Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Thankfully, after a few hours they untied the rope around her abdomen, and left the room to contemplate her answers. Lan immediately began busying herself by investigating the cuffs around her wrists. Escape artistry wasn’t foreign to her: she understood the quirks, the tricks, the insider knowledge. She knew that most handcuffs could be mastered with a pick or even applied pressure, though it would have helped if she had seen the mechanisms beforehand. By touch she guessed these were nothing unusual, and that she could open them with a blow on the right spot. Looking around, she noted a metal ridge on the bed frame. It was an awkward manoeuvre but she managed to twist herself around and, with her hands held behind her, she repeatedly hammered the handcuffs down, close to the hinge. It took eight blows until they sprung open, then she enjoyed letting the pain in her arms subside.

Seems they do not use expensive restraints in Villjamur, she thought, rubbing her wrists.

Her kidnappers returned and didn’t quite know what to make of the open cuffs she’d cast down the foot of the mattress, but to her surprise they didn’t beat her — instead, they gave her water and good food, flatbreads and spiced curries. Such luxuries confirmed to her that they weren’t going to immediately kill her. It was, perhaps, some consolation.

*

A clank of iron woke her. Those grey-coated figures returned, hovering in the doorway. But someone else stepped inside her cell: a tall brown-skin rumel sporting the crimson colours of the Inquisition.

His words came with an unusual tenderness.

‘Hello, Lan, I’m Investigator Fulcrom. Are you feeling all right? Please, come with us. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all of this. They were… wrong to be so harsh.’ Tense glances were exchanged between the investigator and the grey coats. ‘We’ll explain what we require in a moment.’

Lan pushed herself up from the mattress, spun her legs over the side and brushed back her hair. The rumel took her hand and lifted her to her feet.

‘There you are,’ he said.

Lan rubbed her eyes and shuffled after them.

Soon they passed through a more civilized location — smooth walls and floors, cressets giving light and warmth, brass trimmings and skylights. It was daytime at least, but she could see only pale grey clouds. In this rare moment of normal vision, she glanced at the faces of those escorting her, but they were hidden still by the scarves across their faces. With rimmed hats or hoods, only their eyes were exposed — they were all human, all pale, all weirdly androgynous-looking. Aside from the rumel, of course, who now and then turned back to give her reassuring glances.

It took two of them to open the massive oak doors, and she was led through them. The next room was certainly imposing — the movement of air and the echo of boots against stone indicated it was vast. In the dim light she could make out very little, save for the glittering metallic instruments at the far end of the room, like bookshelves, but with wires and vials of fluids. A light shone on them — from them — and they seemed to spark alive.

In the centre of the room were three leather chairs, two were already occupied. Whilst the figures in grey fanned out in a circle around them, she was propelled into the final chair. She peered at the other two present: one was a broad and stocky man who must have been in his fifties. With a square, stubbled jaw, an arm as wide as her thigh, he appeared to be every bit a thug, but there was something immensely sad about his posture: he was slumping — had spent years slumping — and his gaze was directed mainly at the ground. When he did look at her, his vision passed over so casually she might as well have been an item of furniture. He wore black breeches, and a dark red sweater that was too tight for him — he was once heavily muscled, probably still was under a few years of bad living.

The other man was in his late twenties, tall and slender, with blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. He sat back with one shin resting on his other knee, his hands folded casually in his lap as if he was waiting to be served a meal in a bistro. He gave Lan a polite smile, but she was in no mood to return it.

Who were these two? Only the three of them were illuminated by tall lanterns in the centre of the table; the circle of grey coats stood back, in the shadows. Suddenly, the circle parted at one end, and there were others who joined them. Someone whispered the Sele of Urtica, and then she heard that name repeated. Urtica.

It can’t be him, she thought. What would he want with me?

‘I am Emperor Urtica,’ the man declared. He was much better-looking than she imagined. The atmosphere in the room changed with his mere presence — it was now soaked with fear. ‘This to my right is Investigator Fulcrom.’ The brown-skinned rumel, in his crimson robes, moved forward, and gave a warm greeting to them all, before stepping aside for the Emperor to continue.

‘You three,’ Urtica announced, ‘have each been chosen for a reason. All of you are bound, in some way, by your pasts, and I will make it abundantly clear that we will not hesitate to use these pasts against you as a secure bond against the gifts that will shortly be bestowed upon you.’

‘Think I give a shit about that?’ grunted the broad-shouldered man. His mood was utterly despondent. ‘I’ve no reason to do what you say.’

‘I have heard much about you, Vuldon, and admittedly your case is not the same as these two,’ Urtica muttered. ‘I understand your bitterness. You have other motivations — as do you, Tane. I knew your family well.’

The skinny man sat up and leaned forwards, taking time to compose himself. ‘What exactly are you insinuating?’

‘I will forgive you your rudeness this once,’ Urtica replied calmly. ‘Investigator, please continue the briefing.’ Urtica motioned for the rumel to speak.

‘Thank you, my Emperor,’ Fulcrom replied, with a small bow of the head. He turned his attention to the others. ‘Tane, you have an unrelenting — if a little unfocused — will to do good. You have a moral code, and this is good. You’re also not wanted in the Inquisition, and so your name has been put forward especially for this mission. You should just shut up for once and pay attention — you’ll do well out of this… if you’re pliable.’

Tane sat back, disgruntled, possibly weighing up whether or not to make a witticism.

‘Vuldon — you used to be a legendary hero of this city. Unlike the others, no one has forced you to be here. Emperor Johynn and his lineage are long gone, so you can put your faith in Urtica, and in what is being offered to you. It’s a chance to regain what you once had. We can make that happen.’

Vuldon’s expression seemed to be hiding years of pain.

‘And you, Lan,’ Fulcrom turned to her, ‘are a fraction more than a coincidence. You have proven remarkably adaptable to cultist technology, according to our notes, and we have had some minor failures with adaptation in earlier experiments. You are resilient and your past career in the circus has given you a useful athleticism, so you seem rather perfect for the forthcoming role. I’m aware of what’s gone on and it seems there is a gap in our legal framework when it comes to understanding your transformation. We’re therefore going to gloss over such changes in order for one further transformation.’

She was totally disarmed by his directness, and also by the way he did not abuse the power of secret knowledge: he was privy to her history, and yet he spoke to her without disrespect.

‘And what is our role supposed to be?’ Lan enquired.

‘You are,’ Urtica interrupted, ‘to become the Villjamur Knights, protectors of the city. It is a prestigious role.’