FORTY-FIVE

Tuya regarded Marysa as the female rumel stood watching the blurred figure of Jeryd pass the front window on his way to work. Faint flurries of snow slashed past the glass, morning sunlight penetrating in between. As Marysa turned to face her, she realized she was pretty for a rumel. Even without youth on her side, she still possessed a youthful charm. Her dark, almost-black skin gave her an exotic air – you didn’t see too many of that colour in the city, most being brown or dark grey. Perhaps this added an allure of mystery that Investigator Jeryd could never really solve.

The two women now sat enveloped in thick layers of brown robes that did nothing much for either of them except keep them warm. For a long while there was a tenuous silence brought about from suddenly being thrown together. Visitors often possessed the power to inflict self-consciousness on their hosts and she could see a hesitant look in the rumel’s eyes, as if she too was uncertain at how to handle the situation.

They were startled by the sound of a snowball striking the window.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Marysa enquired.

‘Thanks,’ Tuya said, ‘but you don’t have to be polite to me. I can easily understand you not wanting someone like me in your home.’

Marysa stood up and walked over to the kitchen area. ‘Jeryd merely said you were in trouble, and that people were after you.’

Tuya wondered if Jeryd had informed Marysa of everything she had been through, of the destruction she may have caused. Not something to bring up, though, as it didn’t make for an easy conversation.

‘I work as a prostitute,’ Tuya said bluntly.

Marysa glanced back at her. ‘Oh.’

Another snowball hit the glass.

‘It’s not as bad as you’d think. I’m selective.’

So cosy, with the clink of cups, the crackling fire, the water boiling.

‘I’m in a little trouble with some people who’ll be looking for me. They wanted what I couldn’t give them.’ Tuya laughed inwardly: what exactly could she not give a man? ‘You know, you’re really very lucky to have someone like Jeryd. He seems such a good sort.’

‘He is.’ Marysa spun around rather too quickly, her expression warning Tuya to stay away from the husband she loved.

‘You know, I’ve never loved anyone like you must have done,’ Tuya said. ‘Never even been in love.’

‘Really?’ Marysa enquired, and there was genuine interest in her tone.

‘That’s right, never. And I’m in my forties. I’ve not met any man with whom I could form a connection. I suppose, in my job, it’s easier if you don’t get too attached to people.’

‘I can understand that.’

Tuya continued, ‘I’ve had men who’ve had their little infatuations with me. Lonely men, in particular, seem to become infatuated so easily.’

‘Why do you do… what you do?’ Marysa said, embarrassed but curious.

Tuya thought about this for some time. ‘I’d like to say for the money. It’s easy money, after all. I don’t have to do much, just use whatever I’ve been blessed with. But there’s an emptiness now that I just can’t explain, like a spiritual scar.’ She touched the side of her face. ‘Sometimes you know you’ve walked so far down a particular path that you’ve nothing left but your dignity. Dignity to keep on down that very same path, even though it’s the wrong one. Because when you stop, when you think… that’s when it hurts the most. Some sort of dignity is all I’ve got left.’

Tuya resisted the urge to cry, but she could tell by the fact that Marysa was now walking towards her that she was failing in this. Marysa placed a hand gently on Tuya’s.

A sound now from the roof.

Tuya looked up. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s those damn kids,’ Marysa said, ‘throwing snowballs at our house. It usually stops after half an hour, but it doesn’t half drive you crazy.’

A snowball smashed the windowpane and exploded inside, accompanied by squeals of childish laughter.


*

Now working in his chambers, Jeryd checked his crossbow. They didn’t make them now like they used to. You used to get some slick firing mechanisms that were so straightforward to reload. Insert and click. The new one he held in his hand was problematic, because you had to insert the bolt so deep before it locked in place. Sure, it fired much further, so they claimed, but you spent far too much time reloading, in which time a knife could rake across your throat and it was all over. He needed something quick and deadly, promising a swift shot in the dark. The rumel held the weapon this way and that, then shook his head. It would have to do.

His colleague Fulcrom entered the room. ‘Have you heard these extraordinary rumours about the Empress and her sister? They’re planning to execute them on the city wall tomorrow evening.’

Jeryd whistled in astonishment. ‘Whose call?’

‘Council decision, it seems. The arch-inquisitor approved the judgement apparently. She was planning to have all the refugees killed, but was arrested at the Snow Ball by the chancellor, who intercepted her plans and put both Rika and Eir on trial late last night. Quite the show apparently. They tried to deny it, but the documents were there for all to see, and many of the councillors confessed that Rika had approached them, consulting on issues like disposing of bodies and the like. Some claimed that the sisters had issued beatings from guards to silence them, and one guard – someone I’m sure has links to Urtica – admitted this. They said they were glad of the opportunity to get it all out in the open. They praised Urtica for his guile in seeing that the Empire’s people were safe. And despite all this stuff on the surface, deep down in the heart of the city, it seems people really are being taken in to be killed.’

Jeryd took it all in, nodding slowly, not really surprised, but it didn’t stop him feeling disgusted over what went on up there, in that black vault of Balmacara. ‘It couldn’t be Lady Rika that organized the underground killings. It just couldn’t be.’

‘No,’ Fulcrom agreed. ‘I reckon this is to do with certain councillors… and Ovinists. It’s something much darker to take advantage of this distraction. It’s all been worked out in complex detail, so whoever’s in the Ovinists… well, they’re certainly smart.’

Jeryd said, ‘This is Urtica’s work, all right, all of it, and we’ve not got one damn piece of evidence against him. Our only witness, if you can call her that, is both a prostitute and a murderer, and if we say a single word out of line, we’ll be thrown in some cell and forgotten about – that’s if we’re lucky. Urtica must have a huge network of his damn cult in operation, from labourers to Inquisition personnel to councillors. The trial’s got to be a smokescreen, something to focus everyone’s attention on while he’s engaged in the business of genocide.’

Fulcrom added, ‘Updates are being nailed to the doors of every tavern in the city, and even after midnight I saw a huge crowd around one.’

‘Did you see what it said?’

‘Said something about the dark Empress turning on her own people. If he genuinely has organized all this, then he’s the master propagandist. I can’t believe the audacity.’

Jeryd laughed. ‘If you’ve known politicians for as long as I have.’ He shook his head, remembering the news stories that the Inquisition had to keep under wraps for the good of the people, so they were told. Cover-ups of the murders of union leaders, the provision of weaponry to various rival tribes to destabilize a region, servants charged with spying. ‘They were bad enough before these Ovinists got involved, the ubiquitous bastards.’

Fulcrom frowned. ‘Ovinists are everywhere,’ he said. ‘Can we even trust each other?’

During the pause, the two rumel eyed each other steadily, knowing the question was totally unnecessary. Jeryd chuckled to himself and muttered, ‘Fulcrom, if I was an Ovinist, the first thing I’d do would be to make sure I was in a better job than this.’

Fulcrom seemed to like that.

Jeryd continued, ‘So who the hell d’you think will take over the Jamur Empire? Can you imagine that pompous git Urtica being in charge?’

Fulcrom shrugged. ‘Not our call to make.’

‘No, indeed.’ Jeryd took a moment to rid himself of splenetic thoughts. ‘So, to business. We’ve got some people to save.’

Fulcrom moved nearer to Jeryd. ‘Soldiers have made some movements around one of the tunnels. It’s the one they’re letting the first wave of refugees into, and it’s one of the older tunnels. I’ve got it marked on a map.’

‘Good,’ Jeryd said. ‘Any idea how many?’ So this is it. It’s really happening.

Fulcrom shook his head. ‘No, all I got was the tip-off. As for some help, I’ve managed to round up a few of the young investigators who still have principles.’

‘Can they be trusted, though?’

‘They know what they’re in for and just how secret this must be.’

‘Fair enough.’ Jeryd knew he could rely on Fulcrom’s selection. ‘There’s just one thing we’ve to do on the way.’


*

Jeryd knocked hard on the metal door of Mayter Sidhe’s house of banshees, as Fulcrom glanced left and right along the snow-covered street. Only a few people were out and about, hunched under so many layers of clothing that you could hardly see their faces.

It took much longer than usual for the door to open. That alerted Jeryd’s suspicions, but he knew something was definitely wrong when Mayter Sidhe answered the door herself.

‘Investigator,’ she said, her blue eyes a shade dimmer than previously. She glanced nervously at Fulcrom.

‘It’s OK, he’s with me,’ Jeryd said.

‘You’d better come in,’ she beckoned.

No fragrance this time, no welcoming fire. The place was as cold as the street outside. A couple of chairs were broken and left in the shadow of the stairway.

‘Where are the others?’

She gestured for the two rumel to sit down, but they insisted on standing.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

‘We just want a chat,’ Jeryd said, and told her everything he could about the threat to the refugees, going on to state that he would appreciate it if the banshees would forbear to draw attention to any conspirators’ deaths that might occur during his intended raid on the tunnels.

‘This explains much,’ she sighed. Her expression was full of sadness.

‘Explains what?’ Jeryd said.

‘Wait here a moment.’ She left the room and returned with one of the younger banshees, looking like a smaller replica of herself.

Jeryd was about to say something, but Mayter Sidhe held up her hand to silence him. She turned to the girl. ‘Show the investigator.’

The young woman shook her head, manically, her eyes filled with a fear Jeryd had never seen before.

‘Show the investigator,’ Mayter Sidhe repeated insistently.

After a moment, the girl opened her mouth.

Her tongue was missing. Scar tissue had already begun to blossom. Jeryd grimaced, glancing at Fulcrom who also looked appalled. The girl began to sob, then hurriedly left the room.

‘A few nights ago,’ Mayter Sidhe said calmly, ‘some masked men broke into our house. They did this to everyone – took the tongues of everyone apart from me. I was the only one not at home. A couple of the girls bled to death on their beds, including my youngest who was only ten.’

‘Who did this?’ Jeryd asked horrified.

‘I wasn’t here to see. And none of them can now tell me exactly what went on. All my girls are forever silenced.’

Jeryd couldn’t find the words to express his disgust.

‘So you see,’ she continued, ‘someone has already asked for much the same favour that you did, just a little more forcefully.’

Mayter Sidhe would say nothing further.

Jeryd knew instantly what was going on. Whoever intended to kill the refugees had realized that the banshees would soon raise the alarm over death on such a large scale. Their screams would inevitably draw in someone to investigate.

So the witch women of Villjamur had been made inert, silenced for good.


*

Jeryd greeted the assembled investigators with a curt nod as they huddled in a damp, mould-covered underground passage. There were a couple of sword tips poking out beneath cloaks, and a ceaseless drip of water somewhere added to the gloom of the melancholy room.

Jeryd had considered it best for everyone to remain anonymous to each other, so he had assigned each of the young rumel a number from one to ten. After briefing them all precisely, he and Fulcrom again consulted some maps. Networks of passageways as old as civilization itself were already committed to memory and the two rumel had discussed the best access routes, the best exits. There was one way out for those refugees who were being brought into the tunnels. Two if you included death.

Jeryd finally checked the crossbow hidden under his cloak, checked the knives tucked in his boots, the small sword that hung at his side.

Now, off to work.


*

Down here the passages were so narrow in places that you had to walk sideways. Jeryd wondered what kind of people were of this slender girth a thousand years ago. Where there was no light, you relied on touch to get you through until you reached the next shaft of light illuminating the path. The walls were damp and cold, with lichen and mould proliferating wherever light struck the stone. Their companions were the usual rats, which was only to be expected. Still, at least there were no damn spiders – he shuddered to think how he’d react to spiders in such a tight space as this, and in front of so many other men from the Inquisition. Above them, Villjamur was experiencing another day, just like any other, unaware of the thousands of people whose lives were now under threat.

For half an hour they travelled underground until it was too deep to expect any external light. Fulcrom carried a torch ahead of Jeryd to guide the way, while boots shuffled reassuringly behind.

Into Villjamur’s heart of darkness.

According to intelligence reports, refugees would be brought here in small numbers and disposed of over a long period of time. The first and unluckiest refugees were going to be, or already were, confined in one of three escape tunnels leading over to the west. As to how the refugees were to be killed, no one yet knew. Perhaps it would be a simple, brutal execution by the sword, but, on this scale, who would have the nerve to do that to the Empire’s citizens? There would be so much panic probably, so maybe the methods would be more discreet, more subtle.

Fulcrom paused, held out a warning hand that Jeryd saw only when he had walked into it. Everyone else stopped.

‘What’s up?’ Jeryd whispered.

Fulcrom held a finger to his lips, tilting his head as if to better hear some sound. Jeryd listened too. Faintly, they could hear voices through walls. How far away, he could not decide.

‘I’d say they’re a level below us,’ Fulcrom ventured. ‘We’re not far off.’

Jeryd replied, ‘Where will the city guard be?’

‘Probably at the entrance to that same level. There are three access routes, and we’re following one of them. They, however, will most likely approach from the direction of the Council Atrium, so we’re fine here.’

‘Press on?’ Jeryd suggested.

‘Hold this a moment.’ Fulcrom handed Jeryd the torch, then he took off his cloak and let it drop to the floor. Everyone followed suit till their metal weaponry glittered openly in the torchlight.

Jeryd handed back the torch and began loading his crossbow.


*

The small band of investigators approached the next stairwell leading down. No guards were in evidence, but Jeryd’s heart still thumped in expectation. He leaned over to Fulcrom, whispered, ‘Put the torch out now?’

‘Sure. Then give it a few minutes to let our eyes adjust.’

They stood there in darkness and listened to the groans and whispers of people massed below them. This pitiful sound at least meant they were still alive. Jeryd felt spurred on by pity and determination. If there was any good left in this world, he would have them saved.

Water dripped all around them and the slightest breeze came from some concealed opening further along.

‘Let’s go,’ Fulcrom hissed.

They shuffled forwards as one, Jeryd opening one of the pockets containing his crossbow bolts. His nerves vibrated, surprising himself that an old rumel could still feel intensely.

A single torch was fixed to the wall at the far end of the passage. Rat-shadows moved constantly, distracting the eye. Further along sounded voices, footsteps.

Jeryd and Fulcrom both held their crossbows up, ready to discharge. The investigators around them drew their short swords.

A soldier suddenly turned a corner, spotted them, reached for his sword, and just as he was about to open his mouth to raise the alarm, Jeryd loosed his crossbow. The man’s head snapped back as the bolt struck him full in the face; he collapsed under the light of his own torch.

Jeryd reloaded, advanced to check upon the guard. The splattered blood on stone told him all. He nodded to Fulcrom, gesturing him forwards. At this point, the corridor angled to the right, leading into darkness.

In their silent progress another guard was dispatched before he could react. After compacting his body into a dark corner, they continued on towards the sound of voices.

Around another turning, there were two further guards, and the noise was increasing. Two shots: one soldier dead, the other merely wounded. Immediately the younger investigators rushed forward, swords out ready, while Jeryd and Fulcrom reloaded. The sound of clashing metal. When Jeryd arrived at the corner he saw his colleagues engaged in combat with three more city guards. Jeryd prepared to fire again, but it was unnecessary. All three of the soldiers were soon dead, blood pooling around them.

We’re close now, Jeryd thought.

Again they hauled the corpses to dark corners. ‘Good work, lads,’ Jeryd commended them.

Forwards, again with weapons ready, to a well-used corridor. They passed an arm detached from its body, dried blood arcing up the walls in a manner suggesting an execution.

Another soldier was posted outside a closed door, and the look on his face said he didn’t want to be there.

Fulcrom’s distant shot wasn’t clean, so Jeryd was obliged to fire his at closer range, his bolt catching the man in the throat and throwing him back against the stone. Jeryd searched the body for a key to the door till Fulcrom pointed out that it wasn’t locked, merely bolted shut from the outside.

Into the room beyond.

Tryst looked up from the table, two guards hovering behind him. ‘What the-?’

‘I might’ve known you’d be involved, you bastard,’ Jeryd spat at him.

The younger investigators came swarming past him and the guards backed off, outnumbered. They dropped their swords with a clang and held up their hands. One of the investigators looked back to Jeryd questioningly.

‘We can’t take any prisoners,’ he sighed.

Swords were thrust below the breast plate of each soldier, and they fell to the floor in disbelief like drunks at the end of a long night out.

Jeryd stepped towards Tryst, who had now backed against the wall.

‘So you’re an Ovinist, too,’ Jeryd said sadly.

Tryst managed an uncomfortable nod.

Jeryd grunted a laugh. So his own subordinate was really working for Urtica. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. The depths this man had already gone to were ridiculous.

‘How can you be here? You can’t. I mean-’

Jeryd thumped him repeatedly in the stomach. ‘What exactly do you mean? Don’t think I won’t rip out your fucking tongue if you don’t.’

Tryst eventually stammered something of a response. ‘I… set cultist devices to work on your house. They should have killed you.’

Jeryd glared at him. ‘You mean my home is rigged to do what exactly?’

‘To explode… I didn’t want to. I was forced to.’

Jeryd thought immediately of Marysa sitting at home with Tuya.

‘Why should I believe you?’ Jeryd said. ‘After all your damn lies.’

‘Jeryd, I really think you should go back home to see everything is fine. Forget about these refugees – they mean nothing to the likes of us. Just go and we can forget all about this. Come on, Jeryd, I know we’ve had our ups and downs.’

‘Ups and downs? You bastard. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed yourself.’ Jeryd lowered the crossbow, and Tryst relaxed. In one fluid movement, Jeryd swiped the weapon across his assistant’s face, knocking his head back hard against the stone. Tryst fell with a gasp, and Jeryd kicked him once in the stomach. ‘Now tell me what the hell you’re doing here. You’re obviously involved with killing off the refugees, but how?’

His boot across Tryst’s throat, the crossbow aimed.

Tryst weakly indicated the table on which stood several bottles of liquid and some measuring instruments.

‘Go have a look,’ Jeryd urged to Fulcrom. Then, to Tryst, ‘How were you going to do it?’

‘Toxin sprays and serums. Kills painlessly within the hour.’

‘How many have you killed so far?’

‘Only about fifty.’

Jeryd said, ‘And how many are left down here?’

‘Hundreds, but thousands are to come at a later date. We wanted to get rid of them slowly so as not to cause suspicion. We’ve only taken the first batch…’

‘Where are they? Through there?’ Jeryd indicated a door at the far end of the same chamber.

Tryst nodded.

For a moment Jeryd considered what value Tryst still presented. Then he thought about his home, about the deadly threat to Marysa.

‘Who’s behind all this?’

Tryst lay still. Not a flinch or flicker. Instead he stared past Jeryd at the ceiling, a glazed look in his eye as if he was already dead.

The old rumel looked down at Tryst.

He thought of his own wife.

He thought of the deceit.

Jeryd fired a bolt through Tryst’s eye.

Reloaded.

He took out his knife and slit the man’s throat before fiercely regarding the others. ‘We can take no prisoners. Remember, no witnesses.’

‘Right,’ grunted Fulcrom, turning away.


*

The stench of them came first. The crowd of prisoners had been held here for only a short while, possibly only a day or two, but without food and water. Hundreds of faces, the first wave of people destined to be poisoned, tilted towards the investigators without a sign of either expectation or fear – just resignation. Men and women with children in their arms, slumped against the walls or sprawled on the cold stone floor of the wide tunnel, with just the few rags and blankets they had carried with them for warmth, unaware they’d been brought here to die.

Jeryd walked around them, telling them of their situation. Told them of the threat. Did they understand him, did they believe him? Did they want to leave and enter the ice again?

Amongst them lay the dead, one or two with the living still clinging to them. Bodies turning blue with poison, bodies shrivelling like fruit… One of his men was retching violently behind him, and Jeryd could hardly blame him.

People began clamouring for food and water, but all Jeryd could offer them was their freedom – a concept that seemed to confuse.

‘We have to get you out of here,’ he called out repeatedly. Then, to Fulcrom, ‘Let’s open up the other end of the tunnel, wherever that is.’

Jeryd left two of his men by the door they’d come through, and eight of them now progressed through the crowd of refugees to investigate what lay ahead. The air seemed oppressive. Occasionally a woman would scream, and a man would groan.

They finally reached another makeshift door, metal and firmly closed. He knew a sentry would be posted beyond it, so they eased it opened a fraction, then kicked it wide. Fulcrom’s crossbow bolt caught the single soldier who was already rising from his chair, then they rolled his body into darkness.

The further they progressed, the colder it became, and despite there being no light, Jeryd sensed they were close to the exit. Eventually they were making headway by touch alone along a narrow passageway, yet as long as they were in darkness, nobody could see them.

Then finally it came, freedom.

A burst of light and cold air, followed by the adjoining wastes of a refugee camp – a battered tent-city, dying fires, black silhouettes of trees on the horizon, wind wailing in across the tundra. And if you looked back you could see the outer wall of Villjamur looming, which these unfortunate people had been staring at optimistically for months.

‘Go and lead them through,’ Jeryd ordered to one of his men. ‘Force them, if necessary, if they seem unwilling to leave shelter.’

It took them an hour to get everyone out. The refugees came shambling out into the open, with obvious reluctance. They stared at the snow as if they had never seen it before.

Their joyous liberation was something of an anti-climax.

Jeryd, for his part, felt more depressed and exhausted than he had ever done in his life.

When the last child had trotted free, Jeryd dispersed his anonymous band, their Inquisition medallions being enough to see them safely past the soldiers at the gates.

Fulcrom now faced Jeryd, a look of misery upon both their faces, and they were searching each other to find the right thing to say.

‘It doesn’t feel as good as it should do.’

‘No,’ Jeryd agreed.

‘They could die even sooner out here, in this ice,’ Fulcrom observed.

The younger rumel was right. The Freeze itself would most likely kill them sooner or later. Now they were merely refugees once again outside the gates of Villjamur, and what could they do now?

‘Do you want to get back to your house?’ Fulcrom suggested.

‘I should.’ Jeryd shuddered. ‘There’s a danger that Tryst might have been telling the truth for once in his miserable life.’

‘I’ll go with you, in case I’m needed.’

What a strange feeling it was to have a colleague thinking after his safety.


*

As the street wound its way upwards in a gentle arc, they trudged the cobbles doggedly feeling their thighs ache. Jeryd contemplated how old he was getting.

Fulcrom suddenly pointed out a black trail of smoke wafting across the wind-tossed sky.

Jeryd began to run up the hill, leaving Fulcrom pointing behind him, fearing the worst.

Towards the smoke.

Towards his house.

Passers-by in the street stared at him because so few people ever ran these days, what with the constant snow on the streets. Even a dog barked in surprise. Then he fell on the ice, struck his knee on a cobble. Cursing, he pushed himself up and limped on.


*

Fulcrom arrived a moment later to find the old rumel on his knees in the snow, in front of the debris of his home. Fragments of wood were strewn across the entire street in countless splinters, broken bits of furniture were smouldering, roof tiles and shattered glass lay everywhere, and where Jeryd’s house once stood, there was now merely a ragged hole.

Fulcrom walked over and placed his hand on Jeryd’s shoulder. The old rumel was gently pawing at some fleshy remains.

Fulcrom cringed. It could once have been a foot.

A young investigator approached, a grey-skinned rumel not long signed up.

Jeryd tilted his head towards him as if he could offer him his life back.

‘Were you first on the scene?’ Fulcrom enquired.

‘Yes, sir. My name’s Taldon, and I’ve been here a quarter of an hour. We’ve searched the remains and we’ve found one body so far, but no one could have survived this. The damage is immense.’

Jeryd began to shake violently. Fulcrom released his shoulder, gestured for Taldon to go.

‘I’m… I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’

The old rumel merely sobbed, clutching at the snow like a child. Fulcrom couldn’t believe this. After all Jeryd had done for the city over the years, to receive such recompense. Because of Tryst. Or Urtica?

‘If the chancellor wanted you dead, Jeryd,’ Fulcrom advised, ‘it’s probably not too safe to hang around here long. He might still be out to get you.’

‘A moment,’ Jeryd sobbed. ‘Just give me a moment.’

‘I’ll take you home with me. Then I’ll look after it all, OK.’

A scream, a female voice calling. Marysa came running through the snow.

Jeryd looked up as she ran towards him, her hair bouncing.

The two of them hugged each other so tight they might have become one entity, and still Jeryd would not let her go.

At last, through his tears, he asked her, ‘How did you… survive?’

‘It was those kids with the snowballs. They smashed a window and I went out to chase them away down the street.’ She began to cry too, perhaps imagining for the first time what could have happened to her. And Fulcrom loved this irony, that Jeryd’s tormentors, the Gamall Gata kids, were responsible for saving his Marysa.

There were about eight of the same kids now hovering nearby, though empty-handed now. And Jeryd smiled at them, waved, then he laughed through his tears.

The kids shrugged, a little confused, and a blond one shouted, ‘Sorry about your window, Jeryd. We didn’t do the rest though, we swear.’

‘I know,’ Jeryd said, a peaceful smile on his face. He began to chuckle, tears in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I know.’

Fulcrom wondered about the woman, Tuya, who was presumably dead – no one could have survived an explosion like this. From what Jeryd had told him, she’d led a lonely life, and he felt sorry that there was no one to mourn her, no one to even know she’d been killed. How many faces must she have seen in the night? There were hundreds of thousands of people in Villjamur, and hardly any of them would have meant a thing to her. He felt a pang for her exit from the world, despite having never known who she was.

People moved on, and the Gamall Gata kids trotted off, all apart from the blond and redhead, who stayed for a little while longer, looking on as the snow fell in thick, heavy streaks whilst Jeryd and Marysa remained in the cold, clutching each other as tightly as they could.

Kneeling in the wreckage of their lives.


Interview with Chancellor Urtica, to be nailed to the door of every tavern and Jorsalir church by order of the Council.

HISTORIAN: Thank you for seeing me, chancellor. Can you just confirm, for posterity’s sake, why you’ve organized for an interview to be issued across Villjamur?

URTICA: Certainly. We’re about to organize the executions of the Empress Rika and her sister tomorrow, and we will be starting the Empire afresh. I have been selected as the only candidate to go forwards and construct the new era – an era of more open politics, with nothing to hide. What more suitable a manner to do this than with interviews? With pamphlets circulated around bistros, taverns and whatnot, I can communicate with the people. I am, after all, a man of the people. So it is a new kind of leadership, and it is time the people had honesty from their leaders – not as before with a madman and then a murderess!

HISTORIAN: Well, that certainly sounds encouraging. Now, could you tell us a little about the strange circumstances surrounding Rika’s exit?

URTICA: I’m very sad to see that a woman would want to do something like killing her own people. It was simply wrong. I found out about it, of course, and I investigated further – it was clear that Rika and Eir had signed a document requesting the refugees be killed. The Inquisition followed it up, of course. The Council decided that this level of deception is unacceptable, so I did what I could to save thousands of lives and my efforts were rewarded by the Council.

HISTORIAN: Will you therefore be letting the refugees in as a peace offering in these dire times?

URTICA: Unfortunately no, the refugees suffer from dreadful diseases that could harm our people. And it is suggested there are tribal terrorist factions amongst them who wish to penetrate the city in order to destabilize our democratic ways. We cannot permit such a risk. Unfortunately, this might also mean that we must conduct more searches on the streets of the city – in such treacherous times, we must join together in purging Villjamur of such evil, tribal radicalism.

HISTORIAN: There were rumours of a botched military operation on the far side of the Empire recently. Could you enlighten your subjects as to those events?

URTICA: These are searching questions! I shall remain honest with you: several regiments of our brave soldiers were crossing an ice sheet when a savage band of Varltung warriors used cultist trickery to destroy them. Our troops didn’t stand a chance. As a result, I will be declaring open hostilities against all Eastern tribes and, as soon as is possible, we might initiate a full-scale invasion.

HISTORIAN: Some people have suggested that your missions to the Varltung islands might be merely to claim more resources. What do you say about this?

URTICA: It is utter nonsense.

HISTORIAN: Has your ascent to the most senior position of the Empire been challenged in any way?

URTICA: Well, it’s important to remember that I was in a hugely senior position even within the Council. Perhaps second only to the Empress in terms of role. Due to this fact, that I helped to save thousands of lives, and also that several other Council members supported me for Emperor, the majority vote was with me. We are not a barbaric people – of course the matter was debated heavily, and this is a democracy we live in, after all. I was the chosen one.

HISTORIAN: Chancellor Urtica – soon to be Emperor Urtica – thank you for your time.

URTICA: Thank you.

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