The Book of Transformations (18 page)

Liel was writhing back into a ball again, so Vuldon kicked his back. Liel cried out.

‘Who’re you working for?’ Vuldon raged.

‘Sh . . . Shalev.’

Vuldon smiled grimly at Lan. ‘You see? A little persuasion gets you a lot. You can’t pussyfoot around in this job.’ He hauled Liel up by his neck and lugged him forwards against the wall.

‘Vuldon!’ Lan snapped, stepping into the cell. Vuldon seemed to be a structure made entirely of muscle and anger. She did not and would not reveal her fear. She’d been through worse in life, was living through several mind-fucks, and this lump of masculinity
would not
upset her further.

‘You think you can get answers by being nice?’ Vuldon grunted, stepping aside. ‘Be my guest.’

Lan brushed past him and crouched by Liel, whose face was creased in agony. He was crying, and had been for a long time now. She placed a hand on his arm and he flinched – she was alarmed that could elicit such a reaction.

‘Liel,’ she said soothingly. ‘No harm will come to you if you can help us. We just need to find Shalev and, if you can help, we’ll free you. It’s as simple as that.’

‘No one knows w-w-where to find S-Shalev,’ Liel mumbled through his sobs. ‘That’s the p-p-point. It’s a secret to us in Caveside. All we knows is things is happening down there, and we can all help out if we want.’

Lan rested her hand on his shoulder, and this time he didn’t flinch. He stared through tear-filled eyes at the wall. ‘What details can you give us?’

Vuldon lumbered in the cell again. ‘This is useless.’

‘Keep him away!’ Liel said in a panic, and Lan, surprised at her own assertiveness, held out a hand, a line which Vuldon did not pass.

‘I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell us anything,’ Vuldon taunted.

‘No,’ Lan said, ‘he won’t.’

Liel didn’t know where to look, so he drew his knees up and buried his head in folded arms. ‘We’re not allowed to know, none of us is. Nearest any of us can get is the Central Anarchist Council – bunch of people who used to be somebodies, then nobodies, then somebodies again once Shalev came along. They ask for certain jobs to be done out in the main city, and we help them in exchange for some food and weapons. No money involved, like, it’s all helping each other out.’

‘What about the Bell Spire – do you know who was involved with that?’

‘N-nothin’. There’s a core group of fighters maybe, but it’s usually just Shalev doing that – and as I said, we don’t know nothing about her.’

‘Can you tell us anything about this Central Council?’

‘It’s temporary, they say. Only until things is more equal between the caves and the upper city.’

Lan asked, ‘What else is going on down there?’

Liel gawked up and for the first time this evening had composed himself. ‘Plans. Big plans. I’ve only heard tell, like, but nothing in stone. But it’s gonna be big and a lot of people are getting excited.’

‘Tell us the rumours, idiot,’ Vuldon grunted from the shadows.

‘That the upper city ain’t gonna be no more,’ Liel said. ‘They’re gonna take it down, and everyone with it. I told you, big plans.’ Liel began to chuckle, and Vuldon rushed in with a punch across his jaw and the man collapsed unconscious in the corner of the cell.

Lan glared at Vuldon, trying to control her rage at this brute.

‘What?’ Vuldon merely shrugged and turned away.

‘I think we should let the Inquisition conduct interrogations in future,’ she muttered.

Ulryk dismounted from his black mare with a soft grunt and gently rubbed her long face. She particularly liked attention to her nose, and he made sure to reward her with some fuss from time to time. He needed to feed her very soon – it had been a long journey.

The guards at the third gate of Villjamur stepped out from their station, a baroque little structure constructed from dark granite, and stood gawking at the two of them. All three military men wore the same crimson uniforms, with subtle grey stitching, tight armour and heavy swords. The mud outside the doorway to their station was not as trampled as outside the first gate, which indicated that visitors did not usually get this far.

In the biting cold, with flecks of snow spiralling around them, Ulryk showed the guards his papers, as he had done at each of the first two gates, but more importantly he displayed the medallion that hung around his neck. He was wearing several layers of simple brown clothing and had to root some way through it before it could be produced.

It was a gold eight-pointed star, a triangle set inside, and within that an eye.

The three guards gathered around to scrutinize it, though their faces registered their ignorance of such items. Ulryk despaired. He had hoped that such a senior Jorsalir symbol would at least be noted in this great city, as they were in other parts of the Empire.

‘I recognize the eye,’ one of the guards said, ‘and know what that means, but what do the other parts represent?’

‘Such symbols,’ Ulryk declared, ‘are everywhere, and in anything, if you wish to see more meaning. But I would not worry about comprehending such matters – my order forbids such discussions anyway – but suffice to say it’s worn only by the most senior members of the Jorsalir community.’

The senior guard leant back, a stern-looking man with a face full of frown-lines and weather-beaten skin. ‘Well, this Jorsalir trinket of yours would’ve been enough to get you in, and those papers of yours suggest you got some important stuff to be doing.’

‘That is most perceptive of you,’ Ulryk offered, doubting the men would have been able to discern the ornate script. ‘I do indeed.’

‘Political goings on, eh?’

Ulryk shook his head. ‘A mission for Bohr’s eyes only, I hope you understand.’ He smiled.

‘Aye, fair enough. On yer way. Sele of Urtica.’ The guard gave a curt nod and one of the others ran behind their station post to activate the gate. A moment later, mechanisms were being cranked, and a massive cast-iron door groaned open.

‘Sele of . . . Urtica.’
Of course. The new Emperor.

*

It’s been a successful start
, Investigator Fulcrom thought, back in his office in the Inquisition headquarters. Before he started this morning, he’d received a full briefing from the Knights, and was most impressed at how well they were working. Vuldon’s knowledge of urban matters seemed invaluable, and they had already captured one Cavesider who had been associated with Shalev, albeit distantly. But it was enough for him to include it in his reports to the Emperor, and that was what mattered.

Fulcrom stoked the fire and sat back in his chair, watching the flames rip into the wood. He felt the pressure from the Emperor, but knew he could rise to such a challenge. It certainly made a difference from his day-to-day routines, and overseeing the vague assignments under the banner ‘Special Investigations’ was growing on him. He liked the challenge of the new, something with which he could really make his mark on the city, make a difference.

A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts.

‘Come in,’ he called.

‘Investigator Fulcrom?’ It was one of the male administrative staff. ‘Do you have a moment to talk to a visitor? I’ve been told this is one for your, uh, department.’

‘Yes, of course. Show them in.’

The figure headed back outside and there was a shuffling of feet in the doorway.

His visitor entered the room and Fulcrom raised an eyebrow. The man was no taller than five feet, garbed in the brown robes of a Jorsalir priest, with close-cropped grey hair and a trim beard. The lines in his broad face were deep, suggesting he’d probably seen much of the world, and not all of it good. The man placed his numerous hessian bags to one side. There was a pungent, earthy aroma about him, indicating many days spent on the road.

‘Sele of Urtica.’ The figure handed Fulcrom the documentation which he would have used to enter the city. Fulcrom took a look over it, and noted all the iconography and decoration of the Jorsalir church, and though he knew forged documents existed to get into Villjamur, these high-level authentication papers seemed official enough. Fulcrom was instantly intrigued.

‘Sele of Urtica, friend. Please, take a seat.’ Fulcrom handed the papers back and indicated the chair. Hastily, he lit two blue paper lanterns and placed them at opposite ends of his dark wooden desk.

The traveller seated himself with a gentle sigh, and placed his hands on the tabletop. ‘It is indeed reassuring to see one so efficient in his day-to-day business,’ he began, looking around at the inordinately neat office. ‘It brings to mind my own quarters.’ His rasping voice carried a thick accent, one which accentuated each word – particularly the ends – with clarity.

Fulcrom never really noticed the neatly stacked piles of paper, the symmetrically organized writing implements and notebooks. ‘I just can’t seem to work any other way. So, stranger – how can I help?’

‘My name is Ulryk.’

‘I’m Investigator Fulcrom. You’re no longer at your monastery I see?’

‘How did you . . . ?’ The priest paused. ‘The seals on the documents. Of course.’

Fulcrom acknowledged the comment. ‘I’m intrigued – how did you end up in Villjamur?’

‘I was a chief librarian of a Jorsalir monastery based further along the Archipelago, and I have spent many months making my way through the snow to here.’

‘It looks like you have spent a lot of time writing, judging by the black ink staining your nails,’ Fulcrom observed. ‘Your fingers, too, seem to show signs of being a scribe.’ He sat opposite and waited for the man to speak.

The priest gave a beatific smile. ‘I see why you are an investigator. Yes, I have spent . . . decades hunched with a stylus.’

‘What did you write about?’

‘I translate books,’ Ulryk replied. ‘Religious texts of major significance. Very few people can read the languages with which I am familiar. I sought to make the – ’ he paused briefly ‘
– sacred
teachings of the Jorsalir church better known.’

‘And is that why you have come to Villjamur, to further your translation work?’

Another smile, this one more distant. ‘You could say such things. Tell me, investigator. How well do you know your city?’

‘I’ve seen much of it, if that’s what you mean. I know most districts, most streets.’ Fulcrom chuckled. ‘Why, do you require a guide?’

‘I very much doubt a guide could show me where I need to go, precisely. No, I need an inquisitive mind most of all, and someone to permit me access to some of the labyrinthine depths of this city.’

‘I’m familiar, to some extent, with the ancient passageways.’

‘This city is older than you think, investigator.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you entirely. Why do you need to go under the city?’

‘What if I were to tell you that all you know of the history of this world was a lie?’

‘I’d say you were mad.’

Ulryk laughed a surprisingly hearty laugh, all the time shaking his head. He rubbed his eyes – here was a tired man indeed, Fulcrom thought.

‘Many say that I am, investigator,’ Ulryk muttered. ‘May I check with you, how the laws are between the church and the Inquisition? Is the Villjamur Inquisition bound to the church? It does not happen in other cities but I must be certain.’

‘There are no connections, so I’m afraid backhand deals or special favours are out of the question, if that’s what you mean,’ Fulcrom replied, which seemed to satisfy the priest. ‘Look, I can’t really help you without knowing a little more information.’

‘I would not ask for such deals, but I am a man in need of help, investigator, and I have few other places to go. I need your assistance in granting me access to certain quarters of city, and I can see that from my experiences getting into the city, these are times of high security.’

‘You could say that,’ Fulcrom replied.
A man who comes to the
Inquisition for help often feels powerless, though rarely a criminal. What is he after exactly?

Ulryk’s gentle gaze betrayed nothing. ‘I have travelled from Blortath, one of the non-Empire islands.’

‘It surprises me that the Jorsalir church are represented outside the Empire.’

‘They like to keep it quiet in case Imperial rulers think they are up to mischief. The largest Jorsalir monastery of them all, Regin Abbey, is unknown to few save ecclesiastics. It contains the largest library of texts in the Boreal Archipelago, and my work was maintaining these works. We have millions of books, investigator.’ Ulryk reclined into his chair. ‘Volumes of leather made from the hides of animals long extinct from our lands, and languages long forgotten. They were written by the great civilizations of Azimuth and Máthema, and before then, in the legendary Rumel Wars.’

‘Books exist for that long?’

‘If they are well looked after. Admittedly, some are translations of earlier sources, and thus not as reliable. Some are too precious to even open, which makes one wonder if it can even be called a text any longer, more an artefact.’

‘So this is what you do then, as librarian?’ Fulcrom enquired. ‘You translate books and look after their storage. Hardly seems the cause for such a journey, though I must admit it sounds a rather pleasant existence.’