The Shadow Casket

Copyright First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Gollancz an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment London EC4Y 0DZ An Hachette UK Company Copyright © Chris Wooding 2023 Map illustration by Neil Gower 2018 The moral right of Chris Wooding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN (eBook) 978 1 473 21492 7 www.chriswooding.com www.gollancz.co.uk Contents Cover Maps Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84 | 85 | 86 | 87 | 88 | 89 | 90 | 91 | 92 | 93 | 94 | 95 | 96 Also by Chris Wooding 1 The things we value make us weak. Klyssen sat hunched over a desk, examining the message before him, his bad eye watering in the lanternlight. In his hands he held a small brass cylinder made up of five rings of letters which he rotated from time to time. Now and then he scribbled in the margins with a quill, turning innocent words to damning testimony, pleasantries to betrayal. No one understood betrayal like Marius Klyssen. Click-click-click. He turned the rings again. A new combination, another piece of the hidden report revealed. It was his own private cipher, known only to himself and his network of spies, each of whom had been drawn into his service through the careful application of threats and promises. Everyone had something they’d give anything for. It was just a matter of finding it and using it against them. He took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. The effort of decoding the letter was bringing on a headache. More reports of sedition and discontent, people saying things about the Empire they’d never have dared to before. Once he’d have stamped on them. These days he found it hard to care. No point crushing roaches one by one when the house was already infested. He pushed the letter aside and leaned back in the chair with a creak. The study was quiet and restless with flickering shadows. A cool wind blew against the shutters, bringing with it the smell of charred meat and the faint sound of screaming. There was a present on the desk, next to the lantern that illuminated the room. A cream-coloured box, gift-wrapped in blue ribbon. He replaced his spectacles, considered it a moment, then reached over and pulled the bow. Whoever it was intended for would have no use for it now, and he was an incurable investigator. The box fell neatly apart, revealing a silver casket inlaid with a design of bold geometric shapes and rays. Krodan through and through. Just the sort of thing he’d expect to find in the study of an Ossian manor. They loved to ape their betters. It looked like a cigar box, and he was partial to cigars. The smoke was hard on his stomach, but lighting one would give him a moment’s pleasure, and that was as much as he could hope for these days. Besides, he’d long since stopped caring about his health. He flipped open the casket. The quiet was pierced by the tinny chimes of a nursery rhyme. A painted princess, one arm aloft, rotated before a mirror. A music box. Likely a present from the lord to his daughter, a gift he’d meant to give and never would. Klyssen felt his throat thicken as the music played. It was a song from his homeland, sung to him at his mother’s knee, as he’d sung it in turn. When the tune came around again, he began to murmur hoarsely along. Little star, oh little star, Lay down your head. The time’s right for dreaming, The sun’s gone to bed. He faltered as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Even after three years, his reflection never failed to shock him when it caught him unawares. The drooping eye, the red-raw landscape of scar tissue across his cheek and jaw, the burned patches where hair refused to grow. He’d never been a handsome man, but the lanternlight made a ghoul of him, a storybook terror peering hungrily from the darkness into a world of beauty he was forever banished from. Small wonder she left me, he thought. Small wonder she took my girls away. His mouth twisted in bitter anger. No, that wasn’t why she’d left him. It was his power she’d loved, not his face. His status and wealth were what bound her to him. Once they