The Book of Transformations (49 page)

‘Yes!’ she shouted back, trying to find the person speaking.

‘You fucking freak, man–woman!’ the voice called. ‘We know about you now. We’ve seen the truth. You’re
disgusting
.’

Like a bolt through the heart.

Her world ready to implode, Lan spun round to see three middle-aged men in thick coats, one of whom was shaking daggers from his sleeves.

‘What the—?’

‘I am assuming this recognition is not always a good thing?’ Ulryk cautioned.

The three men moved closer, continuing with their obscenities. She began to shake. She could feel her heart beating at an incredible rate, suddenly bringing her to a state of alertness. She closed her eyes and blocked their words, then located her powers once again.

Opening her eyes at the sound of feet scuffing stone, she saw one of them – a heavily built man with long hair – run at her, a long blade in his hands. She lunged back and allowed him to fall forwards. The other two, skinnier, followed suit, attacking simultaneously. She side-stepped, air-stepped and stepped over them, their knives narrowly missing her feet.

‘Get down, weird bitch,’ one snarled.

‘Man–woman!’

She landed hard, spun, and realized she had had quite enough of this. She ran at them – burst into an absurdly quick sprint – shouldered the thickset one and sent him tumbling over on the cobbles, cracking his head. The other two came at her then, viciously swiping this way and that. She grabbed one arm whilst shoving her boot in the other’s stomach – and while he buckled over, muttering ‘Certainly fights like a man’, she broke the arm she was holding over her knee, sending his blade skittering across the ground.

Then a blow to the back of his knees sent him face-first into the stone.

The final assailant regarded her with such an expression of disgust she was taken aback. How could anyone look at her like that?

You’re not a monster
, she reminded herself
. People like him are.

He tried one final attempt to lash out, but she jump-kicked him, sending him tripping over the bodies on the floor – not dead, but certainly out of action.

Ulryk stared at her in surprise, but never questioned her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We should find Fulcrom.’

And maybe I can find out just what the hell I’ve missed.

*

Lan entered the Inquisition headquarters but was blocked at the front desk. Guards asked her – politely but with caution – to wait.

The black-skinned rumel called Warkur headed out to meet her, his face cracked with stress, his tail wafting about with agitation. She knew something was wrong when he tried to get her to step into his office.

‘Is it Fulcrom?’ she asked. ‘Is he dead?’

Warkur laughed nervously, eyeing the priest, the guards behind, never seeming to look her in the eye. ‘Nah, Fulcrom’s not dead. But he’s no longer part of the Inquisition.’

‘What?’ she asked. Ulryk’s peaceful face could offer nothing.

‘He quit.’

‘Why?’

Warkur reached into his pocket and gave her a crumpled-up copy of the
People’s Observer
, and thrust it at her. When she took it he put his hands in his pockets and waited for her reaction.

Lan read it and stood there shocked. More than once she opened her mouth as if to say something, but couldn’t. There were bad things about Tane and Vuldon, too, but she couldn’t help but think of her own problems the most. ‘I . . . I—’

‘You can’t believe it,’ Warkur said. ‘I get it.’

‘But why did Fulcrom quit?’ she asked, wary now of the scene presenting itself: the presence of several investigators and aides, the bulky looking guards looming ever closer.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Warkur said. ‘What matters is that you get yourself back to those cultists who gave you a bunch of powers you don’t deserve.’

Her thoughts connected quickly: she was exposed and she was to be stripped of her position in the Knights, but Ulryk seemed a step ahead: he was chanting something, slowly, the words seeming to hang in the air. Suddenly the gathered throng on one side began to grip their ears as if hearing a deafening noise, and some began to scream.

Ulryk, still chanting, tugged at her sleeve and pulled her away and out of the building.

*

They found Fulcrom in his apartment, and when he opened the door Lan buried herself in his chest, almost in tears. He held her there for a moment, while Ulryk lingered without comment in the doorway.

‘We went to the Inquisition but they said you quit,’ she said, as he guided them into his home.

Fulcrom turned to Ulryk, eagerly asking, ‘Did you get it – did you find the book?’

Ulryk patted his satchel.

‘Good.’

Lan looked around the room. Everything was in boxes, his clothes, his personal items, and paintings were off their hooks. ‘Were you planning on running?’ Lan asked.

‘Not exactly, no. I was going to put all this in storage,’ he gestured around the room, ‘but I have a suspicion I’ll be a wanted man, so it’s—’

‘Why?’

‘For not doing my job,’ he replied. ‘I take it you’re aware I’m required to hand you in to the cultists?’

Lan signalled her understanding, trying not to reveal just how upset she was. ‘Why did you quit?’

A pause, while he gazed into her eyes. ‘I quit because I worked for a bunch of Neanderthals.’

‘Will they come for us?’ Lan asked.

‘They will, but they have other concerns at the moment.’

‘What concerns?’ Ulryk enquired.

‘The anarchists are leading an uprising.’

‘Should we do something?’ Lan asked.

‘No,’ Fulcrom replied.

She grasped his arm. ‘But I want to help.’

‘The Knights are over, Lan.’ He held her gently by her wrists. ‘I’m sorry. The anarchists have exposed everyone – but it seems the Emperor is still happy with Tane and Vuldon to continue with their duties . . . but he refuses to accept you.’

‘Because . . . ?’

‘Yes, because of that,’ he whispered, low enough so Ulryk wouldn’t hear.

‘So what happens now?’

‘Good question.’

‘I’m not going to hand myself in to be “decommissioned” – whatever they mean by that,’ Lan said. ‘I don’t want that. I like who I am now.’

‘I know – I don’t want it either.’ Fulcrom sat down on the bed, Lan perched alongside him. Ulryk considered the view out of the window.

‘And because of that,’ Fulcrom continued, ‘they’ll want to arrest me, too, for obstructing the Emperor’s commands, for protecting a criminal, because that’s what you’ll be if you’re not handed in.’

‘We’ll be fugitives,’ she said with a surprising eagerness. ‘We can leave the city.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘To be honest, I’ve not thought it through.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ Lan muttered.

‘This time, it really is. My whole existence has been based around the Inquisition, so I’m a little lost right now. First, though, I want to see certain jobs through, and I know that the uprising is going to buy us some time.’ His gaze turned to the priest. ‘Ulryk, will you want to do . . . whatever it is you’ll be doing, then?’

‘I will,’ he replied. ‘That building, is it what I think it is?’

Fulcrom stood up to move behind Ulryk, following his line of sight. The priest raised his arm, pointing to the structure that crested the immediate rooftops, reflecting what little light there was.

‘That’s the Astronomer’s Glass Tower,’ Fulcrom said. ‘Why?’

‘Is it used any more? I haven’t had time to find out. But I will need access to it.’

‘I don’t think so. It was originally used for predicting phenomena, but back in Johynn’s rule the Jorsalir church finally convinced him it was blasphemous and it was shut down.’

‘That is no surprise,’ Ulryk chuckled. ‘Such glass structures can be found across the Archipelago, most of them in forests or along coasts. They’re ancient buildings, constructed on top of channels of . . . I’m not even sure what the right word would be in modern Jamur. Ley lines, perhaps. I wish to visit it and conduct my rituals from its rooftop.’

‘I didn’t even know it had a rooftop,’ Lan said, joining them. ‘I thought it was a sheer face of glass.’

‘There will be a rooftop,’ Ulryk declared.

‘Lan,’ Fulcrom said, ‘will you ensure Ulryk’s safety? You must be careful though. The streets are starting to become extremely dangerous with the clashes and I’d change from your uniform if I were you – or at least cover your head, and that symbol.’

Lan rummaged around Fulcrom’s wardrobe until she found a hooded jumper. Once she was wearing it, she accompanied Ulryk to the door and glanced back at Fulcrom. ‘Are you coming?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t yet. I need to find Tane and Vuldon and get to them before the Emperor or his agents do, and I could be a few hours.’

‘How will you do that? If you’ve quit, you won’t be permitted access to them surely?’

‘I know. Look, for now, please just ensure that Ulryk completes his task, but return here if you can’t get through the streets easily because of the violence – I might know of some alternative route. Whatever you do, don’t risk your life recklessly.’

‘And what about afterwards?’ she asked.

He turned to her and took her in his arms. Tenderly in her ears he whispered, ‘I’ll meet you here. Whatever the hell happens, we’ll do it together – just you and me. No one gives us orders any more.’

*

Stopping on the way to collect a case full of flammable fluids obtained from a cultist who owed him a few favours, Fulcrom headed towards the outer city, to an abandoned building.

Despite the population pressures, Villjamur was full of disused regions, which was part of its charm. There were chambers and catacombs dotted around the city, usually subterranean spaces where it wasn’t unreasonable to assume people could scrape some kind of living. These zones occasionally harboured criminals on the run, the occasional drug addict or, before the ice became bad, Caveside whores looking for a quiet place to take their clients for a quick fuck, but today they remained eerily dormant.

Fulcrom had hoped that under Urtica’s reign there might be a renovation of these urban spaces and that the authorities might permit some of the refugees to enter the city and be housed there. Alas, this was not the case, and security had been tightened further, denying most people access. But it wasn’t the subterranean territories he was approaching right now – instead he sought a vacant hotel on the fourth level, one that had lost all its business long ago.

He strolled through the streets, head down to prevent the gusts of snow from skimming into his face. A couple of taverns had boarded up their windows here, and quite a few store premises were for sale. Eventually Fulcrom arrived at his destination and looked up at the broken facade of the enormous hotel, which was taller than he remembered, at least nine or ten storeys, which for Villjamur was significant. Three gothic arch windows sat each side of a central stairway, which led to a thick wooden double door. Several months ago these very steps had been the scene of a brutal double murder, and that – combined with the hostile weather – had ensured the owners were better off selling up to the Council, and since then it had stood empty.

Fulcrom slipped a dagger from his sleeve and prised open the lock. He headed inside, through the murky light, and up several flights of stairs that had been colonized by bulbous spiders the size of his hand.

He heaved the case of fluids up onto the flat roof, where he was struck by the chilling wind. There were a few discarded items here, a few dead hanging baskets, a table and chairs that hadn’t seen action since warmer times, but all these items would help. All around him rose the spires of Villjamur, and he suddenly felt a pang of loss that he might have to leave this city he loved so much.

Fulcrom gathered the junk and spread it across the surface of the roof. Then he opened the case containing seven vials of transparent fluids and picked one out. He poured its contents across one side of the roof, away from the door to the stairs, being careful not to spill any on himself. In the distance, from the direction of the caves, came the sound of rioting – it was faint, a mass chorus of voices – but at that moment it wasn’t his concern.

Satisfied that he had covered enough of the area, he poured one final vial containing blue fluid in a neat line between himself and the rest of the roof. He took out a piece of flint from one pocket and some kindling from the other. Sheltering in the lea of a wall, he struck the flint several times with the steel hilt of his dagger, and eventually a few sparks shot off onto the kindling. He blew gently, encouraging the flame, then, with great caution, dropped the burning bundle on the other side of the line of blue liquid, and dashed back towards the stairway.

Fire exploded across the rooftop, tearing into the heap of junk he’d prepared, and assaulting him with heat. He stumbled back, but was amazed at how well the fire respected the line of blue fluid.

He had saved one chair, of course – he didn’t know how long he was going to be up there – and placed it by the stairway. According to the cultist’s assessment of the liquid, Fulcrom guessed he had maybe three hours at the most. So he simply pulled the chair back towards the view of the city, and waited.