Марк Ньютон - Drakenfeld

Despite the celebrations of the city, which could be heard loud and clear at this hour, and despite the new mystery of my father’s debts, I managed to drift off into a heavy sleep.

A banging on the main door woke me up.

The noise was followed by Bellona calling my name from the other side of the house. I peered out of the window, but could only ascertain that it was the middle of the night. However, it sounded like the festivities were still ongoing.

I dressed hastily and ran along the corridor, almost slipping on the slick tiles. Bellona directed me towards the open door. Just outside, on the step, stood several cloaked men. One of them was carrying a torch, the flames casting a sinister glow on their faces. It was obvious that there was a sense of urgency and restlessness about them, something clear even in this dim light.

‘We wish to speak to Lucan Drakenfeld,’ one man declared, a thickset individual with a neat beard. He looked at me with intense eyes, and he wore the silver sash of the Civil Cohorts – the citizen police of Tryum – across his shoulder.

‘That’s me.’

They all seemed hesitant now they knew my name, wondering who should speak next.

‘I’m… My name is Constable Farrum,’ he eventually said, affecting a much calmer and crisper accent. ‘From the cohort – Civil Cohorts. As officer of the Sun Chamber, your, uh, presence is required. It’s urgent.’ He sounded like an actor forgetting his lines.

‘Well, Constable Farrum, what’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Someone’s dead,’ he said.

‘OK,’ I replied, ‘so where is the body?’ Murders occurred all the time, of course, but it wasn’t often that a murder required so many people to disturb me like this in the middle of the night.

‘Optryx.’

‘A killing in King Licintius’ residence?’ I asked.

‘Yeah and we ain’t allowed into those halls,’ Farrum said. ‘The likes of us don’t get told the day’s password. We were urged to get you. This means I’ll get beatings if we don’t do that, so I’d appreciate it if you hurried along. Sir.’

The men from the Civil Cohorts gave Leana a brief look of suspicion and surprise when she stepped outside with me, but she shrugged it off, as she always did. We were both armed, both wearing cloaks to keep off the chill, though I made certain my golden brooch was in plain view. We were marched through the backstreets of Tryum, which were still full of energy: drunken crowds in masks flowing from place to place; home-made shrines and private ceremonies under oil lamps; exuberant, torchlit fan-dances.

Soon we entered the relative calm of the Regallum district, where soldiers from the King’s Legion had been stationed along major junctions, though a few were hurrying past in pairs – and in haste. Their orders echoed sharply around the street, and a few citizens were being stopped and roughly searched in the shadows.

Heroic statues stood tall, their expressions lost to the night. Pillars defined the nearby buildings; there were no cheap stores lining the streets here, no traders harassing passers-by to buy their dubious wares.

The men from the Civil Cohorts were joined silently by some of the King’s Legion, who guided us along a road that led behind Optryx, an immense, intimidating building without much light. We banked upwards towards the royal residence; from here in daytime, it would have been possible to look down over most of the city. Only a couple of temples were positioned on higher ground than this, to be closer to the gods.

The cohort was halted at the door. Eventually, after some fuss and security checks, Leana and I were guided into one of the most impressive buildings I had ever seen in my life – and I had seen a few.

As a child I often wondered what it would be like to live in Optryx. Back in those days I imagined it to be simply sumptuous, though perhaps with wild animals and spirits gallivanting through the hallways; in my version of this place there was a constant stream of performers, jugglers, singers and acrobats. There would have been a thousand soldiers standing in polished golden armour patrolling the rooms. Though it was the whimsical fantasy of a boy, I never imagined I’d be visiting the place as a grown man for work.

Domed ceilings, each with intricate hollow panels, towered into the shadows some fifty or sixty feet above my head. Cressets burned from lushly decorated walls, candles were perched on central columns; their light cast down on the multicoloured mosaic floors and on thick, pink marble columns. Every other wall was painted with rich frescoes of the heavenly plains of existence – a logical trend in the arts, of which I approved – as well as gods, kings and emperors of the past. The colours used here were well beyond the everyday palette, and would have cost a small fortune. Here was a bold statement of power and wealth indeed. The rooms through which we were taken – each one equally as large as the predecessor – forcefully humbled whoever walked through them.

My pulse quickened as we passed through gold-plated double doors and into a room packed full of people. It was obvious that this was no longer a celebration – it seemed more like a wake for the dead. People muttered to themselves in small groups, seated on the floor, their expressions glum or exasperated. At regular intervals along the walls, and in larger numbers by the door, stood soldiers in bright armour. Two of them gestured with their spears for me to pass through the doors. One of them paused as Leana followed, but I stressed that she was my assistant, and she was permitted soon enough.

Senator Veron veered towards me wearing his finest red robes of state, which contained incredible gold details and religious motifs. Stepping carefully over more people sitting on the marble floor, or simply shoving through clusters of those who were still standing, he arrived somewhat shaken.

‘Drakenfeld, I’m glad you’ve made it.’ We shook, gripping each other’s forearms.

‘You were the one who sent for me?’

‘I certainly was. I thought you might be available to cast some light on the matter. This isn’t one for the lawyers either – at least, not yet. I only hope you’re half as good as your father.’ Close up, I could see that he was clothed splendidly in a fine, crimson tunic, and both his belt and boots seemed to be of sublime craftsmanship. His expression was far more serious than that of the light-hearted senator who’d visited my house.

We turned to face the room. ‘What’s the situation?’ I whispered, suddenly aware of the volume of people around us. ‘All I’ve heard is that there’s been a death.’

‘I’ll say. This way.’ Veron steered me through the glum faces of the guests. Nearby the guards were closing the door, as if to make sure no one could escape.

‘Can you tell me anything else about the situation?’ I asked.

‘Best if I showed you,’ Veron said turning back.

For some time we walked through the throng – a good few hundred, all in all, each in their most opulent clothing. Platters of food were discarded on side tables, having been pillaged long ago. A low-level muttering had replaced lively chatter; more than once we stepped through deep silences as conversations suddenly paused at our approach. Along the walls, bright banners of Detrata, each one bearing either the image of the double-headed falcon or the cross of the founding gods, hung down from an impressive height.