And he lay there, in the darkest of nights, unable to get an erection, wondering about something he dared not mention in public, not even to her. A question that couldn’t be said out loud to any of his gang, because it came loaded with shame and embarrassment.
Am I even a man any more?
FOUR
Private Lupus Bel of the Night Guard informed Brynd that Villiren today was a world away from the one he remembered, and given the current rate of development and saturation with building projects, Brynd could well understand the lad’s childhood memories being different.
Under those interminable flat roofs, throughout the dreary crowded streets, men and women sought escape from reality in increasingly diverse ways. It never used to be like this, Lupus assured him. People kept hearing terrifying stories that flooded in from neighbouring islands, embellished as they passed from mouth to mouth. So what else was there to do but drink and party themselves into oblivion?
Secret drinking joints and burlesque clubs were springing up and closing down daily, moving around the city as if planned by stealth. If you had a fetish, you had a place to go. New music too, styles based around the Villjamur standards, but taken down smoother and more intricate routes, gentle minor chords and variants, a little extra beat. Despite the chill, girls would sit barefoot by fires, drinking cold lager. Teens risked injury in suicidal horse races along black-iced streets. Lift the lid on this city and you might never guess Villiren was almost under siege, a city with nothing else in mind except to wait for a war. There was an illicit fatalism about the place, a generation about to be lost to something.
In public places, Brynd had raged about his findings. Weeks had passed since the Night Guard had first encountered the enemy approaching across the ice. The military had travelled halfway across the Empire in order to investigate reported killings on Tineag’l, the island due north of Villiren, and there they had discovered what amounted to a genocide. An island’s population, all but wiped out – people butchered on the spot, or taken from their homes, leaving only blood-trails through the main thoroughfares or signs of futile skirmishes while attempting to resist. Only the elderly and children had been left – well, their bodies, at least, with bones half removed and the flesh discarded. In crowded halls Brynd had told the people of Villiren of these shocking events, while they listened dumbstruck. Still, no one seemed to have any real concept what the city was in for.
*
Brynd had been here for several weeks but still didn’t know what take of Villiren.
Empty of dramatic spires and bridges, when compared to his time spent in Villjamur, the cityscape now seemed vacant. Everything to be found over a mile away from the Ancient Quarter appeared flat and hastily built. More and more blocks were being constructed, their dull featureless facades set atop gothic foundations, and they seemed to proliferate at an alarming rate.
Another surprise to him was the heating system. Lutto had ensured that a network of firegrain pipes was constructed over the previous few years, admittedly with a little help from cultist technology. Channels of warmth were pumped like blood under the streets, through underground networks, through steaming pipes and up through the floors of houses in the wealthier neighbourhoods. Meanwhile outside, passageways and even main thoroughfares were doused by Cultist Water, a version of seawater primed with enhanced salinity, which was enough to keep the ice off for weeks at a time.
The garudas had now arrived, though only a few of them, who swept in investigative arcs to the north, along the fringes of Tineag’l, over the ice sheets that had almost bridged the islands; and sometimes pterodettes would coast lazily in their trails. These bird-soldiers never ceased to amaze: tall, and elegant yet surreal. When they flew in low one could see their dull armour, their feathers, in clearer detail, even the powerful muscles beneath their massive wings. Two or three times a day, Brynd would see the flash of Brenna devices, those explosive relics the cultists had devised to ensure the surrounding waters remained free of ice, so no enemy could traverse it on foot.
And now what? An endless wait, it seemed, as he discovered and observed further the idiosyncrasies of this strange city.
*
With Lupus in tow, Brynd was parading down from the citadel’attlements, heading towards the markets that lay between the district of Althing and the Ancient Quarter, where those Onyx Wings dominated the city skyline. From here the older styles of building could be seen: the original city, a mishmash of cylindrical towers and domes. This area was surrounded by a sea of flat roofing, only interrupted now and then by a large warehouse or a windmill.
Traders hastily erected stalls in the irens in the early morning, tying strips of coloured rags to indicate their territory, red or blue or green. Awnings were flipped into place and signs hoisted inscribed with esoteric symbols, in scripts of Jamur-tribal hybrid languages. Citizens themselves were hybrids, cross-breeds of the inhabitants of all islands of the Archipelago. But there were still some who clung to their island ways: Jokulites exhibiting awkward restraint and tentativeness at being this far east; Folkens behaving with spurious machismo or indifference. And derived from all cultures were thieves stealing the wares of others, seemingly nonchalant as they went about their business, of deftly pocketing whatever they could.
Villiren, rather than Villjamur, was the real commercial centre of the Empire. Metals came south from Tineag’l, meaning they were the first to get hold of the ore. Conspicuous qualities of goods therefore were manufactured here and distributed around the Jamur Empire, mainly to Villjamur, a city distant enough to never see completely what was going on here. Consumer items were branded according to the fashion they were made. Fabrics were woven in unique ways, specific colours, alloys that resonated at a given pitch, then sold on in the cities as desirable commodities. Branding, in fact.
Whether or not they were distracted by such a plenitude of trinkets, Brynd couldn’t tell, but it seemed that the people here didn’t care too much about the ice, let alone the threat of war. But that was the way of things: people concerned themselves with the small details rather than prophetic events.
This was no prison city: indeed what really made the difference was the absence of encircling walls, no sense of confinement. Buildings sprawled ever southwards, to dissolve gradually into farmland or forests. No tent city of refugees camped outside, like Villjamur. Nevertheless Brynd guessed they were probably crammed inside the community somewhere, hidden away within the large housing blocks, but well away from what was left of the old city.
Some of the traders had lit stoves so that passers-by would loiter around them for warmth and, given time, perhaps be tempted to buy something. Everywhere around them there was snow, on the roofs, on upturned crates, lining the walls of houses. People, garbed in furs and a few wearing masks, rooted through the stalls for the freshest catch of fish, and there always seemed to be a surprising amount of meat on display, given the city’s circumstance, which was another thing Brynd couldn’t fathom.
A small cluster of figures caught Brynd’s eye.
The three of them were huddled next to a corner, examining something on the ground, while other citizens milled around them heading towards the iren or on their way towards the old harbour.
As the two soldiers now approached them, one looked up and saluted. She was a tall and lanky woman with a permanent expression of surprise etched on her face by age. Nevertheless pleasant-looking, she wore a tweed cloak with a muddied hem, and a fine-tailored tunic underneath, of the type of cut you just didn’t see much any more. Under one arm was a battered old book, bound in brown leather.
She greeted Brynd. ‘Sele of Jamur, sir!’
The other two looked up abruptly from their business. One man was chubby, with a moustache, a flat cap, and a serious look on his face; the other completely bald, stocky and savage-looking. Both wore layers of brown tweed, and neither of them reacted in the slightest to Brynd’s unusual appearance, his albino skin, his red-rimmed eyes – as so many other pe
ople did.
‘Sele of the day,’ flat cap hailed, an older variation on the usual Empire greeting, and his voice was heavily accented from some place Brynd didn’t recognize.
‘Sele of Jamur. Can I check what the three of you are doing?’ Brynd enquired.
The tall woman, clearly the leader of the group, stepped forward with an earnest smile. ‘A little examination of old ley lines, dear sir.’ Her voice was bass with age, and loaded with cheap charm. A quick gesture on her part steered Brynd’s gaze towards a small tripod at the base of the wall, presumably a relic to judge by the metallic shimmer and the dials. At the top of it rested some kind of graded instrument, aimed at the faintest glow of red sun visible behind the clouds. These were cultists, surely.
‘Nothing illegal, this?’ Brynd asked, glancing towards Lupus. The private had his bow already slung across his shoulder, but he didn’t think there would be need of it. These people seemed innocent enough.
‘D’you hear that, Abaris?’ She turned to flat cap, then back with her face creasing in smiles.
‘Pah! Illegal, he says,’ Abaris replied. ‘Nah, nothing of the sort, lad. We’re merely exploring some technology of the Ancients, ley lines and the like. Bit of lore stretches across this island – you know, myths and whatnot. All in all, we were rather hoping we could be of some use, given that the city might soon be having a few problems, like.’
The bald man remained utterly silent.
‘We’re from the Order of the Grey Hairs, sah!’ Abaris confirmed. ‘Last remaining cultists of various minor sects. United in the fact that, well . . . um, the rest of our lot are dead, more or less. Us old things is all that’s left. And now at your service!’
Brynd and Lupus stared at one another, and the young private raised his eyebrows, stifling a smile.
‘Do you reckon you can be of any use in the coming war?’ Brynd asked. ‘Can you hold a solid weapon well enough? There might be call for that, as we need everyone we can get.’
‘Weapons have never been of much use to us, I confess,’ the tall woman observed. ‘But, we’re not aiming on burning ourselves on a funeral pyre just yet, oh no. Here’s our card, then. We’ve digs on the other side of the Ancient Quarter – so we’re never far, should you need our assistance.’
‘Very good.’ Brynd smiled, placing the card in his pocket without really looking at it. ‘Well, carry on. We may indeed need your help yet.’
Brynd shook his head and turned away, the three elderly cultists gazing back at them in a line as the soldiers departed. The two Night Guards resumed their patrols of Villiren, pondering if they could actually be of any use. Cultists were notoriously unreliable, unless they came from among those who had links with Imperial networks, and even those they did occasionally work with couldn’t really be trusted. These three in particular seemed like crazies. His plans were best founded on solid facts and good probabilities – so, unless they could manufacture military weaponry of some kind, you couldn’t hope to build a strategy around them.
*
Giant trilobites the size of dogs clicked along the streets, investigatincraps of food. They would lurch back and forth from people’s paths, antennae waving in the air, giving some mild screech of alarm, beforinding some dark doorway in which to disappear. You didn’t gehese creatures much further south than this, and he had missed theiccentric presence. Nearby hung a rack of their shell casings, ready to be sold as decorative armour to people with more money than sense.
Brynd had stressed to Lupus just how important it was to be seen in the city, to be visible at a time like this. People smiled at them, old men patted their backs, young boys watched in awe on seeing the finest of the Empire’s soldiers here to offer support. They had to represent stability, show the citizens that everything would be all right – even if it wasn’t. But everyone here seemed full of calm, and whenever he asked them about the ice, they simply shrugged.
One trader summed it up: ‘Everyone’s got problems, in’t they, commander?’
*
‘You can buy all sorts of junk here,’ Brynd observed, indicating exotic pots, ornaments, chalcedony necklaces, paduasoy scarves. In their craftwork he could discern a mixture of cultural influences, from the tribes of other islands – maybe Folke, Blortath, even Varltung – to ancient designs of the Shalafar civilization, the Máthema who had been obsessed with mathematical precision.
Brushing a hand through his white hair, Brynd said, ‘Odd place, this. I mean, we’re near the seafront, where the streets are older, so you’d think there’d be some air of history at least . . .’
Lupus turned sharply, peering through the crowds.
‘Trouble?’ Brynd asked, his hand casually dropping on the hilt of his sabre.
‘No,’ Lupus panted. ‘Nothing.’
‘Didn’t look like nothing judging by your reaction,’ Brynd muttered. ‘Don’t want another Haust situation here, do we? Can do without you going missing, of all people. We’ll be needing our best archer in the weeks to come.’
Days had passed since Private Haust had disappeared, another reason the soldiers were exploring this neighbourhood. Even if the Inquisition were working on the case, it was still worth keeping an eye out, because there might be some remains to discover, a boot, a strip of ripped material, someone who’d spoken to the victim before he vanished.
Eventually Lupus replied, ‘Was nothing, really. I just thought I saw someone I recognized . . . Apologies, sir. Let’s continue.’
Brynd could see patches of alien stonework now and then, the city betraying its age, a wall maybe that was out of place, buildings that denied the surroundings their coherency. Brynd was constantly assessing the layout of the streets, the vantage points, closed-off zones, those regions which were solid, and those that would eventually crumble. They’d been doing this survey for weeks, in preparation for war. The enemy was reported to be gathering in significant numbers on the island opposite, gearing up for a seaborne invasion. Combat would be here in a city if the surveillance was right, not on a battlefield like they were all trained for.
‘Lupus Bel.’
Brynd looked up curiously; the young soldier seemed to recognize the voice even before he saw her. A tall woman was standing there – though a fraction shorter than Lupus himself. She was wrapped in a brown fur coat, thick boots, her sleek black hair hanging loose under a severe fringe.
Brynd watched him, curious. Years collapsed in Lupus’s face.
‘Beami,’ Lupus spluttered. ‘I thought I’d seen you. I knew it.’
‘Me, too, I . . .’
‘I mean I know you used to live here, but not now. I just caught a glimpse.’
‘Yeah, I saw you,’ the dark-haired woman replied. ‘That’s why I came back.’
Brynd could see Lupus was searching his mind for something suitable to say, but was disorientated, a soldier with no clue of his current location.
‘You might as well smile,’ Beami said. ‘I’ve not changed that much, have I?’
‘Sorry.’ Lupus broke into a genuine laugh. ‘How long’s it been?’
‘Six . . . seven years.’ She touched his arm, a gesture made from instinct rather than thought, from the habit of being close to him. She eyed his black uniform, the neat stitching, then stroked the star on his breast. ‘You’ve done well, I see. You always wanted to be one of the Night Guard.’
‘And you? How . . . are you?’
‘Good. I’m, uh, married now, but I’m good,’ Beami replied. ‘Still working with relics . . . you know me.’
‘Are you happy? I mean . . . sorry, I meant I hope you’re happy.’
Brynd coughed into his fist. Enough of this chat, they were on duty now.
Lupus glanced at him sheepishly. ‘Where are my manners? Bea, this is Commander Brynd Lathraea, Commander of the Night Guard.’
‘Oh, my.’ Beami examined the commander. ‘The leader of the Jamur military. The mysterious albino. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Nothing bad,
I hope,’ Brynd smiled. ‘Sele of Jamur, miss.’
‘Sele of Jamur, commander.’ Her voice possessed a slight hesitancy; the usual reaction whenever anyone’s gaze met his red pupils for the first time.
‘Commander, this is Beami Del. We knew each other a few years ago – when I was sixteen.’
‘Nice to meet a friend of the private,’ Brynd said. ‘One of the finest soldiers I’ve worked with, this one. Youngest member of the Night Guard as well.’
Tense smiles were exchanged between them as local people sailed past around them. Some stopped to contemplate these well-dressed men in their black uniforms, standing talking to this beautiful woman. Time seemed to shudder to a standstill.
‘We need to order some meat,’ Brynd reminded Lupus eventually, ‘for the troops. It seems a mastodon’s been brought down, not far off, so I want to put an order in for sufficient cuts to be delivered. I know we have our own supplies already, but we’ll be needing to build up strength.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ Lupus agreed, still observing Beami.
– Faces turned to the sky.
A garuda flew in low, flashes of brown and white and red, creating a downdraught that rattled the canvas awnings of the stalls, then it headed straight out to sea, in skies empty of buildings, before it arced upwards – towards Tineag’l and into the grey.
‘If you’re staying somewhere in the city,’ Beami said, ‘you’ll find me on a street in the Ancient Quarter called the Ru Una. Visit me there. I’m free the day after tomorrow, so we should catch up, if you can find the free time.’
‘I’m not sure of our itinerary . . . commander?’
‘I’ll be in meetings all day, and there’s no training scheduled,’ Brynd replied. ‘Feel free to take a few hours off. Things are just a waiting game at the moment.’
City Of Ruin Page 4
