'Lieutenant.'
Priest Pias met him as agreed, offering a hand. Nelum kissed it. The mere presence of the learned prelate was calming.
'Priest Pias,' he whispered across the aged knuckles, 'I seek your counsel.'
'Rise, my boy,' the priest replied. 'Follow me.'
*
They drank tea in what seemed like a golden room: candlesticks, portrait frames, gold leafing on the chairs and plates – everything shimmered with wealth. So many times he had felt the same in Villjamur, even when, as a young child not knowing better, he was reluctant to go to church. Once again he felt spellbound by the beauty and the incense and the arcane texts.
When Priest Pias asked Nelum about his visit, the lieutenant told him about the allegations regarding his commander.
The old priest nodded gravely, a rhythm of deep contemplation. 'That is, of course, a major sin in the eyes of the Jorsalir church.'
'I understand, sir. The problem is that he is working wholeheartedly to unite people of this city into strengthening their defences, and he is training the local soldiers expertly. He aims to save this fringe of the Empire from falling into… From whatever evils lie beyond.'
'Yes, I am quite aware of his intentions. He has already come here asking my help.'
'Sir, I'm not sure I see the church's role in any of this.'
'Of course not.' A smile. 'Which means the old methods work! As the Empire evolved, it couldn't simply rely on the whip hand any more to persuade subjects to behave in acceptable ways. One doesn't build a policy of imperialism unless one is seen to be fair. There is democracy now, they would cry. There exists the illusion that they had a say in political affairs. So to control people's minds they needed other means of persuasion. Including the Jorsalir church.'
Nelum was aghast at this blatant manipulation of people's spiritual beliefs.
'Do not lose your faith, my dear lieutenant. This is not to question the ultimate word of Bohr. Our synergy with the Empire has allowed our church to flourish over thousands of years. It is a symbiosis that serves everyone's interests, and that's why we remain so close – a link that helps keep cultists at bay too.'
The gold glitter in the room was suddenly overbearing, refracting the candlelight too harshly into Nelum's eyes. 'I was never aware of such a depth of rivalries between the cultists and the church. Granted I have spent many of my years in active service.'
'We try not to make it all that public, but it is no secret that the church disdains those who propagate false histories – cultists especially.'
'I had no idea…'
'The threat of schisms exists. We currently have one developing on the more southerly islands, a sect led by a priest called Ulryk is promising to be quite the danger…' The old priest paused and composed himself – has he said more than he should have done? 'But let us now consider dangers closer to home: the nocturnal habits of the albino commander.'
'Indeed, sir,' Nelum agreed. 'So, what do you suggest?'
The priest stared into deep space for a long moment before he began to quote. '"So Bohr let them go ahead to do whatever shameful things they desired. As a result, they did vile things with each other's bodies. So they worshipped the things Bohr made but not Bohr himself, and Bohr left them to their shameful desires. Men committed shameful abominations with other men and suffered within themselves the penalty they fully deserved. Bohr abandoned them to their evil minds and let them do things that should not be done. Their lives became full of many kinds of wickedness, sin, greed, hate, envy, murder, fighting, deception, malicious behaviour, and gossip. They are haters of Bohr, insolent, proud, and boastful." '
The scripture was vaguely familiar to Nelum.
Priest Pias continued. 'In our texts it is stated clearly that such acts are intrinsically wrong and against nature. The punishment according to the law of the Empire and to our own scriptures is execution of the guilty. Given his public position the exposure of your commander could bring shame and humiliation on your regiment, and on the army in general. Indeed, the whole structure of governance might be affected.'
'Surely you'd be able to manipulate the ill effects?'
Judging by the curl of his lip the priest seemed to like that remark. 'I appreciate the difficulties. We need his skills in the coming crisis – I understand. We must think of the citizens. So for now, let him help us, but presently we should dispose of him. Meanwhile, do keep me informed.'
Nelum bid his farewell to the priest, kissing the old man's fingers before retreating outside into the cold, then a hard slog through heavy snow, past the homeless and on to his next destination, wondering when might be an appropriate time for him to engineer the fate of his commanding officer.
*
'I'm seeking a man called Malum,' Nelum explained to the barman, dropping a couple of coins on the counter. The tavern was dingy, a real spit-and-sawdust joint, with currently barely a customer in it. Two old men sat in companionable silence at the far end of the room, which stank of stale beer.
The return glance the barman gave him said he either knew Malum or at least knew of him. He slung down his cloth and leaned over the bar. He glanced to either side before grunting some directions, then he leaned back and said sourly, 'That's all I'm telling you.'
Nelum nodded, thanked the man, and headed out into the street, where he hailed a fiacre. But when he mentioned the location, the driver refused to take him there directly, only to somewhere close by.
'That's fine,' Nelum agreed, wondering at the mystery surrounding this gang leader.
It was a bone-rattling ride across the cobbles of the city in a once-plush carriage, whose dignity had long since faded. Snow brushed against the window as Nelum became lost in his own thoughts. He still tortured himself about what he must do, weighed up what the priest had said and what he himself felt was right.
The fiacre came to a halt and he turned to pay the driver, before regarding his surroundings. As the carriage sped away, he decided this area was not all that bad. Buildings were much the same wherever you went in this city, but this was a comparatively clean area, with a wide plaza, and a concentration of decent shops. A cold wind stung his cheeks as he moved on, studying his surroundings, following the route outlined by the barman.
Three doors along from one intersection, he knocked loudly on a door positioned between what looked like a shop selling erotic garments and another selling knives. The door opened and a scruffy youth demanded, 'Fuck you want?'
'I need to see a man called Malum.'
'Well, he don't fucking want to see you.'
Another voice from behind, 'Get away from there, kid. Who is it?' A red-haired man shambled up to the door, with his shirt unbuttoned. 'Yeah?'
'It's urgent that I see Malum. I've got money.'
'Sure you have.' The redhead looked him up and down. 'Looks like you're a soldier.'
'Can you ask him, please?'
A lingering pause, then the man stepped away, leaving the vicious-looking kid to watch over him. Nelum decided to wait, uncertain what was going on, but eventually he was beckoned inside.
Two minutes later he found himself sitting at a table surrounded by gang members deep underground. They watched him suspiciously, as a man with a red mask sat down opposite.
'Boys said you were asking for me,' grunted the man, whose mask was some hideous tribal item, giving him an additionally sinister edge. The outer rim of a bruise could be discerned just underneath it.
'That's right. I understand that you received some information regarding the commander of our armies.'
'Fuck should I help a soldier?'
Nelum felt frustrated at his ridiculous arrogance. 'I understand you suspect the albino has certain… preferences.'
'He fucks men, you mean?'
'Is it true?'
'Come on now, soldier. I'm not giving information without getting some back. You all fucked off to some conflict last night – why were those warning bells ringing? What does it mean for this city
?'
Nelum hesitated for a moment, then revealed the details about the skirmish. 'Ultimately, last night's incident means there'll be an increased military presence out on the streets. So. Is it true about our commander?'
'Course it fucking is. We got a confession from the man-whore who bedded him. Got two of my lads following your albino. Saw what he got up to, more or less.'
Nelum had half hoped that he would hear otherwise. 'Why should I trust what you say?'
'Should I care?' Malum replied. 'I've no business with you anyway. I gain nothing out of telling lies. I want that albino dead – and, for sure, the gangs won't fight for a pervert like him. Think about it: why would he come alone to fight last night if he was innocent?'
Nelum nodded, absorbing the information, scanning the sentences for logic, then reached into one of his pockets. He retrieved a purse of coins, dropped it on the table. 'For your help,' he explained.
'I'll take it.' Malum slid his chair back. 'But it's not much to me. I've got more money than you could even begin to imagine.'
TWENTY-SEVEN
'No refunds!' the trader insisted, holding up his palms towards the descending snow. The skies had turned a dull grey, and Jeryd's mood wasn't any more colourful.
'I'm not after a refund,' Jeryd said firmly, 'I just want to know where you got this meat from.'
'No say.' The trader frowned.
Jeryd sighed as a fiacre rattled along behind him. He loosened his collar, to display the medallion of the Inquisition, making sure it was clear for the trader to see. 'Investigator Rumex Jeryd of Villiren Inquisition. Now, will you tell me where you damn well got your meat from? Or do you want carting off to spend the rest of the week pissing into a bucket in the corner of some gaol cell?'
'I can't tell you. I… scared.'
Jeryd frowned. What the hell is he scared of? 'I'm not sure I follow you.'
'No say.' The man's eyes were wide; now and then he'd flick sideways glances towards the neighbouring alleyway as if he was being watched.
'If you're frightened, we can protect you,' Jeryd offered. 'The Inquisition will stop anyone from harming you as an informant.'
'Very good.' The trader gave a hollow laugh. 'You think Inquisition tough, yeah? Not so tough as him. Not as scary.'
Jeryd grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him close to his face. 'If you don't give me a name, I'm going to haul you in for selling strange meat, so don't fuck with me.' He pushed him away.
The trader scribbled something down on a piece of paper, before he backed off, palming the air helplessly, and disappeared down an alleyway, abandoning his stall.
Jeryd read the note he had been given. It said simply 'Malum'.
*
He had some paperwork to catch up with, and Nanzi was alreadaiting with his morning tea – a gesture he couldn't get enough of. She was bundled up in various dreary shades of brown, a cardigaverlaying a shirt, and one of those long woollen skirts she alwayore.
When she enquired as to his romantic night in, he merely shrugged it off.
'I'm not the romantic type,' he lied, knowing his entire existence seemed a futile attempt to peel back the layers of his own sense of nostalgia.
'Tell me,' he asked her, 'is there any gang leader the street traders are particularly afraid of?'
'I've heard things…' She glanced across to the door, as if checking it was closed. 'There's talk in there, occasionally…' She tilted her head, indicating the rest of the Inquisition. 'Some of the gangs keep good control over a lot of things going on in the city, let's put it that way. I don't know any specific details, but if payments were being made by the gangs to the Inquisition, to turn a blind eye to some of their more violent activities, it would not surprise me. But sometimes it is better not to ask about names in this organization – that would be heavily frowned upon, but I myself refuse to be caught up in such matters.'
'Glad to hear it,' he observed. 'The good investigator always keeps well away from the temptations of such underhand dealings.' He wasn't at all surprised to learn that this sort of thing went on in a city as unruly as Villiren. The only question for someone like Jeryd, who increasingly convinced himself that his position here was only temporary, was how deep it all went. If the gangs were too strongly linked to the government, there would be no point trying to clean things up. He was, after all, attempting to lie fairly low, just in case any of his recent dealings in Villjamur came back to haunt him.
'Is there any particular reason you need to find out more about these gangs?'
'I came across some bad meat,' Jeryd replied finally. 'Bought some steaks of questionable origin from a trader who wouldn't open up. Probably nothing in it, but I just want value for money. This'll be pursued in my free time of course – everything done by the book.'
'Do you have a lead?' Nanzi asked cautiously.
'I've got a name. Malum.'
'King of the underworld,' Nanzi whispered in awe.
'So I've heard. I'm guessing there's more than a few people in this institution prepared to turn a blind eye to such kings of the underworld. A little detective work is in order.'
*
Jeryd and Nanzi spent the rest of the day chasing rumours.
From bar to bistro to subterranean dens, they found themselves being passed among some of the most brutal-looking characters in the underworld. Gang types: Jeryd knew the look of them all right, the things they were saying to each other through their glances. It helped to have Nanzi with him – they displayed a little more restraint while she was alongside him.
Jeryd made sure that word got around that the Inquisition wanted to talk to Malum. The trail of leads seemed endless, but towards the end of that day Jeryd and Nanzi were provided with a firm address by a scruffy young kid with bad teeth. Not just an address – an address and a booth number.
Strange…
The kid insisted, 'Come alone. Lose the woman.' Then he scuttled off into the crowded iren.
Nanzi guided Jeryd through the snow to a back alley somewhere in Scarhouse, then she left him, as requested, alone and without another word. He was grateful for her tactful attitude.
A wooden board hung decrepitly above an iron door, a garishly coloured sign reading 'Peep Show'.
A knock on the door and a hatch slammed open. 'Fuck you want? We ain't open.'
'I'm looking for Malum. I was invited here.' Jeryd glanced furtively behind him as the snow began again, always coming and going in bursts. A fiacre clattered by and Jeryd pulled down his hat; this was no place for him to be seen outside, in a strange city or not.
'You the investigator?' the voice slurred back.
'Investigator Jeryd, yeah.'
The door clunked open and he was beckoned into the darkness by a grubby-looking dark-haired guy barely out of his teens.
'I'm looking for booth three, apparently.' Jeryd held up a slip of paper to the young man, who proceeded to ignore it completely.
The dark corridor smelled vaguely of stale incense. He could feel the enveloping damp. This place reminds me of an Inquisition gaol. Voices drifted towards him from rooms out of sight; conversations stuttering to a halt as they walked past. Now and then he heard a groan or two, then strange guttural noises he couldn't recognize.
'In there.' The young man gestured to one side.
'Thanks.' Jeryd now faced a narrow wooden door with the number three carved into it, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
A wooden stool had been placed before what looked like a large window; only blackness was apparent beyond. A bucket, some towels, there was very little else, just the bare cold stone. Jeryd shuffled towards the stool and peered at the darkened glass, his pulse quickening in the silence.
The tension mounted as he continued staring into the weird window, but he couldn't discern a thing. He tapped it with his knuckle – this was thick stuff.
Light suddenly sparked and flared on the other side of the glass – where he now noticed a figure sitting slumped
in a chair, wearing a stylish long coat, and a mask, half-concealing short brown hair. Lingerie and chains were draped over a meat hook to one side, and three or four silver-framed mirrors leaned against the walls, presenting this well-clad figure from unusual angles.
'Investigator Jeryd,' the man said. 'I hear you've been asking for my name. Got a lot of people asking after me recently – clearly, I'm a popular guy.'
'Yeah, that's correct. You're Malum then?' Jeryd couldn't figure out a way around the glass, which was set deep into the stone. A tiny metal hatch to one side seemed designed for dropping in coins.
'I am indeed. And there's no way in, Jeryd,' Malum replied coolly. 'There's no point looking. They're specially designed by cultists for safety.'
'Safety for who?' Jeryd asked.
'Right now, your own – but mostly for my women.'
'Do they normally just sit there?'
'They strip behind the glass for money, and lonely men gagging for excitement drop a coin in that hatch to the side.'
'And the men…?'
'Watch,' Malum replied, 'or masturbate. There's no sex, the women are protected. Everyone's happy.'
'How come I couldn't see you until you turned that lantern on?'
'Cultist glass – it's good stuff. I got a lot of contacts.' His tone changed. 'Get to business: why were you asking for me by name?'
'Someone gave me your details in connection with some bad meat I was sold.'
Malum laughed. 'That it? Just meat?'
'I've reason to believe that there is meat of questionable origin being circulated in this city. The trader said you helped put it about. All I want to know is where that meat is coming from.'
'You got guts, coming here, asking for this.'
'Either that, but quite possibly because I'm stupid.'
Malum grunted a laugh. 'I like you, investigator. Look, people are beginning to ask those kind of questions, and I don't like to have my name associated with such triviality. Tell you what, you leave me the fuck alone if I give you a name and an address?'
City of Ruin lotrs-2 Page 22
