City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [38]
‘Aren’t you afraid that you might die?’ she asked, concerned.
He gave a wry smile that could have meant anything. ‘I’m a Night Guard. I’m an enhanced soldier. I’m one of the best fighters amongst them. Yes, I might die – we all might – but I therefore stand a better chance of survival than most of our soldiers. And if I’m killed it will be while protecting others – that’s what I trained for, that’s who I am. I’m used to the idea of my own death.’
To her silence he said, ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but you’ve got to accept it.’
She was increasingly afraid of losing him to the army once again. They talked thus for hours, might have gone on for days as if that didn’t matter. Eventually, both felt they should return. Guilt had ultimately caught up with them.
*
After producing the Heimr, she closed her eyes to sense the subtle drifts in current beneath the surface of its metal. When they both reappeared together back in her study the coldness of the room hit them, causing both to gasp as if they’d risen from underwater.
‘The exact same moment as when we left,’ she assured him, as he looked around incredulously. ‘You should maybe go now. I don’t want him to find out.’
‘Of course,’ he said, then kissed her softly on the lips, passion having given way to a tenderness she knew she would soon miss.
She showed him to the door, provided him with some spurious documents to make his visit look semi-official, so that there wouldn’t be any reason for Malum’s men to worry. From an upstairs window she watched Lupus depart without looking back, striding with purpose through the snow, heading back into the city.
After he had gone, there was a concentrated stillness throughout the house.
NINE
A new city required finding a new place in which to drink. Jeryd had always enjoyed his favourite bistros in Villjamur, where he could sit with his notebook and sip some flavoured tea, whilst poring over cases and watching the world go by. As he crossed the irens, he noticed there was still a surprising amount of food in this city – he had assumed that the ice age would mean a lack of fresh meat. Certainly, at home, agricultural industry had all but collapsed, and only those wealthy enough to employ cultist assistance could supply meat. Yet, all around this city, there were chefs who could consistently rustle up a quality meal, using all sorts of rich fusions of old tribal origins as well as contemporary recipes and subtle, Villjamur-style concoctions.
On his quest to establish for himself a brand-new routine, he was struck by just how long he had spent in the Inquisition, nearly one hundred and eighty years, not a day of it ever the same. He wondered if they did things differently in this community.
The Ancient Quarter offered the most interesting-looking bistros, some were baroque structures lurking in the shadows of the Wings. He entered one, a warm if not overpowering place with red and white chequered floors and some wealthy-looking customers. Incense burners stood on the counter, behind which two young blonde girls hovered idly, one with arms folded, the other slowly wiping a plate. It was a large room, with little natural light, and the shiny wooden tables reflected the flickering candles that rested on top. About ten customers in all were sitting in there, the average number you saw in any bistro anywhere in the world, at this