The Broken Isles

TWENTY — ONE

The morning was wet and miserable, but Fulcrom and Lan headed across the city to the address given to them by Commander Lathraea. They were surprised at the lack of life in the area, as if everyone had simply been evacuated.

‘Maybe the people here were lost during the war?’ Lan suggested.

‘Could be. Or perhaps they left as a result of industry lost after the war, who knows. There’s a lot we don’t know about this city.’

‘Why have you asked me here today?’ Lan asked. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have me back at headquarters than getting in the way?’

Fulcrom laughed. ‘No, you’re part of the Inquisition now.’

‘I’m not particularly good at questioning though. You’re the brains of the operation.’

‘If that’s so, then you’re the brawn,’ he replied. ‘I’m still aching from the way I was treated in the cells of Balmacara.’

‘You should’ve said something,’ Lan replied.

‘I’ve not let on because rumel skin doesn’t bruise and I didn’t want to make a fuss. You know what I’m like. It’s strange that, during the escape and fighting, I couldn’t feel much in the way of pain — I guess adrenalin kicks in and I just continued as if nothing had happened. But now we’ve relaxed, now we’re settled somewhere else, the echoes of it are coming back.’

‘There’s only one thing you can do then,’ Lan said, ‘and that’s to throw yourself back into the thick of it.’

‘Which is why we’re here.’

They located the vast structure called Factory 54, an unusually bland name. They tied their horses around the end of the massive structure and, locating the door, Fulcrom gave a loud knock.

There were a few curious sounds from inside, and eventually a young man opened the door. ‘Hell do you want?’ he said grumpily. ‘We’re busy.’

‘We’re here on behalf of the Villiren Inquisition.’

‘Ain’t no Inquisition any more. Barely was in the first place, bunch of corrupt buggers. We’re not paying any protection money, if that’s what you want.’

‘No no,’ Fulcrom interrupted. ‘I’m not sure you understand. We’re here on behalf of Commander Lathraea.’

‘The albino?’

‘That’s correct,’ Fulcrom said. ‘Now, I’m not sure what went on before, but the Inquisition is being reconstructed and I’m not here to ask for money.’

‘So what d’you want then?’ The young man slouched in the doorway, then suddenly turned back and bellowed, ‘It’s the Inquisition!’ Then, back to Fulcrom, ‘Sorry — go on.’

‘I want to know if you can help me. The commander suggested you people create monsters, is that right?’

‘Yeah, what’s-’ He was cut off by the arrival of a young woman, no older than twenty, Fulcrom guessed.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘Coren, why don’t you head back and let me deal with this.’

The man shrugged and skulked off into the darkness. The girl smiled and introduced herself as Jeza.

After repeating who they were, Fulcrom reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it up to Jeza. ‘Do you recognize this?’

‘Sketches of a grotesque, by the look of it.’ She handed the paper back to him and, despite her attempts at nonchalance, looked incredibly sheepish. She was someone who could not tell an effective lie.

‘This was found yesterday in a major iren near Port Nostalgia, and it was made to look as if it had strolled in there before dying. There was blood. It had been staged so that it held a dead child in its claws.’

‘It shouldn’t have been, um, able to do that. .’ Jeza started.

‘Because it was dead in the first place, right?’ Fulcrom said.

Jeza nodded.

‘Did the grotesque come from here?’

Again, she nodded.

‘I’m guessing you sold it to someone,’ Fulcrom suggested. This didn’t look as if it was going to be his most demanding case to date.

‘I did, yes, but I really can’t tell you, because. . because I want to keep all my clients a secret — cultists can’t do good business without confidentiality. We just don’t tell.’

‘But you realize the consequences of us not finding out?’ Fulcrom asked, thinking she was showing signs of having been intimidated. ‘This might not be a one-off incident. This might be at the heart of something more sinister, and the commander has asked me to find out who did it.’

‘I can’t help you!’ Jeza said, raising her voice with nervousness.

‘Look. Hundreds of people are panicking. There could be great social unrest. The commander has had dozens of worried parents protesting about their children’s safety.’

‘They’re not under threat though — it’s all staged,’ Jeza suggested meekly.

‘It doesn’t matter, it’s the fact that they’re being used as a tool. We just want one name, that’s all. No one will know and you’ll be doing a service to the whole city.’

‘You promise you won’t let the trail get back to me?’ she asked, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘You have the word of the Inquisition,’ Fulcrom replied confidently. ‘As well as the commander.’

‘And you’ll go — if I give you his name, you’ll go. No more questions?’

Fulcrom nodded.

‘OK.’ Jeza leaned in close to whisper. ‘His name is Malum. That’s all I know.’

With that, she said a hasty goodbye before closing the door on them.

Fulcrom turned back with Lan to find their horses.

‘Well, that was simple enough,’ Lan said.

‘She was scared of him, this Malum,’ Fulcrom replied thoughtfully. ‘That was one defiant young woman, and if she created that monster, she doesn’t frighten easily. Now to find out who this Malum fellow is, and what he is up to.’

Jeza dashed inside, breathing heavily, and sat down at the kitchen table while the familiar noises within the factory echoed around her. There was the whirr of machines working somewhere, relics churning out cultist energy; then came the guttural call of one of their creatures. She closed it all out and put her head in her hands and took deep breaths.

Coren came down the stairs with a few flecks of blood on his face. ‘Hey, what was that all about then?’

‘I did something I think I shouldn’t have.’

‘Bad enough to bring the Inquisition to our door? What did you do?’

‘I sold one of the dead grotesques.’

‘A dead one?’

‘To that guy — who wants monsters made like we’re doing for the commander.’

‘That’s not so bad. Hell, it means we don’t have to deal with cleaning up after it.’

‘I know, but he used it to scare people in an iren — put a body and blood all over the place apparently. I think he was trying to use it to cause trouble. Will you promise not to tell anyone?’ She could feel the tears in her eyes now.

Coren moved around to put his arm over her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe.’

‘I didn’t think it’d do any harm, and I thought we could just make a little extra money on the side. I’m not sure we should deal with him any longer.’

Fulcrom and Lan headed into a questionable tavern on the edge of the Ancient Quarter. It was run-down, with paint peeling off the sign, a shutter missing from one of the windows, and graffiti plastered up along one of the walls — but it seemed busy enough that Fulcrom thought it’d be a good place to begin inquiries. Lan and Fulcrom headed to the bar. ‘Keep an eye out for any trouble,’ he whispered, and she nodded her understanding.

‘Got a blade in my boot,’ she replied, before glancing around.

At the counter, Fulcrom eventually caught the attention of the barman, a tall, skinny man, with greying hair and a large moustache.

‘A moment of your time,’ Fulcrom said. ‘We’re new to the city and just want a quick word.’

‘Time’s money to me,’ the barman said, wiping his hands on his apron.

Fulcrom reached into his pocket and drew out a couple of coins, which he slapped on the bar. ‘This’ll do?’

‘Now that’s how we work around here — welcome to Villiren,’ the barman said, pocketing the money.

‘We’re actually looking for someone, an old acquaintance of ours.’

‘Whassis name?’

‘Malum,’ Fulcrom declared.

The barman’s expression darkened in a heartbeat. He took a deep breath, considering his words, before replying. ‘You really a friend of his?’

‘We did a lot of trade together.’ Fulcrom decided to use his fear against him. ‘You don’t seem too happy with Malum. Maybe that’s something I should tell him when I catch up, that the barman at this establishment does not like him. . I know he’ll not like that.’

‘No, no, tell him nothing, please,’ the barman replied. ‘Look, you’re in the wrong part of town if you’re trying to get back in touch with him. Y-you can find him at the other end of the Ancient Quarter, round the nicer parts.’

‘Give me the name of a tavern,’ Fulcrom demanded.

‘Try the Partisans’ Club. Don’t tell him anything about this place.’

‘Sure.’ Fulcrom smiled. ‘Thanks for your time.’

Fulcrom and Lan moved through the crowd of customers, and eventually back outside.

‘This Malum’s reputation seems pretty terrifying,’ Fulcrom observed. ‘What I don’t understand is why someone who might be powerful, with a fearsome reputation, is operating behind the scenes at the iren. What do they hope to gain by such an act?’

‘Power, perhaps? Through fear. It’s the same kind of thing we saw in Villjamur all the time.’

‘Power through fear,’ Fulcrom repeated with a sigh. ‘This is how the world works at nearly every level.’

They moved their investigation to the Ancient Quarter and found the doorway to the Partisans’ Club, but it wasn’t open until much later in the evening. The district seemed much busier, the buildings having been less affected by the war. The large Onyx Wings towered up beyond the rooftops a few streets away. There were some taverns, a theatre, plenty of shopfronts.

Waiting for the Partisans’ Club to open, they took a break, choosing to sip tea at a large bistro with dark wood floors and large arched windows. After Fulcrom overheard mention of the incident in the iren, both he and Lan discreetly tried to listen to the conversations between the other patrons, to hear if Malum’s name was mentioned, but it wasn’t. People mainly talked about their mundane lives, about their small concerns, affairs between lovers, problems at work, gossip — nothing of value. So they just enjoyed the quiet moment in a warm building.

Stepping outside into the sleet, Lan pointed out a poster nailed to a noticeboard. ‘Take a look at this.’

He glanced at the headline. ‘“Aliens invade Villiren”,’ he read, in bold lettering that had begun to run in rainwater. ‘It looks like it’s advertising a meeting of sorts.’

‘Yeah, the date at the bottom. It’s for the day after tomorrow.’

Underneath the heading, it read: ‘There is a growing crisis south of the city. Aliens threaten our culture and our people. They want to take over our city and leave us out in the wilderness. They are creatures who have no respect for our ways. There are reports of them taking children from the Wastelands, for them never to be seen again. Unite, citizens, against this evil. Resist the tyranny that lurks around the corner. Come to the meeting in the basement of the Partisans’ Club and learn the secrets the military refuse to discuss. Learn about your future. Take control back. Free our people.’

Fulcrom read to the end of the poster and laughed. ‘This is ridiculous, right? No one can take this seriously.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Lan indicated a similar-looking poster across the street, nailed to the door of a closed butcher’s shop. Three scruffy-looking men were gathered around, reading it closely, nodding to themselves.

‘I think we should go,’ she said. ‘Let’s say that the scene in the iren was caused, as you say, to create the illusion something was coming into the city — this sort of meeting looks like the same kind of strategy, trying to whip the people into excitement over the issue.’

‘You’re right,’ Fulcrom said. ‘I guess Malum’s been a busy man.’