by Ben Galley
Clutching one arm to his side, he hooked the chamberpot from beneath the bed and sat the gold-plated thing in front of him. His bladder was insistent, and the unbuttoning of his breeches was frantic, and he almost sprayed his legs before pointing at the pot.
Relieved at long last, Temsa shifted his knee to stand, and in doing so, kicked the chamberpot flying. He would have cursed to the rafters if hot piss hadn’t been dripping down his thighs.
With a strangled roar he ripped the rest of his tunic open and dabbed at his face and neck. The rest was spattered down his front. Temsa bared his teeth as he thrust himself to his foot.
As he did so, the door to his chamber creaked open and a shade peered around the jamb.
‘Tor? We heard a noise—’ The shade’s voice drifted off as he saw the wet, half-naked Temsa and the chamberpot lying upended on the floor.
‘Get the fuck out!’ Temsa bellowed. ‘And fetch some water!’
While trying to avoid breathing in through his nose, Temsa reached for his golden leg, lying on a table next to the bed. He set it to the floor with a loud clang, thrust his thigh into it, and set about tying the straps.
By the time he was done, the shade had returned with a jug of water. He opened the door a crack and timidly poked it into the room. The tor thumped his way over and snatched it from him.
‘Fresh tunic and breeches!’ Temsa yelled.
The shade bumbled into the room, bowing so low he was practically doubled over. He scuttled to a vast set of doors along the wall. With the tug of a rope, they parted to reveal a rainbow of robes and tunics, cloaks and silks. Meanwhile, Temsa doused himself in water, and when the shade returned with a purple and green affair, he used it as a towel.
‘Gold.’
‘Of course, Tor.’
The shade produced a gold robe with jade beads and Temsa allowed him to dress him in it. At least Ghoor had trained his house-shades well. The half-life’s cold fingers did not touch him once.
There came a booming knock and Danib strode into the room. He raised his chin at the sight of the puddle and overturned chamberpot.
‘What?’ Temsa challenged him.
Danib blinked.
‘Already? It’s barely an hour past dawn. Eager, for a dead bitch,’ Temsa growled. He saw Danib’s blue gaze narrowing. ‘Don’t you give me that look. Fine. I’m ready.’
As Temsa was handed his cane, he jabbed a thumb at the house-shade. ‘See this one has his tongue cut out.’
‘What? No! I—’ the half-life stammered.
The shade was silenced as Danib clasped his head in both enormous hands and dragged him from the room. Temsa followed, watching his legs thrash, vapours curling in his wake. The morning could go fuck itself for all he cared. It was the evening that occupied his mind.
Several floors below, in a great hall no doubt designed with orgies in mind, Enlightened Sister Yaridin – or perhaps Liria, Temsa could never tell – was waiting for him on a humongous couch. It dwarfed her, and its regal purple clashed with her glow and crimson robe. Temsa had taken Ani’s surly advice and involved the Cult. Too many corners were being cut, too many threads fraying. The old Temsa would never have moved so fast; he realised that after Finel’s. What irked him about the old Temsa was that he had been poor.
When he entered, armoured men in his wake, the sister arose and offered him a smile. It was Yaridin after all. ‘We are surprised to see you well, Tor. The rumours say Finel’s was a bloodbath.’
Temsa chose a nearby armchair, one with manacles suspiciously attached to its arms. He kept his hands on his cane, silently vowing to invest in different furniture. ‘That it was, but you will have your shades, Sister. No need to fret. The good serek was kind enough to die.’
‘At quite a cost and rather noisily, or so we understand. We hear the Cloud Court is suspended because of your actions.’
If she was looking for an explanation, or an excuse, or an apology, she was sorely disappointed on all fronts. Temsa shrugged.
‘What have you done with him?’ asked the shade.
‘The same as I have all the others. Gained their scrawl, made sure they can’t be identified, and then sent them south. To Kal Duat, if you must know.’
If Temsa didn’t know better, he could have sworn Yaridin hid a wrinkling of her nose. ‘The White Hell. We know of it, and the Consortium that owns it.’
Temsa waved his hands. ‘Businessmen. They don’t care where their shades come from, and neither should you. Takes a special conscience.’
‘Or lack thereof,’ Yaridin replied, managing to sound sweet. She sat and crossed her hands on her scarlet lap. ‘You wished to discuss something?’
The tor sucked his teeth. ‘Discuss is a strong word. “Inform” is more to my liking.’
Yaridin stiffened, if that was possible for a half-life. ‘And?’
‘The final name on your list will have to wait. Somebody else is more deserving of my time for now.’
The sister’s face was blank, patient. ‘Who is this lucky citizen?
‘Tal Horix. An old widow I’ve done business with in the past. I sold her something I want. Need. Now I want it back.’
‘What?’
‘A locksmith. She has his half-coin and I want it.’
‘Ah, we see.’
Temsa got up from his chair, showing he thought the matter final. ‘If you wish me to take on Serek Boon successfully, I suggest you agree with me. Otherwise, you shall have another bloodbath.’
Wrapped up in thought, Yaridin’s eyes toured the gilded statues and tapestries that lined the wall. ‘We acquiesce. You may remove Horix,’ she said, ‘but our agreement still stands.’
‘Fair enough,’ Temsa said, already half turned around. He made for the door. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘they might be wrong about you Cult types.’
‘Oh yes?’
Temsa hovered in the doorway, swirling his cane around as if divining the right words. ‘Indeed. You’re not completely worthless.’ He slammed the door before he could see the scowl on Yaridin’s vapours.
Danib had finished with his chores, and was waiting outside the hall. Temsa didn’t stop walking, giving his orders as he marched.
‘Get Ani up. Get everybody up! I want every blade sharp enough to cut a cloud! Every bit of armour black as night! Horix better enjoy her last day in the Arc!’
Temsa was coming for her.
The lump of green phlegm arced over the balcony and plummeted down to the streets below. Horix listened, knowingly kidding herself she could hear the splat. She heard nothing but the banging of carpenters far below, and she blamed them instead of the height and her old ears.
A day had passed since Horix had sent Kalid and his soldiers back to the rooftop, and there was still no news. Nothing. No blood painting the sand red outside Ghoor’s tower. No Temsa being hauled off to the Chamber of the Code. No public mutilation and burning announced. No parading of the charred corpse.
What has this city come to? Horix wondered. Grey knuckles resting on the stone railing, she looked over it all, surveying the myriad rooftops and tiles spread out below her. The sun was high now, and the mists had been burned away.
She looked west, to where the uppity spike of Magistrate Ghoor’s tower rose into the blue sky. It was distant, but detailed enough for her to curse its features, and the man who sat behind its orange walls, scheming and plotting.
There came the sound of heavy breathing. The stink of sweat soured the breeze. Horix turned around to find Yamak standing in the balcony doorway. He had a silk scarf scrunched up between his sausage-like fingers, and his hair was plastered sideways with the sweat.
‘What?’ she hissed.
‘It’s almost done, Widow. With your new workers, the construction sped along.’
Horix felt the prickles climbing slowly from her arms to her shoulders and neck. It had been an age since she had felt anything besides anger, and that smouldered away inside her. But this feeling she remembered: excitement. She c
ould have gone as far as pleasure. Like a child saving the last slice of cake, she had starved herself of such things for two decades, knowing they would taste all the sweeter once she was finished. Watching. Waiting.
‘What is “almost”?’
‘Poldrew assures me it will be finished by this evening. The mixture is ready to be prepared. All the scaffolding has been cleared, but I don’t know if I trust him—’
‘It is not your place to trust, Master Yamak. You are no builder. It seems the shade is.’
Yamak turned his eyes floorwards. Horix saw the resentment in the darker flush of his cheeks.
‘It is a sorry state of affairs when the dead show up the living, isn’t it?’ she sighed, moving past him and throwing up a cavernous hood. ‘You may return to your duties.’
Once in the corridor, she sniffed again, eager to smell something other than Yamak’s pungent odour. In its place, she tasted brick and sawdust on her tongue. Horix smiled a rare smile, reserved only for her and the burnished gold of her mirrors. Her vengeance was finally close at hand.
As she descended the steps, she fished inside her ruffles and produced a half-coin affixed to a chain. Staring at it was enough to crack her smile, but just slightly.
She would give Caltro Basalt the day.
While the sun had done its best to dry Araxes out and eradicate any trace of rain, some shadows in the City of Countless Souls were never touched by sunlight. The thick fog that rose at dawn had covered the Core Districts in its blanket for the entire day. Now it seemed set on claiming the night, too.
Colonel Kalid rubbed the dew from his grizzled chin and shook his hand to warm it up. He shifted his armoured leg, hearing his hip pop, and cursed the wear of age and damp nights. The new spyglass was cold against his eye. Droplets smeared its lenses, and after a good cleaning, he tried again, peering through the dark.
The misty streets glowed blue in patches where shades went about their masters’ business. A few brave living plied the haze, trying not to collide. Or fall again, as their sand-caked clothes suggested. Their caution wasn’t just for fashion; the rain had flooded the ancient sewers, or washed the gutters into the road. Kalid could smell the effluence on the air. That, and his soldiers’ stink. Maybe his own.
Two nights they’d spent on the rooftop and crouched in the rooms below, waiting to pounce. Horix had yet to send a messenger telling them to do otherwise, and so Kalid had kept up his watch.
Temsa’s tower was silent save for a few shades dangling from ropes two thirds of the way up. They had hammer and chisels in hand, and were still attacking the same balcony they’d been working on since midday. Kalid had sneered when they started, and he sneered now; the one-legged bastard was getting comfy in his new abode. Comfy meant careless.
Wagons had come and gone all day, using various entrances and always under the cover of umbrellas or tarpaulins. It had been an hour since the flow stopped. Guards still patrolled the courtyard and the tower’s base in regular rounds. Kalid eyed their black figures now, cloaked and fuzzy in the mists. He tried counting, but whenever he finished, one more always appeared or vanished.
Another snap and cry rang out across the streets, and Kalid watched the streak of blue falling from the tower’s side. There was a dull whump as the shade disappeared behind the courtyard walls. A puff of sand drifted into the air. Moments later, he watched the same shade approaching the main doorway, brushing himself off while the guards laughed at him.
Kalid reached for his stub of charcoal and scratched another mark on the wall. He counted. Eleven. Temsa needed to invest in some better ropes.
‘Casimi.’ He had to say it twice; the first attempt came out as an unintelligible grunt. It had been a while since he had spoken. ‘Casimi!’
A bearded soldier nearby came awake with a start, bald head snapping up and eyelids fluttering. ‘Hmm?’ He stared at the black marks on the wall. ‘Four more,’ he said.
‘Aye, and not a peep from the man himself.’
‘You remember the trenches at Scatterpeak? How we waited for days, thinking Prince Phylar’s army had given up? And all the while building catapults and armour. I’m telling you, Temsa’s up to—’
Something caught Casimi’s eye. He stared past the colonel. Kalid followed the man’s pointing finger, whipping the spyglass up so fast he bruised his eye socket.
Light was spilling into the courtyard. The circular door of the tower was peeling back. Black figures filled the pool of gold. Ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred, two… Kalid soon lost count.
‘Casimi?’
‘Aye, Colonel.’
‘Get running. Tell the widow she’ll soon have company. Temsa’s bringing the fight to us.’
The man didn’t spare a moment of thought. He scrambled up and bolted for the stairs.
‘Caltro?’
The voice broke me from my reverie. ‘What?’ I asked irately. The peace and quiet had been glorious.
Pointy huffed. ‘We’ve been here for over an hour, and you haven’t said a word.’
‘I’m still thinking.’
‘About what?’
I pointed to the widow’s tower as if it were the only structure around for miles. Thanks to the thick fog, it practically was: a dark void in the grey, half swallowed by the haze. Its sharp angles were softened and blurred, but it was no less ominous than before.
‘You wouldn’t understand. My old master called it “visualising”.’
‘Sounds made-up to me, and I know my fiction.’
I pinched my forehead between two fingers. It was impossible for me to be tired, but I felt thinner, like a bubbling pot that had boiled off some of my vapours with all the stress and effort. The last haunting had taken much from me. Crossing the districts back to Horix had been a thankfully uneventful affair. The rain and mists had given the sword and me quieter streets and a distinct lack of scrutiny. But it had been a frantic, non-stop journey. If I’d flesh and bone still, my neck would be aching from so much time looking over my shoulder. Through it all, Pointy had been there, eager as always to fill any silence with wise words, irritating poetry, or general prattle. Like any kind of company, there were times when it was comforting, and times when it was irritating. In this moment, it was the latter.
‘Well, I know my eyes and they can’t see through walls,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got to imagine it instead. Plot the ways out if… damn it! Why am I explaining this to you? You’re wasting my time.’
Silence, at least for a moment. I had just affixed the top floor in my mind when—
‘Are you always this nervous when you pick locks?’ asked the sword.
I smothered Pointy’s pommel with my hand and went back to my staring. ‘I’ve never had to burgle my own freedom back before, all right? Fuck’s sake, sword.’
Pointy resorted to humming while I looked back to Horix’s tower. On a gloomy and foggy night such as this, its windows and slits should have been glowing with light, like most of the other spires in the vicinity. Only one light broke the blackness of the obelisk, and that was near its lofty point: the widow’s chambers.
A smattering of guards hung around the central courtyard. The mist was thicker than it had been in the morning, but I could see the guards were clad in full armour, with silver helmets sporting black horse-tails. From my vantage point atop the roof of a small bazaar squished between two spires, I could watch them idly patrolling the shadows around the gate.
‘So what’s your plan, then? The suspense is going to kill me a second time.’
I took a moment. I liked to think of myself as a master of my craft, and that was why it stung me to admit it: there was only one way in and to my half-coin, and that was giving myself up. It felt like cheating. A liar’s way, not a thief’s. I had built map after map in my head, dreamed up a hundred different places where my coin might be stashed, and even had time for fantasising about finding another bird or two, but it was no use. The guards clumped in groups, sticking to the door. The old bat was sealed u
p tight.
I pretended to clear my throat, ready to reveal my grand idea. ‘We’re going in the front door. We play prodigal locksmith, grateful to be back and safe, find out where Horix has my coin kept, haunt somebody, and vanish.’ I said this proudly, though hearing it aloud, I realised how boneless my plan seemed. Shaky, at best.
‘Is… is that it?’ said the sword, ever my conscience.
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘That took you an hour?’
‘Well—’
‘And what of me, Caltro? I told you before, Horix isn’t going to let you have a sword. Especially a damn soulblade. From what you’ve told me, she’s a smart, shrewd woman. A veritable Ignoble Hernea.’
‘I don’t know who that is. I don’t know any of these people you constantly mention. I don’t even know if they’re real. Just… just… fuck!’ I hung my head, more annoyed at Horix than I was at the sword, though that didn’t mean he wasn’t being irksome.
‘Hmph.’
The time for contemplation was over. I got to my feet and levelled the sword at the tower. ‘You forget, Pointy, that you’re in the company of the finest locksmith in all the Reaches. Burgling and thieving are what I was born to do. I can haunt who and what I want. There isn’t a tor or tal in this city who can keep me out of their tower. Even Widow Horix. What I’m saying, Pointy, is you needn’t worry. You’re in excellent hands.’
‘Well, this is a new Caltro I see before me,’ said the sword as I thrust him into my belt.
‘I was getting bored of the old one. Perhaps it has something to do with the god of gods begging me for help.’
‘You’re letting it go to your head, I see.’
As I began to work my way down the bazaar’s scaffolding, I showed Pointy my attempt at a cheery face. ‘Or maybe I just know I can cut my way to my coin with you, if I need to.’
‘How enjoyable for me. Do you realise what it’s like, Caltro, to pass through somebody’s guts? I see it all flash by me. Bone and bile and shit—’
