The Book of Transformations (41 page)

The skeletal creature plucked the hunks of flesh that had adhered to its weapon, then turned to face the old man. ‘Heretic,’ it hissed once again. ‘I have been ordered to stop your blasphemous lies, priest.’

It leered, swinging its weapon through the air in an attempt to kill the old man and struck the ground so fiercely that sparks skittered upwards, and in places the cobbles themselves were removed in twos or threes.

Tane and Vuldon arrived to intercept the assault.

Tane immediately began to attack behind and around the demon, which could not bring its weapon down in time. Tane’s extended claws drew across the back of the monster’s legs, hamstringing it, and while it fell, lowering the morningstar for a moment, Vuldon barged in and stomped a boot into its chest, sending the weapon clattering to the ground. He grabbed the demon’s bony arm while Tane drew his clawed hand down the creature’s back, ripping its already flimsy outfit – the creature let out a sinister hiss as if deflating. The waxed overcoat and cape fell away, revealing its repulsive body, a bony form with bulging flared muscles. It screamed, then lashed out; Vuldon smashed down on its arm, then slammed it face-forward to the floor, before he reached down for the morningstar. Then he whipped the weapon down on its head with a crunch: its legs kicked out, its arms flailed, but then it became quite still.

The old man, his sword no longer to be seen, shuffled over to the Knights and began expressing his gratitude. ‘Thank you, thank you, my saviours. Please, who are you? Let me know your names.’

‘We’re the Villjamur Knights. I’m Vuldon and he’s Tane. Now, who the fuck are you?’

‘I am but a simple priest – my name is Ulryk.’

‘Well then, priest, what was that thing and why was it after you?’

‘It is called a nephilim,’ Ulryk replied, slowly edging away to regard the corpse. ‘It was a demon created in secrecy, and sent with a purpose to kill me, but to explain why could take many hours.’

‘We’ve not got all night. We’re going to have to log this with the Inquisition,’ Vuldon replied. ‘You’ll have to come with us, I’m afraid.’

*

A new day, a new beginning. Cleansed of his past, though still a little raw, Fulcrom felt like he had been reborn. He was up early, felt a little groggy, and splashed water on his face. With a towel thrown across his shoulder, he scanned his apartment, contemplating the scene from the night before.

Lan dominated his thoughts. There were so many qualities about her which made him smile: her confidence, strong-mindedness, the life she’d led, the way she’d note down interesting names she saw on signs or conversations she overheard, the way she played with strands of her hair, all of which formed the content of her soul. Fulcrom didn’t commit himself often, he decided, but when he did he was certain it was the right thing.

He shaved with all his usual meticulousness and checked his face in the mirror. He slicked his white hair to one side. This time, it was because he wanted to be on best form in case he ran into Lan. He picked up the folded clothes on the chair but realized Adena had sat upon them and, though he was not a superstitious man, he decided to put on different attire: a black undershirt, a green tunic, Inquisition outer robe.

Out into the bone-piercing cold. From the front door to his building he watched the snow begin to settle once again on the city, despite the best efforts of the city’s cultists. Cobbles were obscured. The undersides of bridges formed bold black streaks across the sky, like print on paper. People hugged the edges of buildings, cocooned in thick and heavy clothing.

Around one corner Fulcrom saw an old ritual under way. A dozen women dressed in warrior garb, a design worn hundreds of years ago – padded red and blue garments, bascinets and aventails, and bright chain mail across their torsos – were parading beneath a flag bearing a red leaf and a flame. The women were dancing in a circle around a fire in a barrel, throwing stalks of various crops into the flames whilst reciting – in an almost scream-like pitch – a poem, a lament for those who had lost their lives in crop failures three thousand years ago. Crowds had gathered to watch the procession, parents drawing children closer to them, a whispered word in their ear explaining the reasons for the ritual. It was said that the incident brought the Empire to its knees, to the point of collapse. Fulcrom rarely thought of the cultists who had provided farmers with free seeds treated to survive the extreme temperatures across Jokull, and which arrived by the boatload in Villjamur. He prayed history would not repeat itself anytime soon.

As Fulcrom carried on his way to work, something dark streaked past above him and landed to one side.

Lan crouched down to absorb the impact, and rose to greet him. ‘I wasn’t stalking you, promise,’ she said with a smile. ‘I was just passing.’

The winter cold seemed muted by her presence and penetrating gaze.

‘Well, as far as stalkers go . . .’ he joked. ‘I see you’re up early.’

‘Yeah, having worked late last night, Vuldon and Tane are both still asleep. Vuldon seems to spend a lot of time either in his room or out on the streets anyway – so I wasn’t going to hang around waiting for those two to wake.’

Cautiously, Lan stepped into his embrace and their lips brushed. He held her there, small and fragile, vaguely aware that citizens, as they parted around the couple, were watching them attentively. But he didn’t care. Right now, it was about this girl on his lips, and to hell with what others thought.

*

Barely able to keep their hands off each other, they kissed openly on the steps of the Inquisition headquarters. Afterwards, under the impressed stare of many investigators, aides and administrative staff, Lan sprinted up the red-brick sides of the building and, with her final step, pushed and walked across a fifteen-yard gap onto the roof of the adjacent structure, her feet narrowly missing a gargoyle.

To those closest to him, Fulcrom explained, ‘It’s not
just
for show. There’s not as much ice on the side of a building so she gets a better grip.’

One of the younger investigators was grinning like an idiot. ‘Fulcrom, she’s famous. It’s been years since you’ve even talked about a woman and now you’re dating one of the Knights?’

‘I’m sure that’ll disappoint a lot of ladies,’ said Ghale, the human administrative assistant. Her expression was one of mild disdain, and he wondered if Lan’s showy exit had upset her somehow.

No sooner had Fulcrom set foot in the building, than Warkur grabbed hold of him. ‘Fulcrom, my office, now,’ he growled, stomping away.

Fulcrom sheepishly followed, speculating on the reasons behind the old rumel’s sour tone.

Warkur’s office was Fulcrom’s worst nightmare. Papers were heaped up in haphazard piles that leaned on each other for support, documents with handwritten notes scrawled all over them. Legal texts were scattered across the floor, opened, and stained with rings from cups of tea. How Warkur managed to navigate his way through the Urtican Empire’s ancient, baroque and sometimes eccentric legal system was a mystery to Fulcrom.

The walls were cluttered, too, with framed documents or certificates, various titles he’d been awarded over the years, and none of them were parallel with any other, but pinned up at all angles. Obscure weaponry was heaped on the shelves, maybe illegal repossessions, maybe his own collection. In one corner lay a blanket and pillows, and a storm lantern stood on a table. There was the faint aroma of something gone off, but Fulcrom couldn’t deduce a thing beyond the mess.

‘Sit down,’ Warkur sighed thunderously as he sat behind his own desk.

Fulcrom tiptoed across the apocalyptic office and perched opposite his superior officer. ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

‘You’re damn right something’s wrong. We’re now down to one arsing printing press.’

‘Has the other one broken as well?’

‘I wouldn’t know. It’s been stolen.’

‘Stolen?’ Then the irony hit him. ‘You saying that someone has
stolen
a printing press from the offices of the Inquisition?’

Warkur’s expression said two things. The first was that he was a very tired man. The second was that if anyone breathed a word of this outside this building, he would personally sign their execution order.

‘Any leads as to who might have taken it?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘There was a small flag which we all know and love,’ Warkur said, ‘and that would have been left by our friends, the anarchists.’

‘Oh.’

‘Fucking “Oh” indeed,’ Warkur muttered. ‘Aside from that, where were you yesterday? There was a stand off between the military and the anarchists, and you weren’t to be seen.’

‘I thought the conflict was between the military and the Cavesiders,
not
the anarchists, sir.’

‘How could you know if you weren’t there?’

‘Lan told me.’

‘Lan told you.’

‘Yes, sir. We were . . .’

‘I know what you were doing,’ Warkur said. ‘I saw the two of you outside, all over her like a kid licking a sweet.’

Fulcrom looked at his boss steadily. ‘It won’t get in the way of our project – there will be no conflict of interest, and we’re well aware of the issues.’

‘Good. And meanwhile the official line is that the military
engaged with anarchists
, simple as that. There was trouble, and it was dealt with.’ Warkur’s gaze became distant, his mind drifting elsewhere. ‘It never lasts, you know.’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘That passion,’ Warkur declared. ‘Never lasts.’

Fulcrom’s eyes settled on the blanket and pillows behind Warkur, and though he concluded much, he said nothing.

Warkur changed the subject by demanding a status report of everything Fulcrom had been working on, and if he was any closer to finding any figures involved with the anarchists.

Fulcrom confessed it seemed as if they were chasing shadows. The Knights were always one step behind – responding to crime rather than preventing it in the first place. None of the known, established criminal families were involved – the anarchists were offering something different to the people, and money wasn’t of interest any more. They were highly organized and they were networked. Little had been heard about Shalev outside of the confrontation between her and the Knights, at the indoor iren.

‘The Knights, having interrupted the majority of the major planned offences by the anarchists,’ Fulcrom concluded, ‘are holding the city together.’

Warkur was absorbing the information. ‘Well, I’ve some information for you on a related matter. That priest who called for you a while back – the man’s been brought in by Vuldon and Tane last night.’

‘Ulryk was arrested?’

‘No, not arrested. He was kept here for his own safe keeping, apparently. They brought in a weird-looking corpse, too. You’d better take a look.’

*

Satisfying her occasional preference for isolation, Lan surveyed the cityscape from a high church roof. For the very first time in her life she could admit to feeling a happy person. People around Villjamur took on a new form. There were smiles where previously she saw none. There was laughter where previously she heard only morose grumbling or discreet whispers between underworld figures. Even the garudas, as they sailed through the air, were no longer imposing; they were now graceful creatures, possessing a freedom she had once envied, a symbol of everything that was out of reach.

Was she really a bundle of clichés all of a sudden? Was this what actually happened when you fell for someone?
Get a grip!

Lan shook herself into a more focused state. She was a Villjamur Knight and she had a job to do.

She closed her eyes to listen to the sounds from the street for any signs of trouble. Much of the job distilled down to this simple act: an inspection of the city, waiting until she could offer help. And despite her new-found happiness, despite her tendency today to err on the side of optimism, something seemed wrong. She didn’t for a moment believe she had some kind of extrasensory perception, but Villjamur itself seemed primed for something.

From the east of the city, a woman’s scream came to her ears. Lan pushed herself to the crenellated edge of the roof and jumped across to the opposite building, a gap of ten feet, and then up onto the rim of a cultist-treated bridge. People looked up startled as she sprinted past them, following the echo of the scream.

She crossed over several streets, actively enjoying the rush of speed. She was utterly comfortable with her powers by now – completely attuned to their nuances, harnessing the forces inside that altered her sense of balance and maintained her position in the air.

She settled down to the ground on the second level of the city, the furthest point from the caves, and paused to filter the sounds of the city. Villjamur’s endless passageways provided a huge frustration: they played havoc with sound, and had completely wrong-footed her on several occasions. Becoming a little out of breath, Lan’s sprint became more of a jog.

It wasn’t long before she located the crime. In the shadow of tall buildings, at the back of a narrow brick alley, two men had pressed a blonde woman up against a wall.

‘Hey!’ Lan called over as she approached.

The two men were shaven-headed, looking like brothers. Both stood over six foot tall and were wearing long wax coats. One thrust an iron bar against the woman’s throat; her thick coat lay discarded on the cobbles, exposing a heavy brown dress and hefty leather boots. Underneath the grubbiness she was pretty, and the tears streaking down her face left little to the imagination as to what had been going on.