Did he feel as though he owned her? Wasn't that what many people incorrectly felt in their relationships? He did not. He loved her as his equal. She was not a form of capital to him, not merely some proof of his skills. His greatest fear had been that she might not mentally accept her physical state, but she assured him she was not scarred at all, had not been vitiated, and never for one moment considered things that way. No, she was a rebuild, a new woman. Her expression softened when she discussed how proud she was of her present form. She said she adored her new abilities, adored Voland for giving them to her. Her kisses peppered his cheeks. Her old life was immolated so as to allow her to love herself fully.
She might not be all woman – but she was no freak either. She insisted she was more content with who she was now, much more than ever before. So Voland had slept well thereafter, knowing his work was complete.
*
Nanzi entered the bedroom wearing a towel around her waist. It haeen a long night and she now awaited Voland's attention. He looked up from having thrown two extra logs on the fire, in the hope of injecting some more heat into the cold stone walls.
'My dear…' Voland took her hands in his. She was beautiful, this slender young woman, with her black hair shiny from dampness. Her breasts were small and delicate, the firelight making something defined from the neat angles of her face. 'That was quite a catch you made tonight. You are certainly a wondrous young lady.'
Nanzi always seemed to like such words, some extra confirmation from him, never really tiring of his compliments. Hands clutching his wrists, she led him to the bed and began to undress him, first his shirt, then his breeches falling to the floor. They kissed eagerly while she stroked his beetle-foot.
A flick of his hand removed her towel, and her modifications were now revealed: two long spider legs attached by fibrous tissue buried deep in her waist. He looked at her lustfully.
He lay down on the sheets as she kissed his chest, her emotions exposed raw in the air, her passions focused solely on his pleasure. His penis stiffened and she took him in her mouth, then, after a while, moved forwards to straddle him, with those two great black legs manoeuvring her torso with stunning flexibility. The hairs on her limbs were sparse, tough as a brush, as he glided his hands up them. She took him inside, naturally now, though it had been surprising the first time – surprising that there was anywhere in which to be taken, after the complications of the surgery. The stickiness enhanced his pleasure, she could tell, but it was Nanzi who came very quickly, a shuddering internal reaction, as silk leaked out of her. He didn't last any longer, releasing himself into her with short gasps.
Their fluids coalesced, which often made a mess. He reached down to pick up her fallen towel to clean them up.
A tender smile crossed her face, as she crawled up next to him, hand resting on his stomach. They lay there, in the warmth of the fire, their intimacy growing even in such silences. Unspoken conversations. He was vaguely aware that female spiders in their natural habitats were known to kill the male after mating, but fortunately she had not yet shown any sign of such intent.
Still, if I must die some way…
Tomorrow he would see to the corpses she had brought him. For now, he lit himself a cigarillo, and enquired further about her day.
'Fine,' she said. 'That investigator, he amuses me. He always wants to lecture me, but it isn't arrogant. It's rather endearing in fact.'
'You choose not to kill him then?' Voland tapped his cigarillo into an ashtray resting on the side table, while nearby the fire crackled, wood splitting under the flames.
'No, I believe he knows little about the missing persons. I suppose I could kill him but…' There was tension in her voice. 'But I really think he's of some use, for the moment. All the same, one of the bodies I fetched in a while ago was a soldier, which may have raised a few questions.'
She looked at him again, clearly suspecting that he was unhappy with this selection, fearing it would draw unwarranted attention.
'It's quite all right.' Voland was indeed a little concerned, but didn't want her to know that. 'Please, go on.'
'Well, his commander, a Night Guard from Villjamur, has asked Investigator Jeryd to investigate. I feel if I remain close to him, I can keep an eye on things. Several eyes in fact.'
A smile each, a shared joke.
'I can also gain information of military movements and Imperial missives,' she said, 'if it would prove useful. If there is a war about to begin, I may know about it early. I doubt I will have such access if the investigator is dead.'
'Is there any further news on the military front, incidentally?' He wanted to be informed as soon as any combat began, then they might have to take their leave of the city.
'No. The soldiers have occupied much of Port Nostalgia and Althing, so they'll have a front line for defence of the Citadel. All those who've been displaced were moved to apartments further back along the Wastelands. They're requesting citizens to fight, too, so more and more are joining up every day. Still not the street gangs, though, which worries them – they need experienced fighters. This is the sort of information I can get – so maintaining the access really is useful.'
'Are you sure, my love, that you're not simply looking for reasons to keep him alive?' Voland asked. Inhaling from his cigarillo, he got up and put on his dressing gown – the one she had made him from her very own gossamer – and peeled back the curtains to gaze out at the city. A shaft of moonlight sliced across his face. He turned to face her continuing silence.
Nanzi's expression was filled with woe. 'He is rather endearing, I will admit. He actually wants to do good – and there are too few people within the Inquisition, too few people in this entire city, who want to put some good back into things.' She spoke with a keenness, a fresh energy. 'Because of who he is, he can allow me into very privileged places. Besides, I can follow his investigations closely, and I will know the instant things turn sour.'
'All these extra soldiers pulled in means', he announced in a measured tone, 'that there are many more mouths to feed.'
'You wish for me to go out again tonight? I was beginning to think that the presence of so many soldiers might make things more awkward.'
'To obviate any risks, why not fly over to Scarhouse and Shanties, to see if there are any… strays like there were the other night. But that can wait; the wind is too strong tonight, and we are settled here nicely.'
'And about Jeryd?'
'Do not dispose of him just yet, not if he still offers us access to information. I'd much rather a chap like that is kept alive, where he can be of use to us – but I'd advise you stay very close to him, and continue to shadow what he does. That way, he'll suspect you less…' He came back into the bed.
'I understand.' Nanzi snuggled up against his chest, the warmth of the fire adding to another perfect moment between them. He could feel her spider-hairs bristling against his legs.
'I love the smell of tobacco on your moustache. I feel strangely safe right here.'
Voland smiled and breathed deeply. How lucky he was to be in love with a woman like Nanzi. So caring and delicate and smart. He would do absolutely anything for her.
*
The next morning, Nanzi left him again for a day's work with the Inquisition. Voland didn't mind her choice of career, realizing she wanted to do her bit for the greater good. He could understand her motivation – here was a young lady who saw the bigger picture, and there was something to be said for that. It was why she so clearly understood that keeping the city fed was essential – also part of the bigger picture. How many people had they kept alive by now? Hundreds at least would have starved if it wasn't for her nocturnal activities.
Garbed in his long-sleeved undershirt, a white shirt, black breeches, and a leather apron, Voland strolled down to his abattoir, lighting wall-mounted flambeaus along the way. There could be no heating system here like in much of the rest of the city: it would make the meat reek as it went off.
As far a
s private workspaces went, this was a large area, perhaps fifty strides wide. Before Voland had moved in, it was utilized for housing livestock – that was before the meat supplies ran out as the encroaching ice crippled surrounding smallholdings, followed by the larger, industrial farms who were not supported by cultists. That had meant the abattoir was a cheap property to purchase.
It had been designed for animals to enter at one end then flow around narrow, curving passages, so they could never see what lay ahead of them or be able to turn around. Those complex lanes now stood empty, with only the echo of a smell to remind him of some poor animal shambling here dumbly towards its fate.
There had been a separate area for slaughtering the beasts. During exsanguination, channels and gullies had carried excess blood into external drains, which in turn exited via a natural slope into the sea. Pullers were fixed to the wall for removing the hides. There were areas for collecting solid waste, which would be taken to the pig farmers south of the city, and a couple of large cauldrons for plunging carcasses to make the skin easier to remove. The coldest room of all was separate and deep, well away from the external walls, so that any bodies stored for a day or two might not rot too quickly.
Nanzi's latest haul lay waiting on the entrance table in the first room he entered. No sooner had he stepped into its cube of darkness than the Phonoi appeared. The Phonoi were his reward for a successful operation on the daughter of a landowner on Blortath. That place being near the cultists' island, Ysla, Voland assumed they were based on some relic. The father had been a traveller and explorer, but never once said that the Phonoi were anything to do with the ancient technology. He had said folklore suggested they were simple spirits, from another time entirely, perhaps even another dimension. They would serve the owner of the lead box in which they travelled, now Voland, and upon release they would do whatever he wished of them, as if interpreting his thoughts. But he preferred to keep them free, surfing the air currents, in case anyone should venture down here and discover his activities. He could only imagine what damage they would do to intruders.
'Good morning, Doctor Voland,' they now said. The shapes swirled like the constituents in a drink being mixed, never really taking form unless they needed to.
'Good morning,' another cooed.
'How are you?'
'Grand, thank you,' Voland replied.
'Wonderful!' they said.
'Lovely!'
'A lovely morning, too!'
Voland said, 'I haven't looked outside yet. Is it snowing?'
'No, doctor, no. The skies, they are clear today. It is as if the ice age didn't even want to be here.'
There was some wisdom in that. Voland, ever a practical man, could not accept the ice age – a strange phenomenon, and one that didn't sit right with him. Sometimes there would be a warm current of air that felt more natural, as if that was what the weather should have been. Then it was beaten away by chill force.
'Would you help me', Voland enquired, 'with the latest two? Nanzi brought them in last night.'
'Of course, Doctor Voland, of course!' The Phonoi assumed vague definition against the darkness of the room, only a fraction of light penetrating from outside, but it caught their form, their fabric. Now like wraith-like children, they swooped down on the corpses, a man and a woman, unwrapped them from Nanzi's silk, then transported them, so that a less keen eye might think they floated across the room of their own accord.
As they accelerated around the innermost room, the Phonoi's energy heated the cauldron, flames rapidly bringing the water to the boil. The two corpses were dropped in, momentarily, then hauled out again while Voland selected knives from the wall. They were both hung up from the ceiling, and Voland began his work of removing their skin, extracting the organs and offal, then choosing the finest cuts of meat. The most dangerous incision was the first, through the chest and downwards, because if you were not careful there was a danger of the blade slipping into a vital artery in your own thigh. With such an injury, many a man had bled to death on an abattoir floor. Attentively, he set to work.
Two hours later, Voland had stored enough meat to feed an entire street for the week to come, off-cuts and steaks and offal all placed into separate containers. Once he had scrubbed the chamber and spruced himself up, he set out towards the iren. There, he would provide the traders with something they could sell cheaply. For the people. All via that young Malum character, of course; he was the main buyer, had contacts all over the city, methods of ensuring that this meat was sold to the needy. Voland would have felt better if he didn't know about Malum's other dealings. Drugs, protection from so-called tribal raids and other gangs, widespread theft, unnecessary violence. Distant rooftop executions. It was indeed very uncivilized, but all Voland could do was think about feeding the poorer sort, and maybe helping them to live for longer.
He himself was doing a good thing.
THIRTY-ONE
Venturing through the thick shafts of betula bark, they rode into a vast clearing. Ruins were scattered over in one corner, shattered and snow-crested fists of granite, remains from a time he had no understanding of. Two decayed totems were carved out of this age-blighted stone, their giant, open-mouthed faces forever staring up at the sky. Birds perched on top of them, scrutinizing the travellers' progress underneath.
Beyond this growth of secondary vegetation there was yet more snow, with ferns or tufts of grass emerging. Their route through the forest had been shaded from the colder winds, so this was a significantly more bearable section of the journey, especially whenever the sunlight burst down, illuminating the intensity of the colours all around. It was about a hundred paces to the other end of this clearing where a sinister stillness lingered. It was if they were being perpetually watched. Maybe these were totems that have seen sacrifice in a previous era, Randur thought. Maybe we're being followed by ghosts…
He urged the sisters forward, while Munio lagged behind, forever glancing around himself.
'Perhaps we should remain here for a while,' Munio called out, searching for the sun. The skies had cleared momentarily, and the swordmaster was scanning the elements to interpret time and direction. 'It's about midday, and we're well on course. Let us rest a little while. You young things set too speedy a pace for old Munio.'
'I could still go on for a bit,' Randur replied. 'Ladies?'
Eir nodded assent, silent and unreadable. She slid off the horse she shared with her sister and clasped the hilt of her sword. She seemed to be holding on to the blade as if that was all she had left. Every day she practised swordplay, every day she improved. Randur was impressed with how much she'd changed since leaving Villjamur. If only he could have something else to focus on other than worrying about her protection. His mind was falling apart without the distraction of other people and the busy city.
'I'm fine,' Rika declared, although she seemed spectacularly fragile. She wasn't well-built by any means, and how she managed to cope out here in these harsh conditions was beyond him. Probably retreating into whatever castle she's constructed in her head with all that spiritual-discipline crap of hers.
'I'm too old!' Munio grunted theatrically as he sat down on a fallen tree. There was something unusual about his face as he peered between the trees, towards the sun, then back.
'What's wrong?' Randur asked.
'Nothing, young Kapp.'
Randur had been feeling paranoid for a while, and the old man's anxious gaze did nothing to lighten this mood. A sudden rush of noise from within the trees, and Randur spun immediately, drawing his sabre. Nothing was visible but the vacant dampness of the forest, layers of dark brown and green, and the patches of snow.
'Munio?' Randur glanced around again. Munio remained seated, his face pressed into his hands.
Breaking twigs.
The clunk of metal.
An arrow shaft thumped into the nearest tree, forcing Rika to jump back, startled.
'Jamur Rika, Jamur Eir,' the voice boomed across the clearing. 'This i
s Sergeant Howls of the Eleventh Dragoons. A hundred soldiers of the Regiment of Foot surround you. Please, cooperate with us, and let's be on our way.'
'Oh fuck,' Randur grunted. Imperial soldiers. How could they have tracked us out here? Eir gripped the hilt of her sword, ready to fight till the end, while Rika stood quiet and resigned.
Soldiers faded in through the forest foliage, cracking back small branches.
A moment later, a lean and stubbled soldier approached. He appeared to be in his forties, with close-cropped dark hair dappled grey. Standing over six foot, his face was every bit that of an experienced veteran, pockmarked and scarred, and with eyes that said he had no time for messing around. 'Munio?' he said to the swordmaster. 'You're free to go, of course. One of the privates will see about your reward.'
'Uh, sarge?'
'Yes, Felch?' The soldier turned impatiently to one of his comrades, a significantly younger and more cautious character.
'Spot of trouble on that front. He'll have to take credit notes because we, uh, forgot to bring all the money from the barracks.'
'For pity's sake, just deal with it, someone,' Howls muttered despondently.
Munio wouldn't make eye contact, wouldn't let Randur see his face. The old man held his face firmly lowered in his hands.
The realization dawned on Randur. 'You fucker. You hand us over, for what?' Randur made as if to strike him before one of the soldiers stepped in to restrain him, pinning his arms behind his back. Randur strained to break free, his muscles stinging with pain. 'How much were our lives worth to you, you wanker?'
His wrists were clamped in manacles, as were Rika's, while Eir was soon stripped of her sword.
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