The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set

by Ben Galley

  Nilith looked for weapons but saw none. She stared past the stranger, eyes following a rope between him and another horse, to which a small wagon was hitched. A dark lump of tarpaulin sat high upon it. Even in the baking heat, the hairs on her nape stood to attention.

  ‘State your business, I said! I’ve had enough of chance meetings on this road.’

  The man looked down past his heels to the spinning sand. ‘Not much of a road, now, is it?’ He smiled, showing a tooth studded with a ruby. A man this bejewelled should have had guards aplenty for a trip into the desert, perhaps a whole phalanx. Even making it through the Outsprawls alone should have been a challenge for him. Nilith’s wariness grew. Behind her, she heard a deep rumble in Anoish’s chest. She flicked him a look and saw his dark gaze was fixed on the wagon.

  Nilith stood to one side, casting her free hand as though she was bowing. ‘In any case, it seems it was taking you south. I bid you good travels, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’

  The man did not move. He simply stared at her, eyes just a glint beneath the shade of his hat.

  Nilith gestured again. ‘If you’re a trader, I have nothing to sell and no need to buy.’

  ‘I am no trader, though my masters are.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Nilith replied, stepping towards Anoish’s side and putting her hands on his back. Before she could hoist herself up, the man kicked his horse forwards, and positioned the beast in front of Anoish.

  Nilith’s sword emerged, a ribbon of silver. She held it towards him, double-handed. ‘I’d urge you to move. I don’t want to hurt you.’

  For a moment, the man seemed disappointed, as if he’d come out with the will to do a job, but had forgotten the heart needed to finish it. He sighed deeply and hung his head. ‘I wish I could say the same.’

  A triggerbow appeared between his sheets of silk, aimed directly between Anoish’s eyes. Nilith involuntarily yelped, but there came no twang, no thud, no whinny of death. She held up a hand, while the other patted the horse’s baggage for her own bow. She felt the tension in the horse’s muscles.

  ‘Just hold on one fucking moment! What do you want from me?’

  The gaudy man held the bow without a tremble. ‘Not I, madam. My masters. The Consortium, a group of traders and businessmen who are interested in anything that earns silver.’

  Nilith had heard that word before, in a white hell. ‘Kal Duat.’

  He seemed proud. ‘Though one of many quarry facilities spread across the deserts, Kal Duat does rather stand out from the crowd, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘And what do you want with me?’

  ‘You refused to pay the toll for passing through Kal Duat. It is now overdue, and I have been sent to fetch your payment.’

  Nilith could have laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! The only thing I refused was to accept their right to levy such a toll, and to recognise your Consortium, whatever your claims.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the debt remains.’

  Her temper realised its shortcomings. ‘Are you seriously saying you’ve come all the way out into the Duneplains to find one person who didn’t pay a horse-shit toll? Surely this Consortium of yours has more pressing matters, like digging more gaping holes in the earth!’

  ‘The daemons are in the details, madam. Not just one miscreant…’ Without breaking eye contact, the man produced a scroll with his free hand and let it fall open. ‘I have here a list of four individuals, sent by hawk to Araxes from the Duat. A woman matching your description – I believe the description was “bedraggled” – an elderly bargeman, a shade, and one horse.’

  Nilith gave the man a dose of royal fury. ‘This is fucking laughable! What is your name, man?’

  If he was shaken, he didn’t show it. ‘While I don’t see that as pertinent to the case, you may have it. It is Jobey. Chaser Jobey, and if you pay the toll, all will be resolved. The Consortium are fair in all business dealings.’

  Nilith’s eyes flitted between the shining bolt poised on the triggerbow to the impassive expression of this interloper. She thought her luck had turned after sighting Farazar, and yet, even as the desert lay almost conquered behind her, she had already stumbled on the city’s thorns. ‘How much?’ she asked. ‘I have little to trade, but if you insist and it will put an end to this preposterous conversation, you can have it.’

  Jobey made a show of checking, rechecking, and then triple checking the scroll. ‘Your shade,’ he said.

  ‘As you might have noticed, I don’t own any shades.’

  ‘Oh, I shall find him, but I’m afraid you misunderstand me. I mean to take your shade, madam. Your corporal being. Your soul. Those are the terms.’ He shrugged. ‘As I stated, the tolls are now overdue.’

  Nilith waved the sword, standing between the bolt and Anoish. ‘Go fuck yourself, before I do it for you with my blade.’

  Jobey sighed dramatically once more as he tugged on the rope trailing between him and his wagon. The other horse came trotting up, face as glum as an empty wine bottle. Only when the rattling of the wagon had stopped did Nilith hear the hissing.

  Keeping the triggerbow aimed, Chaser Jobey got down from his horse and trundled over to the tarpaulin. He seized one of its corners but hovered there, unmoving.

  ‘It is customary to offer you one last chance to change your mind before I proceed with the recoupment. I must warn you: I have worked as a reclaimer for the Consortium for seventeen years, three months, and nine days now,’ he said. ‘I am very good at my job.’

  Nilith held her sword up, making the steel shine. ‘And my offer still stands.’

  Jobey cocked his head, and the faint smile that had been smeared there fell away. ‘You are not a woman of business, are you?’

  Nilith was not. Had she the time or the inclination, she would have lectured this man on precisely why she loathed the leeches who preyed on those with too little or too much silver. Consortiums. Firms. Guilds. Whatever name they slapped onto their coats of arms, they all put profit at their centres. That made them no better than the tals and tors who traded in souls. Be it the banks and their half-coins, or the Chamber of Trade and their shipping routes, greed was the same in any currency.

  ‘I have no love for it,’ was all Nilith said.

  Jobey sighed again, looking to Araxes. ‘That great capital was not built by shades or royalty, madam, but by enterprising, ambitious minds. It was built on success, on profit, on power, by those who understand the merits of business. And those who understand business know that a live horse is worth more than a dead woman. You, clearly, do not understand that at all.’

  Thunk!

  The triggerbow let fly. Only Nilith’s reactions saved her. The bolt was aimed low, for her stomach, but with her dodge it dug into the sand between Anoish’s legs. He reared up, hooves waving in fright and outrage.

  Nilith dashed forwards, sword poised to strike. Jobey tossed out a swathe of silk to entangle her sword. In the same movement, he swept the tarpaulin from the wagon, revealing a black cage. As Nilith swivelled away, blade up and ready, she froze as she saw its contents.

  ‘Do something!’ screeched Bezel, busy flapping around Jobey’s head, trying for his eyes. Ignoring the onslaught of beak and talons, the chaser was wasting no time knocking the thick bolts from the cage door.

  Part worm, part insect, the whole was a hideous creature about four feet high. Slate grey and purple, it glistened with either sweat or slime. Its sinuous body was curled around itself, and at its head two spindly, carapace-bound arms reached out. At their ends, blue claws hung curled, glowing softly like the vapours of a ghost. It looked sightless; the only features of its face were a disproportionately large mouth, a pair of nostrils, and three milky-white antennae that waved like river reeds. The stench wafting from it was that of offal left in the sun, enough to make Nilith’s eyes water. But it was the teeth that held her gaze. Like the claws, they glowed, translucent and ever shifting.

  Despite its lack of eyes, the creature seeme
d wholeheartedly focused on Nilith. Blue claws seized the iron bars with a clang as it pressed its weight against them. Fear emanated from it, wafting across her like a winter draught. Behind her, Anoish whinnied fearfully and skittered away.

  One.

  The monster salivated in great drips as its jaws opened wide, ravenous.

  Two.

  Nilith swallowed her fear and closed the gap in great bounds, sword high and a cry peeling from her throat.

  Three.

  The last bolt slid free and Chaser Jobey cackled. ‘Go to work, my dear!’

  There was a burbling screech as the creature thrust itself from its confines. It flew at Nilith as her blade met Jobey’s arm, slicing a notch from it. She heard his cry before the wriggling body knocked her flat.

  She pushed it free with a roar, slathering herself in slime as she thrashed about with the sword. The creature’s monstrous hunger battled her craving to remain alive. It darted and weaved like a cobra before a beggar’s flute. Over and over the creature pressed her, sand hissing beneath its sinuous body. Its claws snapped each time they reached for her. Its jaws were open so wide Nilith thought its head had split in half. Two rows of glowing teeth gnashed at the air. All the while, it screamed like a cat being burned alive.

  Its ferocity was exhausting. Fear added weight to Nilith’s swings and a tremble to her legs. As she stabbed for it, her feet tripped over themselves and Nilith fell to the sand. Her legs were immediately pinned by the creature’s slimy weight. Frigid claws pressed against her chest, keeping her sword at bay. Over Anoish’s fierce whinnying, the falcon’s screeching, and the pain-filled shouts of Chaser Jobey, she heard her own pathetic wail as the foul creature closed its jaws around her hand. Teeth like icicles met her skin.

  ‘NO!’

  Chapter 20

  A Chamberlain’s Day

  Of the estimated one million people that visited our grand city last year, almost half that number were reported as missing or murdered, supposedly fed into the soultrade. Out of that number, Chamber scrutinisers and proctors managed to recover three thousand and ten wrongfully indentured souls. Forty-one soulstealers were stoned to death.

  Report from the Chamber of the Code to Emperor Farazar, year 1002

  ‘A magistrate! A bloody magistrate! ONE OF OUR OWN!’

  Chamberlain Rebene waited for his howls to descend from the rafters before continuing. The scribe standing beside his desk scribbled furiously with her reed.

  ‘This is inexcusable. A damn shame and a terrible loss for the city.’ That was debatable, considering the calibre of the scores of nobles who had so far been reported missing. Rebene cared only for the loss of Ghoor. The man was a pompous, indulgent fool, but his death was more than a murder. It was an insult. It didn’t matter that Rebene had an empress-in-waiting breathing down his neck; this was a personal prod at the Chamber. Not in Rebene’s history, nor in twenty of his predecessors’, had a soulstealer been so bold as to attack the Code itself.

  ‘Where are the answers? The arrests? The justice? Damn it all!’

  ‘Do you want the cursing included, Chamberlain, sir?

  Rebene shot a look at his scribe. ‘Yes, I want the fucking cursing included! Verbatim, I said!

  ‘Yessir, Chamberlain, sir.’

  ‘What of the scrutinisers’ and proctors’ investigations? Has nobody heard a rumour? A tavern bragging? Did no shade escape? Are you telling me a Chamber magistrate can be murdered in his own home by ruthless thugs, and nobody can give me more than a nervous fart in the way of explanation?’

  He saw the scribe’s hand pause over the scroll.

  ‘VERBATIM!’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘I want results. I want justice. I want this uppity soulstealer’s head on a plate, delivered to the Chamber forthwith! Otherwise it will be my head being served to the empress-in-waiting!’ Rebene snapped his fingers. ‘Change that to “your heads”. Otherwise it will be your heads on a plate.’

  ‘Of course, Chamberlain.’ The scribe looked up from her scroll when silence fell. Rebene was still pacing, white knuckles pressed to red lips, thinking. ‘Will that be… all, sir? she ventured.

  ‘Have a copy of that scroll sent to every magistrate and scrutiniser’s post in the Core Districts. Every proctor. Every guardhouse! And while you’re at it, find me that damned Heles!’

  ‘Yes, Chamberlain,’ said the scribe, seizing her chance to scuttle from the room.

  In an attempt to steady his heart, Rebene performed several angry circuits of his expansive office. It hadn’t known calm since the disappearances and murders had started. He put a hand to his chest, feeling an ache behind his ribs, and shook his head. The more he clenched, the more he noticed the fear hiding beneath his outrage.

  ‘Calm yourself, Rebene, old fool. You’re not next,’ he whispered to the silence.

  Ghoor had been a lavish man. Unlike the rest of the city, rank in the Chamber was decided by length of servitude, and scrutinisers were paid in silver, not shades. Ghoor had fancied himself a tor instead, and built up quite the hoard. Once, he’d even petitioned for a change of title: “Noble Consultant”, of all things.

  Rebene was not so fond of such opulence. The only shades he owned were house-shades, and a few hundred at most. His title as head of the Chamber of the Code was the only treasure he feared losing. He had no family. No lovers. Few friends besides colleagues. Fewer now Ghoor was gone. Rebene prodded irritably at his temples, trying on his old scrutiniser mind.

  ‘A fool has no enemies,’ went the saying. Over the years, time and time again, the Chamber had been made to look like a fool, and yet it was beset on all sides. Fighting the continuous criminality that pervaded Araxes’ streets and upper echelons was impossible. A toothless wolf, somebody had once called Rebene’s Chamber. That person had always stuck in his mind: a cheat he caught swindling a card-den. A pudgy young man, all vim and fire, and missing a leg below his knee. Words like that are splinters. If they are not plucked out, they worm inwards, and become as much a part of the body as a fingernail.

  Rebene heard the creak of his oak doors. A timid whisper followed.

  ‘Chamberlain?’

  He roared as he turned. ‘I’ve told you a dozen times—!’ He was about to remind the scribe about the importance of knocking when he noticed a streak of blue standing beside her. The lump in Rebene’s throat grew.

  Etane Talin stood in the doorway, dressed in a silk suit of green. He stared idly up at the vaulted ceiling and long tapestries that told the thousand-year history of the Code. Despite the Chamber’s rules, the shade was armed with a ridiculously large broadsword. The gold feather on his breast gleamed mockingly at Rebene.

  The chamberlain waved the scribe away and Etane to a chair with a single annoyed gesture.

  ‘I shall not be here long,’ commented the shade.

  Rebene pasted a polite smile onto his face as he took his own chair. He steepled his fingers to keep them from shaking.

  ‘Am I to assume—’

  Etane sighed dramatically. Though he was the voice of the empress-in-waiting, he did not look like he wanted to be in that office any more than Rebene did.

  ‘To assume is to admit a lack of facts, Chamberlain. As you do not have the facts, allow me to lay them out for you. Fact the first: after the greatest massacre this city has known in a decade, a magistrate is dead, along with a large number of tors, tals, minor nobles, and Serek Berinia. Let us not forget Hashya the Voice, either. Priceless bard, that one. Fact the second: as far as the Piercer has been made aware, no culprit has yet been arrested for the aforementioned slaughter. And fact the third: Her Majesty Sisine Talin Renala the Thirty-Seventh is not best pleased with either fact one or two. Nor is her father, your emperor.’

  ‘Not… best pleased?’ Rebene shuffled in his chair, trying his best to retain his smile.

  Etane shrugged. ‘To put it gently, considering all the silver she has invested in you. Not to mention all those soldier shades.’


  ‘I see.’ Rebene kept his hands in front of his face, hoping it would hide the glow he felt in his cheeks. ‘I would like to assure Her Majesty I am doing everything in my power—’

  ‘Suspects.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Suspects. Culprits. Lawbreakers. Malefactors. Do you have any?’

  Rebene cursed his shaking hands as they reached for several scrolls, scattered about his desk during an earlier angst. He gathered them up and peeled them open, reading names from scrutinisers spread across the city’s core and inner districts; scrutinisers he held in the highest regard, and yet now inwardly cursed for not doing better. Especially Heles, having the cheek to ask for autonomy, then failing to deliver no more than a suspicion.

  ‘A gentleman named Farassi has recently claimed tordom, supposedly after a lucrative trade with a Scatter pirate. Pendrago, a Skol man who is a known soulstealer in, er… the Dawar District. There’s a Berrix the Pale, known thug and soultrader of Quara. Some of my scrutinisers have even suggested the Consortium – that group of merchants who run the desert mines – might be behind it, making a power grab.’

  Etane’s face hadn’t twitched. He looked on, still waiting. Rebene snagged another few scrolls.

  ‘Er… we have an Astarti of the Whitewash Beaches. And Boran Temsa. Bes District. From tavern-owner to tor just a week or two ago, though nobody’s sure why or how. Definite soultrader. Suspected soulstealer. The notes are from Scrutiniser Heles. She’s one of my best. And that’s all.’