Book of Transformations

by Mark Charan Newton

  ‘You don’t want me . . .’ Fulcrum tried his best not to sound too apprehensive. He loosened his collar.

  ‘No of course not,’ Urtica laughed. ‘We already have three individuals in mind for the job.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘And how do you see me fitting into this scheme?’

  ‘Obviously we need three individuals we can not only trust, but tolerant to the process – we’ll be endowing them with supreme powers, and I’m afraid we’ve lost some early volunteers throughout the process, since not everyone is up to the task. So we will require people who we have some . . . leverage over, as a way of securing trust.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ the investigator added.

  ‘It is merely a security, you understand. They will be the owners of amazing anatomies. Essentially we will be creating a new form of individual to help protect the city, a hero to the people – no, more than that. A superhero if you will, more than someone who can front an army. We need these new-style crime-fighters in order to tackle these anarchists and all the terror plaguing my city.’

  Fulcrom remained wide-eyed. The cultists simply slumped back in their chairs with hubris.

  Urtica continued. ‘And you, Investigator Fulcrom, are to be their liaison with the law. In fact, we will want you to work closely with them so that they have access to all levels of information in the Inquisition, and – according to your superior officers – you have a very deft touch with people. These individuals will require managing, in order to produce steady performances. You are to brief them on troubling cases, and all the necessary leads.’

  ‘Superhero,’ Fulcrom echoed, too scared to question the decision.

  The cultists then explained the projects in a manner riddled with meaningless jargon. They spoke of complex surgeries and talked of specimens. Each of them took it in turns to lecture on various aspects of the process – meta-anatomy, metallic enhancement, organ replacement, rewiring.

  Urtica knew all he needed to, and even Fulcrom could see that he also did not comprehend what was being discussed here.

  ‘So, investigator. Can we guarantee your assistance in the matter?’

  ‘You can indeed. Can I ask who it is that you’ve selected to form this new trio?’

  ‘Of course,’ Urtica declared. ‘We’ve already got one of them incarcerated and we want you to be there tonight to see the next being . . . initiated. This one shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade. In fact, you know him already.’

  SEVEN

  The best parties are the ones you don’t plan, Fulcrom thought to himself as he meandered about the penthouse apartment situated on the fifth level of the city. That was probably why he could never organize a decent one himself: he was a ruthless planner, so any gatherings he conducted – rare though they were – were too precise, too stale and awkward for anyone to really enjoy themselves.

  But this, Fulcrom thought, was a thoroughly ostentatious affair. Say what you want about the man, but Aide Tane knew something about putting people in a room and creating a good atmosphere. Daughters of landowners were dancing with investigators and sons of councillors and those with connections throughout the city.

  Tane, in his short time spent with the Inquisition, was already a legend for hosting these events – his parties were whispered about long before and long after each night had ended. In his high-ceilinged, modern apartment, with those new-style paintings, white-tiled floors, ornate cressets, and the coloured sculptures made by the hands of Villjamur’s famous glassmakers, men and girls – rumel and human – would convene to forget about the rising levels of crime and the ice age and the far-off war in Villiren.

  They tipped wine down their throats. They brushed their lips casually across those of a stranger. Fulcrom was only too aware that they did this because they wanted to forget. On some nights, in the wealthy quarters, you might have several parties going on simultaneously, and each would contain a board with the evening’s scheduled dances, so couples and groups could plan their entertainment well in advance.

  Little of this appealed to Fulcrom; he could not rid himself of the thought of the refugees outside who were probably perishing in the plummeting temperatures.

  In one corner, two young men around the same age as Tane, in their late twenties, were busy showing off the hilts on their new swords, and testing the steel. Behind them a girl was on her toes whilst she said something discreetly into another man’s ears. The musicians – lutists, drummers and singers fresh from the underground scene – carved amazing melodies and rhythms into the night. All the latest fashions were on parade – high collars, thick, low-cut dresses, and above-the-knee boots. Someone opened a window to rid the room of the humidity of so many bodies – a miraculous gesture considering the freezing conditions outside – and a cool wind brought in the scent of the pine forests.

  One of the rumel investigators sauntered up to Fulcrom and, with toxic breath, muttered, ‘Say, that Tane, he makesh . . . makesh a terrible inveshtigator’s aide, but throwsh one helluva night, ah’ll give him that.’

  Idiot, Fulcrom thought. But then again, perhaps he was right. Would Tane ever make a good aide? The man had been attempting to pass major exams for four years now. If it wasn’t for all his questionably large trust funds, which he so helpfully donated to supplying the Inquisition . . . Don’t be so hard on the lad, Fulcrom told himself. Not tonight.

  Girls kept sauntering up to Fulcrom in dresses which weren’t fit for an ice age. Pretty young things with wide-eyed looks that promised the world, and when they spoke to him they licked their lips. ‘Why, I just love handsome rumels like yourself.’ ‘You’re so fine looking, and people speak so well of your deeds.’ ‘How come you don’t settle down with someone?’

  Maybe Fulcrom was too polite, too diffident to really enjoy being a part of this lifestyle. He cringed at their suggestive words and kindly declined their offers. All the time, Ghale, the Inquisition receptionist, was dancing with some other rumel, constantly glancing towards Fulcrom to see if he was looking her way.

  Fulcrom sighed. Would he ever be ready to love again? Maybe some things I won’t ever get over, he thought. How many years has she been gone now? It’s a good thing you’re a workaholic.

  A conversation behind him caught his attention: ‘I don’t know why he bothers. Everyone knows he’s bloody incompetent.’

  They were senior administrative staff from the Inquisition, black-skins who he’d met only in passing, the kind who hid behind their books rather than step outside to do a day’s graft on the streets.

  ‘Indubitably,’ one continued, ‘but he’s minted, so they say. Arch Investigator knew his family, allegedly.’

  ‘How did they get so rich anyhow?’ said the other, garbed in a red tunic. ‘And why’s he even bothering to work if he possesses such . . . ?’

  Fulcrom peered across to Tane, who was suddenly standing before them: tall, blond, blue-eyed, and dressed immaculately in a purple tunic with gold detailing and buttons. Good-looking, the kind of man who bled charm, and even though he had witnessed this insulting conversation, Tane maintained a smile – his final barrier against what was being said.

  He sighed and leant down to address the two who were bad-mouthing him. The slender human seemed to let the rage come then go with his breath. ‘Because, my dear fellows, some of us actually want to do some good in the world. Have you perhaps considered that, chaps?’

  ‘Tane, look . . . Sorry, we just didn’t realize you were there.’

  ‘Which, of course, makes it quite all right?’ They stood and backed off, smiling tentatively. Tane’s height bestowed on him the advantage of looking down upon their exit, as they squirmed through the mass of drunken bodies.

  The slender human sighed, closed his eyes as the sound of the music washed over him, and Fulcrom had to feel sorry for him. He stepped over to place a hand on Tane’s shoulder – tonight, poor Tane, you will find you have purpose in life.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about them, Tane,’ Fulcr
om said. ‘Your time will come – sooner than you think.’

  *

  However, Fulcrom didn’t expect Urtica’s agents, some of his new secret guard, to claim Tane so late in the evening. The idea was to strike while the party was in full flow, to frighten Tane in front of so many people – to batter his ego into submission. Fulcrom had his doubts about this method, would have preferred something more cooperative, but the Emperor had initially wanted to use even more force. This was to be a more diplomatic solution.

  The partygoers looked ready to push on through till dawn. It was late, way past thirteen, when the door burst open and four figures in tight grey clothing, wide-brimmed hats and with scarves around their mouths, marched arrogantly into the room.

  Everything happened in the candlelight.

  Matching Tane for height, they hauled the man up from his seat to meet him eye to eye. The few conscious people in the room turned to regard the scene, and Fulcrom waved for the grey coats to stay calm. ‘It’s fine, guys.’ He knew they needed to put fear into the man, but they looked ready to pulverize him.

  So these were the Emperor’s special agents, the ones he was getting to do his dirty work behind closed doors, a more sinister replacement for the Night Guard. They gave him the creeps, but that was all right – the fear, he knew, was important.

  ‘What . . . what have I done?’ Tane spluttered, his mannered cool suddenly nowhere at hand. He glanced at each of the grey coats in turn, a look of startled exasperation on his face.

  ‘We’re going to sort you out, Tane,’ one of them sneered, Fulcrom couldn’t discern which.

  ‘You’re not wanted in the Inquisition, so we hear,’ another hissed, grabbing Tane by his collar. ‘Some say you’re a spoilt little fuck.’

  ‘Who claims such nonsense?’ Tane asked anxiously, struggling to pull his head back.

  ‘Just a rumour – the same rumour that says you’re a good man,’ Fulcrom intervened; the grey coats were enjoying their act a little too much for his liking.

  The one holding him paused to look at Fulcrom, then released Tane, who brushed himself down. He now stared at Fulcrom with renewed awe.

  ‘Maybe I am, but I don’t see what business it is of anyone here.’ Tane made sure he addressed all the grey coats. ‘And just who the devil are you anyway?’

  ‘You mean well, sure, but you’re an incompetent fool,’ another man in grey hissed, his eyes flaring with venom. ‘This is common knowledge.’

  ‘Look, I’m afraid you just can’t come in here . . .’ Tane tried to push through them but the group hauled him back, thrust him into the chair and slapped his face – Fulcrom thought it was probably a good thing he was still drowsy from all the drink. A few of the partygoers rubbernecked from their slumped positions, and a couple were still kissing on a chair in the far corner, oblivious to the scene.

  ‘Shut up and listen, fuckwit. You’re keen, but you’ve got problems, we know this. We also know how your parents got their money, and we know why you’re so keen to help the Inquisition.’

  Tane’s eyes widened. That’s right, Fulcrom thought, this is what really frightens the good man Tane. It frightens him to have his secrets paraded in front of so many people.

  ‘We know why you’re throwing all these parties,’ a grey coat whispered, ‘buying friendships, making people happy, and you think your feeble attempts at playing investigator aide will rid you of some of the guilt—’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Tane shouted. ‘You’ve proved your point. Gentlemen, you have earned my attention. Now, please – what on earth do you want with me?’

  ‘You’d do well to listen to these fellows, Tane,’ Fulcrom interrupted. ‘Don’t mess around or they’ll make life damn awkward for you.’

  ‘Are you with them?’

  ‘Look, the city has need of someone like you, Tane. Someone who’s honest and keen. Someone who we know will serve us without running off. Someone with whom we have an understanding – one that says you will be . . . compliant.’

  ‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ Tane observed.

  ‘Hey, he’s not as stupid as everyone makes him out to be,’ one of the others said, and Fulcrom glared at him.

  They didn’t need to humiliate the man. Tane would come all right, all they needed to do was make him feel threatened in the right way – publicly. A grey coat grabbed Tane’s mop of hair and pulled his head back, though to Tane’s credit, he didn’t let the pain show.

  ‘Compliance is what impresses us the most,’ the agent said.

  ‘So I’m compliant,’ Tane replied. ‘Just let me go.’

  The grey coat turned to him and nodded; Fulcrom was surprised that the man actually responded to his signal by releasing his grip. Tane lunged backwards, and took a casual stance. How much authority did Fulcrom possess exactly?

  ‘He’s yours – you can handle it from here,’ said one of the agents. To Tane he said, ‘If you fuck up at all, and Fulcrom gives us the nod, we will not hesitate to hunt you down wherever you’re hiding and kill you in a slow and painful manner.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tane whispered. ‘But, look, I don’t even know what you want with me.’

  With a surprising calm, they all slipped out of the room one by one, leaving the door ajar.

  A little breathless now, Tane dusted himself down and composed himself, then turned to Fulcrom. ‘I knew you kept yourself to yourself, but this is a bit of a surprise.’

  ‘Not only to you,’ Fulcrom replied.

  ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘We’re taking you deep into Balmacara. But first, take a look around, remember these faces, these people you’re trying to impress. You want everyone to love you . . .’ Fulcrom leant in closer to breathe, ‘Think how popular you’ll be if they knew where you got your money from?’

  The expression on Tane’s face, one of utter resignation, confirmed to Fulcrom that they had him on board, that he would cooperate.

  ‘Exactly. They’ll probably want to lynch you themselves. You have been chosen, Tane. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘OK. At least let me clean up this mess before we go.’

  The next one wouldn’t be so easy, Fulcrom realized. The next one wouldn’t respond to intimidation.

  *

  There was a riotous noise outside his window. A drunken youth out in the ice decided that so-and-so was sleeping with his girlfriend, and now was the time to pick a fight in order to resolve the issue. Vuldon heard the way the kid’s sword was unsheathed, with great strain or hesitation. The guy was either emotionally unstable – and would get himself killed; or he was too cold to fight properly – and would still get himself killed. These weren’t the conditions in which to start pointless fights.

  Villjamur isn’t a nice place any more. Barely was in the first place . . . His old life flashed back briefly: knife fights in the dark; brutal combat on bridges; arriving too late and discovering blood-covered floors and severed heads . . . No, perhaps those days were bad enough.

  Vuldon closed the shutters behind the thin glass to keep in the warmth, poured himself a glass of cheap Black Heart Rum, lit an arum weed roll-up, slumped in a battered leather chair and, as he did every night, dredged his memories for something to cling to.

  As he brooded in his isolated terrace apartment, alone in the darkness, he couldn’t quite make the memories become continuous. They came piecemeal, these images of his life, brief and distorted. Nearly every night he’d review a particular moment with distant melancholy.

  Those days are long gone, Vuldon, so let it be.

  But he failed to abide by his own mantra. Every muscle that ached, every bone that didn’t sit quite right, he could assign the probable cause, or guess at things that may or may not have been the root of his pain: a broken-up knife fight or a clifftop scramble or slipping from a bridge whilst trying to save someone.

  Thirty years ago, almost to the day.

  Thirty years and now they were coming for him again, the Emperor’s men. Agents who worked
behind the layers of the city, men that not even the Night Guard knew about. Vuldon knew them all right – he’d worked with their likes before, in whatever guise each city ruler decided to cast them.

  Vuldon wasn’t stupid. He’d been waiting. He’d tracked their movements two hours before: their trademark loitering, the way they’d check street corners and grace rooftops. They were there if you knew where to look. They were heading for his home on the second level of Villjamur, a dreary third-floor hole above a closed-down tavern; about as far from his former glamour as he could possibly be.

  They kicked open his door whilst he slouched on a chair in the dark, the bottle of Black Heart Rum on the floor beside him, a roll-up between two of his fingers, its embers glowing in the half-light.

  In their long grey coats and wide-brimmed hats they stood around him, scarves across their mouths, mere shadows against the dusk spilling through his open doorway, five of them in all, tall and slender. They were lingering like wraiths, with their hands in pockets, cool and aloof. Same as always, they didn’t like to get too close to people like him who knew their way around a fight – didn’t want him to see who they were.

  Fuckers.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Vuldon muttered. Arum smoke circled around his reclined form. ‘You lot are more cautious than ever. Least you’re not as clumsy as the city guard.’

  ‘Gotta be these days, Vuldon,’ one of them said, a harsh and wispy voice. ‘There’s a lot going on in Villjamur – most of it underground.’

  ‘Yeah? I don’t pay attention to any of that any more.’ A drag on the roll-up. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘You, Vuldon. We’ve come for you.’

  ‘The hell do you want me for? You think you can use violence on me?’ He laughed, though the noise seemed more hollow than he would have liked.