Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

‘Of course you do — you go ahead, and I’ll be back soon.’

‘Knock before you do,’ he replied, but her image was already beginning to ebb away. The room suddenly lost one chill when he noticed another from the window by his bed — and he walked over to close it. But, just before he did, he swore he could see a couple of pale-glowing figures progressing across the bridges.

He couldn’t be bothered to explore that. He was tired, upset, and he was struggling to suppress his memories.

Lan lay awake on her side, glancing out of her bedroom window. Huge columns of snow drifted across the sea, like white banners floating in the breeze, and behind that slate-grey skies extended into the distance.

Despite the weather, she was in a good mood. No, a great mood, in fact. Last night, with Fulcrom, she felt as though she’d overcome a major obstacle on her journey through life. No matter how organized and skilful he was as an investigator, with her he seemed just as useless in the arts of being a couple as she herself felt, which made everything seem so normal.

She washed her face in the basin in the corner and got changed into the black outfit of the Knights. Her finger traced the encircled silver cross, their symbol, the one she’d noticed graffitied on walls near Caveside, like a warning. The same symbol that was featured on banners and flags drawn up for sale at the Emperor’s request, that little girls were stitching into their own costumes as they pretended to be her.

For a moment Lan paused in the mirror, brushed her hair and, with a pair of scissors, she straightened her fringe. A little make-up next. Without the bustle of the show, without other women around her, she enjoyed these little morning rituals. No awkwardness, no glares loaded with meaning.

After she finished, she headed out of her room, where she found that the boys were up, dressed and eating oats for breakfast.

‘What, no women this morning?’ Lan asked, strolling past the large window overlooking the sea.

‘Turns out,’ Vuldon said, in between mouthfuls, ‘that Tane’s conversational skills are a bit of a contraceptive at times.’

Lan didn’t even want to know what he’d said.

‘How did it go with your lover boy?’ Tane leapt up off the chair and sauntered to her side, his tail swishing playfully. His irises flared with a feral streak. ‘Did you let him… you know?’ He wafted a hand towards her loins.

For some reason Tane’s blunt charm completely circumvented any awkwardness, and it didn’t hurt to think about it when he was so matter-of-fact. ‘I’m not going to let your lack of personality ruin something nice,’ she said. ‘But no, if you must know, nothing happened.’

‘Lan, you need to tell us if you two are intimate.’ Vuldon lumbered over to the corner to stoke the fire and add a couple of logs. ‘Just lay it straight. We need to know — conflict of interests and all that.’

‘We kissed, all right, there’s nothing else to say,’ Lan replied with a frown. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t let it get in the way of the job.’

‘Good, because we’ve got a heck of a task ahead of us today.’ Vuldon stood up and folded his arms. ‘Everyone who’s someone in Villjamur is going to be at this damn opening,’ he growled, ‘and all eyes are on us, seeing as though we’re the city’s darlings. Let your concentration fall, and you could fuck it up — which means we’re done for.’

‘I’m not going to fuck anything up.’ Lan wished he would show her just a little more faith sometimes. Was it the fact that she had messed up one night previously, or did he not trust women to do a decent job?

All along the Maerr Gata, the largest street on the fifth level of the city, people were stirring. Hunched in their shawls and cloaks and furs, under gentle flakes of snow, men and women trundled towards the new indoor iren, the first covered market installation outside of the caves. At first they came in ones and twos, the early trinket-seekers, and then they swarmed like beetles, scurrying out of cobbled passageways and across buckling bridges to join in with the main crowd.

The air was laden with expectation. This wasn’t just another iren, it was a statement against the ice age, a defiant gesture that life could go on. Not just that, but the grand opening had been hyped beyond all belief, so much so that the people of the city could well believe that they were about to witness an event on par with the birth of a god.

Boards advertising the event had been erected about the city; banners of new insignias rattled from metal railings; criers stood broadcasting against the tide of citizens.

‘These people,’ Tane remarked, with a gesture down below, which for all Lan knew could have referred to some hell realm, ‘they really ought to get a hobby. This simply can’t be the centre of their world.’

Lan couldn’t help but laugh at the look of mild despair on Tane’s furred face. The Knights had gathered, in advance, on top of the main structure, keeping an eye on the crowd, and as a visible deterrent against anyone wishing to disrupt the event.

‘Says the guy who spent his life throwing fancy parties,’ Vuldon grunted.

‘Networking, old boy — it’s a different art entirely.’

Lan had to hand it to the architects: the iren certainly was impressive. Whilst not mirroring the aesthetics of the surrounding buildings, it had been designed with the future in mind. The three-storey facade was crafted from a green mica, so it shimmered like a monstrous emerald and scattered on its surface were deliberate patches of limestone that made the structure appear as if it was suffering from a disease. Arched windows were placed at regular intervals on each floor with a rigorous attention to geometry.

Whether or not it would be popular was yet to be determined, but people were pausing before it, cooing or gesturing or beaming. Lan knew then that its intention to offer a distraction against the ills of the world would probably be a success.

‘Vuldon,’ Tane called above the wind, ‘did you have to perform such chores back in your glory days?’

Vuldon perched on the outer wall, peering down with a bemused expression on his face. He rubbed his broad stubbled jaw. ‘After a while it became posing for one thing or another. I tried to fight it off but people just seem to want something to believe in. It happens to soldiers, too — those that come back from big campaigns, especially the commanding officers, become a point of interest.’

‘I don’t know,’ Lan said. ‘I think we’re of more value than this.’

‘I quite agree,’ Tane declared. ‘You’re a miserable sod at the best of times, Vuldon.’

Vuldon shrugged, stood up and brushed the back of his uniform. ‘I don’t care, cat-man, that’s just how things are sometimes — and I’m fine with it. We’ve got a good income, a good lifestyle, and a little attention.’

‘A little?’ Tane said, prancing about the rooftop. ‘A good slice of the populace treat us like we’re gods.’ To prove the point he waved to the people below, who responded with waves and cheers.

‘The Cavesiders don’t treat us like gods,’ Vuldon said.

‘Neanderthals, the lot of them,’ Tane replied.

Two city guards appeared further along the rooftop — four, six and soon a unit standing in sharp rows, forming a path. They snapped to attention as Emperor Urtica arrived, his aureate, purple robes fluttering in the sharp wind. He was wearing thick leather boots, a purple tunic and a rich fur cloak. He approached the Knights and only when he was close could Lan smell the musky aroma of arum weed smoke on his clothing.

‘Sele of Urtica,’ she remembered to say.

Tane and Vuldon shuffled into line beside her.