Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Ulryk certainly liked to do things at his own pace. Slowly, the priest eased himself into a battered leather chair, and sipped his tea.

‘It’s difficult to explain where I’ve been and what I’ve done. Perhaps it would be easier to show you. These things are best seen for yourself, given how analytical you like to be.’

‘You mean the underworld?’ Fulcrom asked. ‘Is that where the dead are spilling from?’

‘Under the city, underworld… To be quite honest with you, I am not sure any of the names I have heard are accurate, but they’ll do for now. Yes, the realm under the city, where the trapped souls reside, into which five rivers flow.’

‘Rivers under the city? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Of all the things you’ve witnessed recently, the presence of flowing water under the city is perhaps the least ridiculous.’

‘True,’ Fulcrom admitted. He no longer had suitable points of calibration for the bizarre. But as he was in charge of such matters for the Inquisition, he had a duty. ‘Go on then, I’d like to see this place.’

‘So be it,’ Ulryk replied.

A sudden snow shower hit the city, bringing with it huge flakes that whipped through the ancient streets. Late afternoon, and most of the citizens were sensibly indoors, avoiding the bad weather — all apart from packs of children hungrily staring at new sketches issued by the MythMaker that morning, devouring the artwork and the story scribbled to one side.

Above, thousands of windows glowed with the warm light of lanterns, candles and fires. Pterodettes perched on ledges or under gutters, the avian voyeurs peering into apartments until a military garuda flying past on patrol scattered the little reptiles across the city.

Through the garden of glass flowers, past the scene of the first city guard murder, up the steps, Ulryk and Fulcrom headed to the library, and into the vast chamber which was illuminated mainly by oil lanterns. A couple of stained-glass windows allowed coloured light to fall on some of the higher floors, but it was too dreary outside for any noticeable effect.

Ulryk knew many of the staff by name already, and before he spoke to each of them he placed his palms together, fractionally bowing his head in acknowledgement of their presence. One of the clerks kindly handed Ulryk a large lantern to guide them on their way, and the priest thanked him profusely.

‘They are very good people here,’ he whispered. ‘Most of all they love the books, which is an admirable quality in any person, no?’

They passed along an off-white and ornate balcony. It overlooked the scriptorium, a vast stone chamber, where row upon row of cloaked young men and women were hunched over lecterns, working on parchments under the light of thick candles.

‘The poor fellows,’ Ulryk lamented. ‘Over the years their eyes will dim. Their backs will knot permanently. Their bodies will ache. There is pain in the pursuit of knowledge.’

Someone from below regarded them sternly and placed a finger to his lips, waving for them to move on.

In the dark corridor Ulryk said to Fulcrom with some urgency, ‘This is the first scriptorium I have ever known outside of a Jorsalir building. The poor young scribes are not of the church, but work on behalf of the Empire — many seem straight out of school. I have, in quiet moments, seen some of what they work on — they are copying political messages and threats into the various tribal languages. Some are writing instructions on how to speak Jamur. It is a systematic homogenization of tongues.’

The priest gazed expectantly at Fulcrom.

‘There’s nothing illegal about that,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘It might not seem right to you, but the savage peoples abroad should be guided to our ways.’

‘Have you been to these islands and spoken to these savage people?’ Ulryk demanded, a brief flash of temper showing for the first time.

‘Well, no…’

‘Then do not utter such ignorance. They are simple, peaceful people being exploited, investigator. The lies of your Empire ruin them. Such actions only go to repress them further, and to diminish their identities. Look at your own city; the refugees outside the city gates starving and uncared for, the Cavesiders below, oppressed and desperate, fighting for equality and their right to live. Villjamur — a city where the needs of the many are ignored for the comfort of the few. Do you honestly have the right to call other people savage?’

Fulcrom considered his words. Ulryk reminded him a little of his old mentor Inspector Jeryd and his words echoed uncomfortably.

Vuldon’s gruff voice.

The shuffle of footsteps somewhere, idle background chatter, the smell of perfume.

With great effort, Lan forced open her eyes.

Row upon row of glittering glass bottles surrounded her, their contents coloured, some with labels upon them. They were arranged neatly on shelves, or in cabinets. Behind a counter, there were jars containing powders, by the look of it, and she realized the perfumes she could smell were probably from some of these vials.

In this dreary room, Tane was kneeling by her side, concern on his furred face. ‘The lady wakes,’ he announced.

Vuldon thundered over and crouched beside her, one hand down on the floor for balance. ‘How are you feeling, Lan?’ he asked, uncharacteristically gentle.

‘Like shit,’ Lan replied.

‘You look it,’ Tane commented, smiling at last — a gesture that reassured her.

‘Thanks,’ Lan sighed.

A cultist arrived — not Feror, but another one she recognized who worked near their clifftop retreat, a blond man in his thirties, and he injected something into Lan’s abdomen, but she was too tired and numb to notice anything. Soon she began to feel sensations, the cold floor beneath her aching back. She felt like she’d been wrestling a bear.

‘What the hell happened?’ Lan asked.

‘Shalev happened,’ Vuldon said, rubbing his wide jaw. He moved out of the way to let the cultist make a quick assessment, then the man nodded his unspoken approval for them to continue, and shuffled out of sight. ‘And,’ Vuldon added, ‘it seems you saved the Emperor, least that’s what he seems to think.’

‘I don’t remember that part,’ Lan replied.

Vuldon went on to explain the series of events. Shalev had tried to use a relic on the Emperor, to hit him with her magic, and Lan’s intervention bought them enough time to usher him to safety. Vuldon and Tane made sure he got away to an escape tunnel, then returned quickly to find Shalev limping away, shell-shocked, before she vanished into a coloured mist, though her apparent injuries did not stop her killing two snipers on her exit.

‘Urtica might want to make another one of those presentations to show us off again, you in particular,’ Vuldon concluded, with a rare smile. ‘You did good, lass.’

She liked that, gaining his approval at last. To her it seemed important that Vuldon could have faith in her abilities, and so her thorough exhaustion had been worth something at least. ‘Where are we?’

‘An apothecary,’ Vuldon said. ‘We’re still in the indoor iren.’

‘We didn’t get Shalev then.’

‘We will,’ Vuldon said. ‘We know she’s not invincible, and that’s more than we knew before. We know she’s also predictable, seeking a big show — that’s all useful knowledge.’

‘Then why does it feel like we failed?’ Lan asked.

Vuldon stood up, groaning. ‘That’s a glitch with your own personality. Can’t help you there. Just bask in the extra fame and attention, like Tane.’

Lan tried to push herself up, but felt too exhausted. She fell to her elbows and laughed, slightly giddy, slightly drowsy. Then sprawled onto her stomach, feeling the bruises and the agony inside.