The Book of Transformations (34 page)

On his lofty tier, Urtica recoiled into his metal shell and Lan sprinted towards the criminal cultist, desperate to intercept her. Vuldon and Tane were already running to protect the Emperor, yelling ‘Get him the fuck to safety!’ and urging the guards back, whilst snipers fired at Shalev to stop her.

The woman crouched to one knee, drew up a bent arm as if for protection, and then flicked some device with her other hand. The bolts pinged off an invisible field, and pausing on their rebound, as if time was stilled, they fell harmlessly to the side.

Lan darted in front of Shalev, around thirty paces away, the Emperor somewhere above and behind. Shalev stood up and pointed a relic at the protective box of soldiers. Lan tuned into the apparatus installed within her body, the same field that pushed away fire, allowed it to layer and accumulate within her until she felt she would burst, and waited.

As Shalev detonated her relic, Lan jumped upwards and held out her arms and released all her pent-up energy, shuddering in mid-air.

An aggressive pulse spat out from her hovering form and intercepted the flash of light extending from Shalev’s relic. Lan felt as if her breath was being sucked from her body. She convulsed, allowing the internal, implanted mechanisms to take over.

Lan saw purple sparks.

Heard screams.

Her world faded to black.

*

Fulcrom found the priest later that day. A messenger brought immediate news of his return to the hotel, and Fulcrom sped across the city on foot, under brooding, darkening skies.

‘Ulryk,’ Fulcrom said from the doorway of his room. ‘What the hell have you been doing? You set the dead free.’

The priest seemed unsurprised, and sighed. ‘You have noticed, I see.’

‘Damn right I’ve noticed,’ Fulcrom snapped, ‘as have a good slice of the populace.’

The priest turned away sheepishly, meandered back to stoke the fire. He waved Fulcrom in, and the investigator closed the door behind him.

Bizarre pieces of vellum were scattered about the room, as were half-melted candles wedged into bottles. Fulcrom glanced at some of the parchments, many of which were nailed to the wall, some stuck to the window, but he couldn’t even recognize the text on them let alone read them. He was no expert on such matters, but the ductus of the script seemed utterly alien on some pieces, yet on others was vaguely familiar, a distant echo of Jamur. Arcane symbols and sketches and woodcuts crowded him.

Ulryk continued poking the flames absent-mindedly.

‘Why the hell did you do . . . whatever it was you did to bring such spirits to the city?’ Fulcrom demanded.

‘It was not, admittedly, my original intention,’ Ulryk replied. ‘I hope I have not done anything illegal. You are not here to arrest me, are you?’

Fulcrom chuckled glumly. ‘I’m not sure what I’d arrest you for exactly.’

‘Very well,’ Ulryk replied. ‘If you are not here to do so, would you at least like some tea? We make it quite differently out in the east.’ Ulryk moved towards a small pot kettle hanging above the fire.

‘Tea, yeah,’ Fulcrom said. ‘And then you can tell me about what you’ve done and how you’ve done it, because I thought I just showed you around an old library, not to new levels of existence.’

‘That shows how much the people of the city know about their own libraries,’ Ulryk replied. Eventually, with a cloth covering his hands, he carefully lifted the pot to one side, and poured the tea into small porcelain cups.

He handed one to Fulcrom, who took a sip. It was one of the tastiest drinks he’d ever consumed, warming and soothing. Fulcrom was forced to let his inner rage calm a little.

Ulryk certainly liked to do things at his own pace. Slowly, the priest eased himself into a battered leather chair, and sipped his tea.

‘It’s difficult to explain where I’ve been and what I’ve done. Perhaps it would be easier to show you. These things are best seen for yourself, given how analytical you like to be.’

‘You mean the underworld?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘Is that where the dead are spilling from?’

‘Under the city, underworld . . . To be quite honest with you, I am not sure any of the names I have heard are accurate, but they’ll do for now. Yes, the realm under the city, where the trapped souls reside, into which five rivers flow.’

‘Rivers under the city? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Of all the things you’ve witnessed recently, the presence of flowing water under the city is perhaps the least ridiculous.’

‘True,’ Fulcrom admitted. He no longer had suitable points of calibration for the bizarre. But as he was in charge of such matters for the Inquisition, he had a duty. ‘Go on then, I’d like to see this place.’

‘So be it,’ Ulryk replied.

*

A sudden snow shower hit the city, bringing with it huge flakes that whipped through the ancient streets. Late afternoon, and most of the citizens were sensibly indoors, avoiding the bad weather – all apart from packs of children hungrily staring at new sketches issued by the MythMaker that morning, devouring the artwork and the story scribbled to one side.

Above, thousands of windows glowed with the warm light of lanterns, candles and fires. Pterodettes perched on ledges or under gutters, the avian voyeurs peering into apartments until a military garuda flying past on patrol scattered the little reptiles across the city.

Through the garden of glass flowers, past the scene of the first city guard murder, up the steps, Ulryk and Fulcrom headed to the library, and into the vast chamber which was illuminated mainly by oil lanterns. A couple of stained-glass windows allowed coloured light to fall on some of the higher floors, but it was too dreary outside for any noticeable effect.

Ulryk knew many of the staff by name already, and before he spoke to each of them he placed his palms together, fractionally bowing his head in acknowledgement of their presence. One of the clerks kindly handed Ulryk a large lantern to guide them on their way, and the priest thanked him profusely.

‘They are very good people here,’ he whispered. ‘Most of all they love the books, which is an admirable quality in any person, no?’

They passed along an off-white and ornate balcony. It overlooked the scriptorium, a vast stone chamber, where row upon row of cloaked young men and women were hunched over lecterns, working on parchments under the light of thick candles.

‘The poor fellows,’ Ulryk lamented. ‘Over the years their eyes will dim. Their backs will knot permanently. Their bodies will ache. There is pain in the pursuit of knowledge.’

Someone from below regarded them sternly and placed a finger to his lips, waving for them to move on.

In the dark corridor Ulryk said to Fulcrom with some urgency, ‘This is the first scriptorium I have ever known outside of a Jorsalir building. The poor young scribes are not of the church, but work on behalf of the Empire – many seem straight out of school. I have, in quiet moments, seen some of what they work on – they are copying political messages and threats into the various tribal languages. Some are writing instructions on how to speak Jamur. It is a systematic homogenization of tongues.’

The priest gazed expectantly at Fulcrom.

‘There’s nothing illegal about that,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘It might not seem right to you, but the savage peoples abroad should be guided to our ways.’

‘Have you been to these islands and spoken to these
savage
people?’ Ulryk demanded, a brief flash of temper showing for the first time.

‘Well, no . . .’

‘Then do not utter such ignorance. They are simple, peaceful people being exploited, investigator. The lies of your Empire ruin them. Such actions only go to repress them further, and to diminish their identities. Look at your own city; the refugees outside the city gates starving and uncared for, the Cavesiders below, oppressed and desperate, fighting for equality and their right to live. Villjamur – a city where the needs of the many are ignored for the comfort of the few. Do you honestly have the right to call other people
savage
?’

Fulcrom considered his words. Ulryk reminded him a little of his old mentor Inspector Jeryd and his words echoed uncomfortably.

*

Vuldon’s gruff voice.

The shuffle of footsteps somewhere, idle background chatter, the smell of perfume.

With great effort, Lan forced open her eyes.

Row upon row of glittering glass bottles surrounded her, their contents coloured, some with labels upon them. They were arranged neatly on shelves, or in cabinets. Behind a counter, there were jars containing powders, by the look of it, and she realized the perfumes she could smell were probably from some of these vials.

In this dreary room, Tane was kneeling by her side, concern on his furred face. ‘The lady wakes,’ he announced.

Vuldon thundered over and crouched beside her, one hand down on the floor for balance. ‘How are you feeling, Lan?’ he asked, uncharacteristically gentle.

‘Like shit,’ Lan replied.

‘You look it,’ Tane commented, smiling at last – a gesture that reassured her.

‘Thanks,’ Lan sighed.

A cultist arrived – not Feror, but another one she recognized who worked near their clifftop retreat, a blond man in his thirties, and he injected something into Lan’s abdomen, but she was too tired and numb to notice anything. Soon she began to feel sensations, the cold floor beneath her aching back. She felt like she’d been wrestling a bear.

‘What the hell happened?’ Lan asked.

‘Shalev happened,’ Vuldon said, rubbing his wide jaw. He moved out of the way to let the cultist make a quick assessment, then the man nodded his unspoken approval for them to continue, and shuffled out of sight. ‘And,’ Vuldon added, ‘it seems
you
saved the Emperor, least that’s what he seems to think.’

‘I don’t remember that part,’ Lan replied.

Vuldon went on to explain the series of events. Shalev had tried to use a relic on the Emperor, to hit him with her magic, and Lan’s intervention bought them enough time to usher him to safety. Vuldon and Tane made sure he got away to an escape tunnel, then returned quickly to find Shalev limping away, shell-shocked, before she vanished into a coloured mist, though her apparent injuries did not stop her killing two snipers on her exit.

‘Urtica might want to make another one of those presentations to show us off again, you in particular,’ Vuldon concluded, with a rare smile. ‘You did good, lass.’

She liked that, gaining his approval at last. To her it seemed important that Vuldon could have faith in her abilities, and so her thorough exhaustion had been worth something at least. ‘Where are we?’

‘An apothecary,’ Vuldon said. ‘We’re still in the indoor iren.’

‘We didn’t get Shalev then.’

‘We will,’ Vuldon said. ‘We know she’s not invincible, and that’s more than we knew before. We know she’s also predictable, seeking a big show – that’s all useful knowledge.’

‘Then why does it feel like we failed?’ Lan asked.

Vuldon stood up, groaning. ‘That’s a glitch with your own personality. Can’t help you there. Just bask in the extra fame and attention, like Tane.’

Lan tried to push herself up, but felt too exhausted. She fell to her elbows and laughed, slightly giddy, slightly drowsy. Then sprawled onto her stomach, feeling the bruises and the agony inside.

Vuldon helped her stand, and Tane suddenly turned his gaze on somewhere behind them.

Someone rattled into the doorway, a young soldier in full battle regalia. Gripping onto the door frame, in breathless gasps, he said: ‘More trouble, this time Caveside. We need your help, all of you. It’s getting out of control.’

Vuldon squared up to the soldier. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked despondently.

‘The anarchists,’ the soldier panted. ‘They’ve been leading a march out of the caves. Thousands of them. Protesters. Threatening to riot. It’s chaos.’

Vuldon sighed and glanced down at her. ‘Lan, you up for saving the day again?’

Some entire bookcases were built around doors, and others were themselves doors. They might open up into hidden enclaves, showing texts bound in different materials, from different ages. Most of the books were covered in centuries of dust. Rats scurried away from the light, spiders tottered backwards into corners. The more of these rooms they travelled through, the worse the quality of the architecture became – these were more basic zones, rooms for primitive collections or almost-forgotten tomes.

‘Do the staff permit you this far?’ Fulcrom enquired.

‘I doubt they are even aware that most of these rooms exist,’ Ulryk replied cheerfully. ‘If you have noticed from our rather convoluted route, we have entered a labyrinth of sorts. It is quite a common arrangement in ancient libraries, which leads me to believe that they were all constructed, originally, by the same architect or designer. Such creators intended there to be hidden regions, for the protection of certain tracts of information, for those in power to maintain their grip on the populace, even to rewrite histories. I suspect, though, there were powers greater than mere emperors at work, areas to even which the ruling kings and queens were blind. That is the thing about knowledge: there is no discrimination over who owns it, or who may abuse it.’