Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1

by Mark Charan Newton

  Fulcrom and Jeryd had now been chosen to address the refugee crisis in more detail, but because of his existing workload Jeryd had passed on the bulk of the actual planning to Fulcrom.

  Besides, Jeryd wanted to have more time to spend with Marysa. Things kept getting better between them, and he was maybe even starting to really enjoy life. He was not uxorious, but who would have thought that simply holding hands and kissing, as the snow fell about them in a garden of glass flowers, could be so enjoyable?

  But she still had the occasional feeling that someone was following her through the icy streets after dark. He imagined that whenever she whirled round, her long coat flowing around her, all she would hear would be boots scuffing the cobbles as they departed in haste. Or maybe a sharp inhalation of breath from some dark corner. He had not told anyone else in the Inquisition about this yet; he felt embarrassed to do so.

  Jeryd pulled a key from his pocket, slid open a panel on the wall, drew out a small chest, unlocked it. Inside was the Ovinist letter that he had discovered in the broken statue. He knew only that this was the banished cult somehow at work, but the actual contents he could only guess at. Maybe this was something for Fulcrom's acute mind to work on, and as the thought came to mind the young rumel entered Jeryd's chamber.

  'Sele of Jamur, Investigator Fulcrom.' Jeryd stood up to shake his colleague's hand. 'Cold morning?'

  'I'd say,' Fulcrom replied. A cool confidence about his movements as he shook off his damp cloak, hung it on a hook on the wall.

  Jeryd threw a couple more logs on the fire, stoked it to entice some more heat. A cloud of smoke wafted straight back into his face like a cultist trick, and he stumbled back to his desk, coughing.

  Fulcrom was one of those rumels that looked almost human in his features: soft skin, prominent cheekbones, a friendly look in his eye that told you he was pleased to see you. He possessed a likeable and trustworthy manner that made people open up to him. Jeryd considered the other rumel undoubtedly handsome, and Fulcrom always wore the smartest grey tunic under his crimson Inquisition cloak. Despite the slush outside, even his boots were much cleaner than Jeryd's.

  'Please.' Jeryd indicated a cushioned chair over by the window.

  Fulcrom made himself comfortable, gazing out to see what he could observe of the street below.

  'Anything interesting happening?' Jeryd asked.

  'Just the usual problems – people being smuggled into the city, and a couple of brutal murders Caveside. As for the refugee situation, I've got a list of names that involves some pretty senior people.'

  'How senior?' Jeryd glanced back to the fire.

  'If I said it went all the way to the top, would you be surprised?' Fulcrom shifted in his seat.

  'The Council?' Jeryd said.

  A nod.

  'I wouldn't be surprised at all,' Jeryd said, trusting his years of experience. 'What exactly do you know?'

  'I think there's someone at work in the Council who wants these refugees completely removed. Someone who thinks they're too much of a stain on Villjamur. Coin's moving between someone close inside to some of the gangs Caveside. Don't know who it is, but… Well, you get the idea.'

  Jeryd made a steeple of his hands as he considered his colleague's words.

  'Any thoughts?' Fulcrom said.

  Jeryd leaned in, and whispered, 'I bet you that Urtica himself is behind all this somehow.'

  'It goes that high? What makes you say so?'

  Jeryd went to retrieve the scroll he had found in the image of the dead Emperor. As the younger rumel scanned the document, Jeryd explained, 'Found that inside a hollow bust of Johynn in the office of that murdered councillor, Ghuda. I know it's an Ovinist text, but I can't work out what the hell it means.'

  Fulcrom raised an eyebrow. 'Looks like an old runic text, if you ask me. Ancient stuff – judging by the forms of the letters I'd say a thousand years old, at least.'

  'Can you interpret it, though?' Jeryd said. He walked around the desk to stand before the fire. 'I've been trying on and off for days, but nothing comes to mind.'

  'No,' Fulcrom admitted. 'But I think I know someone who can?'

  'Who?'

  'The Dawnir.'

  'What, the one living in Balmacara? Do they even allow access? I know his existence isn't common knowledge in the city.'

  'Well, you're a member of the Inquisition, so I'm sure they'll allow it.'

  Jeryd shrugged. 'These days, who knows.'

  Fulcrom handed the scroll back to Jeryd, who placed it safely away once again.

  'So,' Fulcrom said. 'You suspect Urtica's behind it? That's a bold claim to be making.'

  'I know,' Jeryd said, 'and I've not got any hard evidence. There were rumours a while back that he was involved with the cult. And he reacts evasively to questioning, though I wouldn't think he's behind the murders. He seemed genuinely shocked at the horrors located in Boll's chambers. You want my opinion, he doesn't have the stomach to be a killer, at least not at first hand. He's more your manipulator, behind-the-scenes kind of guy. The only thing I can assume is that he might have been up to something with Boll and Ghuda. Well, after what happened to them, he must be shitting himself now.'

  'So, how exactly d'you think he's involved?'

  'I've no real idea. The Council murders are the most bizarre I've ever come across. You know what the only clue is, if you can even call it that?'

  Fulcrom shook his head.

  'Paint.'

  'Paint?'

  'Yeah. I found a smear of paint in Boll's chambers, amidst all that blood. Then I remembered I found paint by Ghuda's body, too.'

  Fulcrom appeared to be processing this fact carefully. 'So, some sort of artist or craftsman involved? You sure it's not a cultist?'

  'Seriously doubt it, because they live by their own rules. Plus why such spectacular, unsubtle deaths? That's not their style at all. They're more stealthy in their methods.'

  'Maybe the murderer decided to paint an image of his victims? As a keepsake perhaps… I don't know, I'm just throwing things your way.'

  'The paint could mean anything,' Jeryd said gloomily. 'All I can do now is check every jobbing artist in Villjamur.'

  Jeryd was suddenly struck by inspiration. 'Damn!'

  'What?' Fulcrom said. 'I can tell you've thought of something.'

  'Damn,' Jeryd repeated, and sat back in his chair. He laughed, his tail thrashing from side to side. 'How stupid of me. All the time I've been telling myself it wasn't her.'

  'Who?' Fulcrom sat straighter.

  'The prostitute that Ghuda spent his last night with, she had paintings all over her place. I think I should pay her another visit. Maybe I'll send Tryst along to keep an eye on her. I just thought it was too obvious, and therefore it didn't seem right. Only thing is, if she is involved, why?'

  'Who knows why anyone does anything,' Fulcrom said. 'Many of our actions are a lot stranger than they need be. Especially humans, led so easily by their emotions.'

  Jeryd felt uncomfortable, recalling how susceptible to emotions he himself was.

  *

  'This way, investigator,' the guard gestured.

  Jeryd followed his lead, all the time mulling over his thoughts, the red and grey military uniform at the periphery of his vision. Ten minutes later, he found himself descending into a cold stone corridor that seemed to have no end. Eventually they arrived at a large wooden door. The guard knocked, and it opened.

  A Dawnir stood looking down at Jeryd, who gazed back in awe.

  'An investigator here to see you,' the guard announced, then marched away.

  Jeryd stared dumbly up at the creature, at the tusks, at the sheer height of him.

  'Ah, a rumel!' the Dawnir said, very slowly as if he had just rediscovered speech. 'I haven't seen one of you for so long! Please, please, step this way.' His voice was thunderous, unexpected.

  'Thank you.' Jeryd flashed his medallion with its ancient symbol of a triangular crucible, as proof of office. 'Investigator
Rumex Jeryd, and I take it you're Jurro?'

  'For what a name is worth, that is correct,' the Dawnir replied.

  Jeryd watched the creature with fascination. Twice the size of a human, covered thickly in hair, it was an intimidating sight. 'I fear I didn't think you really existed, they were so keen to keep folk away from you.'

  'Really? How intriguing. You know, I was beginning to think I didn't exist either. They keep me locked up here… well, not really locked up, but where am I to go? It isn't safe for me to venture into the city so they say. Apparently it is the priests, mainly, who don't want me around. That's why so few people know I'm actually here. They are worried that my presence might offend their little religion. But some of your people leave me little offerings outside my door, and I trip over them when I go to relieve myself. But there is hope yet, for I am to accompany a few soldiers on a trip north. I might enjoy that, because you know, it's not much of a life here.'

  He indicated the rows of books with his massive arm.

  'I don't know, though. Maybe sitting around reading all day is better than seeing what I might do.'

  Jeryd tried some small talk. He already liked the Dawnir, despite his apparent tendency to perorate. 'Must have a lot of knowledge, all these books.'

  'Yes, but they don't offer answers to the real questions of the world. Our world is so old, the sun so red. Philosophers have speculated things should surely end at some point, and I would agree, if only to confirm the air of melancholy that everyone seems to possess. So, rumel, what is it you seek?'

  'Your wisdom, Jurro.' Jeryd reached under his robes to bring out the scroll, then handed it to the Dawnir, who stood towering over the rumel, as he examined it held between forefinger and thumb.

  Jeryd said, 'This is confidential information, I hardly need to tell you.'

  'Why would it be confidential, since you obviously can't read it.'

  'Yes, true.' Jeryd grunted a laugh. 'Anyway, it's between us, if you can translate it for me. They say you're an Ancient.'

  'Ancient in body only, I fear. I have no memory before my days here in the city.'

  'Does that mean you can't read it?' Jeryd said, feeling disappointed.

  'I didn't say that,' the creature thundered, possibly frowning under heavy-set brows, Jeryd couldn't be sure. 'No, I have all my books, and I have studied many ancient languages in the hope of tracing my past. I learn new words all the time. Even yesterday I discovered our word for the Jorsalir has deep origins.'

  Jurro gazed for some time at the scroll, then brought a candle closer to it. Jeryd flinched, thinking that his only real piece of evidence might be about to go up in flames.

  'Yes, I think I can interpret this for you,' the Dawnir said eventually. 'Would you like some ink and paper to take it down?'

  'Please.'

  The creature searched for several moments under stray piles of books until he found a blank piece of parchment and a quill. 'Here you are.'

  Jeryd sat down at a table, ready to write.

  'It reads: "We have the facilities and the capabilities. We could probably remove five thousand in a few days, then bury the dead at sea. This can be done secretly and with ease. I can confirm there are enough underground passages to facilitate your plans for cleansing. I refer to the old escape tunnels, so the very age of our beloved city suggests she would permit the removal of such a blot on her surface." Then the rest of the writing seems to be smudged, blurred with damp perhaps.'

  Jurro ceased reading, looked up at Jeryd. 'Have I given you news you didn't wish for, investigator?'

  Jeryd inhaled deeply, considering what he had just heard. He rolled up the parchment with his notes on and placed it under his robes. 'Jurro, you did just fine. Many thanks for your trouble.'

  Five thousand dead? Jeryd thought. What the hell's going on? Is this really something planned to happen in the city? And even so, why would the Council want to kill five thousand?

  'Where did you obtain this document?' The creature handed the scroll back to Jeryd.

  'Somewhere too high up for my liking,' Jeryd said.

  'You rumel, tell me, you live longer than humans, yes?'

  'Three or four times as long. Why?'

  'And that's why there are so few humans in the Inquisition?' The Dawnir fingered a tusk idly.

  'The older an investigator, the better, because we can remember cases from a long time back. We're wise to the ways of the city. That's what we tell ourselves, anyway, but the legend has it that this custom was from the original treaty when we jointly founded the city – to keep the two species happy. There's not many of us rumel in the Council, so it's a nice concession to have us overseeing the law.'

  'I thought as much, but it is nice for it to be confirmed. I'm a sponge for facts.'

  'Maybe you need to get out a bit more.'

  'I plan to.'

  *

  'Tryst.' Investigator Jeryd leaned into his subordinate's office – a small, stone room with no windows. A lantern stood on the desk at which the young human sat.

  Tryst looked up from the documents he was working on. 'Jeryd, please, come in.' Tryst stood up, motioned for Jeryd to enter the room.

  The rumel stepped in, then he looked behind the door before shutting it firmly. He glanced at the plate of fried locusts to one side. Always eating, still as slender as a Salix tree, damn him. 'Working on anything special?'

  'Just going over financial accounts from one of the smaller Council treasuries. I'm looking out for any movements of monies that could be of interest.' Upon seeing Jeryd's expression, he then added, 'You look as if you've something on your mind.'

  Jeryd keenly wanted to discuss what the Dawnir had revealed, but not just yet. Aide Tryst wasn't quite senior enough to be entrusted with something so… profound. And besides, Jeryd had his reservations about the man's character. 'I wonder if you could do me a favour, as I had some new ideas about the murder of those councillors. I think we were right at the beginning – in suspecting the prostitute – though I haven't got anything solid yet.' Jeryd related his latest thoughts.

  Tryst leaned back in his chair, the lantern light casting a savage shadow across his face. 'Sounds worth looking into, but what did you have in mind?'

  'I want her shadowed,' Jeryd explained. 'Maybe you could observe her for a few days.'

  'Are you too busy yourself then?'

  He's shrewd, this one, Jeryd thought, his tail twitching in irritation. 'Yes, I am. I'm seeking out a motive, so I want to spend the next few days examining Council activities.'

  'OK,' Tryst said. 'I'll start later today.'

  *

  All through the afternoon Jeryd scrutinized his notes, tried to work out how everything added up. Perhaps a little self-indulgently he had seated himself in the corner of a favourite bistro, ordered a sweet pastry and a beaker of hot juniper tea. What he was doing was too sensitive to be pursued within the Inquisition chambers.

  He was getting really paranoid.

  What did it all mean? Why would one of the esteemed Council be planning the death of so many people? Was that why Ghuda and Boll were killed? Did someone find out what they were up to? And, above all, who was the coded message from? At least, he had Tryst watching the prostitute. Hopefully the young human would find out something useful.

  The bistro was fairly quiet. Across the stone-flagged room sat an old couple dressed in matching smart brown tunics, like they used to make down Foulta Gata when the cotton boom was in full swing, a classic Villjamur stitch. They were sitting drinking tea, each reading a book, perfectly comfortable in each other's silent presence, and every time the man finished a chapter he would look up and smile at his partner. A few weeks back, Jeryd would have found the pair simply depressing, but now he warmed to such a display of affection.

  This was a time of day when the city would pause. The morning throng had had its moment, the bustle had gone, and in the bistros you mostly found only those who chose to drink alone to ruminate. Even the serving girl looked a littl
e distant, either anxious to go home or taking a moment to relax before it became busy again.

  Jeryd contemplated his next move on the Council, how he would spy on them, digging deep in order to find out who was working on what. He would send a message, to each councillor in private, warning how their lives might be at risk unless they opened up. He folded up his notes, threw some coins on the table and turned to leave, eyeing the old couple as the man brought his loved one's hand to his lips.

  What a city, Jeryd thought. What a place to live, despite the extremes of existence here. The epic and the everyday, they're just two aspects of city life.

  All in Villjamur.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Night-time, and none of the city bridges were visible, let alone the spires they led to. Thick, immovable, a fog had rolled in from the coast, and Aide Tryst walked cautiously along the snowy cobbled streets, one hand shoved deep in his robe pocket, the other clutching half a roll-up of arum weed, his feet tingling with the cold. The snow had been relentless the last few evenings. Where it had been cleared by seawater, you had to pick your route with caution. Each day there were stories of people breaking arms and legs. Despite the threat, children walked along the same streets waiting to meet their snowball destiny.

  Lamps offered faint orbs of light at regular intervals, which prevented him from getting completely lost.

  And it certainly makes trailing someone fucking difficult, he thought ruefully.

  Few people about, though he could hear the keening of a banshee, somewhere in the distance. It sounded as if it originated from somewhere further down in the levels of the city, maybe in one of the many underground passageways or derelict buildings – at least he hoped it was nowhere close by. He swore he heard a sword being drawn from its scabbard, and Tryst cursed that he was having to be out so late. He took a final drag on the arum weed before dropping it into the slush.

  So, Jeryd isn't only content with confining me to the lowest ranks of the Inquisition, he also sends me out in the freezing fucking cold, so that I can watch a whore.

  At least he now knew more about his superior's vulnerabilities. Tryst was intrigued by something that Chancellor Urtica had said in one of the Ovinist meetings: that no matter how stalwart a man pretended to be, it was usually his heart that let him down – and, more importantly, let him be brought down. Many a great man was destroyed in some way by the affections of a lover. On hearing this, Tryst decided Urtica was one of the wisest men that ever lived.