The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

  Sisine stared at him over the guards’ gleaming helmets. ‘I believe it is about time this city saw some boldness in its leadership. And no, I did not ask you.’

  ‘Change is only good in the eyes of those it benefits, Highness. Some of us have sat in this court for decades—’

  ‘Five of them, in your case.’

  Boon smiled. ‘Quite. And in that time, we’ve seen little change. Your grandfather, your father and your mother have always kept the Cloud Court at arm’s length, and wisely so. Why? Because it maintains the balance of the game. It keeps you royals royal and the rest of us anything but. Balance makes us content, makes us forget that the throne…’ He paused to gesture to the nearby empty seat of marble. ‘…is always there to claim. Yet today, you chose to start speaking for the emperor. To start making promises. I find promises are like wild jackals, Empress-in-Waiting. Have you ever kept jackals? I have. They are savage yet intelligent beasts. Keep them fed and you have loyalty. But take that hand away and… well. Savage, as I said.’

  Sisine grinned right back. ‘This room might be for games, Serek, but this house – my house – is one of daggers. I was born and raised here. You should not forget that if you are intent on making open threats.’

  Boon held her gaze, then relented with a bow. ‘Only a kind warning to tread carefully, Highness. I would never dare threaten the empress-in-waiting or His Imperial Majesty. But there are other souls in the Cloud Court who might. Some who grow ambitious.’ He had no cocksure look on his face now. Just a pout. ‘On the matter of family, has there been any more word from your mother the empress? When can we expect her return?’

  ‘She is still in the eastern lands,’ Sisine replied coldly. Bezel had yet to report anything about her mother’s whereabouts. In the meantime, she saw no reason to destroy a perfectly good explanation. ‘It seems she will be some time, Serek Boon. Plenty of time to get fat on scraps from the royal table.’

  He caught her meaning and withdrew. Her guards escorted him out, all bar one. The gold-clad shade hovered by her side, motionless. She clicked her fingers in his face. ‘Fetch me Etane.’

  After a snap of metal heels, the guard sprinted away and she was left alone to tour the marble ring of the Cloud Court and ponder alone while Etane took his sweet and merry time. Though she wove an erratic path across the vast floor, she found herself coming to a halt in front of the emperor’s throne. Its design was simple: two rectangular armrests, a soaring back that had the look of a mighty scroll hanging open, and a flat area for the royal arses that graced it. It was in the material and the details that the grand chair impressed. The entire throne was carved from one block of exotic turquoise quartz, made to reflect the souls that the Arctian Empire had been built on. The stone was glasslike, pellucid, and as colourful and changeable as the Troublesome Sea. Where the sunlight caught its upper edge, the marble faded to the green of sandy shallows. At its base, where its dais unfurled in steps, it was a fathomless cobalt.

  Into the throne’s polished surface had been written the names of every emperor or empress that had claimed it, and their dates of ruling, no matter how briefly. A thousand years of binding and back-stabbing had produced a lot of names, and some had ruled for days only, if not hours. Glyphs and old hieratic script crowded the tall scroll and most of the arms in no discernible order.

  Sisine firmly placed her foot on the second step. She leaned down, reaching out a finger to a wide space across the base of the throne. A copper-painted fingernail traced her name in large, proud glyphs. The more she wrote, the harder she pressed. Her teeth creaked as she clenched her jaw.

  Before she could finish, doors thudded behind her and Etane came shuffling into the Cloud Court. He was shining bright as if he were irritated. He’d chosen an eye-wateringly colourful waistcoat and pantaloons today. From a distance, it looked as if a Belish peacock was running wild about the Piercer.

  ‘You called, Your Wondrousness?’

  Sisine withdrew from the throne, like a child caught with half a stolen biscuit. She pressed her fingernail against her palm instead and felt it snap under the pressure. ‘There you are! Serek Boon thinks he can lecture me as if he were a tutor and I a mere child. But that’s not even half of his gall! No, he plays the friend while he is most likely plotting behind my back!’ she vented.

  Etane looked up to the vacant benches and hummed. ‘Productive session, was it?’

  ‘Boon wouldn’t risk speaking to me alone unless he was trying to steer me. Or goad me in some way.’

  ‘Looks like it’s working.’

  Sisine was pacing now, repeatedly picking at the jagged end of her nail. ‘I want you to find out who’s behind these murders. I need to know whether it’s Boon. Or another serek. I will be the one inciting havoc, nobody else!’

  ‘I’ve told you, princess, all your spies came up empty. Whoever’s behind it all, they’ve either got a lot of coin or a lot of fear keeping lips sealed.’

  ‘Then I want you to look into it personally. I don’t care if you have to talk to every last contact you know, if you have to put that giant sword of yours to use and threaten people, if you have to walk to the Outsprawls and back. I just want this murderer found.’

  ‘And what about Basalt? Unlocking the Sanctuary? And—’

  ‘Forget him! The Sanctuary is impossible to crack! We should have realised that sooner. Circumstances are changing.’

  ‘I think we’re heading in the wrong direction. You’ll overreach. We should be busy finding another locksmith instead of—’

  Sisine jabbed her now bleeding finger at him. ‘I am no girl! And I am tired of you advising me on matters you think I need advising on! There is no “we”, only I. You are but a house-shade! I am the Empress-in-Waiting, and I have everything under control.’

  Etane rolled his eyes. ‘Fine.’

  She brought her face close to the shade, feeling his cold mist against her nose. Her voice was restrained but no less angered. ‘You should know better than to refuse me. You think yourself above the other shades. Family, even. But you forget your half-coin lingers in the royal vaults, just like all the rest.’

  Etane looked sheepish. ‘Yes, Princess.’

  ‘Have Chamberlain Rebene and the Chamber of the Code also start investigating the murders. Immediately. That will keep the sereks quiet.’

  ‘Yes, Princess.’

  ‘Now go. Get out there and find this murderer by any means necessary.’

  ‘And if—’

  ‘When.’

  ‘When I find them, then what?’

  Sisine was already making her way to the doors. She flashed him a derisive look over her shoulder, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. ‘Then I want you to invite them here, of course. To the Piercer.’

  Behind her, Etane bowed, hands wide and head low. ‘As you wish, Your Gloriousness. As you wish.’

  ‘Meat, shade. I sell meat, not fuckin’ hearsay. Go on, half-life, away with you!’

  Of all the things Etane missed about his flesh, the ability to spit on market scum like this was high on his list.

  ‘A pox on your mother.’

  ‘What did you say to me? I ought to—’

  ‘I serve the royal family. You’ll do nothing but watch me walk away,’ Etane snorted, tapping the gold feather on his breast, and then the ornate hilt of the sword poking over his shoulder. The blade was huge, reaching almost to the back of his knees and wider than a barbarian’s palm. A faint mist emanated from its crossguard, as if its metal was frozen. It was an heirloom of the Renala family line, gifted to him from the Piercer’s armouries as long as he played bodyguard. Over the decades, Etane had come to know it like a limb. He had even given it a name: Pereceph.

  The other vendors had listened in, and half had already turned their back on him. He tutted at them and chose another direction.

  After relaying Sisine’s orders to Chamberlain Rebene, Etane had wandered the Core Districts, the High and Low Docks, the Spoke Avenues, the Fi
sh District, and the factory yards. It had taken almost the entire day, and now he stood on the boundary between the Spice Groves and King Neper’s Bazaar, hoping to pick up gossip by chance. Instead, he stared at passersby, feeling useless and bored. He had spoken to a dozen of his trusted eyes in the city, several scrutinisers, and even one Core Guard captain known for gathering rumours, but all Etane had rounded up were the same stories, over and over. All of them contradictory.

  It was a gang from the Outsprawls.

  Desert witches, I ’eard.

  Or maybe a rich tal, making a move.

  It’s that Scatter Prince Phylar, insinuatising himself into the city.

  Etane couldn’t decide which tale was the most ridiculous. And so there he stood, where the meat stalls rubbed shoulders with spice merchants, leaning under the shade of palm branches. He watched the bustle around him with half-closed eyes, listening to the roar of commerce. The bright colours became a blur. He imagined he could smell the earthy stench of spices and cloves wafting from the Groves. It had been far too many decades since he had.

  A gaggle of men distracted his gaze. They rested under an archway, dabbing their faces with colourful silk cloths and pulling faces at the powerful scents. Their suits were dark cotton and cut in a business-like style: sharp folds of cloth that reached to the knees. Their hems were of gold, red or blue depending on their station or bank, but all wore the rising sun of the half-coin on their breast. Grey felt hats, conical in shape, perched on their heads and wobbled as they chatted. Etane caught snatches of gossip, interspersed with numbers and statistics.

  Bankers.

  As he was thinking they had ventured far from Oshirim District, the explanation for their wandering came running up. It was another banker, clutching a papyrus package stained dark with bloody juices. The man seemed pleased, but the others wrinkled their lips and shook their heads.

  Unimpressed and eager to leave the stinking stalls, they bustled in a westward direction, back to their desks and vaults, no doubt. Etane followed, more out of boredom than anything as substantial as suspicion.

  He trailed them at a good distance, keeping an eye on their grey felt hats over the busy crowds. He would lose them on one street, gain on them in the next. The going was slower for him than it was for them. Workers carrying bundles and hand carts barged him aside without a word, paying no heed to his rich trappings, the giant sword slung across his back, or his golden feather.

  Etane glared at the gold plume on his chest, lodged between the bright swirls of his waistcoat. He had despised it his entire indenturement. The gold might have been shit-brown for all the difference it made. It marked him only as royal property, not as free, and that meant precious little on Araxes’ streets. Fuck all, as the Scatterfolk would say. A bound shade was a bound shade no matter what house owned him or what he wore, always second class to the living. Only free shades could command some respect with their white feathers.

  He looked to a gaggle of nearby indentured, prising apart broken flagstones outside of a shop. Their vapours were caked in dust, their faces grim, and their master standing over them with a copper-tipped whip. In the Cloudpiercer, Etane at least had some status. Out here, he was no better than these half-lives.

  The bankers took the Avenue of Oshirim and Etane negotiated the mobs to follow. He felt the cool of a shadow fall on him as he passed beneath the great statue of Oshirim, god of the afterlife. Worn down by the wind-blown grit, disfigured by time and vandals, the dead god watched over the streets with gouged-out eyes. His mighty flail, once held towards the sun, lay at his feet. Before the empire, Oshirim had defended Araxes against the desert sands. Now he peered sightlessly into the distance, trying to spot the city’s end.

  Host to Araxes’ financial powers, Oshirim District spread like the spokes of a cartwheel behind the god’s back. Towers of grand proportions made deep canyons of even the widest streets. Squeezed between them were stouter, shorter buildings. They bore signs for insurers, sigils, lesser banks, mercenary agents, and vaultsmiths. Huge palm trees lined the streets, splashes of green against the gold and ruby awnings that offered shade for the crowds, though it was scarcely needed in the buildings’ shadows.

  The cut of cloth changed within a dozen paces of Oshirim’s statue. Silk and velvet abounded. Sparkles of silver, gold and platinum dragged Etane’s eyes left and right. Shining armour, too, for the sellswords and house-guards trailing every noble and dignitary. Some glowed blue under the plate and scale, others had sweat dripping down their red faces. Both kinds marched in rings around their masters, holding spears out to discourage pickpockets or bandits. Broad daylight didn’t dissuade a criminal of Araxes. Daylight only meant they could see better.

  On one corner, Etane saw a noble in an outrageous green cape arguing with another noble with a feather hat. Their words were lost on his ears, thanks to the din of feet and voices, but Etane didn’t care about them. He was looking at the small figure between them, kicking at a stray palm frond. It was a little girl, shining bright and blue outside of her yellow frock. She wore a velvet choker about her neck that did little to hide the dark bruises of poisoning. Her face was dusted with chalk and iridescent powder. A white feather hung from her chest and a wooden doll dangled in her hands.

  Young shades never failed to turn Etane’s stomach. ‘Kill them young, keep them young’ was the saying amongst some of the nobles, and what a vile logic he found it.

  Their eyes met through the shifting of bodies. Etane ventured a polite smile. The girl watched him for a moment before curling her lip and turning back to her business of kicking foliage. Etane cursed her freedom behind his lips, and hurried on.

  The bankers had gone. Or, more accurately, they had blended in. Etane saw another score of them ahead, all in the same dark cloth and felt hats. Before long, half the crowds wore the same outfit. The shade came to a halt and wondered whether it was time to give in. Only the prospect of Sisine’s inevitable tirade held him from turning back.

  He had come to the right district for finding crooks. Just as the Nyxites had claimed the right to the Nyx, so had the banks positioned themselves as the protectors of half-coins. Nobody could quite remember the point when honest vault-houses had become powerful institutions, but it had come and gone, and now the oldest banks rose as high as the towers of tals, tors or sereks. Some even challenged the Chamber of the Code and the Piercer with their grandeur.

  Etane disliked the banks intensely. Even in the skewed moral landscape of the City of Countless Souls, there was still a scale to be measured against, and he placed the banks near the bottom. Any rich tal or tor with a penchant for vaults, a building big enough, and a reputation clean enough could be a banker. And why not? There was a handsome fee to be charged for protecting another’s half-coins. The banks had grown fat off these spoils, making barrels of silver that their masters invested into increasing the number of shades they owned. Should a question or – dead gods forbid – a complaint ever be raised, the banks were quick to disguise the simplicity of their services in percentages and figures and sections of Code so complex they would put a Chamber magistrate to shame. As far as Etane was concerned, there was no honest labour in the siphoning of others’ hard efforts. That made the banks no better than soulstealers.

  The shade looked up at the gigantic spires that shaded the streets: pyramidal, punctured with windows and balconies. Their architecture, like much of Araxes, was morbid but lavish. Great gold seals decorated their flanks. Gleaming metal capped their peaks. Entrances took the form of pillars carved like leg bones or archways made of vertebrae. Multitudes of flags hung limp from rows of traditional painted skulls. Silk banners and immense carved panels bore names that had been in business for centuries.

  Akhenaten’s Vaults.

  Setmose.

  Fenec Coinery.

  Harkuf’s.

  Flimzi Consolidated.

  The Bank of Araxes.

  Etane wondered how many half-coins could be counted between these bu
ildings. How many millions of souls could be accounted for? Half the wealth of the city – nay, the Arc – lay here in this district, barely two miles square. It made him glad his own coin resided in the Piercer’s ancient vaults, away from the manicured fingers of these soul-grabbers.

  He clicked his fingers, but no sound came forth. Perhaps the murderer was a bank. Or a banker. Why else target nobles who were known for keeping their own vaults? The more Etane considered it, the more it made sense. It was how this city worked: those with power were forever hungry for more. It was power’s curse. Like the ocean, once a man tastes its depths, he is drawn to discover how deep it goes, no matter if it drowns him to get there.

  Etane stood in the centre of a triangular junction between three avenues. From there, he could stare at each of the enormous bank buildings and ponder which of them he should invite to see Sisine. There was no itch to scratch, but even so his finger raked the scar on his soft skull in thought.

  He caught the faint scuff of feet behind him. Too close, too gentle. Etane swivelled, hand flying to the hilt of his sword. He found a shock of scarlet standing behind him. A woman’s face glowed beneath a hood, almost purple under the fabric. The shade’s hands were clasped within her long sleeves, and once again he found himself eyeing a white feather of freedom.

  ‘Etane Talin, as I die and glow,’ she breathed.

  ‘Enlightened Sister Liria. It has been a long time.’

  ‘A long time indeed. Almost twenty years by our count.’ She pointed to his golden feather. ‘The royal family haven’t tired of your sharp tongue yet?’

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Astute as always, Liria.’

  ‘We are surprised you are not absent along with our missing empress. Belonging to her, that is.’

  Etane made a show of clearing his throat. ‘I am the empress-in-waiting’s now. On loan, as it were. She saw fit to leave me behind.’

  Liria nodded slowly, calculating. ‘You’re far from your tower.’