The Book of Transformations (13 page)

‘OK, but don’t think you’re going to have it all easy. You’re going to be transformed, Tane – altered.
Changed
. You’ll undergo ailuranthosurgery. Do you know what that means?’

‘I was informed that it was something to do with feline-like abilities . . .’

‘Werecat, Tane. You’ll be merging into a semi-form of a wild animal.’

‘Tigers, someone said, yes, yes, yes. They don’t sound all that wild, if you ask me. Rather regal from the stories I’ve heard. Which of course suits me down to the ground.’

Fulcrom felt his frustrations flaring. How could the man be so casual about this? ‘But the point remains, Tane, that you’re going to be forever different. It will bring with it a whole load of new psychologies.’

‘One must allow for risks in life, Fulcrom, in order to progress. Obviously I’m a little nervous—’

A male scream echoed outside along with the sound of roaring static.

Fulcrom tilted his head. ‘That’s coming your way, I hope you know.’

Tane gaped at him. ‘Is it . . . going to hurt?’

‘Of course it is, you idiot. You’re probably going to ache for days afterwards, and you’re . . .’ Fulcrom allowed his emotions to simmer. ‘Look, just don’t make any jokes, don’t try to sweet-talk any female cultists, and for Bohr’s sake do what they tell you to do. It’s for your own good.’

*

Lan was the last of the Knights Fulcrom visited. Her transformation was the most complicated of all, and he prayed to . . .
Well, the god Bohr seems pretty out of touch with all of these procedures, doesn’t he?
Fulcrom hoped to whatever powers were involved in all of this that her body could withstand these further changes.

When he reached her, Lan was perched on the edge of her bed, staring deep into a fire burning in the grate, her arms rigid by her side.

‘I’m sorry for putting you through such things again,’ Fulcrom began.

Lan simply shrugged.

‘So you’re the only one in the group who doesn’t really want to be here?’

Lan glanced up at him, and he could see then that she was a slender lady, with such tight musculature. There was something vaguely familiar about her appearance – she looked very much like someone he once knew . . .

No. Don’t think of her now.
Lan’s hair was long and dark, her fringe bold, and he noticed her nails were well bitten. Her brown eyes displayed a distance that he wondered if she’d put there herself, to cope.

‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it,’ she replied. ‘The only thing that repulses me is that there is knowledge being used against me – the fact that knowledge is being used to keep me here. The rest, I’m OK with – I maintain that there were nicer ways of asking though.’

‘We’ve got knowledge on the others too, though it doesn’t make it any better, I know. It’s just a security bond, something to guarantee you’ll not abuse your powers – and I want to stress that they aren’t my orders, this isn’t my style, but I understand that there is a requirement that you yield to the Emperor’s will.’

There was a world of thought in her expression, and Fulcrom could tell his words were being analyzed. He liked that.

‘I did have
some
money,’ Lan said, ‘but I knew I’d have to get employment eventually, which I knew was going to be limiting, being a woman.’

She stared hard at him then, as if testing him for a response.

‘And this . . .’ Lan sat up to gesture around the room with one hand. ‘This doesn’t seem so bad. It’s all a little too high profile for my liking, but still. You know, really, they could have just asked me nicely, rather than assaulting me.’

‘They need to use fear to get what they want. If it’s any help, I’ve learned from working in the Inquisition that more often than not, you just need to treat people with respect, no matter who they are, and they’re more likely to respond positively that way. That’s how I would’ve done it.’

‘I like you, Investigator Fulcrom,’ Lan said boldly. ‘You’re probably the first person I’ve met on Jokull who’s treated me as an equal.’

That was a relief.

‘Though,’ she went on, ‘I believe it’s freakish that anyone in your position can keep your shoes so remarkably clean.’

He glanced down to his immaculate boots, then ignored her comment. ‘Lan, in a few minutes those cultists will treat you . . . just like they’re doing with Tane and Vuldon. I’m sorry, but it won’t exactly be comfortable.’

‘Cultists,’ Lan repeated, ‘I’ve noticed that they have a tendency to look at everyone like they’re an experiment, which, I guess, is a form of equality.’

‘It’s a good opportunity, these new transformations,’ Fulcrom pressed. ‘Especially yours.’

‘Gravitational forces,’ she breathed. ‘That’s what they said, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. You’ll more or less receive metallic plates and a whole bunch of stuff I don’t quite understand, and they’ll enhance your mobility and you’ll be able to alter your interactions with gravity. Which will be interesting to see, given your already useful skills from the circus.’ Pausing on that word, he realized he wanted to know a good deal more about her former life. She seemed so gentle; it disturbed him knowing the pain she would go through. ‘So can we trust you to work for us, Lan? I need to know you want to do this, rather than just being forced to do so.’

‘Answer me this,’ Lan demanded. ‘Are the three of us experiments? Has this been tried before on others? I’ve worked with cultists, as you know, but they seemed very thorough and detailed. These ones are wandering about behind the scenes and don’t let on much.’

‘The process has been refined somewhat, in secrecy, though I believe the Emperor has only known about the available tools in recent weeks, and he’s immediately seen their potential.’

‘What happened to the others?’

‘Others?’

‘The others – who this has been tried on?’

Fulcrom wanted to move things on. ‘The science has been refined now, and that’s all you need to know, Lan – the rest, I’m afraid, is confidential.’

As he turned to leave she said, ‘Shalev – that’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it? Vuldon mentioned her name earlier.’

Fulcrom froze and turned to assess her words. ‘That’s true, yes. We think she’s behind much of the surge in crimes recently. Do you
know
something about her?’

‘When I was on Ysla – with the cultists – they mentioned the name Shalev. It’s a woman, by the way.’

‘Why did you take so long to say anything?’ Fulcrom enquired, attempting to remain calm at this information.

‘Well . . . no one asked what
I
thought until now.’

‘What do you know about . . . her, about Shalev?’

Lan said, ‘I didn’t hear much, only of her escape – it was when I was . . . you know.’

Fulcrom acknowledged her words.

‘She murdered people, on Ysla, apparently. They’ve pretty strange ways over there – a bizarre culture – but she wasn’t welcome there. She’d been sent to a part of the island in whatever exile those people can permit with their strange lack of law. Then she vanished. She wasn’t like the rest of them I think. She had a bad history with the Empire regarding her homeland. That’s all I know – I swear.’

‘Thanks, Lan. That’s the most we’ve heard in a long while.’

*

Later that night, sprawled in a vast chair in an antechamber adjacent to the main operation theatre, Fulcrom was sipping a mug of spiced tea whilst staring into the light of the only lantern in the room. An open notebook lay to one side and, in it, he had been pencilling in plans and strategies to ensure the Knights could reduce the crime-wave that had washed over Villjamur. He’d also made notes about Shalev, exploring what Lan had told him, that the woman might have some personal vendetta against the Empire, and was targeting symbols of the city.

Fulcrom waited as the screams of the Knights ebbed and flowed through varying stages of their transformations. He closed his eyes hoping that these pains were not going to scar them for life. Distantly he thought of what it was about Lan’s appearance that provoked him, or at least his memory.
Adena . . . of course, how could you be so stupid
. The acknowledgement and memory of her disarmed him.

Emperor Urtica fresh from his Council business suddenly marched into the room.

Fulcrom raised to greet him, with a bow. ‘Sele of Urtica, my Emperor.’

‘Less of that, investigator,’ Urtica instructed, and gestured for him to sit back down.

Urtica paraded around the room ending up behind Fulcrom’s chair, and suddenly slapped down his Imperial hands on Fulcrom’s shoulders. Fulcrom noticed the man’s hands were shaking slightly.
Is he nervous?

‘They were right about you,’ Urtica declared.

‘What’s been said, my Emperor?’ Fulcrom enquired.

The Emperor moved in front of him, a darkness momentarily blocking the light of the lantern on the table. ‘That you possess remarkable skills with people. You’ve managed these misfits rather well already. They’d never listen to someone as . . . well. Let’s just say that I do not have the patience to put up with errors and slowness in individuals.’ Urtica paused for a moment, as if considering his next statement. ‘I need to trust you will have the people of this city enthralled by your achievements, investigator. I . . . I don’t trust that many people in Balmacara. People there seem to always want things from me, or seek my favour.’

Is this some sort of mind-game?
‘I don’t ask for faith in me,’ Fulcrom said. ‘We’ll work hard. You’ll see results.’

‘Results – yes.’ Urtica perked up suddenly, like a different man. ‘I need to see results – the city needs to see results, and the fears of our citizens need to be abated. You are responsible for this, and your management and crime-solving abilities come recommended very highly, so do not let me down.’

‘My Emperor,’ Fulcrom replied, ‘I’m simply honoured to serve you and the city.’

‘Splendid,’ Urtica said. ‘Because if you fail I will have you killed in a heartbeat.’

With that, the Emperor departed the room, leaving Fulcrom alone with his pulse racing. There was little Fulcrom could do about his new role and knew all too well what would happen if he opted out. Still, at least it seemed a good opportunity for putting something positive into the city.

It wasn’t every day that happened in Villjamur.

Councillor Mewún shuffled from his temporary office and moved further into the heart of the Imperial residence of Balmacara. Dressed in official state colours of a green tunic and grey cloak, he strolled down the endless, shining corridors, considering the ornaments, portraits and marble decor. As far as temporary workspaces went, this wasn’t too bad.

He smiled politely at the administrative staff who rushed past with armfuls of papers, and he stopped only to reflect upon his greying, balding head and expanding waistline in one of the gold-gilded mirrors. With the excitement and energy of Urtica’s new political regime, the last few months had simply flown by. A slender young woman passed him in the corridor, one he recognized as a being a former servant to Councillor Boll, who was murdered some time ago. She was full of saccharine smiles, yet with her soft young skin and red curls, she was a startlingly tender and humane contrast to his paperwork.

She made the mistake of asking him a question: ‘Have you had a good morning, councillor?’

Mewún took this as an opportunity to rid himself of his anxiety about city affairs. ‘Not so far, no,’ he told her.

‘Oh?’ she asked, taken aback on realizing she must actually engage in a conversation whether she liked it or not.

Tough
, he thought. ‘Oh indeed. Refugees are collapsing dead, heaping up on the doorstep to our city, and nothing can be done about it. They can’t come in, of course, what with resources being so precious. No, the lucky corpses lay on pyres, those worse off rot in the snow, bringing further disease to their neighbours. We fight a brave war on our northern front, which depletes our resources further. And this endless winter . . . well, it certainly makes logistical decisions and planning more challenging, I suppose.’

‘The fact that smart people such as yourself are helping Villjamur is very much noted, councillor,’ the girl droned.

‘Ah, to be so uninvolved with the affairs of this world. To be so naive! I envy you.’

She gazed right past him, choosing to remain silent. It was a good thing. He was fully prepared to spurt his anger at the fact that forces in Balmacara could organize a military campaign, but not, it seemed, know when to take his laundry.

Mewún made to leave, hearing the scuffed footsteps of the girl’s escape.

Amidst another flurry of activity from servants carrying trays of food, Mewún eventually progressed from Balmacara’s depths and slipped out of one of the side entrances – which was Urtica’s suggestion. Mewún was fine with all of these procedures, of course, though he couldn’t help but think the Emperor was being a little too . . . paranoid.

Outside, the weather was arse-bitingly cold. Even around the back of Balmacara, in the shadow of the chunky basalt walls where one of the majestic, arch-shaped new Council carriages awaited. A brown mare stood glumly with her face lost in a cloud of her own steam; the winter had found a way to stretch its icy tendrils even to her.