Again her strange blue creation came to her side and she backed away as it contemplated the solid wooden door. It extended its wings, and with a down-thrust it rose into the air, hovered and then circled, flooring ornaments and antiques, before hurling itself at the door.
Wood and metal shattered simultaneously into minute blue sparks.
The door and the creature were no longer there. Tuya gaped in disbelief at this strange self-sacrifice by one of her creations. Sadness overwhelmed her. This was, ironically, the most love any creature had ever shown her.
But this was not the time for pathos. A bag of her belongings in one hand, she stepped out to commence her escape.
She needed to clean herself up, to get her head into some sort of order.
Who could she turn to?
THIRTY-EIGHT
Longships banked towards the east, cautiously navigating the complex and treacherous sheets of ice north-west of Villiren. Brynd looked out across the water, checking to see where the wind blew strongest past the jagged outline of the coast, the ice, the limestone cliffs. As soon as they were through the darker waters, the ship’s sails snagged tight as skin, and the vessel suddenly lurched under gathering momentum. But the crew of the ship had also anticipated this, adjusting her sail accordingly. There had obviously been ice breakers out earlier along the length of this coast.
Then it presented itself, Villiren, one of the largest cities in the Boreal Archipelago, one of the most lawless places in the Empire. The city’s harbour was perched between two wide cliff faces crawling with birds and pterodettes. A few renegade garudas were about, shadow communities of them living deep in the cave systems.
Villiren was the commercial hub of the Empire, strategically located between several mining islands like Tineag’l, where ore was auctioned and taxed and distributed. Traders of Villiren had made a fortune providing the Imperial armies. The people of Villiren had been ‘rewarded’ with democracy, even though they voted for someone who served the Council directly – not Brynd’s idea of what democracy was. The city had expanded rapidly in recent years under the new portreeve, and this was often at the expense of labour rights. Many of the poor had been cleared from their homes in the face of Imperial progress, and were left with no choice but to work in mining communities further north.
An immense citadel loomed over the harbour. Turrets dominated every angle of the walls, and aside from the immense archways made from bone and the Ancient Quarter, the structures tended to be flat and featureless, a drab and endless latticework of streets, not at all like the grandeur of Villjamur.
As their longship navigated through the ice-plates, Brynd noted an alarming number of small vessels close to the harbour walls.
Apium joined him up on deck. ‘Well, here I am, back at this shithole. Still, maybe a fat purse will compensate me for the lonely nights ahead.’
‘Anyway look at that-’
Brynd interrupted his reminiscences, gesturing towards the hundreds of boats packed into the harbour, many left untied as if their owners didn’t care about them any longer.
Apium came and put his gut on the side. ‘What d’you suppose has caused that?’
‘Either escaping the Freeze,’ Brynd frowned, ‘or something to do with the killings on Tineag’l.’
It could’ve been merely smoke from the fire with some spices sprinkled on it for extra aroma, but Brynd just knew that wasn’t likely. This was the chamber of Fat Lutto, Portreeve of Villiren, after all. The haze was intense, making him feel drowsy. Brynd couldn’t put a name to the drug he smelled, but it was close enough to arum weed. Probably some new variety that Lutto had nurtured for a little extra kick.
Bizarre sounds came from the middle of the chamber, which was decorated richly with purple cushions and silk hangings.
Brynd approached the source of the commotion, shouting, ‘Lutto, is that you?’
‘What? Who? Who goes there?’ A mound of flesh pushed itself up from the tangle of bodies, grasped for a sword lying by the cushions. ‘I’ll have you, getting in here like that! I am well connected with gangs!’
‘Portreeve Lutto, it’s Commander Lathraea.’
A perspiring brown face leered through the smoke, a wedge of a moustache dominating it. Two bright blue eyes fixed themselves upon Brynd, before widening in recognition. ‘Commander Brynd! What a pleasure! Just give me a second.’ He abruptly dismissed the three naked rumel girls, a brown-, a black- and a grey-skin. They threw on their robes, and scampered out of a door to one side. The gust of air let in began to clear some of the smoke.
‘That’s better.’ Fat Lutto waddled towards Brynd with all the grace of an old lady wading though shallow water with her skirts hitched up. He now wore a silver silk robe that billowed around him like a tent. ‘And how’s my favourite soldier these days? You bless Lutto with your presence with no warning. How kind. Or perhaps he comes to save Villiren in her time of need!’
‘Rumel girls?’ Brynd asked.
‘Indeed!’ Fat Lutto smiled, clasping his hands together. ‘Tough skins, you see, and there’s little chance of little Luttos coming forth.’ He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Has my favourite warrior come to help us in these troubled times?’
‘Everyone seems to be talking about troubled times,’ Brynd observed. ‘Yes, we’re here to investigate the incidents on Tineag’l. And at your request, I believe.’
‘At last! This humble city can’t put up with all these exiles for much longer. No, sir.’
‘Exiles?’ Brynd said. ‘Why didn’t you mention that in the message you sent to Villjamur?’
‘Um… I hadn’t enough details.’ He held his arms out wide in despair. ‘There were too few details then, but now I’m burdened with too many!’
Brynd said, ‘I hope you haven’t been neglecting your duties?’
‘Would Lutto consider such a thing at the Empire’s expense? I am, after all, her most loyal servant.’
It was almost as if Fat Lutto was trying to convince himself that he was honourable. ‘What more can you tell me of the situation?’
Fat Lutto gestured for Brynd to sit on some cushions, then began to describe at length what had happened over the past few months.
At the start they had come in ones and twos, the refugees, in small and optimistic groups. Some came for the opportunities Villiren presented with the Freeze clamping down on their livelihoods in the wilds. But then people started to arrive in volume, families crammed on hazardous vessels, not a few of them drowning in the ice-cold waters.
Their stories were all the same.
The Claws, or the Shells. That was what the invading race had been labelled by locals. Either way, the news was the same: entire families, then hamlets, then towns, and more, wiped out in the course of just a night. Large numbers of people had gone missing. Some were killed, with their skins ripped off. It seemed only the young and old were spared capture, but ended up dead. The invaders were hideous to observe: walking crustaceans that showed no regard for life. And no one knew where they had come from.
Brynd listened to these stories in silence, vaguely aware of the irony that many tribesmen had once spread similar tales of the invading Imperial forces through the ages.
But this was a crisis far worse than he could have imagined. This threatened not just the Empire, but all human and rumel life indiscriminately.
‘All you’re telling me,’ Brynd said finally, ‘this is absolute truth. None of it’s your usual exaggerations?’
‘Exaggerations?’ Fat Lutto affected to look mortified.
‘Well, there’s the time you spread gossip that some of the Kyálku had sailed across from Varltung to merge with the Froutan and provoke a rebellion on the Empire’s shores – all so that you could charge protection money throughout Villiren and Y’iren? Remember that?’