Nights of Villjamur (43 page)

'I have received numerous requests from the Inquisition hierarchy about permitting Investigator Jeryd into the Council chambers for extensive questioning sessions. I am, however, wary of allowing such a move.'

'Certainly not, chancellor. I have taken moves already to ensure that Jeryd is sufficiently distracted.'

'Good.' Urtica scrutinized Tryst till the Inquisition aide felt nervous. 'Tell me, as his assistant, what do you yourself know about these murders?'

'Very little,' Tryst lied, 'because there isn't much to go on. It seems each councillor was hunted down with a purpose. By some savage creature, in each case.'

'Creature, you say.' Urtica's expression revealed surprise. 'Hmm, these are indeed strange times. I have had reports of the dead rising up to walk amongst the living . . . but that is strictly between you and I.'

'Of course, chancellor. Of course.'

'Our military operations must not be declared openly, though news will filter out eventually.'

'Who do we fight?' Tryst asked.

'The Varltungs. I'm slightly concerned not to have heard any further intelligence yet. The routine garuda flights have stopped. Not only that, but we've thousands of stinking refugees outside our fucking gates, living in their own sodding filth and disease. It's only a matter of time before their diseases reach into the city itself.'

'You have schemes in mind, sir?'

'Indeed I do, Tryst. Indeed I do. Another reason why I wanted you here was to pick your brains.'

Urtica walked to the door, opened it to check if anyone was around. He then locked it, drew Tryst into the furthest corner of the room. 'We swear to the Ovinists now,' he said, and Tryst understood what he meant.

Urtica placed an arm around Tryst's shoulders. 'Say our new Empress were to sign various decrees to . . .
eliminate
these refugees. Say she set things in motion secretly, and they were suddenly . . .
revealed
to the Council and the Inquisition. What would be the official outcome as denoted by the laws of the Empire?'

'Well . . .' Tryst began pondering the question, while he tried hard to recall his studies of the ancient and complicated laws of the Jamur Empire. 'It would be considered an act of conspiracy of genocide against her own people - against the free people of the Empire. At the very least she would be stripped of her title, and probably executed. But this all depends - wouldn't it be tantamount to a coup? How do we get the military on our side?'

'The military do not serve Rika directly. They never served Johynn either - they take orders from the Council, so as to prevent a dictatorship. That's why he never trusted any soldier apart from Commander Lathraea for most of the time. Don't worry - I have pacts in place with certain senior officers.'

Tryst felt proud at this sign of proximity to his Ovinist leader, infatuated by their closeness. The man had thought of everything. He was an inspiration.

'Now then, what I'm about to tell you will be extremely confidential. I will reward you with immense power after this is done, for I myself will ascend the ranks. At the very least you shall step from grade Minoris to Majoris . . .'

Power.

The dialogue had moved on, but the word still hung in the air like a noxious odour. Power was what he should have achieved in the Inquisition, and it was power that Jeryd had denied him simply because of his race. Power was what he wanted so badly, to prove himself worthy.

Tryst said, 'I will honour your confidence, Magus Urtica.'

'Good. Now, I fear this next discussion will require us to be somewhere even more private. Shall we?'

*

On one of the bridges overlooking the frosted spires, and well above this city suffocating under snow, Urtica discussed his concepts. It was to be a quick manoeuvre, a simple, brilliant plan. They would forge a decree of execution for the thousands of refugees, and have Rika's signature on it. He would say that it was signed in the presence of not only Urtica, but also Tryst as a casual member of the Inquisition. He would make it appear as if Rika was issuing an order for the Inquisition torturers to go about removing the refugees and killing them. He could say that the Lady Eir would be there too, and forge her signature as well. Kill two birds, as it were. Other Ovinists could join in on the fun and pretend to have been 'witnesses', and those members in the Council could say that they had been asked to consult her on logistical matters about removing corpses from the city on a large scale.

Forgery: such a blissful art.

Ancient laws would then spring into motion - that no ruler can harm those under the starred banner of the Empire - and Rika and Eir would be arrested. Then executed. Chancellor Urtica, now hero of the moment, would himself be Emperor - the first of a new lineage. The Jamur Empire would be finished. The Urtican Empire would begin. All the while, no one would really notice if, given the right amount of stealth,
Rika's plans
for removing the refugees went ahead . . .

Tryst felt satisfied as he looked upon his city. Felt proud to be involved with the genius that was Magus Urtica. Despite the Freeze, Tryst had suddenly regained a sanguine outlook on things.

'What d'you mean, war?' Dartun said, while chewing a honey-oat biscuit. He was in conversation with a flickering image beaming from a brass device beside him onto the snow in the shadow of a dead tree. The image was blurred, but recognizable was the voice of one of his order back in Villjamur.

'Papus has taken Guntar as a hostage,' the voice continued, while light quivered on the snow. 'She demands your presence.'

Dartun laughed before taking a last bite of the biscuit. He dusted the crumbs off his fuligin cloak, still considering their position. The air was still, but the temperature had dropped rapidly the further north they had sailed, but at least a relic had kept the worst of the weather away during this journey. Dartun had acquired a pack of dogs and a sailing vessel from some corrupt traders on the south coast of Y'iren - having ripped through empty space to get there - as far as he could manage with the help of his precious relics.

Last night he had dreamed of death, or so he supposed. In his sleep the sun had faded from red to something darker and dimmer, and then to nothing, till all around a city, Villjamur perhaps, the streets were blackened. Rows upon rows of torches burned to provide light, and frozen hands reached out all around to touch him. It was then he had woken and, not for the first time, he felt deeply connected to the world, and sensed that it, like him, was dying.

The dogs began howling further up the shore.

With Verain and his two most trusted cultists, Todi and Tuung, Dartun had travelled to the north-east of the Boreal Archipelago, sailing through the thick ice sheets as far as they could go. A dangerous way to travel, filled with breathless moments. Todi was young, blond and eager, offering a keenness that meant he was trustworthy. Tuung, however, was older and a balding little man with enough experience to have become cynical, with the need to think twice about matters; he constantly wore the expression of an angry tortoise. Both being of the same stocky build, there was something about their natures that made Dartun consider they could be father and son.

Sled was now the only way to travel since he had no relics enabling transportation. He had abandoned the last one just to get from Villjamur to Y'iren, thus saving himself the chore of travelling as far as the others must do with the undead. That meant Dartun couldn't simply rip through space to cross the islands any more, and dryly he contemplated the fact that he was becoming just like a lay person.

'This is serious,' the image on the snow declared, slipping in and out of focus, the voice strangely ambient. 'She's accused you of tampering with ancient laws regarding the use of Dawnir technology to do wrong. Started quoting a whole load of shit about regulations - it's very angry stuff, and could spiral out of control back here if we're not careful.'

'She's not really much of a threat,' Dartun muttered. 'I suspect this is more about jealousy than anything else.'

'Sir,' the image protested, 'they'll torture Guntar - kill him even. They now know how you've been raising corpses. She wants to unite all the other sects against us. If that happens, they may have us all killed. So what should we do?'

It was a situation he had anticipated, that Papus would be so self-righteous, as if she herself was the moral centrepiece of the Archipelago. He wondered vaguely how she had come to know of his animation of corpses. Those whose transformation was incomplete he had simply released, perhaps a careless decision, but he did not possess the heart to kill them, they were so very
nearly
life. But the problem with the undead was that they were so unreliable in their different states of decay. And even these failures were side-effects of his greater aim, to breed perfect undead men and women.

A private militia. His protection.

'Sit tight, and see what happens,' Dartun sighed. 'Let Papus make her moves if she wishes. It will bring her little benefit.'

'One final thing, Godhi,' the image communicated through static. 'That Randur Estevu, he says he's finally got the money together. I assume this was some private business of yours.'

'Yes, yes . . .' Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Dartun had very nearly forgotten the young man who wanted him to find a way to let his mother live.

'Well, he wants . . . know when he can pay . . .' The image flickered, and the voice became distorted before returning to clarity again.

'Did you just say he wants to know when he can pay me?'

'Yes,' the image replied.

'Right. OK, first you'll need someone who can gain access to my private chambers.' Dartun then recited information about assembling certain relics so that even from here he could have the Dawnir technology manipulated in the manner he wished. And it wasn't difficult, ironically, the grand concept of extending life, it was just that only he knew the correct procedure and had kept it to himself for as long as he could remember. None of his fellow cultists would realize what they were creating from following his instructions. Although the methods were clearly not permanent - as he knew all too well now - it might at least give this wretched woman a little extra life.

Dartun said, 'If he comes tell him the process will be ready in ten days or so. And I take it there's no issue with the others from the sect in bringing the undead out to me?'

'No, all is as you scheduled.'

'Very good.' Dartun now manipulated the device so that the projected image faded to nothing, and the air around him was filled with an absolute stillness. But Dartun couldn't work out why he felt a sudden nervousness; he assumed it might be because he was so near the final stages of what he fervently hoped to achieve. There was always that creeping suspicion that nothing would be at the end of his journey, merely a simple reaffirmation that he could not live forever no matter how he tried to engineer it.

*

Tineag'l: the mining island lying north of Y'iren, and here the massive mineral belt had long been a supplier of much of the Empire's metal ores, an old industry of long-suffering workers and slaves. Snow had fallen evenly across the tundra, its serenity undisturbed except when auks darted out of the thick larix forest, their ragged shapes bursting starkly across the horizon. Much of the island's northern shores had once been heavily populated with dozens of mining communities stretching far beyond the Ring of Iron, as the largest of the Empire's industrial regions was known. Towns and villages were composed of sprawling wooden structures rather than the grand stonework of Villjamur. Men covered in black dirt would drag their feet towards the mines whilst women in dowdy clothing would try to scrape a living providing stores and taverns and brothels. Tribal slaves were treated well, the Council would say of this place, better than if they were merely given poor wages. It was a poor argument to own another person, in Dartun's view, but seemed symptomatic of how things worked in the Jamur Empire.

It was difficult to avoid the detritus from decades of excavations, and the roads interlinking such places were little more than well-trodden paths. There was a continuing problem with wolves scavenging in the scraps of food and Dartun was amazed that people would choose to live here, but he supposed that the mines at least provided a livelihood of sorts.

Their group had passed around the outskirts of several such settlements, but there was now no one here to be seen. It wasn't what Dartun expected. Was this due to the Freeze? Was it now so cold here that the inhabitants had been forced to evacuate? It was unlikely, he thought. The richer or more desperate residents would have sought shelter in the Sanctuary City, definitely, but there were bound to be a few hardened types - rumel even, with their more resilient skins - that could survive a harsher environment. There were still deer around, so the farming communities should at least survive being here. But where the people were was a mystery.

'Dartun.' Verain trudged towards him through the thick snow, her arms elegantly extended to each side as she navigated cautiously.

Her eyes shone with excitement. 'We've found two hunters from the Aes tribe just up the way.' She gestured towards the shoreline. 'I think they can give news of why this island is deserted, although so far we can't quite understand one another.'