City Of Ruin (6 page)

Brynd and Lupus stared at one another, and the young private raised his eyebrows, stifling a smile.

‘Do you reckon you can be of any use in the coming war?’ Brynd asked. ‘Can you hold a solid weapon well enough? There might be call for that, as we need everyone we can get.’

‘Weapons have never been of much use to us, I confess,’ the tall woman observed. ‘But, we’re not aiming on burning ourselves on a funeral pyre just yet, oh no. Here’s our card, then. We’ve digs on the other side of the Ancient Quarter – so we’re never far, should you need our assistance.’

‘Very good.’ Brynd smiled, placing the card in his pocket without really looking at it. ‘Well, carry on. We may indeed need your help yet.’

Brynd shook his head and turned away, the three elderly cultists gazing back at them in a line as the soldiers departed. The two Night Guards resumed their patrols of Villiren, pondering if they could actually be of any use. Cultists were notoriously unreliable, unless they came from among those who had links with Imperial networks, and even those they did occasionally work with couldn’t really be trusted. These three in particular seemed like crazies. His plans were best founded on solid facts and good probabilities – so, unless they could manufacture military weaponry of some kind, you couldn’t hope to build a strategy around them.

*

Giant trilobites the size of dogs clicked along the streets, investigatincraps of food. They would lurch back and forth from people’s paths, antennae waving in the air, giving some mild screech of alarm, beforinding some dark doorway in which to disappear. You didn’t gehese creatures much further south than this, and he had missed theiccentric presence. Nearby hung a rack of their shell casings, ready to be sold as decorative armour to people with more money than sense.

Brynd had stressed to Lupus just how important it was to be seen in the city, to be visible at a time like this. People smiled at them, old men patted their backs, young boys watched in awe on seeing the finest of the Empire’s soldiers here to offer support. They had to represent stability, show the citizens that everything would be all right – even if it wasn’t. But everyone here seemed full of calm, and whenever he asked them about the ice, they simply shrugged.

One trader summed it up: ‘Everyone’s got problems, in’t they, commander?’

*

‘You can buy all sorts of junk here,’ Brynd observed, indicating exotic pots, ornaments, chalcedony necklaces, paduasoy scarves. In their craftwork he could discern a mixture of cultural influences, from the tribes of other islands – maybe Folke, Blortath, even Varltung – to ancient designs of the Shalafar civilization, the Máthema who had been obsessed with mathematical precision.

Brushing a hand through his white hair, Brynd said, ‘Odd place, this. I mean, we’re near the seafront, where the streets are older, so you’d think there’d be some air of history at least . . .’

Lupus turned sharply, peering through the crowds.

‘Trouble?’ Brynd asked, his hand casually dropping on the hilt of his sabre.

‘No,’ Lupus panted. ‘Nothing.’

‘Didn’t look like nothing judging by your reaction,’ Brynd muttered. ‘Don’t want another Haust situation here, do we? Can do without
you
going missing, of all people. We’ll be needing our best archer in the weeks to come.’

Days had passed since Private Haust had disappeared, another reason the soldiers were exploring this neighbourhood. Even if the Inquisition were working on the case, it was still worth keeping an eye out, because there might be some remains to discover, a boot, a strip of ripped material, someone who’d spoken to the victim before he vanished.

Eventually Lupus replied, ‘Was nothing, really. I just thought I saw someone I recognized . . . Apologies, sir. Let’s continue.’

Brynd could see patches of alien stonework now and then, the city betraying its age, a wall maybe that was out of place, buildings that denied the surroundings their coherency. Brynd was constantly assessing the layout of the streets, the vantage points, closed-off zones, those regions which were solid, and those that would eventually crumble. They’d been doing this survey for weeks, in preparation for war. The enemy was reported to be gathering in significant numbers on the island opposite, gearing up for a seaborne invasion. Combat would be here in a city if the surveillance was right, not on a battlefield like they were all trained for.

‘Lupus Bel.’

Brynd looked up curiously; the young soldier seemed to recognize the voice even before he saw her. A tall woman was standing there – though a fraction shorter than Lupus himself. She was wrapped in a brown fur coat, thick boots, her sleek black hair hanging loose under a severe fringe.

Brynd watched him, curious. Years collapsed in Lupus’s face.

‘Beami,’ Lupus spluttered. ‘I thought I’d seen you. I knew it.’

‘Me, too, I . . .’

‘I mean I know you used to live here, but not now. I just caught a glimpse.’

‘Yeah, I saw you,’ the dark-haired woman replied. ‘That’s why I came back.’

Brynd could see Lupus was searching his mind for something suitable to say, but was disorientated, a soldier with no clue of his current location.

‘You might as well smile,’ Beami said. ‘I’ve not changed that much, have I?’

‘Sorry.’ Lupus broke into a genuine laugh. ‘How long’s it been?’

‘Six . . . seven years.’ She touched his arm, a gesture made from instinct rather than thought, from the habit of being close to him. She eyed his black uniform, the neat stitching, then stroked the star on his breast. ‘You’ve done well, I see. You always wanted to be one of the Night Guard.’

‘And you? How . . . are you?’

‘Good. I’m, uh, married now, but I’m good,’ Beami replied. ‘Still working with relics . . . you know me.’

‘Are you happy? I mean . . . sorry, I meant I
hope
you’re happy.’

Brynd coughed into his fist. Enough of this chat, they were on duty now.

Lupus glanced at him sheepishly. ‘Where are my manners? Bea, this is Commander Brynd Lathraea, Commander of the Night Guard.’

‘Oh, my.’ Beami examined the commander. ‘The leader of the Jamur military. The mysterious albino. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ Brynd smiled. ‘Sele of Jamur, miss.’

‘Sele of Jamur, commander.’ Her voice possessed a slight hesitancy; the usual reaction whenever anyone’s gaze met his red pupils for the first time.

‘Commander, this is Beami Del. We knew each other a few years ago – when I was sixteen.’

‘Nice to meet a friend of the private,’ Brynd said. ‘One of the finest soldiers I’ve worked with, this one. Youngest member of the Night Guard as well.’

Tense smiles were exchanged between them as local people sailed past around them. Some stopped to contemplate these well-dressed men in their black uniforms, standing talking to this beautiful woman. Time seemed to shudder to a standstill.

‘We need to order some meat,’ Brynd reminded Lupus eventually, ‘for the troops. It seems a mastodon’s been brought down, not far off, so I want to put an order in for sufficient cuts to be delivered. I know we have our own supplies already, but we’ll be needing to build up strength.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ Lupus agreed, still observing Beami.

– Faces turned to the sky.

A garuda flew in low, flashes of brown and white and red, creating a downdraught that rattled the canvas awnings of the stalls, then it headed straight out to sea, in skies empty of buildings, before it arced upwards – towards Tineag’l and into the grey.

‘If you’re staying somewhere in the city,’ Beami said, ‘you’ll find me on a street in the Ancient Quarter called the Ru Una. Visit me there. I’m free the day after tomorrow, so we should catch up, if you can find the free time.’

‘I’m not sure of our itinerary . . . commander?’

‘I’ll be in meetings all day, and there’s no training scheduled,’ Brynd replied. ‘Feel free to take a few hours off. Things are just a waiting game at the moment.’

Lupus looked at her again, a new eagerness in his expression. ‘The day after tomorrow, then?’

‘It’s right by the Onyx Wings, the whitewashed house with the red door.’ She made a move as if to kiss him, but glanced away, thinking better of it. As she walked past him she breathed into his ear, ‘I’ve missed you.’

Brynd read it on her lips and it seemed like it hurt her to say it. She moved on through the crowds, soon lost in their mass.

Cities were much the same wherever you went in the Archipelago. Jeryd saw the same types of inhabitants no matter who built the buildings or where they were constructed. There were the down-and-outs, the drunkards, people reacting to them in the same way, with disgust. There were always people who wanted things, and those who could and who couldn’t have them. But you might also see a little happiness contained in the smile of a child, and everyone liked that.

In addition to his night breeches, Marysa had bought Jeryd a new hat, a broad-brimmed affair that kept catching in the wind, but it offered him a little style, and he felt that it added an air of authority to his demeanour – a touch of class, perhaps. For this new rumel investigator from Villjamur, there were, after all, people to impress.

So, a new city, and a new start.

Before he left Villjamur he had spoken with a couple of people he could trust high up in the ranks of the Inquisition, in order to request immediate transfer from the island via boat. Except the boat couldn’t make it through the ice sheets so he’d had to travel on a particularly dense and stubborn horse. And while Marysa’s horse was fine, Jeryd’s had gone lame halfway along the coastal track, so it had taken two days to find replacement transport, and then he managed to get lost somewhere on the way.

By the time he and Marysa were nearing Villiren, Jeryd was, understandably, thoroughly pissed off. Much of the journey on land had been through tundra; nothing but snow and frozen grassland, long bird calls shrilling across enormous skies, rapid blood-red sunsets, ice-cold winds that rolled in from the seas with venomous impetus. Layers of grey clouds constantly overlapping on themselves, intensifying but never delivering – such, it seemed, was the way of things around here.

But being this far north was the only way Jeryd could guarantee that he would not be hunted down for his recent investigations in Villjamur, and in Villiren there was a shortage of good men working for the Inquisition.

His new chambers were buried deep in the Ancient Quarter. He was surprised how well the Inquisition lived in Villiren, but too cynical not to assume that they resorted to a little extortion to fund their lifestyles. His office was a simple stone room with a desk, a couple of chairs, a bench and a fire, also equipped with a few books on the Jamur legal system arranged tastefully on a shelf. And mostly
unused
, he had noticed when he arrived. Through a slot in a wall he could see the ridge of one of the giant grandiloquent Onyx Wings close up, looming there as if some primordial creature was permanently readying itself for flight. Snow was constantly falling behind it, from grey skies onto slick roofs.

As soon as he sat down in the chair, placing his hat on the desk, there was a knock at the door.
Typical annoyance
. But maybe this would be the aide that Jeryd had requested several days ago to help him find his way around the city. He needed to get to know the neighbourhood itself – he didn’t know how long he’d be stuck here, but it didn’t hurt to fit in. If he was going to clean up a few streets and thus impress his superiors, it was essential he acquired some local knowledge.

With a colossal sigh he stood to open the door.

A young woman stood there, with tied-back black hair, a high forehead, a slender pale face and dark lips – something about her that spoke of islands other than the Boreal Archipelago. She couldn’t have been any more than thirty years old, and her petite frame was smothered in brown cloak and a plain heavy skirt. She was pretty, he realized, not that he was much into such soft human skins. Behind her, an investigator in a mask came strolling down the corridor. Those masks gave Jeryd the creeps.

‘Sele of Jamur, miss. How can I help you?’

‘Sele of Jamur, investigator,’ she declared, the pitch of her voice surprisingly deep. ‘It’s not how you can help me, but rather how I can help you. I’m your new aide, sir.’

A female aide in the Inquisition? Jeryd wasn’t sure about this at all. He couldn’t remember any specific ruling, but the arena of the Inquisition had always been male-dominated. Not that he was against female staff in the least, but in the Inquisition such things were usually a matter of tradition, for better or worse.

‘If you were expecting a man, I understand your surprise – but I’ve been good at my job so far. They tell me you’re from Villjamur, that you’re a brilliant investigator, and that you do not accept bribes . . . and I wanted to learn from the best.’

There was no reason why such flattery should be anything other than that to be expected from the young or naive. If only she knew how out of touch he felt, and how he simply could not understand the mechanisms of the world any more. Hell, he could barely understand himself any longer. ‘Come in, please, take a seat.’

‘Thank you.’ Walking past him, she graced him with a whiff of gentle perfume, a little vanilla musk. Her steps were lively, although slightly halting, as if she was recovering from a limp.