Mark Newton - The Book of Transformations

Tane wore a pained and tired expression. ‘It wasn’t fully correct, not that the people would really care. I don’t have any dealings with my father’s business. I frittered away all the money deliberately, because of where it came from, and I… Oh what’s the point?’

Vuldon mumbled, ‘I suppose in this case, the People’s Observer is generally closer to the true facts than the shit the Emperor’s been hawking around.’

‘Are you fit to put this aside and carry on?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘If you think the public will be fine with us,’ Tane said. ‘Let’s face it, most of what we were about was image and now look at it.’

‘Then maybe we can replace that with some substance,’ Fulcrom replied.

After that brief exchange, they focused on the window opposite, waiting for evidence of life on the top floor. Finally lanterns were lit and figures stirred on the inside, three or four of them.

‘Time to go,’ Fulcrom declared. ‘Tane, search the side rooms. It’s unlikely they’ll show him his family at first, but they’ll be nearby.’

Back into the streets. Tane followed the route up over fences and along the rear of the adjacent building, searching for a high entry point, while Fulcrom and Vuldon took the more difficult and obvious route of heading through the tavern.

The spit and sawdust joint was quiet inside, maybe five customers staring into their drinks at the bar in a fug of weed smoke, while the man behind it — a thuggish-looking brute dressed more like a bounty hunter, with close-cropped hair and earrings — tried to stop them from reaching a doorway leading upstairs.

‘Out of bounds, lads,’ he warned, jumping over the bar with a surprising athleticism.

He made a move to grab Fulcrom, but Vuldon intercepted him, grabbing the man’s fist in his own and punching his jaw, snapping his head back to one side. The man didn’t make a sound as Vuldon, with a pugnacious rage, jumped up and kicked him in the chest with so much force that the man flew backwards and smashed into the bar. Only a couple of the drinkers peered up from their pints to observe the racket.

Fulcrom and Vuldon headed up the stairs with stealth until they were on the top floor. Around the rim of one door, at the end of the corridor, Fulcrom could see light leaking from the room and, as they approached silently, voices beyond became prominent. One of the speakers was Feror.

‘Go,’ he whispered to Vuldon.

The Knight took a few steps back, then charged forward, aiming his shoulder at the door. It exploded open, revealing Feror at a table, surrounded by two men and a woman in dreary-coloured tunics, and who each instantly drew their swords.

‘I got ’em,’ Vuldon announced.

Fulcrom ran over to Feror and pulled him out of the ensuing ruckus.

‘Any idea where your family might be?’ Fulcrom asked, as Vuldon did something that caused one of the men to shriek in pain. Fulcrom didn’t wish to see what he was doing.

Feror, with a petrified look about him, could only shrug. ‘They must keep them nearby. They only let me see one of them at a time.’

They tried a couple of the other doors until they found a sparsely furnished room occupied by two young girls and a middle-aged woman. On closer inspection, Tane was at the far end of the room by the window, with his arm hanging out of it.

‘Go on,’ Fulcrom encouraged. Feror peered around cautiously before hurtling towards his family and pulling his daughters to him. They collapsed together on the floor in tears of relief.

Fulcrom permitted them a brief period of privacy.

‘What’ve you got there?’ Fulcrom asked, walking over to Tane.

‘Take a look, old boy,’ Tane replied.

Out of the cheap glass window, Tane was dangling one of the hostage-takers by his collar, and pressing one claw against the back of his neck. The man’s feet kept kicking the side of the building in fear — it must have been at least a thirty-foot drop below.

‘I’m debating whether or not to let go,’ Tane declared cheerily, and loud enough so that the man would hear. ‘Any thoughts?’

The man outside whimpered.

‘We might get some answers out of this one,’ Fulcrom suggested. ‘I’m guessing Vuldon might not have been so kind to the others.’

As if rehearsed, Vuldon’s stomped into the doorway, a single fleck of blood on his cheek. ‘All done,’ he grunted.

‘Did you leave any alive?’ Fulcrom asked.

‘You didn’t say to,’ he replied. ‘Sorry.’

*

Feror and his family were returning with the Knights to the clifftop hideaway, in case the anarchists returned for revenge. The group started the return journey with their captive in tow, choosing more obscure routes to avoid detection. Fulcrom was aware that, as more time passed by, the scandal in the faked issue of People’s Observer would be having a greater influence on the people of Villjamur. Vuldon lugged their prisoner in a large hessian sack, deliberately dragging him along the cobbled roads, and doing his best to be as careless as he could.

They entered a small stone courtyard on the third level, and came across a religious ritual, with a priest of Bohr blessing a small crowd rammed between the high buildings, in front of his church.

‘Hey, stop!’ someone shouted at the rear of the gathering, peeling off to block their route. It was a man in his thirties with a thick leather tunic, stout boots and grey cloak. ‘Aren’t you lot the Knights?’

Fulcrom raised his Inquisition medallion, which glinted in the firelight. ‘Sele of Urtica, citizen. I’m afraid we’re in a hurry.’

‘It is — I recognize that one’s cat face,’ the man gestured towards Tane.

More people at the rear of the audience drifted nearer, surrounding them. Fulcrom turned to Feror and whispered, ‘You know the way. Get your family back.’

‘What about the others there — the cultists?’ Feror asked. ‘Will they lynch me for my betrayal?’

‘I’d revealed what had happened and said you weren’t to blame. You’ll just have to hope for the best in human nature.’

‘But-’

‘Just go!’ Fulcrom snapped, and the cultist guided his family away.

Fulcrom turned back to see that the crowd were now in their faces. Tane was stepping away, but Vuldon stood his ground. They were shouting things at him now. Someone held up a copy of People’s Observer, demanding to know why it had been kept a secret.

A young woman in a shawl asked Tane, ‘Is it true?’

Lie, damn you, Fulcrom thought.

‘Yes.’

‘Tane — you don’t have to tell them that.’

‘It’s been hanging over me for ages. I’d wager it’s better out in the open.’

You don’t know what people are like. They’re not interested in the truth, just being told what they want to hear.

There must have been thirty or forty in the mass, crowding just the three of them. They started to shout things at Tane: about his deception, blaming him personally for his parents’ role in slavery, saying he had no right to be here. Tane kept trying to talk his way out of it, to justify himself, but it was no good — there was no way he could be heard against their chorus of accusations.

And to Vuldon, who was still holding the captive in a sack, they simply spat at him and cursed him, blaming him for being a child-killer, saying he wasn’t fit to do his job, that he should just clear out.

Fulcrom watched the man-mountain stand there silently, not moving, barely responding — his vision had fixed onto some point above them, as he chose to ignore the torrent of abuse.

Or at least that’s what Fulcrom thought. Suddenly Vuldon screamed — an immense, bass roar — and everyone was stunned by his eruption. As people stared dumbly at him, Vuldon pushed through the crowd, knocking several of them to the ground and a woman cried out as her head hit the ground.