Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  There was coughing behind him, obviously some of the powder having caught in her throat. He stepped towards her. 'How're you feeling?' he asked.

  She looked up at him through the hair covering her face. 'I feel terrible,' she croaked.

  'Good,' Tryst said. 'Now I want you to tell me the truth.'

  She brushed a thick tress of hair back behind her ear.

  'First of all, your name?'

  'Tuya Daluud.'

  'Your age?'

  'I . . . honestly, I don't know,' she replied.

  'OK, Tuya Daluud. I'd like you to explain those paintings to me. Tell me, why do they appear to be alive?'

  'They are alive.'

  'Ask a stupid question . . .' Tryst murmured. 'Well then, how've you done it?' He knelt down before her face to face, in an almost threatening manner - their pose a corruption of a lover's kiss.

  'Many years ago I formed a relationship with a cultist. To keep things short, he provided me with special materials. A couple of relics. He showed me some techniques that would breathe extra life into my art.'

  'Why would a cultist care about that?' he sneered.

  She made full eye contact. 'Because he was in love with me.'

  'Ah, yes,' Tryst said. 'He paid for your body, and you called it love - is that right?'

  'It wasn't like that at all. He only paid me the first time . . .'

  'I'm sure it wasn't really the first,' he said, hoping his sarcasm would provoke her.

  'Why are you being like this to me? I've done nothing to hurt you.'

  'True,' he said, and slowly untied her. 'Now, let's have a little tour of your gallery, shall we?'

  She explained it all, each painting, from conception to creation.

  Behind the ones that Tryst saw first lay even greater horrors, and he would never forget them. What he had at first found disgusting he later deemed cruel, since her creations did genuinely appear to be alive, but not in any way he was familiar with. For an hour he was shown the intricacies of her paintings, the body shapes that appeared to step out of them. Most of her creations were now set free, somewhere across the Archipelago, on journeys of their own. One image intrigued him particularly: a clay sculpture of a reclining dog. It moved its head around when she neared it, as if it fed off her presence. The creature was totally black, except for eyes possessing a fragile emotion. How could anything so unreal have a life? It broke all known laws, all religious teachings, every philosophy he'd known.

  'I've one more question,' Tryst said, as the clock tower rang out the thirteen chimes of midnight. 'Why do you make these things?'

  She turned to a lantern resting on a chest of drawers, stared at it as if it was a beacon of hope. 'I think, deep down, it's because I can. You don't know how rewarding it feels to have your creations come to life. No one does, so I can't begin to explain. That way your art takes on a life of its own. I remember when I was much younger, people criticizing my paintings for being lifeless. Now I can make anything come out of these canvases, and they behave according to my wishes - even if they die shortly after. And I do it because . . . well, because I'm lonely. This is a big city, but I feel like a stranger in it. My family died years ago. I've spent all my life here, so where else would I go? There's nothing for me in one of the far-off villages of some backwater island, and I wouldn't fancy my chances out there in the Freeze anyway. No, I'm trapped here, a permanent stranger. Perhaps it makes my job easier. When men have finished with me, they go back home to their wives, their families, and I know they wouldn't want me to walk up to them in the street and say hello. So every time I make love to a stranger, it makes me a little more distant, a little more solitary. A little more scarred.'

  Tryst brushed her sadness to one side. 'It's possible, then, for you to create a living creature simply to murder someone?'

  She was silent for some time before answering, frozen in posture, so he could not tell what she was thinking. 'Yes, of course. And I suppose you'd want to know why I did it.'

  Tryst waited for her to go on.

  She continued, 'Ghuda talked a lot over the pillow. It's like a confessional, and you'd be surprised to know just how many secrets are whispered to a woman like me. He may have been a little drunk, of course, but he started ranting about the refugees, and how they should be eliminated, that they disturbed the central plans of the Council. He claimed they were parasitic scum who deserved to die before they could leach the Treasury dry. So much disease among them, too, threatened the survival of the city, so he and Councillor Boll were working on certain plans to bring about their removal, and there were others involved, too. It wasn't difficult to work out what he meant and I couldn't let him continue, Tryst. I just couldn't let them destroy the lives of so many.'

  Tryst was concerned that she might know Urtica's secrets, of his own involvement in them. 'There were other ways to act, you know. You should have informed the Inquisition.'

  'You think I'm stupid? You think you lot would have been able to do anything? Solely on the word of a prostitute?'

  That means Urtica is safe. Tryst felt a surge of relief. 'It doesn't mean you can just kill whoever you want, contrary to the ancient laws of this city.'

  'You're going to arrest me, I presume?' she said, her gaze focused on the floor tiles.

  He considered this point for a moment, but he had another idea. This woman might have some definite use for him. And afterwards, he would turn her in, of course. Meanwhile, he had a way in which he could make Jeryd suffer, nothing too serious, just a little mental fun - a little revenge for blocking his promotion. And then he could feel justice had been done, an eye for an eye.

  Tryst regarded her canvases once again. 'You say you can paint anything, and then make it come to life?'

  'I can try,' she said nervously. 'What d'you have in mind? Are you not going to arrest me then?'

  'I'll tell you what,' Tryst said. 'You seem like a sensible sort of woman, so I'll let you keep your freedom if you can do me a favour.'

  'What . . . what sort of favour?'

  'I don't want sex, Tuya, it's your art I'm concerned with.'

  'My art?'

  'I want you to paint a woman for me. Can you make her stay alive for just a very short period of time?'

  'I've not created a human for what seems like . . . forever.'

  'Not a human, more a rumel. If you can't, I will have you placed in the city gaol pending execution.'

  'What do you want her for?'

  'Firstly, you must control her so that she does only what I say - just for the short time she's alive. And I want you to make her exactly how I describe.'

  'I don't have a choice, do I?'

  'Not really, no. And you will not say a word of this to anyone, not if you wish to go on living.'

  'So, what do you want this woman to look like?'

  Tryst proceeded to describe Jeryd's wife.

  TWENTY-NINE

  She could turn stone into lava, seawater into ice sculptures, could make plants grow rapidly to the height of a building. She could create devices to flood the land with fire, and just as quickly quench it.

  But she could not find Dartun Sur, Godhi of the Order of the Equinox.

  Papus sat in the darkness and silence of her stone-built chambers, her fingers steepled, brooding over the situation whilst staring at the floor.

  She hadn't disclosed her full concerns to the red-eyed commander regarding what Dartun had been up to. He was clearly the one responsible for raising the dead. The real questions were how many of these walking dead were there, and what were the consequences?

  Papus had known about Dartun for most of her life, because ever since she joined the Order of the Dawnir, rumours had persisted about his lifestyle, his abuse of Dawnir technology. She herself was the most skilled of all at using relics - or that was what she honestly believed, up until Verain's visit. For years she had climbed through the ranks, watched others around her misuse the technology and die in accidents - her own great love, with whom sh
e had hoped to abscond, included. It was all about maintaining image, being a cultist, and her whole family had belonged from time immemorial to the same, ancient order, the oldest of the cultist sects, a line stretching back generations. Most of her remaining kin were now in retirement on Ysla, well isolated from the rest of the Empire. But she was still here in Villjamur, still driven and still working and still competing.

  Still Papus loved her work. What made her feel alive was the thrill that she might discover something completely unknown on any day, that she might then understand the universe better than anyone, that she might occasionally assist the advance of civilization in some small way.

  And all the time, in the background, Dartun was quietly making a mockery of her.

  People whispered about the Equinox. They gave cultists a bad reputation. There were questions regarding their ethics. But, knowing how Dartun liked to perpetuate his own myth, she had ignored the tittle-tattle up to a point.

  Now he had gone too far.

  He'd tampered with the fabric of life, and it was now a public affair. If he was indeed raising the dead, he had to be stopped soon. If what the girl, Verain, had claimed was true, then he was messing with basic universal configurations. There were codes of behaviour as old as the city, amongst the cultists, insisting that they should consult each other on controversial matters.

  If Dartun's order wouldn't respond to her demands that he divulge any activities to do with raising the dead, then it would be tantamount to a declaration of war.

  There hadn't been strife between cultists for thousands of years, ever since the original disagreements that had spliced them into their separate orders.

  Things were suddenly looking complicated.

  She sighed. This was not like in her youth, all those years ago on Ysla. The cultists' isle had been unlike any other island in the Archipelago in geological, botanical, or entomological terms. Its climate was warmer, for a start. But then it had been augmented so much by the various cultists inhabiting it using their relics that it no longer much resembled the island the original Dawnir had created. Lush green meadows, ridges of igneous rocks, crescents of beautiful white beaches, deciduous trees budding and shedding in rhythm with the artificial seasons. And those open blue skies always visible from the hilltops. All the cultist orders were entitled to have use of land there. Their different divisions possessed lodges scattered around, or gathered in village complexes, where their members were able to interpret relics in comparative solitude.

  It now seemed a world away.

  Her mind drifted back to Dartun, and then she made her decision. His tampering with the forces of life and death was simply wrong, and his reckless opening of doors to new worlds posed a risk to all these islands lying under the light of the red sun. Clearly, it was her responsibility to bring him to justice.

  *

  Through the dark alleyways, where the city's snow-scrapers hadn't yet ventured with their shovels, she marched with the letter she had resolutely composed. No lanterns around these parts of the city, but it was a clear evening, and the twin moons illuminated the treacherous snow clearly. Glowing paths stretched in front of her. Although not particularly late, there was no one else visible, few footprints. There were obviously better places to be than out in the cold. One hand was buried in her pocket, wrapped around her ultimatum. She had to present it in person, alone, but several steps behind her were other members of her order, armed with sterkr relics. She was not quixotic about this business. She wanted some protection, but did not want her arrival to seem intimidating. Not yet.

  Papus reached the inconspicuous entrance, knocked several times before a hatch slid back aside and a frosty welcome was muttered.

  'I want to see Dartun Sur, as a matter of urgency,' she demanded.

  'Not gonna happen without an invitation,' came the response.

  'If you don't let me see him urgently, it will mean a massive rift between our orders,' she said, and slipped the missive through the bars.

  'Hang on,' the voice murmured, then whoever was behind the door was no longer there. Papus waited in the cold, reflecting that Dartun was probably on some far-off island as Verain had suggested.

  Eventually, the door opened, and one of the Equinox stood facing her.

  'He's not here,' he said, her letter visible in his hands.

  'Where is he then?'

  In the poor light of the doorway she barely perceived his shrug.

  'I want some bloody answers. Maybe you can help me instead.'

  'Listen, lady, I don't know what you're after. I told you, I'll give him your message when he returns.'

  'You're not following,' Papus snapped, discreetly dropping a relic from her sleeve into her hand. 'I'm not going anywhere until someone senior from your order talks to me.'

  'I just told you . . .' he began menacingly.

  Papus thrust the relic towards him, a bolt of purple light crackling around his body, an electrifying net.

  His mouth opened wide, displaying a scream, but no sound came out. After a moment he collapsed onto the floor in soundless agony.

  The letter of warning drifted down beside him as she leaned over his body and pulled the door behind him. Then she slid the ultimatum underneath it, as bolts of energy continued to skim around the rival cultist. By now, members of her own order exited the deep night and hooked ropes around the fallen man, and dragged him back down the snow-filled alley, all the time sparks of purple light radiating about his writhing form.

  'An eye for an eye,' she said with satisfaction as, at the narrow opening of the alleyway, she crouched to deposit another device that fired a single sheet of purple light across the ground. The light disappeared to leave the snow untouched, deleting all marks of their presence there.

  Snow continued to fall leisurely as if it had all the time in the world.

  THIRTY

  'Where's the big freak?' Apium said, before yawning and stretching with the grace of a tramp, astride his black horse.

  'I take it you mean Jurro?' Brynd said, after considering for a moment that he himself was the freak, or maybe Kym - men who loved other men, and who'd be killed if discovered. He could never shake off the paranoia.

  A unit of troops was assembling between the inner two gates of Villjamur. Brynd had ordered for twenty of the Night Guard, which included some new promotions from the best of the Dragoons, recruited after a little necessary training. There had been a night of induction, as cultists from the Order of the Dawnir used their skills to enhance the new recruits' physical capabilities, their sight, their hearing, their resilience. Brynd had forgotten just what ministrations the Night Guard had to endure in their first evening joining the elite.

  Brynd had ordered up a hundred men and women of the Second Dragoons, and a hundred of the First, all of them mounted on horseback and battle-ready within half an hour. Also he was waiting for a Dawnir cultist to join them.

  The horses shifted on the muddied ground. The temperature having plummeted even further recently, Brynd wore several layers of clothing, with a fur cloak draped across his shoulders. He guided his horse in front of the assembled Night Guard. Like himself, they were uncertain as to what sort of combat they were expecting. No reliable news had materialized, no first-hand reports from trustworthy sources. All the information they possessed so far were recycled rumours of grotesque beasts tearing down towns and villages, mercilessly slaughtering everything in sight. As his troops chatted idly to relieve themselves of anxiety, the sound of hooves on the cobbled streets beyond informed him that support was now arriving.

  The Dragoons were arrayed in full battle splendour, rousing an inevitable sense of military pride in Brynd. They came off the cobbles onto the snow-covered mud. Beneath their furs, metal glistened in the morning light: body armour and chain mail, nothing ornamental, but simply designed for fighting with efficiency. Spears protruded over shields, swords hung at sides. Within moments they had lined up, awaiting Brynd's commands. And through the gates rode a
lone cultist, clothed elegantly in black. The magician rode forward with casual arrogance, bringing his horse up alongside Brynd's.

  'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd greeted this new arrival, noticing the cultist was female. She had a weathered face and sunken blue eyes as if she was prey to some addiction. Have they given me a magic junkie? he wondered.

  The cultist returned the greeting. 'So, when do we leave?' Her voice was weirdly elegant.

  'As soon as our friend the Dawnir arrives,' Brynd confirmed. 'Have you brought much of your technology?' Her horse was loaded with considerable baggage.

  'Enough,' she replied, eyeing the gathered soldiers. 'Why aren't we sailing from the city docks?'

  'Because ice sheets have already formed on Jokull's northern shores, to some extent, and navigating those waters will be difficult. It will be much quicker to sail from the east side of the island. I didn't catch your name by the way?'

  'My name is Blavat, commander.'

  'Well then, Blavat, it seems we are now ready to leave.' He nodded towards the gate. The Dawnir hovered there nearly having to crouch under it.

  Brynd began to walk his horse forward to greet the creature.

  'Commander Brynd Lathraea!' Jurro shouted across the intervening distance. Four crows sprung suddenly from the walls, and burst in a ragged flight away from the city as the Dawnir's plangent voice echoed around the confined space between the gates. 'Sele of Jamur! I have brought some clothing and some books to read on the way, but did I need anything else?'

  'Sele of Jamur, Jurro. No, you'll do fine as you are.'

  The giant approached, casting a great shadow over Brynd. All the assembled troops stared in amazement at the creature's size, its curious goat-like head, its tusks. By now a throng of citizens had also gathered, staring and pointing. You could hear the squeals of children as they set eyes on this curious piece of history. Few people there would've had the intelligence to recognize this apparition as the sole survivor of the Ancient race.