The Broken Isles

FIVE

She was back in Villjamur, back with Rika.

The warm sunlight falling through her opulent curtains was enough to tell her that this wasn’t quite real, though she didn’t know why. Bright coloured wall hangings and bed sheets, all the books she could wish for, trinkets and toys littered the floor. Everything seemed so pristine. Too pristine. As ever, there was frantic activity outside their bedroom door, which she took to be something to do with her father or his entourage.

Sometimes, when she heard such noises, she would close her eyes and hope that he’d come in — if just for a moment — to see how she and her sister were getting on, what they were up to, how they were feeling. It rarely happened, though. And yet. . now she thought of it, Rika wasn’t actually there. Her bed was a mess, so she had obviously been around recently, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. Eir called out; no reply came. She was utterly alone.

Sighing, Eir stretched fully, pushed herself up, out of bed, and walked to the windows, her legs feeling heavy. The whole movement seemed such an effort. This was the second time she realized something wasn’t right: her black hair was much shorter than before.

Pulling back the curtains, light flooded the room, and she squinted to see the rooftops of Villjamur. Always mesmerizing, always awe-inspiring, she could look down on that city a thousand times and never become complacent with its complex, labyrinthine layout. Each time she looked over the many levels of the city, over the winding rows and dreamlike spires sometimes lost in the mist, her imagination would flare happily.

A garuda flew by, drifting in an arc over the city — no, it had turned and was heading towards her. The bird-soldier glided in, his vast wings extended, his bronze armour glimmering in the morning sunlight. It swooped to her window and, with a thud, gripped the window frame to one side.

He had a panicked look on his face. He tried to sign something to her with his one free hand but she couldn’t understand him.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, trying to climb up to open the window.

But it wasn’t any good.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’

A jab to her ribs lifted her from the dream. She opened her eyes in a cold, dim chamber, with the wind rattling something outside and a man to her right.

To be fair, she didn’t mind the man at all. Randur looked back at her with a soft gaze, his dark hair falling in front of his face. He was propped up on one elbow, wearing only a thin cream tunic which was a size too large for his lithe frame.

‘You were dreaming,’ he told her.

Slowly she realized she was now awake, and curled in towards him. ‘I. . It felt like that, even though I was asleep,’ she said. ‘It felt like I knew.’

‘You’re a lucky thing,’ he said. ‘If you know you’re dreaming, I’d have made myself imagine I was lying somewhere a great deal warmer than this ice palace.’

‘You could always put more clothes on,’ she replied, rubbing her eyes.

‘Nah, I don’t like it.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’m from the islands. We sleep with little on — preferably nothing. It’s much more comfortable that way.’

‘You were always bed-hopping on the islands.’

‘True, but I’m a one-woman man now.’ He laid back down and moved in to kiss her shoulder. When he held his lips there, his warm breath was delightfully sensual on her skin. It seemed a world away from her dream. ‘You should know that.’

His routine never grew old to her, even though they had been together for quite some time. The playful words always drew her out of her reflective moods. These days his charm was one of the few things that brought a smile to her lips, and she knew all too well how rare it was to be happy in this city.

‘What were you dreaming about?’ he asked.

She gave him a summary, dwelling on the garuda at the end. ‘The garuda was trying to tell me something, yet couldn’t. It appeared urgent, as if he had a message for me.’

‘Perhaps he was telling you to put more logs on the fire,’ Randur replied, and wafted a hand in the general direction of the smouldering ashes in the grate.

She slapped his chest. ‘I’m serious. It felt. . wrong somehow. It was very disturbing.’

She looked across to him; he was now lying face down, his head in the pillow. With two fingers she brushed his hair from his face. ‘What will you do today?’

‘Same as usual. Lounge around, wait for a decision to be made. Maybe head out into the city, see what’s happening there. Might see if I can get some decent clothes.’

It was frustrating for them both, she had to admit, not to have much direction now. For all the adventures they’d had on the way to Villiren, and for all it had changed both her and her sister, their arrival in the city had not been what she expected. Instead of every day being a matter of survival, now their time was spent on politics and bureaucracy, and Randur was chafing at all the conversation and lack of action.

And then there was the issue of his mother, the very reason he had gone to Villjamur in the first place. He spoke little of her these days, given all that had happened; Eir knew he thought of her often though. She could tell from his unusual silences.

Randur lifted his head to look at her. ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I like doing nothing. We get fed, and I can bask in the glory of escorting two of the most important ladies in the Empire around the city. The soldiers in the Night Guard seem to have welcomed me on board after I told them of our travels.’

‘What exactly did you tell them. .?’

‘Well, I might have embellished the story a little. You have to with those types — they’re as competitive as you get. Besides, they expect it.’

‘Do they, indeed. Well, I might have a word with the commander and see if he can make use of you.’

‘Oh, for Bohr’s sake,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’m all right — and you’re not my mother.’

The final word hung in the air just a little too long for her liking.

‘Well I’d certainly like to see more of the city. The commander has shown me just a little, and there are people out there who could do with our help.’

‘But. . you’re one of the Jamur sisters,’ Randur said. ‘You should be in here, arranging the affairs of state or something.’

‘After all the lectures you gave me on snobbery, Randur Estevu, you’re the last person I’d expect to say such things.’

Brynd entered the room with a plan in mind. Lady Eir was seated in one of the few regal-looking rooms that once belonged to the portreeve. Amidst the smoke of incense, she sat on a cushioned chair with her knees drawn up to her chest. When Brynd approached she barely turned away from the oval window that overlooked the harbour. A brazier burned to one side, offering just a little warmth, and he stood by it to enjoy the glow.

‘There isn’t much to look at, I’m afraid,’ Brynd said.

Eir looked up at him. She was wearing another plain outfit, not one usually associated with such a powerful family, with a blanket pulled over her shoulders. Though still young, she no longer looked as innocent as he remembered in Villjamur. When people grew older sometimes there was a look about them: they could seem more resigned to their fate, or simply tired of life, no matter what their age. Right now Eir seemed to be a little of both.

‘Your sister,’ he continued, ‘was unusually determined yesterday. I’ve never known her to be so. .’

‘Merciless?’ Eir asked. ‘She’s barely my sister any more. We hardly recognize what each other says.’

‘Yet still you stand by her,’ Brynd said. ‘An admirable quality.’

‘Foolish loyalty, perhaps,’ Eir replied. ‘Families, you know how they can be. .’

‘Don’t do yourself a disservice.’

‘What else can I do then?’ she asked. There was a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘Tell me, you aided me when I was Stewardess in Villjamur for that short while.’

‘You managed the affairs of the city very well, if I remember correctly.’

‘What use can I have here? Rika is in command, and you control the city’s infrastructure. I want to help, Brynd, I want to do something. Neither Rika nor myself have ventured far from this building. The days are long here, Brynd, and I feel utterly useless.’

He contemplated her words and crouched beside her. She had grown too thin on the road, but had since recovered: the colour had returned to her cheeks, there was more flesh on her bones, but her spirit was nowhere to be found. He had watched the girl grow up within the world of her father’s madness and, in his periods of rest from missions or more formal attachments in Villjamur, he had spent many days in her company. Those were simpler, happier days, of course, but he had never seen her quite like this.

‘I think you should see more of this city,’ he offered and, breaching all the code of manners which had been installed in him by her father, extended his hand for her to grasp. ‘You may find it inspiring,’ he continued. ‘You may find what you seek, right here. Come, I’ll show you now.’

She placed her hand in his, and rose.

They ventured out on two grey horses from the Citadel, him in the resplendent uniform of the Night Guard, her borrowing some drab military gear so that she wouldn’t stand out, and with a thick cloak around her. The horses plodded steadily down the long slope, their breath clouding in the air, and then on to the slush-strewn streets of Villiren.

The snow came and went, mixed with a little rain. Artemisia had suggested that it was the Realm Gates that affected the weather patterns in Villiren, though Brynd never queried this. There was too much to take in, but now he thought about it the weather never quite seemed to commit to the much-talked-about ice age.

As the two of them looked around the streets, Brynd noted that even though there were fewer people here than had been normal, there were still a surprising number of civilians milling about on the main road down towards the enormous Onyx Wings. So many buildings had been destroyed in the war that the three pairs of structures, each a couple of hundred feet high, now dominated the skyline of the city.

They rode in the direction of Althing, but Brynd’s idea was to arc around and back to the Old Harbour. If Eir wished to see the city, then he felt it important that she witness the worst-hit areas first.

The operation to repair the city was ceaseless. Brynd had ordered what was left of the army to more manual duties, which ranged from helping locals to board up broken windows, to organizing the clearance of rubble so that the streets were clear for transport. Carts would be loaded with materials, and any stones that could not be reused in construction were to be piled outside the city limits.

Corpses were often pulled out of collapsed houses. Now there weren’t as many and the city had already shared in collective grief they were taken to the southern tip of Villiren where they were burned en masse. This operation was now carried out each morning so that the brightness of the funeral flames would not show at night and undermine morale.

Wherever it was suspected that enemy soldiers were hiding — be they red-skinned rumel or Okun — experienced units of Dragoons were ordered in to root them out. Brynd didn’t want them killed unless they provided too much of a danger; instead he wanted them taken to underground holding cells where Artemisia could interrogate them. So far, only eight had been captured alive, with another seven killed as they attempted to flee. None of the captives had proven much use so far.

Brynd explained to Eir how the city was being rebuilt and organized as they moved along the edges of Althing, and she listened without interrupting. He enjoyed talking to her; it helped to clarify things in his head, and he began to feel encouraged by the amount of progress they had made.

Now and then, civilians in rags would approach, telling them that they had lost everything and begging for money. They were all ages, the youngest a girl barely out of childhood, the eldest over seventy. On the first two occasions, Brynd let Eir hand over a few coins from her purse, but after that he cautioned her.

‘Lady Eir, nearly everyone in this city has lost something — if not everything. If you keep opening your purse for everyone who asks for money, you’ll have nothing left.’

‘Oh. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I’m probably making things worse.’

‘You wouldn’t be expected to know how many desperate people there are.’

Brynd gave a gentle kick so that their horses moved at a swifter pace through the approaching crowd, all holding their hands out for change.

Passing a greater volume of civilians, Brynd and Eir approached one of the few reopened irens, a vast and sprawling market situated in a relatively intact plaza.

Under the late afternoon sun, hundreds of people milled about between rows of trade stalls. While things had not quite returned to normal, there were ad-hoc stalls here: those dealing in metalware to melt down into weapons, or clothing cut from hessian sacks, which had been provided by the military — some of them still bore the seven-pointed Jamur star beneath gaudy dye. Scribes were offering writing skills, some women were leaning against perimeter walls, openly offering their bodies. On one side the fish markets had come to life again, bringing much-needed food to the people of the city.

‘It might not look much at the moment,’ Brynd said, ‘but this is a vision compared with what it was like when you first arrived.’

‘I remember it well.’ Eir’s expression was unreadable. She looked impassively across the scene for some time without speaking. Then, she said, ‘When I left Villjamur, I had only positive memories of my father’s once-glorious Empire in mind. This is not exactly how the family dream went, I’ll admit.’

‘I didn’t realize you were so attached to those dreams,’ Brynd said.

‘Neither did I until recently,’ Eir replied. ‘Still, I think I need to face reality, don’t you?’

‘Having escaped your own — very public — execution, traipsing halfway across the Archipelago to get here, and brought our only hope of an ally — I’d say you’ve faced reality.’

‘You’re very kind to me, commander — you always have been. I always found it easier talking to you than any of the guards who were attached to myself and Rika. Your loyalty to the Jamur lineage has been unquestionable. And now, even now. .’ She gestured to the thronging iren. ‘Even now you rebuild this in our name.’

‘Come. Let’s head down this road — there’s a lot more to see.’

There were sectors of the city so badly damaged by the war that, after the clearance of rubble, there was nothing left but a skeleton neighbourhood. Stubs of stone were scattered irregularly throughout one region heading towards Port Nostalgia — or what was left of it.

There was little to remind them that these streets were once inhabited.

‘This place saw the worst of the fighting,’ Brynd said. ‘And remember I told you about the huge being that emerged from the city and trailed out towards the sea?’

‘It came this way, then,’ Eir realized. ‘By Astrid, it must have been enormous.’

‘I never saw it myself,’ Brynd said, ‘and the reports that came in were inconsistent. Those who witnessed it first-hand suggested it was some primitive sea monster made of crackling light, though that sounds like an exaggeration to me. Whatever it was, though it nearly killed the Night Guard while we were saving people, it also took a chunk of the enemy forces occupying this sector of the city. It did us a favour, in the end. Somewhere we must have had some remarkable allies.’

‘Both fortuitous and. .’ Eir paused as she took in the scale of devastation.

‘Just fortuitous,’ Brynd added. ‘Everything that was here can be built again, more or less. They’re only buildings. The alternative was much less appealing.’

A unit of Dragoons wearing bright-red sashes rode by quickly on horseback, five men in all, and another followed a few moments later, moving much more slowly due to pulling a cart. Each of the riders saluted Brynd as they passed and offered the Sele of Jamur, before moving on down the street.

‘What’s going on here?’ Eir asked.

Brynd considered the question. ‘We should follow them. I think you should see this as well.’

They turned in line behind the Dragoons, pursuing their cautious route through the debris. The group continued for several minutes, eventually approaching the fringe of a more built-up region, one that had not been totally decimated. The terraced houses were largely featureless, flat structures, with once-brightly painted wooden doors now covered in dust and flecks of blood. Many doors had been scrubbed clean again by returned owners, though one of them still had an arrowhead embedded in the wood. One road was relatively clear, with a small pile of rubble in one corner.

At the far end, where the Dragoons were now heading, a dust cloud floated above an end-terrace, which had recently collapsed. A few neighbours had clustered around to examine the damage without offering much help, but the Dragoons dismounted and began to clear them out of the way, before they set to work.

Brynd and Eir came closer to see that half the end house had just buckled over. It was an area of about fifteen feet wide now reduced to a mound of stone, with broken furniture jutting out of the gaps. It wasn’t the first time this had happened since the war, and wouldn’t be the last.

As the skies clouded over and the dust settled, the Dragoons set about climbing further into the debris. Four soldiers formed a chain along which they passed chunks of masonry. Brynd and Eir dismounted from their horses, approached the scene and offered their help.

‘Nah, you’re all right. We’ll have this sorted soon, commander,’ said a tall, bearded officer with a wry smile. ‘It’s our job, like.’

With a remarkable nonchalance they continued the chain of operation, the heavy men grunting as they moved some of the heavier stone back first. Two of the other soldiers had run further along the street to flag for civilian assistance and, after returning unsuccessfully, one of them was sent on his horse to fetch more troops.

Brynd turned to Eir. ‘This has been the main operation since the war — clearances of property, of streets, seeing that structures are safe. We tried to keep a log of all the progress, though it probably isn’t as efficient as I’d like.’

‘These are people’s homes, though. How do you log the emotional distress this causes?’

He knew what she meant. He led a life of numbers and logic, and in the clean-up he couldn’t afford to take such things into account.

A middle-aged woman with straggly brown hair and dressed in heavy, drab robes, burst forward onto the scene. She dropped her bags, and began to wail into her hands. Brynd watched as she sank to her knees on one side of the collapsed building, crying, ‘My boys, my boys.’

Eir rushed over to the woman and knelt by her side. Brynd watched the former Stewardess of the Empire hold her as the woman emitted great, heaving sobs into her shoulder.

Seeing Eir react to such raw human emotion, and so quickly, made Brynd contemplate whether the sheer scale of these losses, or even the war itself, had began to numb his senses, and chisel away at his compassion. The Night Guard were enhanced in any number of physical ways, but the ability to offer a shoulder to cry on did not seem to be one of them.

The soldiers eventually uncovered the dead bodies of two teenage lads and loaded them gently onto the cart. Their mother, with Eir still gripping her hands tightly, leant on the cart, pressing her tearful face into one of the boy’s dirtied, bloodied shirts.

While this continued, Brynd walked along the street to knock on the doors of several of the houses.

Two people answered, only one of whom knew the woman well enough to take her in. It was an elderly woman who seemed fit and healthy and sane, and Brynd told her what had happened, pressed a few coins into her hand, 10 Sota in all, and instructed her to buy food and look after the woman.

As he returned to guide the woman towards this temporary sanctuary, he thought to himself, If I keep opening my purse like that, for every dead body, I’ll have nothing left. .

Brynd and Eir rode back in contemplative silence. Eir’s mood was different now, though he couldn’t tell how exactly.

‘Are you glad you came out here, to see all this?’ Brynd asked eventually.

‘Glad is not perhaps the right word, but I am certainly grateful for what you’ve shown me. I’m happy you’re going about things the way you are — seeing that these people have jobs, houses and food.’

‘I’m not as alert to human and rumel needs as yourself, Lady Eir. You were very good earlier.’

‘Well, such emotional things probably aren’t necessary for a military man when you’ve so many other things to worry about; but you have compassion in your heart, and that is what these people so clearly need. Compassion.’

I’m glad someone thinks that, Brynd thought, as they neared the imposing Citadel.

‘If what Artemisia tells us is true,’ Eir continued, ‘if another war is genuinely coming, what will happen here in Villiren?’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Brynd said.

‘To these people, I mean. Will they be expected to fight again?’

‘Some will be more willing than others.’

‘And the rest of the island — the rest of the Empire’s citizens?’

‘I don’t know yet, Lady Eir. Although Artemisia’s people could provide significant support, we should plan for all eventualities, war or no war. Though I suspect that war is more likely.’

‘On which front?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Lady Eir. It may be that we have to mass an army to defend some other corner of the Empire, or it may happen in Villiren again.’

‘One final thought,’ she added.

Brynd indicated for her to continue, then steered his mare towards the cobbled road that led up directly to the Citadel. A unit of soldiers began to move forward but, on recognizing him, moved aside to let them through.

‘Please, no more of this Lady Eir. It hardly seems fitting any more. Just Eir will be sufficient.’

‘As you wish,’ he replied with a smile.

‘Commander,’ one of the soldiers called.

Brynd looked away to see a sergeant running towards him. When he reached his side he held up a letter. ‘This arrived when you were out, sir.’

Brynd took the letter, thanked the man and placed it in his pocket.

Night-time traditionally brought out the worst elements in Villiren, though the war had put a stop to most of that. When he had first arrived, Brynd had found underground drug dens, whorehouses importing kidnapped tribal girls, and a black market larger than the Imperial registered channel. Brynd could not concern himself with these matters; he had his mind set on the defence of the city. When the war came, this more colourful side of the city was forced to the fringes and beyond — out of sight, out of mind. But now the more insalubrious kinds of city life were finding their way back to the heart of things, where money and people met.

Brynd headed out on horseback along with two young archers from the Dragoons. They were riding towards a sector of the city right on the tip of where Deeping met what used to be the Wastelands, a former area of new growth that hadn’t lost its old moniker. There were rumours of illicit goings-on here, but he had other matters on his mind after reading the letter.

Brynd dismounted and tied his horse securely to an iron bollard alongside some former industrial works, while the two archers remained on standby, their eyes fixed on the surrounding shadows. The streets were wide and largely featureless, the buildings no more than a storey high for the most part, until they reached one area that appeared to be a row of large disused warehouses. Along this stretch of road, homeless people were gathering around small fires, their hands out for warmth, their faces illuminated by the flames.

There was a warehouse at the end with a large double door, on which the number 54 was painted crudely in white. The building was vast and reminded Brynd of some of the industrial fishing units near Port Nostalgia — just like the one in which he and some of the Night Guard had nearly died. It had a gently sloped pyramid-style roof, with ornamentation at the top.

This must be the place, then, Brynd thought as he approached.

He banged three times with the ball of his hand and waited, peering around into the gloom. Then he waited a little longer, watching a dog trot from one side of the street to the other before it disappeared into the darkness.

Eventually, after a clang of bolts, Brynd found himself facing a slender young man in his late teens or early twenties, with short blond hair and a wide smile. He stood a little shorter than Brynd, and was wearing what looked like overalls. His face was smeared with grease.

I’ve come all the way out here for this youth?

‘Hey, it’s the Night Guard commander,’ the lad beamed. ‘Can tell by your eyes. Glad you could join us, man. You got our message, right?’

There was no salute, no signal of respect. ‘Would I be here otherwise?’

‘True, true. Hey, come in, it’s freezing outside.’ He backed away and let Brynd walk in. The door closed with a thud behind, and the young man bolted the door.

‘What’s your name?’ Brynd asked, his voice echoing.

‘Diggsy,’ he replied.

‘Funny-sounding name,’ Brynd said.

‘That’s just what the lads call me. Real name’s Thongar Diggrsen.’

‘I can see why they call you Diggsy.’

‘Hey, you’ve got a sense of humour. Was beginning to think you were all po-faced.’

You would be, if you’d seen what I’d seen, boy.

‘Lead on, Diggsy,’ Brynd gestured. ‘I’m keen to see what all the fuss is about and hope that I haven’t wasted my time traipsing across the city for no good reason.’

‘Right you are.’ Diggsy turned and walked down a dark corridor. Though Brynd could cope with the poor lighting, how Diggsy was finding his way in front of him was a mystery, but the lad seemed to move as if the passage was committed to his memory.

Something didn’t make sense: why was someone so young occupying a factory? Was it his home? The building smelled like a blacksmith’s workshop, of charred materials and molten metal. There was also the tang of cultists down here, too, that weird, unmistakable chemical odour from messing with things people shouldn’t.

‘How long have you been working here?’ Brynd enquired.

‘Now that’s a question,’ Diggsy replied. ‘Way before the war, if that’s what you mean. Pilli’s father was one of those ore-owning types, and she knew this building of his — like quite a few others — wasn’t being used at all. Anyhow, Pilli’s good stock — not like her father — and so this has become our headquarters for the most part.’

‘Headquarters? So are you part of an official order?’

‘Ha, no. Hell no. We don’t like to get involved with other cultists. They can be shitting well poncey if you ask me. All about structures and etiquette and whatever. That’s not our kind of thing — we prefer to live by our own rules, in our gang.’

‘How many are in your. . gang, then?’ Brynd felt the situation was growing increasingly absurd. The way this Diggsy talked, his mannerisms and nonchalance, his references to his social circle, suggested this was all going to be a complete waste of time.

‘Depends on when it is. We lost one in the war. Got the odd seasonal, but that dried up a year back. Oh, watch the corner here — it’s a sharp one.’

‘I see it. You didn’t want to join in the war effort yourself?’ Brynd asked. ‘We had people far younger than you.’ They turned to the left, along a narrow corridor, the sound of their feet occasionally scuffing along the smooth stone.

‘We were too busy, to be honest. Sounds lame, doesn’t it? But seriously, once you see what we’ve got, I think you’ll understand.’

Diggsy’s voice suddenly gave off a lot of reverb. They had entered a large chamber, lighter with a lot of energetic conversation and laughter at the far end. Brynd could smell arum weed mixed with cooking meat. There were four, maybe five people there, and they turned to face Diggsy when he hollered out to them.

Diggsy turned back to Brynd, gestured with wide arms, and smiled. ‘Welcome to Factory 54. I think you’ll like it.’

Brynd looked around to take in the scene. All around the walls and hanging from the rafters were bipedal structures, things made from junk that looked like immense hanged men. They were metallic and flesh and perhaps even something else, with leathery attire and what looked like massive trays on the floor. ‘By Bohr. .’

‘Aw, this is nothing,’ came a girl’s voice, a young redhead with a slender frame and freckled face. ‘This is the shit that doesn’t work. We’ve been trying forever to get things to work, but life isn’t that easy to manufacture. Isn’t that right, Diggsy?’

Brynd eyed her and Diggsy. Judging by her look towards the lad, there was a history between them, that much was certain.

Brynd stepped closer to the large trays, which contained weird-looking brown fluids. ‘Could someone bring me a flame over? I’d like to see this as clearly as possible.’

Some of the others laughed.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, chief,’ Diggsy said. ‘Get a flame in that stuff and we’ll all be eating breakfast in another world.’

Brynd soaked up the scene. This building was immense, which meant all these hanging creatures were larger than he originally thought. He stepped back to take in their expressionless faces, if they could be called faces. They were so creased, stitched and folded they seemed as if they were old sacks. Some of them wore open fissures, which had dried to black. They were bizarre specimens. The fact that they were a parody of a human or rumel kept him from believing that this was in any way unethical.

‘Where did you get these from?’ Brynd asked.

‘We made them, of course,’ the red-haired girl said, wandering over. ‘Or resurrected them in many instances.’

Brynd asked for her name.

‘Jeza,’ she replied nonchalantly.

‘Your name was on the letter,’ he said.

She nodded coyly.

‘Presumably you all know me — Commander Brynd Lathraea, leader of the Night Guard? Leader of the military that has applied martial law across the city.’

‘Yeah, we got you,’ someone replied.

He hoped to lend a little gravitas to his presence, but they showed little sign of acknowledging that. ‘Let me get this right in my head: you’re similar to cultists, then? You use the old science in new ways?’

‘More or less, in layman’s terms, though we don’t really like cultists,’ Jeza said. ‘We deal with them, but they’re way too cliquey, and they speak in all these prophetic riddles, it’s ridiculous.’

‘So you use their technology,’ Brynd observed. ‘That is to say, I’m guessing here, this was all done with the assistance of relics.’

‘It was and it wasn’t,’ Jeza said. ‘There’s a whole mix of things — relics mainly, but we use some tribal refinements too, not to mention with palaeomancy you’re dealing with the creations of the natural world itself.’

‘I don’t think the commander needs to know all the details,’ Diggsy interrupted.

‘Sure he does,’ Jeza snapped. ‘Think about it.’

‘What’s wrong with you tonight, Jeza?’ Diggsy said softly.

‘We need him to trust us,’ she replied, then turned to Brynd. He noticed that her face revealed underlying conflicts within her. ‘Isn’t that right, commander?’

‘That depends what you need my trust for.’

Jeza took his arm in an informal manner and directed him along the lines of constructs, through the semi-darkness. Shadows seemed to exaggerate the sinister appeal of these things, but Brynd couldn’t help but wonder what they’d look like on the battlefield.

‘None of these function, right?’ Brynd asked.

‘If you mean move around like a living thing, then only some of them do. We’ve actually got a couple in an adjoining chamber, which are a little more polished, but just take in all of this for a moment. You can see the potential here, can’t you?’

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘But what were you saying about the technology behind them. .?’

‘Yes, we work with a mixture of tribal knowledge and cultist science. Cultists haven’t really touched on this stuff — to our knowledge at least. They concentrate on the bits of science and the discipline of technological lore being handed down through the generations. They’re too full of shit to look further afield — you know, the tribes have some pretty powerful stuff, but no one gives them the time of day. They just dismiss it as magic.’

‘You have me intrigued,’ Brynd said.

‘I guess we were all lucky to have Lim.’

‘And who,’ Brynd asked, ‘is Lim?’

Jeza sighed. ‘He died during the fighting. But he was really, really good at this stuff. He came from one of the tribes on Varltung, which is how we got to work in this way.’

‘Off Empire? How did he make it out here?’

‘He ran away, came across on his own, learned the languages, did it all the hard way. They’ve got cultists on Varltung, too — did you know that?’

‘I didn’t,’ Brynd admitted.

‘Well, they have. Anyway, so Lim knew stuff that we didn’t. Spoke Jamur well enough to explain his findings to us.’

Brynd’s interest was most definitely piqued. He would indulge these youths a little longer. ‘You all just meet then. He comes to Villiren-’

‘Because anyone can make a go of things in a place where no one cares,’ Jeza said. ‘No one bothers us. No one pays us attention.’

Brynd nodded for her to go on. ‘You have my attention.’

She looked around at the others who were approaching to hear the conversation.

‘We all found each other, more or less. We’re the kind of people who fell through the gaps — either dead parents or kicked out of home or runaways. Those kind of things make you grow up fast.’

‘You’ve done all right for yourselves by the look of it,’ Brynd said. ‘But I don’t understand how a bunch of street kids could have come across cultist technology.’

Diggsy laughed. One of the others was shaking their head. Jeza said, ‘You don’t know much about cultists, commander.’

‘Excuse me?’ Brynd replied.

‘I mean, you might think they’re all high-powered and respect them and stuff, but. . what you might not know is that some orders take in kids.’

‘Of course, I’ve heard of such things.’

‘Have you heard of abuse rings? Have you heard of cultists taking in dozens of young children promising to show them all the riches they can imagine, only to lock them in windowless rooms? Bringing them out just to test technology on them, or sexually abuse them.’

A silence fell in which Brynd considered the way Jeza spoke. She seemed totally unmoved by her past.

‘My apologies,’ he said eventually. Tough kids, these ones. .

‘Ah, think nothing of it, commander,’ Diggsy said. ‘We were the lucky ones. We managed to scrape some knowledge together and get the hell out of there — others are still trapped, being beaten or worse. We got out, we stuck together and used the only thing we had — our knowledge of relics.’

‘Not to mention stealing a load of relics when we ran away,’ Jeza pointed out.

‘True,’ Diggsy smiled faintly, sadly.

There was a charm about these youths that Brynd admired. They’d done things the hard way — there was a lot to be said for that.

‘So tell me the details of what you’ve achieved here,’ Brynd suggested. ‘I want to know what makes your work so special.’

Jeza told him, in approximate terms. Cultists were vague and spoke in heavy jargon, but she explained things in a very simple way. Lim could conduct rituals with relics — remnants of old technology as well as gemstones and tribal accoutrements he had brought with him from Varltung. There were tribes who worshipped such things in distant, remote valleys of that island. And sources of energy were provided to reinvigorate dead ‘cells’ — or make body parts quite literally spark into life. Jeza called it palaeomancy. The others chimed in with colour and examples to clarify this life science. Brynd concluded he would never fully understand the ways of a cultist.

‘Tell me in plain terms: what can you offer the army?’ Brynd asked.

‘As I indicated in my letter we’re developing things you might be able to use on the battlefield — though these are currently still in development.’

‘I still need to see something.’

Jeza nodded and sauntered off into a dark corner of the room, where she rummaged around on a shelving unit. She returned a moment later clutching a small black item, and handed it over to Brynd, who examined it.

It was the size of a plate, half an inch thick, smooth on one side, and slightly curved. He attempted to bend it, but couldn’t, then tried a little harder — but still did not move it out of shape. ‘What am I looking at here?’ he asked.

‘This is the material we’ve made. It’s strong and durable, and a fraction of the weight of metal, but not at all finished. We can make armour from this material. And we’re nearly there.’

A couple of them headed outside to get some more cheap wine they’d been storing in the ice. The rest of the group sat around with Brynd on upturned crates, sipping wine from wooden cups. They offered him one of their many hammocks, but he politely declined.

‘You weren’t involved in the war,’ Brynd said, ‘so what made you contact the authorities now?’

‘Word was that you were looking for new forces,’ Diggsy said. ‘We saw them posters you put up all over the place. I reckon we’re in a position to supply you with some of those forces, depending on what you need.’

‘Yes, of-’

‘It’ll cost you though,’ Jeza replied coolly. ‘We’ve also heard that bankers are looking to give a lot of cash to the army. If we can get a little contribution for working with you, we’ll be happy enough. That could change all our futures. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

They were young, but definitely not stupid. Brynd took a sip of the wine and winced. One of the girls — Pilli? — chuckled and said something about no one liking their drinks.

‘Of course if you’d rather we sold this stuff elsewhere. .’ Jeza started.

‘No,’ Brynd replied, ‘that won’t be necessary. We can arrange a contract, I’m sure. But I’ll need to see what you’ve actually got first, and I’ll need guarantees — you see, you’re a lot younger than people I normally deal with.’

‘Just because we’re young doesn’t mean we’re unreliable,’ Diggsy said.

‘I mean, just look at what we’ve achieved so far,’ Jeza said. Then, to Diggsy, ‘I knew no one would take us seriously.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Brynd said. ‘What we’re dealing with here is something quite unnatural and untested, and — to be honest — I have no idea if what you’ve got can be deployed in military use yet. For example, can I make requests?’

‘We can look at that, sure,’ Jeza confirmed. ‘But before we go on, we just want to know you’re interested.’

‘There are many details I wish to mull over,’ Brynd continued, ‘but you should know that yes, I am interested — and I can assure you that money’s not a problem.’

Brynd placed his cup on the floor and stood up. ‘Hopefully then you’ll be able to buy better wine for your guests.’

He offered a smile and extended a hand to Jeza. She looked up at him with amazement, as if she had not expected him to take them seriously at all.

‘Write to me again, but next time I want to see something finished and ready to test.’

She shook his hand. ‘Sure, we’ll have something in a day or so. You won’t regret it.’

As Brynd left with the Dragoon archers, he realized that this was one of the few times in his life when he’d met a group of people who did not appear startled by his skin colour.