The Book of Transformations (27 page)

‘There are, yes. And I’ve seen that you have free access – if you have any more trouble I can help you.’

‘If I may be so bold, I doubt you will be able to help.’

‘Sorry?’ Fulcrom asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ulryk closed the book he was scanning and came close to Fulcrom. ‘Do you think, in a repository of knowledge, you will know where everything is kept? The power in such words is immense. There are barriers everywhere to stopping the uninitiated from accessing such information. Why, you yourself know that the citizens of the city are limited in what they can see in terms of political goings-on. Do you think that this isn’t a tiered system of access?’

‘I’d never thought of it like that, and I’m still not quite sure I follow.’

‘We had such a system back at Regin Abbey. Even most of our own clerics were not permitted access to the more sacred texts, and those who were could not read them. Barriers to knowledge exist everywhere – it is one of the greatest methods of information control.’

‘So what do you plan to do?’

‘Find what I am not allowed to find,’ Ulryk replied mysteriously. He picked up a book nearby, closed his eyes and inhaled the aromas from the leather and then flicked through to smell the paper.

*

Fulcrom decided to leave Ulryk to his personal crusade to find his book. He was experiencing a sudden doubt about what the priest had said concerning the history of religion. Against so many books, so many opinions, there was a lot to overturn, despite the magic that Ulryk had shown him the other day.

Keep an open mind
, Fulcrom told himself.
The moment you shut out the improbable is the moment you fail as an investigator.

Fulcrom stood at the top of the stairs waiting for another bout of snow to ease off. Footprints littered the courtyard like dark entrails, and at the far end of the glass flowers someone was in the process of being helped to their feet, presumably having slipped on the ice. The couple on the bench had departed. But something was out of place.

The soldier on guard . . .
Fulcrom thought, looking around.
He said
, ‘
Someone’s here day in, day out.’

Fulcrom walked quickly down the steps of the library and, to one side, he spotted a group of twenty or so people huddled in a close circle. Some of them were clearly in distress, and one man was holding back his young child from seeing something, but the kid kept pushing through the coats and robes to get a better look.

‘Stand aside,’ Fulcrom called out as he approached. ‘Villjamur Inquisition.’

As two women parted, Fulcrom squirmed through the circle to see a dozen expressions of disgust, a body on the floor, and a slick pool of blood under the head and abdomen.

It was the guard who had been posted on the library steps.

His throat had been severed in a clean cut, the sign of a professional, and there was an open wound from his left shoulder to his right hip. His sword still sheathed, his hands were stain-free: the man had probably not even seen his attackers, probably wasn’t even alive long enough to clasp at his wounds.

Fulcrom immediately called everyone back, but he knew it was far too late to find any footprints. The public had long since trampled on any clues.
Shit
.

Back to the body and blood was still pooling. This was recent, very recent.

‘Did anyone see anything?’ he demanded of the crowd.

‘Sorry, mate.’

‘No.’

Then nothing but shrugs and silence and morbid curiosity. He moved among them, searching for blades or a guilty glance, but nothing seemed out of place. ‘No one is going anywhere. I want you all to remain here so I can get statements.’

He ignored the following groans from those whose routines were about to be interrupted. People seldom looked at the bigger picture, even with the blood before them.

Fulcrom pushed through the throng and commenced jogging in a wide arc, his cloak floating like wings as he scrutinized the perimeter of the courtyard and between the glass flowers, staring through the falling snow to see if anyone was perhaps running from the scene or acting suspiciously.

‘Shit,’ he breathed, the word clouding before his face. Why kill a member of the city guard here? This was clearly meant to be seen as a statement, a signature in blood.

He headed back to the scene of the murder under the gaze of at least thirty people now, and noticed, tied to the stone rail of the steps, a black rag, the token of the anarchists. This confirmed his hunch.

As he ordered citizens all to stand clear, he drew out his notebook from his pocket then began to jot down the details of the crime and sketch the position of the body; and, with a deep patience, he began to interview members of the public.

Any serenity to be found in this garden of glass flowers had been shattered.

Tane and Vuldon, it seemed, could get in anywhere with their newfound identities. On a rare evening to themselves, they decided the best thing to do was go for a drink, get to know each other a little better. Vuldon was fine with that. He knew that it was important to form a good relationship with someone who might, one day, end up saving his life.

They strolled through the sleet to one of the new silver and glass bars that were becoming more common in Villjamur. Cultist-enhanced lights and coloured lanterns made the place look surreal. A weird green glow fell across the shiny cobbles. A couple of young girls ran by laughing with a wax coat raised up above them to shelter from the wet, and they headed inside. Two soldiers stood either side of the doorway, dressed in military colours that Vuldon didn’t recognize: sleek, dark-red uniforms, with a white belt and hefty black boots.

Vuldon stepped up to the two men. ‘Interesting uniforms you got there, gentlemen.’

The one on the left spoke, ‘Colours of the Shelby Corporation Soldiers. Sir.’

‘Private militia?’ Tane queried.

‘Emperor’s allowed private companies to offer military services in the city, sir. What with the current military being overstretched.’

‘Looks as though you’re kitted out well,’ Vuldon said, nodding towards the fine-looking blade at the man’s hip.

‘What kind of business is Shelby in?’ Tane asked.

‘Ores, mainly. Based in Villiren, sir.’

‘He make those swords?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, doesn’t that work out well for his ore business, soldiers of Shelby?’ Vuldon said. ‘I take it you’re not going to deny us entry?’

‘Absolutely not, sir. Knights are most welcome indeed. Sir.’

Vuldon and Tane glided past the soldiers and into the bar. Vuldon had to crouch a little to fit under the lintel, but eventually found himself in a cavernous room that looked as though it had once been something like a factory, except now it was polished metal and lurid coloured lighting.

‘Now this is more like it!’ Tane enthused.

‘It’s horrible, is what it is,’ Vuldon muttered.

‘Now there is nothing wrong with a little progress in design. You’ll get used to it. And look at these women!’

Vuldon peered about the joint. It was full of youngsters moving in spasms on a central floor, while all along the edge were musicians on tribal drums and weird nasal-sounding instruments. ‘There’s too much noise. I want a drink.’

Vuldon muscled his way to the bar and asked the barman for two rums. He looked back at his own reflection, at the logo on his chest that seemed to glow in the weird lighting. He tossed over a coin, took his drinks and was, almost instantly, surrounded by people.

‘You’re . . . you’re a Knight!’ someone gasped.

‘I’ve heard about you.’

‘I saw you only yesterday helping someone.’

The compliments rolled in; these people were in awe. He smiled awkwardly, thanked them, and pushed back towards Tane, who accepted his drink.

‘You know what, old boy? These powers have their advantages. I heard everything those fellows said to you.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Vuldon mumbled.

‘How about, I can hear what that group of women are saying about you.’

‘You shouldn’t listen in to conversations like that, cat-man.’

‘Really? The one with red hair thinks you’re a fine-looking specimen. But the thing is, I can listen to what the ladies like, and direct my charm offensive accordingly . . .’

‘That’s . . . creepy,’ Vuldon said.

‘Nonsense, it’s streamlining. Take that lady over there – she’s just broken up with her lover, and hates men. That’s not worth pursuing.’

‘
She’s
not worth pursuing.’

‘Over there – the brunette in the blue dress – it’s her birthday, and she’s feeling the need for change in her life.’

‘And you could bring that about, yeah?’ Vuldon asked. ‘You could have a meaningful relationship and respect her?’

‘Now steady on, chap. I’m merely suggesting what these powers can offer. I’m talking about the lady there, the blonde in the black dress.’

‘Cute, but too young for my tastes.’

‘Not for me, old boy. Not for me.’

He took a sip of his drink. ‘What’s her story then?’

‘See you
are
interested. It can’t be helped, can it? So her story is – I think – that she hates her father, and her mother doesn’t even know she’s out tonight. She is your classic rebel – and I’m an admirer of such qualities.’

‘You’re a predator, is what you are.’ Vuldon felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him – not helped by the fact that he towered above most people. And he couldn’t help but think it was all a waste, that while refugees were dying outside the city’s gates, people here were planning to drink or sleep their way into forgetting about the ice age.

‘I’m merely being efficient,’ Tane replied.

‘We’re getting enough attention in here as it is,’ Vuldon said. People were gathering around them, young faces smiling, little waves, everyone hoping to catch their eyes – and all for what, helping out citizens in distress?

‘Vuldon, Vuldon, Vuldon,’ Tane laughed. ‘Don’t you ever accept the notion of a challenge?’

‘You complicate life too much, cat-man,’ Vuldon replied, and downed a shot of rum. A curvy brunette sidled up to him and placed her arm on his waist. She said something about liking a hero. Vuldon turned to Tane, but the other Knight was already ploughing a furrow through the throng to his chosen girl.

Well, what harm could it do?
he thought, glancing casually at her
. It has been a
long
time. So much for getting to know Tane
. ‘Evening, miss.’

*

Lan awoke bleary-eyed, with sunlight bathing her room in hues of orange and pink. She ached, as she did every morning after a night patrolling the city. She had volunteered to go out on her own last night, whilst Vuldon and Tane were permitted a rare evening of relaxation. They’d decided to go out and drink in the taverns on the lower levels of the city and, when she returned at some ungodly hour, they were still out, so she went straight to bed.

Intermittently during the rest of her sleep she heard a distant, female voice.

As she climbed out of bed, the thick blankets and sheets slipped to the floor. Her room was beautiful and minimal, a far cry from the cluttered rooms she had shared with the girls at the circus. Cream sheets and white stone walls, with a marble floor and a vast window overlooking the sea. A table to one side with incense, an elegant wardrobe with geometric mock-Máthema motifs, a small log fire containing only ashes now – though with her augmentations she didn’t feel the cold as much as before.

To have her own space was a luxury she had dreamed about for years. No more having to hide herself, no more self-consciously getting dressed. Aware of being different, every slight detail, every movement, every glance could have opened up terrifying consequences for her. Now that she didn’t actually have to be aware of such things, it didn’t alter the fact that she was able to relax fully, even in her own room, and Lan realized then just how many ghosts from her past were walking alongside her.

Sometimes she felt guilty for having undergone so much of a transformation. She knew of other women who would have killed to have been given her opportunity to match their anatomy with their gender.

She stood naked before a full-length mirror, smiling, a method of reminding herself every morning of who she was. She extended her arms out either side and connected with the powers given to her by the cultists, feeling a vibration deep within her core, as if a strong wind was carving a channel through her insides, and gradually she lifted into the air, hovered a foot above the ground, fine-tuning the sensations.

It was useful for her to do this, to practise using the technology.

Slowly, she lowered herself back to the ground, lost her connections with her body, and felt a sense of deep relaxation. She got dressed into one of her black uniforms, though left the top few buttons undone since they irritated her around the neck. They might make the three of them look like some elite force, but these uniforms annoyed and chafed at times.