by Ben Galley
‘You know this Temsa?’ the guard asked of me.
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Me neither. Says he’s a tor. But Busk says he isn’t. Madness.’
‘Scintillating,’ I slurred. Even amongst a nobility as corrupt as Araxes’, surely that weasel of a man couldn’t have made tordom.
Sweaty gave me and my silk headscarf a squint-eyed look. ‘You don’t normally wear a scarf. You ain’t been on the sauce again, ’ave you, Foor?’
‘Not since this morning.’ I grinned, and he gave me a jovial nudge with his elbow.
‘You dog. Well, you got some blood on your cheek. I’d wipe that off afore you go down. There he is.’
I saw him over the balcony first, before we descended the steps to the atrium floor. Temsa stood below, gargoyle-like as before, golden-footed and wrapped in a fine velvet medley of cream and blue. Golden chains were draped around his neck and his fingers were so encrusted with rings that for a moment I thought he was wearing jewelled gloves. His thinning dark hair had a fresh shine to it. Even his golden teeth seemed to have a fresh polish. An armoured and cross-armed Ani Jexebel stood at his side, looking as ominous and as displeased with life as ever.
Temsa certainly looked like a tor, and I hated him as much in that moment as when he had left me standing in the soulmarket. Perhaps even more. I felt my fingers curl into fists, and I contemplated risking everything on a mad dash for his throat. A question crossed my mind then: would this body die around me, and I snap back into my ghostly form? Or would I die again with it?
In the end, I didn’t take the risk. Call it cowardice if you like, but I called it discipline and smarts. Instead, I stood behind the sweaty guard as he told ‘Tor’ Temsa he could see Busk.
‘Well, I’m delighted. Lead the way,’ he said, waving his cane towards the stairs.
I paused, staring at the open door behind the man, where the last rays of the day beckoned to me. I felt myself pulled in their direction. The other soul inside me fought to keep me in the shadows. Flashes of foreign memories crossed my vision, showing me a gap-toothed little girl with fiery hair, and a wife being claimed by black water.
‘Foor?’ Sweaty asked me. I realised all eyes were upon me.
‘Yes. Sorry.’ Inside, I cursed myself for haunting a man of authority, and for my own damn curiosity. I took up the lead alongside him, just ahead of Jexebel. I heard her snuffling behind me, taller than me even though I was always several steps ahead on the stairs. Whenever I stumbled, she snorted. Sweat dripped down my cheek. I wiped it away and found a smear of blood on my dark wrist.
With so much concentration, it seemed like a day’s climb to reach the peak of the tower, and once there, I was dismissed. I left grudgingly, my eyes lingering on Temsa as he took up a stance before Busk’s desk. I longed to be part of that conversation, but it felt like it would end with blood, and I needed none of that.
I practically tumbled down the stairs, bypassing my sitting room and hurtling straight back down to the atrium.
‘Careful, Caltro. You need those legs,’ came Pointy’s warning, whispered from the scabbard now.
Looking down, I saw glowing fibres escaping from my borrowed legs. I slowed my pace across the marble, nodded to the house-guards who had been left there, and gestured to the door, which was now sealed.
‘What is it?’ asked the nearest of them.
‘Busk needs me to send a message.’
‘You playin’ messenger now, Foor? Dead gods, you’ll do anything to avoid duty, won’t you?’
I shrugged, playing the defeatist. ‘You know me.’
‘Fine, but don’t you go wandering too close to any taverns now. Something tells me Busk won’t be in a good mood later.’ The guard grunted as he tackled a thick lever embedded in the wall. A series of cogs went into action, sliding half a dozen bolts back. I saw sunlight again, and felt its warmth on my skin. It was evening, and the shadows were stretching across the city.
‘I’d say you were right,’ I breathed.
I flinched as a hand clapped me across the chest, almost making me lose my grip on the body. I found the guard fixing me with a heavy stare.
‘I mean it, Foor,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to lose another job now, do you? Think of little Mazi, eh?’
I nodded, inadvertently coughing as the real Foor thrashed inside my chest at the mention of his wife, or daughter. They needn’t have worried; they could have him back when I was done.
Slapping the guard’s gloved palm with my own, I strode out into the evening, a grin spreading across my face before my feet even touched the street.
I decided west was the right way to go, towards the great pillar of the Cloudpiercer and hopefully Widow Horix’s tower. She was the safest, smartest bet right now. The thought of Horix’s expression when I strode into her courtyard kept me grinning as I tried to find my bearings in the knots of streets. I’d only had two excursions into this humongous warren, and one of those I’d spent senseless with a bag over my head.
With Pointy clutched tight and my jaw set with the effort of the haunting, I strutted off across the dusty flagstones.
Busk seethed quietly as Temsa lounged against his desk. His desk, as if the stunted little man was a factory manager swinging by to check on production. It set Busk’s hackles high, and he spread his hands across the marble, broad as he could reach.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit so late in the day?’
‘Late? This is early for our kind of business, Busk.’ Temsa looked around the room. ‘A lot of company here, for the talk I’d like to have.’
‘My house-guards are staying, thank you. I can trust them.’
Temsa shrugged. ‘Your loose tongues to cut.’
One of the guards stifled a cough, and for a moment all the tension in the room piled on him. The guard wilted into a nook like a flower before a sandstorm.
Busk got his questions in first. ‘My men say you announce yourself as Tor Temsa now.’
The man’s wrinkled and scowling face broke into a grin, flashing a gold tooth. ‘And why not, when I have been Weighed and found to be amongst the nobility of this fine city?’
‘How noble?’ It was all that mattered in Araxes. Who sat above who? Busk didn’t want to ask for fear of being poorer, but his mouth spoke for him.
‘Far above you, Busk. Naturally. What did you expect? You’re a mere fence, living off old money.’
Busk forced a congratulatory smile. ‘Soulst—trading has served you well, I see. Perhaps I should jump on the cart.’
‘Soultrading has served me well, indeed, but I have grander business to attend to these days. And speaking of…’
Here it comes. The reason for his visit. The introductory prattle had been dispensed with.
Temsa peeled himself from the desk and began to circle Jexebel, who stood like a mail- and leather-clad golem in the middle of the study. Her arms were crossed, but that didn’t mean Busk’s gaze could stop focusing on the axes surrounding her person. He counted four before Temsa spoke.
‘It’s been some time since I asked you about a new locksmith, and yet I am still without one. You mentioned plenty last time we met: a Skolwoman, some Scatterfolk, a duo from Belish, even a Krassman or two, if I remember rightly,’ Temsa said, keeping his grin.
Busk raised his shoulders. ‘You do indeed.’
‘What’s wrong, then, Busk? Why the delay?’
‘It’s not just a simple case of sending a scroll—’
Temsa looked puzzled. ‘No? Well, let’s make it simpler. I heard the name of a good locksmith the other day. Supposedly one of the best. Perhaps you can track him down for me.’
Busk felt sweat begin to gather at his temples, behind his ears. ‘Oh yes?’
‘A man named Caltro. Heard of him?’
‘I can’t say I have.’ Tor Busk’s voice wavered.
‘No? Never heard of a Caltro Basalt? A fence like you? I’m shocked.’ Temsa clicked his fingers. ‘Well, at least that exp
lains why you didn’t recognise his initials on the tools I gave you. C and a B, correct? Krass letters. Not Skol runes.’
Temsa pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead while Busk produced an answer.
‘I… I…’ he stuttered. ‘I will admit, I haven’t yet had them appraised. But now you’ve said it, I do recognise the name. That would make a lot of sense.’
Temsa sighed. ‘I have to say, you’ve rather disappointed me this time.’
Busk chuckled to cover up the chattering of his teeth. ‘I think you’ve misjudged me for somebody with dishonest purposes, Boss Temsa—’
‘Tor Temsa.’
‘Tor Temsa. It was a simple slip of the mind, is all.’
Temsa came to rest at his desk once more. ‘Tell me, then: do you know where I can find Caltro Basalt?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Saraka, maybe?’
‘Wrong again, Busk. Luckily for you, I know exactly where he is.’
Busk sat straighter. ‘You do?’
‘Of course.’ Temsa chuckled. ‘Because I killed him, bound him, and sold him to Widow Horix. Turns out he was right under my nose this entire time.’
‘Ah yes. Of course.’ Busk’s laugh came out as a shrill giggle, and it made the guards wince. He saw the yellows of their teeth in the lamplight.
Temsa pressed his fists to the desk’s white marble, popping several knuckles. ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’
Busk felt the metaphorical rug being firmly and rapidly whisked from under his feet. His throat bobbed as he repeatedly swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump of fear. ‘And what is it to you, Temsa? I am playing the game, just as you aim to do, and I have been a tor a lot longer than you. I have every right to seek out my own gain, wherever it may be found.’
Temsa and Busk locked eyes for some time, Busk’s sweat-burned ones against the olive pig-eyes of his visitor. When finally the silence ended, Temsa said but one word.
‘Ani.’
The stillness of the room shattered as two axes appeared in the throats of the men either side of the desk. Blood splattered in Busk’s face. All he could do was wipe his brow as Jexebel became a blur of steel, followed by arcs of crimson. Two battle-axes, long in the handle, spun in figures of eight as she tore about the study, hacking at throats, skulls and spines with merciless accuracy. Her ferocity redecorated the room within ten panicked breaths, painting the walls with wet scarlet and shit-brown hues. Pieces of guards and unknown body parts were scattered over Busk’s furniture and the floor. A few here and there continued to twitch after all else was still again.
Through it all, Temsa hadn’t moved. He remained unblinking, staring at Busk with a calm smile. Temsa spoke to the patter of dripping.
‘You’re right. You have every right to play your games. You’re simply not very good at them. If it helps, Busk, this was always going to happen. Betrayal or not, you were bound to slip up at some point.’ He leaned closer, so Busk could smell the spiced tobacco on his breath. ‘Shall we?’
House-guard Vher burst in through the door, sweaty as always from sprinting upstairs. Apologies were about to spill from his mouth when he found a scarlet fist around his throat. His eyes boggled from the lack of air. They nearly popped free of his skull at the sight of the carnage. Jexebel hissed in his face, scaring him silent.
‘Speak,’ Temsa ordered.
‘T…T…Tor Busk has a visitor.’
‘Who?’
‘Colonel Kalid.’
Temsa turned to Busk, tapping his quivering chin with his cane. ‘I wonder what the captain of Widow Horix’s guard could want with you? Been negotiating with Horix for a certain shade, have we?’
Ani Jexebel piped up. ‘Shall I kill this guard, Boss?’
Busk noticed a flicker of irritation pass across Temsa’s face.
‘No, leave him. We’ll need somebody to open the door. You clean yourself up quickly, m’dear.’
Jexebel dropped Vher on his arse, and he spent some time gawping at a split skull near the door. The gargantuan woman ripped down a drape and used it as a towel. She then threw it at Busk.
‘You too,’ she said, almost shouting.
He was aghast. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting I go down there, are you?’
Temsa opened the door, and made the house-guard scramble to his feet by showing the man his talons. ‘My, you’re a stupid one. I’m looking forward to finding out what games you’ve been playing, Tor Busk. Come, now. Not a word about myself and Ani, and if you’re lucky, you may just live through this. If you’re very lucky, Kalid is here to deliver a new house-shade by the name of Caltro.’
‘I…’ He said no more. Busk didn’t want to give Temsa any more reasons to knife him.
They wound down the stairs, and all the while, Jexebel held the edge of an axe against Busk’s spine. Temsa had his cane resting on the guard’s shoulder, as if he were knighting him with a sword.
Busk spent the journey hating Temsa for his boldness – or, more precisely, hating himself for how much he was lacking in it. The man had stridden into his tower, taken control, and was now marching Busk down his own stairs. Dead gods knew what was coming later.
The remaining house-guards were threatened into position with waves of Jexebel’s axes: two to face Kalid, and two to hide behind the door, pointy things ready and ears pricked. At Temsa’s signal, the door was cranked open. A faint rosy glow framed thick steel shoulders and a plumed helmet. Behind the colonel, in the street, a dozen guards escorted a sullen-looking shade, bound in copper-wire shackles and chains.
‘What’s this?’ Busk asked mechanically, desperately adhering to Temsa’s rules.
‘And a good evening to you too, Tor Busk.’
‘I have told you I don’t want to be bothered.’ Jexebel’s blade glinted behind the door.
‘Be that as it may, Tal Horix seeks to put recent disagreements to rest. She wishes for no ill will or further actions, and to let the matter of the Krassman lie. As such, she offers you his half-coin and a gift of a fine house-shade.’
‘She does? I mean… I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Busk’s flustered words were quick and muddled. To have such fortune as this on the day of Temsa’s visit was nothing short of cruel. The old bitch had indeed backed down.
Kalid blinked several times. ‘The matter of the stolen shade Jerub, or Caltro as he calls himself. My mistress wishes to put it behind her.’
Busk could have slapped the man for his words, had his insides not been wrenched downwards into his bowels. He caught Temsa’s gold smile in his peripheries, and a finger pressed over thin lips.
‘Ah yes, of course. Forgive me, it has been a long day.’
The colonel beckoned two of his men forwards, holding a shade between them. The half-life was a willowy character, bearded, narrow-eyed and blank of expression. He wore a simple smock bearing Horix’s seal and showed no signs of struggling against his bonds. It was suspicious for a tal to be so apologetic, especially one as crotchety as Horix. It would have made Busk feel powerful had Jexebel and her axe not hovered four inches from his elbow.
‘I accept Horix’s apology, but I have no need for the shade.’ The aforementioned axe waggled. Temsa made a foul gesture and Busk cleared his throat. ‘However… I suppose I could find room for him.’
Colonel Kalid held out a hand. In his palm lay two half-coins. One for Caltro, one for the other shade. He pointed to show the difference.
Busk hesitated, patting himself like a hungover man finding himself alive on the street corner come morning. It stung him deeply to take the coins and not truly win; to be so powerless in this moment of triumph. It was frustrating to the point of maddening. It was then that Busk contemplated fleeing between Kalid’s men and making for the street.
He realised he had been silent for some time, and the colonel was now staring intently at Busk’s neck and shoulder, where he could only assume he’d missed some patches of blood.
‘Tell your mistres
s this is the end of it. You understand? No more games,’ he asserted, selfishly clinging to his victory.
‘Perfectly, Tor Busk,’ Kalid replied, passing him a short papyrus scroll and an inked reed. He kept hold of the shade’s shackles until Busk had signed both copies. When he was done, he snatched back the scroll and threw Busk the chains. ‘Just perfectly.’
When the door slammed, it could have been the lid of Busk’s own sarcophagus closing. With the alluring light of sunset behind two feet of steel, his hall seemed dark, cold, and full of evil things. He groaned as he stared abjectly at the copper links in his grip.
Jexebel chased his remaining guards into a corner, presumably to be dealt with later. Temsa began to walk wide, swaggering circles around Busk. His tone was on the cusp of laughter, as if he had just spent an evening at a theatre, lapping up comedy.
‘My, my, Ani. Our good friend here has been quite industrious, hasn’t he? Bartering for shades like the best of them, and with that crusty old Horix too. How did you do it, Busk? Was it blackmail? Force? Who cares! I’m almost impressed. Caltro Basalt, delivered straight into my hands with hardly any effort, would you imagine—’ Temsa’s jovial face sobered instantly. He jabbed an accusatory finger at the new house-shade. ‘This is not Caltro Basalt.’
At first, Busk went with it, realising with immediate glee that Temsa had misunderstood the conversation. He fought not to stammer as he clenched his fingers around the two half-coins. ‘Yes, it is. Why wouldn’t it be?’
In the corner, Vher had started to slip away, but Jexebel caught him in the crook of her arm and squeezed until there came a crack. He fell to the marble like a straw doll.
‘Because it is not. I know my stock. I always remember a face, especially one that complained as much as he did. Isn’t that right, Ani?’
The woman was too busy kicking at the guard’s corpse to hear. ‘Hm?’
‘Never mind.’ Temsa waved a hand.
Busk felt the sweat begin afresh. ‘Well… why would Kalid lie?’
Temsa stepped close so that a talon hovered over Busk’s sandalled foot. He could almost see the cogs whirring behind those olive eyes.
