The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

She rose from her knees and pushed away her gathered cronies. They hooted and moaned, and Nilith heard mention of ‘later’ from the woman’s lips.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Nilith called after her, words slurred.

  Her captor paused. ‘I’ll give you that. You’re speaking to Krona of the Crater Ghouls.’

  One scrawny man lingered to show some teeth and a pair of wild eyes. He was soon called away, and Nilith was left to stare at the blurry image of a campfire and listen to Anoish’s whinnying. A few jagged lumps of riding beetles were dotted around, their shells glassy in the starlight. There were more figures around the fire, some not as solid as others. She saw small glowing figures wandering between the seated, ducking swipes and scattering when somebody yelled.

  Children. Shades bound young, ripped from their innocence and murdered neatly. Another fashion of the Arc. It always made Nilith shudder.

  The darkness called to her again, though this time it was full of voices. Conversations of coins and gems, over how much this one and that one would get at soulmarket, the braying of lewd nights, of horse meat and who had stuck a sword in whomever else.

  When Nilith drifted back into the world of the living, the shouting had quietened to a low murmur of garbled conversation. The figures around the fire had reduced in number, though she could still spy the big frame of Krona against the flames. A few had passed out, bellies rising and falling with faint rumbles. The smell of pipe smoke and goat fat had replaced the stink of sulphur.

  Drops of liquid splashed her face, cold at first, then stinging as it found her cuts. She hissed, curling into a deeper ball.

  A man hovered over her, holding a wineskin at an angle. In the other, a white stone, presented like a trophy. ‘Krona says I got to be careful with you,’ he rasped. ‘Gentle.’

  Another dribble, another fierce surge of pain. The wine stank. She dabbed her wounds with her sleeve.

  ‘No fun in being gentle, I say.’

  A boot prodded her in the side and she lashed at it. A hand grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her head back. She saw a familiar face through the blood-matted strands. It was the grinning man with the yellow teeth, built like a rat and just as verminous.

  ‘Get off me!’ Nilith pulled at his grip. He was strong for a little man.

  He showed her a knife, thrust through a leather belt at his side. ‘I’ll do what I please!’

  Down she went, back to the dust, face first with her hands pinned behind. Her wounds ignited, white stars exploding behind her eyes. It took her a moment to feel the man’s searching hands on her. She felt cloth rip at her waist and hot breath on the nape of her neck. She thrashed against his hold, but his bony legs knelt on hers, holding her down. Another rip, and she felt the night breeze on the skin of her thighs. Hot, rasping hands began to paw. A stubbled cheek pressed in close as he whispered.

  ‘She said you’d be a wriggler!’

  It is said that in moments of danger, panic hands control over to instinct. Unfortunately for the rat, Nilith’s instincts were those of a fighter. And a fierce one, at that.

  She ground her face against the sand, turning her head to feel the skin of his ear against her lips. She bit down as hard as her sore teeth would allow. It was enough. His screech deafened her on one side, but the more he struggled, the tighter she clamped. Nilith felt the crackle of cartilage between her teeth. Hot blood filled her mouth. She fought not to retch as she swallowed it.

  He punched and he shoved but all it did was quicken the process. With a repugnant sound akin to silk tearing, half his ear came free. He reeled backwards, haemorrhaging crimson.

  Nilith spat the flesh to the ground and struggled to her feet. Now she was tall enough, she slid her hands up and over the stake. Behind her, the guard had heard the screeching and was marching up the lakeshore to investigate. There were shouts coming from the fire, too.

  To her surprise, it was Farazar who acted. With a hop and a leap, he reached the guard, hooked his hands around his elbow, and swung the man towards the water. It took some tugging, and all the ghost’s momentum, but he went stumbling face-first into the water. It was deeper than it looked, and for a moment Farazar’s guard was completely submerged.

  He reared from the waters with a choking scream. Steam emanated from his body as if the water was hot, and Nilith heard the faint hiss of burning. His clothes peeled away from reddened skin in smoking shreds. He went down again as he thrashed his way shorewards. Mistimed gasps filled his lungs with the acrid waters. When he reared up, she could see his eyes had melted down his cheek. He died as his hand touched the shoreline, raking four furrows in the grey sand with bone rather than flesh.

  Nilith raced for the corpse, still bundled in its wrappings. She skidded short of the water, spraying sand, and grabbed the scimitar from the folds. She grasped it with two hands and ran towards the horse.

  The first man was stopped short with a vicious slash across his stomach. His drunken eyes rolled up as his body fell to the floor, chasing his spilled guts. Farazar was now following at her heel, and he scrabbled away from the body like a pigeon from a cat.

  ‘You should have picked a different path!’ he screeched.

  The others were approaching now. An arrow zipped by, followed by an angry shout from Krona.

  As soon as Anoish’s tether was slashed, the horse turned so Nilith could jump onto his back. She galloped him the short distance back to the body. Farazar even helped to sling it over the horse’s back.

  There was no time to tie it, and so with one hand gripping it tight and the other entangled in Anoish’s mane, Nilith kicked them into a gallop. The horse brayed as somebody grabbed his tail, but a vicious kick freed him. Within moments, they were flying along the shoreline.

  The breeze slapped Nilith in the face, pointing out every cut and bruise in cold detail. Howls chased them, and the slaps of feet on sand. Arrows began to fly again; not the sharp kind, but blunt ones with hardened bags of—

  One clapped her in the base of the skull.

  —sand.

  Her vision swam. She slumped across Anoish’s neck, and as much as he tried to hold steady, she tumbled from his side. Sand might be soft to feet, but was hard as rock at high speed, and she rolled several times before coming to a flailing stop.

  The last thing she saw was Krona’s blurry face, grinning once more, a stubby bow clutched in her hand.

  Chapter 16

  A Test

  When life gives you lemons, seek sugar from death instead.

  Popular saying amongst Free Shades

  ‘This piece of festering camel cunt?’

  Charming.

  ‘Yes, Vex. For the dozenth time. She’s chosen him.’ Yamak crossed his flabby arms, like an open gate closing in Vex’s face. His bone and gold bangles clinked.

  I couldn’t have been more entertained by this. Since being hauled into the dark and cool of the sandstone several days ago, I had been hounded by the ghost. Had he breath in him, it would have been falling on my neck. Instead, he had a spiteful heart, and it was my pleasure to watch it be stamped upon.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Widow has her ways, you know that!’

  ‘Tor Busk said he was dangerous!’

  Yamak wiped sweat from his furrowed brow. The drips stained the scrolls spread over his desk. He had made a cursory effort to hide their contents, but I could still see the scattered lines of diagrams and plans. ‘And Horix says otherwise,’ he said.

  ‘But I am the one who tends her! This cretin doesn’t know shit about—’

  ‘Enough, shade! You forget yourself.’ Yamak cleared his throat. ‘It’s already done. You’re reassigned to oversee the kitchens.’

  That’s beneficial. The kitchens were six levels below, and as I didn’t eat, Vex poisoning me was out of the question. Though there was plenty of copper down there…

  Vex bowed his head, finding a spot on the floor in which to bury his empty gaze.

  Yamak beckoned to me and I did my best to avo
id shouldering the ghost on my way past. But alas, I’m often a victim of my worse nature. In my defence, I only brushed him. Barging anything is tough without skin or bones. It made my point well enough, and Vex muttered something foul at me in Arctian.

  I followed Master Yamak to the very peak of the tower. Every door was opened for me and every step I took was echoed by half a dozen of Kalid’s soldiers, none of them shades. Their plate armour clanged musically.

  Horix was waiting for me in her library, curled like a cat in a chair. Her frills were cast wide about her, black as an oil slick. Her chin rested on her fist and a pair of crystal spectacles pinched her nose.

  For a library, the place was pretty sparse when it came to scrolls or books. The shelves appeared to be largely reserved for tallow candles. The sunlight had been shut out behind two triangular skylights, but it was far from needed; the candles burned almost as brightly. I felt the thickness of their smoke in the air.

  ‘Have the gates been sealed as ordered?’ she asked.

  Yamak bobbed his sweaty head. ‘Yes, Widow.’

  ‘Then you may leave us.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  With a short bow, the man was gone, leaving the doors closed and the guards behind. They fanned out behind me, short spears tucked into their sides, held low but ready.

  I was guided towards a velvet-clad chair. I sat, hands folded on my lap, back still bent from a strange tiredness that I hadn’t shifted since my punishments. I felt as though the sun and sarcophagus had stolen some of my soul, and left a weakness in me instead.

  Waiting for her to speak, I let my eyes wander over the golden glyphs on scrolls and book spines, the white marble and bleached bone shelves spread around the walls like honeycomb, and the candle flames looking like hot jewels.

  Horix spoke quietly, as if I was sat closer to her. ‘You don’t have to look so worried.’

  ‘I’m curious, rather than worried. Not unless you want to put me back in that coffin again.’

  ‘The sarcophagus. Yes. One of Master Yamak’s suggestions. Cursed stone, or so he tells me. Not many of them left any more despite being all the rage in the western districts several years ago, I hear. Now they have a new fashion. They string a shade up by the legs and dangle them in a bucket of water. You can’t drown, of course, but most shades don’t remember that while you’re trying to choke. Especially the fresh ones.’

  I stared at her and wondered if this was a threat.

  ‘Have you ever been to the Outsprawls, Mr Basalt?’

  My name caught me, as if reminding me of a dream erased by the light of day. It seemed Jerub had died in the garden. ‘No.’

  ‘Frightful places, they say. Rife with crime and poverty. But I disagree. I think they are rich with ideas, with life. People living in hard places and hard times tend to take extraordinary measures for an easier life. For instance, in the south-eastern Sprawls, where the creeping sand can swallow a building in a night, the beetle-farmers have realised that planting palms and ferns keeps the earth in place, and provides something to fight the sandstorms. Hardship breeds ingenuity, don’t you find?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Take your situation, for example, Mr Basalt. You’ve had a run of bad luck lately, would it be fair to say?’

  ‘If we are talking fair, I’d wager dying would rank as some of the worst luck there is, Mistress.’

  ‘And yet here you are, in a hard place and a hard time, doing anything you can to make your life easier. Even if it does mean poking your nose into places that don’t concern you.’ The cackle that followed her words was odd, and not purely through its brevity or high pitch. It was mismatched with the veiled reminder that she was in charge. ‘That’s why you are sitting here now. To see if I can offer you something to help you. Is it not?’

  ‘I am here because you summoned me to do a job.’

  ‘And I bet you didn’t complain once, hmm?’

  The old bat had me there. The sparkle in her raisin-like eyes told me she knew it.

  ‘What are you building in the cellars?’

  She snapped two bonelike fingers at the guards. ‘Leave us.’

  They hesitated, worrying too much to be obedient. I wondered what it was about this crone that inspired so much loyalty and care. It couldn’t have all been down to silver coin.

  When the last boot had disappeared behind the door, Widow Horix inched to the edge of her seat and pushed herself up to take a predatory tour of the shelves. Her movements were stiff, as if she hadn’t got up in some time. She had the look of an old panther patrolling her territory.

  Her fingers hopped between the edges of scrolls. ‘I like stories, Mr Basalt. Do you?’ she asked, ignoring my question.

  ‘I did, once.’ As the years claimed more and more of me, I found that almost all stories have an unhappy ending for at least one character. My problem was that it was always the character I identified with most. In fiction, people like me always seem to be rather expendable. And lo, I sat there as glowing proof.

  ‘People say a story is a window into another mind, another world. I believe they are more mirrors than windows. In them, we glimpse ourselves dressed up as the characters. And like any reflection, the truth we see can be hard to swallow. Perhaps that is why you don’t like stories any more, Mr Basalt? You don’t like what it reminds you of?’

  I never had, not in the silver of a mirror nor in the pages of a book. But in my business, it doesn’t pay to be pretty, and it certainly doesn’t pay to be kind and just. Quite the opposite, in fact. ‘Did you bring me here to tell me a story, Mistress?’

  ‘No, I did not.’ She levelled a finger at me. ‘You, however, were in the middle of your story before you fainted. I would like to hear the rest of it and see what it shows me.’

  ‘I’ll warn you, it doesn’t have a happy ending.’

  ‘I have seen many a year pass by me. I am sure I can manage.’

  ‘With all respect, why would you care about my story?’

  Horix gave me a haughty look. ‘Because I believe it might just interest me.’

  Things are only interesting to rich people when they either cost them or make them money. ‘There’s not much to tell, to be honest,’ I lied.

  She spoke to me as a teacher would a petulant child. ‘Let me start you off, Mr Basalt. Surely even a Krassman knows the Tenets of the Bound Dead? The laws written a thousand years ago, to govern the binding and ownership of shades?’

  I crossed my arms. ‘Of course I do. Everybody does, thanks to the Arctian Empire’s influence.’

  Her words chased mine, monotone and automatic. ‘They must die in turmoil. They shall be bound with copper and water of the Nyx. They must be bound within forty days. They shall be bound to whomever holds their coin. They are slaved to their master’s bidding. They must bring their masters no harm. They shall not express opinions nor own property. They shall never know freedom unless it is gifted to them… Am I making myself clear?’

  I was starting to think she was, but before I could speak she answered for me. The widow took long strides with each word until she was practically under my nose, staring up at me from beneath her cowl.

  ‘In summary, you are nothing to me besides a yes, Mistress or a right away, Tal. When I ask a question, I expect it answered. Do not mistake my chatter and your apparent promotion for anything more than what it is: theatre, Mr Basalt. Misdirection. I have tried nice, so allow me to be direct, if you Krassmen prefer that. You will tell me your story, or I will have Kalid put you back in the sarcophagus for a week. Then I will ensure you never speak again by cutting out your tongue. Do I make myself clear now?’

  The words couldn’t leave my mouth fast enough. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Chiefly, who you are and how you came to be in Araxes.’ The widow swept back to her chair, ready to be spun a yarn.

  It was time for honesty. It was not my strong point nor my preference, to be honest, but for all the black cat’s nonsense, Basht had spoken the
truth about one thing: every lock had a key. Cracking Horix’s theatricals required truth.

  ‘As I told you, I’m from Taymar, but I grew up near the mountains of the Kold Rift. I was born to a pair of healers who lived on the wild steppes. They had me late in life to cure their boredom and had the dream of me continuing the family trade. I preferred stealing things instead. It started with their clothes and trinkets, then food from the village markets. Enjoyed the thrill of it so much I joined a few Taymar gangs to hone my skills and my nerve. Can’t count the times my father came to retrieve me from the local prisons, spending hard-earned coin on bribes or favours. I was too young to realise I was dragging my parents’ reputations through the mud, towards penury. When I turned twelve, I learned of a master locksmith in Saraka and I didn’t think twice about running away. I did it for me, but in a way, it was to give my parents the peace they deserved.

  ‘Master Deben was the locksmith’s name, and he taught me as his master had taught him. I spent years at his side, pushing myself onto bigger and better jobs. My parents both died the winter after. Swelterflux, the letter said, but it was their time. Quick and painless, and their ghosts didn’t rise. They were buried by the Nyx under a lemon tree with a copper coin in each of their mouths, and through guilt I stayed in Taymar for almost a decade. I fell in with the gangs again, thinking I’d learned everything I needed from Deben, but I was wrong. I overreached. Overstepped the mark, and paid hard for it.’ I wanted to clear my throat, as if it could help me swallow unwanted memories. ‘I escaped the prisons of Taymar and went back to Saraka and Deben. Since then I’ve spent my whole life breaking into places that aren’t meant to be broken into. I’ve cracked locks all across the Reaches. Mostly in Krass, the Scatter Isles, and outlying parts of the Arc.’

  ‘And you claim you are one of the best in all the Reaches. How come I have never heard your name, as you so incorrectly assumed?’

  ‘A good locksmith doesn’t want his name to be known except by those in the business. I’ll have you know my initials can be found scratched into cracked vaults across all the cities of the east. And I am the best.’ Her unmoving glare broke me. ‘Or I was.’