Book of Transformations

by Mark Charan Newton

  As if rehearsed, Vuldon’s stomped into the doorway, a single fleck of blood on his cheek. ‘All done,’ he grunted.

  ‘Did you leave any alive?’ Fulcrom asked.

  ‘You didn’t say to,’ he replied. ‘Sorry.’

  *

  Feror and his family were returning with the Knights to the clifftop hideaway, in case the anarchists returned for revenge. The group started the return journey with their captive in tow, choosing more obscure routes to avoid detection. Fulcrom was aware that, as more time passed by, the scandal in the faked issue of People’s Observer would be having a greater influence on the people of Villjamur. Vuldon lugged their prisoner in a large hessian sack, deliberately dragging him along the cobbled roads, and doing his best to be as careless as he could.

  They entered a small stone courtyard on the third level, and came across a religious ritual, with a priest of Bohr blessing a small crowd rammed between the high buildings, in front of his church.

  ‘Hey, stop!’ someone shouted at the rear of the gathering, peeling off to block their route. It was a man in his thirties with a thick leather tunic, stout boots and grey cloak. ‘Aren’t you lot the Knights?’

  Fulcrom raised his Inquisition medallion, which glinted in the firelight. ‘Sele of Urtica, citizen. I’m afraid we’re in a hurry.’

  ‘It is – I recognize that one’s cat face,’ the man gestured towards Tane.

  More people at the rear of the audience drifted nearer, surrounding them. Fulcrom turned to Feror and whispered, ‘You know the way. Get your family back.’

  ‘What about the others there – the cultists?’ Feror asked. ‘Will they lynch me for my betrayal?’

  ‘I’d revealed what had happened and said you weren’t to blame. You’ll just have to hope for the best in human nature.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Just go!’ Fulcrom snapped, and the cultist guided his family away.

  Fulcrom turned back to see that the crowd were now in their faces. Tane was stepping away, but Vuldon stood his ground. They were shouting things at him now. Someone held up a copy of People’s Observer, demanding to know why it had been kept a secret.

  A young woman in a shawl asked Tane, ‘Is it true?’

  Lie, damn you, Fulcrom thought.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tane – you don’t have to tell them that.’

  ‘It’s been hanging over me for ages. I’d wager it’s better out in the open.’

  You don’t know what people are like. They’re not interested in the truth, just being told what they want to hear.

  There must have been thirty or forty in the mass, crowding just the three of them. They started to shout things at Tane: about his deception, blaming him personally for his parents’ role in slavery, saying he had no right to be here. Tane kept trying to talk his way out of it, to justify himself, but it was no good – there was no way he could be heard against their chorus of accusations.

  And to Vuldon, who was still holding the captive in a sack, they simply spat at him and cursed him, blaming him for being a child-killer, saying he wasn’t fit to do his job, that he should just clear out.

  Fulcrom watched the man-mountain stand there silently, not moving, barely responding – his vision had fixed onto some point above them, as he chose to ignore the torrent of abuse.

  Or at least that’s what Fulcrom thought. Suddenly Vuldon screamed – an immense, bass roar – and everyone was stunned by his eruption. As people stared dumbly at him, Vuldon pushed through the crowd, knocking several of them to the ground and a woman cried out as her head hit the ground.

  Oh shit. Fulcrom followed the gap Vuldon had created in the throng, steering Tane along with him. He kept apologizing to the citizens on his way through, palming the air, keeping his head low.

  They found a quiet area in one of the many quarters of the city currently in development. They huddled under a massive viaduct surrounded by scaffolding. Overhead a horse and cart rattled across over the arches. City lights extended into the distance.

  Vuldon dumped the sack containing their captive, who squirmed within, pleading to be let out. Vuldon kicked him until he fell silent.

  ‘Now what, investigator?’ Vuldon asked.

  ‘Do you have control of yourself now?’ Fulcrom demanded.

  For a moment Vuldon strolled along the edge of the work area, his feet crunching grit into the stone. ‘It just got to me.’

  ‘You’re not to take it out on the people, Vuldon. We’re all just grown children, especially in crowds, and sometimes people act on emotions, without much thought.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘Tane, how are you feeling?’ Fulcrom enquired of the unusually silent werecat.

  Tane sighed, crouching and rubbing his face. ‘I had hoped to keep it all hidden just a tad longer.’

  ‘Yes, well, this changes everything now,’ Fulcrom said.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Tane asked.

  ‘The Knights are only effective with public support. You were created for that very reason – to assist the populace, to reduce crime, but most of all to give them something to believe in. A symbol.’

  ‘Propaganda,’ Vuldon grunted.

  ‘Of a kind,’ Fulcrom admitted. ‘But at least you were out there helping people feel safe, and you were recognized for that.’ Which is more than I’ve ever been.

  ‘So what now?’ Tane asked with a look of expectation on his face.

  ‘We get this guy back to the Inquisition headquarters, and we’ll question him there. Meanwhile, I suppose I should really see if I can meet with your employer tomorrow.’

  *

  Fulcrom didn’t sleep well that night, worrying about Lan, if she was all right in the underworld, and struggling with how to explain the recent developments to the Emperor.

  Fulcrom had put in a request to see Urtica and, unsurprisingly, the Emperor wanted to see him anyway regarding the publication of the Imperial newspamphlet. After addressing minor administration, and avoiding conversations with the other investigators as best he could, he made his way to see the Emperor.

  Level after level, the streets were becoming deeper with snow, as if the cultists couldn’t keep up. Morning traders were fewer each day, and the irens were hollow experiences now. There was less to sell, but there were increasing numbers of bric-a-brac stalls, or more innovative traders who restyled the waste and accoutrements of the city into more appealing delights: swords melted down into cutlery or metal and glass sculptures.

  His mare took her time, the poor thing, trudging up the hazardous cobbled roads, the cold air whistling around them both. He left her at a guard station on the fifth level, where only registered horses were permitted – which was news to him, but he wasn’t going to argue with the military. At each guard station, at least three men searched him thoroughly, despite his Inquisition medallion. They asked him questions and were sceptical even when he showed the papers for his appointment.

  ‘This level of security is ridiculous,’ he said to one of the guards.

  ‘Sorry, chap – captain’s orders. Every few days we add to the list of questions. Just the way of things.’

  Fulcrom eventually plodded on by foot, up the gently sloped road that led to Balmacara, wary of what he would say to the Emperor.

  *

  The Emperor peered back at Fulcrom as he finished his explanation of what had happened: of the printing press being stolen from the Inquisition headquarters, of being betrayed by Feror, whose family had been taken as hostages. Fulcrom could see in his eyes that he was a tired man – redness and dark rings around his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, his bitten nails seemed to suggest it might be down to stress. What’s more, Fulcrom could smell the musky odour of arum weed on the man, and his breath stank of some disgusting alcoholic beverage.

  If Urtica was using substances, Fulcrom expected some backlash, an outburst perhaps, and given what Fulcrom had seen himself of the Emperor’s decision-making – for instance, the attempte
d slaughter of refugees – there was no one in this city Fulcrom feared more. But the Emperor merely acknowledged his acceptance of what Fulcrom was telling him, now and then gazing out of the vast, diamond-shaped window across the spires of the city.

  ‘But,’ Fulcrom continued, ‘we have captured a member we’re sure is close to the key figures of the movement in the caves, and I hope to have the names of those involved very soon.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Urtica muttered.

  Fulcrom paused and looked nervously at the man sat across from him. ‘My Emperor – forgive my asking, but is everything all right?’

  ‘I have’, he sighed, ‘been better.’ Then he slid his chair back, which was no small effort for him, and from a drawer to one side he retrieved a map and a handful of pebbles. As he unfolded it before Fulcrom, the Boreal Archipelago, creased and under a grid, was presented.

  ‘We have reports from garudas,’ Urtica started, ‘of the war in Villiren, and of the invasion force attacking from Tineag’l. This is common knowledge.’ Urtica placed a pebble in the island of Y’iren, where Villiren stood.

  ‘Is the combat going well? I see the occasional article in People’s Observer . . .’

  ‘That news outlet aside, I believe we are on course for victory,’ the Emperor replied, with a momentary glimpse of enthusiasm. ‘Now, however, there have been reports of incidents here, here and here.’

  He placed a pebble in three locations, on various islands, each one closer to Jokull. It was only then that Fulcrom realized the Emperor’s hands were shaking.

  ‘Incidents, my Emperor?’

  ‘Massacres, of varying degrees. The first was the remnants of the Order of the Dawnir.’

  ‘The Dawnir?’ Fulcrom asked, surprised. ‘Does that include the famous Papus?’

  ‘Indeed. She had been dispatched to track down a rogue cultist. It was a minor affair, and between us both, ridding this city of two major cultists was no bad thing.’

  Sly, Fulcrom thought. Thus allowing you more influence over the rest of them . . . ‘How was such a . . . legendary order wiped out?’

  ‘Probably a clash between her order and another. The other incidents are more concerning. All of them indicate something is heading right towards our island. Possibly to Villjamur itself.’

  ‘Is it related to the war in Villiren?’

  The Emperor shook his head. ‘None of us are certain what it is, but there has been violence in several towns. What few eye witnesses are still alive have suggested that magic has been used.’

  ‘Cultists, then,’ Fulcrom suggested. He couldn’t hide the allure of this mystery.

  ‘Whoever it is,’ Urtica concluded, ‘they are heading on a path here.’

  ‘And this causes you concern?’

  ‘Nearly a thousand people have died at the hands of this . . . this thing, this cultist. Do you have any idea what such a presence could mean for this city?’

  And that’s why you’re not that concerned about the Knights being exposed, Fulcrom thought. ‘My Emperor, I wonder if the Knights would be in a position to offer some resistance to this threat.’

  ‘The Knights . . . but aren’t the people turning against them?’

  ‘We’ve had just one minor incident, but it’s too early to tell.’

  ‘I’ve had nearly a hundred of the most influential citizens in the city register their disgust at the Knights.’

  ‘They can’t help their own pasts, my Emperor. Part of why they were chosen was because of those pasts. This is the reason they were created.’

  ‘They were created to protect the citizens of the city, investigator, no more, no less. Their secrets were their security to us. If the people fear them for being monsters of whatever kind, then they are of no practical value. Feror, of course, we will execute for his betrayal.’

  ‘But his family—’

  ‘We must stay strong, investigator, until the very end. Feror will be used as a warning to others, and a symbol to the anarchists that we will not tolerate their ways.’

  Fulcrom clenched his fists behind his back, and allowed the Emperor to continue. ‘My Emperor, I’m pleading with you, don’t—’

  ‘Don’t plead, investigator, not in my company. It isn’t decent.’ Urtica leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Given that their secrets are out, especially Lan’s, it makes us all look like fools – particularly me. Is something wrong, investigator?’

  ‘No, my Emperor. However, whatever you believe Lan was before, she is now a committed member of the Villjamur Knights. I have a wonderful record that I can write up for you on the way she’s served the city.’ Fulcrom could feel his mouth becoming dry.

  ‘That may well be, investigator, but given the crises faced by this city, the people need to look up to the Knights. They’ve certainly cost me enough money. We can rebuild Tane’s reputation, perhaps. Vuldon’s too – a few articles in the People’s Observer can do that – but Lan . . . well, I have contemplated the issue in some depth and decided that it’s just not natural, is it? Already I’ve been receiving messages from councillors and various moneylenders to the Treasury, as well as the senior officials from the Jorsalir church, all expressing their concerns about what Lan is. A little slavery is OK, it seems, but I won’t gloss over her past. I rule strongly, investigator, but I need people on my side in times of a crisis.’

  Fulcrom swallowed, felt hot. Don’t say anything that could get you executed.

  ‘Now,’ Urtica continued, ‘Lan is beyond salvation. Consider her decommissioned—’

  A banging on the chamber door interrupted them. Disturbed, Urtica snapped: ‘What is it?’

  A senior military official poked his head around the door sheepishly, with his helm under one arm. ‘My Emperor, I bring grave news.’

  ‘Out with it,’ Urtica ordered.

  The officer stepped inside and took a stance as if he was on parade. ‘Combat has broken out from the caves, my Emperor.’

  ‘What kind of combat? Can’t your lot deal with it?’

  Fulcrom noted the concerned look on the soldier’s face. ‘We believe we will have the situation controlled within a couple of hours.’

  ‘Hours? What the hell is going on?’ Urtica demanded. Fulcrom felt lucky: the Emperor’s tone with him had been remarkably mild. To this officer, it was filled with venom.

  ‘It seems that a significant number of citizens have armed themselves with weapons. What’s more, I suspect there’re relics in use.’

  ‘How many is a significant number?’

  ‘About four thousand, give or take, my Emperor.’

  Urtica sighed, and glanced down at the maps before him, his fingers slowly scrunching up the corner. He suddenly stood and walked over to the soldier. With the pathetic effort typical of someone not trained in combat, Urtica struck his face with the back of his hand. The soldier showed only surprise; he lowered his head and muttered his apologies for delivering the news to Urtica. A silence lingered.

  ‘So, how many military personnel are there now?’ Fulcrom enquired of the soldier. ‘All ranks. Three thousand?’

  ‘Two and a half,’ he replied, cautiously eyeing the Emperor. ‘Skilled fighters, mind – not like those Cavesiders.’

  Fulcrom nodded. ‘Sounds like it’ll be in hand then.’

  Urtica began to walk away, the tension began to drop, but before he sat down he snapped, ‘I want a report every hour, on the hour, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, my Emperor, of course.’

  ‘Get out.’ Urtica sat down then peered at Fulcrom, more tired than before, more desperate. ‘Return to your post, investigator, and await further instructions.’

  Fulcrom stood, but dared the Emperor’s wrath one more time. ‘And Lan?’

  ‘We’ll decommission . . . her. I’ll send notice soon for her powers to be extracted.’

  *

  Fulcrom stomped back to his office, nearly starting fights at each guard station. He didn’t have the time to deal with pedantic idiots any
more.

  Insane. That’s what he was – an unhinged individual. How that man can lead this city – let alone an Empire – is beyond me.

  How could the Emperor be such a fucking fool? Lan was immensely valuable to the city. She was – and had always been – a woman. It was as simple as that. Why should she have to suffer because of everyone else’s small-mindedness?

  After he arrived back at the Inquisition headquarters, settled back at his desk, he looked at the walls and desperately tried to form some kind of strategy.

  Warkur opened the door then knocked on it gently.

  ‘You got the stare, Fulcrom,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The stare. Seeking that distant place, wishing you were anywhere but where you are right now. Be fucked if I don’t know that well enough myself. Can I sit?’

  ‘Sure,’ Fulcrom grunted, indicating the chair opposite his desk. He lit another lantern to brighten the room.

  ‘What’s eating you, Fulcrom?’ Warkur asked with a thunderous sigh as he slumped in the chair.

  Since when have you cared? Fulcrom thought. ‘A few concerns.’

  ‘How did it go with Urtica?’

  Fulcrom explained the situation with the Knights, and his meeting with the Emperor, and his thoughts about how to move from here.

  Warkur listened in unusual silence, offering no pearls of wisdom, no sarcasm – not even when Fulcrom mentioned that the Emperor reeked of drugs. Something’s wrong with you as well, Fulcrom thought.

  ‘These, uh, Knights of yours,’ Warkur started. ‘So the Emperor is fine for Tane and Vuldon to continue as normal?’

  ‘More or less, yeah.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘I’d rather not dwell on that, sir.’

  ‘You see, that’s a little tricky, Fulcrom. Some of the fellows in here have registered a complaint about your relationship with this Knight.’

  ‘She has a name, sir. It’s Lan.’

  Warkur’s face betrayed his discomfort. ‘I, uh, yeah . . . You’re a good investigator, Fulcrom. One of the best lads here. You’re young, what fifty-odd? You’ve got a big career ahead of you, well over a century of good investigative work. Don’t piss that away because of some woman.’