by Ben Galley
‘The sword?’
‘Yes, the sword.’
I groaned. The clubs must have hit me harder than I thought. ‘Are you sure you’re not an ancient god?’
‘Well, I once played a few for the Theatre Guild of Gurra, and in The Black Scarab. My performance was reported to be astonis—’ He heard my growling. ‘But no. Alas. I am not. Just a humble deadbound.’
‘A what?’
‘Oh, you don’t know?’ The voice was eager, grateful for the chance to tell its story.
My pause told him no, I hadn’t.
‘Deadbinding. It was a craze several… What year is it?’
‘One thousand and four, by Empire count.’
‘In that case, it was a craze several hundred years ago, when the Nyxites decided to experiment with the spell of binding in order to make trinkets for Arctian nobles. You might have heard of strangebinding? Of souls bound in the bodies of animals? They were the lucky ones. We weren’t allowed to live as shades or beasts, and instead we were bound to objects. Lifeless things, hence the name deadbound. You know: talking hourglasses, sentient doors, self-playing harps, that sort of thing. But no, I got put into a sword. A soulblade, they called it. Never brandished more than a stage-weapon in my life, now I know more about a blade than anybody else, ha… ha.’
I had heard of talking trinkets before. Even stolen a few. Never once had I imagined they had been souls. I had assumed charms or some old magic.
Once more, the back of my head struck the panel. So indenturement could be worse. There was a grim sort of solace in knowing there was somebody in a sorrier state than you, but it chipped away some of the weight that had rested on me since being snatched from the docks.
At very least the sword was something to converse with that wasn’t my own thoughts. I was glad for the company. It even helped me ignore the wardrobe until Busk had need of me again. I closed my eyes, and let myself rest against the wardrobe’s back.
‘Go on.’
Chapter 3
Weighed & Measured
A Weighing is as much a necessity as it is a great and wondrous massage of the egos. Let the other fellows enjoy their baths and visits to cathouses; my pleasure comes from seeing my half-coins counted and measured. They order once a month? I Weigh twice a week. A man knows what he wants for when he knows where he stands on society’s ladder.
From a missive mistakenly delivered to Tal Tabath, who later married the sender
‘Lift it.’
Gloved hands laid hold of the ropes. Pulleys squeaked in complaint. Stone grated. Glowing fingers clawed at the dark gap, hungry for light and air and the knowledge that there was a world beyond the close dark press of sandstone.
The lid of the sarcophagus was swivelled aside, meeting the floor with a dull boom. Copper-thread hands grabbed the shade and out he came, quivering like a palm tree in a sandstorm. They had to lift him up so he could face her. Even then his head lolled about as if he had no spine, his empty eyes searching the floor.
Widow Horix stepped forwards, hands clasped, chin high, eyes sharp as butcher’s knives.
‘Do you feel like talking now?’ she asked.
Vex moaned something incoherent. The guards shook him.
‘I didn’t do it… I don’t know anything.’
Horix circled him and his captors as she stared at his naked blue frame.
‘The others in the alcoves said Caltro didn’t go to the stables with them. One shade by the name of Kon was very helpful. Said Caltro was kept behind. Now he’s nowhere to be found. So, for what must be the twelfth time, Master Vex, what explanation do you have for the disappearance of my locksmith?’
‘None, Mistress,’ he slurred. ‘I put him to work in the kitchens later that evening! He must have taken his chance to escape!’
Horix turned to the armoured lump standing next to her. ‘String him up, Colonel.’
Kalid rubbed his hands. ‘Aye, Mistress.’
‘No!’
Vex was thrown against a wall, where his neck was introduced to a thick loop of metallic rope. More pulleys screeched, and Vex was soon hanging like a condemned thief. He did not gurgle, he did not twitch. He simply fell limp, pulling a distorted face at the fizzing sound around his neck.
The widow was handed a pair of elaborate copper shears, decorated with coils of silver. She brandished them at the shade, clacking them together. ‘You know as well as I do what these are.’
Vex did. His fresh struggling proved it. Many times Horix had watched him use the very same blades on recalcitrant house-shades.
Horix explained just in case the sarcophagus had addled his mind. ‘When a man loses a finger in life, only the body is damaged. The soul remains untouched. But when you’re a shade…’ The blades parted and took one of Vex’s toes into their jaws. The guards held his struggling leg tightly. ‘When you’re all soul, you’ve only got your soul to lose. Memories. Personality. They can be snipped away piece by piece.’
Schnick.
There was a puff of light and cobalt smoke as the toe vanished. The stump glowed brightly as Vex howled with pain, thrashing around like a stubborn fish at the end of a line. When he finally resorted to sobbing, the shears snickered in Horix’s hands.
‘I wonder what I took away. A recollection of a childhood summer’s day, perhaps? Or the touch of a lover creeping along your skin? Care to see what else we can trim?’
‘I’m telling the truth!’
‘His hand, Kalid.’
The colonel and his guards seized Vex’s arms, pinning one behind his back and forcing the other outward. He was already howling before the sharp copper touched his wrist. His vapours flared at its touch.
‘Final chance.’
‘I’m telling the truth!’ he wailed.
Schnick.
‘Aaaaagh!’ His wail became a roar as another piece of him drifted away, never to return. ‘Please…’
Horix tutted at him once more. ‘I shall keep going until you prove your innocence, Master Vex. A shade can still work without a few fingers and toes. Maybe even an arm or leg.’
He seethed through clamped teeth. No words came. He flickered as if he were a candle in a draught.
‘Or his manhood.’
Vex fought the guards back momentarily before they splayed his legs against the wall. Colonel Kalid cleared his throat by Horix’s side, and after comparing the size of the shears with Vex’s diminutive member, she nodded beneath her cowl.
With a whisper of metal, Kalid’s sword slid from its scabbard. It moved as if it were molten, twisting through the air before driving through the shade’s crotch. A spark flew as the steel met the stone behind. Blue smoke trailed in the blade’s wake.
It took a moment for Vex to realise what had happened. The scream quickly followed.
‘Yaaah!’
Horix watched him closely. Once again, he flickered, but this time his glow dimmed permanently.
‘Shall we go on, Master Vex?’ she asked, staring up at his pain-stricken face.
‘I… I…’
‘I can’t hear you.’
Kalid held the point of his sword to the shade’s throat.
‘Busk!’ The word exploded from him, and as soon as he said it, he sagged, falling limp again. He stared down at his glowing wounds, his hollow eye sockets wide. ‘Tor Busk stole Jerub. That Caltro. The Krassman.’ His words were malformed.
‘Is that so? Why? How?’
‘Said he was… dangerous. Said he would take care of him. We made a deal. I let him out… I wanted to keep you safe, Mistress.’
Horix came closer. ‘You, Master Vex, have done nothing but contaminate my plans! He was important, curse you! I fucking told you this!’
She lashed at his vapours in a moment of rage, raking her copper-painted nails across his stomach. Four white lines were scratched into him. He gasped, chin bobbing under the rope.
Horix worked her gums before making a decision. She plucked a half-circle of copper from her pock
et and thumbed its glyph and seal before handing it to the colonel. ‘Take his coin and melt it.’
The shade immediately struggled anew. ‘No! Widow Horix! Please! I’ll do anything. Anything!’
As the ropes were loosed and Vex crumbled to a heap on the stone, Horix took a moment to stand over him and regard his grief-stricken face.
‘Sixth Tenet of the Bound Dead.’
Vex flapped his mouth, misunderstanding at first. He blinked as he inwardly clawed at some memory, now foggier than his skin.
‘Oh, did we cut that away already?’ Horix scraped her mouth for saliva and spat upon him. ‘They must bring their masters no harm. I will not stomach a shade in my house who thinks himself above the Tenet, the Code, or more importantly, my will. Take him out of my sight, Kalid.’
The colonel had his men haul the screeching Vex out of the room, then hung back alongside Horix, who was busy smoothing her skirts. He flicked the half-coin on his thumb and it chimed as it spun.
‘Vex was the last shade I would have expected to do this.’
‘Jealousy’s not reserved just for the living, Colonel. Such a thing can drive a shade to madness as easily as it can a man. As it did with Vex.’
‘Jealousy? Of who?’
‘Of whom. And of Caltro, the Krass shade,’ she growled. ‘Now, thanks to Vex’s shortcomings, we must go to retrieve our locksmith from the uppity Tor Busk. If he thinks he can simply snatch one of my shades as though I were a lesser tal, he’ll regret the day he heard my name.’
Kalid was already walking. ‘I’ll have a hundred of my men ready in an hour, Mistress.’
She held up a hand, freezing him. ‘You forget the nature of this city’s game, Colonel. Do not be so rash. Tors and tals besieging each other’s towers? That attracts plenty of eyes, and with all this talk of murders and disappearances, we do not want extra attention. We would not want to pique the interest of the Chamber, now, would we? No. We tread softly.’
‘And do what?’ Kalid looked confused and mildly disappointed.
‘Busk must know of Caltro’s worth in order to steal him. He must need him for something, therefore we play on his weaknesses, Colonel. Greed, pride, vanity. We make him think I am weak, and that I will eventually forget the matter if he holds out long enough. First, we make a purposefully fumbling effort to play him. We send him a note.’
‘Not poisoned?’
Horix tapped her nails together. ‘Too old a trick. No, we merely thank him for his warnings and we advise him we are ready to sell the shade known as Jerub. He will not accept, because he already has Caltro. We will pester him until we stoke his pride into anger. He will threaten me, and I will roll over like the old woman I am. We will make him believe he has won, and it’s then that we shall send him a gift. And for that, Colonel, we shall need a spook. And a good one at that. The very best.’
‘A spook?’ Kalid took a moment to process her ploy. He nodded, grinning. ‘Clever, Mistress.’
‘I have had years of practice. Now, melt that half-coin and then fetch me a scribe. You may deliver the scroll yourself. And find me a spook!’
‘Aye, Mistress.’
Horix watched the man stomp from the room, leaving her in the soft glow of lamplight and her own self-satisfaction. It had been many years since her last noble feud. She had played the recluse too well, it seemed. She had almost forgotten the thrill of machination, of guile. Of winning.
The widow plucked another half-coin from her pocket and held it up to make it shine. Caltro’s half-coin. She thumbed the split sigil of the royal crown and the poorly carved glyph and pondered.
Insurance was a wonderful thing.
With a tight smile on her face, she made for the doorway. As her fingers graced the stone to steady herself, she heard Vex’s screaming begin. His ghoulish howls followed her all the way to the foot of the stairs, and not once did she flinch or shudder. She only smiled wider.
‘I’ve got the shits about this.’
‘For the last time, shut your trap, Ani,’ Temsa hissed, tapping his cane on the ochre marble and making several coincounters look up from their ridiculously tall desks. He nodded to them, and they tugged at their spectacles. The fervent scratching of reeds upon papyrus resumed.
Jexebel fell silent, busying herself with sitting straight and not fidgeting in her new grey uniform. To Temsa’s right, Danib wore the same, though his strained more at the seams.
Temsa looked to the end of the grand hall, eyeing the closed door with golden glyphs splayed across it, spelling “Director” in Arctian. It had been closed far too long for his liking. The waiting times at Araxes’ banks were almost as famous as the Chamber’s, things of legend and song. At least queuing only applied to the poorer side of society; those with maybe half a dozen shades to their name. Temsa could still hear the clamouring from the public desks on the level below them.
At least the banks offered something to gaze at while they made their more important customers wait. Personally, Temsa admired the grim architecture. It celebrated the deaths that filled the vaults of places like Fenec Coinery. The upper halls had vaulted ceilings of gold leaf and white plaster. Whale-oil lanterns hung from skeletal arms cast in silver. They sprouted from six columns of black lava-stone, shaped with hollow ribcages and stretching arms. Skulls hung like bunches of grapes at their heads and feet. They looked down at the rows of desks below them and glowered.
The desks in question belonged to the sigils and the coincounters, and they were so tall they required ladders to reach. Between them stood guards dressed in full battle armour, complete with grilled helms covering their faces and shining halberds. Though they were silent, those they protected were not. The air was filled with the scratching of reeds against papyrus and the clatter of abacuses. Not a single shade manned the lofty desks; no half-lives were allowed to handle or guard half-coins, as per the Code.
The floor was made of a marble so glossy that Temsa could check his reflection in its shine. He had done so frequently since arriving. The new suit was chafing around his good leg. The rich silks were warm, too. Thick folds of it trapped the heat, and though shades stood along the walls, wafting palm fronds, Temsa was beginning to sweat. And his tight collar… well, there was nothing to do about it now besides make a mental note to have the tailor beaten.
A dab of his kerchief saw to the sweat, and he distracted himself with adjusting the multitude of silver rings on his fingers. He had selected only his best for the occasion. He had even let one of the tavern girls underline his eyes and blush his cheeks, as was the fashion of the nobles. Ani had scowled murderously when she’d seen him. What she didn’t understand was that actors needed costumes, and this was his. His stage? The bank. His role? A successful and thoroughly legal businessman here for his first official Weighing.
Once again, Temsa’s gaze slipped to the director’s door. The windows either side had been shuttered, but he could see shapes moving behind them, framed by the lamplight within. He narrowed his eyes, willing the figures to come forth, and to his mild surprise, they did just that.
His pet sigil, Russun Fenec, and his father Tor Fenec came forth, along with a retinue of advisors in sequinned robes. As the advisors scattered like rats docking after a long voyage, the Fenecs bustled onwards. Only one stayed with them: a greying man with an intricately braided beard and gold paint plastered in a line between his nose and his vastly receded hairline.
Temsa rose to greet them. He even wore a smile. ‘Tor Fenec, Mr Fenec. Shall we begin?’
Father and son shared a look while the old man just stared at Temsa’s leg. Long decades of making people squirm had taught Temsa the language of people’s faces. Eyes, foreheads, lips – they were all mouths in their own right, and they could speak volumes. He saw the desperate pleading in Russun’s face, the utter displeasure in the tor’s.
Fenec the elder cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for waiting, Boss Temsa, a—’
‘My pleasure.’
‘A… thank yo
u. My apologies for the delay and our deliberation.’
‘I assume the time was spent wisely.’
‘Quite. Well, it is not often we deal with people… with soultraders like yourself, Boss Temsa—’
‘And I have explained that is now a tiny portion of my business. Since I have begun depositing here, I have acquired factories, workhouses, dock-shades, security companies.’ And a great many of them, too.
‘Yes.’ Fenec tried hard to swallow his annoyance at being interrupted. While he struggled, Russun spoke up.
‘And that is why we have decided to allow you to bank in our prestigious vaults on a permanent basis, at a yearly commission of eight percent, as discussed.’
Russun fell silent as his father’s hand patted him on the shoulder. Though the sigil bowed his head, his eyes snuck to Temsa’s.
‘On the basis,’ Tor Fenec continued, ‘that your Weighing places you within our bracket of clientele. I am pleased to say we were able to acquire a Weigher for you right away. Tallyer Nhun here can assist us.’
Temsa bowed to hide his wolfish grin. ‘I am very pleased to hear that. Shall we continue, then?’
‘You may signal your men, Mr Temsa.’
‘It would be my pleasure. Miss Jexebel?’
Silence. The woman was staring blankly at him. She was getting deafer by the day.
‘The barrows, Ani?’
‘Aye.’
Temsa watched Ani saunter towards the stairs. With a sharp whistle, she got the attention of the men waiting downstairs amidst a crowd of guards. After a few shouts of, ‘Move your arse!’ and, ‘Get out the fuckin’ way!’ four large wheelbarrows appeared at the stairs with puffing men behind them. These were not the average farm barrow. These were tall and fat, box-like things, adorned with silver and varnished oak from Skol. And bought especially for this moment. Temsa had to concentrate to contain his pleasure.
