The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

  ‘Leave this to me.’ Ghyrab thrust the tiller into Nilith’s spare hand. He strode for the bow and used a pole to stop the barge from butting the gates.

  ‘Stop there!’ yelled one of the figures.

  Nilith peered upwards, just about understanding his thick desert dialect. On the flat barge, under shrewd eyes, she felt like a delicacy on a platter being served up for dinner.

  The voice hollered again, this time accompanied by a dark face with big ears and a sprout of hair. Nilith heard the cautionary creak of bowstrings and wished once more for a vessel with a roof.

  ‘Announce yourself! Business, passage or bandit?’

  Ghyrab banged the pole against the gate. ‘It’s me, Thaph! You know it’s me. Twice a year I come through, and every time you ask! And why would a bandit tell you he’s a bandit?’

  ‘Bandits are stupid. Might trick ’em,’ suggested another voice from behind the parapet. It was barely audible over the hammering of the quarry. Nilith could smell acrid tar and rot on the air.

  ‘Orders is orders.’ Thaph banged a palm against the wood. ‘Business or passage, Ghyrab?’

  ‘Passage, curse it!’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘You’ve just—’

  Thaph cleared his throat loudly. ‘How many passengers?’

  ‘You’ve got eyes, haven’t you? Two living. One shade. And a horse, if that counts.’ Ghyrab struck the gate again. ‘Just hurry up.’

  After much muffled discussion, the gates split in half to the clamour of chains. They moved at an aching pace, revealing their precious secrets so gradually that Nilith had soaked in most of the horror by the time the barge passed under the wall.

  Once more, the river reached an open clearing, though this one was far deeper, wider, longer, and infinitely more sinister than the last. Nilith craned her neck to take in the breadth of milk-white rock walls. They had been cut into mighty steps, fit for the feet of titans. Machinery and scaffolding sprawled like a city across their angular slopes. A tangle of ladders and ramps stitched it all together, like sutures trying to stop a vast, gaping wound in the earth from bursting open.

  The thunder emanated from this foul sprawl. It was not just comprised of hammers, but of countless feet and barrows and voices as well. Both the scaffolding and the surfaces of the bare rock writhed with activity. Even as the day turned to evening, hordes of miners toiled on fervently. They dug, they chipped, they cut, they drilled; ghosts toiling alongside the living. The former gave the limestone a cold glow, while the latter might as well have been corpses for the amount of dust and blood that caked them. More than a few shapes lay prone amongst the piles of stone chips and rubble. Whether dead or dying, nobody tended them. Beasts toiled alongside the miners. Horses, beetles, spiders and ponies hauled blocks or heaved on rope. They looked in no better shape than the humans who worked them; shaky, emaciated creatures.

  Unable to witness their plight any longer, Nilith’s eyes followed the huge blocks of limestone as they were hauled down the ramps. Lesser blocks swung from ropes as teams yelled and sweated to keep them airborne. Down went the blocks, always down, progressing like picnic items along a column of thieving ants. Down, until she realised the quarry dipped below the river’s level. She looked ahead, and found the river had an edge to it, and shit all else beyond it.

  A moment of panic struck her, along with that word again. Waterfall.

  ‘Steady now,’ Ghyrab said, feeling her twitch on the tiller. She had yet to let go. ‘Watch.’

  Nilith could do nothing but watch as the edge crept closer and the repugnant bowels of the quarry were laid bare. The clanking of machinery and sloshing of water rose above the roar of labour, but all she heard was her heart, louder still in her ears.

  As her screech was poised to leave her throat, the lurch of the barge interrupted her. Wide-eyed, Nilith looked to Ghyrab. She found him smiling once more.

  They were falling, but not in the traditional way one tumbles over a waterfall. They glided downwards with all the speed and grace of a feather. The water had come with them, not rushing in a deluge, but instead hugging the barge, sloshing about in the confines of some unseen platform. Behind them, the river poured down in a sheet, hiding all but the edges of huge girders and cogs grinding away. The rhythmic pounding of some clockwork machine battered Nilith’s eardrums.

  The barge lurched as the platform sank into the river below and sent it washing forwards to the next precipice. Level after level, they descended in this fashion. Each mighty step was conquered effortlessly. For a brief time, Nilith saw a beauty in the stubborn ingenuity of human minds; minds that could bend rivers or build towers to top mountains. These were feats that lifted her heart, and restored some faith in her kind. And then she gazed down into the hell that the same minds had dug into the earth, and that faith withered. There was no valour in greed, and Kal Duat looked like the birthplace of greed.

  ‘They call these the Nine Levels,’ Ghyrab told her, motioning up at the huge steps now towering over them. ‘One for every decade the White Hell’s been churning. The tenth’s being dug now, down into the earth.’

  They splashed onto the ninth as he spoke, where what remained of the river had been confined to a wide gutter of stone that ran along the bottom of the quarry. Either side of it, beyond the sprawling stone docksides, Nilith could see channels where the first cuts were being made into the dirt, like flesh scraped away from a shin bone. She nodded, mouth agape. ‘There must be thousands. Tens of thousands.’

  Ghyrab’s stance of draping over the tiller had not changed, but his lazy eyes had taken on a sharper slant. His forehead had found some more wrinkles. ‘Hundreds of thousands.’

  ‘And not all ghosts? Ba’at?’

  ‘No,’ he grunted. ‘In some places in the Arc, skin is now worth less than shade. Slaves. Prisoners. Wanderers. Outcasts. The White Hell accepts all. The rest are shades. Between the living and the dead, there’s not a day or night they don’t work.’

  ‘I guess that’s what’s causing the smell.’ The air carried the tang of old sweat, the rotting of dead things and overflowing latrines.

  ‘Aye.’

  Nilith knew the Arc was a step away from barbarism on any day of the week, but this quarry seemed one very large step indeed, and one that crossed a line. ‘Surely if the owners of this place seek to make a profit, they should take better care of their workers?’

  ‘These are rich men, Majesty.’ Ghyrab raised a finger to a bank of glowing lights at the high rim of the pit. Nilith had to crane her neck to see the dark building, like a tower on its side. ‘Richer in silver than some of your sereks are in half-coin. Food, medicine, even water; all take a cut out of the profits. If a worker dies, he gets to work again in death. If they can’t keep him bound, they sell him on, swap him for a live one, or melt his coin to reuse the metal. There’s plenty of chained flesh coming from the south, and your city and the Sprawls bring shades here by the carriage-load. What goes into Kal Duat don’t matter; just what comes out of it. Stone and silver.’

  As if to illustrate the bargeman’s point, they heard a cry over the racket of the quarry. Nilith looked up to see a living worker on the level above, struggling in vain to stop a block the size of their barge from sliding down a ramp. His legs slid through the sand and mud as he fought to stay upright, back pressed to the white stone.

  Nilith had already guessed his trajectory. The slope was steep and led down to the river’s edge. A hundred blocks had already been stacked at the bottom, waiting for barges to take them away. She winced as she saw the man had realised too. He flailed, trying to escape, but the block’s weight was against him. He roared as it slid down the ramp with him tumbling at its head.

  The clash of stone might have drowned out the sound of a grown man being flattened, but it did nothing to hinder the carnage that spurted in all directions for a dozen feet. Nor did it soften the wretchedness of the grasping hand, still poking from the gap between the bloodied white stone. Still cla
sping for air amidst the stone-dust.

  Not a word came from any of the nearby workers. Whips cracked, orders were hollered, and backs bent to labour once more. Nilith watched on, fighting the rising bile in her throat. She was a fighter, accustomed to death, but this twisted her stomach.

  As they slowly drifted along the wide channel, made for barges far mightier than Ghyrab’s craft, Nilith watched the waters turn foul and milky from the limestone and the filth of industry, streaked with rainbows of leaked oil. The Ashti was barely flowing now.

  ‘Why aren’t we moving?’ she asked.

  Ghyrab wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Blockage o’ some sort.’

  Nilith had been too busy staring at the bloody stone. Now she turned to the lump of slimy wood and stone sitting in their path. It was a huge barge, half-loaded with limestone blocks and already sitting low in the murky water. Seeing that it was on the cusp of sinking, a sailor had the sense to call a halt to the sweating teams working the ramps and pulleys by the dockside. They conversed in a rapid patois Nilith didn’t recognise: some pidgin Arctian.

  ‘Can you understand them?’

  ‘Not really,’ Ghyrab said. ‘Bits, at least. It’s Hellish.’

  When Nilith remained silent, he shrugged, making the tiller squeak.

  ‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t name it. It’s the tongue of the White Hell. Hellish. Means they can give orders quicker. You don’t learn it swift-like? Well…’ His finger angled toward the crushed worker. Nobody had made a move to clean him up.

  It took an age for the stone-barge to cast off and for the weak momentum of the sick river to claim it. In the meantime, they were paid a visit by half a dozen men clad in colourful, puffy silks. Bustling down the stone dockside with smiles and waves, they looked completely at odds with the miserable surroundings. These were not desert-folk but city dwellers. Several had the audacity to wear turbans with jewels and gold medallions dangling from their folds. They clutched the hems of their silks in front of them as they negotiated the puddles and detritus.

  ‘Travellers! Welcome!’ called the closest of them, a pudgy man so red in the cheeks he matched his scarlet trappings. His hands were held to his face as if he were eating an invisible pie of some kind. Nilith assumed it was a greeting until she saw he was twirling a dark and waxy moustache.

  ‘Business? Business?’ the others clamoured, grinning like beggars stumbling across an untended banquet. Nilith watched their eyes measuring her clothing, the horse, and Farazar, standing as far away as possible beside his body.

  ‘No. Just passage,’ Ghyrab answered for them. ‘And we’re late, so if—’

  The scarlet man took his hands from his moustache. ‘Have you no wish to barter? Nothing to sell?’

  Nilith crossed her arms, a sign of a firm no in Krass. In Araxes, it was a sign for merchants to try harder. ‘None, thank you.’

  ‘Horse-flesh, perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  Chests were puffed. The scarlet man climbed a few steps to stand on the brick lip of the riverbank. ‘Then in that case, you must pay us a toll.’

  Ghyrab swept from the tiller. ‘Toll? What damn toll?’

  ‘The toll.’ It looked as if it wounded the man to repeat himself.

  ‘First you build a gate and start taking names. Now a toll?’ The bargeman put one foot on the bulwark, his hands clutching his hips. ‘There’s never been no toll on this river and there never will be. You folks should know that just as well as I do. Not in a hundred years has that changed!’

  Scarlet tittered. ‘You would know, sir, but times eventually do change. The Consortium has decided to start charging a toll on those who pass through Kal Duat. We can’t have your kind interfering with our operations.’

  Nilith piped up. ‘The who?’

  ‘The Consortium! You have not heard of us, peasant? Shame on you. We have run this mine for a hundred years. This and countless other businesses. Half of Araxes is built from Consortium stone, I’ll have you know.’ Scarlet paused his tirade to pout at the ghost. ‘Is the shade for sale?’ he asked of Nilith. ‘He has a familiar face—’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Nilith and Farazar chorused. She fought not to glance at him, silently thanking him for keeping his gods-damned mouth shut.

  Scarlet threw up his hands. ‘Shame! We like a half-life with a mouth, don’t we?’ Another titter. This time his gang of friends joined in, sniggering. ‘The toll it is!’

  ‘What is this toll?’ Ghyrab growled.

  ‘Silvers or gems.’

  ‘We have neither. Bandits waylaid us.’

  Scarlet smiled. ‘Then it would appear the ghost and the horse are indeed for sale, wouldn’t it?’

  Nilith replaced Ghyrab at the edge of the barge, leaving him to work his way back to the tiller. She calmly dug the points of her trident into the wood, hackles bristling. She leaned on the weapon as she slowly looked between the multicoloured buffoons. ‘I find it very strange they didn’t mention this at the gate. And, as you haven’t provided any proof of your authority, your ownership, or even your identity, I can only assume that this is some kind of elaborate swindle, and so I’m unfortunately going to decline to pay you anything at all,’ she said. Behind her, Ghyrab put his weight into the tiller, using it like an oar to put some distance between them and the dockside.

  Scarlet’s ruddy complexion grew darker. ‘You’re educated, for a desert yokel, aren’t you?’

  ‘I read a lot of scrolls.’

  ‘It matters not! Nobody dares question the Nyxites when they ask silvers for their Nyxwater, claiming Nyxwell after Nyxwell. The Consortium have kept this empire in trade, grain, and stone for centuries, not that you would know it. Why shouldn’t we charge a toll for our land?’ Scarlet leaned closer, compensating for Nilith drifting away. ‘As far as we’re concerned, peasant, we have more authority here than the emperor. Now—’

  ‘That’s treachery,’ Farazar hissed.

  Scarlet was now leading his gang down the dockside in an effort to keep up with Ghyrab’s subtle paddling. He was set on having the last word, refusing to be out-argued by a peasant. ‘Is it, half-life? My, you do have a tongue! The emperor cares only for himself and his wars in the Scatter. Why else does he hide in his precious Sanctuary atop his mighty tower?’

  Farazar began to stride forwards, but Nilith blocked his path with the trident.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ she challenged the man, baiting him some more.

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you why! He barely rules over the city, never mind the Duneplains or the Long Sands. Instead he leaves it to his empress-in-waiting to rule in his stead, and deal with the empire’s problems. Yet they have no power out here, in the wild! The Consortium, however—’

  Nilith gritted her teeth. ‘What problems?’

  ‘Ignorant as usual, you desert-folk! The Nyxwater shortage, of course, soldiers on the streets, and murder… Wait!’ Scarlet realised his error as he found his way blocked by a limestone boulder, and Nilith and the barge slipping beyond it. ‘Enough talking! Pay the toll!’ he yelled.

  A horn blew along the river. The stone-barge finally cast off, ambling ahead under the power of half a dozen oars. Ghyrab threw himself at his tiller, sloshing water behind them in great arcs. One managed to spray a few of the gaudy swindlers.

  ‘We’re very late!’ Nilith yelled at them.

  Scarlet flapped his manicured hands. ‘Halt, I say! The toll!’ The nearby workers and rowers gawped cluelessly at their masters. Whether they were playing dumb or just dead in the brain, Nilith didn’t know, but she thanked them anyway.

  Ghyrab used the width of the river to put the stone-barge between them and the dockside. With a few more strokes, they were ahead of it, beating it to the bottleneck in the river. ‘We’ll pay on the way back,’ he called out.

  Scarlet was trying to climb through the mess of limestone and ropes, but was quickly running out of path. His silks were now ripped and dusty, his face the very picture of outrage. ‘You’ll pa
y double, peasants! You hear me? Triple!’

  ‘Whatever you say!’ Ghyrab shouted, just as they lost sight of Scarlet and his gang behind the stone-barge once more. Another threat came, but the words were lost to the wash of water. Nilith joined Ghyrab at the tiller as he paddled, silent and still wary. They listened out for more shouts or ringing bells, but none came.

  Night was falling quickly. Though torches blazed like the campfires of a vast army, the darkness masked some of the ugliness of the White Hell. Even then, they were still drowned by the noise of the place. The hammering, the yelled orders, the whinnying of beasts, the frequent screams…

  Nilith was glad when they reached the first of the nine steps, and the sloshing of water and machinery drowned it out. She could see the mechanism better now there wasn’t a waterfall in the way. A huge cog was embedded in the cliff, red with rust and slick with water and torchlight. On both sides of the cog, under cotton tents and awnings, two armies of glowing shades toiled on cranks. There must have been several hundred of them, shoulders bare and arched in labour. Their thin strands of cobalt muscle stood out like whipcords. White scars crisscrossed their backs.

  As their barge approached, something hooked their section of river and lifted it into the air with a deep groan. It squealed like a murder victim under the weight but it held fast. Steel plates snapped shut to hem the water in, and with much juddering and sloshing, they began their ascent. Any water that escaped was caught in pools, and through the magic of pumps and bellows manned by more ghostly crews, it was forced up through a knotted network of brass and wooden pipes to keep the river flowing. Shades crawled across the trembling pipes like spiders, or hung from ropes like odd lanterns. They ignored the barge, seeing to their repairs of rusty junctions instead, where murky river water escaped in jets of fine spray.

  The pull of the earth was always kinder to falling, not lifting, and as such it took an age to climb out of Kal Duat. It was a miracle any of the Ashti managed to make it out of the White Hell at all. By some chance of design, it did, but it was a dirty, murky flow. Nilith spent the journey in silence, waiting for the mechanisms to come to a crunching halt and guards to appear with lanterns and triggerbows. She was surprised all the way to the first step, where the canyon walls reappeared.