The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

  ‘You talk of fighting and floods and chaos, but I have no idea what or who you want me to fight.’

  The cat growled again. ‘One of our brothers seeks to destroy us. It is he, his followers, you must stop.’

  ‘And who are they, exactly?’

  Basht spat the words at me, shaking her head all the while as if none of them were right. ‘Fanatics. Zealots. Devotees. They seek to finish off what our brother started. To ruin this world. To flood it with the dead. We sent you back to fight them.’

  I shook my head, partly because it sounded utter rubbish and partly because I abhorred the idea of fighting. Not through any righteous sentiments of pacifism; it’s more that my tubby frame has never lent itself well to being nimble and quick with a blade. I make a wonderful target.

  ‘But I’m a locksmith, not a soldier.’

  ‘That is why we chose you. Even a mighty fortress can be conquered with the opening of a single door, Caltro, and there are many doors you have yet to open.’

  I patted at my vapours. ‘Like this? And I don’t know if you’ve noticed this leash, and the fact I’m a half-life—’

  ‘A boon, though you see it not.’ She prowled again, stiffer this time. I realised the cat was dead, merely animated by whatever unearthly creature resided within. Like the corpse in the courtyard.

  Basht was speaking again, interrupting my horror with more riddles. ‘And you know, like I, that there are doors that do not look like doors, yet can be opened with a key just the same. We have given you the key, Caltro. A gift. All you have to do is use it.’

  ‘I have been given nothing.’

  ‘Have you not?’ she purred, eyes widening. I saw the deadness behind them, but on the surface they glittered. I saw not a cat, but a raging beast, mane flowing and muscles shuddering. I heard a roar stretch across an empty plain, heard it echo over and over in my ears until my chest reverberated with it.

  I saw myself, gawping at me as I snarled. I felt the heaviness of fangs in my mouth, the press of fur around me, the hot breath panting over a lolling tongue. I felt a savage hunger in my belly. I longed to test my jaws on the blue form before me.

  A jolt shook me free of that strange fantasy. I was back in my own form, staring down at the black cat. The creature was now slumping to the ground.

  ‘Find Sesh’s followers,’ said Basht. ‘Stop them. Save us.’

  Her will left the creature. The cat’s eyes rolled up and the body fell to the sand, dead once more. A lone black fly began to buzz around it. I hoped that my punishment wouldn’t last more than a day, or that somebody would come take the cat away. I hadn’t the stomach for maggots, even in death. As the flies began to gather around it, my gaze wandered anywhere but the little corpse while I mulled the cat’s words over.

  Nothing about my situation was normal, but there was still a line to be crossed between it and the absurd. This was nothing but absurd. No, it was tosh. Utter horse shite. It was some tavern song I had heard once, dug up by stress and made a reality. It certainly sounded like one of the old ballads: dead gods inhabiting dead things, spinning me yarns of fanatics and doom and devouring floods. In those songs there was always some great ruin, and one special moron who just so happened to have the power to fight it. I refused to be that moron. If I had any great power it was self-preservation, and that required ignoring heat and stress-induced illusions.

  And yet somehow I could not shake the vibration of the roar from my chest, nor forget the stupid look on my own face as I stared back at myself, clearer than any reflection. I had been as foreign as a stranger in the street. As separate as the sky and the dust.

  I shook myself, feeling weak under the sun. I hummed to quieten the cat’s words. It was a habit I had never been fond of, and it brought me a few looks from the garden ghosts, but it did have wonderfully distractive properties.

  Vex looked through the grille, his blind eyes staring past the gold filigree at the pale, moustached, and haughty face beyond.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fetch your mistress, shade. Tell her Tor Busk has come to pay a visit.’

  ‘I’m afraid Widow Horix is not accustomed to hosting unannounced callers.’

  ‘Then announce me, and I shall be welcomed.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Did you not hear me, shade? Fetch your tal.’

  ‘Of course, Tor Busk. Wait here, please.’

  Vex tried to swing the grille shut, but the tor’s hand found its way into the gap. Finding his fingers pinched, he seemed to be regretting his decision, but he did not move. The guards either side of the door bristled, but the shade waved them back.

  ‘You expect me to wait here, out in the sun?’

  Vex held back his scowl. ‘I’m afraid so, Tor. I am under explicit instructions.’

  The indignant grunt was muffled by the thud of the door closing. Vex hurried for the stairwell, winding up and up until he was knocking at his superior’s door.

  ‘What?’ came a grunt.

  ‘It’s Vex, Master Yamak.’

  ‘In!’

  The room was wreathed in trails of incense. Yamak had the appearance of a sweaty boulder, perched at a desk. He was dabbing a reed at a large scroll. He seemed engrossed in his task, eyes low and narrowed at the sprawl of numbers before him.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ said Vex.

  The man’s head snapped up. ‘What?’

  ‘Tor Busk. Here for the widow.’

  ‘Well, he can’t see her.’

  ‘He’s insistent.’

  ‘Blasted tors, thinking they own this city.’

  ‘Don’t they—’

  ‘Yes, all right!’ Yamak slammed down his reed, spattering ink across the scroll. He cursed under his breath before hoisting himself to standing. He wiped a hand across his brow, his hand coming away dripping. ‘Make him wait in the atrium under guard. I’ll go see the widow.’

  Vex drifted back down the stairs. He took a stand between the guards and, after checking the straightness of his robes, had the doors opened wide.

  Before Vex could bid him enter, Tor Busk strode into the atrium as if it were his own, sweeping his cape from his shoulders and draping it over the nearest spear. He wore a golden waistcoat that strained at the buttons and a baggy suit of bleached white cotton. A pointy hat perched atop a thin mop of greasy hair. His pale skin was that of the far north, and it had taken on a pinkish hue rather than a tanned brown.

  ‘My guards and I will take some water,’ he announced, gesturing to the small entourage that followed him in: a half-dozen rented soldiers in bright scale plate and toting short spears. They stood like river reeds on a calm day, waiting for a breeze. The sweat ran from beneath their bronze helms. Half of them were Scatterfolk, and apparently still getting used to the sun.

  Vex had a deep bowl and several goblets fetched from the pantries. The tor let his guards test the water first, and then wet his own chapped lips.

  When Busk had wiped his moustache, he made for the stairs. Vex and the house-guards had to stand in his way. ‘My mistress has been informed of your arrival. She has asked that you wait here.’

  Busk puckered his mouth into a shape resembling an arsehole, but he stayed where he was. He occupied himself by gazing up at the spiral interior of the tower.

  ‘Fine tapestries. Phylan, I would guess?’ He pointed to a pair of scarlet banners hanging far above them.

  ‘You have a keen eye, Tor.’ Vex was unimpressed. The tapestries were covered with the swirling language of the Scatter Isles. A child could have identified it.

  Busk crossed his arms. ‘How long will she be?’

  ‘As long as she takes.’

  ‘Are all of Horix’s shades as impertinent as you? I’ll have your name.’ His face was reddening, his silly pointy hat wobbling.

  ‘It is Vex, Tor. And neither the Widow Horix nor her household are accustomed to receiving unannounced callers. I’m sure you are aware of the dangers associated with unexpected guests. These are greedy times.�
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  Busk’s northern skin was flushing pink. ‘Now you imply I have nefarious intentions here? How dare you!’

  ‘He dares, Tor Busk,’ said a thin voice from above, ‘because I have taught him to dare.’

  The tor immediately threw himself into a low bow, almost losing his hat. Vex stood aside to let the widow descend.

  ‘Tal Horix, my lady. Forgive me. I am unused to such candour from a half-life. I prefer the indentured in my home to be more silent.’ Busk shot a look at Vex.

  The widow’s black frills swirled around her like ink drops in water. Her cowl was high and tied about her wrinkled chin. Her hands, as always, were hidden in sleeves large enough to accommodate a strongman’s thigh.

  She paused a few steps from the marble floor, looking down on Busk and his entourage with an expression that betrayed nothing. ‘The nature of your sudden visit, Tor Busk?’

  Busk bowed low. ‘I beg forgiveness for the suddenness. I am here under a matter of urgency regarding one of your recent purchases.’

  Vex frowned. Now the man is all graces and smiles.

  ‘Which would be what?’

  ‘It is a matter best discussed in private.’

  ‘Privacy can be a costly thing.’ Horix held his gaze for a moment, testing. Vex wasn’t sure what she saw, but it seemed to reassure her. ‘We shall speak in the lower dining hall.’

  ‘My gratitude, Tal Horix.’

  With much rustling of frills and skirts, the four of them trod the stairs to the middle of the tower, where a large room looked out over the muddle of adobe and sandstone. Yamak had arranged for guards to stand around the edges of the hall, between velvet couches and ivory tables.

  Once seats had been taken on opposite ends of the dining table, Vex took a stand by the widow’s elbow. Tor Busk gestured at him without using his eyes.

  ‘The matter is a private one.’

  ‘Vex has served this house for almost twenty years. He can be trusted,’ replied Horix with a tut.

  ‘I see.’ Busk spread his hands out across the mahogany. ‘It’s come to my attention that we often visit the same soulmarkets. While I know you are a discerning buyer, I’m afraid many of the traders don’t share your scruples.’

  ‘Speak plainly, Busk. I haven’t the time for empty chat. You clearly have a reason for being here. Get on with explaining it.’

  His rings drummed on the wood. ‘Very well. I believe you’ve recently bought a shade who was illegally bound.’

  ‘I did not know you worked for the Chamber of the Code, Tor Busk. Or should that be Scrutiniser Busk?’

  He flattened his hands on his more than ample belly. ‘Call me a concerned party. I would hate to see your proud name sullied by rumours.’

  ‘Rumours are fleeting fancies, Tor Busk. I care for more permanent things.’

  ‘Be that as it may, it disturbs me to know the markets are selling stolen souls. It disturbs me more to know that you might have an illegal shade within your house. You and I both know plenty of tals and tors have fallen foul of poor purchases and succumbed to the plots of soulstealers, or spooks. I’m worried for you, Tal Horix.’

  She cackled at that. Vex allowed himself a tight smile.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Tor Busk, but it’s unfounded and frankly naive to think the soultraders are completely honest.’ She wiped imaginary tears from her face. ‘Tell me, who is this shade you’re so concerned about? And how did you come to know about him?’

  Busk sighed. ‘I have made the same error, I’m afraid. I bought a house-shade from the same batch of Boss Temsa’s stock. Kech was his name. He has been recalcitrant, constantly arguing for his innocence. Have you experienced the same?’

  Horix shrugged. ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘Well, I intend to take mine back to the soulmarket and demand a refund from Boss Temsa. I would be happy to do the same for you, Tal Horix. To save you the trouble and embarrassment.’

  ‘How charitable.’

  Busk shook his head. ‘I am not one for charity, madam. I would happily purchase him for the same price as you bought him and reclaim the cost at the market.

  ‘A him, you say?’

  ‘A Krassman, or so my research has told me.’

  ‘I do not buy Krassmen.’

  Tor Busk paused for a long time. Their gazes duelled over the table top, one set of eyes dark and shadowed, the other narrow and blue.

  ‘My research—’

  ‘Has clearly counted for nothing. You are mistaken, Tor.’

  Busk was not done. ‘Tal Horix, I believe him to be dangerous. Kech has told me his story. He is very dangerous, in fact. A reputed killer in his country. He was fleeing to the Arc. You have no doubt heard the same stories as I. Stories involving shades of a similar ilk rebelling against their masters. With bloody results, no less.’

  Though Vex straightened, the widow was motionless. ‘I see. And why is it that you are suddenly so worried for my safety?’

  ‘You are a well-respected member of the noble class, Tal Horix. I wish only for you to see your… sixtieth birthyear?’ He went as far as to wink at the mistress. ‘You can consider me an ally. Friend, even.’

  She offered him a thin smile.

  ‘Are we in accord? I have taken the liberty of drawing up the agreement. All legal and binding. Sigils from Galiph & Sons provided the service.’ The tor was already digging in his pockets when Horix stood.

  ‘I think not, Busk. You presume too much and seem to know very little. I think you are mistaken about my purchases. If I were you, I would look to your own stock before worrying about mine. And as for friends and allies, they are a weakness in this city. I’d expect a tor like you to know that. As such, I thank you for your visit and bid you a fine day.’

  By the look on Busk’s face, he looked as if he’d just been dipped into a pot of boiling oil. Even his guard, standing behind his shoulder, had to stifle a snigger. Vex smirked.

  Busk was forced to stand and trail in the widow’s wake. She led him to a skinny bridge spanning the tower’s hollow core and overlooking the atrium.

  ‘I—’ he began, but Horix cut him off.

  ‘You’re most welcome for the water.’

  From the bridge, Horix watched him stamp all the way back down the stairs, embarrassed and no doubt privately fuming. When the door finally slammed, far below, Vex swore he heard her old face creaking into a smile. It was desperately brief.

  ‘Bring him to me,’ she snapped.

  ‘Who, Mistress?’

  ‘The Krassman. The one you’ve been punishing.’

  ‘May I ask why, Widow Horix?’

  She shot him a look that would have skewered a rat at a dozen paces. ‘No, you may not, shade. Find him.’

  ‘He’s in the garden, Mistress. Tied to a post.’

  Without a word, Horix bustled past him, a storm cloud of frills and wayward ribbons. He made to follow once again, but she waved him away, swiping at him with her long, copper-painted nails. He bowed profusely and ducked into a nearby corridor. He listened to her sharp footsteps descending, and groaned.

  ‘She don’t like you much, does she?’ asked a voice. Vex heard the sniggers coming from the alcoves around him.

  Vex turned to find a crumpled, half-folded shade staring at him, wearing a goofy smile. Others were chuckling away to themselves.

  ‘Fuck you! Fuck you all!’ Vex adjusted his cloak. ‘Double duties, the lot of you!’

  I felt the shadow fall over me before I heard the footsteps: a welcome smidgeon of shade in the late afternoon sun. I waited for my visitor to speak, not wanting them to move. Although I felt nothing but cold, I swore the sun was boiling me alive, stealing my vapours.

  ‘Who are you, half-life?’ The voice was a crow’s caw, and I knew who it belonged to without turning.

  ‘Jerub.’

  ‘No, your other name. When you were alive.’

  I took a while to answer. If I were alive I would have been busy finding the saliva. Instead I
was simply trying to remember. Dazed, I watched the other ghosts scuttling past, bowing and scraping, their arms full with baskets. My head lolled in their direction.

  ‘How many of us are there?’

  ‘What?’

  I looked at her then, gazed deep into her dark hood to meet those flint eyes. ‘How many of us do you own?’

  It was her turn to pause. ‘Sixteen thousand.’

  I felt like curling up. I felt groggy, as if I’d spent a day propping up a tavern bar. ‘Sixteen…’

  ‘Thousand.’

  ‘All here?’

  ‘Do you see sixteen thousand shades in this tower?’ she snapped. ‘I have businesses. Makers and sellers. Now give me your name, ghost, or I’ll leave you out here for another week. You won’t be worth a sack of last season’s grain when I’m done with you.’

  ‘Caltro. Caltro Basalt. You might have heard of me…’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  I swayed. ‘What are you… what are you building?’

  ‘Answer me!’

  ‘Taymar, in Fault province. Near the Kold Rift.’

  ‘You said you were a smith? Vaultsmith?’

  ‘Locksmith. Best in all the Reaches.’

  She spat something green on the sand between my feet. I stared at it dully, confused why there was still a dead cat slumped by my feet.

  ‘Lies!’ she cried.

  ‘Truth…’

  ‘Why did you come here? What were you running from?’

  ‘Not running. Not this time. Appointment. In—’

  Whump. My vapours collided with the sand as my concentration failed me. I became limp, seeping slightly across the grains.

  ‘Fuck!’ I heard the widow curse before she screeched for assistance at the top of her lungs. I blinked and found myself surrounded by shades. Vex was there, and I felt something dripping on my face. A shiver ran through me, rippling across my body, as if the sun had fallen behind a cloud or a rooftop. I fell with it into a dark space. Five faint stars shone down. A single bright point at their centre sparkled at me.

  Chapter 15

  Ghouls

  On inspection of your forces, Your Majesty, we have numbered the living at two hundred and fifty-four thousand, Thirty-six hundred men and horse or insect. We have numbered the half-lives at one million, three hundred thousand and six hundred.