Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Outside, the weather was arse-bitingly cold. Even around the back of Balmacara, in the shadow of the chunky basalt walls where one of the majestic, arch-shaped new Council carriages awaited. A brown mare stood glumly with her face lost in a cloud of her own steam; the winter had found a way to stretch its icy tendrils even to her.

‘Morning, councillor.’ The stout old man standing before him was his driver, and he opened the door of the carriage, which was a huge dark-wood affair outfitted with luxurious ruby red trim. Mewun popped up, ducking his head, and plunged inside with a groan.

‘Thank you, Edsan,’ Mewun called out, once he was safely within the opulence of the carriage.

‘Where’s it to today, sir?’ his driver enquired.

‘The indoor iren project, if you please.’

‘That open now, sir?’

‘Not yet, no, but very soon — I’m giving a site visit to make sure we’re all set for the grand opening.’

‘Very good, councillor.’ Edsan slammed the door and, through a little hatch, Mewun watched him trudge around the front of the carriage. A few minor rumbles later, a few terse words, with the undergear cranking as the mighty wheels turned, they rocked forwards.

Mewun shifted into the corner, rummaged around in his pockets, and drew up a roll-up and a box of matches. A few moments later, he promptly lit up and eased back, allowing the sounds of the city to wash over him, the calls of traders, the sharp orders of the military, the crunch of wheels and the horse’s hooves on stone. Outside, the sun peered beyond the clouds, giving the city a rich, red veneer. Snow seeped from roofs round chimney breasts, dripping onto the streets incessantly, whilst children hurled snowballs at each other. They must have been entering an open plaza, as the scents of fried food from vendors filled his nostrils Something brown flashed by the hatch. What was that? Something rattled underneath.

Mewun scrambled to the opening to see a hooded figure in brown clothing sprinting down the street in the opposite direction.

As he frowned, he heard something fizz, and could smell burning, followed by an enormously bright flash and loud ripping and fire streaming upwards and oh shit oh shit his skin was burning…

*

‘Fulcrom, get over here.’

Fulcrom strode cautiously through the chunks of charred wood to Warkur’s side. The rumel superior’s face seemed distinctly unimpressed by the carnage, and who could blame him? Debris littered a zone nearly a hundred feet wide: flesh was scattered amidst the remnants of a carriage and, a few feet away, the burned and mutilated corpse of a horse lay gruesomely on its side. Even Fulcrom, who had seen his fair share of dire things on the streets of Villjamur, was forced to cringe. At the moment it wasn’t snowing, but he wished it would, just enough to cover this mess.

The iren had been forcibly closed, the traders ushered on, the citizens steered away. It was possible there were some civilian casualties amidst the wreckage, but it wasn’t easy to tell. Other Inquisition aides had been sent to recover the bodies and any evidence, and they sifted through the scene with sketchpads or assiduously made notes.

‘What’re you doing here — aren’t you supposed to be looking after the Knights?’ Warkur snapped.

‘I heard about the incident and rushed here as soon as I could. Looks like we’ll need military assistance on this.’

‘If my hunch is right, we’ll need whatever help we can get. You know who I’m thinking did this?’

‘Did you see the flag too?’

‘What flag?’

‘On the wall over there.’ Fulcrom pointed to an old red-brick structure between two whitewashed shops. Tied to a windowsill was a black flag: similar to ones that had been found at the site of every major anarchist crime to date.

‘You and your powers of observation,’ Warkur muttered. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be — I’m missing even obvious things now.’

One of the human aides, a red-haired man, lunged onto the scene out of breath: ‘Sir, we’ve got some information on the event.’

The carriage was one of the new models — strips of wood bore fresh Imperial logos, but there was no glory to be found in this mess, only the remains of a politician. A councillor had been in the carriage. The aide provided the name of Mewun, who had left Balmacara earlier.

Fulcrom knew the name, though couldn’t put a face to it — but the title was enough. Sure, councillors were murdered from time to time, and there had been public incidents in recent months, but generally such matters were kept low-key and away from prying eyes.

‘This is some damn public spectacle,’ Warkur said.

‘It was obviously intended that way,’ Fulcrom added. ‘We know these anarchists like to make a show of things. They must have known a councillor was using this route, or they followed him from Balmacara.’

Warkur shook his head in disgust: ‘How’ve they become so damn effective all of a sudden?’

‘Do you want me to pursue this case, sir?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘Though I don’t fully trust orders from the top, and we could do with someone like you checking the day-to-day investigations, you’ve got enough on with the Knights,’ Warkur said, waving him away.

‘Well, we all have plenty to be getting on with, sir,’ Fulcrom replied.

‘It’s possible all investigators are going to have to work together from now on. Means we’ll have to pass over full control of monitoring the refugees outside to the military.’

And I know just what the military would do to them under Urtica’s control, Fulcrom thought grimly.

‘So’, Warkur continued, ‘you just look after those precious Knights and make sure they’re ready to prevent shit like this from happening again. If our Emperor’s beloved news rag is anything to go by, they’ll have some pressure coming their way. They’ll be famous. Everyone out here knows their names and faces. With all that damn fuss, they’ll find it difficult to get close to the enemy. In the meantime, I’ll start drawing the investigations together. See if we can spot patterns or find new leads. Fuck, at this rate I might as well get some tribal priests in for shell readings — maybe they can help us find out who the hell these anarchists are.’

Warkur kicked a piece of wood, and it skittered across the street and into the wall. A few passers-by had snuck into the scene, and there were several more leaning out of windows despite the cold, voyeuristically curious. Two human aides were now surveying the debris and lifting pieces of flesh into large metal containers. It would take a while to clean it all up.

‘These Knights of yours — they’d better be good,’ Warkur bellowed, before skulking off into the distance.

What difference can three humans possibly make in a world like this? Fulcrom thought.

After a few day’s travelling, and with the sun about to dip over the horizon, Dartun called a halt. He seemed suddenly attentive to their surroundings.

‘We’re being pursued,’ Dartun announced, his breath clouding in the air. He held his hand to his eyes and scanned the horizon.

‘What should we do?’ Verain called out.

‘Confront it.’ His voice seemed to lack his usual vibrancy. For a man who had been given new life, he certainly seemed to lack it.

‘Why?’ Verain asked.

‘Because I can sense it needs to be removed from our paths,’ he replied.

Sense? How has he ever been able to sense things before? Surely he can’t mean intuition — that kind of talk goes against his whole logical philosophy.

‘Who’s following us?’ Verain persisted. ‘Where are they?’

‘Due south, and based in a small piece of woodland.’