by Ben Galley
The man riled against his restraints. A scrawny man, with oddly pale hair and wide green eyes, he was breaking rather easily. ‘I wom ehb ou! Fuck ou!’
Temsa looked to Ani, halfway across the room. ‘It’s nice the dead gods made us so that we can still say “fuck” after somebody’s cut out our tongue, isn’t, it m’dear?’
Ani shrugged, as she always did when she hadn’t heard something.
Temsa tutted. ‘Come now, Merlec. Not even to save this old skin of yours?’ He twisted the thick hook into the tor’s flesh, in and out so the metal held a band of skin over it. That made four now, spread across his chest and shoulders. Merlec’s wiry white hair was stained with blood.
‘I…’
‘No? Well, then.’ Temsa spoke as he worked, attaching thin chains to each of the hooks. ‘You’re an old man, Merlec. You’ve lived a good and prosperous life. Perhaps it’s time to let somebody else have a chance, eh? Tell us how to get into the vault. It’s your own fault for not trusting in our good banks like a clever man. That’s what they’re there for!’
‘Fucking old-fashioned is what it is,’ said Ani.
‘I agree.’
‘Maarua,’ mumbled the tor, growing more nervous as Temsa clanged backwards, chains gripped in one fist.
‘Was that a yes? Release his restraints, Danib, Ani!’ Temsa tugged on the chains once the man was free. Merlec squealed as he scrambled to get up. He clung uselessly to his stretching skin.
Temsa threw the tor into the opulent hallway, where his thugs were busy liberating trinkets they fancied from mahogany cabinets and shelves. Temsa got the pick of their piles, of course, but it was cheaper payment than his own silver.
‘Any luck, Tooth?’
At the end of the marble hallway was a wide room with one way in, one way out. A large circular door occupied one wall, the entrance to Merlec’s vault. A woman standing up against its door spat as they entered. She was holding a papyrus cone to her ear, the other end flush with the decorative wood and silver of the vault.
‘Ain’t no uthe. Take a better lockthmith than me t’ get in’t ’ere, Both,’ she said, with a thick Scatter accent and lisp. The woman had one tooth that poked from her upper gum across her lower lip. It made her whistle when she spoke. She turned from the door and froze when she saw the state of the tor, and the chains running from his naked, bloody back to Temsa’s fist.
‘Fine.’ Temsa yanked the hooks again. One tore lose, making a hole of bloody flesh above Merlec’s nipple. ‘The combination, Tor, if you please.’ He spoke calmly over the man’s screams.
‘Ou wom fuckih geh ewa wi is! Crimiha! CRIMIHA!’
Temsa stamped his foot, making everybody present jump. ‘The combination, Merlec! I’m waiting! Don’t test me further, man!’
With a sob, Merlec hung his head. Another tug on the chains brought it straight back up, grimacing with pain.
‘I’m waiting! Or would you rather see how many hooks it takes to dangle you from the top of your tower?’ shouted Temsa.
The tor got to his knees, reached for the handles of the vault door, and began to turn them left and right in an intricate sequence. Something deep within the wood and silver panels clicked and whirred, hidden cogs and springs winding. There came a great clang, and one half of the door edged open.
‘Ahhh, that’th it,’ whistled Tooth.
Merlec slumped on the floor, broken. Temsa released his chains and stepped over him into the vault.
Like the rest of the grand mansion, the vault bled luxury. There were silk drapes at the door, fine wood on its ceiling, and gold swirls on the floor. Small lamps of glow-worms filled the room with a greenish light.
Temsa tugged the curtains aside to reveal stacks upon stacks of shining half-coins spread around the walls, all bound with reed twine and gauze.
He heard a shuffling behind him, and a polite cough. ‘That you, Russun?’
‘Mhm,’ came the mumbled reply. This was the second time they had plucked him from his home, and it had become apparent he was the quiet type. Temsa didn’t mind. He liked silence in his men.
‘Once we have his signature, you may start counting. After that, you’re free to leave. Is that our tor’s last will?’
Russun nodded and lifted up the scroll for him to look over. ‘And transfer documents for everything else he entrusted to the banks. What little there was.’
‘It looks good. Very good indeed. What excuse are you going with this time?’
‘It’s all aligned with the Code… Boss. Under section ninety-six, Tor Merlec bequeaths you his estate due to ill health. At the time of his death and after binding, you own his estates and half-coins.’
‘And why me?’
‘Several receipts for legal trade of shades, visits to your tavern, and family connections. They’ve all been put into the scrolls. It’s good enough for the Chamber, should they ever investigate.’
Temsa banged his cane. ‘Very good! You’re a natural, Russun. Both your father and your family would be extremely proud if they could see you now. Ani, assist our young sigil here with Merlec’s signature and seal.’
The woman led Russun away, leaving Temsa and Danib to admire the coin-clad walls. Even the shade’s fingers reached out to touch the stacks. The more Temsa counted, the more he chuckled, until he was braying with laughter. Danib stood there scratching his head.
‘I thought you’d be pleased, old friend. Twice now your old comrades have led us true.’
The big shade shrugged, waving his hands over the coins as if they were a meagre handful.
‘You’re wrong. This is what I’ve been working for. Of course it’s bold, but bold is what I need to be if I want to claim my rightful place in this city.’
Danib met his eyes. Temsa stamped his foot in rage. ‘I don’t care what it looks like! I will deal with these uppity nobles how I see fit. If that means teaching them a lesson before they taste a blade, so be—’
A loud screech interrupted him. Temsa threw up his hands and limped to the vault door.
Ani had the chains in hand, almost hauling Merlec off the floor. The skin around each hook looked like the peaks of desert tents.
‘He refused,’ she said.
‘Tut tut, Tor. You should know better than to refuse Miss Jexebel here.’ Temsa took Ani’s hand and lowered it. ‘How is he supposed to sign if he’s passed out from pain?’
‘But you said—’
‘I need him to sign. Then you can do with him what you want.’ There came another sob from behind him, and Temsa looked in its direction. ‘Now, Tor Merlec, are you holding us up again? Sign the document and this ugly business shall be concluded.’
Merlec offered a stream of malformed curses. A handful of them made sense: something about criminal, murderer, and thief. Temsa smiled.
‘What else do you expect from a man who breaks into your tower in the early hours of the night with a handful of thugs?’ The thugs in question chortled amongst themselves. ‘You know I’ll just take it all if I have to, with or without your signature. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way and sell your trinkets and shades at market one by one. I’ll have you bound, too, cut your tongue out and sell you to some desert quarry. But I have grander plans than that, my good man, and I wager you would rather spend the rest of your days either alive or unbound in some far-flung part of the Reaches. So why don’t we make it look official, hmm?’ Temsa thrust the document in his face once more. ‘Fucking sign it!’
It was then that Merlec gave up his last vestige of rebellion. Perhaps it was the pain, or the pointlessness of it all, but in any case he took the reed with a shaking hand and managed to scrawl something legible enough to make Russun nod. A silver box, its insides black with ink-stained moss, was held in front of the tor. Temsa manoeuvred Merlec’s hand like a puppet master, dabbing and pressing his signet ring to the papyrus.
‘Good enough, sigil?’
‘It’ll get by,’ whispered Russun, withdrawing. It seemed the man was not one
for blood.
Temsa sighed, patting the tor on the head. ‘Ani, Danib, take him away. I think he’s earned something reasonably quick. Keep it away from the face, though. I want him sellable after we bind him.’
Merlec did not protest until the last words. He thrashed and bellowed like a drowning oryx. It was one thing to take his possessions, his house, even his life. But to bind him for eternity like one of his own shades? That was true damnation. The nobles were so sure of their ability to carry on being rich beyond the grave, it was almost a pleasure to cheat them of it.
As Merlec was escorted into the hallway and back to his bedchamber, the screams faded in increments until they stopped altogether.
Temsa concluded his work with a slap of his hands. ‘You four,’ he barked, pointing to a group of his men. ‘You stay. Dress up in Merlec’s livery. Keep anyone who comes calling at bay. Say he’s gone south unexpectedly. You lot, help Russun get these half-coins counted, loaded up and back to the Slab. Take anything we can sell, too. Store it all with the rest, ready for when we pay Fenec’s Coinery a visit. As for Merlec’s shades, gather them up and keep them in the cellars. I’ll own their half-coins as soon as we have Merlec bound. Then we can start putting them to good use. Got to keep up the appearance of legitimacy, haven’t we, m’dear?’
‘Aye, Boss.’
He oversaw their scurrying for a while until he realised Tooth was lingering beside him, like a lost column. She was a wiry thing, getting wirier all the time with age. She also watched the activity, biting her bottom lip repeatedly with her snaggle-tooth as she teased at her fire-coloured hair. No wonder she had such dry lips.
‘What?’
‘Pologieth for the door, Both. Combinathons are tricky beathtth. Thethe rich artholes get the betht vaultthmith. Thith wath probably Mathter Thulith’s work. Recognithe the patternths. Deviouth fuckin’ thmith ’e ith.’
Temsa stared at her flatly. ‘I see.’
She appeared to be out of excuses, so she shrugged, bowed, and began to pack up her tools. Temsa watched her, examining each tool she chucked into a cloth bag. Some were not so different from his tools of torture. An auger there, a hammer here, and pieces of thin metal, like knife blades. His eyes narrowed as he pondered.
Ani had returned, as had Danib, now with a fresh corpse in tow.
‘Something on your mind, Boss?’ she asked.
‘Always, m’dear. At the moment, it’s a locksmith.’
Ani followed his eyes, seeing Tooth slip out with his men.
‘Not the first time that scrawny cunt has failed you, is it?’
‘I’ll give her one more chance.’ Feeling the silence, Temsa looked around to see Ani wearing an unsure expression. ‘What’s your problem? Been talking to Danib, have you? Go on, spit it out.’
Ani raised her chin, standing straighter like a soldier at attention. Her eyes focused somewhere above his head. ‘Nothing at all, Boss. Huge haul. Only a few dozen men lost. And one less rich bastard in the city. No problems here.’
Temsa flourished his cane. ‘That’s what I like to hear, m’dear! Take note, Danib!’ He clanged away, calling out over his shoulder, ‘And fetch me Tor Busk. Have him meet me at the tavern. I want to see if he has another locksmith on his books.’
He could hear Ani’s upper lip curl, that crackle of spit over big teeth.
‘Aye, Boss.’
The morning was thick with mist. A fog had blown in from the Troublesome Sea, flooding the streets with its dank, cold vapours. It was as if some colossal, Nyx-bound sea monster had washed ashore and claimed the city for its grave.
Tor Simeon Busk hurried on, grunting and grimacing with every step. The cold played havoc with his old hips. He did not like the mist. If he had wanted cold, he would have stayed in Skol.
A shade bumbled out of the haze, arms full of crimson vegetables. Busk dragged out his knife and waved the shade to go around him. That was another reason he hated the mist. It was hard to hide in the desert sun, but mist made every shadow a waylayer, every muffled clank an approaching soulstealer.
‘Away with you!’ he snapped.
‘Yes, Tor,’ muttered the shade, noting the fine silks wrapping Busk’s generously proportioned body. He did as he was told, bowing as much as his armload would allow.
‘Disgusting sneaker,’ said Busk as he walked on. The fact that no high-roads came close to Temsa’s tavern was a cause for disappointment. He kept the dagger out for good measure. If it were up to him, he would have stayed in his tower and kept out of this dangerous fog. With the recent disappearance of several nobles, the city was growing more soul-thirsty by the week. But a man didn’t say no when Boss Boran Temsa called. Unless he was suicidal, of course, or didn’t know the name. In either case he would eventually be delivered, yelling and screaming. Busk knew better.
He struggled on, navigating by the blurry edges of buildings, gauging his whereabouts by the names of taverns or bazaars. Nothing appeared solid. No direction seemed certain. He heard the rumble of carts go by him, but no detail other than a passing shadow. A few drunkards staggered into his confined, hazy world. With a shake of the dagger, they dispersed like blown seeds in search of a new home.
At last, the slanted edges and sharp point of The Rusty Slab reared out of the mist, like a mountain too perfect. The pyramid’s lights were either still glowing from the evening before, or had been lit uncomfortably early. In the haze, they were like arachnid’s eyes, observing Busk’s approach. He aimed for the tall thrust of stone that gave the building a front. Its flat face bore carvings of merry scenes and a long sign brayed the tavern’s name and ownership.
As Busk made it to the ramp of the door, a man came flying past him. Literally. He didn’t touch the sand for several yards. Somewhat startled, Busk looked up to discover Miss Ani Jexebel standing over him. The sleeves of her tunic had been bunched up, showing off the scars and black swirls of ink that decorated her bulging forearms.
‘And stay out!’ she barked at the man she had forcibly ejected, then nodded absently to the tor. ‘Busk.’
‘Tor Busk, madam. I have a title for a reason.’
‘And I’ve got two fists for a fuckin’ reason. Want me to use them?’
Busk looked at the aforementioned fists, clad in leather and bone gloves. ‘No.’
‘Then in with you. Temsa’s been waiting, and that’s something I wouldn’t make him do, if I were you.’
He took her suggestion, stepping into the tavern and onto a sticky sandstone floor. The mist had crept in, drawing a haze around the whale-oil lamps. The staff who ambled about between the patrons were all alive; not a shade amongst them. It was as if Temsa didn’t trust a shade to serve a drink.
The huge shade, the one who insisted on all the battle armour, was waiting by the stairwell. One humongous hand held the curtain open while another beckoned to him. Busk went ahead, treading the dark stairs in the blue glow of Danube, or whatever his name was. Busk’s footsteps were lost amidst the heavy, rhythmic clanking following close behind. His breath hung in the frigid air that wafted from the giant.
The chamber was also dark. Temsa was sitting behind his desk, enwreathed in a thick cloud of smoke. A pipe bowl hovered near his lips, lighting just his crooked nose and sharp eyes. There were dark bags of tiredness beneath them. One single hair escaped from the coiffed slickness on his balding scalp, and dangled over his lined forehead.
A smoke ring came bursting out of the cloud and floated towards Busk. He broke it with a flick, wrinkling his nose. He knew better than to engage in such foul habits. Busk tried a polite smile, but his crotchety mood interfered. ‘You called?’
‘Tor Busk. A pleasure, as always.’ Temsa’s voice was deep with smoke and tiredness.
‘It would be, if not for the early hour.’
‘Would you have preferred night?’
‘I would have preferred an armed escort, rather than a sole and rather surly messenger.’
‘You have guards, no?’
‘Guards, indeed. With eyes, ears and wagging tongues. People in this city spend secrets like silver. You know that.’
Temsa chuckled. ‘Next time I’ll have Ani accompany you. Ashamed to be seen with me, Tor? Not like you.’
‘Wise to not be seen with you. Rumours are rife at the moment. Talk of rampant soulstealing and nobles disappearing without claims. I don’t need any suspicion in my direction. As such, I’d like to keep our business as quiet as can be.’
Temsa leaned forwards, blowing his pipe to make his face blossom. ‘Wise, indeed. Please take a seat. I know how badly your hips ache on the colder days.’
The brute of a shade placed a chair next to him, and Busk chose to sit. ‘What can I do for you?’
That darned metal foot stamped on the stone and a few grubby men came forth with bundles wrapped in palm fronds.
‘Our latest pickings. I saved the best for you,’ said Temsa.
The trip was starting to appear worthwhile. The soulstealer had been busy. Four – no, five – bundles were brought in. One at a time, they were opened and spread before him, showing off trinkets of red and yellow gold, brass, copper, argent silver, and platinum from Belish. There were jade necklaces, elaborate sundials, bracelets, armbands, curved ceremonial daggers, silk knots and weaves, a turquoise necklace, and even a lone Skol signet ring. Normally they came in pairs.
Busk’s eyes tore themselves from the bundles and back to Temsa’s waiting gaze. ‘A good haul!’ He dug into his pocket and withdrew his lens: a miniature spyglass made of bronze and crystal. He wedged it into his eye socket and began to examine more closely. He spoke as he worked. ‘Necklace is fake. Phylan earrings, worth a few silver. Nice turquoise here.’
‘There was another matter I was hoping you could assist with,’ said Temsa.
‘Mhm?’
‘The matter of a locksmith. You know that trade better than I do.’ It was true, though it sounded like it irked Temsa to say it.
‘Thought you were using that woman?’
‘Tooth.’
