  The sister’s face was blank, patient. ‘Who is this lucky citizen?

  ‘Tal Horix. An old widow I’ve done business with in the past. I sold her something I want. Need. Now I want it back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A locksmith. She has his half-coin and I want it.’

  ‘Ah, we see.’

  Temsa got up from his chair, showing he thought the matter final. ‘If you wish me to take on Serek Boon successfully, I suggest you agree with me. Otherwise, you shall have another bloodbath.’

  Wrapped up in thought, Yaridin’s eyes toured the gilded statues and tapestries that lined the wall. ‘We acquiesce. You may remove Horix,’ she said, ‘but our agreement still stands.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Temsa said, already half turned around. He made for the door. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘they might be wrong about you Cult types.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Temsa hovered in the doorway, swirling his cane around as if divining the right words. ‘Indeed. You’re not completely worthless.’ He slammed the door before he could see the scowl on Yaridin’s vapours.

  Danib had finished with his chores, and was waiting outside the hall. Temsa didn’t stop walking, giving his orders as he marched.

  ‘Get Ani up. Get everybody up! I want every blade sharp enough to cut a cloud! Every bit of armour black as night! Horix better enjoy her last day in the Arc!’

  Temsa was coming for her.

  The lump of green phlegm arced over the balcony and plummeted down to the streets below. Horix listened, knowingly kidding herself she could hear the splat. She heard nothing but the banging of carpenters far below, and she blamed them instead of the height and her old ears.

  A day had passed since Horix had sent Kalid and his soldiers back to the rooftop, and there was still no news. Nothing. No blood painting the sand red outside Ghoor’s tower. No Temsa being hauled off to the Chamber of the Code. No public mutilation and burning announced. No parading of the charred corpse.

  What has this city come to? Horix wondered. Grey knuckles resting on the stone railing, she looked over it all, surveying the myriad rooftops and tiles spread out below her. The sun was high now, and the mists had been burned away.

  She looked west, to where the uppity spike of Magistrate Ghoor’s tower rose into the blue sky. It was distant, but detailed enough for her to curse its features, and the man who sat behind its orange walls, scheming and plotting.

  There came the sound of heavy breathing. The stink of sweat soured the breeze. Horix turned around to find Yamak standing in the balcony doorway. He had a silk scarf scrunched up between his sausage-like fingers, and his hair was plastered sideways with the sweat.

  ‘What?’ she hissed.

  ‘It’s almost done, Widow. With your new workers, the construction sped along.’

  Horix felt the prickles climbing slowly from her arms to her shoulders and neck. It had been an age since she had felt anything besides anger, and that smouldered away inside her. But this feeling she remembered: excitement. She could have gone as far as pleasure. Like a child saving the last slice of cake, she had starved herself of such things for two decades, knowing they would taste all the sweeter once she was finished. Watching. Waiting.

  ‘What is “almost”?’

  ‘Poldrew assures me it will be finished by this evening. The mixture is ready to be prepared. All the scaffolding has been cleared, but I don’t know if I trust him—’

  ‘It is not your place to trust, Master Yamak. You are no builder. It seems the shade is.’

  Yamak turned his eyes floorwards. Horix saw the resentment in the darker flush of his cheeks.

  ‘It is a sorry state of affairs when the dead show up the living, isn’t it?’ she sighed, moving past him and throwing up a cavernous hood. ‘You may return to your duties.’

  Once in the corridor, she sniffed again, eager to smell something other than Yamak’s pungent odour. In its place, she tasted brick and sawdust on her tongue. Horix smiled a rare smile, reserved only for her and the burnished gold of her mirrors. Her vengeance was finally close at hand.

  As she descended the steps, she fished inside her ruffles and produced a half-coin affixed to a chain. Staring at it was enough to crack her smile, but just slightly.

  She would give Caltro Basalt the day.

  While the sun had done its best to dry Araxes out and eradicate any trace of rain, some shadows in the City of Countless Souls were never touched by sunlight. The thick fog that rose at dawn had covered the Core Districts in its blanket for the entire day. Now it seemed set on claiming the night, too.

  Colonel Kalid rubbed the dew from his grizzled chin and shook his hand to warm it up. He shifted his armoured leg, hearing his hip pop, and cursed the wear of age and damp nights. The new spyglass was cold against his eye. Droplets smeared its lenses, and after a good cleaning, he tried again, peering through the dark.

  The misty streets glowed blue in patches where shades went about their masters’ business. A few brave living plied the haze, trying not to collide. Or fall again, as their sand-caked clothes suggested. Their caution wasn’t just for fashion; the rain had flooded the ancient sewers, or washed the gutters into the road. Kalid could smell the effluence on the air. That, and his soldiers’ stink. Maybe his own.

  Two nights they’d spent on the rooftop and crouched in the rooms below, waiting to pounce. Horix had yet to send a messenger telling them to do otherwise, and so Kalid had kept up his watch.

  Temsa’s tower was silent save for a few shades dangling from ropes two thirds of the way up. They had hammer and chisels in hand, and were still attacking the same balcony they’d been working on since midday. Kalid had sneered when they started, and he sneered now; the one-legged bastard was getting comfy in his new abode. Comfy meant careless.

  Wagons had come and gone all day, using various entrances and always under the cover of umbrellas or tarpaulins. It had been an hour since the flow stopped. Guards still patrolled the courtyard and the tower’s base in regular rounds. Kalid eyed their black figures now, cloaked and fuzzy in the mists. He tried counting, but whenever he finished, one more always appeared or vanished.

  Another snap and cry rang out across the streets, and Kalid watched the streak of blue falling from the tower’s side. There was a dull whump as the shade disappeared behind the courtyard walls. A puff of sand drifted into the air. Moments later, he watched the same shade approaching the main doorway, brushing himself off while the guards laughed at him.

  Kalid reached for his stub of charcoal and scratched another mark on t
he wall. He counted. Eleven. Temsa needed to invest in some better ropes.

  ‘Casimi.’ He had to say it twice; the first attempt came out as an unintelligible grunt. It had been a while since he had spoken. ‘Casimi!’

  A bearded soldier nearby came awake with a start, bald head snapping up and eyelids fluttering. ‘Hmm?’ He stared at the black marks on the wall. ‘Four more,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, and not a peep from the man himself.’

  ‘You remember the trenches at Scatterpeak? How we waited for days, thinking Prince Phylar’s army had given up? And all the while building catapults and armour. I’m telling you, Temsa’s up to—’

  Something caught Casimi’s eye. He stared past the colonel. Kalid followed the man’s pointing finger, whipping the spyglass up so fast he bruised his eye socket.

  Light was spilling into the courtyard. The circular door of the tower was peeling back. Black figures filled the pool of gold. Ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred, two… Kalid soon lost count.

  ‘Casimi?’

  ‘Aye, Colonel.’

  ‘Get running. Tell the widow she’ll soon have company. Temsa’s bringing the fight to us.’

  The man didn’t spare a moment of thought. He scrambled up and bolted for the stairs.

  ‘Caltro?’

  The voice broke me from my reverie. ‘What?’ I asked irately. The peace and quiet had been glorious.

  Pointy huffed. ‘We’ve been here for over an hour, and you haven’t said a word.’

  ‘I’m still thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  I pointed to the widow’s tower as if it were the only structure around for miles. Thanks to the thick fog, it practically was: a dark void in the grey, half swallowed by the haze. Its sharp angles were softened and blurred, but it was no less ominous than before.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. My old master called it “visualising”.’

  ‘Sounds made-up to me, and I know my fiction.’

  I pinched my forehead between two fingers. It was impossible for me to be tired, but I felt thinner, like a bubbling pot that had boiled off some of my vapours with all the stress and effort. The last haunting had taken much from me. Crossing the districts back to Horix had been a thankfully uneventful affair. The rain and mists had given the sword and me quieter streets and a distinct lack of scrutiny. But it had been a frantic, non-stop journey. If I’d flesh and bone still, my neck would be aching from so much time looking over my shoulder. Through it all, Pointy had been there, eager as always to fill any silence with wise words, irritating poetry, or general prattle. Like any kind of company, there were times when it was comforting, and times when it was irritating. In this moment, it was the latter.