City of Ruin

F ORTY-FOUR

Investigator Jeryd was packing his belongings in their decrepit, dusty little hotel room. He and Marysa had spent a few good nights in safety here, and Jeryd had become strangely attached to the place, although he was aware such emotions were misplaced.

The blasts of explosions came and went in the distance, far enough away to not yet seem real, and occasionally there was the sound of a troop of soldiers or civilian militia trudging by under his window.

He could leave carrying only one small shoulder bag, and wondered where it might be stored when the time came to fight. Would there be rooms for those who weren't in the traditional army? Would they all be expected to sleep in a dormitory? Would they be able to sleep at all? He assumed that this sort of thing would be well planned – Commander Lathraea seemed like a guy who knew what he was doing.

Jeryd checked his crossbow and slung it on the bed along with a bundle of bolts. He checked his various knives and placed them in his boots. He wore only a tight-fitting tunic, and folded his Inquisition robe on the bed. Would he even need it again after all this? One minute he was busy chasing criminals, the next… The change in circumstances had all happened so quickly.

Marysa joined him. He looked longingly at this woman he had loved for decades with such an emotion he felt a lump in his throat.

'I want to go with you.' Marysa clasped both his hands in hers.

'No.' Jeryd shook his head slowly, closing his eyes to block out her gaze. 'It was me who dragged you all the way out here, into this mess. I want you to have a chance of getting away at least.'

'But I can fight – I saved you, for pity's sake!'

'Marysa, I know you're probably tougher than me after all your training. I thought we'd discussed this.'

That conversation had lasted for hours. They talked about her being more use in the escape tunnels, helping lead people out of the city. Jeryd said there'd be people who needed protecting from rapists and thieves, and that it was unfair that all the best fighters would be remaining above ground. There would be men and women and children who needed protecting from each other, and not even the major gangs had offered their services in any way.

He gave Marysa his spare Inquisition medallion as a badge, an object that might be more use to her than him. She sighed and focused on him with those big black eyes – so much was happening in that gaze, so many conversations from the past returning. He kissed her fondly, smelled her hair. It was funny that these would be the things he missed the most, the details he barely remembered in everyday life. He was more afraid of being without Marysa than he was of dying.

A painful goodbye.

Still with a faint hope that they'd see each other again very soon, they made arrangements for meeting after the end of the war, suggesting where they could meet at what hour of any given day. Past the Onyx Wings and the bone archways, by one of their favourite bistros. Or if the city was to fall they would meet at one of the villages further out, a couple of points on a map which he'd scribbled down for her.

Marysa went off first, leaving an overwhelming sense of emptiness, and the hotel room seemed to pause in time.

*

Jeryd put on his hat and marched through the streets. All around him people wrapped in warm layers were shifting through the narrow lanes, their expressions full of melancholy. Aside from the wailing of those who had already lost loved ones, the busy city was eerily quiet. He could almost breathe the tension. Another explosion came, and the massed confusion of battle could be heard in the distance – but closer than before.

Villiren wasn't his city to protect, so why was he even here? He was doing this for the common good, he realized, a duty that seemed written in his heart. The same sense of morality that had kept him in the Inquisition for so many decades. Private gain didn't matter. If everyone acted solely on private interests, there'd be no citizen militia, no lifeboat teams around the coast, no soup kitchens for the starving. Jeryd had to laugh at himself. Investigator Rumex Jeryd: now aspiring philosopher.

*

At some point near the Althing district Jeryd realized that he was caught up in the flotsam of new recruits for the citizen militia, men and women and children, with heads lowered against the driving snow, some with expressions of determination, others with a sad disconnection. The flow was moving towards the older buildings surrounding the Citadel, gaining in numbers and intensity. The streets lost consistency here, curving and twisting, a few blocked by the rubble, which was being carted off by soldiers to form defensive barriers. Row upon row of mounted Dragoons waited for engagement, shifting in their saddles, totally emotionless, consummate professionals.

Dozens of men in uniform stood about with hand-held boards taking names, patient and calm, directing people towards the Ancient Quarter. Citizens shuffled off wherever they were told to. There were a fair number of rumel too. Jeryd was asked to stand in line with the rest, silent as a queue waiting for the executioner's block.

The young soldier eyed him cautiously, noted his details, said very little.

'Something wrong with us rumel, sergeant?' Jeryd enquired. 'I've noticed there's a bad attitude towards us in this city.'

The young soldier regarded him coolly, unspoken narrative racing behind his human eyes. 'There appear to be a lot of rumel soldiers fighting among the enemy forces. So we have to be cautious, is all – security checks and the likes. I'm afraid I'll need to ask you some questions about your background-'

Fuming, Jeryd pulled out his medallion. 'This thing may convince you I'm fighting on your side, just like I've been doing for the last hundred and eighty fucking years.' Jeryd was aware that an expectant crowd had begun to form around them.

'All right.' The man palmed the air dismissively. 'We just have to follow rules.'

If things were this bad now, how much worse would they get as this invasion progressed? The rumel were a minority group here, and he could do without being considered sinister. As his indignation abated, he realized this young soldier was merely following orders. Perhaps a quiet word with Commander Lathraea was called for.

His instructions directed him to a different line from the others. Apparently his position in the Inquisition had made him a valuable asset: he would be rewarded with command of his own unit. Very quickly he discovered he was joining a group of other rumel, and they nodded an acknowledgement as he greeted them. There were maybe fifty in all, moving forward to an armament point. On finally arriving where he was supposed to be, Jeryd found a Night Guard officer calling out instructions in a vast chamber piled high with weapons.

Jeryd showed him his medallion, for what it was worth any more, and this time was shown no discourtesy for being a rumel.

Investigator Jeryd now Lieutenant Jeryd – platoon leader of Rumel Irregulars One. Three of the others he recognized from the Inquisition headquarters in Villiren, but there were at least thirty other men and women under his command. All were armed with basic crossbows and cultist-developed munitions, and he learned that because of their tough skins, they would be required for sniping and guerrilla operations in exposed positions, or for holding blockades after nightfall. They were fitted out with crude uniforms and white sashes featuring the seven-pointed star of the Jamur Empire, then Jeryd was briefed on what was required of him.

It all happened so quickly, this business of going to war – Commander Lathraea suddenly appeared, the crowd peeling back to let him through as if they were frightened of this pale-skinned ghostly vision.

'Investigator, a word please.'

'Surely I'm lieutenant now,' Jeryd joked. 'What can I do for you?'

*

They took two stout horses and rode back towards the Inquisition headquarters, thankful that the snow had momentarily ceased.

Jeryd asked the question of why the troops were giving the rumel a hard time. But the commander coolly stated that the enemy consisted of a number of rumel troops, albeit of a different nature, and that they must check none infiltrated the Imperial lines by stealth. Once they arrived, Jeryd led him to the arch-inquisitor of Villiren, an ancient grey-skinned rumel who seemed barely able to stand. In a dust-polluted, wood-panelled chamber, littered with legal texts, two assistants helped the antiquated rumel into his chair, then left them alone. They sat down facing the desk.

Brynd didn't waste any time: 'Sir, as you may know, we have now imposed military law over much of the city.'

The arch-inquisitor wheezed softly and nodded. 'You wish to make a point of it, so as to make matters easier. I quite understand.'

Brynd offered a rare smile. 'Indeed. I believe you have two prisoners in custody, awaiting trial for execution – the Doctor Voland case.'

'Investigator Jeryd was truly assiduous in that matter and has done this institution proud.'

Compliments did not sit well with Jeryd, but he gave a coy smile anyway.

'I don't doubt that, sir,' Brynd continued. 'But I come to you with a strange request, and it's possibly one you may not like.'

'Go on…'

'I am led to believe that these two individuals are rather unique. But given the nature of our current military engagements, I may have a use for them.'

'A use?' Jeryd spluttered incredulously. 'They're fit for nothing.'

'On the contrary,' Brynd declared. 'I wish them to be released immediately.'

Jeryd almost spat his tea across the table. 'Are you insane? Why the hell would you want to release that serial killer and… that monster?'