City Of Ruin (54 page)

That conversation had lasted for hours. They talked about her being more use in the escape tunnels, helping lead people out of the city. Jeryd said there’d be people who needed protecting from rapists and thieves, and that it was unfair that all the best fighters would be remaining above ground. There would be men and women and children who needed protecting from each other, and not even the major gangs had offered their services in any way.

He gave Marysa his spare Inquisition medallion as a badge, an object that might be more use to her than him. She sighed and focused on him with those big black eyes – so much was happening in that gaze, so many conversations from the past returning. He kissed her fondly, smelled her hair. It was funny that these would be the things he missed the most, the details he barely remembered in everyday life. He was more afraid of being without Marysa than he was of dying.

A painful goodbye.

Still with a faint hope that they’d see each other again very soon, they made arrangements for meeting after the end of the war, suggesting where they could meet at what hour of any given day. Past the Onyx Wings and the bone archways, by one of their favourite bistros. Or if the city was to fall they would meet at one of the villages further out, a couple of points on a map which he’d scribbled down for her.

Marysa went off first, leaving an overwhelming sense of emptiness, and the hotel room seemed to pause in time.

*

Jeryd put on his hat and marched through the streets. All around him people wrapped in warm layers were shifting through the narrow lanes, their expressions full of melancholy. Aside from the wailing of those who had already lost loved ones, the busy city was eerily quiet. He could almost breathe the tension. Another explosion came, and the massed confusion of battle could be heard in the distance – but closer than before.

Villiren wasn’t his city to protect, so why was he even here? He was doing this for the common good, he realized, a duty that seemed written in his heart. The same sense of morality that had kept him in the Inquisition for so many decades. Private gain didn’t matter. If everyone acted solely on private interests, there’d be no citizen militia, no lifeboat teams around the coast, no soup kitchens for the starving. Jeryd had to laugh at himself.
Investigator Rumex Jeryd: now aspiring philosopher.

*

At some point near the Althing district Jeryd realized that he was caught up in the flotsam of new recruits for the citizen militia, men and women and children, with heads lowered against the driving snow, some with expressions of determination, others with a sad disconnection. The flow was moving towards the older buildings surrounding the Citadel, gaining in numbers and intensity. The streets lost consistency here, curving and twisting, a few blocked by the rubble, which was being carted off by soldiers to form defensive barriers. Row upon row of mounted Dragoons waited for engagement, shifting in their saddles, totally emotionless, consummate professionals.

Dozens of men in uniform stood about with hand-held boards taking names, patient and calm, directing people towards the Ancient Quarter. Citizens shuffled off wherever they were told to. There were a fair number of rumel too. Jeryd was asked to stand in line with the rest, silent as a queue waiting for the executioner’s block.

The young soldier eyed him cautiously, noted his details, said very little.

‘Something wrong with us rumel, sergeant?’ Jeryd enquired. ‘I’ve noticed there’s a bad attitude towards us in this city.’

The young soldier regarded him coolly, unspoken narrative racing behind his human eyes. ‘There appear to be a lot of rumel soldiers fighting among the enemy forces. So we have to be cautious, is all – security checks and the likes. I’m afraid I’ll need to ask you some questions about your background—’

Fuming, Jeryd pulled out his medallion. ‘This thing may convince you I’m fighting on your side, just like I’ve been doing for the last hundred and eighty fucking years.’ Jeryd was aware that an expectant crowd had begun to form around them.

‘All right.’ The man palmed the air dismissively. ‘We just have to follow rules.’

If things were this bad now, how much worse would they get as this invasion progressed? The rumel were a minority group here, and he could do without being considered sinister. As his indignation abated, he realized this young soldier was merely following orders. Perhaps a quiet word with Commander Lathraea was called for.

His instructions directed him to a different line from the others. Apparently his position in the Inquisition had made him a valuable asset: he would be rewarded with command of his own unit. Very quickly he discovered he was joining a group of other rumel, and they nodded an acknowledgement as he greeted them. There were maybe fifty in all, moving forward to an armament point. On finally arriving where he was supposed to be, Jeryd found a Night Guard officer calling out instructions in a vast chamber piled high with weapons.

Jeryd showed him his medallion, for what it was worth any more, and this time was shown no discourtesy for being a rumel.

Investigator Jeryd now Lieutenant Jeryd – platoon leader of Rumel Irregulars One. Three of the others he recognized from the Inquisition headquarters in Villiren, but there were at least thirty other men and women under his command. All were armed with basic crossbows and cultist-developed munitions, and he learned that because of their tough skins, they would be required for sniping and guerrilla operations in exposed positions, or for holding blockades after nightfall. They were fitted out with crude uniforms and white sashes featuring the seven-pointed star of the Jamur Empire, then Jeryd was briefed on what was required of him.

It all happened so quickly, this business of going to war – Commander Lathraea suddenly appeared, the crowd peeling back to let him through as if they were frightened of this pale-skinned ghostly vision.

‘Investigator, a word please.’

‘Surely I’m lieutenant now,’ Jeryd joked. ‘What can I do for you?’

*

They took two stout horses and rode back towards the Inquisition headquarters, thankful that the snow had momentarily ceased.

Jeryd asked the question of why the troops were giving the rumel a hard time. But the commander coolly stated that the enemy consisted of a number of rumel troops, albeit of a different nature, and that they must check none infiltrated the Imperial lines by stealth. Once they arrived, Jeryd led him to the arch-inquisitor of Villiren, an ancient grey-skinned rumel who seemed barely able to stand. In a dust-polluted, wood-panelled chamber, littered with legal texts, two assistants helped the antiquated rumel into his chair, then left them alone. They sat down facing the desk.

Brynd didn’t waste any time: ‘Sir, as you may know, we have now imposed military law over much of the city.’

The arch-inquisitor wheezed softly and nodded. ‘You wish to make a point of it, so as to make matters easier. I quite understand.’

Brynd offered a rare smile. ‘Indeed. I believe you have two prisoners in custody, awaiting trial for execution – the Doctor Voland case.’

‘Investigator Jeryd was truly assiduous in that matter and has done this institution proud.’

Compliments did not sit well with Jeryd, but he gave a coy smile anyway.

‘I don’t doubt that, sir,’ Brynd continued. ‘But I come to you with a strange request, and it’s possibly one you may not like.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘I am led to believe that these two individuals are rather unique. But given the nature of our current military engagements, I may have a use for them.’

‘A use?’ Jeryd spluttered incredulously. ‘They’re fit for nothing.’

‘On the contrary,’ Brynd declared. ‘I wish them to be released immediately.’

Jeryd almost spat his tea across the table. ‘Are you insane? Why the hell would you want to release that serial killer and . . . that monster?’

Nanzi, in her spider form, lumbered awkwardly over the rubble, deep into the city and deeper into the night.

With the clear sky, a chill set in, calm and suffocating. Fighting had come to a halt as the sun faded, and there were now only swift conversations in the dark, strategies being passed mouth to mouth. Or on papers carried via messengers, as their horses bolted into the distance. Swords remained unsheathed. Bows remained in position, rumel archers sniping from their high vantage points, waiting it out in the cold. Men and women of the Dragoons or Regiments of Foot stood alert by crude blockades.

Yet none of them would have been able to stop her.

And she had to do what she was ordered now – because otherwise Voland would die and she couldn’t let that happen. How could these people not appreciate the good work they’d done together?

The first location: just behind Port Nostalgia. A heap of the dead lined the landscape, and she could sense the chemical secretions of human and rumel and alien corpses. Mounds of unidentifiable flesh littered street corners and alleys, armour and weapons lay shattered and idle. Buildings, too, had become corpses, crippled by whatever technology these new beings had brought with them.

But in between all this morbid mess there were fallen soldiers still alive, who still breathed this foul and rank air. Centring her vision, she crawled tentatively around a smear of decayed matter towards them. They screamed, either because of their wounds or the pain of seeing her, she didn’t know which, but she had received her instructions and she sought out their wounds and dribbled silk into them, sealing the wider abrasions. Some fainted at the sheer sight of her, others regarded her with a total absence of emotion. Nanzi picked them up two at a time, in custom-woven slings, and hauled them back towards the fiacres waiting on standby a hundred yards beyond the front line. Two women on horseback were posted beside the vehicles, and they watched Nanzi warily as she crept towards them, absolutely terrified she might do something to harm them.

‘We know what you are,’ said one of them, waving a dagger in her direction. ‘We’ve heard what you’ve done. Don’t care if you’re helping us now, you’re still a bloody monster. Just hurry up so we don’t have to look at you for too long.’

From there, the newly recovered injured were sped towards a makeshift military hospital underneath the Citadel, leaving Nanzi alone in the darkness.

*

Voland sighed as yet another consignment came in. Cries of anguish echoed in his head. A small team of men and women lifted the casualties gently from the fiacres. When another delivery appeared, Voland wondered if it would ever end.

How can I repair so many of them?

He rolled up his shirtsleeves further and tried to adjust the detonator-collar he wore, which Brynd had commissioned from a cultist. At first, Voland was livid at the indignity of having to wear such an object, but was warned if he did not do as instructed, the device would explode and shatter his neck, killing him instantly.

Staying alive, for now, seemed the preferable option.

Voland had been offered something near freedom in exchange for the benefit of his skills. He would have done almost anything to get out of the darkness of his cell, to get Nanzi out too. It was not an opportunity to refuse.

He had taken only two hours’ sleep, meanwhile, while other doctors came and took over, eyeing him with caution, and noting the device on his neck. Occasionally a soldier would come to check on him as he worked. Some of the other nursing staff whispered behind his back, more than once he heard the word ‘butcher’ being uttered, and all the time he wondered if this was how the great Doctor Voland would spend his final days.

Eight rows of bedrolls were lined up before him, spreading far into the cavernous darkness. Lanterns hung from the ceiling and cressets threw light from the walls. Two other medical professionals, both female, and neither as proficient as himself, attended to the patients, their shadows falling across the injured like some stark premonition of death. A dozen or so volunteers also moved back and forth between the lines, seeing to their basic needs or following the doctor’s direct commands.

Casualties were laid out according to the severity of their injuries. From broken or dislocated limbs, lacerations, abrasions, punctured lungs, up to severe haemorrhaging, the wounded soldiers were admitted and distributed according to probability of their survival. Minor injuries were confined to the far end of the chamber, while Voland’s duties involved the almost-dead. It seemed futile at first, temporarily patching up wounds that were simply too severe, too brutal; they continued to arrive at a steady rate. He smiled at the sweet thought of Nanzi whenever he came across one whose wounds had been treated with her silk.

Nanzi herself would stagger back into the makeshift hospital in between her missions. In her human form, of course, she came to check on how effective the silk was at sealing wounds. The substance acted as a coagulant, was quite inert with regards to the human body, and she had undoubtedly saved many lives.

‘But they look at me and say vile things,’ she mumbled into his shoulder, trying not to cry. ‘They really hate us. They hate me, the things they say . . .’

He knew it must be worse for her, being so rare and precious a design, and people always feared what they did not understand.