City Of Ruin

by Mark Charan Newton

  ‘What, so stopping people from having any control over their lives and their work conditions is a free democracy now? Who changed the fucking definitions?’

  ‘Welcome to Villiren, Dannan. Anyway, they get to vote, right?’

  ‘Between two or three men who are indistinguishable from one another. Anyway, Lutto always wins because he’s got the most money – and our support, too.’

  ‘Yeah, I know all this shit.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot,’ the banHe remarked, genuinely impressed.

  ‘Just because I’m a thug doesn’t mean I don’t read any books. But, anyway, we’re part of this now – so can I guarantee him some of your men for the job, too?’

  Dannan sighed deeply and contemplated a response. ‘How many you got involved?’

  ‘ ’Bout a hundred, but there’ll be best part of a thousand protesting.’

  ‘I’ll throw in a hundred as well. Enough yeah?’

  ‘Should do it. I’ll send on the details to you on time and location. We already got a couple of men undercover with the unions at the moment.’

  The banHe nodded and inhaled on his roll-up and continued looking around him.

  Malum walked away with the intention of fading into the cityscape.

  EIGHT

  ‘Shit.’ Beami pressed her head into her hands. Then, through strands of dark hair, she regarded the mess lying on her desk. Hybridization: the dangerous art of combining relics – also her area of expertise – and if she had tried to activate this particular blend she might have blown herself to pieces. That was because two copper sections of a charged Foroum relic didn’t want to fit into this theoretical structure. A hundred different pieces of metal were scattered across the desk, so she scooped them all up and shoved them in a box waiting to one side. Leaning back in her leather chair, she groaned despondently. The Nantuk Development Company would have to wait another few months for its demolition device, which she hoped would be able to age stone so rapidly that it would become instant dust. In a room full of traders and government officials – even the portreeve himself – she had announced this as an improvement on what she’d developed before, and as representing by far the safest stage in the evolution of remedial work. They could, she promised, clear unsafe buildings within a day. Lutto’s eyes had lit up and he spoke of a tempting subsidy.

  But today’s shoddy results had aged her a good few years. The bloody theory was there, all the equations blazed across the bits of vellum pinned on her wall like the graffiti of intelligence. So why wouldn’t it work?

  Stupid fermions. Stupid eigenvalues. Stupid ancient mathematics.

  A lantern faded out, leaving her with just the other one, which hung against the far wall. Books and papers were littered everywhere, many of them irrelevant to her efforts, and some of them not really legal – but this was Villiren after all. Jars of elements and compounds, boxes of metals known or unidentified, the room was a spoil heap of junk to the untrained eye; but to her it offered a haven for relative independence.

  Then, in the relative darkness, she contemplated seeing him again. She needed to get out: the thought of Lupus was a distraction.

  This girl needed to talk.

  How long was it now?

  *

  Away from her work, her social circle consisted of poets and libertines, artists and illegal priests, and those who wanted in on the scene. Their distractions were music and ad hoc plays, discussion and intense debate going on until the small hours, even though she never made it to such gatherings as often as she liked. All in all, it seemed unusual company for a cultist – a woman dedicated to technology – but she hoped she would find some of them in the Symbolist, a glittering little bistro crammed with wine bottles and candles and polished wood.

  It was early morning, and perhaps some of them might still be hanging about from the evening before, hungover enough to sit still and listen to what she had to say. Deep in the Ancient Quarter, where the buildings leaned against each other for support, the entire mood of the city changed. This was a bohemian district, a place of distinct character, of an alien dignity. Of domes and spires and the Onyx Wings. Incense drifted from open fires beside which tribal prophets preached their doctrines openly. Rumel and humans mixed equally amongst the esoteric wares on display.

  The Symbolist was deceptively small, a whitewashed building that looked out on an impoverished iren. As she approached, someone recognized her, an old man wearing faded garments, and with a distant look in his eyes.

  Clasping both hands before her, he said, ‘Please, you are a cultist, aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Beami replied, sick of receiving this sort of attention.

  ‘Please, save us from the imminent dangers. There are stories of war and terror—’

  ‘Look, just piss off, all right? We’re not your saviours. Stop trying to worship us.’

  The old man collapsed to his knees and bowed obsequiously before her. How many times did people need telling? Beami just wanted to get on with her own life, not be venerated like some fake priest. She hurried on past him.

  Inside the bistro, in a far corner, was Rymble, the short, skinny poet with annoyingly well-kept blond hair – and those wild shirts. Today’s was a garish, orange flower pattern. Sprawled across a table, he sat up on her entrance, and called out jokingly from beneath his green half-mask. ‘Beami! You miserable bitch! I bet you’ve not even got me some arum weed. I was going to immortalize you in a poem, but, alas, I shall refrain, and instead give that honour to a better-looking woman.’

  ‘Your words are shit,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps try shutting up more often?’

  ‘You’d only want to fuck me if I remained silent.’

  ‘Your voice is a contraceptive, then?’

  The same routine as usual, and all harmless. It was well known that Rymble was too afraid of catching syphilis to actually sleep with anyone; and they had grown so close that she had begun to appreciate his more elaborate and competitive insults. She loved him really.

  Coffee was already being served for the morning shift, with fried flat-breads and kippers. This place never closed. Two young couples sat together by the entrance, hangers-on who looked inquisitively and hopefully at the art scene gathered here.

  Suddenly it occurred to Beami that she didn’t know what she was doing here. She had desperately wanted to speak to someone, anyone, and was now disappointed at the small crowd available. Today there was only really Rymble she knew well – until Zizi entered just then from the back, wearing her fur coat and high-heeled boots. Even in her fifties, Zizi was still one of the most glamorous women Beami had ever known. She’d made her name on the stage, still used her stage name, in fact. Her milieu was both theatre and choreography, and she was responsible for several dances that had become popular throughout the Boreal Archipelago. Then she gave up that passion for the love of her husband, a rich banker from Villjamur – who, after marriage, promptly left her for a younger woman. Zizi, lovelorn and with a shattered heart, never danced again. Beami considered herself as strong-minded as Zizi though, and it worried her to know that someone like her could give up a career for love. She never wanted to use her sexuality in order to get on in this patriarchy; she wanted to earn her place, and so Zizi’s story always saddened her.

  Knowing each other’s moods so well, Zizi took one look at the expression on Beami’s face, and the brunette woman immediately suggested they sit down and talk. While Rymble slumped into a slumber, Beami informed her friend in rapid whispers that Lupus was back.

  A startled expression came over Zizi’s face, then she said jokingly, ‘Honey, you’re far too pretty to be a one-man woman.’

  ‘I’m not like that,’ Beami snapped.

  ‘Easy, darling.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just not that kind of woman. I know Malum and I have had some problems—’

  ‘Problems? You bloody hate the man.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Well we all do. He�
�s so weird, so sinister.’

  ‘He’s not. You just don’t know him like I do.’ On more than one occasion, the others had encouraged her to leave Malum, and one night Rymble had even kindly offered to venture into their house and stab him – then immortalize the act with poetry.

  More seriously, Zizi continued, ‘Look, I know you have your problems, but you either walk away from Malum now or you stay with him.’

  Beami’s mind was drifting.

  ‘These situations can become increasingly dreadful if . . .’ Zizi’s expression softened as her intensely green eyes focused on something deep within her. ‘Hang on. Why are you here? You didn’t come all the way just to get some advice – especially if you’ll be seeing him shortly.’

  After a moment of reflection, Beami finally confessed, ‘Perfume. I want to find one particular scent I liked to use. It was one Lupus adored me wearing. That sounds stupid, I know.’

  Zizi grasped her hand. ‘It says you’ve made up your mind already. But I say never let a man stop you – I say it all the time. I never knew Lupus, but don’t give up everything for him. Don’t let your passion for him ruin your life.’

  ‘He’s not that type of man. I’m already involved with one of those.’

  ‘Well, there’s your answer.’

  ‘Lupus is . . . something else.’

  Zizi’s gaze softened. ‘Tell me about him.’

  Beami’s mind drifted back through time. ‘One night I went up to the bar just as they were closing, spoke his name when I shouldn’t have known it, gave him the wildest smile – then tripped, spilt my drink all over the floor, and started laughing.’

  ‘Smooth,’ Zizi remarked.

  ‘He used to clear tables and serve drinks at what was once considered the smartest bar in Villiren – although that’s not saying much. It’s not there now; it’s long gone. All that’s left is what’s in my head – echoes of a younger life, of simpler times.’

  ‘You’re hardly that old. Just you wait until you get to my age. Then things can be as simple as you want them to be. So, you went to his bar?’

  ‘Well, I went in from time to time with a few of the girls, an ambitious young cultist with a taste for bad wine.’

  ‘Some things don’t change,’ Zizi smiled.

  ‘No, I guess not. I suspected he had developed feelings for me, you know, aside from the usual lingering glances, holding mine for as long as possible. I would then chat to some other man who approached me, sometimes looking at Lupus, sometimes not. Love feeds upon jealousy – that’s what he himself told me once. Working in taverns, he said, you see that behaviour so much. Anyway, he picked me up off the floor, gave me a large mug of water and waited for me to sober up. He had such lovely eyes – just like a wolf.’

  ‘Honey, that sounds wonderfully romantic. You got pissed and he mopped you up.’

  ‘Shut up, Zizi! It was good, you know – it was fun. And we did nice stuff – lots of it. Before the Freeze, you could walk for miles out into the grassland, and the forests. We’d take a canvas tent and spend the summer evenings wrapped up in each other’s arms. We’d go to the lakes further inland, away from everyone, and catch a fish, start a fire. I’d set traps for hares and sometimes I’d use his arrows to bring down a deer. I love this island, Y’iren. You can feel like you’re the only people alive. We’d have sex four times a day.’

  ‘Stop it. You’re making me jealous now. I need some drink, and I don’t care if it’s too early.’ Zizi stood up and ordered the young waiter to bring some whisky for her coffee. Once she had settled again, she waved a finger at Beami to get her to continue. ‘This revelation is the closest I’ve got to love in a year.’

  ‘Well, I was older than him by two years. He was so laid back, and I guess that’s why we worked. I sometimes needed someone to boss around, and he couldn’t be bothered ever to decide on matters. I wanted someone to air my frustrations to, and he liked to hear them.’

  ‘What happened in the end?’ Zizi asked. ‘It all sounds too good to be true, yet the pair of you didn’t last.’

  ‘The army,’ Beami explained. ‘He wanted to be a Night Guard and I wanted to stay here, to work. It’s so rare for any woman in the Empire to make something special of herself, and devoting my time to relics seemed a way around that for me. I didn’t want to give that occupation up for anyone. We started to argue loudly, and we did those little things where people try to make each other jealous – when you try to make the other want you more. He promised he’d write often, great sprawling letters they were at first, and then they turned into simple updates. Pretty soon I never heard from him again.’

  ‘Now that,’ Rymble announced, suddenly wide awake and feeling gregarious, ‘breaks my fucking heart. I’d scribble you a poem if you wouldn’t wipe your arse on it.’ He played with the gold ribbons dangling from his half-mask.

  ‘Your poems are not even good enough for that basic function, you disgusting cretin,’ Zizi declared, which made Beami laugh.

  *

  Like using a relic to carve a pathway back to your past.

  This was it, the rarest of opportunities, a chance that most people didn’t enjoy. Beami couldn’t remember when she had last felt like this: the angst burning inside her, the worry about how she looked, whether her breath was fresh, wondering now if her new perfume was too strong, too obvious. Wondering if he would still think the same about her, after all these years. The mirror had become like some tool through which she began to deconstruct herself, noticing all the changes that age had brought. But she was still young. It wasn’t as if an aeon had passed between them seeing each other.

  In her best outfit, comprising of two layers of dark-red dress with a black shawl, a look that had lasted well in Villiren for a couple of years now, she waited. Waited for him.

  Beami took a look around the furnishings of her room. Everything was expensive: decorative mahogany, not from this island, elaborate rugs and drapes, decorated in patterns from unheard-of tribes, ornaments that may or may not have had names, a crystal console table. Here was quality acting as an expression of her husband’s wealth, yet she did not care for them at all. A deeper emotion had disabled the impact of these items on her life.

  What am I thinking, asking him here?

  The heating system spluttered again, firegrain stalling somewhere in the pipes. Snow skidded across the windows, distracting her attention, and she went to one, to regard the city beyond. The people of the city were still out and about, wrapped in furs, some selling biolumes, traders heading to the irens, carts and fiacres grinding to and fro along the main thoroughfares.

  What if Malum returns unexpectedly . . . ?

  Malum was out, but this was still their marital home, and his property. Then again, why was she being so paranoid? It wasn’t as if she was actually in the throes of an affair, was she, by just standing here in preparation for exploring the emotions of her past, feelings that she hadn’t analysed for a number of years, also ones she had tried to forget. But she couldn’t deny that it felt good, to allow this sense of nervousness to get the better of her. To feel such intensity again – to feel something again. It was like a game, and she felt she could almost burst with anticipation.

  Was she being merely licentious? She hoped not.

  A knock at the door.

  She froze, then realized it would need to be answered by herself. She headed downstairs and with deep breaths opened the door to one of Malum’s hired men.

  ‘’Scuse me, madam,’ the thug grumbled, broad-shouldered and shaven-headed, wrapped in a thick cloak. ‘Someone from the military to see you. Says he’s from the Night Guard.’

  ‘Yes, that’s OK . . . I was expecting him. It’s to do with my research on defence methods.’ She should have known these men would be here first. What if they then told Malum? She didn’t want to arouse his suspicions, so she had to act calmly.

  ‘Fine.’ The man gestured to one side.

  Within moments, Lupus stood there, puzzlement evide
nt on his face as he stepped around the thug’s hulking figure. He was dressed in his Night Guard uniform, utterly black save for subtle patterns in the sewing and the gold star of the Empire on his breast. How he’d matured, she realized.

  She let him in and closed the door. ‘Please, come to the study area, and let’s continue our business there.’ Her voice was loud enough for the thug at the door to hear, and she could tell from Lupus’s expression that he understood her need for secrecy.

  ‘Lead on.’ Lupus gestured eccentrically, playing along.

  Beami’s heart thumped as they headed down the corridor, entering the basement room in which she pursued her explorations of cultist technology.

  She lit three lanterns, knowing their location by instinct rather than touch, but nearly knocked one over in her flustered excitement. To a stranger this workroom must look like a junkyard, a litter of curious devices that would mean very little to the layman. But she had organized and investigated much of this over the years, made notes, tested, then tested some more, all the time wondering if she might thus unlock some device the elder races had set, and if, as a result, this was how she might die.

  She moved her Brotna relic – a great lumbering metal cone with wires sprouting from the top end – to one side.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘A project I’m working on for the masons and architects,’ she explained, wondering why they were wasting time talking about her work. She told him how she had found a way to reduce stone to dust, and how the project had now received sponsorship from the city developers. As she spoke, she found her mouth turning dry, her nerves increasingly getting the better of her.

  All the time she was examining him: he looked more athletic than she remembered.

  Lupus turned his face this way and that, inquisitively, to where papers covered the walls: diagrams, sketches, a profusion of arcane symbols that she barely understood herself. His profile, too, had become more hardened, better defined.

  He finally turned to face her. ‘Quite the fire hazard, this place.’