City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

  ‘I didn’t know you carried a blade.’

  She suddenly looked coy. ‘I was awarded it in my class, by the master.’

  Jeryd grinned awkwardly, and pushed himself upright with great unsteadiness. Then it dawned on him: the spider. The one he was tracking – it was after him, too.

  A spider. After him.

  Fuck.

  ‘Marysa, we have to go,’ he said urgently, and she helped him off the pile of coats before guiding him through the parting crowds.

  The image of the creature made him breathe heavily once again and Marysa hugged him. He couldn’t believe how she was now the tough one.

  ‘Marysa, we have to go somewhere safe. I think . . . I think this spider is out to get me.’

  *

  As they made their way home, he explained the danger they faced. Hold her that they had to move houses again, just in case. He suggestewo good hotels. Throughout the night they packed their essentiaelongings and moved out.

  It was now abundantly clear to Jeryd that he would have to get the spider or the spider would get him. If he was honest, neither of these options radiated charm – although remaining alive was certainly preferable. So he would have to confront his deepest fears and snare a spider much bigger than himself.

  If you looked hard enough, there seemed to be no end of places a colossal arachnid could hide. Every niche in a stone facade, every section of old guttering offered the potential for paranoia. It made choosing their new abode more complex.

  A bloody spider.

  In all his decades of working for the Inquisition back in Villjamur, Jeryd had never come up against anything quite so simultaneously ridiculous and frightening, but he had also learned in recent times to go with what seemed unlikely – because in this wide-flung Empire, nothing was impossible.

  They’d found a hotel still open, which was all bad carpets and unfashionable curtains, but Jeryd was incensed to have to pay over the odds for a room. Empty corridors and vacant rooms were to be found everywhere, because of the war, but the night receptionist insisted that they did not barter. Damn rip-off city . . .

  ‘There had better be a bloody good breakfast as part of this price,’ Jeryd muttered as he slapped coin after coin on the counter.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The following morning, after a restless night’s sleep, Jeryd decided to walk along the harbour of Port Nostalgia, maybe clear his head a little, try to regain some perspective. A calm day seemed promised: the cloud layered pale and high, and for once there was no wind, so a pungent aroma lingered, of seaweed and fish and organic detritus abandoned on the boats. This peace was interrupted only by soldier-calls or the hammering of boards being nailed across windows. Troops had been stationed on hastily constructed wooden watchtowers up on the hills to either side of the city, and garudas sailed constantly through the skies on patrol. It was a watched city.

  He had recently discovered the harbour to be one of his favourite spots in Villiren, despite the military presence. Soldiers had brought a sense of fatalism to the place, that there was only an ending in sight. Still, here he could stare out to sea and lose all concept of time. With nowhere to run, all he could do was look back to the past. Memories flooded and ebbed.

  A few of the local bistros were doing a roaring trade, serving so many off-duty soldiers, and Jeryd decided that some tea might be a good way to continue the morning, perhaps to jolt his mind alert.

  Traders were making their way to the irens further in the city, rumel and humans pulling carts, huddled in layered clothing, their breath like smoke in the morning light. Four trilobites were following a rumel stevedore down a side street. Jeryd could smell bread baking somewhere frustratingly distant.

  Further up along the street, he spotted three elderly types in dark cloaks behaving rather oddly. They were crouching over some bizarre object, and something about their mannerisms suggested immediately to Jeryd that they were cultists. All wore different shades of tweed cloth, the kind he hadn’t seen in a long time. One was a tall woman, the other two were men as short as Jeryd himself. Listening hard, he distinguished the words ‘Amber’ and ‘Teuthology’.

  ‘Sele of Jamur,’ he announced, approaching, and they turned sharply to regard him. ‘What have we got going on here?’

  ‘Ah, good morning, indeed, sir,’ the woman replied. ‘Just a spot of research.’ Grey-haired and thin, she possessed well-proportioned features, laughter lines suggesting amiability, and her blue eyes were intense and warm. A wonderful perfume lingered around her.

  Of the other two, one man had a thick grey moustache and wore a flat cap over his wide, chubby face while the other was completely bald and it seemed he wasn’t one for wasting words.

  ‘Anything we at the Inquisition ought to be aware of?’ Jeryd asked.

  ‘Oh, um, no,’ the woman said. ‘That is, I mean to say, nothing of a questionable nature. We’re simply cultists, looking into something unusual. We’re not even local, sir.’

  ‘Cultists . . . say, maybe I could use a bit of your wisdom. Could I buy you all a drink?’

  The man with the moustache grinned. ‘Aye. I ain’t never turned down a drink yet, and I’m seventy-two!’

  *

  Jeryd took them to a decent bistro in the better part of Port Nostalgia. The morning rush of traders had finished, leaving just a young soldier writing at a table by the counter. Two old ladies hovered indecisively over the menu. Behind them, a wood stove burned generously.

  The cultists shuffled in a line towards a booth at the back, where the tables looked antique judging by their baronial and gothic carvings.

  Jeryd removed his hat and gazed out of the window. In the street below, a ragged family struggled past, hauling loads of bulky items.

  Jeryd had seen many such families being moved on by the army for the sake of their own protection, but it must still be demoralizing to be forced out of your own home.

  A boy wearing an oddly feminine mask took their various orders for tea. Jeryd also contemplated the pastries offered, then wondered about their contents and declined. Introductions were exchanged: the blue-eyed woman was called Bellis, the chubby man with the moustache Abaris, and the bald man Ramon. He’d met some strange types in his time, but there was something distinctly eerie about Ramon. It didn’t help that his left eye was blue, the right brown.

  A couple of minutes later, the drinks were brought to the table.

  ‘Now then, there’s not too many rumel coming to Villiren these days,’ Bellis declared. There was an air of refinement about her, yet overwritten by occasional uncouthness, and Jeryd immediately liked her for this; though he didn’t quite know what to make of it when, with a flourish, she whipped out a hip flask and splashed some of the contents into her tea. ‘Sherry?’ she offered.

  Jeryd shook his head.

  ‘Yes, as I was saying, do you find, sir, any hostility to your being here?’ She slurped her drink like it was the first she’d tasted in days.

  ‘You get a little animosity, but I just shrug it off. You got a bit in Villjamur, too, where I’m from, but it was a rather repressive city. Women were treated even worse than us rumel, so it never bothered me once you see how corrupt male human society can be. Nah, I suppose I’ve been around far too long to let that sort of thing get to me.’

  ‘A veteran of sorts, then?’ Bellis chuckled.

  ‘Seen over two hundred summers, actually,’ Jeryd commented dryly. ‘You start to see life with a little more clarity once you’re past your hundred and fiftieth year.’

  ‘Hear that, Abaris,’ she nudged her companion exuberantly. ‘We’re just children compared with him. Children!’

  Abaris brushed his grey moustache, with a smile. Even Ramon, still silent, seemed to show something in his stark expression.

  ‘So what are you all doing in this city?’ Jeryd enquired.

  Bellis told their story, with constant interruptions and corrections from Abaris. Ramon never said a word throughout, and now and then he and Abari
s would share the odd glance. They belonged to the Order of the Grey Hairs, just the three of them, an unofficial and relatively new sect of cultists. They had been sick and tired of the younger men and women belonging to their previous orders, sick of the suggestion that their age meant they were out of touch. The younger ones were so competitive, so determined to prove their worth – often killing themselves through indulging in reckless experiments that went wrong. Five years ago, they had left Villjamur to search out some of the more esoteric folklore of the Boreal Archipelago. Age had brought them unparalleled experience and wisdom and they were constantly drawn to the unknown and the unlikely.

  ‘And it’s just the three of you?’ Jeryd wondered about the fact that a woman would travel with these two men everywhere. Were they related? Was one of them her partner and, if so, how did the third one feel about this arrangement?

  She suddenly guffawed outrageously, her jangling voice attracting way too much attention for his liking. ‘I know what you must be thinking, investigator – here we are, all free single adults. We are none of us together in any respect, other than to pursue our chosen business.’

  Jeryd reckoned that didn’t seem right, but he decided to ignore that suspicion for now. ‘And why come to Villiren with the threat of war? Plenty of other, safer places to be.’

  ‘We might ask the same of you, sir,’ Abaris remarked, pushing up the brim of his flat cap.

  ‘I’ll give you that,’ Jeryd conceded. ‘Suffice to say I’ve poked my nose in too many awkward situations before. Unlikely though it seems, for me this place might be safest.’

  Abaris laughed, seeming to like the element of the rogue in Jeryd. ‘Well, we’re here looking for something. Just like we always does. Only thing is, it ain’t proving quite that easy to find, let alone raise—’

  Bellis interrupted. ‘Abaris, you old sod, remember the investigator is a busy man! And, so, what can we do for Investigator Jeryd? You couldn’t have brought us here just to listen to us waffling about our personal histories.’

  Jeryd paused for a moment, contemplating why they did not want him to know what they were up to. ‘I’ve come across a very interesting case and realize that I might need a little help with something rather beyond my means. How would I go about eliminating an . . . an . . . unusually large spider? And where the hell could it have come from?’

  ‘Depends how large we’re talking,’ Bellis said. ‘What, an armspan or so?’

  ‘Twice the height of an average man, at least.’ Jeryd let that statement hang in the air. The old cultists looked impressed at that, conveying their surprise in their swift glances to each other.

  Jeryd went on to tell them about the disappearances, the silk webbing found around the city, the few witness statements. He did not yet reveal his fear but, as he related the events, he found himself becoming increasingly determined to overcome his phobia. The recent confirmation that something solid existed, no matter how outlandish its nature, gave him something to focus on.

  ‘Good healthy citizens are being abducted off the streets,’ Jeryd concluded, ‘and I’m the only one in the Inquisition who seems to give a damn.’

  ‘Well, slap me silly,’ Abaris said.

  Ramon, sipping his drink, nodded sagely, never saying a thing.

  ‘Quite the predicament, sir,’ Bellis admitted. She reached for her hip flask and tipped her head back to guzzle what was left. She then stifled a belch, and eyed him as if to see what he made of her. Jeryd would have admitted to meeting classier ladies . . .

  ‘There are any number of possible origins,’ Bellis declared. ‘A hybrid, perhaps. Growth enhancements. It could even have evolved naturally and been imported from some collection of islands off the map! Though what possible competitive advantage its size would provide seems questionable. As for helping you, I’m sure we can think of something useful. You wish to destroy the creature, or simply ensnare it?’

  ‘I’d like to trap it first, then examine it, where it came from, what it’s doing here.’ He was starting to perspire. Even thinking about the giant spider sent a chill through his body.

  ‘I quite agree,’ Bellis declared. ‘Something so wonderfully alien ought to be investigated more thoroughly than would be possible just by a post-mortem, no?’

  ‘We’re being rather optimistic in even assuming it can possibly be caught. I’ve no idea where it nests, no idea where it takes its victims. Ideally, I’d like to track it back to its, what’s it called, its lair, just to see if there are even any survivors. So, do you really think you can help?’

  Bellis grinned amiably. ‘Let’s have a while to think about it. But I suspect we can rustle something up, right, lads?’

  ‘You charge for your business?’ Jeryd asked.

  ‘Good heavens! We’re not like all those other cultists. We do not prostitute the power of relics, no. One cannot assign a mere monetary value to such things, sir.’

  Refreshing, Jeryd thought, to find such an attitude anywhere in the Empire. ‘I’d be owing you a big favour. Is there anything I can offer in return?’

  The cultists made eye contact with each other, then Abaris stroked his chin and said, ‘Maps?’ He paused, then explained: ‘We could do with a decent map of Villiren. You being in the Inquisition, like, you might find us something decent and all.’

  ‘Maps I can do,’ Jeryd confirmed. ‘I’ve assembled quite a collection while identifying where all these people disappeared. Feels like I know the damn city better through lines on paper than in real life.’

  ‘In many ways, that’s all it is,’ Bellis said. ‘But less theory. Sir, we will get you your spider-trap. Let’s meet again here in three days, at the same time.’

  But he still had his secret shame to confess, and wondered if they might help him. ‘Bellis, there’s actually something else. It’s uh, a little private . . .’

  *

  ‘And it’s just that, the touching that concerns you most?’

  Jeryd nodded, embarrassed. It wasn’t easy to admit this, let alone talk about it. There was an awkwardness from merely opening this region of his mind. The fact that she was a woman helped.

  ‘Just the thought of it touching me and immediately I can’t cope. It’s their quickness and unpredictability. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I sound ridiculous. Some bloody Inquisition officer I am – to be terrified of spiders.’

  Bellis clutched Jeryd’s hand in her own, and he noticed how hers felt. ‘Dear, dear man, it’s a more common reaction than you think. Why, I’ve seen great men from the military cower when talking in front of a group of people. I’ve seen tribal barbarians refuse to venture out on certain evenings due to astrological phenomena. Fear – to such a degree – is often down to something that we experienced in our upbringing – but we cultists also believe many phobias simply derive from an instinct of self-preservation, a primitive echo from our evolution. Perhaps some of your own distant forebears were once poisoned by those creatures!’ With a confident smile, Bellis turned to look around the empty bistro.

  The day was unwinding itself, and most of the customers had gone, including her two companions. Outside, it was getting dark, and they silently watched a street trader pitch his cart in front of the window, only to be moved on by army personnel. There was a distinct calm about the place – providing an ideal place to debate Jeryd’s secret fears.

  Bellis produced a glass orb from her bag, heavy enough to require two hands as she placed it on the table.

  ‘Look at this marvel.’ She gestured with open palms, and stared at the object with such glee that he felt an expectation for him to be impressed.

  ‘A relic?’ Jeryd enquired.

  Although it was transparent, he could see how pulses of coloured light flickered beneath the surface, like miniature flashes of lightning.

  ‘We’re too predictable at times,’ Bellis said shaking her head. ‘A relic for this, a relic for that – well, I guess we just get used to dealing with life in such a prescriptive way. Anyway,
we call this one flaraor fold – which is literally translated as “the false world”.’

  ‘Looks like a crystal sphere to me,’ Jeryd mumbled, still peering down at it.

  ‘Well, yes, it is that too,’ Bellis cackled, and her laughter could almost cut through the glass.

  ‘What’s this thing do then?’

  ‘Look closer. What you see won’t be real, and if you want to be rid of your fears, then just touch it. Go on.’

  Jeryd yielded, and moved his left hand towards the—

  s

  u

  r

  f

  a

  c

  e

  and suddenly, shooting through insanely bright storm clouds, he was elsewhere.

  Warmth? The surroundings took shape, and he found that he was in a re-creation of his former house in Villjamur – in his cluttered bedroom, in fact – but everything was so bright, too bright. Milky light poured in through the windows, from a hazy, too-yellow sun outside, but then it faded into something more like the real world once his eyes adjusted.

  Bellis’s voice came to him, from a distance or inside his head or both, he couldn’t work out.

  —Remember, this is only a controlled vision, a re-created world – it isn’t real!

  —What do I do? Jeryd asked.

  —Wander about, or sit down and relax. Enjoy it!

  —Easy for you to say.

  Jeryd slouched on the familiar bedsheets, crisp and clean, and there was a tang of Marysa’s perfume in the air, a glass of whisky on one side. He was pleased to discover that he was imagining some of his favourite things.