The Broken Isles (Legends of the Red Sun 4) (33 page)

‘It shouldn’t have been, um, able to do that . . .’ Jeza started.

‘Because it was dead in the first place, right?’ Fulcrom said.

Jeza nodded.

‘Did the grotesque come from here?’

Again, she nodded.

‘I’m guessing you sold it to someone,’ Fulcrom suggested. This didn’t look as if it was going to be his most demanding case to date.

‘I did, yes, but I really can’t tell you, because . . . because I want to keep all my clients a secret – cultists can’t do good business without confidentiality. We just
don’t tell.’

‘But you realize the consequences of us not finding out?’ Fulcrom asked, thinking she was showing signs of having been intimidated. ‘This might not be a one-off incident. This
might be at the heart of something more sinister, and the commander has asked me to find out who did it.’

‘I can’t help you!’ Jeza said, raising her voice with nervousness.

‘Look. Hundreds of people are panicking. There could be great social unrest. The commander has had dozens of worried parents protesting about their children’s safety.’

‘They’re not under threat though – it’s all staged,’ Jeza suggested meekly.

‘It doesn’t matter, it’s the fact that they’re being used as a tool. We just want one name, that’s all. No one will know and you’ll be doing a service to the
whole city.’

‘You promise you won’t let the trail get back to me?’ she asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘You have the word of the Inquisition,’ Fulcrom replied confidently. ‘As well as the commander.’

‘And you’ll go – if I give you his name, you’ll go. No more questions?’

Fulcrom nodded.

‘OK.’ Jeza leaned in close to whisper. ‘His name is Malum. That’s all I know.’

With that, she said a hasty goodbye before closing the door on them.

Fulcrom turned back with Lan to find their horses.

‘Well, that was simple enough,’ Lan said.

‘She was scared of him, this Malum,’ Fulcrom replied thoughtfully. ‘That was one defiant young woman, and if she created that monster, she doesn’t frighten easily. Now to
find out who this Malum fellow is, and what he is up to.’

*

Jeza dashed inside, breathing heavily, and sat down at the kitchen table while the familiar noises within the factory echoed around her. There was the whirr of machines working
somewhere, relics churning out cultist energy; then came the guttural call of one of their creatures. She closed it all out and put her head in her hands and took deep breaths.

Coren came down the stairs with a few flecks of blood on his face. ‘Hey, what was that all about then?’

‘I did something I think I shouldn’t have.’

‘Bad enough to bring the Inquisition to our door? What did you do?’

‘I sold one of the dead grotesques.’

‘A dead one?’

‘To that guy – who wants monsters made like we’re doing for the commander.’

‘That’s not so bad. Hell, it means we don’t have to deal with cleaning up after it.’

‘I know, but he used it to scare people in an iren – put a body and blood all over the place apparently. I think he was trying to use it to cause trouble. Will you promise not to
tell anyone?’ She could feel the tears in her eyes now.

Coren moved around to put his arm over her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe.’

‘I didn’t think it’d do any harm, and I thought we could just make a little extra money on the side. I’m not sure we should deal with him any longer.’

*

Fulcrom and Lan headed into a questionable tavern on the edge of the Ancient Quarter. It was run-down, with paint peeling off the sign, a shutter missing from one of the
windows, and graffiti plastered up along one of the walls – but it seemed busy enough that Fulcrom thought it’d be a good place to begin inquiries. Lan and Fulcrom headed to the bar.
‘Keep an eye out for any trouble,’ he whispered, and she nodded her understanding.

‘Got a blade in my boot,’ she replied, before glancing around.

At the counter, Fulcrom eventually caught the attention of the barman, a tall, skinny man, with greying hair and a large moustache.

‘A moment of your time,’ Fulcrom said. ‘We’re new to the city and just want a quick word.’

‘Time’s money to me,’ the barman said, wiping his hands on his apron.

Fulcrom reached into his pocket and drew out a couple of coins, which he slapped on the bar. ‘This’ll do?’

‘Now that’s how we work around here – welcome to Villiren,’ the barman said, pocketing the money.

‘We’re actually looking for someone, an old acquaintance of ours.’

‘Whassis name?’

‘Malum,’ Fulcrom declared.

The barman’s expression darkened in a heartbeat. He took a deep breath, considering his words, before replying. ‘You really a friend of his?’

‘We did a lot of trade together.’ Fulcrom decided to use his fear against him. ‘You don’t seem too happy with Malum. Maybe that’s something I should tell him when I
catch up, that the barman at this establishment does not like him . . . I know he’ll not like that.’

‘No, no, tell him nothing, please,’ the barman replied. ‘Look, you’re in the wrong part of town if you’re trying to get back in touch with him. Y-you can find him
at the other end of the Ancient Quarter, round the nicer parts.’

‘Give me the name of a tavern,’ Fulcrom demanded.

‘Try the Partisans’ Club. Don’t tell him anything about this place.’

‘Sure.’ Fulcrom smiled. ‘Thanks for your time.’

Fulcrom and Lan moved through the crowd of customers, and eventually back outside.

‘This Malum’s reputation seems pretty terrifying,’ Fulcrom observed. ‘What I don’t understand is why someone who might be powerful, with a fearsome reputation, is
operating behind the scenes at the iren. What do they hope to gain by such an act?’

‘Power, perhaps? Through fear. It’s the same kind of thing we saw in Villjamur all the time.’

‘Power through fear,’ Fulcrom repeated with a sigh. ‘This is how the world works at nearly every level.’

*

They moved their investigation to the Ancient Quarter and found the doorway to the Partisans’ Club, but it wasn’t open until much later in the evening. The district
seemed much busier, the buildings having been less affected by the war. The large Onyx Wings towered up beyond the rooftops a few streets away. There were some taverns, a theatre, plenty of
shopfronts.

Waiting for the Partisans’ Club to open, they took a break, choosing to sip tea at a large bistro with dark wood floors and large arched windows. After Fulcrom overheard mention of the
incident in the iren, both he and Lan discreetly tried to listen to the conversations between the other patrons, to hear if Malum’s name was mentioned, but it wasn’t. People mainly
talked about their mundane lives, about their small concerns, affairs between lovers, problems at work, gossip – nothing of value. So they just enjoyed the quiet moment in a warm
building.

Stepping outside into the sleet, Lan pointed out a poster nailed to a noticeboard. ‘Take a look at this.’

He glanced at the headline. ‘“Aliens invade Villiren”,’ he read, in bold lettering that had begun to run in rainwater. ‘It looks like it’s advertising a
meeting of sorts.’

‘Yeah, the date at the bottom. It’s for the day after tomorrow.’

Underneath the heading, it read: ‘There is a growing crisis south of the city. Aliens threaten our culture and our people. They want to take over our city and leave us out in the
wilderness. They are creatures who have no respect for our ways. There are reports of them taking children from the Wastelands, for them never to be seen again. Unite, citizens, against this evil.
Resist the tyranny that lurks around the corner. Come to the meeting in the basement of the Partisans’ Club and learn the secrets the military refuse to discuss. Learn about your future. Take
control back. Free our people.’

Fulcrom read to the end of the poster and laughed. ‘This is ridiculous, right? No one can take this seriously.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Lan indicated a similar-looking poster across the street, nailed to the door of a closed butcher’s shop. Three scruffy-looking men were gathered
around, reading it closely, nodding to themselves.

‘I think we should go,’ she said. ‘Let’s say that the scene in the iren was caused, as you say, to create the illusion something was coming into the city – this
sort of meeting looks like the same kind of strategy, trying to whip the people into excitement over the issue.’

‘You’re right,’ Fulcrom said. ‘I guess Malum’s been a busy man.’

Brynd rode out through the morning mist with two other members of the Night Guard, out of the city’s southern limits and towards the alien encampment. The journey was
becoming a routine, a well-trodden path, but that didn’t make his nervousness vanish. Each time he arrived there were more exotic creatures, more unfathomable languages, and the realization
that somehow they all had to fit in to the fabric of the Archipelago.

His two companions, Brug and Mikill, were consulting him on the size of their own military. The latest figures showed that they had, somehow, built up a force of over a hundred thousand warriors
in military stations and training camps assembling on Folke now, where they were undergoing an intense training regime as per the Imperial rulebooks.

‘This is good,’ Brynd called out. ‘This is very good. What about grain?’

‘Fine for the moment,’ Mikill said. ‘We’ve got the cultists working on speeding up the crops even further, which should guarantee future yields if this next campaign
turns out to be a long one.’

‘Good. What about increasing the military force even further – alliances with the tribes, conscription, and so on.’

‘We’ve not had to resort to conscription yet,’ Brug replied. ‘My gut instinct tells me it’s a bad thing.’

‘Then I believe it is a bad thing,’ Brynd agreed. ‘I suppose a forced warrior is never a good one anyway, and will desert us at the earliest opportunity.’

‘As for the tribes,’ Brug continued, ‘several communities have offered to help – in exchange for gold.’

‘What the hell do they want with gold?’ Brynd asked. ‘They’re usually after nothing but bone, meat and fabric when they’re not fighting.’

‘They’re becoming savvy,’ Brug replied, smiling. ‘They say they want to stockpile gold, to buy food and clothing in the new culture. And – get this –
property. Some are willing to surrender their nomadic ways.’

‘How can they know of the new plans?’ Brynd asked.

‘They’re not stupid,’ Brug replied. ‘They’ve got trackers all over the island reporting back.’

‘How many does that add to the force then?’ Brynd asked.

‘Between twenty to fifty thousand, if the negotiations go well. We’ve promised them the gold, but it’s up to you whether or not we actually do that, or if it goes . . .
missing.’

‘We’ll keep to our word,’ Brynd replied.

‘Sir?’

‘We will keep to our word,’ he repeated. ‘Just let me know in future before you give away what’s sitting back in those vaults.’

*

The soldiers arrived at their destination with the sun high above the encampment, casting a red-orange glow across the scene. Rows of tents now stretched to three times as far
as when Brynd had seen them first, and it was more than just an awe-inspiring sight: it was a hugely intimidating one. This was a civilization that had just inserted itself alongside his own.
Though they had – and would still – fight side by side, the thought struck Brynd that they might one day disagree. And then what?

They were met by a unit of human guards, which – as it was explained to them in crude and broken Jamur – was a gesture of welcome. The men wore red tunics and bright armour, with the
sun emblem etched into the surface. Other than that, they wore stout boots, but little to ward off the cold. It didn’t seem to bother them.

‘How many humans live in your world?’ Brynd asked optimistically.

‘Some millions,’ came the reply. ‘Fewer after the fighting.’

The men marched them through to meet with Artemisia. It surprised him, then, just how similar military camps smelled. There were now sturdier, more permanent-looking structures than tents:
wooden temples crafted in elaborate designs, with all sorts of banners and insignias across the framework. People drifted in and out of wide lanes; patrols of foot soldiers – humans and rumel
and the more exotic shambling creatures – which seemed to enforce a reassuring sense of discipline. There were metalworkers and weapons manufacturers, cooks and priests, in fact there were so
many shared similarities between the cultures it was strange to think that they had been separated for so many millennia.

Eventually they met with Artemisia in one of the wooden temples and, as they were sitting on cushions around an ornate brazier, the group partook of sweet-flavoured drinks. Guards surrounded
them in a circle, but it didn’t seem at all threatening. Time stretched out. There was patience and consideration to the ceremonies. Artemisia stared into the flames of the brazier before
issuing her greetings in full.

‘So the white-skinned commander visits today,’ she said. ‘Welcome. How shall we begin today’s discussion?’

‘What did you do to Rika?’ Brynd demanded.

‘I am not sure that I follow you fully, commander.’

‘Recently we have caught Jamur Rika engaged in very strange behaviour. Not only were there reports of her eating flesh, but we found her scaling the external walls of the Citadel in
Villiren. We are now forced to keep her imprisoned – for everyone’s benefit – in a cell, like a common thief.’

Artemisia nodded slowly.

‘She’s insane, now, and we’ve very good reason to believe the origin of the problem was on your ship.’

Artemisia remained silent, her blue face impassive. She lifted her cup in huge hands to drink from it. ‘It is that Randur Estevu who speaks too much.’

‘He told us what we needed to know. Now, could you please share with us what is going on with the woman we supposedly both want to lead our cultures?’

‘It is partially, I believe, my fault. And partially, I believe, her own.’