City Of Ruin (28 page)

‘None of my business what a soldier does in his or her spare time.’ Brisk tones, bitter feelings – all suggesting that he knew Brynd was lying. ‘You’re known as one of the ablest fighters in the service, and we all have to persevere despite whatever has been impugned.’

Brynd’s control snapped and he slammed his lieutenant against the wall, glaring. Nelum didn’t flinch. The two soldiers were assessing each other, waiting for the other’s next move. ‘They are rumours, OK? I told you only because I valued your fucking advice.’

The sloshing of the water down in the harbour seemed to bring Brynd back to his senses. He released his grip, muttering an apology, and rested his hands on the parapet, facing the coast.

‘Indeed. We should therefore prepare ourselves for different scenarios,’ Nelum continued, ignoring the incident, ‘but I think we should counter by circulating rumours of our own that there’s a move afoot to smear the honour of senior soldiers. We could suggest that it comes from enemy agents working for the invasion force, in order to weaken our defences.’

‘Good thinking. I don’t want to let this business interfere with our plans. Fucking hell, I’ve a city to save.’

‘
You’ve
a city to save?’

Things were happening in the gaps between their sentences. ‘
We’ve
,’ Brynd corrected himself quickly. ‘You think I should face Malum. If anything then happens to me, then I want you to take my place. I’ll want you to succeed me as commander of the Empire’s armies. I can assemble the appropriate documentation, but how would you feel about such a role?’

Shit, did he say all that now simply to obscure his guilt, to win the man over? Brynd’s mind began bubbling with paranoia.

‘Sir . . . of course,’ Nelum breathed. For a moment this normally verbose individual couldn’t seem to find words. ‘It’s overwhelming, and an honour . . . but you’re still here, still the most senior officer outside of Villjamur.’

And don’t you forget it
. ‘Thank you for your time, lieutenant.’

*

‘Oh, sure, totally fuck that. We’ll just take the money and kill him, right?’ Malum grunted. ‘I mean, simple plans are always the most effective.’

JC laughed aloud, then the others – ten in all of the Bloods – joined in. There was a clashing of tankards, and then the spirit of the night subsided into low-level conversations.

Slouching on the chair in the corner of the tavern, Malum sharpened his messer blade on an oiled whetstone, while others began to make jokes in the dim candlelight. They were all going to be there, all ready to butcher the commander if he did not come up with the cash.

Butcher him, even if he did.

Marysa threw punch after punch, weaving to and fro to avoid the approaching sweep of his arm, bending back and kicking in all the right postures. Then she stepped aside as the next student shuffled forwards to engage with the master, a bald and tightly muscled human with an expression of relentless serenity.

In a large, torch-lit, minimally furnished chamber with pinewood floors and heated by two woodstoves, the ten students in crimson garb were working through the offence techniques characteristic to Berja, a dark martial art based on tribal combat. The leaflets had promised increased physical fitness as well as expertise in self-defence and both had come in spades. She had already passed the first two levels in twenty days, though there were another ten still to go.

There was only one other rumel attending. The rest of the students were all humans of various ages. They were all here to practise self-defence due to increasing fear of a war. Or fear of the street gangs. Actually, she didn’t really know precisely why they were here, since no one ever spoke during their session, except the master. And even then, his comments remained terse.

Her progress on to level three was to be rewarded by training in bladecraft.

The master produced a short messer, and handed it over to her first, she having proved the best student. Marysa was utterly thrilled with the recognition, and she was rewarded with a moment’s rest while he again led two of the poorer students through the more simple techniques.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and half-heartedly watched the demonstrations in progress.

Well, this certainly made a change. Up till now she’d only ever excelled in academic work. Back in Villjamur she had specialized in antiquarian artefacts and architecture, more recently studying the preservation of ancient buildings. So far Villiren had proved disappointing, having cleared away most of its interesting structures in order to replace them with soulless, hastily constructed monstrosities. Only the Ancient Quarter and a little of Port Nostalgia still proved fascinating.

But she couldn’t find a job – unemployment being high, which seemed odd for a city that shamelessly proclaimed its wealth. There were more beggars here than she had ever seen before, and living in such squalid conditions. Fortunately, she had some savings with her, though most of them were being spent on these lessons. Still, it seemed, at last, that it was all worthwhile. She was more confident. Her body seemed more agile than it had ever been – which was more than she could say for Rumex, letting himself go to pot the way he was doing. She was beginning to feel . . . sexually attractive, for the first time in a long while, and although she would never cheat on her husband, that seemed to matter. Just to feel good about herself.

The master beckoned her forwards and challenged her with his messer blade. She didn’t know what to do at first, and was more than a little apprehensive at using a real weapon, but he began barking orders at her, telling her to extend or retreat her arm, to move backwards or forwards.

‘Not like that!’ he would snap.

After ten minutes or so, she began to get a feel for the blade in her palm, growing familiar with its weight and how it moved through the air. In between his attacks he would stand by her side and correct her posture. Their blades soon clashed effectively. His constant instructions improved her techniques and, when it came to her turn again, after watching some of the others, she gave him as good as she got.

After class, he smiled at her. He had never smiled.

‘Marysa,’ he whispered, and continued in a voice of extreme precision. ‘You may keep this blade.’

‘Really?’ she managed, a little breathless after her rigorous training.

He bowed as he handed it to her the second time. ‘You have earned it. I only wish you could have been my student years ago – starting as a young rumel. I might have seen you become a master by this time.’

‘Thank you, master.’ Marysa returned his formal bow and accepted the weapon. Eventually he faded into his back room, behind the wooden slats and the paper lanterns.

She examined the blade in more detail, noting the beautiful simplicity based on no era she knew of. Just simple steel, with a varnished wooden handle.

Marysa owned her very first weapon.

*

Jeryd wanted a steak that night, and to hell with his diet. He was all this way away from home comforts, investigating crimes that were apparently unsolvable no matter how assiduously he applied himself, and most of all he now wanted to spend the evening with his wife, who he was beginning to miss more and more. As the months slipped by, since he had risked his life in Villjamur, he was becoming ever more the philosopher. On his deathbed, would he be wishing he’d spent more time at work or would he be regretting lost days with Marysa, either way a nostalgia for the never-was?

Exactly. So tonight he would share a steak dinner, perhaps with a bottle of some cheeky little northern vintage, conversing with the woman he loved, then maybe with his personal appetites satisfied, he might be able to work on the crimes of the city more effectively. With that plan in mind, he set out along the streets on a quest for meat and wine.

By its presence alone, the military had slowly crushed the spirit of Villiren, that was certain. Where, only a few weeks back, people had seemed sanguine in the face of an almost-certain war, the company of so many soldiers sifting through the lanes and among the populace brought a feeling of an occupied city. Locals were largely welcoming, but the sight of precision weaponry displayed in an open, brazen fashion was unsettling.

The soldiers had not been buying much in the way of provisions from the markets, relying instead on their own supply routes, so thankfully prices weren’t being forced too high.

Activity in the irens carried on as normal. Some were already starting to take down the strips of coloured cloth denoting zones, wares, individual flair. Biolumes arranged in brine-filled trays continued to provide no end of curiosity for Jeryd – they had never had anything like them back in Villjamur. One stall offered an array of masks, in different shapes and colours and materials, and for a moment he even considered buying one to see what the fad for wearing them was all about.

He came to one of the meat sellers, a portly man speaking in an exotic dialect, that Jeryd decided was a bastardization of Tineag’l and Y’iren grafted on a Jamur framework.

‘I’m after some steaks,’ Jeryd announced to him across the now sparse selection of fish and crustaceans. Hanging from the top of the overhead frame were two large trilobites, about two armspans in length, twisting this way and that in the wind.

‘Steak? We got steak. What animal you wanting?’

Jeryd shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You any beef steaks – pork chops, even?’

The man’s eyes settled on Jeryd for a moment, then he nodded, shifted to one side of his stall to retrieve something. When he returned, on the flat of his palm sat two fat, juicy steaks. ‘Just the thing,’ Jeryd confirmed, reaching into his pocket for a Lordil. ‘Keep the change.’

The trader growled his appreciation after he inspected the coin, then he wrapped the steaks in paper and passed them across to Jeryd, who tucked them under one arm and continued on his way to buy some wine.

*

Later, with candles giving their shoddy apartment an aura of nostalgia, he thought he might make the dinner a success. It wasn’t ideal, this place, but with some good lighting and incense it could become rather romantic.
You can make the most of any situation
, Jeryd reflected,
when you seek to instil a little romance
.
The good investigator is always up for any challenge . . .
He’d even bought a biolume just for the hell of it, and the creature oozed gelatinously in a glass jar like a weird living lamp.

He realized that he was even beginning to get attached to the place, and perhaps, with a little effort, he and Marysa might make love like they used to in the old times. Their relationship wasn’t quite as perfect as it used to be back in the day, some hundred and fifty-odd years ago, but since they’d repaired things between them a few months previously, they were at least considerably more intimate. They were starting to read the little gestures again, to hold eye contact a little longer. Gentle touches across the other’s cheek or ones directed against the side of the neck. Their relationship was being rebuilt in the little details, which made nights like this all the more important.

In rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tail extended well out of the way for fear of splashing it with hot oil, Investigator Rumex Jeryd set about the task of making dinner for two. Marysa had begun to hum a tune in the other room while she stoked the fire, a song he couldn’t recognize, but it felt as if they’d begun dating all over again. Her body was becoming noticeably better toned with her martial-arts training, and she was now confident, said she could handle herself in any physical confrontation, a claim that left her open to his innuendo. Though it also helped make him more conscious of his own expanding paunch.

Who’d have thought an old coot like me could still feel like a kid falling in love at this age
. . .

He unwrapped the steaks and laid them sizzling in the hot pan. He turned to unhook some dried rosemary, which wasn’t as cheap as it should have been.

Damn rip-off traders.

Within a minute, something began smelling bad.

He lifted the pan away from the stove immediately, and examined the steaks with his investigator’s eye.

Marysa popped her head around the doorway. ‘They’re not done already, are they? You only just put them on!’

Jeryd gave a bitter laugh. ‘Something’s not right with these.’

She approached him, laid a hand on his shoulder, her perfume a pleasant contrast to the smell emanating from the pan. She said, ‘Has the meat gone off?’

‘No, I bought these steaks earlier, didn’t I, and they looked fresh to me. I mean, they weren’t dried out or anything.’ It then struck him that the smell reminded him of something – and not something from a wholesome source.

‘It can’t be . . .’

‘What?’ Marysa demanded.

‘No, it just can’t be.’

‘What?’ she repeated, now irritated. ‘What do you think it is, Rumex?’

Jeryd placed the pan very carefully on the table, and closely scrutinized the contents. ‘I remember a similar smell from funeral pyres . . . which suggests this meat is either human or rumel. I can’t be sure though – perhaps it’s just some unusual breed of livestock.’

Marysa squealed in shock. ‘That’s vile, it can’t be hominid.’