Nights of Villjamur (52 page)

For a quarter of an hour he sought out the street of the cultists, searching his memory for the way there amidst the deceptively surreal routes of the alleyways. Eventually he arrived at what seemed the right location, and frowned to see no door any longer, only a cloaked figure standing guard.

'Morning,' Randur said, trying to skim past her.

'Get out,' the woman spat.

'I need to see Dartun,' Randur protested. 'I've something for him. We had a deal.'

'He's not here,' the woman replied sourly.

'Anyone from the Order of the Equinox?'

She stared at him angrily. 'Why d'you want to know?'

After he explained, he was taken inside to be questioned further.

*

Randur was ushered into one of those dreary underground chambers that Villjamur possessed no shortage of - with minimal light and no warmth. He was instructed to wait on an uncomfortable stool in the corner. Randur was beginning to panic, having all these months assumed that all he need do was hand over the money to the cultist, and his mother would be miraculously saved.

There were sounds: the clattering of a metal door opening, the shuffle of footsteps, heavy breathing nearby. Then someone grabbed his shoulder, pushed him back against the wall.

Another female voice snarled, 'Why are you here to see Dartun?'

Randur squinted through the darkness, the fingers tightening on his shoulder. 'I was just coming to make him a payment as agreed. And I find out he's not here, and there's some weird shit going on. Now will you let go of my shoulder, and tell me what has happened to him?'

'He won't be coming back to Villjamur.'

'But . . . what of the rest of his group of cultists?' Randur was getting desperate. Dartun should have been here.

'They've either gone with him or been arrested. The Order of the Equinox is now outlawed throughout the territories of the Empire.'

'Shit,' Randur gasped in alarm, then further explained his situation.

'I remember you now,' the voice said. 'You're the boy I pointed in his direction as a favour, for saving my life. But I can't help you any more.'

'You must. You have to. That's the whole fucking reason I'm even in this city.'

'I'm sorry. But you're free to go.'

'Can't any other cultists help me? I've got money - I'll show you.' Randur stood up but found, after a lengthy silence, that he was now totally alone. Torch light entered the chamber and he was escorted out.

*

His world had imploded. Lying on Eir's bed later, he felt he wanted to vomit, but instead he cried like a ten-year-old as he told her everything. She sat next to him waiting for him to finish - he knew that, and he felt ashamed, to expose his emotions like this. But, despite her age, she possessed an unexpected motherly quality. He liked that. After that he got up and left, walked for two hours across the city bridges, then returned, damp and cold.

Then he resumed crying.

Eir held his hand. 'It's understandable you're upset, Rand, so don't be so harsh on yourself.'

She got up and lit lanterns and soothing incense and waited for him to compose himself. He realized he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her. Soon he began to feel better, until somehow his failings as a son didn't seem to matter quite as much.

There were times in his long life where Jeryd had been afraid. Cornered in an alley with a sword against his throat. Going undercover with gangs in his youth. Chasing suspects along icy bridges and precarious rooftops. Dealing with crime, you'd expect that.

But as he now awaited Marysa to wake from her slumber, he was
truly
frightened.

She had slept right through for two nights as if under some spell. His life was balanced, waiting for these moments for her to wake up. He'd already forgiven her for her misdemeanour. Didn't matter that she'd found something, momentarily, with someone else. That wouldn't be the first thing he would think about when she finally opened her eyes. His tactic was to pretend it had not happened. He loved her so much, it caused him an entirely new level of pain inside.

As the milky light of day began to filter through from the window, he looked around at the clutter of junk filling the bedroom. It was all hers, of course. Jeryd was one of those who didn't care to accumulate anything much. As soon as he'd finished with it, it was gone. His rooms had been bare, before she was around. She'd filled the void systematically, buying steadily over the years, nearly all of it antiques. Maybe much of it was junk, but it was
her
junk.

He had got comfortably used to her filling his otherwise empty life with objects of uncertain purpose, and he'd often wander around the house, simply to uncover items he'd have no recognition of. It seemed to suggest something deeper about their relationship.

As he rested a hand affectionately on her arm, she finally stirred, her fingers gripping the white bedsheets gently. He sprang to life, a silent prayer to Bohr on his lips.

She lifted herself up, and stared at him vacantly.

'Good morning,' he said. 'You've slept through two nights without waking. I hope someone didn't try any love potions on you. There's a lot of it about these days.'

'Two nights?' she said, her eyes focusing on him intently, a million thoughts clearly darting through her mind. 'I had such a weird dream . . . I dreamt I came home and you were really angry. It's strange how real it all seemed. The mind can do scary things . . .'

With those few words he knew he was safe. All he had to do now was behave as normal.

*

Jeryd knew he had to leave the house before too long. Minor cases were mounting up in his office, and he still had to solve the councillor murders. Today not even that tiny snowball army, the Gamall Gata kids, annoyed him.
Jerrryd.

As he walked the ice-slicked streets of Villjamur he felt in a particularly strange mood. His eyes felt heavy, barely took in the constant streams of people passing him. The keening of a banshee echoed somewhere unnaturally far away. His mind was left abandoned on a melancholy plane neither here nor there.

In the melting sun, an icicle detached from one of the high ledges and shattered on the cobbles near his feet. Not even that could interrupt his torpor.

Reaching the headquarters of the Inquisition, he opened the door of his office to find Tuya Daluud standing there with her back to him.

She turned her head, her thick hair flowing in an alluring arc. You couldn't really see her scar in the dim light. She was wearing a thick black coat and smelled of a decent perfume. She stared at him in discomforting silence, and her eyes looked red and sore as if she had been weeping.

'Can I help?' Jeryd said at last, indicating the visitor's chair in front of his desk.

She shook her head, but he didn't know whether that was in response to the question or to his gesture.

'You look as if you need help,' Jeryd suggested.

'I . . . I have some information,' she said eventually, and sat down. 'It's serious. I feel I need to . . . confess. But I don't know how you'll react and I'm scared that he'll come to get me.' The gaze she fixed on him then was deeply penetrating. 'I'm so frightened. I've no one else to turn to. You must be the only person in this city who I can trust - you seem like such a genuine man.'

Jeryd lay his dark-skinned hand on hers, and she felt peculiarly tender. 'You can trust me.' He walked to the door, locked it, then started a fire to get the room warm again. He pulled his chair around the desk so he was next to her, wanting her to know he was on her side. 'Tell me what's wrong. You said someone was after you?'

She sobbed fearfully. 'I escaped him, at least for now.'

'Who?' Jeryd tried to meet her eyes, but she kept looking away from him, to the floor, to the desk, to the walls.

'Your "aide", Tryst.'

Jeryd leaned back with a shocked frown. 'Go on.'

She began to tell him everything that had transpired recently: how Tryst approached her, the drugs he used to subdue her, the beatings once the drugs wore off, her uncanny ability to bring to life creatures through her art, how Tryst had abused that secret by demanding a clone of Jeryd's wife so as to play a cruel trick on the investigator. And in the stunned silence you could hear the crack of wood splitting on the fire as it burned. 'He hated you to an extent. I think he just wanted to teach you a lesson for something. It was obvious you didn't know what he was up to, and since you seemed to be his enemy, I thought you could help.'

His enemy?
Jeryd thought morosely.

And then, reluctantly, she confessed to the murders of the two councillors, thus revealing the key piece of information that Jeryd had suspected, but had no proof of - the diabolical plan devised by members of the Council itself to eliminate thousands of the refugees.

About a million thoughts raced through Jeryd's mind. His world had suddenly become so much more confusing, so much more dangerous. He realized that Marysa hadn't actually cheated on him. It was this 'clone' that he had witnessed. Despite the surge of relief, in that moment the guilt of his subsequent actions became unbearable.

'Investigator?' Tuya prompted.

He faced her. 'Forgive me, Miss Daluud. You've given me such a huge quantity of information that not only affects myself, but this entire city, this Empire. But you say Tryst may be coming after you.'

'Yes . . . he humiliated me and beat me.' Then she collapsed into sobbing, burying her head in her palms. It didn't seem natural for a woman previously radiating such confidence, such strength.

Jeryd clasped her hands in his own. 'Tell me everything again - absolutely everything you remember.'

The specific details regarding the actual slaughter of the refugees were limited, and Tuya could give only one other name at the centre of the conspiracy. Chancellor Urtica, it seemed, was setting the pace on this matter, although the actual means of achieving this remained uncertain. Jeryd realized he would have to alert others within the Inquisition - but only a select few he could trust. If this went to the top of the city's ruling hierarchy, who else might be involved? Could he risk informing his superiors? Or should he handle this on his own? Either way, what would be the consequences? Regarding Tuya herself, should he arrest her or let her free? Tryst would soon find her again, and Jeryd now saw his subordinate in a chilling new light. He realized that he would have to hide her away somewhere safe, for now. For her own good.
But she has committed murder.
Yet it seemed she had killed the councillors to prevent the slaughter of thousands of innocents. Sometimes this city was so sinister, so complicated, he wished he could leave it completely.

He made up his mind. 'Don't worry about anything. For the moment, you'll be safe. I'll take care of that, but I'll need your help.'

*

Jeryd had decided to allow Tuya to stay at his house in the Kaiho district.

Marysa was there still, thank Bohr, though Jeryd felt a pang of guilt every time she looked his way. She accepted Tuya's arrival without question, so he felt free to return to work.

After spending much of the afternoon thinking about recent developments, Jeryd saw the figure of Tryst walking off through the winding stone corridors of the Inquisition headquarters, heading out into the street.

He followed him hastily into the chill, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

'Tryst,' Jeryd called out across the fresh snow, his voice echoing in the still of the early evening.

The young man stopped to look back and, on recognizing Jeryd, approached. 'Investigator, you need me?'

Jeryd looked him up and down, rage fluctuating inside him. He felt a strange respect for the levels this treacherous bastard would stoop to in order to achieve his ends. 'Walk with me awhile, I've something important to discuss.'

Through the alleyways of the old city, and down towards the caves. They passed two quiet irens packing up for the day, the street traders looking glum at the lack of business in such miserable weather. A few fires were still lit where women sold fried spiced pastries, the smoke trapped ghost-like in the frozen air. Eventually they came to a neighbourhood where Jeryd felt able to continue the conversation. Graffiti covered the walls, tags and obscenities and protests of love. Moss gathered where it could in damp corners.

'The councillor murders,' Jeryd began, 'has that prostitute come up with anything yet?'

'Afraid not, sir.' Tryst's calm expression showed no sign of any deception.

'Where's Miss Daluud now precisely?' Jeryd enquired.

A flash of anxiety in his eyes?

'I can't be sure,' Tryst replied. 'Not at the moment. You wish to speak to her? I think if I have a little more time I could get some answers for you. I'm keen to succeed.'

'Are you, now,' Jeryd muttered.

'Sir?' Tryst tilted his head, his expression still all innocence. 'I'm not sure I follow.'

Jeryd looked around, at the run-down stone dwellings with their rotting wooden doors and windows. No one else was nearby. The sun had set almost completely, casting a dreary ambience over the scene.