The Book of Transformations (10 page)

The partygoers looked ready to push on through till dawn. It was late, way past thirteen, when the door burst open and four figures in tight grey clothing, wide-brimmed hats and with scarves around their mouths, marched arrogantly into the room.

Everything happened in the candlelight.

Matching Tane for height, they hauled the man up from his seat to meet him eye to eye. The few conscious people in the room turned to regard the scene, and Fulcrom waved for the grey coats to stay calm. ‘It’s fine, guys.’ He knew they needed to put fear into the man, but they looked ready to pulverize him.

So these were the Emperor’s special agents, the ones he was getting to do his dirty work behind closed doors, a more sinister replacement for the Night Guard. They gave him the creeps, but that was all right – the fear, he knew, was important.

‘What . . . what have I done?’ Tane spluttered, his mannered cool suddenly nowhere at hand. He glanced at each of the grey coats in turn, a look of startled exasperation on his face.

‘We’re going to
sort you out
, Tane,’ one of them sneered, Fulcrom couldn’t discern which.

‘You’re not wanted in the Inquisition, so we hear,’ another hissed, grabbing Tane by his collar. ‘Some say you’re a spoilt little fuck.’

‘Who claims such nonsense?’ Tane asked anxiously, struggling to pull his head back.

‘Just a rumour – the same rumour that says you’re a good man,’ Fulcrom intervened; the grey coats were enjoying their act a little too much for his liking.

The one holding him paused to look at Fulcrom, then released Tane, who brushed himself down. He now stared at Fulcrom with renewed awe.

‘Maybe I am, but I don’t see what business it is of anyone here.’ Tane made sure he addressed all the grey coats. ‘And just who the devil are you anyway?’

‘You mean well, sure, but you’re an incompetent fool,’ another man in grey hissed, his eyes flaring with venom. ‘This is common knowledge.’

‘Look, I’m afraid you just can’t come in here . . .’ Tane tried to push through them but the group hauled him back, thrust him into the chair and slapped his face – Fulcrom thought it was probably a good thing he was still drowsy from all the drink. A few of the partygoers rubbernecked from their slumped positions, and a couple were still kissing on a chair in the far corner, oblivious to the scene.

‘Shut up and listen,
fuckwit
. You’re keen, but you’ve got problems, we know this. We also know how your parents got their money, and we know why you’re so keen to help the Inquisition.’

Tane’s eyes widened.
That’s right
, Fulcrom thought,
this is what really
frightens the good man Tane. It frightens him to have his secrets paraded in front of so many people
.

‘We know why you’re throwing all these parties,’ a grey coat whispered, ‘buying friendships, making people happy, and you think your feeble attempts at playing investigator aide will rid you of some of the guilt—’

‘All right, all right!’ Tane shouted. ‘You’ve proved your point. Gentlemen, you have earned my attention. Now, please – what on earth do you want with me?’

‘You’d do well to listen to these fellows, Tane,’ Fulcrom interrupted. ‘Don’t mess around or they’ll make life damn awkward for you.’

‘Are you
with
them?’

‘Look, the city has need of someone like you, Tane. Someone who’s honest and keen. Someone who we know will serve us without running off. Someone with whom we have an understanding – one that says you will be . . .
compliant
.’

‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ Tane observed.

‘Hey, he’s not as stupid as everyone makes him out to be,’ one of the others said, and Fulcrom glared at him.

They didn’t need to humiliate the man. Tane would come all right, all they needed to do was make him feel threatened in the right way – publicly. A grey coat grabbed Tane’s mop of hair and pulled his head back, though to Tane’s credit, he didn’t let the pain show.

‘Compliance is what impresses us the most,’ the agent said.

‘So I’m compliant,’ Tane replied. ‘Just let me go.’

The grey coat turned to him and nodded; Fulcrom was surprised that the man actually responded to his signal by releasing his grip. Tane lunged backwards, and took a casual stance. How much authority did Fulcrom possess exactly?

‘He’s yours – you can handle it from here,’ said one of the agents. To Tane he said, ‘If you fuck up at all, and Fulcrom gives us the nod, we will not hesitate to hunt you down wherever you’re hiding and kill you in a slow and painful manner.’

‘Fine,’ Tane whispered. ‘But, look, I don’t even know what you want with me.’

With a surprising calm, they all slipped out of the room one by one, leaving the door ajar.

A little breathless now, Tane dusted himself down and composed himself, then turned to Fulcrom. ‘I knew you kept yourself to yourself, but this is a bit of a surprise.’

‘Not only to you,’ Fulcrom replied.

‘What do you need me to do?’

‘We’re taking you deep into Balmacara. But first, take a look around, remember these faces, these people you’re trying to impress. You want everyone to love you . . .’ Fulcrom leant in closer to breathe, ‘Think how popular you’ll be if they knew where you got your money from?’

The expression on Tane’s face, one of utter resignation, confirmed to Fulcrom that they had him on board, that he would cooperate.

‘Exactly. They’ll probably want to lynch you themselves. You have been
chosen
, Tane. Don’t let me down.’

‘OK. At least let me clean up this mess before we go.’

The next one wouldn’t be so easy, Fulcrom realized. The next one wouldn’t respond to intimidation.

*

There was a riotous noise outside his window. A drunken youth out in the ice decided that so-and-so was sleeping with his girlfriend, and now was the time to pick a fight in order to resolve the issue. Vuldon heard the way the kid’s sword was unsheathed, with great strain or hesitation. The guy was either emotionally unstable – and would get himself killed; or he was too cold to fight properly – and would still get himself killed. These weren’t the conditions in which to start pointless fights.

Villjamur isn’t a nice place any more. Barely was in the first place . . .
His old life flashed back briefly: knife fights in the dark; brutal combat on bridges; arriving too late and discovering blood-covered floors and severed heads . . .
No, perhaps those days were bad enough
.

Vuldon closed the shutters behind the thin glass to keep in the warmth, poured himself a glass of cheap Black Heart Rum, lit an arum weed roll-up, slumped in a battered leather chair and, as he did every night, dredged his memories for something to cling to.

As he brooded in his isolated terrace apartment, alone in the darkness, he couldn’t quite make the memories become continuous. They came piecemeal, these images of his life, brief and distorted. Nearly every night he’d review a particular moment with distant melancholy.

Those days are long gone, Vuldon, so let it be.

But he failed to abide by his own mantra. Every muscle that ached, every bone that didn’t sit quite right, he could assign the probable cause, or guess at things that may or may not have been the root of his pain: a broken-up knife fight or a clifftop scramble or slipping from a bridge whilst trying to save someone.

Thirty years ago, almost to the day.

Thirty years and now they were coming for him again, the Emperor’s men. Agents who worked behind the layers of the city, men that not even the Night Guard knew about. Vuldon knew them all right – he’d worked with their likes before, in whatever guise each city ruler decided to cast them.

Vuldon wasn’t stupid. He’d been waiting. He’d tracked their movements two hours before: their trademark loitering, the way they’d check street corners and grace rooftops. They were there if you knew where to look. They were heading for his home on the second level of Villjamur, a dreary third-floor hole above a closed-down tavern; about as far from his former glamour as he could possibly be.

They kicked open his door whilst he slouched on a chair in the dark, the bottle of Black Heart Rum on the floor beside him, a roll-up between two of his fingers, its embers glowing in the half-light.

In their long grey coats and wide-brimmed hats they stood around him, scarves across their mouths, mere shadows against the dusk spilling through his open doorway, five of them in all, tall and slender. They were lingering like wraiths, with their hands in pockets, cool and aloof. Same as always, they didn’t like to get too close to people like him who knew their way around a fight – didn’t want him to see who they were.

Fuckers.

‘What took you so long?’ Vuldon muttered. Arum smoke circled around his reclined form. ‘You lot are more cautious than ever. Least you’re not as clumsy as the city guard.’

‘Gotta be these days, Vuldon,’ one of them said, a harsh and wispy voice. ‘There’s a lot going on in Villjamur – most of it underground.’

‘Yeah? I don’t pay attention to any of that any more.’ A drag on the roll-up. ‘So what do you want?’

‘You, Vuldon. We’ve come for
you
.’

‘The hell do you want me for? You think you can use violence on me?’ He laughed, though the noise seemed more hollow than he would have liked.

‘No violence here, we know it won’t work – you’re too stubborn anyway.’ This voice was different – firm and polite, probably the leader. He spotted a tail wafting behind them – that meant a rumel, and that reeked of the Inquisition.

‘You got that right,’ he replied.

‘You’re a legend, Vuldon,’ the voice continued. ‘In fact you’re
the
Legend.’

‘Legends don’t live above a grotty tavern.’ Vuldon dismissed them with heavy hand gestures, palming them away,
leave me alone
. ‘I’m too old,’ he repeated in his dreary room, unable to see much but their silhouettes. ‘You only know me from the stories. Isn’t how it was. I’m getting on for sixty now.’

‘We have cultists who can sort that out,’ the rumel said.

‘We have new techniques,’ another chimed, one of the agents.

Vuldon couldn’t see their faces, not that it mattered. They gave him the creeps, the way they’d come in and invade people’s evenings like this. ‘Leave me to die in peace. I can’t do anyone any harm that way.’

‘Emperor Urtica has made a request for you to return.’

‘Urtica?’ Vuldon enquired. ‘What happened to the Jamur girls?’

‘Don’t you read the news? They’ve long gone, tried to kill all the refugees. Urtica took over, arranged to have them executed but they managed to escape. Urtica’s in charge of the Empire and Villjamur.’

Vuldon didn’t seem too bothered that the Jamur lineage had cleared out of the city. Jamur blood sent a rage burning in his heart.

Thirty years ago . . .
‘So what does
Urtica
want of me exactly?’ Vuldon demanded. ‘Have you taken a good look at this place?’ He struck a match and fumbled around to light a lantern.

Vuldon gestured at himself: he was standing there wearing a gown and loose, ragged breeches. Everything in his house was as crippled as he was: strips of curtains, stained carpets, dishes he hadn’t washed in ages, piles of paper in one corner. Grey hairs on his once-muscular chest seemed to stand out as a sign of his age, so he covered himself up, suddenly aware of what he had been – a long time ago.

‘You stink,’ one of the agents said. ‘This whole fucking place stinks.’

‘Not exactly made much of myself these days. Told you, this isn’t like the stories. You were probably kids when you were hearing those for the first time.’

‘You could be
someone
again, Vuldon,’ the rumel said, a brown-skin, with more than a hint of optimism in his voice. ‘If you come with us, we’ll see to it that you’re treated well.’

‘Why me?’ Whatever answer they gave wouldn’t satisfy him: it wasn’t how these people worked. These agents would tell you only what could influence you – truth and lies, well, they never came into the picture.

‘Because you were the first one and the best, Vuldon,’ the rumel declared. ‘You were the Legend. You know how it all works, you know how to play this game. You understand criminals better than anyone else – hell, we’ve all heard tales, even in the Inquisition.’

‘That’s the problem – plenty of tales, not enough fact.’

‘You’ve got your old job waiting for you, in a new guise. We’re offering a chance to reinvent the Legend – all you need to do is come with us.’

As they spoke he glanced to the floor, walking his mind back in time. ‘I don’t care for that name any more. I’ve not thought about him in decades – just leave me alone.’

‘You’re lying,’ the rumel said. ‘I can hear it in your voice. Think on –
Legend
. We’ll be back tomorrow evening.’

Vuldon eventually looked up but they’d gone and left the door open. The family next door were starting to surface, their kids screaming the place down. A cat trotted by in the corridor, looking in tentatively, nosing the air, then moved on, thinking better of it. Vuldon peered around his room at his meagre possessions: decrepit furniture, a few old books, a stack of blank parchment, empty bottles of alcohol and ink, unwashed plates.