cities as desirable commodities. Branding, in fact.
Whether or not they were distracted by such a plenitude of trinkets, Brynd couldn't tell, but it seemed that the people here didn't care too much about the ice, let alone the threat of war. But that was the way of things: people concerned themselves with the small details rather than prophetic events.
This was no prison city: indeed what really made the difference was the absence of encircling walls, no sense of confinement. Buildings sprawled ever southwards, to dissolve gradually into farmland or forests. No tent city of refugees camped outside, like Villjamur. Nevertheless Brynd guessed they were probably crammed inside the community somewhere, hidden away within the large housing blocks, but well away from what was left of the old city.
Some of the traders had lit stoves so that passers-by would loiter around them for warmth and, given time, perhaps be tempted to buy something. Everywhere around them there was snow, on the roofs, on upturned crates, lining the walls of houses. People, garbed in furs and a few wearing masks, rooted through the stalls for the freshest catch of fish, and there always seemed to be a surprising amount of meat on display, given the city's circumstance, which was another thing Brynd couldn't fathom.
A small cluster of figures caught Brynd's eye.
The three of them were huddled next to a corner, examining something on the ground, while other citizens milled around them heading towards the iren or on their way towards the old harbour.
As the two soldiers now approached them, one looked up and saluted. She was a tall and lanky woman with a permanent expression of surprise etched on her face by age. Nevertheless pleasant-looking, she wore a tweed cloak with a muddied hem, and a fine-tailored tunic underneath, of the type of cut you just didn't see much any more. Under one arm was a battered old book, bound in brown leather.
She greeted Brynd. 'Sele of Jamur, sir!'
The other two looked up abruptly from their business. One man was chubby, with a moustache, a flat cap, and a serious look on his face; the other completely bald, stocky and savage-looking. Both wore layers of brown tweed, and neither of them reacted in the slightest to Brynd's unusual appearance, his albino skin, his red-rimmed eyes – as so many other people did.
'Sele of the day,' flat cap hailed, an older variation on the usual Empire greeting, and his voice was heavily accented from some place Brynd didn't recognize.
'Sele of Jamur. Can I check what the three of you are doing?' Brynd enquired.
The tall woman, clearly the leader of the group, stepped forward with an earnest smile. 'A little examination of old ley lines, dear sir.' Her voice was bass with age, and loaded with cheap charm. A quick gesture on her part steered Brynd's gaze towards a small tripod at the base of the wall, presumably a relic to judge by the metallic shimmer and the dials. At the top of it rested some kind of graded instrument, aimed at the faintest glow of red sun visible behind the clouds. These were cultists, surely.
'Nothing illegal, this?' Brynd asked, glancing towards Lupus. The private had his bow already slung across his shoulder, but he didn't think there would be need of it. These people seemed innocent enough.
'D'you hear that, Abaris?' She turned to flat cap, then back with her face creasing in smiles.
'Pah! Illegal, he says,' Abaris replied. 'Nah, nothing of the sort, lad. We're merely exploring some technology of the Ancients, ley lines and the like. Bit of lore stretches across this island – you know, myths and whatnot. All in all, we were rather hoping we could be of some use, given that the city might soon be having a few problems, like.'
The bald man remained utterly silent.
'We're from the Order of the Grey Hairs, sah!' Abaris confirmed. 'Last remaining cultists of various minor sects. United in the fact that, well… um, the rest of our lot are dead, more or less. Us old things is all that's left. And now at your service!'
Brynd and Lupus stared at one another, and the young private raised his eyebrows, stifling a smile.
'Do you reckon you can be of any use in the coming war?' Brynd asked. 'Can you hold a solid weapon well enough? There might be call for that, as we need everyone we can get.'
'Weapons have never been of much use to us, I confess,' the tall woman observed. 'But, we're not aiming on burning ourselves on a funeral pyre just yet, oh no. Here's our card, then. We've digs on the other side of the Ancient Quarter – so we're never far, should you need our assistance.'
'Very good.' Brynd smiled, placing the card in his pocket without really looking at it. 'Well, carry on. We may indeed need your help yet.'
Brynd shook his head and turned away, the three elderly cultists gazing back at them in a line as the soldiers departed. The two Night Guards resumed their patrols of Villiren, pondering if they could actually be of any use. Cultists were notoriously unreliable, unless they came from among those who had links with Imperial networks, and even those they did occasionally work with couldn't really be trusted. These three in particular seemed like crazies. His plans were best founded on solid facts and good probabilities – so, unless they could manufacture military weaponry of some kind, you couldn't hope to build a strategy around them.
*
Giant trilobites the size of dogs clicked along the streets, investigatincraps of food. They would lurch back and forth from people's paths, antennae waving in the air, giving some mild screech of alarm, beforinding some dark doorway in which to disappear. You didn't gehese creatures much further south than this, and he had missed theiccentric presence. Nearby hung a rack of their shell casings, ready to be sold as decorative armour to people with more money than sense.
Brynd had stressed to Lupus just how important it was to be seen in the city, to be visible at a time like this. People smiled at them, old men patted their backs, young boys watched in awe on seeing the finest of the Empire's soldiers here to offer support. They had to represent stability, show the citizens that everything would be all right – even if it wasn't. But everyone here seemed full of calm, and whenever he asked them about the ice, they simply shrugged.
One trader summed it up: 'Everyone's got problems, in't they, commander?'
*
'You can buy all sorts of junk here,' Brynd observed, indicating exotic pots, ornaments, chalcedony necklaces, paduasoy scarves. In their craftwork he could discern a mixture of cultural influences, from the tribes of other islands – maybe Folke, Blortath, even Varltung – to ancient designs of the Shalafar civilization, the Mathema who had been obsessed with mathematical precision.
Brushing a hand through his white hair, Brynd said, 'Odd place, this. I mean, we're near the seafront, where the streets are older, so you'd think there'd be some air of history at least…'
Lupus turned sharply, peering through the crowds.
'Trouble?' Brynd asked, his hand casually dropping on the hilt of his sabre.
'No,' Lupus panted. 'Nothing.'
'Didn't look like nothing judging by your reaction,' Brynd muttered. 'Don't want another Haust situation here, do we? Can do without you going missing, of all people. We'll be needing our best archer in the weeks to come.'
Days had passed since Private Haust had disappeared, another reason the soldiers were exploring this neighbourhood. Even if the Inquisition were working on the case, it was still worth keeping an eye out, because there might be some remains to discover, a boot, a strip of ripped material, someone who'd spoken to the victim before he vanished.
Eventually Lupus replied, 'Was nothing, really. I just thought I saw someone I recognized… Apologies, sir. Let's continue.'
Brynd could see patches of alien stonework now and then, the city betraying its age, a wall maybe that was out of place, buildings that denied the surroundings their coherency. Brynd was constantly assessing the layout of the streets, the vantage points, closed-off zones, those regions which were solid, and those that would eventually crumble. They'd been doing this survey for weeks, in preparation for war. The enemy was reported to be gathering in significant numbers on the island opposite, gearing up for a seaborne invasion. Combat would be here in a city if the surveillance was right, not on a battlefield like they were all trained for.
'Lupus Bel.'
Brynd looked up curiously; the young soldier seemed to recognize the voice even before he saw her. A tall woman was standing there – though a fraction shorter than Lupus himself. She was wrapped in a brown fur coat,
