Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1

by Mark Charan Newton

  To rattle his boss, Tryst could simply kill Marysa. But that seemed too brutal and, besides, he didn't really wish something so catastrophic on the rumel. A degree of respect was something that remained between the two of them: their relationship was complex and adversarial, but couldn't be severed entirely. There were no black and whites here, where the textures of their lives crossed, linking positively whenever they shared a joke or discussed a certain case they were working on, and it wasn't a simple matter of hurting him too badly, but just enough, just a little lesson, a firm mental slap. No, he wanted to disturb Jeryd rather than destroy him, and then still have him solve the murder of the councillors. That was something dear to Urtica's heart, and therefore dear to his own.

  Tryst stepped into a wide piazza, near where the prostitute lived by Cartanu Gata and the Gata Sentimental. The sound of laughter from a doorway, the clink-clink of glasses, shoes sliding on stone. Where he now stood you could hear a symphony of these subtle sounds of the night, seemingly coming from everywhere. Someone coughed behind him, but there was no one solid there, only a long shadow darting across the stone. There was no wind here, the buildings being high and crammed together, so the smells of incense and fried food reached him invitingly, with little obstruction. Ahead of him through the fog was the bold glow of one of the bistros. He remembered the prostitute saying how she hung around these places a lot. Perhaps she was there now. As good a place to start looking as any. Tryst walked towards the light, heard the soft rhythm of lute and drum.

  The bistro was filled, mainly with hooded customers who preferred their own company by the looks of them, and Tryst thought he'd blend in nicely. He took a seat near the edge of the room, far away from the stage at the end of the long stone chamber. Through the heady smoke, serving girls sashayed to and fro between tables, in the dim light of candles and the torchlight that lit up the stage.

  Up there, on the stage itself, a cultist was making several golems dance to the music provided by a drummer and a lute player. The cultist, clasping a relic in his hands, commanded the statues, one by one, to make their way to the centre of the stage, where they would gyrate fluidly, while the audience gasped and applauded in between flashes of purple light. To finish the set, he then made one of the statues spread out its wings and fly in a circle over the heads of the crowd, before it once again transformed into stone.

  A girl came to Tryst's table to take his order of Black Heart rum and shark's liver paste on coarse bread. When she fetched the bottle he asked her to leave it. If he had to spy on a prostitute during an ice age, he might as well stay warm while he was doing so.

  A fat woman came on stage next to read some bad poetry about the dying earth, and though she had no decent cadence to her delivery, no one there seemed to care. The lute player came on again after, and remained for some time, preoccupying himself with minor chords and relaxing sevenths.

  Tryst kept an eye on all the customers that came and went from the bistro, deciding eventually that indeed most of the clientele were men. The females were largely staff, and Tryst pitied them for the looks they were getting. Some of these men were old enough to be their grandfathers, but their frail hands grabbed whatever flesh they could reach, as if these youthful bodies would be the last thing they would ever hold. Everywhere in this city now it seemed such desperation was manifest.

  His thoughts inevitably drifted from Inquisition business to his commitment to the Ovinists, and to Chancellor Urtica in particular. His mentor was an inspiring man: charming, bright, his dedication to Villjamur unquestionable. It was hard not to want to get involved with anything he was linked to. Like so many young men, Tryst was infused with a burning desire to succeed, to achieve. Life was stretched out ahead of him, a freshly ploughed field waiting only for his potential, and Chancellor Urtica could help him harvest it.

  As the lute player paused for a sip of lager, the sound of murmurs and whispers drew Tryst's attention to the door. The prostitute, Tuya, was walking in from the fog, a silky grace to her stride, a look of deep remoteness in her eyes.

  Tryst took another sip of rum as he watched her glide between the tables. She was wearing a carmine cloak, not unlike the colour distinguishing the city guard, but carefully tailored to cling to her voluptuous curves. A lock of red hair curled down across her stubbornly beautiful face, whose other half – the half with the scar – was covered by a headscarf. She approached a table near the front of the stage, typical of someone wanting all the attention she could get. As she took off her cloak, revealing a green dress that seemed to contradict most of the city's current fashions, more than a little of the conversation in the room fell silent. Her skin shimmered in the dull lighting, and smoke drifted away from her somehow, as if allowing everyone there to get a better look.

  She sat alone at that table for around a quarter of an hour, the serving girls bringing her drinks simultaneously from two different admirers. She accepted them with grace, but didn't acknowledge whoever had bought them for her.

  Men passed close by, but she barely gave them a glance. After a while, she rolled herself something to smoke, probably arum weed, lit the end of the roll-up in a candle flame, then leaned back and exhaled the smoke. Her eyes remained fixed on the lute player, still singing moodily on top of his morose chords.

  It was going to be a dull night for Tryst if all she did was sit and smoke and drink. He'd just have to wait until she left and then follow her home. One way he could get inside would be if he propositioned her as a customer, but then she would recognize him. Although maybe that wasn't a bad thing, as he could use their brief acquaintance to become intimate with her. If she would only let him into her world. Then he could take a closer look at her paintings, and perhaps they might reveal some clues.

  Since his training as an Inquisition torturer, Tryst possessed a secret stash of subtle powder, sannindi, that he could use to his advantage. Essentially a truth powder, supposedly it could only be obtained through official Inquisition channels, but it still found its way into the hands of illicit dealers as 'love potion'. Just a little sprinkle of it into food or drink, and people became remarkably amenable. Jeryd certainly wouldn't approve of him using it, but Tryst didn't care. He reached into an inside pocket, pulled out the paper wrap. The red powder was inside, not enough to make her pass out, but it would alter her mind enough to make her very helpful with his enquiries.

  He picked up his glass and the bottle of Black Heart rum, and headed across the smoky room to her table. 'Looks like you've got no company either. Mind if I join you?'

  She looked up at him, then stubbed out her roll-up of arum weed. 'Well, well, it's the human Inquisition officer. Your life's obviously as dull as mine in that you find yourself in this low-down joint. And I had you for a worthier sort.'

  She indicated the chair next to her. 'So what brings you here? How's your friend, Jeryd?'

  'He's fine.' Tryst sat down and began pouring each of them another drink. He offered her some more arum weed, pre-rolled.

  She took one, saying, 'Thanks. It's a nasty habit. So has he got back with his wife yet?'

  'Yes, they're together again.' Tryst set the bottle on the table. She seemed genuinely happy at the news. Strange, he contemplated, living through other people's happiness.

  'That's nice to see true love lasting, not just strangers shacking up with anyone convenient to hide from the ice.' She pulled out another roll-up from her pocket, lit it in the candle flame. 'So, are you here to spy on me?'

  Tryst chuckled, glancing up at the stage. 'If only.' He locked eye contact with her, then released it. 'No, I'm just killing an evening on my own. You know how it is.'

  'Another night in Villjamur,' she sighed, exhaling smoke. 'I suppose being in this city does that to you. So many people everywhere and none of them cares for you. Not one bit.'

  'A little morose.'

  'The city, or what I said?'

  Tryst liked that. She was certainly entrancing, despite the melancholy, maybe even because of it
. 'I'm going to get us another bottle.' He motioned for a serving girl to come over. The girl gave that typical waitress nod-and-smile, then turned to leave. Tryst said, 'What do you think of that one? Pretty or not?'

  As Tuya studied the girl as she walked away, he covertly reached out and sprinkled some of the sannindi powder into her drink.

  She shrugged. 'All right, I suppose, but you could do a lot better.'

  'Well, I'm usually pretty picky, so it must be the Freeze, like you said.' He raised his glass. 'Here's to shacking up with anyone.'

  She laughed dryly, joining him in the toast.

  *

  Half an hour later they were back in Tuya's room. It had taken them some time to climb the intervening levels as the streets were so icy. She was already drowsy, because of the effects of the sannindi. Her place was dark as they entered, so Tryst lit a lantern, and as soon as it came to life, he could see the copious amounts of ornaments and antiques crammed into every available space. With so little else in her life, she had to fill it with something, he guessed.

  She was now getting amorous as a side-effect of the drug, but he didn't take advantage. After all, she was now under suspicion of murdering two of the most senior administrators in the city.

  One of the doors to the balcony was fractionally open. Because of the noxious smell of paints in the room, he assumed she left it open to let in some fresh air. He walked over to shut out the eternal winter. The landscape had been reduced to a few lights. Everyone was where they should be, in bed, or somewhere warm. Then faintly, he heard some chatter from the streets, two blades clashing, a cough of laughter. Probably a couple of youths testing each other's ability with a sword.

  Tuya slumped onto the bed clutching her head in her hands. She glanced repeatedly up at Tryst, then began to loosen her clothing. While she was occupied, he decided to examine the room to see if he could find anything. Uncertain where to start, he moved over to the covered canvases stacked in one corner of the room. Paint, after all, was the only clue Jeryd had found.

  Besides several large canvases there were a couple on easels and a dozen much smaller items of art on the side. All were concealed beneath heavy cloth, so he uncovered the first to reveal a large image of an animal that he couldn't identify. Whatever it was, it had several limbs beyond necessary. Its shape suggested something primitive; it generated a distinct feeling of unease.

  'Would… would you like to spend the night?' Tuya asked tremulously.

  She had closed her eyes, was lying on her side on the bed, wearing only a corset. Tryst could see the hideous scar on her face clearly now. He ignored her, and scrutinized the paintings further.

  'You're a handsome one,' she snickered. 'I'd like it if you did. Come on. You know you want to. You men are all the same.'

  'Maybe,' Tryst said. 'Just a moment.'

  She sat up suddenly. 'What're you doing? Don't look at those.' She pushed herself off the bed, stumbled forwards into his arms, her bare feet sliding on the tiles. She was surprisingly heavy, as he eased her back on the bed. 'Don't look at them,' she repeated.

  'Why not?' Tryst said soothingly. 'I think you're a wonderful artist. I want to see your real talents.'

  'Really? You're not just saying that?' She sounded confused again. He knew the drug would affect her for a little while longer.

  'No, I'm not just saying it,' he said. 'I want to see more.'

  'But…' she trailed off.

  He could sense her frustration now as she battled with the effects of the sannindi powder. She wanted to order him away from the paintings – the need so clear in her eyes – but she also seemed to desire to please him, to offer him anything she could.

  Either way, he didn't care.

  'I want to look at your paintings,' he insisted.

  She began to take off her corset.

  'No,' he commanded, and grasped her hands softly at the wrist. She looked genuinely confused, then gave him a smile tinged with venom.

  It said she hated him, without saying anything at all.

  'You're a beautiful woman, Tuya,' he said, to reassure her. The last thing he wanted now was to create a scene. 'But I don't think we should, because you don't really want to.'

  He pushed her away slightly so that she fell on the bed. She sighed and closed her eyes and just lay there, with her corset still intact.

  Tryst walked back to the canvases, this time unveiling another.

  What magic is this?

  He lurched back in shock. A blue shape appeared to be emerging from the canvas, pumping up and down as if it were someone's breathing chest. No form to speak of. Tryst stared at it for some time. He wanted to question Tuya about it, but thought better of that.

  With caution, he revealed another, this time a sketch of the city as seen from her window. Nothing remarkable there. With his eyes fixed on the pulsating blue form, he pulled back the cloth on a fourth painting.

  He took several steps away in disgust, holding his hand to his mouth.

  Tuya still lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His face creased in horror, Tryst examined the image before him: a hacked-open carcass that seemed altogether too real. A heart – or something resembling one – beat inside it, and streaks of red paint, possibly even blood, had dried while dripping down the canvas. Whatever was in place of a face stared back at him with one unblinking eye. He looked around the room and picked up an empty candlestick and prodded the thing. It squelched away from where he applied gentle pressure.

  What the hell is this? Tryst wondered. Is it alive?

  'What you… doing now?' Tuya said suddenly behind him. She was grasping a knife, pointing it at him threateningly. 'Get away from them!' she hissed.

  The drug was obviously wearing off, fast.

  Tryst stood with hands raised, palming the air gently. Trying to disguise his panic, he said, 'Hey, I'm only looking at what you paint… It's truly… remarkable.'

  'Just get over by the bed.' She sliced the air as if to reinforce her words. She looked vaguely ridiculous waving a blade around while wearing only a corset.

  He did as she ordered. There was a knife concealed in his boot, but he did not want to use it yet. Manipulating her mind would be a much more powerful weapon, if he could get inside her. It was what torturers were trained to do, seeking to work a little beneath the surface.

  'I don't mean any harm, Tuya,' he said, noting the slight drowsiness still in her eyes.

  She looked at him uncertainly, and he could perceive that she didn't quite know what to do next. She held the knife too close to her, so she wouldn't strike him with it yet.

  From her behaviour, these monstrous paintings suggested something deeply personal.

  'Tell me about your art,' he said. He glanced to and from her creations, noticed they were still throbbing dully. She turned towards them, and he acted quickly. With the same candlestick, he leaned forward and struck her across her head, and Tuya stumbled, but remained upright, so he hit her twice more, with sharp and clinical blows.

  She fell with a groan to the floor.

  That was not what he had wanted, but she had forced it, hadn't she, so it had to be done. He placed the candlestick down, then began to rummage through her bedside drawer. He picked out a couple of belts, then tightly bound her hands and feet. There'd be no more of this delicate tiptoeing around the issue. There was some serious shit going on here, and he was going to find out what the hell she was up to.

  He left the room silently, taking one last glimpse at the horrors on the canvases.

  *

  An hour later, he was in possession of more sannindi from his contact on Sigr Gata, enough this time for a prolonged session with Tuya.

  Those paintings caused him distress and he wanted answers.

  When he got back, there she was, sprawled face down on the floor wearing her corset, just as he'd left her. Tryst slung his damp outer cloak on a chair, lifted her back up against the bed, then ran his palm across her scalp to feel the bruises. They weren't too bad,
and she groaned in his arms like a lover seeking comfort – ironic, and he knew it. Tilting her head back further, he tipped a larger dose of sannindi down her throat.

  While he waited for her to wake up, he stood in front of the paintings, shaking. He couldn't get used to the horror of these depictions, despite his years spent in the Inquisition torture chambers. This was a different horror, however, some artificial life force pulsating impossibly before him. With one finger extended, he poked it several times. His immediate thought was that this must be some cultist evil, manipulating the arts of the Dawnir. Why did she have such monstrosities in her room? How did she sleep at night with these things hidden only by a cloth? Was it her who had painted something that could come alive? Or did she purchase them from a cultist?

  There was coughing behind him, obviously some of the powder having caught in her throat. He stepped towards her. 'How're you feeling?' he asked.

  She looked up at him through the hair covering her face. 'I feel terrible,' she croaked.

  'Good,' Tryst said. 'Now I want you to tell me the truth.'

  She brushed a thick tress of hair back behind her ear.

  'First of all, your name?'

  'Tuya Daluud.'

  'Your age?'

  'I… honestly, I don't know,' she replied.

  'OK, Tuya Daluud. I'd like you to explain those paintings to me. Tell me, why do they appear to be alive?'

  'They are alive.'

  'Ask a stupid question…' Tryst murmured. 'Well then, how've you done it?' He knelt down before her face to face, in an almost threatening manner – their pose a corruption of a lover's kiss.

  'Many years ago I formed a relationship with a cultist. To keep things short, he provided me with special materials. A couple of relics. He showed me some techniques that would breathe extra life into my art.'