by Ben Galley
Sisine pinched the gold and amethyst rings about her hands as she paced, teasing out ideas. ‘Continue looking for the blasted locksmith. He might still be useful to us, but I will not wait much longer for him. Mother could still return at any time. The sereks grow too restless. I see them staring at the throne while I speak, especially that bastard Boon. If I cannot break my father out of his hiding place, then I will have to draw him out. Something unprecedented.’
‘And what might that be, in a city such as Araxes?’ asked Etane, quietly, as if he didn’t want to hear the answer.
Sisine looked again to the city sprawled far below. Twenty years she had waited for the cold touch of its crown on her head. She could remember the idea blossoming when she was but two years of age, watching her father take the throne with blood still on his hands. That was when she learned her place in the world.
‘I will create an uproar in the city; chaos. Something that finally drags him from his golden burrow. And I shall be there waiting for him with a smile and a triggerbow in my hand. Too long have I waited in the shadows, watching my father squander his rule and my mother become more like a shade each passing day. I refuse to be a messenger, a lackey, as she was. I was born into the Piercer to rule, and it is high time I did.’
The shade said nothing.
‘A problem, Etane?’
‘No problem, Your Resplendence. Just sounds like more blood is set to be spilled, is all.’ He turned to face her, a blank look on his blue features. ‘But what’s more blood to a family line like the Talin Renala’s?’
Sisine snapped her fingers. ‘Precisely, and I will be trusting in you to be the one spilling it, when that time comes.’
‘I died to serve, Magnificence,’ he said as he bowed.
‘In that case, have my spies look into these recent disappearances. They could be just what I need.’ She sought an armchair and threw herself into it. ‘And fetch me my luncheon. I’m hungry.’
‘Of course.’ Etane bowed again, already on his way to the door. ‘I imagine all this scheming generates quite the appetite. Your mother and father would be rather proud if they could see you now.’
He shut the door before the pillow could reach him. It bounced to the floor, belled tassels jingling. Their musical notes hung in the air, interrupting the curse poised on her lips with an idea.
Mother.
In Sisine’s private bedchamber, a steel chest sat at the foot of her bed, guarded by three thick padlocks. The keys from around her neck cracked them open, and inside, perched atop a raft of precious things, was a polished wooden box of mahogany and black iron. It held a slender silver bell, engraved with a design of fine copper feathers and storm clouds.
Sisine took it into an adjoining room, where gossamer curtains frolicked around an open door and balcony. With the wind dragging at her hair, she held the bell high and rang it nine times. A tiresome number, but it was what the spell demanded for the quickest summoning.
The air above the stone parapet crackled sharply, then came a burst of white feathers and dust. Sisine recoiled as grit flew in her face.
‘You again,’ said a harsh voice, like crab-shells being crushed.
When her vision cleared, she found a dishevelled falcon perched on the stone, feathers sticking out at all angles. His black and yellow eyes were narrowed, hooked beak parted in a pant.
‘Me again,’ she replied.
He fixed her with a stare, bright yet somehow cold as murder. ‘I was halfway into a rat burrow. Scared the shit out of me. You can’t just summon me after all this time with no warning. I thought you’d bloody sold me.’
‘Actually, I believe I can.’ Sisine held up the bell, letting it chime. The falcon screeched as if in pain. ‘So you had best mind your impudent tongue, little bird.’
‘It still works with six bells. Ring six bells, and I can come here at my own speed.’
‘No. This is urgent.’
The bird clacked his beak. ‘I’m a falcon, Princess. I’m pretty fucking fast.’
‘You’re here now. I have need of you.’
‘That ain’t how it works. I’m bound to the bell, not your uppity whims!’
Sisine dangled the bell over the stone parapet, craning her head to wonder at which street it would fall in. ‘I know how it works, Bezel. The same as a half-coin, so you had better watch your tone with your master.’
The falcon strutted brusquely up and down the parapet. Sharp talons rasped against the sandstone. ‘What you offering this time?’
‘Food, naturally. Wine. Roost for as long as you want it. I shall even have all the messenger birds cleared out.’
‘That all?’
‘A female or two per week.’
‘Better make it three.’ Bezel puffed himself up. ‘A day. Anything else?’
Sisine folded her arms. ‘And I shall ring six bells.’
‘And what is it that you want this time?’
‘I need you to find my mother as quickly as possible.’
‘She not dead, then? Rumour had it she was dead.’
‘Hardly! You would have heard of such a… tragedy.’
‘Princess, I was in Skol before you rudely summoned me. Believe it or not, the Reaches don’t revolve around the Arctian Empire and your royal family.’
‘Perhaps it should, but we digress. My mother is not dead, simply gone. A note she left mentioned going east and so I thought her homesick or finally tired of father and his Sanctuary. I need to know for certain. I need to know where she is and whether she is planning on returning. Whether she’s up to something I haven’t yet discerned.’
The falcon sighed. ‘You Arctians have real problems with trust, don’t you?’
‘I am merely worried for this family’s safety, of course.’
‘Your own safety, more like,’ Bezel squawked.
Sisine felt like backhanding the bird into thin air. He was half-mad as well as half-dead. Etane’s cheek paled in comparison to Bezel’s tongue. The uppity strangebound had been a gift from a past courtier, a Prince Phylar, seven years past. The Scatter Isle fool hadn’t known what the bell could do, and she hadn’t bothered to return it after refusing his hand. Father had skirmished with his princedom ever since, and Sisine had used the bird for all sorts of nefarious spying during her earlier years.
‘Will you do as I order?’
Bezel put a pinion to his beak in thought. ‘What does your father think of his wife leaving?’ he asked. ‘Still in his Sanctuary, I assume?’
‘The emperor is still locked away. Nothing has changed except that I’m now the one who hands out his decrees.’
‘He’s a wise man, your father. They say you royals are born with daggers in your hands.’
Sisine tapped the silver bell with her fingernail. ‘They say that for a good reason, bird. Now, do we have an accord?’
Bezel bowed his head, keeping his beady eyes locked on hers. ‘We do. But you make it four females. A day.’
With that, he threw himself from the windowsill and plummeted from the tower. She lost sight of him in the sprawl, but heard his keening wail, scattering clouds of pigeons and parrots from their roosts.
Sisine stared out at the dusty horizon once more, finally able to relax a little now that Bezel’s keen eyes had been bought. She sighed, and felt her stomach rumble.
Etane was right: all this scheming did work up an appetite.
Chapter 7
The Widow’s Tower
A master’s will is absolute. A shade must do as he or she pleases. Should disobedience occur, it is the master’s prerogative which punishment he or she sees fit to apply. A list of suggestions is available from the Chamber of Punishment.
Article 12, S1 OF The Code of Indenturement
‘Line URRRP!’ The colonel’s bellow deafened me before we had been freed from the cart. I didn’t have much time to complain as my ropes were yanked and I pitched onto the dirt face first.
I was dragged up and shoved into line as I wrestled to
get my bearings. I’d been too lost in my hopeful daydreams to notice we had arrived at Horix’s abode. I gazed up at the skinny pyramid stretching into the sky. Five faces, I counted. It was taller than most of the buildings around it, a sand-brown colour striped with marble and iron. The tower wore its windows like old pox scars, deep and sunken into the stone. Few balconies interrupted its slanted sides. I saw a few lingering halfway up and another near the spire’s point. A gaggle of bright green parrots sat on the lower ones, cackling amongst themselves.
We had been brought to a courtyard made of simple pillars holding up colossal slabs. Ghosts hovered in every corner, dressed in grey servants’ smocks embroidered with black feathers: the symbol of the indentured.
In front of us stood a bald and portly man, his skin shiny with grease and sweat. He had a clear fondness for silks. He was swaddled in them, head to toe. Dark patches had blossomed at his chest and armpits. Bracelets of bone and beetle carapace hung in their multitudes from his forearms.
At his side was a ghost with vacant eye-sockets. He too was bald, but comprised entirely of angles, like the facets of a cut gem. A grey smock hung on his sharp shoulders, also emblazoned with a black feather and presumably the widow’s seal. Despite his blindness, I felt the pressure of his gaze on me as he surveyed us new arrivals. Perhaps he still had a sense for sight in death. His wizened grimace told me he didn’t approve much of us.
‘What arse-scrapings has the lady bought now, Colonel?’
‘They’ll do fine for what we need, Yamak. Don’t worry your ugly head.’ Kalid tossed the fat man a scroll. He caught it clumsily and passed it to the ghost.
‘Read ’em, Vex.’
The ghost by his side cleared his throat. ‘Jerub.’
I raised my hand after some hesitation. I didn’t like playing my new character, but in all honesty, I wasn’t keen on any more pain. Who knew being dead could be so unenjoyable?
‘Bela?
The Skol woman raised her hand.
‘So you must be Mamun.’
‘Mfghm.’
Yamak threw up his arms. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, his voice ain’t even settled in yet!’
‘Calm, man,’ said Kalid.
‘Vex, get them clothed. Get that one a scarf. And the young’un a cloth cap.’
‘Cleaning duty?’
‘Aye. For now. Kitchen for the lad.’
‘Right you are.’
Vex beckoned us forward, and after Kalid had released our ropes, we followed. Yamak stayed behind to whisper with the colonel.
The inside of the tower was grand and spacious. Great blocks of stone had been hewn into arched corridors and sweeping stairwells. We took the grandest of them, and as we climbed I found myself glad of my spectral muscles for the very first time. There was none of the usual burn in my underworked calves, no ache in my overfed sides, and besides the concentration of walking on vapour, which I was still growing used to, it felt easy.
Vex gave us our welcome as we climbed, pointing out places of interest on every floor. ‘You will now refer to me as Vex. I’m the head of the house-shades, and report directly to Master Yamak, the master of this household. As such, you will obey me. Lower balconies are through there. Tal Horix, or Widow Horix as she is also known, expects a high level of excellency from her shades. You will call her tal or mistress. Storage rooms and laundry cupboards here. She does not tolerate tardiness, backchat, or excuses. Quarters for the living staff are here. You are to be silent until asked a question. When answering, speak loudly and clearly. Tal Horix does not like mumbling. Guards’ chambers there. You’re never to touch her, for she cannot abide the touch of a shade. Merely looking at you’s enough of a challenge. Trust me, I should know. First and second libraries there. If you’re confused, there is but one golden rule to abide by: you will do whatever is asked of you without hesitation or question. That is what the Tenets demand of you. The widow always abides by the Tenets and the Code of Indenturement. Ah, kitchens.’
Vex halted us in front of an archway, leading to a corridor beyond. Steam lingered on the ceiling, and I could hear the sounds of clanging and yelling.
‘Mamun, report to Cook Hussa. He’ll put you to work. Down there, boy. Go.’
Two floors up, Vex showed Bela and me to a series of honeycomb hallways, with alcoves no bigger than small cupboards and without doors.
‘This is where you stay when not working.’
The question burst from me. ‘And what work is that?’
Vex shot me a hollow look. ‘As a house-shade? Cleaning, serving, dusting, washing, and more cleaning.’
I nodded, holding back all manner of sarcasm.
‘You will find your new smocks in that chest there. I shall get you a scarf, Jerub. The widow doesn’t want to see grotesque wounds about her tower.’
‘Do I get a choice of scarf?’
Vex offered me a smile as he came closer. I stared into those dark pits, wondering who had plucked them clean. ‘I can tell your sort. You think you’re above this, that you’ve been wronged in some way. That this half-life of yours isn’t fair. Well, sir, I can tell you that never goes away. The inevitability of your situation never goes away, either. Twenty years I’ve worked for the widow and no doubt more await me. This…’ He paused to poke a finger into my chest. I felt gelatinous, and despite how freezing I was, somehow he felt colder still. ‘This is your lot now. Save us all your witty jibes and smart remarks. You’re dead. Hurry up and get used to it.’
I managed to nod, even as I silently reaffirmed my vow to do the exact opposite.
‘Fine,’ I said, following Bela to the chest. Now I had been offered clothes, I was eager to end my spate of nakedness. Bela was, too, it seemed. She saw to the lid, angling it up to reveal neat rows of folded cotton smocks with black feathers emblazoned on their breasts. They also bore the widow’s seal: three skeletons hanging from nooses.
I grabbed at one, but my numb fingers slipped over the smock. I tried three times to no avail, marvelling at how my fingertips almost passed through the fabric. I looked to Bela, who was doing much better.
‘Slowly,’ she whispered. ‘While you think about being solid. Alive again.’
‘Trouble, Jerub?’ asked Vex.
‘No,’ I lied, reaching out again. I thought hard about being alive. I had done nothing else since being tossed in the cell, so I was rather practised. To my surprise, it worked. My vapours seemed to flow down my arm, bolstering my touch. After several more tries, I managed to pinch the smock and pulled it over my head before I lost the thought.
‘Creatures of will instead of flesh,’ I muttered to myself, some old poem of childhood forgotten until now. The Krass have never been known for the cheeriness of their nursery rhymes. The eastern Reaches didn’t dally in teaching the hardness of the world. I’ve always thought it had something to do with the climate. The steppes and mountains knew only scorching sun, mad storms, and slightly less scorching sun.
‘Be glad we’re not the sort of house that brands its shades, or leaves them naked! Now off to the dining hall with you! Chores await.’
Vex shooed us from the room and back up the stairs to a hall shaped like a wedge of cheese. One wall was almost entirely glass, sloping with the shape of the tower. Dominating the marble floor was a table that would have easily sat fifty people. Great loops and hammocks of silk adorned the sandstone walls, framing tapestries woven in metal threads.
Half a dozen ghosts stood around the table, already hard at work polishing a veritable sea of cutlery. They didn’t stop working when we arrived, but their eyes followed every step we took.
‘New shades. Put them to work,’ said Vex, and with that, his work was done. He strolled from the hall without so much as a sniff, leaving us alone with the others.
Cloths and glazed bowls of greasy polish were handed to Bela and me without a word. The ghosts’ gesticulations told us to get working. I caught a few of them glancing warily at the doorways leading from the hall. I decided to ho
ld my tongue around these creatures.
Once I’d finally managed to manhandle the cloth, I jabbed at a nearby spoon. It came out in a shine at once. With some difficulty, I angled the cutlery to face me. I wanted to see the raking gash across my neck.
I almost dashed the thing from the table. I had no reflection. I thrust my nose into it, but all I saw was a melted whorl that resembled the wall behind me. The sight was a punch in the gut, and far more morbid than I’d been aiming for.
The others had begun to chuckle. I heard the word ‘fresh’ mentioned more than once in whisper. I turned my back on them and moved further down the table.
There is a pureness in tedious work. Time spent on nothing but a singular and repetitive task is holistic for the mind, much like sleeping while a wound heals. I occupied my mind with the simple battle of polish versus filth. Each object cleaned was a tiny victory in my own private war. It was the closest I could come to relaxation.
More so, it gave me time to practise my fingers. I knew ghosts could manipulate the world of the living – hold, lift, carry and all that – but I had never realised how tricky it was. The heavy cutlery slipped from my palms over and over, drawing narrowed looks from the other ghosts. For somebody whose hands had once been so dextrous, so clever, it was maddening.
After several hours, I got the measure of my grip, and by the time we’d cleared away the table, I could hold a tray of cutlery with only a slight wobble. Another small victory, but it buoyed me all the same.
Dusters appeared and we saw to the tapestries. After that, brooms for the leopard- and antelope-skin rugs. Then wax for the marble. It was almost evening by the time we were shooed from the hall by Master Yamak, and set immediately to cleaning the guards’ quarters. Beds, drawers, cupboards, windows, I saw to them all like a creature of clockwork. By the time Vex came to take us back into our alcoves, everything we had touched gleamed. The war on dirt was over. Vex gave us a shrug, pointed out several areas of dust, and ordered it done again on the morrow.
As the ghost led us away, I began to understand the dour expressions I’d seen on the household dead. Until now, I’d thought it a simple by-product of being deceased; now I saw the burden wasn’t death, but indenturement. Immortality sounds a wondrous thing with air in your lungs and freedom in your pocket. To one as dead as me, it was a hateful word. To a man enslaved, it is an endless war, the weapons of which are repetition, dullness and cruelty. Passing time becomes surviving time, and tomorrow becomes a curse-word.
