City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [15]
Some of the traders had lit stoves so that passers-by would loiter around them for warmth and, given time, perhaps be tempted to buy something. Everywhere around them there was snow, on the roofs, on upturned crates, lining the walls of houses. People, garbed in furs and a few wearing masks, rooted through the stalls for the freshest catch of fish, and there always seemed to be a surprising amount of meat on display, given the city’s circumstance, which was another thing Brynd couldn’t fathom.
A small cluster of figures caught Brynd’s eye.
The three of them were huddled next to a corner, examining something on the ground, while other citizens milled around them heading towards the iren or on their way towards the old harbour.
As the two soldiers now approached them, one looked up and saluted. She was a tall and lanky woman with a permanent expression of surprise etched on her face by age. Nevertheless pleasant-looking, she wore a tweed cloak with a muddied hem, and a fine-tailored tunic underneath, of the type of cut you just didn’t see much any more. Under one arm was a battered old book, bound in brown leather.
She greeted Brynd. ‘Sele of Jamur, sir!’
The other two looked up abruptly from their business. One man was chubby, with a moustache, a flat cap, and a serious look on his face; the other completely bald, stocky and savage-looking. Both wore layers of brown tweed, and neither of them reacted in the slightest to Brynd’s unusual appearance, his albino skin, his red-rimmed eyes – as so many other people did.
‘Sele of the day,’ flat cap hailed, an older variation on the usual Empire greeting, and his voice was heavily accented from some place Brynd didn’t recognize.
‘Sele of Jamur. Can I check what the three of you are doing?’ Brynd enquired.
The tall woman, clearly the leader of the group, stepped forward with an earnest smile. ‘A little examination of old ley lines, dear sir.’ Her voice was bass with age, and loaded with cheap charm. A quick gesture on her part steered Brynd’s gaze towards a small tripod at the base of the wall, presumably a relic to judge by the metallic shimmer and the dials. At the top of it rested some kind of graded instrument, aimed at the faintest glow of red sun visible behind the clouds. These were cultists, surely.
‘Nothing illegal, this?’ Brynd asked, glancing towards Lupus. The private had his bow already slung across his shoulder, but he didn’t think there would be need of it. These people seemed innocent enough.
‘D’you hear that, Abaris?’ She turned to flat cap, then back with her face creasing in smiles.
‘Pah! Illegal, he says,’ Abaris replied. ‘Nah, nothing of the sort, lad. We’re merely exploring some technology of the Ancients, ley lines and the like. Bit of lore stretches across this island – you know, myths and whatnot. All in all, we were rather hoping we could be of some use, given that the city might soon be having a few problems, like.’
The bald man remained utterly silent.
‘We’re from the Order of the Grey Hairs, sah!’ Abaris confirmed. ‘Last remaining cultists of various minor sects. United in the fact that, well . . . um, the rest of our lot are dead, more or less. Us old things is all that’s left. And now at your service!’
Brynd and Lupus stared at one another, and the young private raised his eyebrows, stifling a smile.
‘Do you reckon you can be of any use in the coming war?’ Brynd asked. ‘Can you hold a solid weapon well enough? There might be call for that, as we need everyone we can get.’
‘Weapons have never been of much use to us, I confess,’ the tall woman observed. ‘But, we’re not aiming on burning ourselves on a funeral pyre just yet, oh no. Here’s our card, then. We’ve digs on the other side of the Ancient Quarter – so we’re never far, should you need our assistance.’
‘Very good.’ Brynd