Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  'She looks . . . utterly real,' Tryst admitted.

  Indeed, the clay woman was an exact replica of Jeryd's wife, though he had never seen the latter naked. By her stillness, she looked like a statue, however, and Tryst wasn't quite certain what would happen next.

  The previous evening, Tryst had led Tuya to observe Marysa in person as she walked through the frozen streets. The advantage of working so closely with Jeryd was that he could learn most of his wife's idiosyncrasies. Tryst had even thrown a purse, spilling coins at Marysa's feet, so that Tuya would be able to get the closest possible examination.

  Tryst fully intended to be present when Jeryd encountered this. That would be too much of a treat to miss.

  Within the bell, Tuya had gone on to perform some strange rituals with a collection of relics. Tryst observed her as best he could, asking occasional questions, but she was vague in her answers. There was obviously a history to this woman that was never going to be discussed.

  Dawnir magic was beyond him, beyond any normal person. To him there seemed no way of understanding it. He just sprawled on Tuya's bed, waiting for the animation to begin. The statue of the female rumel began to glow, then faded. Glowed and faded. He tried to say something, but Tuya waved him to silence, the woman now deep in concentration as she walked around the statue, touching it in places, a hint of eroticism to her gestures. The fake rumel began to twitch slightly. Its arms jutted forward as if to embrace someone, then relaxed. The sculpture slowly performed arm and leg and head movements, as if learning these for the first time, getting used to its own body. Discovering motility.

  Then suddenly it began to move with the flowing grace of the real Marysa. Somehow Tuya had managed to capture the very essence of Jeryd's wife in her art. The woman was more than a mystery. Tryst slid off the bed, the hair on his arms standing on end. Here in front of him was the power of the Ancient race, operating specially for his benefit. It took half an hour to dress the figure in the style favoured by Jeryd's wife. That didn't have to be perfect, because Marysa's tastes in clothes were varied.

  As they applied make-up, the sculpted Marysa sat at the dresser, silently staring at herself in the mirror.

  Tuya finally collapsed on her bed with exhaustion, saying to Tryst petulantly, 'Is that all you need me for? Why are you still here anyway?'

  Time to drug her further, but he didn't have enough supplies on him. Plus he needed to pick up a little something to slip in Jeryd's drink later. He picked up an ancient tribal decoration, composed of long strips of coloured beads hanging from a sphere. He swept it in an arc and struck her across the head. She slid to the floor with a grunt, a small trickle of blood oozing onto the tiles.

  The fake Marysa glanced across at him with a look of surprise on her face, then instantly she had become motionless, as a statue once again.

  'It's OK,' Tryst said. 'She's a criminal.' Why was he talking to this thing? It certainly didn't feel right. Did this creation have emotions? It still stared at him unnervingly.

  He threw the artefact on the bed. 'Don't go anywhere,' he muttered, then walked out into the cold night.

  Cloud had obscured the stars, but that meant it wouldn't be as cold as it had been recently. Out in the street, he glanced up at Tuya's balconied window, the lantern light still visible inside, and he wondered again at the powers that the Ancients had once possessed before they disappeared from history.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  He knew that you got good days and you got bad days. It was the life of an Inquisition officer. It wasn't the sort of career that just anyone could do, because you saw some harsh things on the streets of Villjamur.

  Dawn on a Priests' Day, a hundred and forty years back: the bodies of three children found naked and butchered in the good side of the city. Their internal organs littering the cobbles, fresh blood sparkling in the light. It was his first solo case and according to the Council they had to make sure none of the nearby wealthy residents saw it. That's the thing about this city: you've always got to keep the rich ones happy. They eventually traced the deaths back to a Jorsalir priest, and had to keep that quiet too - the rules were that the Inquisition had to keep the Jorsalir happy. Jeryd caught the bastard, made sure justice was served, but it wouldn't be talked about in any of the taverns.

  Given all the horrors he'd witnessed, he expected that he would be able to cope more easily with the crap life threw at him. Hell, he'd even put up with those little buggers on his street, allowing their snowballs to crash into him, into his house.

  But Jeryd was a broken man.

  *

  Tryst had suggested they go for a quick drink after work and Jeryd thought why not? He could do with putting a few opinions about the world across a table.

  Snow was frozen solid along the streets before it could be scraped away, and he had to cling on to windowsills along the terraced housing to make sure he didn't fall over. He noticed, however, that Tryst was taking him towards Cartanu Gata, where Councillor Ghuda was murdered.

  So, there they were, finally, the two Inquisition officers, enjoying a drink. They made it to a night-time tearoom called Vilhallan, named after the original city, and, judging by the decor, Jeryd assumed it had been around for just as long.

  'Nothing's original,' Tryst confessed. 'Everything's a carefully contrived copy: the furniture design, the bars, the coloured lanterns.'

  He was right. It was a dreary-looking place.

  Jeryd said to him, 'Not really my scene,' as they took their seats at a small wooden table in a secluded corner.

  It wasn't much to speak of otherwise. Little candles clustered on tables threw light upwards onto the faces of the customers. It made everyone look sinister, as if they were here for any reason other than pleasure. There was a tribal drummer in the room beyond and someone playing an instrument he'd never heard before. Jeryd got the feeling he had arrived on some far-off island of the Empire.

  'So, you come here often?' Jeryd said, and laughed.

  Tryst merely smiled and turned to the serving girl, who was dressed in some mysterious black outfit with over-elaborate collars and cuffs. Jeryd could never keep up with fashions. He could never keep up with Villjamur. Sometimes he thought the world was now something he'd never understand any more.

  'What'll you have, gentlemen?' she asked.

  'I'll just have black tea,' Tryst said. 'And if you've got any pastries, I'd love to take a look.'

  'Of course,' she smiled. 'And you, sir?'

  'Tea with milk, thanks. No pastries for me. I'm watching my weight.'

  'You've been up to that Council Atrium quite a bit recently . . .' Tryst offered, obviously curious.

  He'd been to the Atrium four times already to interview a selection of councillors, but he'd been coming up against a brick wall. No one would tell him anything. After that initial lead of something involving the refugees, there was nothing to go on and Jeryd was beginning to feel depressed. And it seemed Tryst couldn't find out much about Tuya, either, despite tracking her for so long. Tomorrow Jeryd thought that he might go and interview her again himself. But suddenly tonight, Jeryd began to trust his aide a little more. The man made the effort to spend time in his company, and he had been loyal in his work in recent months. Maybe they could put the whole promotion business behind them, and carry on like they used to. Maybe Jeryd was being too harsh on him, too paranoid.

  'I suspect something,' Jeryd said, 'that's not related to the murder of the councillors.'

  'Go on,' Tryst replied.

  He paused as the girl brought the teas, and the pastry menu for Tryst. He took only a moment to point to a couple of the choices, then she walked away.

  'You know the Ovinists?' Jeryd asked.

  Tryst held his gaze for a moment. 'Yes, I do . . . well, I know of them, anyway. Why?'

  'They're a weird little cult with some strange plans, it seems. They're banned, of course, being an alternative religion.'

  'Except on Priests' Day,' Tryst reminded him.

 
'Yes, except then. Anyway, I found some documents whilst searching their offices, and I think that Boll and Ghuda could have both been practising members.'

  'What was it you found?' Tryst looked suddenly interested.

  'I found a message to one of the councillors from someone in that organization.' Jeryd leaned forwards, keeping his voice down. 'It hinted at a massacre. Thousands of refugees would be slaughtered. It's a plan that seems to have been cooking for some time.'

  Tryst was frowning. 'That sounds . . . just too crazy. No one would allow it.'

  'Don't be too sure. Remember we live in unusual times. These murders in the Council. All sorts of strange rumours from abroad, too.'

  At that moment, the waitress returned with Tryst's selection, and he commenced eating.

  Jeryd sipped his tea, and went on. 'What I'm saying is that anything can happen, and Villjamur's got a chequered and violent history. A massacre of its own people wouldn't be at all out of place.'

  Tryst remained a bit quiet for Jeryd's liking. Just then Tryst stopped eating. His eyes suddenly widened as he gazed over Jeryd's shoulder.

  Jeryd turned, and there she was, his wife Marysa, sitting at a table with another rumel. They were holding hands - he could see it in the dim candlelight and her face was full of joy and interest. Her companion was some smooth bastard with white hair slicked to one side. Jeryd didn't want to believe it.

  He made as if to stand up, but Tryst grabbed his sleeve, shook his head. 'Jeryd, I know what you're thinking, but you don't know anything yet, and also think of your reputation among the Inquisition--'

  'To hell with my reputation,' he growled, but his resolve weakened. Jeryd took several deep breaths, and sat back down to watch the couple more closely.

  It was her all right, Marysa, laughing eagerly at his jokes and flashing him glances once reserved for Jeryd. The way he touched hands, the way she flirted with him in return. He pressed his lips against her fingers as she held them to his mouth. The look of anticipation in his eyes, the promise of something Jeryd assumed was only for himself.

  Jeryd glanced at Tryst, who shook his head firmly, though he had been watching them, too. 'Drink some tea.'

  'You think a fucking cup of tea's going to make me feel better?' People nearby looked their way.

  'No,' he said quietly. 'Remember, Jeryd, you're a gentleman and a fine investigator of long standing. You're not going to blow all that in a fit of jealous rage in a public place.'

  Tryst made a quick hand movement across Jeryd's drink.

  After a few minutes where he could feel a strange rage take charge of his body, Jeryd stormed out of the tearoom and left Tryst alone there. Into the Villjamur night, skidding on the ice sheet so that he fell flat on his face. His tears fell onto the ice.

  Jeryd made it home, eventually, with more bruises than he ever sustained in the course of Inquisition duties. He changed his robes of office for something more casual, started a fire, brought down a bottle of some old vodka, the sort that burns the throat. He wanted some control over things, over his life, and the drink felt like it could help.

  He slumped in a chair by the fire, drinking and totally miserable. Outside, somewhere in the distance was the keening of a banshee. Another death, but that would be the job of some other poor bastard to investigate. Jeryd could not help wishing that Marysa's new man was the one the banshee was screaming about.

  He sat waiting in the darkness for her to come home.

  *

  She came in much later, a fluster of scarves and robes.

  Marysa was acting as if nothing unusual had happened. The way she looked at him - all warm and loving - disgusted him. He was so unusually angry he felt as if some drug had taken hold of him.

  She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, the ghost of another man on her lips. He was amazed that someone who was blatantly cheating on him could act so innocently.

  'It doesn't get any warmer, does it?' she murmured. 'So, how was your evening, dear?'

  'Fine,' Jeryd replied tersely, working out how best to approach the subject of her betrayal. He wanted to say so many things. To tell her everything he had witnessed. As she was hanging up her outer garments, he hurled the heavy mug from which he'd been drinking straight at the back of her head. As it exploded in a ceramic shower, he felt like some animal thing had taken possession of him. Like chemicals that weren't meant to be inside of him had affected his thoughts.

  'We both saw you!' Jeryd yelled out to her unconscious form, half in tears, fighting to maintain charge of his throbbing mind.

  No response from her.

  In all his decades in Villjamur, and during all his years in the Inquisition up to that point, Jeryd had never struck a woman. Men who did disgusted him, and now Jeryd disgusted himself. It was as if something had claimed his body, making him act with impulses he would have normally kept under firm control.

  He felt drugged.

  He knew all too well that there was a fine line between sanity and madness.

  *

  Later, Jeryd was aware of a knock at the door. 'Sir, it's me, Tryst. I was worried about you. Is everything all right?'

  At last a friend, someone who can help. Jeryd rubbed his eyes because he'd been crying for so long and now felt numb as he was recalling what he'd done, as if he was starting to have no memory of the event. Jeryd let him enter amid a blast of cold air, and then tried to explain what had happened. He stared at the unconscious form of Marysa, who was breathing so faintly that he wanted to weep again.

  Jeryd was glad that Tryst was there. Right then, he needed someone who could think clearly, because he damn well couldn't.

  'You hit her?' he gasped.

  Poor guy, he shouldn't have to see me like this. Jeryd remained in a stunned silence, sheer disbelief at what he'd done.

  After leaning down to examine her in the shadows of the sparsely lit room, Tryst suggested they move her to the bedroom. Luckily there was no sign of wounding, and he was greatly relieved that rumels rarely bruised.

  Every now and then he collapsed into sobs, whereupon Tryst tried to comfort him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. They carried her up the narrow staircase, to the marital bed which by now had changed all meaning for him. Her tail slopped limply, but her face was the illusion of peace. He covered her up carefully, then Tryst led him downstairs again.

  'Aren't you going to reproach me?' Jeryd said finally.

  'No, of course not,' Tryst said emphatically, and Jeryd felt an instant surge of relief.

  'You're a good man, Tryst. A good friend.' Jeryd wanted to shake his hand in gratitude, but felt too ashamed for that. What he'd done was unforgivable. If Tryst told someone and Jeryd lost his career, it was nothing more than he deserved.

  Tryst calmed him down. His tone was assured, and that's what he needed right then, the sound of someone in control, any sort of control in this madness. Jeryd stood up and went over to look through the window at the snow gathering on the ledge again.

  He began to sob helplessly at what a monster he'd become.

  'Try and forget it,' Tryst urged. 'You need to concentrate on your work now. Concentrate on those Council murders.' Then he paused. 'Maybe she'll forgive you, in time.'

  If she left him after this and never talked to him again, Jeryd wouldn't blame her. For some reason, the thought of her being with someone else wasn't the main issue any more. He didn't know what was. Maybe he just didn't care about anything any more.

  'Let's go for a walk, help clear your head,' Tryst suggested.

  Before they left the house, Jeryd wrote a note to Marysa, then tore it up. What the hell could words do between them now? Anything he might say would be deeply inappropriate and he imagined her reaction upon reading it in the morning.

  As they walked the dark streets, it was the sheer coldness of the city that gradually brought him to his senses. Even when he slipped on the ice and mildly twisted his ankle, Jeryd didn't care. He felt he deserved the pain, as if the elements and Villjamur it
self were slapping him down with a vague, ironic sort of justice.

  THIRTY-SIX

  They came two hours before the dawn, dressed blacker than the shadows of the streets itself, two dozen cultists from the Order of the Dawnir, and they gathered in numbers outside the simple wooden door. Papus placed a metal box containing a brenna-based relic at the base of it, altered the settings subtly, retreated.

  A few heartbeats later, the door exploded, shards of wood clattering on the cobbles and the neighbouring buildings, an abrupt hailstorm of splinters. In the following silence, her cultists entered the city headquarters of the Order of the Equinox. Shouts and screams were soon heard from inside. Knives were drawn. Quick battles fought in the gloom. Only the gargle of blood exiting a throat indicated a death rattle.

  They used several aldartals to freeze the men and women of the Equinox in time - poised in moments of confusion and terror for several minutes - before binding them with ropes. Any that weren't thus immobilized were killed. Dartun's own relics seemed to inhibit the effectiveness of many of her own devices, so much of what went on happened in real time. The bitterness of ancient rivalry had now reached a violent climax. Papus expected answers. Her previous threat - the hostage she had taken - had not produced a response from Dartun. She would search this building until she knew what secrets were hidden here, and what truths she didn't yet know about Villjamur, about the lands of the red sun . . .

  About Dartun himself.

  In many of the rooms there was only candlelight at best. Still, it was enough for her order to go about their search. She had planned this in detail. Thirty-four of the Equinox were captured, tied up, dragged out into the alleyway. She figured there would be at least another forty members hiding here, now fully aware of the break-in. She whispered strategy, signalled by hand the parts of the building to be investigated. Some of the corridors had been blocked by simple energy shields, relics being activated within the stonework. Simple enough to remove - they were meant for common burglars rather than to deter cultists. Progress through the complex of secret corridors and hidden rooms was efficient.