‘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.’
TWENTY — TWO
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
