by Ben Galley
Ani grumbled. ‘So?’
‘So they must be building something.’
‘What?’
Temsa shrugged. ‘They’re calling themselves a church these days. Maybe that’s what they’re building. Good time for it, with the emperor stuck in his Sanctuary. Bah! Whatever the reason, the Cult is dependent on me. As we keep that balance tipped and keep smiling, we needn’t worry. We’ll follow their path for now, see what we can make of these tips of theirs.’ He licked the corner of his mouth while he pondered. ‘And in the meantime, we’ll reap the benefits.’
Ani rubbed her hands, though her face remained as grim as ever.
‘Get your men ready. No more fresh meat if we can help it. They need to be trustworthy.’
‘Aye, Boss. When are we heading out?’
Before an answer could be given, the curtain was wrenched back and Danib’s glow spilled into the room. He had to duck to negotiate the archway. Temsa eyed the thin scroll in the shade’s humongous fist and tapped his cane with vigour.
‘Tonight, m’dear. Tonight.’
As Ani vacated, Temsa snatched the scroll from Danib and held it to a nearby oil lamp. The ornate scratching of the Sisters was on the boundary of legible, and it took time to draw out the words.
‘Tal Habish. Tor Merlec. Tal Urma. Tor Kanus. Magistrate Ghoor. Serek Finel. Serek Boon… He’s already dead but he’s still richer than most. An audacious list, but then again, perhaps it is the time for audacity,’ Temsa raised his eyebrows at another name. A certain Widow Horix, the old bag from the soulmarkets. ‘My, my. Notes, too. “Hires cheap guards. Easily bribed. Break in watch at three chimes. Combination six, seven, eight…” Those sneaky Sesh-loving fuckers. I wonder how they gleaned all this. Hands up arseholes indeed.’
Danib shuffled, but Temsa put the point of his cane to the shade’s breastplate.
‘You hold them in far too high a regard for my liking. Especially for a group of people you turned your back on. They’re gossip peddlers and tiptoers, you know that just as I do. That’s what drove you out, no? The secrecy and ceremony? Their lack of will to swing a weapon? Or was it all that incessant prayer the old religions are so fond of? I forget.’ He blew a sigh, shaking the scroll. ‘Fuck them, I say. They’ve delivered all of this into my hands without so much as a handshake or a contract. The Cult might be useful, old friend, but they are weak. They have no teeth, just tongues, and that is not enough to get places in this city, as I intend to do. You made a good decision leaving them and selling your coin all those years ago. Don’t doubt it.’
The big ghost bowed his head.
Temsa went back to the scroll, reading the names once more, matching them with their weaknesses. He thought out loud, laying bare his plan. ‘Selling all these shades at market would be too difficult. Too suspicious. We already had enough trouble with Askeu and Yeera. No. No more dingy soulmarkets for us, Danib.’ He rubbed his fingers together. ‘I’ll need a sigil to make these claims look legitimate. A good and dirty one, or at least one who can be threatened. Then I can have the half-coins Weighed, banked and put to good use. In time, maybe I’ll need an entire bank. One that can handle this many coins and not raise questions. Suspicion is a bad guest to invite to a party.’ He hummed. The noise turned into a low chuckle. A fizzing of anticipation built in his belly. His fingertips scratched at each other. ‘Go get me Starsson.’
Danib left and returned with a pale-skinned man wearing a stained apron and long, greased hair tied in a tail. A tattoo of an octopus wrapped around his gullet and around his ears like a peculiar beard. The barkeep bared blackened teeth at Temsa.
‘Alright, Boss?’
‘Starsson. Tell me, is that whingeing coincounter fucker from Fenec Coinery still drinking here?’
‘Proppin’ up the bar as we speak. Still whinin’ like a dying toad. Fenec this. Fenec that. Fuckin’ borin’ if’n you asked me. Should do ’im in, Boss. Just for some peace and quiet. Say the word and I’ll go tickle his guts with my steel.’
Temsa cackled. ‘See, Danib? You can always trust a Skolman to speak his mind. No steel. Just go fetch him for me.’
This excursion took some time, and resulted in raised voices and a crash of stools. Temsa had another pipe glowing by the time Danib reappeared with Starsson, and a wriggling man in the shade’s grasp. The man was young and, like all financial types, he was dressed as sharp as a dagger. His eyes were underlined with dark paint and swirls. It had started running down his cheek now that he was sweating profusely.
‘I haven’t done anything!’ he cried. ‘I can pay for my drink!’
‘Mr…?’
‘Banush, sir.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘M… Master Temsa, sir. I mean, tor? Oh, fuck.’
‘You can put him down, Danib.’
The shade obliged, dropping Banush so hard he fell to his knees. He blinked in the tendrils of smoke curling from Temsa’s pipe.
‘Boss Temsa. I’m no tor. Not yet.’ That felt good to say out loud. Finally.
Banush had the look of a condemned man wondering why he was still gibbering excuses as they tightened the noose. ‘We… They know that. They call you a tor because of the way you—’
‘The way I what?’
‘Er… conduct yourself, sir.’
Temsa mentally pocketed that for later. He watched the sweat pour out of the man. ‘Here’s the problem, Mr Banush. You come in to my tavern with a lot of words. Not only that, but you’re rather fond of sharing them at a loud volume. Now, the Slab is a welcoming establishment. I might understand if you had something entertaining, or interesting, or even musical to say. However, all you bring to my tavern are complaints about your workplace and your apparently odious superior. Now that’s the sort of patron that I don’t much care for.’ Starsson affirmed his words with an irritable grunt.
‘I—’
‘I’ll let you know when it’s time to speak.’
Banush bowed his head so fast Temsa heard cartilage pop.
‘Something must be done about your incessant yapping.’ Temsa arose from the desk while Danib yanked the man’s head back by his hair. ‘Either my associates here can cut your tongue out and solve the problem that way, or you can do me a favour, and I might let you keep it. So long as you learn the virtue of silence, that is.’
‘Yes, Boss Temsa!’
‘Which is it, man?’
‘Erm, the second one. The favour. Anything!’
Temsa sucked his teeth, scolding the man. ‘Be careful with that word, Mr Banush. It’s a slippery one.’
Danib released him, and with much shaking, he got to his feet. ‘How can I be of service?’
The pipe glowed, making Banush wait. ‘You can tell me more about this superior of yours.’
There was a pause. ‘Tor Fenec’s son?’
Temsa raised an eyebrow. Even better. ‘Is that the man you complain about so liberally?’
Starsson nodded. ‘Trust me, Boss, it is. I ’eard all ’is bloody stories. Name’s Russun. He’s… how’d you put it again, Banush?’
The man’s lips wobbled. ‘The runt of the litter. Tor Fenec’s third, no, fourth son.’
‘Is he a coincounter like you?’ Temsa came closer.
‘No, he’s a sigil.’
‘Able to sign transfers, deposits, organise Weighings, that sort of thing?’
‘Of course, Boss Temsa. He’s set on following in his father’s footsteps.’
‘And where does Russun Fenec live?’
‘He got a big house from daddy, over in Yeresh District. Dead gods know what he did to deserve it. He’s forever talking about the sea views—Erg.’
Danib dug an elbow into Banush’s ribs to cut him short.
‘Has he a wife? Children?’
Banush gulped down whatever moralistic lump he’d just found in his throat. Temsa found people always squirmed at the mention of children, but unless it was their own children, almost always their own skin proved more important
.
‘A wife. And two young ones.’
A bare scroll and inked reed were shoved into Banush’s hands. ‘Write their street down before you get back to your drinking.’
The man hurriedly got to scribbling. Temsa could see the question hovering on his lips throughout, and it escaped only once he had laid the reed down.
‘What will happen to Russun? To them?’
Temsa indulged him. ‘If he is a good boy like you and does what he is told, then nothing. You should be happy, Mr Banush. Come tomorrow, he’ll be too preoccupied to bother or berate you any further. Oh, but I’d keep silent if I were you.’ He chuckled, tapping a finger to his nose. ‘Or I’ll have Danib rip your chords out and Starsson cook them up so you can physically eat your own words. He’s quite the chef.’
Banush’s weak smile withered immediately. Starsson met his horrified gaze with a blackened grin.
‘I make a mean rat-meat hash,’ remarked the barkeep, scratching at his octopus beard.
As Banush was hauled down the stairs, face ashen, Temsa waved his pipe. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr Banush! I know I will.’
They said fatherhood turned even the heaviest of men into the lightest of sleepers. While Russun Fenec was more scrawn than brawn, he’d learned that lesson all the same. Two small children could be brutal teachers. The slightest wail, moan, or cough never failed to drag him from his ever-shallow dreams.
So it was that the tinkle of glass awoke him in an instant. His hand reached out, feeling the outline of Haria, moaning in her half-sleep. His other hand went to the drawer, for the thin knife that lived there.
The stone was cold underfoot but quieter than floorboards. His fingers saw to each of the four locks on the bedchamber doors, then quietly peeled back the bolt.
The lanterns had either died or been snuffed. The orange glow of the city spilled through the shutters in crisscross patterns along the hallway. Russun slipped across the stone, knife at the ready. The children’s room was around the corner, door just ajar as always.
He pressed his ear to the gap and it moved at his touch, opening with a creak. He saw the dark shape framed in the light of the window, and his heart froze in his chest. He thought of calling for his house-guards, but he wanted his wife to stay put and sleeping. Out of harm’s way. Knife-tip wavering, he thrust open the door with teeth bared.
‘All’s well, Mr Fenec,’ said the shape. A man with his back turned, surrounded by shifting curtains. His silhouette had a lopsided shape, short and hunched, and in the gloom below his waist, something shone dully. ‘No need to worry.’
Russun saw both cribs empty. ‘Where are my sons?’
The man turned with a thump of something heavy on the floorboards, and showed Russun his face in the half-light, and what he held in the crooks of his arms.
‘Guards!’ Outrage trumping fear, Russun marched for the man, knife held high. His wrists were immediately seized by hands as cold and solid as iron, forcing them behind his back. A blue glow washed over him, along with a deep shiver up his spine. He arched his neck to find a giant shade towering above him.
‘I’m afraid your guards are somewhat… indisposed.’
Russun struggled all the same. It was also said fatherhood breeds the fiercest of protective instincts.
‘You leave them alone!’ Despite his shouts, the small boys slept on soundly in the intruder’s arms, curled up like the day they were born, thumbs in mouths.
The man rocked them, offering a smile and speaking softly. ‘You should know I mean your boys no harm. But then again, we all do things we don’t mean from time to time, eh, Mr Fenec?’
Russun’s voice was tight and hoarse, but low. ‘If you want silver or half-coins, I keep none in this house. It’s all stored in my father’s bank. I will give you all of it. Just don’t harm my boys.’
The stranger smiled. ‘Oh, I have plenty of my own, but thank you. No, Russun. I want you.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘More precisely, I want your right hand. You just happen to be attached.’
Russun felt the colour drain from his face. He struggled, looking behind him for a blade. His own still wiggled uselessly in his hand.
‘Relax,’ said the stranger. ‘Although usually I would mean that literally, tonight I do not. As a sigil for one of the oldest banks in the Arc, you can help get me an account at your father’s bank. I’ll also be needing your signature on certain transfers and deposits, and a Weighing or two in the near future. One that does not require much scrutiny. I have my mind set on becoming a noble, you see.’
‘It’s against the Code. We won’t have any part of criminal—’
The stranger stepped closer to the window so Russun could watch him run the back of his hand across his son’s cheek. ‘You can and you will. Or your pretty wife will come in one morning to find young…?’
Russun swallowed. ‘Bilzar. And Helin.’
‘To find young Bilzar’s little face facing the wrong way. Maybe Danib here will snap Helin in half. Variety is a spice, so they say.’
‘I…’ Words failed Russun. He squirmed in the big shade’s grip.
The stranger placed both snoring bundles in the nearest crib, but not before kissing each on the cheek with his wrinkled lips. ‘There’s a good man. Now, why don’t you take a moment to say goodnight, get a hold of yourself, then we’ll get started, shall we? We have a busy night ahead.’
‘Started?’ he said, before Danib tossed him to the floor. ‘Tonight?’
‘That’s right.’
Russun’s hands shook as he grabbed the crib bars. He was a stewing pot of emotion, clapped tightly shut, pressure trapped by impotence. All he could do was obey to keep his sons and wife alive. He left a kiss on his sons’ foreheads before the huge shade muscled him towards the open window.
‘I…’ he tried again, but only air came from his mouth.
The stranger smiled as he showed Russun the grapples of a rope ladder. A group of dubious-looking characters and a covered wagon waited half a dozen storeys below. The young man threw a look back at the dark of the nursery, and received a sharp prod in the chest for his procrastination.
‘No need to worry about that pretty wife. I can always leave one or two of my boys to guard her chamber, if you’d like?’
‘No!’ There was no pause in that reply. ‘No need.’
‘You’ll be back before dawn, my good sir,’ said the man, with another wicked smile. ‘Unlike banking, in my business it pays to be speedy. Now move, before I change my mind.’
Russun grabbed the rope and put one gangly leg over the railing, silently berating himself for not asking his father for a bigger house.
Chapter 9
A Glimmer
Churn, churn, stir it so,
Coin on tongue, stripped head to toe!
Dead god-wrought and god-forgotten,
Never still and never rotten.
Flowing ever, the gate of death,
Welcomes all who know no breath.
Churn, churn, stir it so,
Naked bodies, in they go!
Coin once for passage, now for key,
Binds them to immortality.
Lifeless in, come thrashing out,
’Til coin re-joined, a servant’s shout.
Churn, churn, stir it so,
Out come shades, all a-glow!
Old Nyxite Poem, for prospective Nyxites
‘Fuck me, Jerub.’
‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the s—’
The copper switch, Vex’s favourite toy, struck again. It scored a mark across my cheek, stinging as sharp as a whiplash.
‘You call these polished?’ He poked at the candlesticks I’d been tending to for over three hours. ‘The widow would be horrified to see these on her shelves. Start again!’
I looked to the ceiling, hunting for patience through a long breath. ‘Yes, Master Vex.’
He strode away, making the others scatter. Once gone, they stared at me with
the usual withering looks of we told you so. I went back to my polishing and kept my anger on the inside, far away from my face.
For the next few hours, I gave the candlesticks the thrashing of their lives, finishing up long after the other ghosts had been pulled away to other tasks. I was left alone in the great dining hall, for the first time untended and unwatched. It was in moments like those that my fingers and feet grew rather itchy.
The candlesticks were replaced in hurried motions and I swept the soiled cloths and empty vials of polish and other cleaning stuffs into a bag. Concentrating hard to hold it, I slung it over my shoulder and plotted a winding path around the hall, taking long looks at things I had not yet been allowed to touch.
The sun bathed the trinkets and metal-thread tapestries in a golden light. It would be hours before it sunk below the rooftops, but there was a tinge of orange in its glow. Decorative urns shone with it. Bejewelled mahogany boxes took on a molten quality. The craftsman in me – or to be truthful, the thief in me – wanted to salivate. I licked my cold lips instead.
I left the hall and went up the stairs instead of down. I had the excuse of finding the others or Vex if it came to it. That was all the license I needed to pry into the upper corridors at the pinnacle of the widow’s tower.
My first impressions confirmed they were small and slanted, leading to rooms that glowed orange with whale-oil lamps. Spotted furs and sweeping silks hugged their walls. I wanted to tread the floors of each hall, but I couldn’t linger. Instead, I found a large reception room with another wall of clear glass at its far end. The city beyond it was black and glittering gold. Only its myriad lamps and candles told me how vast it was.
Plants in varying stages of life and decay sat about the room, rooted in ornate pots ranging from tiny to back-breaking in size. Mahogany shelves lifted them high up the sandstone walls, and I wasn’t surprised to find that the harder to reach vegetation was the deadest. Gold watering cans sat between the pots, a layer of dust dimming their metal. A few scrolls and tomes leaned here and there, lonely between the plants.
I thought the room empty until I heard the rustle of a reed on papyrus in the corner, and saw the shadows move across the shelves. A monstrous bowed head lifted, and claws flexed. I froze at first, then turned to bow.
