The Chasing Graves Trilogy Box Set Read online

  Mr Basalt,

  Your presence is requested at the Cloudpiercer concerning matters of employment. Present this seal for admittance.

  Etane.

  I had recognised neither the black wax seal of daggers and desert roses, nor the name ‘Etane’, but it was official and intriguing enough to lure me to the mighty Araxes despite the city’s blatant risks. I have done business with and robbed from some powerful names in my time, but none quite so prestigious as to call the Cloudpiercer home. Like a vulture drawn to a fresh carcass, I had sold my room and everything in it, bought a new coat, and boarded the cheapest ship to Araxes. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact I hadn’t been offered a job in months, and my coffers held more dust than they did silver. It was nothing to do with my desperate state of affairs whatsoever, and I had repeated that to myself for most of the journey.

  The papyrus seemed official enough for the port guards, too, and they moved on to the next passenger. After half an hour of procedural horseshit, which I spent tapping my feet and eyeing the sinking sun, the ship was finally given permission to enter the port. Once the guards had disembarked, the rotund captain roused himself to steer the ship to an empty berth, somewhere amongst the press of vessels from every corner of the map. Several passengers cheered. The rest remained quietly uneasy, too busy clenching jaws, fists, buttocks, or if they were like me, all three.

  Every moment the ship spent inching towards its quay, my eyes roved the dockside and the honeycomb alleys leading into the city. A few scores of ghosts glowed faintly here and there, working away. No signs of any living besides some bored overseers. Despite the clap of waves and the hum of distant industry, there were no screams. No baying gangs. No fact to the ghastly rumours I’d been told of Araxes. In truth, the only thing that concerned me was the overwhelming stink of fish and tar. My nervous heart calmed a fraction.

  The other passengers gathered behind me. Some had loud complaints of their own for our captain, but he shrugged them off and occupied himself with his steering. Many didn’t seem bothered, since they had bodyguards and soldiers arranged around them. The rest were too foreign, too naive, or too stupid to be paying much attention. The traders of the group were busy swapping stiff sheets of papyrus, and the Krassmen – my own countrymen – were too drunk for anything beyond standing still and trying not to vomit as the ship waddled up to the quay. Swarthy, stocky with muscle, they sweated in their furs and cackled in my harsh tongue. I wasn’t sure whether they didn’t know or didn’t care about the fabled dangers of Araxes after dark. Perhaps it was the latter. Unlike me, they were big men, broad in the shoulder and thick in the arm. If I were to be honest, the only place I’m thick is the waist. I wondered if I could stick with them for safety, but a scowl from one of them told me I was not as much a countryman as I had assumed.

  I caught the eye of the old Skol hag one last time. Her scowl was no deeper than usual, her eyes no more disdainful, and so I wagered she had yet to open her lockbox. If I wasn’t deceived by the crowd, her guard appeared to be clutching it to his chest. For the first time, that bland, ivory face of his was wrinkled. I would have laughed had it not been for the ship knocking against the quay, and the dark, silent mouths of the streets beyond it.

  I took another look at the purple sky and the faint remnants of sunset, and spat at my feet. ‘Fuck this.’

  As the sailors herded the stragglers towards the bulwark, I found a gap towards the mast and hopped up the greasy stairs to the aftcastle. The captain was still sloped in his chair. At the sight of me, he issued a half-arsed, half-mumbled order to show he was busy.

  ‘Tie off! Ingrates! What is it, passenger? I’m very busy.’

  ‘You promised a daylight arrival, sir. It is clearly nighttime. I wish to stay aboard for the night and disembark in the morning. You know as well as I do how dangerous this city can be after dusk. Otherwise I wouldn’t have paid the extra silvers.’

  That got him vertical. He waved his flabby arms in an effort to shoo me down the stairs. ‘Impossible, just like I told the others. The Kipper’s being cleaned and loaded for a dawn sailing. Tide waits for no—’ His bluster was interrupted by a yawn. ‘You get the idea.’

  An unsettling holler came from somewhere deep in the dockyards, and I set my feet against the man. We stood belly to belly for a moment, mine happily outmatched. I heard a few encouraging murmurs from the spread of passengers below us.

  ‘Another silver for your smallest cabin. I’ll be off before sunrise.’

  He had the gall to push me. If not for the handrail, Araxes would have claimed me before I’d even touched its boardwalk. ‘You heard me. No! Farn, get this passenger off my ship.’

  A gruff sailor took up the job. ‘Aye.’

  Hands of calloused leather saw me back to the waiting crowd. ‘Two silvers!’ I yelled, but to no avail.

  At the scrape of the gangplank, I was away, barging others aside so that I could be second off the blasted ship. In dangerous situations, it’s always wise to let somebody else go first. That way you can scarper while they’re busy screaming and dying.

  It was working well until the line of passengers dispersed like smoke in a gale. I was left standing with three clueless traders, facing an empty canyon of a street that led vaguely south.

  ‘After you.’ I said, smiling and gesturing.

  ‘To lodgehouse?’ one said, in broken Commontongue. His accent was thick, of the Scatter Isles.

  ‘Of course.’ The odds were high that a lodgehouse lay somewhere in that direction. All things lie in all directions, if you’re committed to walking far enough.

  ‘Thanken,’ chorused the three. Clutching their scroll-bags and coattails to their round stomachs, they led the way. I followed a few steps behind, using them like canaries in a mine to test the way, pointing and smiling whenever they turned around.

  Sandstone warehouses, factories and granaries hemmed us in on either side, reaching high into the dark purple sky. The heat had not faded with the sun, as it did in Krass, and between the buildings it was muggy. Smoke was thick in the air, still creeping from the tall factory chimneys above. Foreign smells wafted in waves as we passed doorway after doorway, and with them came the various noises of toil. It seemed the working day was not over, at least not for the dead. Between slits in the stone walls, I glimpsed crowds of ghosts beavering away at mills or forges or various clockwork machines.

  When I wasn’t peering warily into the shadows, I kept my eyes on the glimmer of the Cloudpiercer, using it as a sailor uses the Undying Stars to navigate. I was eager to know the measure of my new employer Etane.

  Despite a few ghosts that came ambling past with handcarts or lugging sacks, no others crossed our path. I was about to exhale for the first time since leaving the ship when a yell came ricocheting down the street and turned my blood to ice.

  ‘Get ready!’ it ordered me, though for what I had no idea. I assumed it would be something painful.

  The traders stalled, swapping quizzical looks. I was already backing away, searching for nooks, crannies or any other apertures that would hide me. My heart was trying to punch its way through my ribcage. The rumours were true after all.

  The sound of boots on sand was all I needed to hurtle back the way we’d come. I decided I would blabber something about forgotten luggage and hide on the Pickled Kipper until dawn. I’d give that oafish captain however many silvers he wanted. Being penniless was better than being murdered.

  I made it around one corner before a door flew open and a pale-skinned man brandishing a curved blade jumped out to block my path.

  Now, I am not a fighter. My hands are trained for more delicate work. But when death comes knocking, like most I’ll do anything to frustrate its call, even if it involves tackling a gap-toothed bandit to the ground and kicking him in the face before his eyes can stop rolling around.

  I was halfway back to the quay when his comrades took up the chase. I looked over my shoulder and saw a monster of a woman leading a b
edraggled band clad in mismatched black armour. Half a dozen, I counted, and four more heading me off at the next crossroads. As I was forced to change direction, I threw a longing glance at the sliver of ship I could see between the buildings. Despite my shouts, nobody came to my aid. I would have bet a tooth the captain was horizontal once more, yawning as he counted his fee for putting in late, the fucking blaggard. He must have been in on it. Him and the port guards, no doubt.

  Curses streamed from my mouth as I fled down a side street, men baying like hounds at my coattails.

  Soulstealers. That was the only explanation. I longed to have stayed at home in Taymar, where most people stuck to chasing you for your coin-purse, not your soul. I cursed myself for not using Etane’s invitation as tinder.

  ‘Fuck it!’ The infernal sand tricked my feet, sent me stumbling. Something swished behind me, far too close. I thanked the dead gods I had a penchant for tight and tidy laces. I’ve known far too many locksmiths who have been caught by the guards because of something so petty as a shoelace.

  Only ghosts witnessed my harassment. They hugged the walls, daubing the sandstone a faint blue. Even fainter were their looks of pity. Even if they’d had the inclination, there was no help they could have offered. I found myself cursing the weak creatures in desperation. I looked up at the hazy swathe of black above me, bereft of all but the brightest stars. No gods to help me either. I was alone, and that is a deep and ancient fear to all.

  I am not an athletic man. In fact, my build is that of a man whose only exercise comes from raising a pint glass to his lips. However, through terror alone, I managed to outpace most of my attackers. Only one stuck with me.

  I swerved between a stack of crates, forcing the chaser to go around where I dashed ahead. An alley yawned and I threw myself into it. I fumbled into the dark before my eyes adjusted to the shadows. My breath came in panicked gulps. All I could hear was the panting of the man behind me and my heart vying with my heels to see which could pound faster.

  Using the confusing nature of the streets, I weaved between the alleyways and the boardwalk, knitting an overlapping path for my would-be murderer. And yet every turn I thundered down, every zig I zagged, he clung on. His animal snorting stayed just a spear’s reach behind me. With each violent swerve, the more my chest began to burn. Every breath felt shallower than the one before it.

  A courtyard sprawled between crooked old buildings, tarred black and dead of light. I ran for a street sprouting from its far side. At the last moment, I veered left for another, smaller street. I heard the crash and curse of a body against brick.

  I skidded down another alley, thinking myself clever until I found it blocked by a wall of crab pots. I let loose a whimper as I collided headlong with them and fell to the sand. It was barely moments before I heard feet behind me once more.

  ‘N—!’

  The knife punctured me before I found my feet, cutting short my desperate cry. The steel came in through my back, to the left of my spine, and out through my belly. My shirt pulled around its point like a circus tent. I stared down at it, swaying on one knee and a hand, wondering why in dead gods’ names I hadn’t gotten a different ship.

  The knife was dragged from me, and the pain came, blossoming like smoke over a Scatter Isle volcano. It crippled me, and I would have fallen had it not been for the iron arms that grasped me.

  My head was yanked skyward. The steel raked across my throat, merciless. My chest and lap became wet and warm. Every time I tried to breathe, I drowned.

  The arms released me, and I fell onto my back. A bloody-faced man stared back at me, standing against a backdrop of stars. He spat on me and bit his lip in a sneer.

  I couldn’t think of a more distasteful person to spend my last moments with, and yet here I was: the life eking out of me by the jugful, and my gurning murderer looming over me like a wood troll. There was blood at the corners of his mouth and nose. His dark hair hung in lank, greasy strands, making shadows of his lumpy face. I should have kicked him harder when I had the chance. I could have taken a different ship. I should have stayed at home. That was all I had for comfort: should haves and could haves.

  My fight was with the darkness now, and with his patience, which it turned out was thin. He was soon on his knees, knife at work once again. He cut me four more holes before my blood ran out and my body gave in. The shadows came swooping, and all I could do was scream silently at the injustice, the outrage and the hopelessness.

  Fuck it.

  Chapter 2

  Rituals

  As per the Tenets of the Bound Dead, the soul of a body that dies in turmoil – whether through accident or unnatural causes – will naturally rise several days later. The shade has the chance to surrender its body to the Nyx should no other claim it first. In cases of the latter, only once said shade is bound can the master own all the soul’s belongings and estates.

  Article 1, S8 of The Code of Indenturement

  ‘What is this sloppy shit, Kech?’

  The man gesticulated wildly at his split face, oozing with blood. His words whistled through the gaps in his teeth. There were a few new ones since he had started the night. ‘ ’ave you seen my fuckin’ face, Ani?’

  Ani Jexebel had no patience for backchat. These newcomers needed to learn that. The back of her fist connected with the man’s jaw and he performed a twirl before he hit the sand. He wiped a bloody smear onto the back of his hand and snivelled.

  ‘Scars cost silvers! Boss Temsa wants clean kills only. You know how fickle buyers are these days?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She tapped her ear irritably, like a fearsome school-madam picking on an errant child. ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, Ani!’

  ‘Better.’

  Ani looked down at the corpse, throat splayed open to the white bone. Three – no, four – holes in his belly and chest. His sun-soaked skin was turning ashen as the blood bubbled from him. She made a furrow of her brow. He’d fetch twenty if they were lucky. Maybe with some shade-dust to cover the holes. She sheathed her axe in its leather loop with a grunt.

  Ole Jenk liked to be quick with the rickety corpse-wagon. Time in the prisons made a man twitchy, but twitchy men made good lookouts. Despite his furtive looks and spasmodic movements, he kept the white horses still as desert bones as the men loaded the new corpses onto the older ones. Blood escaped in rivulets from the tail of the wagon. It had been a poor night for prey.

  ‘Right, you fetid bastards. Back to the Slab before the guards get off their arses.’

  Ole Jenk mumbled something between the matted wires of his silver beard.

  ‘What?’ said Ani.

  ‘I said right away!’

  ‘Better! You know how I hate mumbling.’ And how she did. More so in recent months. Either her ears were not as clear as they used to be, or people in the city were talking quieter. In any case, it was great cause for irritation.

  Ani stood on the back of the cart, watching the bodies shake as the wheels bounced through the myriad potholes. The others jogged alongside, the newcomers huffing and puffing louder than the rest. Too fat on beer and too fond of their bedrolls. She’d have the flabby fuckers mopping the cart until dawn. She ran a tight ship.

  They curved away from the docklands and into the honeycomb sprawl of a housing district. Squares roofed with bright red awnings broke the monotony of the endless streets. Alleys flashed by, strung with clotheslines and bunting, and littered with the cornucopia of refuse usually found in a city’s gutters. Now and again a scream would ring out into the dark night, or the concussive thwack of a triggerbow would echo across the stone: other soulstealer crews plying their labour.

  Their road came to an open junction of five streets. A pyramidal building dominated one corner, and its great square door blazed with yellow lamplight. Pipe-smoke and noise poured out into the evening. Cackles of laughter and broken song flooded the junction. A steady stream of bodies came and went, the latter decidedly more unsteady on their fee
t. A band of stone sat above the lintel of the door, three words chiselled and painted into its weathered face: The Rusty Slab.

  With great care, Ani’s crew hugged the opposite street, heading for a squat iron entrance tucked into the building’s backside. Ani knocked nine times, and with the crunch of a lock the door swung inwards. Jenk tapped the horse forward, down a slope and into a bare and lamplit room with a low ceiling. Two alcoves had been carved into the walls, occupied by wooden platforms held by curtains of thick chains.

  Boss Boran Temsa was waiting for them as always. He stood alone on a stone platform, elbow on his cane, thumbing his oiled beard, eyes narrow and hungry. No matter how busy he found himself, he would invariably welcome his new arrivals. Attention to detail was one of his greater talents, vital in the business of soultrading. That virtue had been the reason Ani sold him her services. That, and he paid better than most.

  ‘How many?’ he yelled as Ani trudged up the steps of his platform, her weapons and leather-plate armour clanking.

  ‘Six, Boss. From one of our captains at the Low Docks. The Pickled Kipper.’

  Temsa banged his cane on the stone. ‘Only six? Tut tut, gentlemen! I had expected better! Especially of you, Ani.’

  Ani shrugged. ‘We’ve only got so many ships, and they’re away for weeks at a time.’

  ‘Excuses are the hallmarks of failure, m’dear. We’ve been through this.’

  They had. Many times. Ani wasn’t in the mood for another of his lessons. She bowed stiffly. ‘I’ll play smarter.’

  Temsa moved past her and she shuffled out of his way. It was more to avoid his copper claws than to be respectful. His left leg was missing below the knee, thanks to some old gambling debt gone awry. Temsa had rejected the customary wooden or ivory replacement in favour of a copper and gold version, carved in the shape of an eagle’s foot. A hallmark that was known all through Bes District and beyond. It was so notorious that none had ever dared to suggest a nickname. The last man to do so had called him ‘Goldylegs’, and he had quickly found a dagger in his eye. Temsa preferred to be known simply as Boss Temsa, and that was final.