He didn’t bother unpacking much, as he derived an almost masochistic pleasure from having the entire contents of his life contained in a few small bags. It offered him a freedom he’d never before known. The idea that you could get up and go anywhere, at any time. What was more, he was living someone else’s life. And he was living that one near the edge.

After a lunch of fish and root vegetables, he wandered aimlessly for a while, just absorbing the flavour of Villjamur. He felt a sense of melancholy about the people of the busy city. That wasn’t surprising considering they were going to be confined more or less as prisoners here in order to have the best chance of staying alive through the ice. Families were being either torn apart or reunited, jobs were being lost, and people talked about a ‘Caveside’ where most of the inhabitants would end up living. But few people ever seemed to speak of cultists.

He would have to ask someone.

‘Excuse me, madam,’ he addressed an elderly woman with a basket of fish, ‘I’m trying to find a cultist.’

Her eyes turning ferocious, she spat at him as she walked away. After another couple of such incidents, he realized that cultists were generally not much liked, but, finally, a little girl was prepared to answer his question.

‘You’ll find them on the level just before you reach Balmacara. Best to ask more directions up there.’

Randur smiled at the somewhat grubby child, and gave her a couple of Drakar, thinking she might spend them more wisely than himself.

He walked on.

A black-feathered garuda with clipped wings was slumped in a doorway, rags across his legs, nervously smoking a roll-up of arum weed, and in front of his feet was a hat and a sign asking for donations for an ex-soldier. As he passed, Randur flipped him a couple of coins, and the bird-man was grateful, creating shapes in a hand-language that Randur couldn’t comprehend.

‘Really, it’s OK,’ Randur mumbled, wondering what happened to those who offered service to the Empire?

Around the next corner, two men stepped out from an alleyway. They wore brown tunics, heavy boots, no cloaks, and had a dirty look to them, as if they slept on the streets. He guessed them both to be around their thirties, but you couldn’t be sure.

‘Fuck you staring at me for?’ one of them snarled.

‘Sorry,’ Randur mumbled.

‘Hey, gay boy. Nice shirt. Expensive, yeah?’

Randur felt suddenly conscious of his clothing: well-sewn black breeches, white shirt with all those traditional Folke cuts. A fine cloak on top. Did people in this city really object to men being stylishly dressed?

‘Can tell by your accent you’re not from around here,’ one of the men said, approaching. ‘So no one will notice if you disappear – isn’t that so?’

‘That’s right. Disappear,’ the other man echoed. ‘Happens a lot round here.’

Randur noticed the edge of a blade protruding from under a sleeve. ‘What’s this about?’ He stepped back.

‘Money,’ one of them said.

‘Ah, well, I can’t help you there.’

The street was now empty save for the three of them, the rattle of sleet having become more prominent over the last few minutes. The ambience seemed like a fight premonition.

‘An expensive dresser like you, I’m sure you’ve got something on you,’ the other said. ‘A Lordil or a Sota would do us fine.’

‘Ah, and I thought he didn’t speak, this one,’ Randur said.

‘I’m warning you,’ the man snarled, wiping drizzle from his face.

Short blades were produced, glinting weakly in the poor light.

‘I really haven’t got anything on me,’ Randur took off his cloak, scrunched it under one arm.

The first man lunged forward, swiping his weapon across Randur’s midriff. Just as quickly Randur leaned away, took steps to one side, lightly. Then two to the other side. A dance manoeuvre modified for duelling.

‘Come here, you bastard,’ the man said, enraged now, swiping repeatedly. He was grunting with frustration each time Randur slipped out of his reach.

Taunting them physically was fun. Made them lose a little control, become angrier. They stepped away from each other, coming at him from separate sides. Randur allowed himself to drop to the floor as they attacked simultaneously, then he kicked one behind the knees, watching him fall as Randur spun away.

‘Look,’ Randur said as he wiped his wet hands on his breeches. ‘Let’s just leave it here, and you can keep some dignity.’

‘Cunt,’ one of the men yelled, and lashed again. His blade flashed across Randur’s knuckles on one hand, instantly drawing blood. Randur stepped back, kicked the knife from his opponent’s hand, then kicked the man in the groin. The attacker collapsed in agony to the ground. As the other now made to attack, Randur ducked expertly, grabbed the arm holding the knife, spun him around and brought the arm down over his knee with a crack of bone. The man screamed in pain.

Randur retrieved the knife.

Sleet meanwhile became drizzle became rain sparkling off the cobbles. Randur was now drenched, his black hair limp, shirt clinging to his lean body, his cloak heavy with moisture. He glanced down at it dubiously, reached down again to rip a section off one of the men’s cloaks, wrapped it around his stinging knuckles.

His attackers lay unresisting on the ground.

He walked away, flipping up the collars on his cloak.

Each of the lower levels of Villjamur looked much the same, but on the higher levels the buildings became taller, narrower, somehow more elegant. They were also built of a lighter-coloured stone – limestone rather than granite. Wealthier people lived here, or at least they were certainly better dressed.

A smartly turned-out man in a red cloak walked by.

‘Excuse me,’ Randur said, ‘you don’t know where I could find a cultist, do you?’

The man gave him a cold stare, but answered politely. ‘There’s a bistro, just up there, near one of their temples. You’ll likely find a couple of them drinking there.’

Randur approached the bistro: a narrow, white-painted building that appeared to tilt to the right. He pressed his face against the roughly made window, but the glass was too steamed up.

He entered to find the place packed mostly with men. Several of the chairs had cloaks draped over the backs, a counter at the rear was serving pastries, and there was the faint smell of perfume from the only woman, sitting at a table by the door. He walked up to the counter. The girl behind it was short, blonde, pretty – a suitable target if he didn’t have other things on his mind. He ordered a drink made from juniper berries, like they used to make on Folke.

As the girl handed it to him he said, ‘Thanks. I love your hair.’

‘Really?’ she said, eyes round and wide.

‘Stunning.’ Sure that he had her attention, he persevered. He leaned forward over the counter to gaze at her absorbedly. ‘Look, miss, I don’t suppose you know of any cultists around here, do you? I’m new to the city, and it’s quite important.’

‘There’s two, over there in the corner. Another just here. One there.’ She pointed them out in turn. ‘But if you ask me, you should stay away from them.’

‘Thanks.’ He handed her a Lordil for the drink. ‘Don’t worry about the change.’

He studied the various figures she had pointed out. The one seated nearest to the counter was of slender build, with a pointed black beard that enhanced his well-carved features. Randur stepped up to his table. ‘This seat taken?’

The man stared at his food. ‘If no one’s sitting there, then I’m guessing not.’

Randur sat down with his drink, took a sip. Beneath his black shirt, a small medallion glistened. On it was a strange symbol, two letter Cs, one reversed so that the curve touched what was a diamond between them.