‘Girl at the counter mentioned you’re a cultist,’ Randur said.

The man looked up. ‘What’s that to you?’

Randur reached into his pocket and brought out the same coin he had been given all those years ago on Folke. He placed it alongside the man’s plate. The man instantly stopped eating. Randur continued sipping his drink.

The cultist regarded him acutely. ‘And where would an island boy get hold of a coin like that?’

‘It was given to me once by one of your lot,’ Randur explained. ‘Said her name was Papus.’

‘She’s not,’ the man replied firmly, ‘one of my lot, as you put it.’ Something about the way he said it suggested that these cultists weren’t so much the close bunch everyone made out.

‘You’re not a cultist, then?’ Randur enquired.

‘Oh, yes, but she isn’t a part of my sect.’ He took another bite.

‘Right.’ Randur stretched his hand forward to take back the coin.

The cultist stared at his recent wound. ‘Been in a fight?’

‘Wasn’t my choice,’ Randur muttered, bringing his arm off the table.

‘Country boy ought to watch himself in this city,’ the cultist said.

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Everyone says that. But, no one really can. What’s your name, kid?’

‘Randur Estevu.’

‘Well, Randur Estevu, I’ll tell you something for free.’ The cultist rose from his seat. ‘There’s a temple at the end of this road with a double door made of Quercus wood. Knock hard on that, show them your little coin, and you may find you’re in luck.’

Randur stood up, offered his hand to shake. ‘Thanks, um… Sorry, I didn’t get your name.’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you.’ The cultist slung on his cloak and stepped out of the bistro.

With a free hour ahead, her last appointment having not shown up, Tuya sat down to paint. Inspired by the current mood of the city, she was starting afresh. She wanted to paint something fantastical that spoke about the people of the city feeling trapped in their homes. Perhaps she would paint a ycaged bird of sorts.

She was wearing no clothes because, that way, there would be nothing to spill paint on except her unprotected skin. Similarly, she pinned her thick red hair up. Sitting herself on a stool, she tilted the easel so that she could look out of her window, across the architecture of the city, and she carefully noted the spires, the bridges, the pterodettes arcing across the sky. Water fizzed off the rooftops and suddenly the bell tower rang. She felt serene – all these pieces of the city coming together in a comforting collusion.

She applied blue paste to the small canvas using a knife and a wide brush. The paint was her own concoction. Using local pigments, she blended this paste with an ingredient that only she knew of – in Villjamur, at least. A cultist had given the secret to her before he died, having been a client of hers, when he fancied someone normal. The substance was grainy, opaque, and he had instructed her carefully on its qualities, as rare as any other ancient relic the cultists used, perhaps originally ground by the Dawnir themselves. Or so the myth went. And myths went rather further than they should have in Villjamur.

From time to time she closed her eyes, let the cold breeze tickle against her body until it aroused her again. She concentrated hard, took her mind away from what she was drawing in order to perceive it in a different way. Life was all about perception, and art was important to her. Maybe it wasn’t to the people who walked past her window or used her sexually, but for her the least chance to express herself became simply wondrous.

The creature she envisaged began to take form.

It was something like a pterodette – same scales and batlike wings – but it possessed a noticeably mammalian body. It was blue simply because that was the pigment she had chosen today. Though it stood no higher than a child, she’d built a strong musculature into its physique, so much so that it could probably break down a door.

It wasn’t until the bell had struck again that she felt satisfied that she had finished for the moment. It wasn’t meant to be precise yet, but would eventually take true form.

She stood up from her stool, stepped closer to the window. Sunlight was reflecting wildly off the Astronomer’s Glass Tower.

Turning, with the breeze at her back, she regarded her painting again. It was definitely coming to life. The blue creature was almost pulsing, as if drawing real air into its specious body. She now began to paint in earnest the background, the life-source of the creature, summoning abstract ideas that would feed its soul. Powerful urges thronged in her mind, a desire to fly off into the distance, to explore the Boreal Archipelago, this land of the red sun. Maybe to know freedom, of a sort.

Suddenly the creature began to peel itself off the canvas in fast, vacillating movements. It bubbled upwards, shook itself…

And fell to the floor.

Tuya laughed and cooed as she picked her creation up and placed it on the windowsill. It crawled along, then stood up properly on four legs. Its wings spread. Tuya gave a cry of delight. She didn’t know how she made it happen each time and, if she was honest, she didn’t really care, because her art didn’t just reflect life – it created it.

The creature flapped its new-found wings, then threw itself out the window. A gust transferred it to a new current, and it drifted across the spires and away from Villjamur, leaving her once again with that same sense of loneliness.

Randur found the door eventually, an inconspicuous entrance in an inconspicuous street. Certainly nothing to suggest it concealed a haven for cultists. He might have expected some kind of inscriptions in the pale stonework surrounding the door, some elaborate decoration, something to indicate an elite building associated with the Order of the Dawnir, the oldest and largest sect of all. A nice plaque even. There was merely bare stone and a single hanging basket with thrift sagging over the sides. A city guard on horseback was riding by, and there was something in his brief glance that made Randur feel guilty.

He knocked on the door.

The hatch opened, exposing a man’s face to the daylight. ‘Yes?’

Randur held up the coin. ‘I’m looking for someone called Papus.’

The man’s gaze was fixed on the coin. ‘Hang on.’

The door opened with the doorman gesturing for him to come in. The doorman wore a black cloak, underneath which Randur could see a dark, tight-fitting uniform, almost military in its design.

‘Wait here,’ the man instructed, and walked away.

The room was dark, but Randur could make out elaborate wood panelling, a few framed sketches on the wall. Incense burning gave a strangely comforting feeling about the room. It wasn’t unlike the church of Bohr that had been built on Folke in the name of the Empire.

The man shortly returned with a chubby blonde woman dressed similarly. The pair of them searched Randur for weapons, then sat him down on a wooden stool.

They asked his business in Villjamur. And questioned his request to see Papus.

He held up the coin again, explaining how she had given it to him. The pair looked at each other.

‘She’s busy right now, but if you want to wait here, we’ll enquire if she can see you sometime,’ the woman said.

They left him slumped on the chair in that cold dark room. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he had started to see the framed sketches in more detail. Diagrams of devices that he supposed to be relics, strange lettering surrounding each. He couldn’t read Jamur as well as he could speak it, but this must be some older form of the language.