The Book of Transformations (2 page)

If he fell from his horse he would die.

His horse tentatively plodded along to the other side before he nudged it into a gallop again, on to precarious terrain where the cultist water treatments had begun to wear off. By now Fulcrom had worked out where the riders were heading: the Jorsalir Bell Spire. Where the Council was said to be in session.

The criminal gang had dismounted by a row of expensive terraced cottages, which were used for retired military leaders, great whitewashed structures with winter hanging baskets and thatched roofing. Another road sloped up and down along a high viewing platform that overlooked the tundra beyond.

Fulcrom slid off his mare and approached. The figures were hooded, garbed in similar featureless dark outfits.

Fulcrom drew his sword. ‘Strangers, state your business.’ His voice seemed lost in the city’s haze.

‘I’d stay away from here if I were you, brother.’ Fulcrom couldn’t discern who spoke due to the scarves protecting their faces. The accent was bass but curious – definitely affected by some distant island.

The speaker seemed to be at the centre of this group; he didn’t turn around.

‘What’ve you got there?’ Fulcrom approached closer and pointed to the sack in which the man who had spoken was rummaging.

The figure turned around and commanded, ‘Brother, I have warned you – keep back.’

A thought struck Fulcrom: they had not yet killed him, or tried to, and he knew there was little he could do alone against so many if they tried.
These people want someone to witness this
.

‘On behalf of the Inquisition, I demand you halt and show your faces,’ Fulcrom ordered. He withdrew his gold, crucible-stamped medallion from beneath his robe.

‘And how exactly are you going stop us?’ The figure reached into his pocket and flicked an item that landed at Fulcrom’s feet, some coin perhaps, but it disappeared instantly. Fulcrom instinctively leapt back, but nothing happened.

As he walked forward he collided with something . . . invisible. He spread his hands, testing the unseen force between him and the stranger, who was now laughing behind the scarf.

All Fulcrom could do was watch. Infuriated, he slammed the heel of his fist against the force, but again nothing happened.

‘Your name?’ Fulcrom demanded. He tried using his sword to strike the shield around him – the physical absence – but it merely bounced off the nothing that was between him and his target.

A moment later and he watched the group run across the bridge in a neat line with sacks tied back over their shoulders, their heads held low. They sauntered across the wide road between the crenellated walls towards the Bell Spire, which looked so high it threatened to puncture the clouds. Guards, stationed there today, approached them, but Fulcrom saw the assailants use the same trick they had on him, a disc to the guards’ feet, and then they, too, were caged by an impassable force.

So they weren’t killed either – what does this group want everyone else to see?

The group moved towards a huddle of Jorsalir priests, who tottered sheepishly away, and the gang then began to climb one of the walls with frightening agility, probably using relics to aid them. Two garudas flapped in to intercept them, but flashes of purple light punctuated their wings so badly that they plummeted out of the sky.

All Fulcrom could do was watch. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared as if the would-be terrorists were leaving devices all around the base of the thick, conical spire. Frustrated, Fulcrom walked along the edge of his barrier, still prodding it to test for weakness in that direction, but he could only go backwards, and there was no other route to the Bell Spire that way. He rested his hands on the invisible barricade and gazed helplessly across to the brigands, his breath clouding before his eyes.

The figures climbed down from the spire, leaping near the base – and almost floating back to the cobbles. They stepped up on the edge of the crenellations, spread some rigid-looking rain capes and leapt down to drift across the sleet-filled cityscape with the grace of garudas.

A moment later and the base of the Bell Spire exploded; bricks scattered like startled birds, slamming into the surrounding structures and rattling onto roads. A thunderous crack like the wrath of Bohr split the bridge first, sending it buckling in on itself and crumbling down onto the level below. The spire leaned to one side, groaning, and eventually it twisted in upon itself, as masonry dust clouded up around.

The ruins collapsed down across Villjamur. Block and brick slid into this fresh abyss, and people screamed from every direction as dozens of bodies fell from the site of the Jorsalir monastery, and Fulcrom lost sight of them a hundred feet below. For a good minute he stared helplessly, refusing to believe that all he could do was watch. People swarmed down below, in hysterics. He wondered how many councillors had been in that building.

Fulcrom turned to head back the way he came, and the only way he could go, to try to reach the crisis down below, but he noticed many of the nearby banners had been somehow replaced whilst he was facing the devastation. There were no crests here any more, no flowers, no depictions of great creatures, no displays of wealth.

Only black rags rippled in this chilling wind.

A firework exploded and the sound sent the animals cowering in their cages and rattling the bars in a feral chorus. Lan strolled along the drearily lit dust-track underneath the arena, to check that the hybrids were not too distressed. It was freezing, and the sounds from the half-empty arena seemed hollow in a way that reminded her once again of the near-pointlessness of her life in the show.

To one side, a two-headed cat growled at her meekly. Lan paused and put both her hands between the bars to rub each skull, calming the striped beast. It scratched one nose against her hand in utter contentment. She glanced aside at the rows of bars that glinted dully in the light of several cressets. How did these poor creatures feel – trapped, barely witnessing sunlight, and with hardly any food?

That goes for both of us.
Rations decreased every now and then; a cost-saving, Astli explained, against the dwindling revenues. Lan’s grey breeches and thick black shirt appeared rather loose on her these days. Not only because of the lack of good sustenance for the performers, but because she didn’t like to eat under the suspicious gaze of the others. How long could she keep this up for?

Her life was reaching an important crossroads: what was the point of the circus, now that it couldn’t travel? With the icy weather, people didn’t want to move far from their homes, let alone travel to the suburbs of Villtreeb, a town the fraction the size of Villjamur. Astli had chosen this spot to settle because it was the transport centre of the island of Jokull, a shanty town that had spawned where muddied roads met and parted. Traders and travellers still depended upon Villtreeb even in the Freeze. Astli had recently ‘released’ half the entourage, and the trickle of visitors these days was barely enough to keep them in business. A few girls had even been sold into prostitution, or ‘servitude’ as he liked to call it. Whether or not Astli knew after all these years who Lan really was, she couldn’t be sure – but she was thankful to be able to scrape through without having to debase herself in this way.
Everyone suffers. Just deal with it.

Astli incessantly declared that, even in the ice, people would need entertaining, perhaps even more so as it was something to take their minds off the difficult times. Perhaps, Lan thought disgustedly, that was why he brought in dancing girls. ‘Astli’s Aces’ had been present for several weeks now, to provide a fetish-performance to boost crowd numbers and provide some improvement in the accounts. Grubby men slumped in the front rows, drooling at the dancers’ contortions.
Was this what women were reducing themselves to?
Lan thought.
Is this what it’s really like to succeed as a female on Jokull, an enlightened Empire island? At least tribeswomen seem to have respect from their men.

Drums rumbled in the distance, a crash of symbols, a muffled cheer: Astli’s Aces were on stage right now, prancing around in fever-inducing attire. The girls were certainly beautiful, sashaying around the arena with such vigour, and ignoring the whistles and cat-calls. Something primitive inside made Lan almost envious of the appreciative attention, despite knowing what she’d be in for if they discovered her true nature.

An echo of voices preceded a group of visitors who shuffled towards her. There were backstage tours these days, anything for quick coin. Ringleader Astli, with his ridiculous silk cape and a gaping smile, was leading them through.

Families came to ogle at the much talked-about hybrids. Children of all ages pointing and laughing at the exotics: chimera and chronos and the thousand-eyed kujata; there were creatures down here said to have existed only in mythologies. To Astli they were the freak-show, easy money, but Lan, pitying their mutations, felt too much kinship for them.

It wasn’t their fault they were different.

It wasn’t anyone’s
fault
to be different.

Lan glowered at the tourists as they were awed by the caged hybrids. Astli glared at her with narrowed eyes then shoved her to one side. ‘You sow, you should be preparing for your next act, not dawdling with these freaks.’

Lan sank back and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t pay you to be
sorry
,’ the scrawny man hissed. ‘I’ll rent you out as a whore if you don’t listen. Get to your room and get changed.’

Lan said nothing, just tried to avoid his manic gaze, those wild, wide eyes, that long dominating nose, and his age-blighted skin. He could be so cruel to the women – physically and mentally – it was one of the things that constantly surprised her, that women could be so consistently maltreated by some men, that their voices ceased to be heard, and they never fought back.

Astli turned his attention back to the gathered audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen: regard the Satyr! Note its lower half is that of a goat, its top half that of a human. Look at the horns! It is said to be rather fond of wine . . .’

Lan strode away, down a set of stone stairs and through the labyrinthine corridors underneath the arena, where the crowd’s calls were muted. Only a few of the other performers were milling about down here. The knife thrower, Jak, slender and aloof, who always had time for her, though unsuccessfully tried to touch up any of the women when he was drunk. Two of the gladiators, Prett and Daloin, were strong-armed, oiled and clutching small swords. These men would mock fight some of the hybrids towards the end of the evening, and they seemed to have worked their way through half of Astli’s Aces in the darker hours, after showtime. It seemed all the entertainers did was drink and fuck, and Lan would only ever commit to one of those acts, fearing for her life should she engage in the other.

Lan marched past them to the dressing room, closed the door and allowed a moment of peace to embrace her. Performing in front of people tired her, as did spending so much time with others. It was only here, in solitude where she could be herself, that she could build up her reserves of mental strength, and regain her composure.

Clothes were strewn about the room. Aged dressers were speckled with crude drawings and trinkets and costume jewellery. Coloured lanterns shimmered in the reflections of several mirrors, making the room seem deep and endless. Snake-like scarves in multiple colours writhed over the top of an opaque dressing screen, alongside discarded lingerie, high-heeled boots and beakers of alcohol. A perfume cloud still lingered.

Lan shared this room with a couple of the stage girls – it wasn’t ideal and there were . . . difficulties, but while she was still being treated as a female, she considered herself lucky. It wasn’t easy, having to hide herself from the other girls every night, waiting for most of the others to rest or to be outside before she changed into her costumes. How she’d managed to avoid being outed for so long was a mystery to her. Girls stared at her, made a mockery of her height. They even commented whenever it seemed too long since her period, so much so that she had mentally partnered up her cycles with one of the other girls so she didn’t slip. The performers here were always judging each other, often unkindly, which contrasted sharply to the sense of community she had assumed there would be. Maybe it was her paranoia, but she swore they talked about her behind her back.

A thrilling cheer boomed from the arena. It wasn’t long until her act now, maybe thirty minutes at the most. She hurriedly changed into her costume, a simple, full-body, tight-fitting, dark-blue outfit that offered warmth and flexibility. Tonight it was the tightrope first, finished off by a couple of minutes on the trapeze.

Realizing the time, she hurtled out the door, around the corner, taking the stairs two at a time – and suddenly had to stop herself from colliding with a stranger, whose attention was fixed on the caged hybrids.

He wore layers of cream-coloured robes, and his hood was pulled up so she could only see his stubbled face.

‘Are you lost?’ Lan asked.

‘These are, quite simply, shit,’ the stranger announced, gesturing towards the animals with a flick of his hand. ‘They’re genetic freaks, that is all. Mechanisms of the natural world. These are
not
real hybrids.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Lan asked.