much of the rest of the city: it would make the meat reek as it went off.
As far as private workspaces went, this was a large area, perhaps fifty strides wide. Before Voland had moved in, it was utilized for housing livestock – that was before the meat supplies ran out as the encroaching ice crippled surrounding smallholdings, followed by the larger, industrial farms who were not supported by cultists. That had meant the abattoir was a cheap property to purchase.
It had been designed for animals to enter at one end then flow around narrow, curving passages, so they could never see what lay ahead of them or be able to turn around. Those complex lanes now stood empty, with only the echo of a smell to remind him of some poor animal shambling here dumbly towards its fate.
There had been a separate area for slaughtering the beasts. During exsanguination, channels and gullies had carried excess blood into external drains, which in turn exited via a natural slope into the sea. Pullers were fixed to the wall for removing the hides. There were areas for collecting solid waste, which would be taken to the pig farmers south of the city, and a couple of large cauldrons for plunging carcasses to make the skin easier to remove. The coldest room of all was separate and deep, well away from the external walls, so that any bodies stored for a day or two might not rot too quickly.
Nanzi's latest haul lay waiting on the entrance table in the first room he entered. No sooner had he stepped into its cube of darkness than the Phonoi appeared. The Phonoi were his reward for a successful operation on the daughter of a landowner on Blortath. That place being near the cultists' island, Ysla, Voland assumed they were based on some relic. The father had been a traveller and explorer, but never once said that the Phonoi were anything to do with the ancient technology. He had said folklore suggested they were simple spirits, from another time entirely, perhaps even another dimension. They would serve the owner of the lead box in which they travelled, now Voland, and upon release they would do whatever he wished of them, as if interpreting his thoughts. But he preferred to keep them free, surfing the air currents, in case anyone should venture down here and discover his activities. He could only imagine what damage they would do to intruders.
'Good morning, Doctor Voland,' they now said. The shapes swirled like the constituents in a drink being mixed, never really taking form unless they needed to.
'Good morning,' another cooed.
'How are you?'
'Grand, thank you,' Voland replied.
'Wonderful!' they said.
'Lovely!'
'A lovely morning, too!'
Voland said, 'I haven't looked outside yet. Is it snowing?'
'No, doctor, no. The skies, they are clear today. It is as if the ice age didn't even want to be here.'
There was some wisdom in that. Voland, ever a practical man, could not accept the ice age – a strange phenomenon, and one that didn't sit right with him. Sometimes there would be a warm current of air that felt more natural, as if that was what the weather should have been. Then it was beaten away by chill force.
'Would you help me', Voland enquired, 'with the latest two? Nanzi brought them in last night.'
'Of course, Doctor Voland, of course!' The Phonoi assumed vague definition against the darkness of the room, only a fraction of light penetrating from outside, but it caught their form, their fabric. Now like wraith-like children, they swooped down on the corpses, a man and a woman, unwrapped them from Nanzi's silk, then transported them, so that a less keen eye might think they floated across the room of their own accord.
As they accelerated around the innermost room, the Phonoi's energy heated the cauldron, flames rapidly bringing the water to the boil. The two corpses were dropped in, momentarily, then hauled out again while Voland selected knives from the wall. They were both hung up from the ceiling, and Voland began his work of removing their skin, extracting the organs and offal, then choosing the finest cuts of meat. The most dangerous incision was the first, through the chest and downwards, because if you were not careful there was a danger of the blade slipping into a vital artery in your own thigh. With such an injury, many a man had bled to death on an abattoir floor. Attentively, he set to work.
Two hours later, Voland had stored enough meat to feed an entire street for the week to come, off-cuts and steaks and offal all placed into separate containers. Once he had scrubbed the chamber and spruced himself up, he set out towards the iren. There, he would provide the traders with something they could sell cheaply. For the people. All via that young Malum character, of course; he was the main buyer, had contacts all over the city, methods of ensuring that this meat was sold to the needy. Voland would have felt better if he didn't know about Malum's other dealings. Drugs, protection from so-called tribal raids and other gangs, widespread theft, unnecessary violence. Distant rooftop executions. It was indeed very uncivilized, but all Voland could do was think about feeding the poorer sort, and maybe helping them to live for longer.
He himself was doing a good thing.
THIRTY-ONE
Venturing through the thick shafts of betula bark, they rode into a vast clearing. Ruins were scattered over in one corner, shattered and snow-crested fists of granite, remains from a time he had no understanding of. Two decayed totems were carved out of this age-blighted stone, their giant, open-mouthed faces forever staring up at the sky. Birds perched on top of them, scrutinizing the travellers' progress underneath.
Beyond this growth of secondary vegetation there was yet more snow, with ferns or tufts of grass emerging. Their route through the forest had been shaded from the colder winds, so this was a significantly more bearable section of the journey, especially whenever the sunlight burst down, illuminating the intensity of the colours all around. It was about a hundred paces to the other end of this clearing where a sinister stillness lingered. It was if they were being perpetually watched. Maybe these were totems that have seen sacrifice in a previous era, Randur thought. Maybe we're being followed by ghosts…
He urged the sisters forward, while Munio lagged behind, forever glancing around himself.
'Perhaps we should remain here for a while,' Munio called out, searching for the sun. The skies had cleared momentarily, and the swordmaster was scanning the elements to interpret time and direction. 'It's about midday, and we're well on course. Let us rest a little while. You young things set too speedy a pace for old Munio.'
'I could still go on for a bit,' Randur replied. 'Ladies?'
Eir nodded assent, silent and unreadable. She slid off the horse she shared with her sister and clasped the hilt of her sword. She seemed to be holding on to the blade as if that was all she had left. Every day she practised swordplay, every day she improved. Randur was impressed with how much she'd changed since leaving Villjamur. If only he could have something else to focus on other than worrying about her protection. His mind was falling apart without the distraction of other people and the busy city.
'I'm fine,' Rika declared, although she seemed spectacularly fragile. She wasn't well-built by any means, and how she managed to cope out here in these harsh conditions was beyond him. Probably retreating into whatever castle she's constructed in her head with all that spiritual-discipline crap of hers.
'I'm too old!' Munio grunted theatrically as he sat down on a fallen tree. There was something unusual about his face as he peered between the trees, towards the sun, then back.
'What's wrong?' Randur asked.
'Nothing, young Kapp.'
Randur had been feeling paranoid for a while, and the old man's anxious gaze did nothing to lighten this mood. A sudden rush of noise from within the trees, and Randur spun immediately, drawing his sabre. Nothing was visible but the vacant dampness of the forest, layers of dark brown and green, and the patches of snow.
'Munio?' Randur glanced around again. Munio remained seated, his face pressed into his hands.
Breaking twigs.
The clunk of metal.
An arrow shaft thumped into the nearest tree, forcing Rika to jump back, startled.
'Jamur Rika, Jamur Eir,' the voice boomed across the clearing. 'This is Sergeant Howls of the Eleventh Dragoons. A hundred soldiers of the Regiment of Foot surround you. Please, cooperate with us, and let's be on our way.'
