The Book of Transformations (55 page)

‘Do you need to get inside?’ Lan asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Ulryk said, sincerely. ‘I could be near it, or on top.’

Lan looked up, but couldn’t see the end of the structure. Somewhere not too distant were the sounds of skirmishing. Two rumels ran the length of the street behind, their footsteps echoing in the plaza before the tower. ‘I can try to get you up there,’ she said, ‘just to be safe.’

Ulryk rearranged his clothing to check that it was tight. ‘Over your shoulder?’

‘There’s no dignified way to do this,’ Lan replied. She stepped forwards, leaned over and Ulryk tottered sheepishly towards her. She grabbed his arm and pulled him onto her back, tuning into her inner forces to push his weight off the ground so that he was as light as a kitten.

Lan took a run at the wall – gritted her teeth and forced herself upwards. Her feet slipped on the glass and she was forced to run and skip and jump in order not to collapse to the ground. Every step made a strange thud, which resonated through the building. The wind came at her in thick gusts once she crested the nearest line of slate roofs, and she could hear Ulryk gasping.

‘We’re nearly there,’ Lan called. ‘Hang on.’

‘What else can I do?’ Ulryk replied.

She was beginning to feel the pressure in her legs, the strain of using forces that she wasn’t supposed to have, but before she knew it they were approaching the top of the tower. As if blindly tackling a staircase, she sought the lip of the roof with one foot then, when she felt there was enough to take their weight, she pressed down, lifting the two of them over, and Ulryk was flipped across onto the roof on his side.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Lan said. ‘Are you OK?’

Ulryk showed more concern for the books in his satchel: once satisfied they were fine, he began assessing his own body. ‘I am well,’ he said.

‘Good.’ Lan pushed herself back up. The rooftop was flat, with strange, gold markings carved into the surface. They looked as if they formed an atlas of the heavens, with little flourishes of algebra and diagrams sketched in between weirdly proportioned islands. Ulryk was already marvelling at the detail.

Lan looked back across the city, towards the formidable sight of Balmacara, the Imperial residence. Somewhere inside, the Emperor and his agents were maybe or maybe not doing something to harm Fulcrom.

‘Go, Lan!’ Ulryk shouted, looking up from his hands and knees. ‘You must help him.’ He stood up and took her hands.

‘OK, Ulryk, do what you have to do. If you succeed, what then? Should we arrange to find you? Fulcrom and I aren’t going to hang around the city, and I’ve no idea where Tane or Vuldon are.’

‘If on your return you could revisit this tower, then . . . that would be a boon.’ Ulryk moved to face the rest of the rooftop. ‘If I am honest, I do not possess the knowledge of what will occur from this point onwards.’

Lan smiled at him. ‘None of us do.’

She leapt to the tip of the tower and sought out the nearest roof. Lurking in the darkness, fifty feet below, and twenty feet across, was a bridge that would lead her to the third level of the city. What was more important is that she could see no signs of combat.

She tuned in. She found a spurt of magnetism.

She crouched and believed she could make it.

She clenched her fists and jumped.

*

The iron door opened, a beam of light fell across his hunched form, and the agents filed in one by one, as they did on the hour, every hour so far, armed with knives and questions. Fulcrom’s hands were bound in crude manacles, but he wasn’t chained to the wall – there was no need for that in such small confines.

It all started off nice and gentle, with the typical fake offer of friendship, as if trading goods. A mutual deal. Then matters proceeded to a little roughing up, mock-arguing among themselves, suggesting that his fate was yet to be decided. He guessed accurately at their techniques, but suspected he only had a couple of days until they would commence full-on torture, which might be even sooner given the state of the city. Their beatings centred on his abdomen at first, then his legs, leaving his face in a fit enough state to talk comfortably – they required that from him. A fist to the stomach, an iron bar to the legs, it blurred into one numbing onslaught. All they wanted to know was one very simple fact: where was Lan?

‘Why are you so bothered when the city is falling apart?’

‘The Emperor was insistent,’ one replied, and there followed an awkward silence.

‘Look, we know where the other two Knights are but what about the third man? Come on, tell us where it is – then all of this will be over.’

That was a lie, and he knew it, but he was enraged by their subtly abusive references to Lan’s gender. ‘
She
is long gone by now – if she’s got any sense.’

‘This Lan – does he possess senses like the rest of us?’ one of the agents asked.

Drawing on surprisingly deep reserves of strength, Fulcrom stood to his knees, stumbling more than once as he staggered to the centre of the room. His body thronged with pain. ‘Lan is a woman. Say what you will about me, but that woman has helped save numerous citizens of the city.’

The agents spoke amongst themselves. ‘Say, if he’s fucking a
monster
like that, does that make him a queer? Punishment by death, that kind of act.’

Fulcrom dashed forward and grabbed the nearest of the agents, pulling his manacles over the man’s head and back down tightly on his neck. They fell to the floor, the man’s screams choked by chains, and the agents swarmed over the pair of them, and Fulcrom remembered only being punched repeatedly in the face . . .

*

Lan stood atop the roof of Balmacara. The route here had been surprisingly easy. All the guards were now withdrawing into the complex, and preparing only for assaults from the ground. The anarchist threat was immense. Much of the city had been claimed, but elsewhere, at the far end of the city, a far stranger force was gathering. At first she thought that Ulryk had been successful, but this was nowhere near where she had left the priest. Fluxes of magic ricocheted across the first level, by the outer gates of the city. Out here, in the wind and the snow, it was like one of the glorious storms of old, when the weather was warmer and summer storms were intense.

Lan had made a decision: Fulcrom had given Lan her life back – no, he had actually contributed massively to allowing her a life that she had never known before. Whatever it took, she wouldn’t leave him in there to rot. This was no radical politics, but amidst a crumbling city it seemed to be something worth fighting for.

She walked along the edge of the roof and, when she sighted a guard with a crossbow patrolling the upper levels, she dipped down and crawled along between the tops of windows and the gutters.

Something moved down below, in one of the small walled gardens: shadows fought urgent, silent battles – she saw guardsmen hacked down from behind, or collapsing with a bolt or an arrow in the chest, and then a group slid along the perimeter of this enclosed zone, some leaping over the walls and then guiding the others through. Were these the anarchists? She felt a primitive urge to stop them, but then came to her senses.
This is no longer your battle. Fulcrom is all that matters.

Then two voices, two figures running down the steps – these she recognized. Lan turned and skipped across the window frames, nearly slipping a few times.

From under the lip of the roof, she watched Vuldon and Tane stomp down the front steps of Balmacara, towards a unit of guardsmen.

What should she do?

‘Tane,’ she whispered.

She saw the werecat pause briefly, and Vuldon halted alongside him. Tane looked about the platform, then appeared to be in dialogue with Vuldon.

‘Tane, you idiot. It’s Lan, I’m here. Please play along.’

Again, dialogue between the two Knights. Had he heard her? She could only hope so.

‘Arrest me when I land, and tell them you’re taking me in!’

Before she could reconsider she pushed herself from the wall and walked through the air, then down across their path, where she skidded to a halt on the icy ground. A unit of soldiers began to approach, but Lan looked up expectantly at her former colleagues.

Vuldon nodded his understanding, and waved a big hand towards the approaching soldiers, who clattered to a halt. ‘If I were you,’ he bellowed, ‘I’d get back to your stations like the Emperor commands. We’ll take her in. She’s dangerous.’

Tane pretended to force her hands behind her back, and turned her around to face the steps.

‘What’s your plan?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If we take you inside you’ll be taken into custody.’

‘I want to break out Fulcrom,’ she whispered, blinking as snow whipped into her face. Vuldon was negotiating with the soldiers to one side.

‘Do you want to join him in prison?’ Tane said. ‘They’ll kill the both of you – or at the very least, they’ll take away your powers.’

Vuldon marched over. He said quietly, ‘I guess you want us to help break Fulcrom out.’

Lan smiled. ‘Damn right I do.’

Vuldon said, ‘Well, the Emperor expects us to see to that fucking blur of magic on the horizon – it’s a cultist gone mad or something.’

‘That isn’t my concern,’ Lan said. ‘My concern is Fulcrom, and then Ulryk, who’s at the Astronomer’s Glass Tower right now, conducting his ritual. I’ve already seen the anarchists heading into Balmacara. They’ll act as a distraction. We’ve got a finite amount of time.’

‘Well, after we get Fulcrom, we should see what’s left of the city and evacuate it.’

‘Evacuate an entire city?’ Lan gasped.

The two men remained silent as they marched her up the steps, and it came as a relief to be out of the bad weather and into the ornate hall beyond.

‘We’re on our own from here I guess,’ Lan said. ‘No taking sides, no serving others, no orders. Just us, just the Knights.’

‘Fine by me,’ Vuldon replied. A young soldier slipped on the wet marble of the corridor in his hurry to check them, and Vuldon slammed a fist into his throat. Winded, the man collapsed in a clatter of armour.

‘Vuldon,’ Tane snapped.

‘What? Lan said we’re on our own.’

‘One could be more subtle about such things,’ Tane remarked with a sigh.

*

Caley followed Shalev and her revenge-seeking comrades through the black gardens of the Imperial residence. They scaled over the enclosed spaces, silent and rhythmic in their process. They flowed through abandoned guard stations, over beds of tundra flowers, ducked below ornate, iron-framed windows, and step by step they negotiated their way towards a particular window stationed by the residence’s kitchens. Two members of staff from Balmacara had long ago defected to the anarchists, and Shalev had gleaned all sorts of useful information including the layout of the residence.

Garbed in cheap, lightweight armour, and looking like some primitive leather-clad tribal warrior, Caley’s heart beat furiously as he watched his idol at work. Shalev held a relic underneath the vast window, activated it, and stood back as the glass melted into a pool of glowing purple slop on the sill beneath. Shalev grabbed the relic and stored it in her satchel. She leapt up, resting her knee on the edge, before manoeuvring inside.

Shalev held out her hand; Caley was the first to take it. Careful not to tread in the liquid glass, he hauled himself inside. As the others gained entry, he shuffled around in the darkness. The place reeked of stewed vegetables and herbs. He could see the shimmer of blades and utensils on one wall, beside two enormous stoves. Pots and pans were hanging above his head, and he swore he spotted a rat’s tail disappear around one corner.

Eventually the Cavesiders were all assembled inside and drawing their weapons before following Shalev through the darkness. Caley found himself getting increasingly angry as they exited the kitchen and rounded the corner. If he had been asked to imagine opulence, he would have struggled to match the reality of this place. How was it possible that people could live like this? Why was there a need for so much gold, so many gemstones, such a finely polished marble floor?

One of the others tried to knock a vase from its pedestal, but Shalev spun on her heels and gripped the ornament. She whispered harshly, ‘I know you want to destroy this place – but not yet, not now. First, we kill Urtica. With him dead, the fun can commence.’

Shalev led the way, having memorized the route from a crudely drawn map. She clutched a relic in one fist, ready to apply it, and Caley didn’t have a clue what it would do, but he felt safe with the fact that something secret and advanced could be used against the Imperials.

They progressed taking slow, cautionary steps, suddenly pressing themselves against the wall whenever anyone passed. Some corridors contained a constant level of activity: Imperial missives being carried about the place, soldiers marching with some urgency. It surprised Caley, given the time of night.

They climbed the stairs and reached the third or fourth level – he couldn’t be certain which it was – and they were presented with a vast, carpeted floor. Murals covered the walls and ceilings, though they couldn’t be discerned properly in this light.

Somewhere outside, the wind still moaned.