Nights of Villjamur (42 page)

Still Papus loved her work. What made her feel alive was the thrill that she might discover something completely unknown on any day, that she might then understand the universe better than anyone, that she might occasionally assist the advance of civilization in some small way.

And all the time, in the background, Dartun was quietly making a mockery of her.

People whispered about the Equinox. They gave cultists a bad reputation. There were questions regarding their ethics. But, knowing how Dartun liked to perpetuate his own myth, she had ignored the tittle-tattle up to a point.

Now he had gone too far.

He'd tampered with the fabric of life, and it was now a public affair. If he was indeed raising the dead, he had to be stopped soon. If what the girl, Verain, had claimed was true, then he was messing with basic universal configurations. There were codes of behaviour as old as the city, amongst the cultists, insisting that they should consult each other on controversial matters.

If Dartun's order wouldn't respond to her demands that he divulge any activities to do with raising the dead, then it would be tantamount to a declaration of war.

There hadn't been strife between cultists for thousands of years, ever since the original disagreements that had spliced them into their separate orders.

Things were suddenly looking complicated.

She sighed. This was not like in her youth, all those years ago on Ysla. The cultists' isle had been unlike any other island in the Archipelago in geological, botanical, or entomological terms. Its climate was warmer, for a start. But then it had been augmented so much by the various cultists inhabiting it using their relics that it no longer much resembled the island the original Dawnir had created. Lush green meadows, ridges of igneous rocks, crescents of beautiful white beaches, deciduous trees budding and shedding in rhythm with the artificial seasons. And those open blue skies always visible from the hilltops. All the cultist orders were entitled to have use of land there. Their different divisions possessed lodges scattered around, or gathered in village complexes, where their members were able to interpret relics in comparative solitude.

It now seemed a world away.

Her mind drifted back to Dartun, and then she made her decision. His tampering with the forces of life and death was simply wrong, and his reckless opening of doors to new worlds posed a risk to all these islands lying under the light of the red sun. Clearly, it was her responsibility to bring him to justice.

*

Through the dark alleyways, where the city's snow-scrapers hadn't yet ventured with their shovels, she marched with the letter she had resolutely composed. No lanterns around these parts of the city, but it was a clear evening, and the twin moons illuminated the treacherous snow clearly. Glowing paths stretched in front of her. Although not particularly late, there was no one else visible, few footprints. There were obviously better places to be than out in the cold. One hand was buried in her pocket, wrapped around her ultimatum. She had to present it in person, alone, but several steps behind her were other members of her order, armed with
sterkr
relics. She was not quixotic about this business. She wanted some protection, but did not want her arrival to seem intimidating. Not yet.

Papus reached the inconspicuous entrance, knocked several times before a hatch slid back aside and a frosty welcome was muttered.

'I want to see Dartun Sur, as a matter of urgency,' she demanded.

'Not gonna happen without an invitation,' came the response.

'If you don't let me see him urgently, it will mean a massive rift between our orders,' she said, and slipped the missive through the bars.

'Hang on,' the voice murmured, then whoever was behind the door was no longer there. Papus waited in the cold, reflecting that Dartun was probably on some far-off island as Verain had suggested.

Eventually, the door opened, and one of the Equinox stood facing her.

'He's not here,' he said, her letter visible in his hands.

'Where is he then?'

In the poor light of the doorway she barely perceived his shrug.

'I want some bloody answers. Maybe you can help me instead.'

'Listen, lady, I don't know what you're after. I told you, I'll give him your message when he returns.'

'You're not following,' Papus snapped, discreetly dropping a relic from her sleeve into her hand. 'I'm not going anywhere until someone senior from your order talks to me.'

'I just told you . . .' he began menacingly.

Papus thrust the relic towards him, a bolt of purple light crackling around his body, an electrifying net.

His mouth opened wide, displaying a scream, but no sound came out. After a moment he collapsed onto the floor in soundless agony.

The letter of warning drifted down beside him as she leaned over his body and pulled the door behind him. Then she slid the ultimatum underneath it, as bolts of energy continued to skim around the rival cultist. By now, members of her own order exited the deep night and hooked ropes around the fallen man, and dragged him back down the snow-filled alley, all the time sparks of purple light radiating about his writhing form.

'An eye for an eye,' she said with satisfaction as, at the narrow opening of the alleyway, she crouched to deposit another device that fired a single sheet of purple light across the ground. The light disappeared to leave the snow untouched, deleting all marks of their presence there.

Snow continued to fall leisurely as if it had all the time in the world.

'Where's the big freak?' Apium said, before yawning and stretching with the grace of a tramp, astride his black horse.

'I take it you mean Jurro?' Brynd said, after considering for a moment that he himself was the freak, or maybe Kym - men who loved other men, and who'd be killed if discovered. He could never shake off the paranoia.

A unit of troops was assembling between the inner two gates of Villjamur. Brynd had ordered for twenty of the Night Guard, which included some new promotions from the best of the Dragoons, recruited after a little necessary training. There had been a night of induction, as cultists from the Order of the Dawnir used their skills to enhance the new recruits' physical capabilities, their sight, their hearing, their resilience. Brynd had forgotten just what ministrations the Night Guard had to endure in their first evening joining the elite.

Brynd had ordered up a hundred men and women of the Second Dragoons, and a hundred of the First, all of them mounted on horseback and battle-ready within half an hour. Also he was waiting for a Dawnir cultist to join them.

The horses shifted on the muddied ground. The temperature having plummeted even further recently, Brynd wore several layers of clothing, with a fur cloak draped across his shoulders. He guided his horse in front of the assembled Night Guard. Like himself, they were uncertain as to what sort of combat they were expecting. No reliable news had materialized, no first-hand reports from trustworthy sources. All the information they possessed so far were recycled rumours of grotesque beasts tearing down towns and villages, mercilessly slaughtering everything in sight. As his troops chatted idly to relieve themselves of anxiety, the sound of hooves on the cobbled streets beyond informed him that support was now arriving.

The Dragoons were arrayed in full battle splendour, rousing an inevitable sense of military pride in Brynd. They came off the cobbles onto the snow-covered mud. Beneath their furs, metal glistened in the morning light: body armour and chain mail, nothing ornamental, but simply designed for fighting with efficiency. Spears protruded over shields, swords hung at sides. Within moments they had lined up, awaiting Brynd's commands. And through the gates rode a lone cultist, clothed elegantly in black. The magician rode forward with casual arrogance, bringing his horse up alongside Brynd's.

'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd greeted this new arrival, noticing the cultist was female. She had a weathered face and sunken blue eyes as if she was prey to some addiction.
Have they given me a magic junkie?
he wondered.

The cultist returned the greeting. 'So, when do we leave?' Her voice was weirdly elegant.

'As soon as our friend the Dawnir arrives,' Brynd confirmed. 'Have you brought much of your technology?' Her horse was loaded with considerable baggage.

'Enough,' she replied, eyeing the gathered soldiers. 'Why aren't we sailing from the city docks?'

'Because ice sheets have already formed on Jokull's northern shores, to some extent, and navigating those waters will be difficult. It will be much quicker to sail from the east side of the island. I didn't catch your name by the way?'

'My name is Blavat, commander.'

'Well then, Blavat, it seems we are now ready to leave.' He nodded towards the gate. The Dawnir hovered there nearly having to crouch under it.

Brynd began to walk his horse forward to greet the creature.

'Commander Brynd Lathraea!' Jurro shouted across the intervening distance. Four crows sprung suddenly from the walls, and burst in a ragged flight away from the city as the Dawnir's plangent voice echoed around the confined space between the gates. 'Sele of Jamur! I have brought some clothing and some books to read on the way, but did I need anything else?'

'Sele of Jamur, Jurro. No, you'll do fine as you are.'

The giant approached, casting a great shadow over Brynd. All the assembled troops stared in amazement at the creature's size, its curious goat-like head, its tusks. By now a throng of citizens had also gathered, staring and pointing. You could hear the squeals of children as they set eyes on this curious piece of history. Few people there would've had the intelligence to recognize this apparition as the sole survivor of the Ancient race.

'Are you all set, Jurro?' Brynd enquired.

The creature paused to contemplate the question in a slow exaggerated manner. 'Yes, I am. I'm looking forward to our little adventure.'

'You realize the danger of our mission?' Brynd warned. 'This isn't a holiday. You're not obliged to--'

The Dawnir raised one massive, hairy hand to silence the commander, leaving Brynd vaguely insulted, though he knew Jurro meant no harm. 'I have longed for years to leave this city, having almost been a prisoner at the Empire's invitation for far too long. They kept me sweet with endless studies, but there is no use reading about the world from a book, when one can see it with one's own eyes.' He prodded a chunky digit under his own eye, as if Brynd didn't know what an eye was.

'Looks like we're all set then.' Brynd pulled his horse back, and trotted alongside the ranks of the soldiers. They presented a solid display of the military force that had kept the Empire intact for generations.

Orders were given for the gates to open, and the Imperial troops rode out of Villjamur. Faintly, Brynd could hear the cheers of the populace left behind, as their troops set off to engage in some far-off battle. It seemed one of those patriotic reactions that had echoed through the ages. Or perhaps the people were cheering because for the first time in ages there was a tradition to cheer about.

As soon as the outer gate was opened, the refugees crowded around the emerging battalions. Overflowing faeces from the latrines and smoke from pit fires combined to provide an intense odour, while behind them their tents stretched across the tundra like a city of cloth. Dogs ran in purposeless circles, ducking under hung-up washing that had frozen solid and didn't even move in the wind. The muddied road to the east stretched right alongside this hellish encampment. Grubby men wrapped in innumerable layers of rags pawed at the horsemen pleadingly, while the sight of a mother carrying her dead child in a sling was almost too much to bear. Brynd suspected that his guilt at ignoring them would come back to haunt his dreams. Everywhere there was hopelessness.

*

'These refugees . . .' Chancellor Urtica stood at the window, focusing his gaze through the spires towards those camped outside the gates of Villjamur. 'They annoy me somewhat.'

Tryst stepped out of the shadows. 'You wish them to be eliminated now, sir?'

Urtica peered back at him, still gripping the windowsill. 'Timing is everything, my dear fellow. Indeed timing is everything. Of course, I wish them gone, disposed of, because they're a blight on the Empire. Remember this city is a city of legends. Long have poets written about the nights of Villjamur. We can't have their like here, no.'

'And your plan?' Tryst asked. 'Is this why you asked me here?'

'One of the reasons, certainly,' Urtica said. 'But I also wondered how you were getting along with our little friend, the rumel investigator.'

'Not bad,' Tryst said. 'He's keeping very quiet about the murders. Makes me think he knows something. He doesn't usually keep everything quite
this
silent, though.'

Urtica said, 'You suspect he'll find the murderer?'

'I'm certain of it,' Tryst said, hoping he could mask the fact that he himself had caught her already. Once he had finished with Tuya, he'd make sure she was arrested and executed, but meanwhile he had his own schemes to pursue. Yes, timing
was
everything. In the meantime he didn't want to consider his actions a betrayal of Urtica's trust.