Randur said, 'D'you know of anyone who might be into regular trading with me?'
'Well that depends, lad,' Denlin said. 'Depends what needs trading.'
Randur leaned closer to the old man. 'Look, I screwed a lady, and I took her jewels. I need to make myself some coin, and I need it quick.'
Denlin burst into a hoarse laugh. 'Ah, I used to do a bit of that myself, lad. Ha! You sort of remind me of me.'
I truly, truly hope not, Randur reflected, leaning back to examine him. That would not be a great reason to continue living. 'Anyway, can you help me out?'
'Maybe, maybe not,' Denlin said. 'What's in it for me?'
'One in every ten coin is yours,' Randur said. 'I've got a lot of jewels already, and I plan to have a lot more. You'll end up making a fair bit out of me.'
Denlin nodded thoughtfully, then brought a pipe from out of his pocket already loaded with arum weed. 'You in some kind of trouble, lad?' He lit the pipe. 'Someone who wants coin this way has gotta be havin' some problems.'
Randur shook his head.
'You in trouble?' Denlin pressed. 'Got the Inquisition pounding at your door? A wife who's blackmailing you?'
Randur snorted a laugh. 'I have my own reasons. But, all you need to know is that I owe a bit of money to someone.'
'You need this cash quick then, like?' Denlin took a sip of lager. 'Worry not, lad. I'll soon sort you out.'
'No funny business, though.' Randur picked up the knife, flicked it in the air, caught it by the handle, before concealing it within his sleeve again. He finished his lager, slammed the tankard on the counter. 'So we've a deal, Denlin the Archer.'
'That's a name I like the sound of, y'know - Denlin the Archer. Yeah, we got a deal, lad.'
'Good,' Randur said. 'So, where can we find a buyer?'
'Look around you, lad. There's dozens of buggers in here who'd buy anything you can offer.'
'Have they got enough cash, though?'
''Course they have. Why d'you think they can afford to spend all their time drinking?'
Randur shrugged. 'I guess so.' Maybe the barman had not been rooking him after all.
'Give me half an hour and sit over at that table in the corner.' Denlin indicated a bench at the far end of the tavern in a dark corner. A small brass instrument glittered next to it in the half-light. 'I'll be back with some punters, but you'll need to get another round in, though.'
Randur sighed, rolled his eyes, ordered them two more tankards.
'Thought you didn't have any more cash on you,' Denlin crowed, concealing a smug grin behind his tankard as he took a first gulp.
Randur muttered, 'Your ability to see through me is admirable. I guess your vision isn't all that troubling.'
Denlin raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. 'Looks can be deceiving down these parts, lad. You just remember that, and you'll get on fine.'
*
After Denlin had made a quick inspection of the jewellery Randur had to offer, he disappeared without another word. Randur sat at the table on his own, staring out into the darkness and the smoke, listening to the furtive chatter, wondering how long the tavern would stay open.
He took a look around at the other customers. There was a blonde woman crying into her hands while the man reclining next to her was smoking away, uninterested in her distress. An old man was now standing at the counter without any shoes. On stools alongside him sat two labourers, covered in dirt, the grime suggesting there were mines underneath the city. Detritus of every kind was scattered across the floor, including specks and spots of something he took to be blood.
It suddenly struck him just how many physically damaged people he had encountered in the city. Many had hands missing or savage wounds across their faces, black eyes and ripped ears. One man nearby had a leg severed beneath the knee. Knives were brandished openly, and swords rested against the tables, on open display.
Randur hadn't really thought about it before, but he guessed that was what you should expect in a world where the sword, axe and arrow formed a common language. The inhabitants therefore wore the signs of constant violence. He ran his hand across his own pale face, reassuring himself in the absence of any wound. You made your own luck in this world, and you played the cards you were dealt. He had been lucky so far, but put it down to Vitassi, nothing more.
Denlin returned with a square-jawed swarthy man, dressed only in a black tunic in a gesture of defiance to the coming ice.
'This is the gentleman I spoke of,' Denlin said to his stocky companion.
Randur stood up, offered his hand. 'Randur Estevu. I'm pleased to meet you.'
The swarthy man nodded. 'Coni Inrun - trader.'
'Well, please take a seat,' Randur said, wondering if this man was capable of uttering words of more than two syllables. All three of them sat down at the table.
Coni leaned forward. 'Denlin says you got jewels.'
'That's right,' Randur said. He reached into his pocket, drew out an emerald set in a silver ring. Resisting any temptation to flamboyance, he placed it on the table before Coni.
The man pulled out an eyeglass and began to examine it in detail. Randur glanced over at Denlin who merely raised his eyebrows.
'Very good,' Coni said. 'Good workmanship this. Where d'you get it?'
'An old lady gave it to me,' Randur lied. 'Decided she didn't want it any more.'
'Hmm,' Coni said. 'Give you five Sota. Not a bad price for this.'
'I'd expect at least a Jamun for this,' Randur said.
'Seven Sota,' Coni said.
'Nine,' Randur said.
'Eight.'
'Nine, and that's it,' Randur said.
'I'm sorry, Mr Estevu,' Coni said, standing.
'Eight it is,' Randur said.
'OK.' Coni sat down. He produced the coins, picked up the ring. 'You got more such items?'
'A few, but not as good as that one.'
The two younger men went on discussing the jewels that Randur had stolen for over half an hour. Denlin meanwhile had remained quiet, merely observing the transaction whilst keeping one eye open for trouble. With his first commission payment in his pocket, Denlin bought exotic drinks from the counter, including the legendary Black Heart rum. At first Randur refused, but the old man insisted they were not that strong. After Coni had departed with much less coin, but a good stash of jewellery, the men drank progressively. Candles burned low around them, men came and went from the tavern. Denlin related tales of his exploits in the military, himself and Randur talking the way an old man and a young one tended to do. Wisdom was shared: Randur happy to listen, Denlin happy to talk.
Randur drank and his eyes became heavy. He wasn't used to such quantities.
It wasn't long until he reached that point where he knew, in his heart, he was well . . .
. . . and truly . . .
. . . gone . . .
EIGHTEEN
Jeryd entered the Chamber of Inquisition, a dusty, ceremonial office in which the arch-inquisitor and his three aides of justice were already seated at a large marble table. They greeted him with the barest of glances.
Not a good sign.
It was a wood-panelled room with an expensive stained-glass window overlooking several of the lower levels of the fore-city of Villjamur. Shafts of coloured light filtered through, and a fire crackled welcomingly at the far end. Various ancient decrees, written on cloth, hung from the walls, something to inspire the current office-holders, they said. Or in Jeryd's eyes, something to remind him of all the forms he had to fill in daily. Still, it was nothing compared with the level of state control that the Council could impose elsewhere.
The arch-inquisitor himself was a brown-skinned rumel who had served nearly two hundred and twenty years in the Inquisition, and he could tell you about his life all right, giving endless narratives that always ended in him wondering what had happened to so-and-so. Because his tough old skin was so wrinkled, Jeryd initially had trouble making out where the aged rumel's eyes were. All three were dressed f
ormally in the uniform of the Inquisition: crimson robes, with a medallion representing a crucible.
'Investigator Jeryd, please be seated.' The arch-inquisitor gestured to an empty chair.
Jeryd pulled his own formal robes aside and sat down. How he hated these meetings. He felt as if some people in the Inquisition lived only for moving paper from one file to another. They were not his kind at all, as he liked to get out and about. He placed his notebook on the table, met the drifting gaze of the senior inquisitor.
'My aides inform me that you intended visiting the Council Atrium. Is this the case?'
'Yes, arch-inquisitor,' Jeryd replied. 'And it's been approved, I believe, by these very same aides.' He indicated the three rumel sitting next to him. 'They've all given me the go-ahead, so we can maybe make this investigation quick.'
The arch-inquisitor leaned enquiringly towards each of his aides in turn. They muttered their agreement in unison, like a hypnotic lament for Jeryd's boredom.
'Very good then. Now, Investigator Jeryd, I've asked you here very simply to impress on you the fact that whenever one of our investigators ventures up there, inevitably a commotion is caused. We've famously not got on all that well with councillors. They don't like us poking around in their matters.'
'I understand, arch-inquisitor, but I'm investigating the death of Councillor Ghuda. In this case I think they'll be very cooperative, in case it should happen to any of them also.'
'Indeed, Investigator Jeryd. But we can't be certain it wasn't one of them who had him removed.'
'That's a possibility. But if they've nothing to hide, they'll let me go about my work.'
The arch-inquisitor gave a hollow laugh, which evolved into a cough. His aides passed him a wooden cup, and the old rumel slurped gratefully. 'Well, we've a frayed relationship with the Council, I fear, so please don't ruin it further.'
Jeryd said nothing, thinking, I don't give one iota as long as things get done and the streets are safe again.
*
The air was constantly filled with a bone-chilling sleet, enough to make you think that the sky was breaking up, that you would never again see the sun. People opened doors and windows to the same dismal sight every morning, hoping for a little sun, perhaps naively. It sent disappointment through the city like ripples on a pond of depression.
Jeryd showed his Inquisition medallion to the guards at the city level where Balmacara stood. The three grim-looking men eyed Jeryd and Tryst suspiciously, even more so after Jeryd reminded them of the rights of the Inquisition - including freedom of the city of Villjamur, free pass to all quarters of the Empire, which was the sort of privilege no guard wanted to hear. The pair of visitors left their horses to be led off to the stables to one side, and proceeded to climb the main steps leading to the Atrium.
Chancellor Urtica came to meet them with a well-rehearsed grin, a lightness in his step.
'Ah, the investigator,' Urtica said cheerfully. 'I'm delighted to welcome you to our humble chambers. May I ask you how you'd like to proceed?'
Jeryd shook his hand. 'I'm Investigator Rumex Jeryd, and this is Aide Tryst.'
'Aide Tryst,' the chancellor acknowledged. 'Sele of Jamur to you both.'
Jeryd noticed a strange look in Urtica's face, a sort of flicker of facial muscles - the classic, knowing look that suggested he might have met Tryst before. And if that was the case, Jeryd wondered how it would have been possible.
'As you know, we're here to follow up on the murder of Delamonde Ghuda,' Jeryd confirmed.
'Good.' The chancellor's face darkened. 'He was . . . a close friend of mine. Any idea yet who might have committed such a foul crime, investigator?'
'Some leads,' Jeryd said. 'But there's a lot of questions that still need asking. I'd like to see Ghuda's chambers, and trust that everything has been left exactly as it was?'
'I can't guarantee that precisely, but much of it is how it was.'
'Have you been in there yourself?' Jeryd enquired.
'Of course. Many of the documents were worked on by the two of us.'
'You were close then, it seems. Did Ghuda have any enemies? Anyone who would've wanted him out of the way?'
'We all would,' Urtica smiled. 'It's the nature of our position. We can't hope to please everyone, all the time.'
'That's not really answering my question, is it?' Jeryd said, perhaps more sharply than he should have.
'I can't think of anyone who would specifically want him killed, let's put it that way.' The chancellor glanced past Jeryd, down the corridor. Jeryd followed his stare. Some of the other Council members were heading through a large marble arch. 'You'll have to excuse me, investigator, but I've a meeting to attend. Feel free to contact me again, once I'm finished.'
Urtica brushed past him, proceeding down the corridor.
Tryst meanwhile was staring absent-mindedly at a tapestry on the wall.
Jeryd turned to the guard escorting them. 'Show me Ghuda's chamber.'
*
Smooth stone, dark-wooden panels, the smell of decay - such were the chambers in which every Council member performed his or her administrative duties. The decoration and carvings were old yet rich, as if, Jeryd thought dryly, to remind each official of the wealth they enjoyed at the top. Something that said Look how far you've come. Plinths held small busts of the Emperors of the current dynasty: Haldun, his son Gulion, Goltang, and of course mad old Johynn himself. Parchments were heaped upon a large wooden desk situated beneath a window that was carved in the mock-Azimuth design: simple rectangles, elegant precision. The view wasn't spectacular: a dreary sea and the sheer cliff face. Pterodettes had nested in the crevices of the latter, and their faeces stained it in bold grey streaks. None the less it was certainly an improvement on Jeryd's office.
The investigator had sent Tryst to interview one of the guards about the councillor's daily movements, something to get an impression of his typical routine. Jeryd was beginning to suspect his human assistant. The way he made eye contact with Chancellor Urtica had been rather unsettling. For the moment, Jeryd thought it best to get him out of the way. In this job, you had to follow your hunches.
He sifted through some of the parchments and scrolls strewn on the desk. They detailed movements of monies between some of the outer-island estates and Villjamur - most of the land across the Empire was owned by private individuals through inheritance or conquest. That way, the most efficient farms could be rewarded, and advancement in techniques easily encouraged. But recently large movements of funds were being treated as suspicious, especially if they were possibly being used by the wealthy to smuggle extra servants and labourers into Villjamur before the Freeze.
None of this stuff was of any use to Jeryd, however.
He moved on to a decree of death imposed upon several thieves from Caveside, for attempting to smuggle in refugees. One law for the rich, he sighed. He perused a scroll for transportation of grain to the Dragoons now being sent to Folke. He read about a landowner who was selling up all his properties before he came to the city to escape the ice. He read documents authorizing the movement of slaves from Folke to the mines on Tineag'l.
All in all, it was uninspiring stuff, and none of it seemed quite right, as if they had been left deliberately on his desk to create a positive image of Ghuda. Nothing damaging would have been left for the Inquisition to discover. These were politicians, after all.
There must have been somewhere that Ghuda concealed his private documents. It was always the way with councillors - their deceit and self-preservation were legendary.
There must be a loose stone in the wall, or maybe an opening behind a wooden panel. He felt along the walls first - no loose bricks. He tapped along the wood, but it all seemed to be set firmly against stone anyway. He approached the busts, eyed them. He picked up the one of Goltang, the Emperor who had died over two thousand years ago. Jeryd wondered how the artist could ever have carved something true to life. Goltang was the man who had created the Empire leading to
its domination of the Boreal Archipelago, the land of the red sun. A history of brutal campaigns, then raping island resources and forcing subsidiary tribes into labour in his name. The history books said that he was exporting progress. And he did all this without recourse to cultist technologies, something his successors couldn't cope without.
Jeryd set Goltang down, picked up an image of Johynn. The first thing he noticed was how light this statue was in comparison. He brought it to his ear, then shook it. Something rattled inside. With a smile, he casually dropped it on the floor. It smashed into several large fragments, but with a piece of paper sticking out underneath.
Tryst entered the room without knocking. 'Everything all right in here, sir?'
'Oh, yes,' Jeryd said blandly. 'I just got a bit careless and knocked one of these chaps off their plinths with my tail. How're your own enquiries going?'
'So-so,' the human replied. 'I'm gradually building up a picture of his routine. All pretty dull stuff if you ask me.'
'It's all essential, though,' Jeryd pointed out. 'I don't suppose you could fetch me a mug of hot water, could you? This cold weather's playing havoc with my poor old chest.' He coughed for a little effect. 'After that, why don't you head back to the Inquisition chambers while I stay here and plough through all those documents? I'll see if there's anything worth taking away with us.'
'You sure?' Tryst's voice betrayed suspicion. 'I don't mind helping you.'
'No, it's OK. I need the silence to concentrate.' Jeryd began to cough violently again, rested one arm against the wall to enhance his performance.
'Certainly, investigator. I'll fetch your hot water.' Tryst left the room, shut the door behind him.
Jeryd bent down to pick up the piece of paper. He unfolded it fully, regarded the strange lettering and symbols. It was clearly written in some sort of code. One symbol at the top, though, he did recognize: a rough sketch of a boar. Instinctively, he looked back to the floor, began rummaging though the broken pieces, then paused to pick up a blue gemstone, a topaz. This was the first lead, since topaz was supposedly the secret emblem of one particular religious cult.
Nights of Villjamur Page 20
