by Ben Galley
With the slightest of pushes, we entered a long hall with a low ceiling. There were guards here, clad in red cloth and plate mail. Four of them, standing behind the doorway and beyond the light of the bright lanterns. They were not lit by flame, but by something fluttering behind frosted glass and cages of black iron.
I had ended up in enough cells in my youth to know a prison when I saw one, and they never failed to make me itchy, apparently even when I was dead. Saraka’s Dunrong Dungeon had been a particularly lengthy stay, due to breaking an arm shortly after being thrown into it. I’d heard the rule for surviving prison was to pick the biggest thug in the cell and break his jaw on day one. What they don’t tell you is if you fail to accomplish that most sweat-inducing of tasks with the first punch, you rarely get a second. They also don’t tell you what to do if the thug has friends. Not only did I fail to break his jaw, but the three of them succeeded in breaking my arm and several ribs for trying. And my pride, for that matter. But there isn’t a cage in the Reaches that can hold me for long. I’m proud to say I let myself out of that cell two weeks later, and left them to rot.
This place beneath the streets was most certainly a place of locks and keys, albeit the cleanest prison I had ever seen. The milky light of the lanterns showed no vomit or shit or blood. Not a single twitch-nosed rat, hardly a mote of dust. The light fell on rows of thick copper bars, not clad but cast in the metal. They were set deep into the wall, floor, and ceiling. At the sound of the door and shuffling robes, I saw a few glowing hands come to clutch the bars.
‘What is this place? A prison for ghosts that haven’t said their prayers?’ I asked.
Yaridin chuckled again, though it lacked any friendliness. ‘You make your jokes, Caltro. Humour is a convenient shield for the new and the uninitiated.’
That cut through me like a hot knife. I muttered incoherently under my breath and followed behind like a hound until they brought me to a packed cell halfway down the row. Two more cultists stood by, unseen in alcoves until now. A number of ghosts were clustered in the large cell. I looked over their glowing faces, not recognising a single one. Half of them were naked. The rest were in rags. One had his belly opened like somebody grinning mid-chew. Another woman had been nearly split open shoulder to groin. Most still had their coins about their necks. Free, yet prisoners all the same. I imagined how infuriating that would be, and all too suddenly, the notion that I was about to join them sprang into my mind like a crocodile’s gaping jaws bursting from the shallows.
I began to edge away from the door. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Fear not, Caltro. These cells are for those who would seek to hurt the Church. Intruders, thieves, soulstealers looking to take a sister’s or brother’s freedom,’ Liria explained.
‘Heretics, too, and those who do not align with our plans.’
‘If they do not conform, we pass them to the Chamber of the Code for punishment.’
‘Though with their backlog, it does take some time.’ There was no hint of snide vindictiveness in her voice, as I might have heard in Horix’s or Temsa’s. Only a factual tone.
I was surprised at their honesty, but not at the darker underbelly of the Cult. That had already been made clear to me several times. It was why I was here to ask questions, why my eyes roved in every corner, why I was so taut I almost walked on tiptoes. And yet these cells were paltry compared to what I’d expected. If anything, they looked a world better than the basements beneath the Rusty Slab.
‘Some, we deliver justice to ourselves, and therein lies your gift.’
My ears pricked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Justice, Caltro. Brothers, if you please.’
Liria motioned a hand to the guards, and they wiggled stout, complex keys in the cell door. The ghosts inside moved back towards the walls, nervously muttering. I searched their faces again, wondering who it was amongst them that had wronged me in this life or before.
One by one, each shade was hauled out and pushed into a nearby cell. Twenty-two I counted before the flow stopped. I stared down at the huddled figure that remained. He must have been hiding behind the others, knelt down and head hung. With copper-core rope, the brothers hauled him up and dragged him to my feet.
The ghost glowed a darker blue. He had lank, greasy hair that reached to his shoulders. His nose had been broken, and one eye bulged as if he had been pummelled before he died. I stared down at his naked body, noting the deep wounds in his chest and stomach where something with prongs had impaled him. He stared back at my neck with a cold, uncaring smirk, and in that moment I knew him.
‘You remember Kech, don’t you, Caltro?’ Liria asked in my ear.
‘How could I forget?’ I said, even though I had. A great many things had happened since his knife.
The guards forced him to his knees. Copper rings in their gauntlets wiped some of the smirk from his face. I moved into the cell to stand over the man who had taken my life. The man who had started all this. I almost asked to borrow their armour, so I could smack the rest of that grin off his face with a firm backhand.
The sisters stood behind me now, explaining.
‘He came to us amongst a group of shades we reclaimed from Temsa.’
‘A purchase of Tor Busk’s, apparently. He was taken when our mutual friend invaded his tower.’
‘I remember,’ I interjected.
‘When we tried to share our wisdom and ways with him, he became violent. He began to roam the streets, looking for one Caltro Basalt.’
‘We had him put here, just in case.’
‘And now you can have the justice you rightly deserve.’
I found something solid touching my elbow. I looked down to find a small triggerbow in one of Liria’s hands, its stock facing towards me. A copper-tipped bolt sat already cocked and loaded. In Liria’s other hand was a half-coin. Kech’s half-coin, to be precise.
I met her eyes, and her soft tone turned firm. ‘A punishment can be true and fair even outside the law. Or the Code.’
Yaridin stepped closer. ‘Some punishments are well deserved.’
The triggerbow hovered there, untaken. I saw Kech’s eyes search mine. His curling lips took a downward turn. He began to fidget.
‘This ain’t fair,’ he complained. ‘Cold blood is what it is!’
‘There is no blood in either of us. And whose fault is that?’ I asked him, taking the bow from Liria. I pointed it at the floor for the time being, trying to ignore the infectious reasoning of the sisters. They didn’t press me further, instead keeping to a respectful silence. But their seeds had been sown. I fidgeted now, internally.
I am no murderer, I reminded myself. At least not intentionally. That moral line was the last thread between me and my old self. It had been a thin thread when I was alive, but it had kept me a thief, not a killer. It was why the death of the earl’s boy had cut me so deeply, and driven me so far from home.
I had clung to that distinction in life and I clung to it now, even though somehow my aim had crept up to Kech’s stomach. The darker side of me – the same that lurks inside all of us – pleaded to squeeze the trigger. This ghost had taken everything from me, put me on the cursed path that brought me here. The man deserved worse than a copper bolt and oblivion. I wanted him to suffer.
‘Apologise,’ I ordered him. It was the closest I could get to revenge without firing, and a much-needed distraction from the cries of, Do it! inside my head. ‘Apologise, and I might spare you.’
‘Apologise for what? Doing my job? You were the one who kicked me, fought back. Got me stabbed!’
‘I fought back…?’ I pressed the butt of the bow to his forehead. It was soft, gelatinous, and I was disappointed there was no hiss of copper. ‘Apologise for taking my life.’
I wanted to see him crumble. I wanted to see a ghost sweat. I wanted to see him break and know he was a snivelling coward. But his sneer came right back, making me look like the coward.
With a snarl, I withdrew, pressing th
e triggerbow into Liria’s grip. ‘No,’ I said, striding for the open air of the Cathedral.
It took a moment for the sisters to join me. They waited patiently for me to speak, which I did, after much staring and pouting over the sandstone and marble cavern beneath me.
‘Better to let him rot as a half-life than give him the peace and quiet of nothingness.’
‘Is that what you believe this is, Caltro? Half a life?’
I laughed in her face. ‘Don’t you? We are stuck between longing for our flesh back and a lie of an afterlife. A wailing waiting room the size of a cavern. I know you’ve been there, as I have. I even heard the screams in the Whorl. Don’t start lying to me now.’
Liria bowed her head. ‘Most shades never see that place, but we know of it, and how it has become worse over the decades. That is a half-life: waiting for a paradise that the gods promised us but never delivered. This, here.’ She paused to show me her hands and clench them into fists. ‘This is more than flesh can ever be. You know this, and yet you forget it so easily. Come. We will show you more.’
At my snorts of disbelief, they led me inexorably onwards. This time we wound down to the deeper levels, like a screw into a wine cork. We descended past the market, and the sights of the rainbow tables and steaming pots had me pining for a sense of smell once again. Beyond the market, our path led between vaulted arches and grand rooms filled with hooded cultists. They stood in silence before shrines to alabaster statues of a god. Sesh, or so I assumed, though each statue was different. Some were carved like a long-nosed wolf with a winding, forked tail. Others were simple, like a clenched fist, or a column with clusters of staring eyes.
‘The many faces of Sesh,’ Yaridin whispered to me. ‘Everywhere, but nowhere. Death and chaos itself.’
I shook my head. ‘Sounds positive.’
Yaridin smiled that honeyed smile of hers. ‘What else would a shade worship, Caltro? Life? Or the turmoil and death that make us what we are?’
I cursed the sisters and their clever points, and let them lead me past their worshipping rooms to skinny halls crammed with storeys of shelves, scrolls, and networks of ladders. Further down, I saw rooms full of kneeling students, rapt before a teacher drawing glyphs on a black wall in chalk.
Deeper still we found cavernous forges, where multitudes of shades in red smocks worked great machines. Rivers of fiery, molten metal poured from the machines’ charred spouts. Bundles of spears and swords lay stacked between arches. The hammering was raucous compared to the silence above, and I found myself wincing even with my muted senses.
In darker parts of the caverns, I saw half a dozen hulking shapes with arms and legs: statues carved like the proud gods and kings of old. They were bound with ropes like tangled puppets. Shades encrusted them, still chiselling away at their features. It reminded me of the ruined statue I had seen in the plaza of the Grand Nyxwell, running errands for Vex. I wondered what had become of him.
Past the forges, in the very pit of the Cathedral, I was shown to a balcony overlooking a long hall. Its walls were roughly hewn compared to the carved stone above us. I wondered if this part was newer. Below me, a multitude of naked shades and living toiled, not with metal or scripture or literature, but with weapons, or fists wrapped in copper gloves. There was hardly any panting, no yelling except from the shades in robes strolling between the ranks. Only the scuff of feet on sand and the thwip of blades slicing through warm, muggy air. No torches burned here either. Just the strange white lanterns, which to my ears sounded like they were full of moths.
Before I could ask any questions, Liria joined me at the balcony. To my surprise, Yaridin had vanished while I had been busy staring.
‘I know you have heard the rumours of the Church, or the Cult, as we once were. Rumours that you may have taken to heart, which we understand. So before we continue, Caltro, allow us to tell you our history, and what we believe. Our side of the story, if you will.’
It was about time I heard another side. It’d always found hearing both sides of an argument useful. It either sated my curiosity or gave me a good laugh, and so I nodded for her to continue.
‘In the time before the Tenets and the Code, when every woman or man worshipped whomever they wanted, and the only trade was with silver and gems, there was an argument between the gods. Though there are many minor gods, there were six that ruled the afterlife: the world beyond this one, called duat. There was Oshirim, the god of light and life. Anoish, god and shepherd of the dead. Horush, the god of the sky. Haphor, goddess of the earth. Basht, the goddess of protection, and Sesh, the god of chaos and death. Together they struck a balance, offering a lie of an afterlife in return for belief, which in turn sustained their forms. And so people prayed each day, and when death came knocking they knew it was not the end. This balance, called ma’at in Arctian, existed for centuries until Oshirim decided to proclaim himself the god of all gods. Sesh, however, knew his own domains were of greater importance, and disagreed. Life is not permanent, you see, Caltro, but all things are visited by death, and chaos is what gives light to order.
‘The two gods argued until Oshirim became so angry that he struck Sesh down, mutilating him. No other gods or goddesses stood to defend him, and for fear of being murdered, he fled to our world. As penance for such an insult, Sesh took his justice on the gods by changing the flow of the Nyx – the river that ferried the dead to Anoish and onwards to duat – feeding it into our world instead. It was then that Sesh taught our ancestors how to bind the dead; to have an afterlife here in a world not controlled by self-indulgent gods. A second life, not a half-life, and one with a choice. Duat was still there, if one so chose to reach it, and stand waiting in that great cavern for untold centuries.
‘When the gods realised their lifeblood had been halted, they fell upon Sesh in force and imprisoned him in a void beyond our world and the gods. It hurt them to do so, drained them, and since that day they have lurked behind their shut gates, feeding off what few souls already reached the afterlife.’
I was enjoying this story, primarily because of its contrast to Pointy’s stories. And Oshirim’s own words, for that matter. I decided to poke a hole. ‘Then how did the Tenets come about?’
She shook her head solemnly, and I almost believed the act. ‘Because of us, Caltro. Human greed overweighed Sesh’s teachings. Without his guidance, and with so many of his church poisoned against him by other beliefs, our ancestors realised that binding the dead could be lucrative. Most lucrative, in fact. Ma’at was abandoned once Emperor Phaera decreed that whomsoever holds the most shades rules. Sesh’s decrees formed only the first, second, and third of the Tenets; the rest were made by human hands. Much like the Code, which the Arc now follows or ignores blindly. Take the Nyxites, for example. They proclaimed themselves the authority over the Nyx almost a thousand years ago, and even now they still fulfil the role, when it should be a servant of Sesh.
‘Centuries have passed since then. Sesh’s prison still remains. But the treatment of his gifts has left the Nyx weak, drying up in places. If we do not act soon, the Nyx will stop, and we shades will suffer because of it. With binding, the games between the tors and tals will become more vicious. Temsa has set a trend, like it or not, Caltro.’
‘And wasn’t that your idea? Chaos is your thing, right? But for what?’
‘It was, of sorts. We needed fear to unite Araxes behind a new ruler. Temsa was perfect for that. He is not suited to the throne. I see the frown in your face, but do not worry. That would be madness. No. We do not want war. Quite the opposite. That is why Sisine Talin Renala the Thirty-Seventh is our chosen successor to Emperor Farazar.’
I was as blunt as I was surprised. ‘Doesn’t she hate you?’
Liria looked almost proud. ‘The Church will glow in her eyes, and soon. There are many ways in which we will be of use to her. We are already aiding the Chamber of the Code, and bolstering the scrutinisers’ efforts in the city. Our stockpiling of Nyxwater has begun to stop the s
hortages, and we are negotiating with the Chamber of Trade to allow us to help the Nyxites. With the empress-in-waiting, we will be able to save the city, and instead of chaos, bring peace and balance once more. As we told you when we first met, Caltro, we are a charitable organisation. We want nothing but the best for our city. Our empire.’
‘But in actual fact, you get to reclaim what’s yours.’ It was a statement, not a question, but she had an answer for me anyway.
She fixed me with a sharp look. ‘Rightly so, Brother.’
Without another word Liria gestured down to the nearest stairs, and we descended into the pit of mechanical shades punching and hacking the air. Liria edged around them, seeking the back of the cavern, where already I heard strange noises.
An alcove hidden behind the rock welcomed us in with lantern-light and a crowd of red-robed trainers blocking the view. I could see flashes of white and blue between them and the rock walls. Liria clapped her hands and the trainers parted, tapping ivory canes on the floor. Beyond them lay strangeness of all shades and sizes.
A wooden target shaped like a soldier hung on a thick chain. It bucked and threw splinters as a muscular wolf, standing on two legs and as tall as I, savaged it with metal claws. Whatever robe it had been wearing was now taut and shredded across its chest. Its glowing fur was patchy, and between it I saw hairless blue skin.
Beyond the wolf, another shade, this one decidedly a human shape, attacked a straw mattress against the wall. Her fists moved in a cobalt blur, and her vapours left trails behind her as she ducked and weaved.
Elsewhere, I saw a shade clench until his vapours went thin as Aerenna glass, so faint that I saw the rock beyond him. I envied him immediately.
Behind him, three shades pressed their heads together, chanting and heaving until they consumed themselves, rippling into a swirling mass of vapour. Skeletal arms clawed at the air as they sought to coalesce into something else, but in the end the three shades collapsed on the floor with a white flash.
