‘We might get some answers out of this one,’ Fulcrom suggested. ‘I’m guessing Vuldon might not have been so kind to the others.’
As if rehearsed, Vuldon’s stomped into the doorway, a single fleck of blood on his cheek. ‘All done,’ he grunted.
‘Did you leave any alive?’ Fulcrom asked.
‘You didn’t say to,’ he replied. ‘Sorry.’
*
Feror and his family were returning with the Knights to the clifftop hideaway, in case the anarchists returned for revenge. The group started the return journey with their captive in tow, choosing more obscure routes to avoid detection. Fulcrom was aware that, as more time passed by, the scandal in the faked issue of People’s Observer would be having a greater influence on the people of Villjamur. Vuldon lugged their prisoner in a large hessian sack, deliberately dragging him along the cobbled roads, and doing his best to be as careless as he could.
They entered a small stone courtyard on the third level, and came across a religious ritual, with a priest of Bohr blessing a small crowd rammed between the high buildings, in front of his church.
‘Hey, stop!’ someone shouted at the rear of the gathering, peeling off to block their route. It was a man in his thirties with a thick leather tunic, stout boots and grey cloak. ‘Aren’t you lot the Knights?’
Fulcrom raised his Inquisition medallion, which glinted in the firelight. ‘Sele of Urtica, citizen. I’m afraid we’re in a hurry.’
‘It is — I recognize that one’s cat face,’ the man gestured towards Tane.
More people at the rear of the audience drifted nearer, surrounding them. Fulcrom turned to Feror and whispered, ‘You know the way. Get your family back.’
‘What about the others there — the cultists?’ Feror asked. ‘Will they lynch me for my betrayal?’
‘I’d revealed what had happened and said you weren’t to blame. You’ll just have to hope for the best in human nature.’
‘But-’
‘Just go!’ Fulcrom snapped, and the cultist guided his family away.
Fulcrom turned back to see that the crowd were now in their faces. Tane was stepping away, but Vuldon stood his ground. They were shouting things at him now. Someone held up a copy of People’s Observer, demanding to know why it had been kept a secret.
A young woman in a shawl asked Tane, ‘Is it true?’
Lie, damn you, Fulcrom thought.
‘Yes.’
‘Tane — you don’t have to tell them that.’
‘It’s been hanging over me for ages. I’d wager it’s better out in the open.’
You don’t know what people are like. They’re not interested in the truth, just being told what they want to hear.
There must have been thirty or forty in the mass, crowding just the three of them. They started to shout things at Tane: about his deception, blaming him personally for his parents’ role in slavery, saying he had no right to be here. Tane kept trying to talk his way out of it, to justify himself, but it was no good — there was no way he could be heard against their chorus of accusations.
And to Vuldon, who was still holding the captive in a sack, they simply spat at him and cursed him, blaming him for being a child-killer, saying he wasn’t fit to do his job, that he should just clear out.
Fulcrom watched the man-mountain stand there silently, not moving, barely responding — his vision had fixed onto some point above them, as he chose to ignore the torrent of abuse.
Or at least that’s what Fulcrom thought. Suddenly Vuldon screamed — an immense, bass roar — and everyone was stunned by his eruption. As people stared dumbly at him, Vuldon pushed through the crowd, knocking several of them to the ground and a woman cried out as her head hit the ground.
Oh shit. Fulcrom followed the gap Vuldon had created in the throng, steering Tane along with him. He kept apologizing to the citizens on his way through, palming the air, keeping his head low.
They found a quiet area in one of the many quarters of the city currently in development. They huddled under a massive viaduct surrounded by scaffolding. Overhead a horse and cart rattled across over the arches. City lights extended into the distance.
Vuldon dumped the sack containing their captive, who squirmed within, pleading to be let out. Vuldon kicked him until he fell silent.
‘Now what, investigator?’ Vuldon asked.
‘Do you have control of yourself now?’ Fulcrom demanded.
For a moment Vuldon strolled along the edge of the work area, his feet crunching grit into the stone. ‘It just got to me.’
‘You’re not to take it out on the people, Vuldon. We’re all just grown children, especially in crowds, and sometimes people act on emotions, without much thought.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘Tane, how are you feeling?’ Fulcrom enquired of the unusually silent werecat.
Tane sighed, crouching and rubbing his face. ‘I had hoped to keep it all hidden just a tad longer.’
‘Yes, well, this changes everything now,’ Fulcrom said.
‘How do you mean?’ Tane asked.
‘The Knights are only effective with public support. You were created for that very reason — to assist the populace, to reduce crime, but most of all to give them something to believe in. A symbol.’
‘Propaganda,’ Vuldon grunted.
‘Of a kind,’ Fulcrom admitted. ‘But at least you were out there helping people feel safe, and you were recognized for that.’ Which is more than I’ve ever been.
‘So what now?’ Tane asked with a look of expectation on his face.
‘We get this guy back to the Inquisition headquarters, and we’ll question him there. Meanwhile, I suppose I should really see if I can meet with your employer tomorrow.’
*
Fulcrom didn’t sleep well that night, worrying about Lan, if she was all right in the underworld, and struggling with how to explain the recent developments to the Emperor.
Fulcrom had put in a request to see Urtica and, unsurprisingly, the Emperor wanted to see him anyway regarding the publication of the Imperial newspamphlet. After addressing minor administration, and avoiding conversations with the other investigators as best he could, he made his way to see the Emperor.
Level after level, the streets were becoming deeper with snow, as if the cultists couldn’t keep up. Morning traders were fewer each day, and the irens were hollow experiences now. There was less to sell, but there were increasing numbers of bric-a-brac stalls, or more innovative traders who restyled the waste and accoutrements of the city into more appealing delights: swords melted down into cutlery or metal and glass sculptures.
His mare took her time, the poor thing, trudging up the hazardous cobbled roads, the cold air whistling around them both. He left her at a guard station on the fifth level, where only registered horses were permitted — which was news to him, but he wasn’t going to argue with the military. At each guard station, at least three men searched him thoroughly, despite his Inquisition medallion. They asked him questions and were sceptical even when he showed the papers for his appointment.
‘This level of security is ridiculous,’ he said to one of the guards.
‘Sorry, chap — captain’s orders. Every few days we add to the list of questions. Just the way of things.’
Fulcrom eventually plodded on by foot, up the gently sloped road that led to Balmacara, wary of what he would say to the Emperor.
*
The Emperor peered back at Fulcrom as he finished his explanation of what had happened: of the printing press being stolen from the Inquisition headquarters, of being betrayed by Feror, whose family had been taken as hostages. Fulcrom could see in his eyes that he was a tired man — redness and dark rings around his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, his bitten nails seemed to suggest it might be down to stress. What’s more, Fulcrom could smell the musky odour of arum weed on the man, and his breath stank of some disgusting alcoholic beverage.
If Urtica was using substances, Fulcrom expected some backlash, an outburst perhaps, and given what
