Breaking Chaos

by Ben Galley

  I started with the highest keyhole first. It was an old habit; getting the fingers working before I had to stoop and bend. As a ghost, I had nothing to warm up, only nerves to quash.

  My lockpicks slid into the keyhole. I tested the tumblers. Little touches, tentative. I angled myself, driving into the door to get the measure of its absent keys. I pushed. A click came from within the metal. I bared my teeth, and pushed harder. Another click, this time permanent. Had I sweat it would already be dribbling into my eyes.

  I took up another pick, working backwards against the other tumblers. Click, click, click, they went, like a blade landing blows on flesh. I had fathomed this lock now, and it fell before me within a tense half hour. With a twist, I felt the brittle glass cylinder turn. I could have roared, had there not been four more.

  Before my onslaught, the next lock fell as quickly as the first. Almost as if it had wanted to be broken. It was a lie. A ruse to trip me on the third. It was a stubborn beast, armoured tumblers and all. I attacked it with miniature stabs and parries, tricking the mechanism into sticking until I could fix the rest. Five, six, seven. The tumblers were fooled, and turned into the darkness within the door with a satisfying clunk as I turned the third lock.

  The fourth was a bastard, almost tripping me twice before I managed to get the feel of it. It was clever, with screwing tumblers that moved deeper with every attempt. I got the better of it in the end: a cheap shot with three picks held intricately in my cold hands. The onlookers stared on like an audience to a duel. Despite all my jiggling, cursing and imagined sweating, they were none the wiser to my struggle. It was a battle of wits where only one fighter apparently had any. For all they could see, I might as well be hammering at the door with a club. And yet the futures of all who stared hinged on me.

  I let the pressure mount, using it, bending it to my will as I had always been able to. Every stare. Every tap of a foot. Every crackle of armour. I ate it all up and threw it at the fifth and final lock.

  Kicking scrolls aside now, I hunkered down, raising my tools once more. My teeth were constantly bared now. A tremble had crept into my knees. This last lock postured and parried, but it was no match for my sharp picks and wrenches. I thought of the faces of Araxes that had sneered, spat or cursed me, and I put those faces on each tumbler I faced. They fell, one by one, and with a twist of my wrench, the fifth lock surrendered.

  I stood up, dropping my tools at my side, and pressed my face to the door. Whispers from behind perturbed me. I didn’t need noise now, but deathly silence. Only the dial remained, and its waiting deadlock.

  I swore I could feel the hunger in the metal, as if I were pressed up to a cage with a wild animal within. The gold wheel under my fingers was taut, like a coiled spring. I set my shoulders and my feet square. Seizing hold of the steel flowers, I moved to turn the dial. In truth, I had no idea which way I should turn. The deeplocks’ mechanisms had given me little clue to the deeper workings. The wrong way, and the deadlock might claim me. It would all be for nothing. All this time. All this struggle, and I would find myself in oblivion. Or worse, on the endless planes of the dead, howling at myself for turning right instead of left.

  ‘Which hand does Farazar write with?’ I yelled over the tense silence.

  I felt a ticking beneath my hands as some despicable cog within the door turned. It was getting faster. That was not good. The deadlock was getting ready to pounce.

  Hirana scoffed at me. ‘What does that have to—’

  ‘Which hand?’

  Grandmother stared at granddaughter for the first time with something other than hate in their eyes. Hirana raised an eyebrow. Sisine folded her arms, eyes narrowed in thought.

  ‘WHICH FUCKING HAND?’ I bellowed.

  ‘Left!’ Sisine snapped. ‘The ink is sometimes smeared on his decrees.’

  I stamped my foot as I made my decision, praying to those dead gods for luck and mercy, or any other creature listening.

  Clunk!

  The dial jolted as its inner teeth sprang over cogs. I heard the timing cog lurch, reset. I discerned the looseness in the steel flowers; the ever so slight imbalance. Praising sloppy workmanship, I threw the dial right.

  Clunk!

  Once more for luck, and this time no clues came to save me. I braced myself, leaned back from the Sanctuary, and yelled a wordless noise of hope.

  Clunk!

  Something heavy fell to a stop within the door. The deadlock. I tried to drag my hands away from it, but the copper veins of the steel flowers held me fast, gluing me to the vault. I felt the metal go ice-cold. Something pulled on me, deep and hungry like an angry sea drowning a sailor. I wrenched, but still it held me tightly.

  Panic set in as a ghostly face emerged from the etched kings and pyramids of old. Tendrils of dark, blue-grey vapour poured from the keyholes, swarming together until a fleshless skull grinned at me. As my hands began to sink into the metal, the skull opened its bony mouth, inches from my own, and the air rushed past me as if it inhaled.

  ‘Caltro!’ came a faint cry. A voice of many, entwined as one. Some I recognised. Others were strange.

  Another voice whispered, so close I thought it the skull that spoke. ‘It’s not time.’

  ‘No, it fucking isn’t!’ I roared. I started to push, to play the deadlock at its own game. If it wanted to take me, it would have to fight me. I threw my hands into the door, feeling cold metal scrape past me. I felt the soul trapped there, and all the years it had spent hungry. I saw it now: misshapen and angry. I knew its pain, and for a moment I shared its place in the door. I haunted it. I saw the skull in a cramped darkness, its empty jaw hanging agape as I wrenched myself free.

  The first thing I realised was that I was on the marble, sprawled on old scrolls and with my head propped up against the bench. In front of me, the etched steel and copper flowers were collapsing in on themselves in mechanical stutters. A metal whirring and clanking accompanied their strange death. There was a resounding boom, and the Sanctuary door parted down the middle with a puff of dust. A seam so fine I hadn’t even noticed it opened up, revealing the thickness of the door. Almost two yards, just as I’d guessed. The two slabs of the door swung open gradually.

  Exhausted, I remained sprawled as others crammed into the antechamber. The Cult hung back in the corridor. Behind me, Etane jostled with Hirana’s spears as the empress-in-waiting and the widow fought to be the first into the Sanctuary. Although their eyes were hungry to see the gold and copper slabs swing open, I saw the looks they gave me. They weren’t congratulatory, or thankful. More like I had soiled myself while fighting the door. I was a tool that had served its purpose. I couldn’t have cared less. I just patted my vapours, happy to be whole. Only Temsa looked at me, as I had found him often doing since being hauled from the Nyx. I’d never had to make eye contact with a detached head before, and it was an experience I was immediately not fond of. He wore a permanent scowl. If he broke his stare, it was to leer at the Enlightened Sisters, or Danib.

  Hirana and Sisine took their places on either side of the chamber, enclosed behind walls of spears and armour. A thin band of light had now appeared in the doorway. I could almost hear the crunching of jaws and molars as the historic moment came to pass.

  Through the widening gap, I spied ornate cream and yellow marble. Gold-leaf frescoes. Silks so fine and sheer they looked like sunbeams draped over the white columns. Sloping walls coming to a golden dome. A hundred rubies and emeralds outlining the constellations. Far in the distance, I saw a bed with pure white linens lying unmade.

  ‘Your time of reckoning has come, Father!’ Sisine shrieked, voice echoing loudly. She had taken a sword from one of her soldiers and waved it above her head.

  Not to be outdone by a Renala a quarter of her age, Hirana also raised her voice. ‘Prepare yourself, Farazar!’

  I felt the air in the chamber lessen as deep breaths were taken, and held. The Sanctuary doors yawned wide, and with a heavy thud, they came to rest. A wid
e gap flanked by yards of heavy gold beckoned us in. The expanse of marble was vast. I could make out the shape of the Piercer’s pinnacle in the angle of the walls. Thin windows, rough and bevelled so as to be translucent, sat in deep hollows of thick stone. Dappled sunlight poured through them. But most interesting of all was that the Sanctuary was bereft of movement. No house-ghosts. No pompous emperor. Nothing.

  Until a faint shuffling was heard. Spears were thrust into the doorway, ready. Hirana and Sisine stood almost side by side at the doorway, Etane between them. All their weapons were raised, but they were unnecessary. I had already spied the faint sapphire glow on the marble.

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Show yourself!’

  An aged ghost appeared behind the doors and immediately collapsed to his knees. He was bald and sported more wrinkles than a leather wineskin, now just dark lines in his blue vapour. A simple grey linen robe hung from his shoulders to his sandaled feet, and a golden feather was emblazoned on his breast. His glow was weak, pale like twilight. I saw no wound other than the tail of a white scar running from his ear down below his collar.

  The ghost spread his palms flat to the marble, mumbling unintelligible nothings into the floor – prayers or apologies, I didn’t know.

  Hirana and Sisine strode inwards, racing each other. They stood either side of the prostrated ghost, eager soldiers at their backs.

  The widow seized the ghost by the sleeve and hauled him upright. Sisine menaced the sword close to his face. He whimpered quietly. I found vaporous hands lifting me up, and the sisters at my elbows. With them, we walked into the Sanctuary. The deep cold of Danib wafted over me from behind, and somehow, I felt safer in the shadow of that great beast.

  I looked on as the ghost was interrogated.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Where is my father?!’

  The ghost was too busy trying to manage his quivering lips. He looked terrified.

  ‘Find the emperor!’ Sisine bellowed, and her soldiers began to tear the room apart. Cushion feathers rained. Shards of goblets and decanters skittered over the floor. Silver-leaf chests and mahogany closets were hacked open, and the thief in me shed a private and imaginary tear at the loot going to waste. Once more, I’d cheated locks for nothing.

  That was when I noticed the small mounds of food: plates covered in dried smears and leftover morsels in varying stages of rotting. A months’ worth at least. I understood now the spectators’ deep breaths. There must have been a stench in the air.

  ‘Nothing, Your Majesty!’ came the holler.

  Etane rested his sword on his shoulder with a clang. ‘Empress-in-Waiting, I—’

  ‘Not now, shade!’ Sisine berated him. ‘Speak! Who are you?’

  But Etane would not be silenced. ‘He is Balshep. Farazar’s house-shade. He tended my family when I was but a boy.’

  Showing strength I didn’t know she had, Hirana lifted Balshep up off the floor, her claws around his collar now. He flinched away as she dug in with her cracked copper nails. I could have sworn I saw some crimson in those grey cheeks of hers. That old fire in her eyes had not died, but grown into a storm.

  ‘I vaguely recall you now. Explain yourself! Where is my son?’ she said.

  Etane struck his sword against his pauldron one more time, and the entire room flinched at the ring of it. ‘He can’t speak, Hirana. Your son saw to that a long time ago with a copper knife.’

  Sisine waved her sword in a dangerous pattern. ‘Can he write?’

  Balshep nodded vigorously.

  ‘Of course he can,’ said Etane. He removed his golden helm and threw it across the floor. I saw the deep V on his skull, etched in white. ‘Who do you think has been writing the decrees for the past two years?’

  A vase smashed in a distant corner of the Sanctuary, and after its echoes had died a deathly silence remained.

  Sisine’s painted lips were now the ones quivering. ‘This… this shade has been writing the emperor’s words? Can the emperor not write them himself?’ she whispered, looking around the chamber.

  Etane had the audacity to smile at the rage-filled faces staring at him. ‘Not if he’s hundreds of miles away in Belish.’ He withdrew as he spoke, stepping away from the two women and choosing a spot where a sprawling golden glyph had been set into the floor. ‘I’m afraid, Your Majesticnesses, you’ve been looking in the wrong place all this time.’

  At their stunned silence, Etane elaborated.

  ‘About five years ago, a year after he built it, Farazar decided he’d had enough of his precious Sanctuary. In the depths of night, he secretly fled the Piercer and the city, and ensconced himself amongst the nobility in Belish. Having a right old time, by the sounds of it. All this time, Balshep here has been following Farazar’s orders. Passing out the emperor’s decrees, keeping the food coming and going to keep suspicions low. All of you thought Farazar was going slowly mad, staying silent in this Sanctuary. All the while, he’s whoring himself into a naked stupor in the south. Very clever, really. For him.’

  I could have applauded in that moment. Hirana and Sisine exchanged outraged looks. Both sported veins that threatened to burst any moment. Both had lips drawn as thin as reeds. Both had eyes that burned like forges. All this work. All this blood and sweat, and for nothing.

  Etane’s sword dug into the soft metal beneath his feet with a clang. Behind me, I heard a crunch as Danib shifted his stance.

  Hirana’s voice was like a whetstone on steel. ‘I will hunt him down.’

  ‘No need,’ said Etane. ‘Empress Nilith already has.’

  ‘What?’ hissed grandmother and granddaughter in unison. I saw the nervous twitching of their fingers.

  ‘Your mother, Sisine – your daughter-by-marriage, Hirana – has already gone to fetch him. In fact, Nilith should be returning any day now.’

  I felt my vapours shrink as the heat in the room grew. Perhaps due to the boiling of Hirana’s and Sisine’s blood. All I did was nod, appreciating this Nilith’s balls even though I had no idea who she was.

  ‘What?’ asked Sisine. ‘Explain yourself, half-life!’

  Etane’s face grew stony. ‘You heard me, Princess. And I am done taking orders from you. I never belonged to you.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Sisine. There was so much venom behind those words it barely sounded like a question. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Since before Nilith left.’

  Sisine asked her next question, even though it was obvious to all. Perhaps she needed to hear it aloud to believe it. Even I was still reeling, and I hadn’t just had my entire life and purpose hollowed out in front of me. ‘And why tell me only now?’

  ‘Because that was the job your mother gave me. To keep the spoiled brat away from her father’s Sanctuary for as long as possible.’ Etane looked around and shrugged. ‘Looks like that job’s about done.’

  ‘Guards…’ breathed Sisine. The sword quivered in her grip.

  The spears turned from Balshep to Etane in one landslide of a moment. Step by clanking step, Sisine’s Royal Guard and soldiers began to advance on him. Danib pushed past me, as if personally offended. He held a sword in each hand now. Liria and Yaridin left me behind as they backed away towards the door. For the first time, I saw genuine worry on their faces.

  Etane whipped his sword up in a salute. ‘Neither of you will ever lay claim to the throne. Instead, you will soon know a different Araxes, with Empress Nilith on the throne!’

  A moment passed as Sisine managed to rein in her emotions enough to give her orders.

  ‘Kill him!’ she shrieked.

  With a lunge, the ghost swung his huge blade, taking the tips off the first line of spears. There was barely a halt in that swing, and I realised then it was a soulblade, or something close. Cries came as the sword swiped aside shields and found gaps in armour beneath. Within moments, the Sanctuary became the opposite of its namesake.

  While Sisine’s guards pressed on Etane, she and the Cult also pounced on
Hirana’s soldiers. The old bat shrieked with rage, taking down the nearest soldiers herself with a borrowed sword before retreating to the far wall, by a window. Naturally, I did the same, choosing a nearby corner to avoid the roil of soldiers and spatters of blood. More bodies flooded past me, reinforcements eager to defend their princess. Over the helmets and plumes I saw a long blade dancing in great arcs and jabs. Wherever it went, blood or sparks followed, and cries of anguish and dying. Above it all, the ceaseless and shrill voices of Sisine and Hirana, howling for each other’s deaths.

  I stared over my shoulder, realising I was not remotely considered an enemy. I had been forgotten. I could slip between the ranks, haunt my way free, and put all of this behind me… if only I’d had my coin around my neck. Instead, it was once again with Horix. Hirana. Old habits died hardest.

  There came a mighty roar as Danib and Etane finally clashed. Soldiers both royal and Cult cleared a space for it. I couldn’t see much, but I saw Danib moving faster than I had ever seen, whirling and parrying, blue vapour trailing him like a shadow. Shards of metal scattered from his twin swords every time they met Etane’s sharp blade. Heavy blows rained down on the smaller shade, yet Etane met every one, equally as nimble. Their weapons became wheels of silver and sparks. Not a word was spoken between them. I watched, rapt, as their duel weaved back and forth across the marble.

  When one of Danib’s swords was sheared away, he used his huge fists instead, striking Etane in the ribs or face whenever he danced close enough. It staggered him enough for Danib’s sword to cut gashes in Etane’s gold armour. But for every blow that touched him, Etane cleaved a chunk from Danib’s steel plates, baring more and more blue.

  The old ghost was a masterful fighter, using Danib’s own momentum against him. Every lunge became a stumble, every swing an overreach. Etane’s giant sword whipped back and forth, nicking arms and legs to slow his opponent.