City of Ruin lotrs-2

by Mark Charan Newton

  Then the spider contemplated the children, a boy and a girl.

  The pair lay in a peaceful embrace, as it peeled back the sheets to analyse their tiny bodies. They couldn't be more than five or six years old, and their flesh was tender but scrawny, with little accretion of fat or muscles. Voland had always maintained that children were worthless: they provided poor cuts of meat.

  Stepping backwards, two legs at a time, the spider bound the two parent bodies together with silk. Then dragged their corpses downstairs, thoroughly cocooned in fibre, out through the open door, and into the ice-scarred night.

  *

  As Jeryd reminisced about the previous night's activities, while snacking on some breaded crabmeat he'd just purchased from a grubby street vendor, something else caught his attention.

  There were two crates wobbling dangerously on a horse-drawn cart, and he watched with fascination as both finally fell off. Frightened by the racket, the horse bolted, charging through the wide streets of the Althing district. No one seemed in a hurry to stop it as it disappeared north into the sea fog that had rolled in overnight. Jeryd pushed down his hat to sit firmer on his head and advanced towards the two men who were busy retrieving the spilled contents of the crates.

  'What've you boys got in there?' Jeryd asked them.

  The two men glared at him suspiciously, and stood in front of the crates, to block his view. They were both redheads, and the one on the left had tattoos covering his neck. 'Fuck you want to know for?' said one, and the other folded his arms belligerently.

  'Oh, I'm just a curious investigator.' Jeryd pulled out his medallion. 'You know how the Inquisition likes to gather a few facts now and then.' Well, this one does at least. Glances were exchanged, an uneasy change of expression at the law's presence. For a while neither said anything.

  'How much?' one of them finally asked.

  'How much for what?' Jeryd grunted.

  'How much you want to, uh, go away, like? You know – and we know – the policy.'

  This attempt at bribery only made Jeryd more determined to find out what was contained in the crate. 'I'm afraid I'm not like the other guys. I only want an answer. What's in there?'

  The young men conferred in whispers. 'Meat,' the one with tattoos explained. 'We're taking it from the slaughterhouse to the irens. Boss's orders.' Then he added, 'And our boss is Malum, leader of the Bloods, someone who don't take kindly to having his men hassled by the Inquisition. You know what I mean?'

  Jeryd knew what they meant. Malum was the most influential man in the underworld. A violent sociopath by all accounts. Jeryd had been hearing far too much about this man since his arrival in Villiren. His name was whispered every other day in the Inquisition headquarters, more in awe and fear than otherwise. This individual had myth wrapped around him so tightly that Jeryd wondered how he could even breathe.

  He glowered at them both, then at the leaked bits of offal that had slipped onto the cobbles, then back at their street-warrior faces. 'I don't need paying to go away,' Jeryd declared. 'As I said, I'm not like the others – if you understand what I mean.'

  *

  Jeryd had to pass the gaol cells in the Inquisition headquarters in order to get to his office. Despite the fact that crimes were rarely investigated properly, it seemed that prisoners were still being herded in daily, all types, including many that did not look like typical prisoners. Jeryd made enquiries.

  'Just between you and me, right,' one of the aides confided, a short, skinny individual with a mop of blond hair, 'we arrest such people as get in the way of Lutto's progress. You know, he wants a street cleared to let the army pass through, and people disagree and protest, he calls it a crime, and suddenly we've got our cells filled. He wants traditional traders disposed of to make space for more profitable ones – ones that can offer cheaper goods. When the politicians clear 'em out, it makes for a free market. But you know how it is, some folk don't like change, and want to kick up a fuss, don't they? And space is precious here, you see. City's got to make money, like. And those miners who lost their jobs and started getting violent during their protests… well, they came straight in here too. Meanwhile we got murderers running much of the show out on the streets. As for being a criminal – well, I s'pose it's all a matter of perspective, right? Anyway, just doing my job, like, so don't you complain to me about it. And this stays between you and me, all right – not worth my job, this.'

  Jeryd was growing more and more disillusioned with this city as each day passed, and as he entered his office was inhabiting a deeply reflective state.

  Nanzi was already waiting for him.

  'Morning, Nanzi.' Jeryd placed his hat on the desk and slumped into his chair with a thundering sigh.

  'Good morning, investigator,' Nanzi said. 'Would you like something to drink?'

  'No thanks, I had a big breakfast on the way here.' He rubbed his face to make himself more alert. 'Now, it transpires we have some leads.'

  'Clues?'

  'Yeah, from the Citadel party. I found an interesting and unusual substance there. I'm slowly becoming convinced it's a step in the right direction.'

  'What kind of substance?' she demanded coolly.

  'No idea yet. I've already given a similar sample to the commander to analyse yesterday – he has a cultist working with him who might know something about it. I'm not sure if it's linked to the disappearances.'

  'Investigator Jeryd, you seem to take these cases so seriously. It is an admirable quality, but do you not need some time off? You must have a personal life that needs attending to. I can follow things up with the commander and give you some relief.'

  'Yeah, you could be right, lass. I do take it seriously.' He didn't have the heart to explain just how much he felt he owed to life. He was devoted to his wife, and his conscience was dedicated to seeing that there was a little good put back into the world.

  How could he explain to her that he was transferring his secret guilt to every single action in his life? That incident with his wife back in Villjamur had changed him. He had tried hard to put it to the back of his mind, but the after-effects were still there, asking questions of him.

  He once thought that the only way to cope with the dark events in his life was by helping other people, but maybe that was wrong: maybe he was running away from them instead, viewing their world from the other side of his desk, resisting his problems with a medallion and a thousand hunches and a wrap-around theory.

  'I'm not sure what I'd do with any time off. Spend it with my wife, most likely going on some trip, but there's sod-all places to visit in this ice age anyway, and we do go out regularly in the evenings. No, all I have is my work – and I'm determined to find out why so many damn people keep vanishing from these streets.'

  'It seems a most impossible case,' Nanzi declared. 'There are easier crimes we could solve, ones where we could put criminals in gaol and make some progress. There's the trade in pirated relics… another man lost his arm yesterday, one of the lucky ones. Just before you arrived in the city, a child set one off in an iren, killing three other people besides himself, and injuring dozens.'

  'It is indeed a tragedy,' Jeryd agreed. 'But a good investigator refuses to give in even when it seems nothing can be done. Sometimes there will be a clue, the tiniest discovery that'll give you massive consequences. I don't know. It just seems so odd that I know so little about this case – and such a lack of control makes me feel uneasy.'

  Nanzi smiled softly at him. 'When will we see the commander again? I'm interested in hearing what news he has affecting the city.'

  'You and me both, lass.'

  SIXTEEN

  The main island of Folke certainly wasn't how Randur remembered it. There should have been carts full of something or other trawling back and forth through the day, farmland communities trading with one another, people travelling between villages, but instead there was nothing.

  In between the open vistas was the familiar sight of forests, providing some shelter fr
om the elements – abies or betula trees – but there was now something that suggested the people who worked the land were seldom here any longer, either having died from the cold or moved on to more temperate regions.

  And Randur himself had changed since he'd left here for Villjamur. He'd grown used to throwing sweet lines of chat at the women in the Imperial Residence, the soft sheets and subtle lighting and gold-trimmed furnishings. Warmth and good food and decadent surroundings. It had very nearly corrupted him, turned him into something he despised and, if he was honest, it was difficult for him to now cope with the harshness of life on the road: finding his own food, trying desperately not to allow water to seep into his boots.

  Eir, on the other hand, had blossomed in the absence of her former power. It was as if the strictures of Villjamur had stopped her from feeling truly free. She dressed more like a boy these days, which was ironic considering the comments Randur used to get from others about dressing like a girl. She'd become tougher and more resilient. The realities of life out here had very quickly shaved away the accoutrements of her former wealthy existence. She had developed the ability to fight and showed it with confidence.

  The enforced celibacy of being out on the road was not for him. Rika had already killed the mood more than once when he thought he'd stolen a rare moment alone with Eir. The Empress would have wandered off on some solitary contemplation, braving the cold like a she-bear – even when you meditate, you can tune the cold out, she would declare – and then he'd lie down in some shelter, Eir in his arms, groping under her clothing, feeling the warmth and… Then Rika would step back into view, after her soliloquy to the heavens, and his arms would snap back to his side.

  A man can only take so much.

  The territory of Folke was a collection of three islands, comprising one major land mass, and two sparse little outcrops in the sea to the south, Folke Mikill and Folke Smar. Apparently communities of banshees lived on one of those islands, the only group of them outside of Villjamur, and people said they lived deliberately alone, away from other human or rumel, so they could remain in peace, since on their own they would not have to announce so many deaths. But how could a group of women survive so long without producing children to keep the line going, without it dying out? Randur had often fantasized about what it would be like to be the only male there…

  Eir nudged him in the ribs, as if telepathically channelling his thoughts. From behind him, on horseback, she pointed across the line of forest towards a collection of rooftops appearing in the distance.

  They were travelling along the western shore. To their left the sea, choppy again today, met with a murky grey horizon; to their right extended a forest, arcing gently towards a low range of hills. Having not seen a soul for days, this promise of human contact was mildly unsettling, a sudden reminder that they weren't the only people around.

  'Drekka,' Randur muttered through his smile of recognition. 'Gets its name from the old word for drink. Used to be considered a bit of a party town. I've been there once or twice, though not from this route.'

  'Can we stay somewhere here for the night?' Eir asked.

  'I would've thought so,' Randur replied. 'Agricultural town, mainly, but does a bit of trade doubling as a port. A few travellers pass through, but I'm not sure how things are with the Freeze.'

  *

  It was a town where dreams lay down to die. Places like this didn't much like change, their nature going against the fundamental laws of development or decay. The further you went from the largest towns, notably Ule, the further you moved from anything approaching cosmopolitan. In Randur's memory he'd only been there a few times, all during his late teens; there had been super-strength local vodka, and local women who were not shy in the least. Each time he had visited he'd sworn never to return. But there was always a girl, wasn't there, some reason to make that extra effort, to ride across the island in search of sensual fulfilment.

  The cultural centre lay just where two straight thoroughfares met. Here, the taverns conducted a roaring trade, serving up equal measures of gambling and debauchery. A haven for card sharps to work their route around the various settlements. He wondered vaguely if rooms would be available at the Bitches Brew inn, one of the quieter places in the town, just off the main street.

  An iren to one side sold mainly farming equipment, where a few men shambled around checking out the wares. The former dust road running between the buildings was now muddied snow. The buildings themselves were a mix of dark stone and even darker wood, at the most three floors high, but always well spaced out because there was plenty of room. Smoke dribbled upwards from most of the chimneys and, amid a sea of thatched and slate roofing, the wooden spire of a Jorsalir church poked tentatively above the townscape.

  They rode into town, tied up their horses, and started hunting for accommodation.

  *

  Cheap lunches were being served at the Bitches Brew, a dreary place with four solid woodstoves and walls littered with old farming equipment now relegated to the status of decoration: sieves, forks, bushels, crooks, potato dibbers. Three men sat in companionable silence over to one side, while two old women played cards right next to the bar. Randur approached the landlord, a slender man in his fifties with a scar across the top of his head. He regarded Randur with startlingly blue eyes.

  'Afternoon,' Randur greeted him, while Rika and Eir remained motionless by the door. 'Me and the girls are passing through and need a room for the night. You got any?'

  'Might have. You got coin?'

  'Enough.'

  'You got a room then, lad. So what you lot drinking?'

  Half-turning to Eir and Rika, he said, 'I'll have half an ale and the girls-'

  'Kapp Brimir!' It was a high-pitched voice, and certainly not a happy one. Randur shot the room a furtive glance. Who knew his real name?

  'Kapp! I know it's you.' A girl burst out from the kitchen, a brunette with big eyes and a big scowl. She marched right up to him then slapped him across the face.

  'Ow!' he spluttered.

  'You think you can just walk off and leave me after that one night we had? You promised you'd take me with you to Villjamur. You and all your lines – it was just to get into bed with me, wasn't it? You boys just want to have your fun and vanish into the night. Ha! Well I'm not having any of that.'

  Randur backed off slightly, palmed the air to calm her down. This performance wasn't exactly not attracting too much attention. 'I… I-'

  Another slap, this time on the other cheek, nearly knocking him over, a cloud of flour following the arc of her hand.

  'I bet you can't even remember my name.'

  This was true.

  And just how the hell was he supposed to recall every girl he'd slept with? No, concentrate. He glanced back towards Eir, who stood glaring at him with her arms folded, before looking away.

  Bugger… Randur, this is not looking good.

  Back to face the girl – what was her name? 'I meant to tell you… I was called off on an emergency. My sword skills were urgently required.'

  'And yet still the lies pour forth from his rancid mouth!' She reached out again towards him.

  As Randur flinched, closing his eyes, she tipped the ale he had ordered over his head before marching off to the kitchen. He peered sheepishly around the bar, the liquid dripping off his face.

  'Hope you're going to pay for that drink, lad,' the landlord grunted. 'Isn't a charity I'm running here. That'll be a hundred Drakar.'

  *

  The room contained four small beds, two on either side of the room. A dreary brown carpet was peeling away from the floor, and save for half a dozen unlit candles, there wasn't much else. A far cry from the glamour of the Imperial Residence that he was used to, but he reminded himself that this was better than camping outdoors.

  While he stared out of the window, across a back garden filled with barrels, Rika remarked, 'She called you Kapp?'

  'You what?' he replied.

  'Kapp? I though
t your name was Randur Estevu. So which one is it?'

  'My name is not really Randur.' He glanced to Eir, who already knew the story. With a thin smile, she nodded, a gesture that said, Go on.

  'You've been rather coy about your past so far,' Rika said. 'With good reason, it seems.'

  He'd been careful not to show himself as more than a simple island boy who came fresh to the city. There was no need for Rika to have known, no need to make things complicated, but now was the time to relieve himself of his lies.

  'I came into Villjamur with papers stolen from a dead man. The real Randur was a young man the same age as me, and when he was found murdered at the docks my dodgy uncle from Y'iren managed to get hold of the documents allowing this Randur into Villjamur. Kapp was my true name, but I took his identity, became Randur. I had plans to fulfil. I wanted to speak to the great cultists of the city – I needed their help in saving my mother's life. But that's another story, one I'm not going to repeat now. Was this deception such a bad thing?'

  Details about his sleeping with dozens of rich women then stealing their jewellery to fund these great cultists would, perhaps, be better left unsaid right now.

  'So, there you have it. I'm really called Kapp,' he declared, resignedly. 'But Randur or Kapp, I still saved your arse.'

  Rika was looking out of the window, as snow began to fill the grey afternoon skies. 'That is true, and your motives were pure – even if your actions weren't quite what I would approve of. Kapp, you say? A better name, I think. Randur does sound a little sleazy.'

  'What, that's it?' Randur asked. 'No big lectures on morality, on what a fool I've been and that my sorry rear is going to burn in some hell realm for a thousand years?'

  Rika laughed then, for the first time, and he couldn't decide if he had been thoroughly stupid in something he'd said. 'That's just it, Kapp. My religion isn't all that complicated at times. Your motivation was a positive one. How else can we judge someone?'

  'I thought you had, like, a million rules about what we're not supposed to do.'