The Book of Transformations (8 page)

One side of Fulcrom’s vast office was lined with shelves rammed with leather-bound age-ruined books. He had them arranged neatly, ordered by subject and year. Two angular diamond-shaped insets allowed in light through coloured glass, and a painting of an evening city scene, a retro original, was hung above the door.

After he placed his outer-cloak over the back of his chair meticulously, he set about starting a fire, rummaging through the accoutrements to one side. He was nearly out of kindling.

Presently, after a few moments, the flames spat into life and, as Fulcrom warmed his hands, one of the most senior officers, Investigator Warkur, an old black-skinned rumel, barged into the room without knocking.

‘Fulcrom,’ he grunted stridently. ‘You got a moment?’

‘Of course,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the leather chair behind his stately mahogany desk. After clearing a couple of the papers, he struck a match and lit a candle within a small glass lantern. ‘Apologies about the mess.’

‘Don’t be a jerk, Fulcrom – damn place is immaculate.’ Warkur reclined into the chair with a thunderous groan. He was a bulky rumel with a scar along his lantern jaw, allegedly from a garuda fight forty years ago. He had a broader nose than most rumels, and his black eyes were set unnaturally deep, so Fulcrom was never quite sure if he was looking at him or somewhere in the distance. Warkur was one of the old-school investigators, the kind they didn’t make any more, and with nearly two hundred years on the service, the man didn’t care much for modern ways. He had outlived a handful of emperors, as he constantly liked to remind people, which meant that he had little tolerance for changes in procedures. Too jaded to ever make the position of Arch Investigator, he now spent his days mentoring the younger investigators, which suited Fulcrom fine.

‘What’s the problem?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘How long you got?’ Warkur sneered. Then, ‘Nah, I’m grouchy this morning. One of our three Inquisition printing presses is defunct, and no one knows what to do about it – expensive bits of kit, too. And, I slept in my office again – Stel’s going to roast my behind if I do another night here, I swear.’

‘Surely she understands the commitment, sir?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘If you need a hand with anything . . .’

Warkur waved a fat hand. ‘I know you’ve been handed some pretty dire cases lately, Fulcrom.’

‘It’s not a problem, sir.’

Warkur glanced to the floor, rubbing his face with his palms to bring himself to a more alert state. ‘We’ve got an issue that goes right to the top – Balmacara. Now, it’s not a case or anything, it’s more of a . . . project.’ He leaned forward. ‘I don’t have to remind you that sometimes these matters go beyond mere secrecy.’

Fulcrom stole a quick glance to check the door was closed properly.

‘Now the Emperor’s worried, Fulcrom. He’s convinced Villjamur is very quickly falling to the underworld and that damn Shalev character is causing him a massive headache.’

‘I can well understand,’ Fulcrom agreed.

‘Urtica claims that the woman is behind most of the current crime, especially the acts of terrorism plaguing every military station and every shop on these outer levels, including the attack on the Jorsalir Bell Spire. City patrols are in a snit. Morale is shot to shit.’

‘And he has a plan?’ Fulcrom suggested.

Warkur regarded him with a glare that said
shut up
. ‘Yeah. Emperor Urtica has a plan all right. There’s this special project he won’t talk about, and he needs staff from the Inquisition to help. I can’t spare all that many men. In fact, I can only spare one.’

‘And that’s me?’

‘And that’s you.’

‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Good question.’ Warkur leaned back in the chair with a sigh. ‘I’m not entirely sure what the role will be, but it needs someone efficient and alert, apparently. Something to do with new technologies, so no doubt you’ll have some of those cultist bastards hanging around. You’re young, you’ve got a good brain, and you’re about as thorough as we get in this business. Just look at this damn office of yours for a start.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t thank me yet. I’ve not got a clue what you’ll be doing – could be hell for all I know. Thing is, Urtica trusts
you specifically
– when your name came up he remembered you from when you discovered who was behind the raid on the Treasury a few years back.’

‘He remembers that?’

‘Politicians have a long memory when it suits them.’

‘When would you like me to start?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘Later today. You’ll need to go up to Balmacara after noon. It’s a special kind of project, and since this kind of work might be new to the Inquisition, I’m putting you in charge of all
special
projects – your own department. Given that you’re working with the Emperor and might not be completely able to follow our routines, then it might as well be you.’

‘Might I ask how many are in this department, sir?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘Just you.’

*

After processing some administration of overnight detainees, Fulcrom took one of the Inquisition horses from the rear stables and rode up the levels of the city. Drizzly mist had drifted in from the coast, tainting the air with its chill, and many of the tall buildings dissolved into its mass.

Villjamur was layered like a cake, seven tiers in all. Fulcrom liked to boast he could run a circuit of the second level in two hours. The vast, house-rammed platforms were built in enormous arcs. The layers backed onto the caves at one end and, at the front, onto the city’s walls, which prevented any invading army from penetrating. The higher people lived was a general indication of the more money they had, and the formidable dark structure of Balmacara, the Imperial residence, dominated the city’s skyline, and could just about be spotted from every level.

Surrounding him were whitewashed or pebble-dashed structures, or faded thin limestone houses three or four floors high that leaned precariously into each other. Timbers seemed about to buckle around their midriff, but still these old buildings held themselves with a fading dignity. Traders moved back and forth from the many irens throughout the city, or to the shops higher up, whilst citizens, layered up in furs or rain capes, rooted around the wares, or headed to a tavern or bistro.

Fulcrom’s mare sauntered gingerly along the cobbled streets, and he made a point to greet as many people as he could. Citizens were worried – sure, there was significantly more crime these days, but people’s fear of it was far greater than the reality. The way some people spoke, it was as if the city had crumbled and Caveside gangs were in control. The reality was far from that; though Fulcrom had had his work cut out in dealing with burglaries and violent assaults and muggings, at least he wasn’t investigating murders.

So what could the Emperor want with him? And what exactly was he going to be doing? Fulcrom explored the depths of his mind, but aside from the connection that Warkur had mentioned there was nothing he could think of. Perhaps it was something to do with the case he and Jeryd had worked on, when they helped the refugees . . .

No, you’re just being paranoid. It was only Jeryd who was known to be involved, no one else.

More likely it was that Fulcrom had been selected because it was well known that he had no life outside of the Inquisition – a sobering thought. He had no partner to attend to now, and his only family in the city were very distant relations.
Yes, I’m a loner in this world, but I’m
happy enough.

At each level he accessed, even after showing his medallion bearing the angular symbol of the Inquisition’s crucible, guards searched Fulcrom thoroughly. Soldiers had garrisoned themselves in small stations on each level and, with the recent attacks, it was procedure for random stop-and-searches of civilians. He knew better than to make a fuss. He would rather set an example that if it was all right for the Inquisition to put up with this, then citizens could too. At least he was permitted up here – most of the citizens had to possess specific written documentation in order to head upwards.

Ever since the incident at the Bell Spire, the anarchist movement which originated and operated deep within the caves, Urtica had ruled with an iron fist. Fulcrom was especially surprised – not too long ago, the anarchists were a joke collective of angry and bitter individuals who knew little of politics. But ever since Shalev had arrived, only days after the legendary Night Guard soldiers had left for the north, the anarchists had suddenly become something to worry about.

*

‘No, the Council were not in the Bell Spire,’ declared Emperor Urtica, commander of the Urtican Empire, ruler of seven islands of the Boreal Archipelago and, Fulcrom had to confess, a man with a bit of a temper on him, ‘because I’m not that fucking stupid.’

Fulcrom should have known better than to ask the obvious question, even a few weeks after the event, but he didn’t expect the Emperor to be so . . .
sharp
in his response.

An aura of fear purveyed the golden halls of Balmacara. Gossip rippled through the administrative staff and servants, and filtered out to the rest of the city. All the stories he had heard filtered back into his mind.

Urtica was in his late forties, tall, and with short, dark hair showing a lot of grey. His grey tunic showed just under a purple robe – which differed from the green of the other councillors, but similar enough to suggest he wanted to be seen as a man of the people. There was definitely a charm about him, some innate handsomeness in his symmetrical features and broad chin, but any pretensions to glamour were cast aside the instant he opened his mouth.

‘My apologies, my Emperor, the Inquisition only gets few briefings on these matters,’ Fulcrom muttered humbly. ‘And I knew, of course, that you all survived – however, I merely spoke rhetorically, in appreciation of your tactical awareness.’

‘Yes, well . . . all right then,’ Urtica said. ‘Just try not to use honeyed words too much. That’s all everyone else does around here.’

The room was ornate, with huge mirrors and portraits and a fireplace so big a bull could stand in it. Light from the numerous windows lit the room with a dream-like haze. Urtica was seated behind a vast marble desk, edged with garish gold-leaf trim. Resting neatly upon it was what appeared to be a draft of the
People’s Observer
, Urtica’s new Imperial newspamphlet after he had closed down the others in the city. Copies of this journal were issued free, both on the outer levels as well as Caveside. Some were even being shipped to the Empire’s outposts, so that the various portreeves, commissioners and commanders might dictate Imperial information to their subordinates. Pencil marks were scattered about its surface – corrections, Fulcrom assumed. He had only seen one copy of
People’s Observer
, and knew by now that it would never deal with events worth debating. For the most part, it seemed to discuss the dealings of various lords and ladies and socialites, with the occasional terse update on the war that was about to start in Villiren, where the legendary Night Guard had been despatched.

Urtica went on to explain how he had escaped being blown up at the Bell Spire. He’d made sure that he leaked a false location of the Council, as he did every time, and then changed the real venue at the last moment. Ever since the Atrium had been set alight by terrorists shortly after the former Empress Rika escaped, he knew better than to trust people in Balmacara. Twenty days had passed since that room had gone up in smoke, twenty days of total lockdown across Villjamur, and still, despite the amplification of military personnel, some . . . some bloody
terrorists
had managed to get through their security and wreck an iconic structure of the city.

‘Bastards!
’ Urtica slammed his metal cup against the desk, and it rattled to a halt – utterly dented from his venom.

‘Indeed,’ Fulcrom echoed.

‘I understand you were one of the only riders who managed to get near the bastards?’ Urtica sprawled back in his massively ornate wooden chair and placed his boots on the desk, a perfect posture of contemplation.

‘That’s right. They are, or were, working with cultists, according to your Imperial briefings.’ And Fulcrom described what he witnessed on that day.

‘Cultists are a very powerful lot . . .’ With a sudden calm, Urtica began to guide the conversation somewhere else. These were all things the Emperor must have been told long after the incident – he was therefore now testing Fulcrom.

Fulcrom was getting nervous. He potentially had a long career ahead of him, and right now that seemed to be in a vulnerable position.

Urtica continued. ‘The incident at the Bell Spire was just one of many, but it is getting too close for comfort. I have no idea how this crime wave has flourished, but flourish it has. They say they are anarchists, and that they are claiming the city for the people. Roughly translated, at the moment that means they are undermining authority –
my
authority.

‘Their politics have begun to have a new texture entirely – even when there was that minor riot months ago, they were a laughable lot. Not now. They’re organized. Their leaflets have made their way about the city. There are intelligence reports of city intellectuals joining their schemes, educated men and women becoming bloody turncoats. They talk about things like wage slavery and self-organization. They recite extracts from what they claim are Council documents, and want to show the city how the functions of the Council and the Inquisition do not work for the good of the populace.’