his mop of silver hair across to the left — always to the left.
For a rumel he was still young, but had recently felt deeply unsatisfied with his life. Well, with his work at least. He had been a full investigator for a decade now, but when he’d worked with old Investigator Jeryd on one of his darkest cases, things had changed dramatically for him. Villjamur had been — still was — plagued by refugees, and there had been a plot to dispose of them in the tunnels under the city, in what amounted to genocide. Urtica was at the core of it, but he had blamed it on the then-Empress Rika. Only Jeryd and Fulcrom knew of these events, but couldn’t prove anything, couldn’t tell a single person. All they could do was rescue the refugees from execution, only to release them back outside, beyond the walls of the city, into the hostile ice. Time dragged by, and one by one, the refugees probably perished of hypothermia or disease or starvation. Meanwhile, no one in Villjamur knew what had happened to Jamur Rika since she fled the city with her sister just before she was due to be executed. There had been no reports on her progress, and he was wary of enquiring through any official channels, just in case anything untoward should happen to him. There are some questions you just don’t ask…
Ever since then, Fulcrom had found it difficult to believe there was much justice to be found in Villjamur. It certainly wasn’t like the stories that inspired him as a kid, or like the notions that MythMaker peddled in those sketches. Back then he’d loved those tales of slick and smooth investigators stalking the evening in search of villains.
Fulcrom put on a clean undershirt, a formal shirt then an over-cloak. His top-floor apartment on the fifth level of the city was not too close to the raucous bars, but near enough to where things went on in the city.
A pterodette gave a reptilian squawk outside his window, and he took a glance out to regard the cityscape beyond, as the green creature flapped its scaly wings and darted up into the cloud-base. The view from his window was impressive: turrets and spires and bridges, thousands of years of architecture, and low sunlight that forced half of Villjamur into shadow. The octagonal structure of the Astronomer’s Glass Tower glittered from above the roofs of the opposite buildings.
A final look in the mirror, a quick adjustment of his collar and, picking up his Inquisition medallion, he set off for work.
*
Villjamur was still dripping after the previous night’s snow — not as much as usual, which led Fulcrom to question if the ice age was just an empty threat of the politicians. For years people had talked of the coming of the ice, what the causes might have been, and what it now meant. Imperial astronomers had given their predictions and, staying true to them, temperatures had plummeted, but just recently, there seemed to be a recovery. No matter how cold it was, people always ventured outside, every day, as if in bloody-minded defiance.
Like some ancient beast, Villjamur woke from its slumber. Little streams of smoke drifted up from chimney tops. Granite blended into patches of time-eroded limestone.
Citizens milled around backstreets and main avenues, a blur of furs, cloth and boots. Traders, some of whom were draped in cheap gold, strode half asleep to the irens at Gata du Oak, hauling handcarts or, if they were lucky, leading horses loaded up with wares. All along Matr Gata, pots were simmering with oysters, dumplings, breads stuffed with offal, the vendors regarding the street with bored glances and calling out prices. From the back of a converted caravan a member of the Aes tribe was giving an illegal shell reading. Only one religion was permitted in the Empire, the Jorsalir tradition — a pact that bound the church and state together — and as soon as Fulcrom approached him, the tribesman, who was wearing furs and a number of teeth around his neck, packed up his accoutrements and smiled his apologies before backing off down an alleyway.
A jingle of chains and something was launched up to a high open window to the side of the massive ornate facade of the Hotel Villjamur. A pretty grey-skinned rumel girl stepped down its faded gold-edged steps, wearing a blue cloak and matching head-scarf, and she smiled at Fulcrom as he walked past. Kids scampered by, and one of them arced a snowball that splattered against a window pane of the Dryad’s Saddle inn, narrowly missing Fulcrom as he slipped and slid his way to one of the bridge staircases.
The bridges themselves began to vibrate under the strain of activity. Any ice that had formed overnight peeled itself away from the city’s high places to plummet towards the ground. Much of it ricocheted off slate roofing, stalling its descent, but some thick chunks clattered into the cobbles, narrowly missing people. Every day someone would be killed or seriously injured. It was also starting to cause massive structural damage, accelerating the ageing of the stone, pushing cracks in masonry further apart. The ice was bringing the city to its knees.
Fulcrom’s relationship with Villjamur was uneasy. Born and raised in the city, he had a strong affinity for the place, and the beauty was here to see every morning; but he knew there were other sides to it. Out here, on the levels of the city before Balmacara, people were well-to-do, healthy, stayed on the right side of the law, and had something of a decent existence. The buildings were beautiful — thin, three- or four-storey constructions, painted in a variety of weather-worn shades.
But there was also Caveside, a larger section of the city, one hidden from view. Hundreds of thousands of people lived in Villjamur, but the majority of them suffered in relative darkness. Fulcrom had heard tell that most of the residents had descended from the cave dwellers who had lived there before the city was founded eleven thousand years ago. It was the oldest part of the city and very few people ventured from one sector to the other. If the rumours were to believed, it was like hell on earth.
*
Fulcrom criss-crossed alleyways to navigate the wet, labyrinthine backstreets of the city, towards the headquarters of the Villjamur Inquisition. The entrance was a large yet discreet black double door that stood at the top of wide, crumbling steps. There was nothing ornate here, no fancy brickwork, merely two cressets set behind glass. Only the two brutish-looking guards indicated that something went on inside this building. They nodded to Fulcrom as he flashed his Inquisition medallion at them.
‘Sele of Urtica, sir,’ one grunted, opening the door for him.
Fulcrom entered and passed Ghale, the human administrative assistant, who was dressed as smartly as always in a frilly white shirt, green shawl and long black skirt. Her blonde hair was pinned up in one of those new styles.
‘Sele of Urtica, investigator,’ she announced. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Good morning, Ghale. No, I’m fine, thank you.’ He made to move on.
‘A drink, perhaps?’ She held her hands out in front of her.
‘No. Thank you anyway.’ Smiling awkwardly, Fulcrom headed immediately into his office.
It was a drab affair, like many of the rooms within the arterial layout of the Inquisition headquarters. Musty old rumels lingering in their chambers for hours, working by lantern-light, poring over administration, missives or fine-tuning the legal framework of the city. Such an existence was not Fulcrom’s preferred way of helping the city — being left to rot behind a desk would be a nightmarish future.
One side of Fulcrom’s vast office was lined with shelves rammed with leather-bound age-ruined books. He had them arranged neatly, ordered by subject and year. Two angular diamond-shaped insets allowed in light through coloured glass, and a painting of an evening city scene, a retro original, was hung above the door.
After he placed his outer-cloak over the back of his chair meticulously, he set about starting a fire, rummaging through the accoutrements to one side. He was nearly out of kindling.
Presently, after a few moments, the flames spat into life and, as Fulcrom warmed his hands, one of the most senior officers, Investigator Warkur, an old black-skinned rumel, barged into the room without knocking.
‘Fulcrom,’ he grunted stridently. ‘You got a moment?’
‘Of course,’ Fulcrom replied. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the leather chair behind his stately mahogany desk. After clearing a couple of the papers, he struck a match and lit a candle within a small glass lantern. ‘Apologies about the mess.’
‘Don’t be a jerk, Fulcrom — damn place is immaculate.’ Warkur reclined into the chair with a thunderous groan. He was a bulky rumel with a scar along his lantern jaw, allegedly from a garuda fight forty years ago. He had a broader nose than most rumels, and his black eyes were set unnaturally deep, so Fulcrom was never quite sure if he was looking at him or somewhere in the distance. Warkur was one of the old-school investigators, the kind they didn’t make any more, and with nearly two hundred years on the service, the man didn’t care much for modern ways. He had outlived a handful of emperors, as he constantly liked to remind people, which meant that he had little tolerance for changes in procedures. Too jaded to ever make the position of Arch Investigator, he now spent his days mentoring the younger investigators, which suited Fulcrom fine.
‘What’s the problem?’ Fulcrom asked.
