Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Lan pushed open the door to the plush, marble-tiled bathroom, and saw that her bath had been filled for her. The scent of lavender wafted through the air, and there were several small lanterns placed about the room. Without any further hesitation, she removed her clothing and plunged into the warm water, feeling the heat begin to penetrate her aching muscles.

Well, perhaps it is nice to think of my own needs from time to time…

*

An hour after her luxurious bath, Lan stood on the safe side of a thick pane of glass staring out at the snow, whilst Tane and Vuldon slouched on the plush sofas behind her contemplating some of the Inquisition reports, studying the recommendations and suggestions of those with a better knowledge of the anarchists’ movements.

‘Still no developments in finding Mewun’s killers, apparently,’ Vuldon announced. ‘And the councillors are becoming increasingly worried about travelling through the city on their own.’

‘Never mind that, old boy,’ Tane added, holding up a parchment. ‘It states here — albeit with appalling punctuation — that crime has gone up massively in the last fifty days. There have been more reports of burglary and vandalism than in recent memory. Shops are being destroyed, bistros burned down. Says there are two hundred thousand people on this side of the city, and most of them are worried about walking through the streets alone. That isn’t right. I think we have some work to do.’

‘It would be nice to have some strategies in place for us,’ Lan said, ‘rather than just being let loose aimlessly.’

‘We can think of things ourselves,’ Tane declared excitedly.

‘The city’s so big,’ Lan added. ‘There’s such a huge area to cover. We need Fulcrom’s help, too. I trust him — he seems a good sort.’

‘I’ve never yet met an investigator I can trust,’ Vuldon drawled.

Lan forgot her worries by staring at the sea. Nearby, hamlets cluttered up the shoreline, little white cottages were dotted into the distance, and Lan imagined they had to be brave people, whoever lived there, facing those bleak wintry seas.

Today, the submarine giant was passing again. The top of the creature’s grey crown breached the surface, and all around him the water banked and swirled, whilst seabirds arced in the skies, following his painfully slow progress through the tides. As he came nearer, into the shallower waters, torrents skimmed down his thick, green hide. He took one, longing glance into their clifftop retreat, then one to the land beyond as if he knew he could never survive there long enough to enjoy it — before he moved further along the shore, spraying seawater across the villages.

The Knights had been given use of this clifftop dwelling. It was safer for them here, Fulcrom had told Lan. Such sanctuary allowed them to develop their skills according to the designs of cultists without distraction. These headquarters were less than half a mile from the centre of Villjamur, where the city buried its back end into a range of hills, and under which the underground docks opened out and met the sea. Although built into a cave network, there had been a lot of structural and design work. The walls had been smoothed and covered in plaster then white paint. Ornate cressets burned from walls, coloured lanterns stood in corners, cushions and throws and thick-pile rugs were scattered tastefully about the place. Fires burned in the corners and thick windows faced outwards that were so clear they assumed cultists had interfered with the production.

At the sound of the door opening, Lan turned to face the room.

Feror, the cultist-cum-attendant who saw to their every need, tottered in with his notebook. He was nice enough, a tough, wiry old fellow, with lank brown hair and a soft smile. He wasn’t a servant — cultists didn’t seem to stoop that low. Now and then he’d plug in some relic to ‘monitor’ them. Cultists. The people in black lingered like swamp midges. They pottered from adjacent rooms, or catacombs deep in the cave system, carrying relics, pieces of technology she’d never understand, before disappearing with patronizing smiles. There were orders here who had been operating in secrecy for years, now on projects that the new Emperor had tapped into.

‘Good morning, dear Knights,’ Feror called out. ‘How are we today?’

Tane and Vuldon barely grunted their acknowledgement, and Lan felt guilty on their behalf. ‘We’re fine,’ she said, ‘feeling well. Not much for your little notebook I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, it all counts,’ he replied, enunciating crisply, in his rather charming way. He began to prod them with a few questions, and they gave brief answers. Yes, they felt fine. No, there were no side effects yet. No, their muscles did not ache. No, they had not fainted, or had spells of dizziness or nausea.

Beleaguered by such endless repetition, Lan distracted him with a query about his family, and he responded with vigour, telling of his second daughter’s first day at school, how his wife was developing a range of relic-based techniques of heating liquids quickly. Lan was fascinated by people’s lives: perhaps it was because she hadn’t experienced an easy life herself.

Feror, ever the patient and passive man, eventually went away clutching his notebook to his chest, humming to himself as he went, and Lan pondered just what secrets that notebook held. ‘I’m bored with this research,’ Tane declared, and flounced around the room with as much energy as some of the dancing girls in the circus. Ever since his transition, he possessed an over-the-top and hyperactive edge. ‘Bored, bored, bored.’ He stood before Vuldon, whose broadness dwarfed the slender werecat. ‘If we’re not actually getting outside fighting crime, surely we could be, I don’t know, having people round. Drinks and dancing, parties, that sort of thing. I can throw quite the event

…’

‘We’re supposed to keep a low profile when not at work, idiot,’ Vuldon grumbled. ‘Emperor’s orders. Out there you can be as attention-seeking as you want. When you’re not beating someone up, be quiet.’

Tane sighed theatrically, and collapsed onto a plush green settee alongside Vuldon. Lan was entertained at first by their repetitive bickering — Tane’s optimism repeatedly corrected by Vuldon’s pessimism — but now it was becoming annoying. While most of the time they got on, occasionally the conversation would deteriorate into childish banter as the two of them prodded each other, testing how far the other would go in response.

Tane suddenly held a hand out for silence. ‘Fulcrom’s here,’ he announced.

There were only three of them in the room and a moment later the door at the far end opened. Investigator Fulcrom strolled in, and greeted them amiably.

‘Spot on again!’ Tane said. ‘I could smell you a mile off.’

Fulcrom chuckled, and stood with his hands on his hips, his Inquisition robes parting around his tunic. ‘I hope my current scent works well for you, Tane.’

‘What’ve you got for us this time, investigator?’ Vuldon stood up and folded his thick arms. Lan knew that Vuldon didn’t much like the Inquisition, but surely he could trust Fulcrom?

Fulcrom motioned for them to be seated and then lowered himself onto the floor by the settee, a gesture of respect, Lan thought, that spoke volumes. The hazy light from the window spilled across him and the surf droned against the base of the cliff, resonating even up here.

Drawing his knee up, Fulcrom leant back casually and said, ‘The Emperor wants to open a new indoor iren in a few days. Its construction has been kept from public eye, mostly because of the anarchists, and generally because he doesn’t quite know who to trust.’

‘Indoors?’ Lan asked.