Lupus looked at her again, a new eagerness in his expression. ‘The day after tomorrow, then?’
‘It’s right by the Onyx Wings, the whitewashed house with the red door.’ She made a move as if to kiss him, but glanced away, thinking better of it. As she walked past him she breathed into his ear, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Brynd read it on her lips and it seemed like it hurt her to say it. She moved on through the crowds, soon lost in their mass.
FIVE
Cities were much the same wherever you went in the Archipelago. Jeryd saw the same types of inhabitants no matter who built the buildings or where they were constructed. There were the down-and-outs, the drunkards, people reacting to them in the same way, with disgust. There were always people who wanted things, and those who could and who couldn’t have them. But you might also see a little happiness contained in the smile of a child, and everyone liked that.
In addition to his night breeches, Marysa had bought Jeryd a new hat, a broad-brimmed affair that kept catching in the wind, but it offered him a little style, and he felt that it added an air of authority to his demeanour – a touch of class, perhaps. For this new rumel investigator from Villjamur, there were, after all, people to impress.
So, a new city, and a new start.
Before he left Villjamur he had spoken with a couple of people he could trust high up in the ranks of the Inquisition, in order to request immediate transfer from the island via boat. Except the boat couldn’t make it through the ice sheets so he’d had to travel on a particularly dense and stubborn horse. And while Marysa’s horse was fine, Jeryd’s had gone lame halfway along the coastal track, so it had taken two days to find replacement transport, and then he managed to get lost somewhere on the way.
By the time he and Marysa were nearing Villiren, Jeryd was, understandably, thoroughly pissed off. Much of the journey on land had been through tundra; nothing but snow and frozen grassland, long bird calls shrilling across enormous skies, rapid blood-red sunsets, ice-cold winds that rolled in from the seas with venomous impetus. Layers of grey clouds constantly overlapping on themselves, intensifying but never delivering – such, it seemed, was the way of things around here.
But being this far north was the only way Jeryd could guarantee that he would not be hunted down for his recent investigations in Villjamur, and in Villiren there was a shortage of good men working for the Inquisition.
His new chambers were buried deep in the Ancient Quarter. He was surprised how well the Inquisition lived in Villiren, but too cynical not to assume that they resorted to a little extortion to fund their lifestyles. His office was a simple stone room with a desk, a couple of chairs, a bench and a fire, also equipped with a few books on the Jamur legal system arranged tastefully on a shelf. And mostly unused, he had noticed when he arrived. Through a slot in a wall he could see the ridge of one of the giant grandiloquent Onyx Wings close up, looming there as if some primordial creature was permanently readying itself for flight. Snow was constantly falling behind it, from grey skies onto slick roofs.
As soon as he sat down in the chair, placing his hat on the desk, there was a knock at the door. Typical annoyance. But maybe this would be the aide that Jeryd had requested several days ago to help him find his way around the city. He needed to get to know the neighbourhood itself – he didn’t know how long he’d be stuck here, but it didn’t hurt to fit in. If he was going to clean up a few streets and thus impress his superiors, it was essential he acquired some local knowledge.
With a colossal sigh he stood to open the door.
A young woman stood there, with tied-back black hair, a high forehead, a slender pale face and dark lips – something about her that spoke of islands other than the Boreal Archipelago. She couldn’t have been any more than thirty years old, and her petite frame was smothered in brown cloak and a plain heavy skirt. She was pretty, he realized, not that he was much into such soft human skins. Behind her, an investigator in a mask came strolling down the corridor. Those masks gave Jeryd the creeps.
‘Sele of Jamur, miss. How can I help you?’
‘Sele of Jamur, investigator,’ she declared, the pitch of her voice surprisingly deep. ‘It’s not how you can help me, but rather how I can help you. I’m your new aide, sir.’
A female aide in the Inquisition? Jeryd wasn’t sure about this at all. He couldn’t remember any specific ruling, but the arena of the Inquisition had always been male-dominated. Not that he was against female staff in the least, but in the Inquisition such things were usually a matter of tradition, for better or worse.
‘If you were expecting a man, I understand your surprise – but I’ve been good at my job so far. They tell me you’re from Villjamur, that you’re a brilliant investigator, and that you do not accept bribes . . . and I wanted to learn from the best.’
There was no reason why such flattery should be anything other than that to be expected from the young or naive. If only she knew how out of touch he felt, and how he simply could not understand the mechanisms of the world any more. Hell, he could barely understand himself any longer. ‘Come in, please, take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Walking past him, she graced him with a whiff of gentle perfume, a little vanilla musk. Her steps were lively, although slightly halting, as if she was recovering from a limp.
He first asked her for her name.
‘Nanzi.’
‘That’s a beautiful and unusual name. As you know I’m Investigator Rumex Jeryd – just arrived in the city. Worked in the Villjamur Inquisition for a hundred and eighty years, and have seen a lot in that time.’ It was growing on him fast, the idea that someone wanted to learn from him. It brought a new consistency to daily proceedings and he soon forgot his reservations about her being a her.
‘The good investigator,’ he continued, ‘does not merely stand still. He never accepts what he learns to be absolute and final. Same with anything else in life. Those who are more prepared for change generally get on, while those who don’t . . . they’re forgotten quickly, left to rot.’
She nodded, took out a small notepad, began detailing what he said. This went on for a quarter of an hour, these introductory notes, a little wisdom to kick things off, things that might or might not be of direct help but needed to be stated anyway, if only for him to articulate them for himself.
Jeryd was beginning to like Nanzi more and more. He told her about his first possible case in his new city, about the albino who’d come to his door in the middle of the night whispering his name. She offered no opinion.
Jeryd said, ‘I’ll need, most of all, someone to show me around the city. You know this place well?’
‘I’ve been here a few years now,’ she admitted, ‘but in that time I’ve come to know nearly every passageway, every stall, every cobble, every cobweb.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather get out of here with the coming fighting?’ Jeryd felt a sudden curiosity about why people were in Villiren at all.
‘Where else would we all go?’ she asked. ‘No one is going to take their chances out in the wilderness, in this weather. None of the other major cities are likely to let anyone in, so all people here have is this place. It might not be pretty here, but there is a great sense of belonging, a sense of purpose, even. And with that comes pride. It’s long been a city of immigrants – from all over these eastern islands. I, myself, am not from here, and I have no family left, so this city is a haven for people like me, who needed to rebuild themselves.’
Jeryd contemplated her words. Maybe he had been quick to judge the city, too quick to think it lacked soul. As he had said himself moments earlier, those who were more prepared for change generally got on better.
*
As they made their way onto the streets heading towards the citadel and the barracks, Jeryd asked Nanzi more about her background, discovering how she had previously travelled around the Archipelago, even found a partner and settled down. Nanzi continued to walk with that distinctive limp, and it made Jeryd sp
eculate on how she might have acquired such an impediment. ‘Were you injured in the line of duty?’
A pause, a distant gaze. ‘An accident, years ago. It still pains me, if I’m honest, but I’m much better off now than before. Working here is good – not too physically demanding, and I get out and about. That takes my mind off my own problems, which are nothing in comparison with some of the things we see here in Villiren.’
‘A noble sentiment. How long have you worked for the Inquisition?’
‘Not very long. But, given my accident, I realized how life is short – and I wanted to do some good by serving the city. I want to help wherever I can, to do the right thing for humanity. The Inquisition here is not as efficient or as good-intentioned as I would like – so I try very hard to make a small difference.’
‘The good investigator,’ Jeryd declared, ‘is always motivated by positive goals. In the end, when people start to argue over intricacies of the law, all you have is your integrity to fall back on.’
‘Things are rather relaxed in the Inquisition here,’ she observed, ‘too much so. Perhaps crimes go unsolved, some not even investigated. The Freeze has changed our priorities to more administrative matters. Many cases still need sorting out. The rumel who work here as investigators are just not interested any more. With the war coming, many such cases simply have had to be overlooked. Burglaries are never talked about, rapes never followed up – women, I find, are particularly hard done by in the culture here – but in some tribal communities you hear of worse. I do what I can in difficult circumstances. And then there are all those missing people . . .’
‘People vanish all the time,’ he remarked. ‘The good investigator knows that. He has to start off at the source of information, because if people want to disappear hard enough, they will manage to do so. It’s easy enough never to be seen again. Your source will quickly give you a hint as to whether you are wasting your time. A good investigator cannot afford to waste his time.’
‘Or hers.’
‘Whose?’ Jeryd said, momentarily puzzled.
‘Cannot waste his or her time.’
‘Right,’ he conceded.
‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘That is why I was excited when I heard that an investigator from Villjamur was heading our way. I hope to learn from your experiences there, but I do not know why you left such a prestigious place just to come here.’
‘Sometimes we haven’t got the choice, Nanzi, because things get decided for you.’ And this dive was the only place I could get to work in, simply because of their casual attitude to the Empire’s laws.
*
As they made their way to the barracks, along those rigidly alignetreets of the city, now and then she would stop to introduce Jeryd to a trader, or a tavern owner, which was something he appreciated, being so keen to become a familiar face with the locals. He adopted a friendly tone towards them, and they chatted back readily. One woman who was running a textile shop even offered nervously to pay him a bribe, as if he was involved in a street gang. A protection racket, perhaps? Nanzi had implied such shenanigans went on, but were the Inquisition involved too?
The final approach presented them with a glorious view encompassing numerous shades of white and grey, where the city met the sea met the skies. Accumulating force between the cliffs bordering the harbour, icy winds assaulted the Citadel violently. Jeryd had to keep a tight grip on his new hat. Nanzi led him up the final stairway to the vast Citadel directly at the front of the city, a decrepit and fortress-residence facing the sea. He couldn’t believe how massive it was, getting on for twenty storeys high. Many different shades of rock had been used in its construction – from the speckled texture of granite to the smoothness of sandstone. Despite its vast, towering facades, crowded with spiked crenellations, the light mist of drizzle and gentle fog seemed to lend it an ethereal, almost otherworldly quality. Access was gained by several wide, shallow-stepped staircases, and the thin rectangles of lantern-illuminated windows were ranged regularly along each side. This was a place where you felt you wanted to be on the inside, certainly, and Fat Lutto, the portreeve of Villiren, lived here, as did the Night Guard, who had made it their headquarters. Other contingents of soldiers were arriving daily, though housed on levels lower down, but most were still gathered in camps to the south of the city.
*
Now this was impressive: a room surfaced all over with obsidian. Thame reddish volcanic glass also lined some of the main chambers i dazzling display of craftsmanship. Sure, some of the rooms anorridors he’d passed through were pretty deteriorated, with old stonhat was falling apart like in Villjamur, but now and again there’d bome fancy section of wall with gemstones pressed into the surface, in ostentatious display of tastelessness. He liked this, nevertheless: ias so bad it was good.
When they finally met the commander, Jeryd was delighted to recognize the thunderous old Dawnir creature, Jurro, who he’d met before in Villjamur. The beast loomed a few feet taller than Jeryd, his exposed body thick with brown hair, his modesty concealed only by a mere loincloth. Set in a narrow, goat-like head, over a pair of arm-length tusks that peeled back his gums, two large black eyes stared down unblinkingly at his visitor. To call him intimidating was an understatement, but Jeryd wasn’t worried by this creature who was carrying a pile of books tall enough to crush the average man.
‘Ah the rumel investigator!’ Jurro rumbled. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Sele of Jamur—’
‘Urtica. It’s apparently the Sele of Urtica now,’ Brynd corrected, smiling to himself.
‘Sele of Urtica,’ Jeryd continued reluctantly. Then to Jurro: ‘How come you’re all the way out here? I thought you were rotting away in that room of yours back in Villjamur.’
Jurro set the books on the floor – a stack of leather-bound tomes that reached as high as Jeryd’s shoulder. ‘On the contrary, the kind commander there permitted me to stretch my legs at long last, so I have ventured to this city with them. I have since seen many things, though few of them what I hoped for. Alas, still no clue as to my origins. So I assume you’re here for the coming war?’
‘Not exactly. I’m actually here pursuing the case of a missing soldier. Still got a fondness for the books, I see.’
‘I have been soaking up information for so long now it seems easier to read than to breathe. Though, this time the commander here has set me to work.’
Standing close by, Brynd cleared his throat. ‘I sent some men to the libraries throughout the city – which here are small and scattered institutions – so Jurro might be provided with some bestiaries, or records that might enlighten us as to what the enemy might be. I have myself looked through several volumes of xenopathology, but there are few cladistical similarities with those infernal creatures.’ He waved to the pile of books. ‘He has been a great help already,’ Brynd continued. ‘Jurro, might I spend some time alone with the investigator?’
‘Why of course. I have many pages here to digest.’ Jurro reached down for the load of books and hunched his way out through the doorway.
Jeryd gave a sideways glance at the commander. ‘Strange customer, that one.’
‘It isn’t easy being the only one of your kind.’
*
Jeryd was introduced to a few of the Night Guard, those superioroops, as he wanted to build a profile of them. Any one of these men might have been responsible for Haust’s disappearance.
First there was Mikill, a slender man in his late twenties, with long brown hair. The commander explained he was a supreme swordsman, having joined the Dragoons when he was fifteen, and had become a sergeant by the time he was eighteen. Apparently he didn’t have much of an appetite for drink, so was constantly mocked for that by the others; but he was a considerable ladies’ man, apparently, much to the envy of the older men. Brug was a veteran in his mid-forties, heavily muscled and with a close-shaven head and numerous tattoos. Unlike his younger colleagues, he was a bit of a wine-lover with an appreciation for pa
intings. Jeryd learned that he had lost his wife twenty years ago and hadn’t wed since. Jeryd took an instant liking to the next man, Smoke, a mature, expert horseman who spent more time looking after the animals than socializing. With tanned skin and short-cropped hair showing streaks of grey, he was a descendant of the tribes, and considered best of all with an axe. Quiet and reflective, he stared back at Jeryd gently, contemplating his questions, and answering carefully in a whispery tone. Very different was Syn, in his mid-thirties, who could well have been a psychopath judging by the look in his eye. Although usually quiet, the commander revealed that he was extremely violent and efficient in combat. In fact everyone was secretly wary of him, since Syn was thought to have been involved in a wholesale massacre of Empire-friendly tribesmen about fifteen years ago. As a result, no one seemed that close to him, and Jeryd made a particular note of this individual.
He met a couple of other men briefly, Bondi and Haal, but they soon had to go back to their training. Meanwhile, other soldiers in black jogged by, conversing in loud voices that followed them along the corridor. Jeryd couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at the sight – these men were legendary with their cultist enhancements – providing greater strength and superior skills – but they still seemed like very ordinary people.
*
Later, in the same obsidian room as before, Jeryd, Nanzi and Brynat in discussion as a massive fireplace generated a much-needed warmth. As they began to discuss the Haust case, Jeryd asked Nanzi to note down any minor details. After having talked to some of his men, Brynd confirmed that the private had disappeared during nighttime while on regular patrol. At that point, the albino reaffirmed that numerous other people in the city had similarly gone missing. Jeryd made a mental note to study all the reports back at the Inquisition headquarters.
At Jeryd’s request to see Private Haust’s quarters, the commander led them over to the dormitories. The rest of the regiment were on training exercises, and the place was empty: a long, narrow room that housed five soldiers, as well as Haust himself. Sparse and oppressively neat, Jeryd could tell from this one room that the life of a soldier would never have been right for him. Haust’s bed had been left untouched, the sheets folded down immaculately. A few sheets of paper were rested tidily on the side table – a letter from his partner, another one from his brother, a hand-sketched portrait of an attractive young lady and, resting on it, a woman’s bracelet.
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