Nights of Villjamur Read online

  Randur paid special attention to clothing, noting all the latest styles - tiny collars with little ruffs, pale earthy tones on the women that did nothing for them, two brooches worn where possible right next to each other. The swords people carried tended to be short messer blades, and he thought that they must be more efficient to kill with in the narrow corridors and pathways of Villjamur.

  The Inquisition had eventually sealed off the area around the dead body, and they were now beginning to erect wooden panels to hide the death scene.

  The rumel approached him, a cool and graceful individual.

  'Sele of Jamur to you, sir. I'm Investigator Rumex Jeryd. Could you tell me your name, please?'

  'Randur Estevu, from Folke. Just arrived this morning.'

  'You're from out of town? I thought I could detect an accent. You speak Jamur well, though. I'm surprised the guards let you in.'

  Randur shrugged, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.

  'Do you mind if I ask what you're here for? People from outside aren't generally admitted because of the Freeze, you see. We get all sorts of trouble here.'

  'Not at all. I've got employment at the Emperor's halls, and I've shown my identification at each of the three gates. It's all official.'

  'Right, well, we can't ever be too careful. We've got a bit of a refugee problem, as you've no doubt seen on your way in.'

  'Yeah, poor guys.' Randur pulled up the collars on his cloak. 'Are you, y'know, letting them all in before the ice comes?'

  'It's not up to me, but the Council assures the people of the city that the matter's in hand. So, can you now tell me everything you saw? Please, leave nothing out.'

  'Well, not much to say really. He came running and screaming from up there somewhere.' He indicated an alley at the opposite end of the iren. 'Beetles were already swarming all over his wound, then he just collapsed on the ground, right where he is now.'

  The rumel scribbled some notes in a small book. 'Nothing else that seemed odd or out of place?'

  'Everything seems a little odd to me today.'

  The rumel grinned. 'Welcome to Villjamur, lad.'

  *

  Jeryd crouched by the body, taking in the details of the wound, how the blood trickled across the cobbles. A while later he glanced up at Aide Tryst, who was stepping carefully around the confines of the alley. At the far end lay several broken frames and pots of paint from the adjacent gallery.

  Around Cartanu Gata, especially where it intersected with the Gata Sentimental, nothing had changed for thirty or forty years, ever since it had been arrogated by the evening bohemians.

  All along its lower walls were scribbles etched deep by knife blades over the centuries. Odes to lovers. Threats to all and anyone. Who watches the Night Guard? So-and-so sucks dicks. That sort of thing. Some of the cobbles were splashed with paint, too, and you could smell stale food despite the dampness. At night, lanterns cast long, feral shadows down here, and if there was no breeze the darkness was suffocating in such narrow confines. And there were always rumours of cultist-bred animal hybrids walking along here with awkward gaits before sunrise.

  Weighing up all these possibilities, Jeryd was trying to build a picture.

  Delamonde Rubus Ghuda. The victim - a human male, in his forties - was a senior member of the Villjamur Council. His ribcage had been opened and exposed in a most bizarre way. The robes had just melted away around the wound, and some of his flesh appeared as if it had been scooped out. There were no traces of anything else around the corpse. Jeryd had never seen such an injury before.

  This made a difference from the usual crimes he investigated. An old rumel like Jeryd could easily become bored with his job: people only ever committed the same few misdemeanours. You had murders, usually affairs of the heart; people stole things because they couldn't afford them; then you had the excesses of drug addicts. Generally it was about people either snatching more from life, or people trying to escape it completely.

  But this crime had indications of something else . . .

  Tryst paused alongside him.

  'Not a pretty sight,' Jeryd observed.

  'Indeed not.'

  'What's this?' Jeryd shuffled over to one side, dabbed his finger to a cobble. A blue substance stuck to it.

  'Must be paint,' Tryst suggested, 'from the gallery. Load of paint pots stored back there.'

  Jeryd stood up, wiped the finger on his robe. 'No witnesses yet from there?'

  'I'll get someone to ask questions. Knock on a few doors, maybe. I'm not hopeful, though.'

  'Get one of the others onto it immediately. I need to know if there was anything remotely strange going on here. Anyone unusual walking by. Any scuffles or swordfights, anything. And we need to find out what he was up to last night and earlier this morning.'

  'OK.' Tryst turned to go.

  'Meanwhile don't tell anyone about this,' Jeryd continued. 'I'll contact the Council myself, let them know. We can't do with this getting out just for the moment. The people who witnessed him die didn't necessarily realize his position, and I don't want Emperor Johynn finding out via rumours. Bohr knows, it'd just become part of a conspiracy in his head.'

  Jeryd walked slowly to the far end of the alley, glancing up through the morning drizzle at three spires visible in the distance, and at the bridges that arced between them.

  Tryst interrupted his thoughts. 'Investigator, should we take him back to headquarters now?'

  Jeryd slipped his hands in the pockets beneath his robe. He was studying the dead-end behind, where a heap of garbage lined the side wall of the gallery. Considering himself a man of the Arts, he had always wanted to visit all the galleries, but had never quite found the time for this one. Marysa had often mentioned it, painting a wonderful picture he never quite got to see. Then again, she always did exaggerate. He'd seen far too much crime here over the years for him to look at this part of the city with naivety. Especially nearby Caveside, where the buildings themselves breathed decay.

  'Yes, get him back now,' Jeryd said. 'We could do with wrapping this up as soon as possible.'

  FOUR

  They rode past hundreds of refugees camped alongside the Sanctuary Road. The numbers grew daily, conditions worsened. Filthy children ran between tents on either side of the road, where grassy banks had become mud baths. Livestock had been brought, too, and makeshift pens had been constructed. The previous evening's fires had been reduced to ashes overnight. This morning faces were glum, and they looked at him with a sense of embarrassed pleading - these were people, unused to poverty, who had never dreamed that this might be where they'd end up.

  Another city was growing outside the city.

  People had come here in hope. Hope that they wouldn't be left to freeze in the wild when the ice came. Hope that the Empire's main city would be able to house them in its labyrinth. Hope that there would be enough food and warmth. They'd come from Kullrun, Southfjords, Folke, Y'iren, Tineag'l, Blortath - heard in their accents. They had gathered whatever belongings they had and set off for the Sanctuary City. But the city could only accommodate a limited number during the estimated fifty years of ice to come - that was the official line. The very government that ruled over them did not want to offer them shelter. Had they been landowners, there might be an open door, such was the way of things here.

  Brynd felt pangs of sympathy as he moved past, a desire to help.

  Behind him, on the cart, Apium was still half asleep.

  'Captain,' Brynd said sharply, and the man jolted awake.

  'Eh? What? We're here, then, commander?'

  The horses approached the main gate, a towering granite structure framing huge iron doors.

  'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd addressed a city guard dressed in a blood-coloured tunic, who straightened his fur hat and saluted.

  'Commander Lathraea, the Sele of Jamur to you. Everything well?'

  'Been better,' Brynd said sourly.

  'Commander, we're obliged to ask you about the conten
ts of the cart.'

  Brynd nodded, knowing the security procedures. The guard walked over to the cart, greeted Apium, pulled back the blanket covering their wounded passenger.

  'Spot of bother at Daluk Point,' Apium said. 'And he was one of the lucky ones.'

  'What happened to him?' the guard asked, covering Fyir up again.

  'We'd like to know that, too,' Brynd confessed.

  The guard gave him that knowing smile between soldiers. 'Right, in you go.'

  He signalled for the gates to open. As they groaned apart, twenty more city soldiers advanced towards and around them, to prevent any of the refugees from attempting to get into the city. Not that they could, because there were two more gates to get past. And both were firmly closed to them.

  So the Night Guard soldiers entered Villjamur.

  Today was Priests' Day in the city. Twice a year, otherwise forbidden religions were allowed such an airing. The streets were filled with priests from the outlying tribes, allowed in on a one-day permit, but watched closely by soldiers from the Regiment of Foot. Sulists gathered around their shell-reading priests. Noonists were standing semi-naked in a circle, smeared in fish oils, holding hands and singing a melisma while a bunch of city cats tried to lick the oil off their legs. Ovinists were holding up pigs' hearts, as was their custom, allowing the blood to drip from them slowly into their mouths. Apparently this brought them closer to nature, but Brynd could think of less disgusting ways.

  Aside from the devotees of the official two gods - Bohr and Astrid, worshipped under the umbrella of the Jorsalir Church - no priests were normally allowed to practise in the streets. Tradition allowed only these two days of the year for citizens to be exposed to other religions. Brynd thought it all rather pointless, since even if you did decide to follow some other creed, you would be forced to leave the city to pursue your new persuasion.

  Brynd led the surviving Night Guardsmen along the main thoroughfares that would take them up on the next level where the streets and passageways became quieter.

  Brynd leapt off his horse as a flicker of purple light caught his attention.

  'What?' Apium demanded, puzzled.

  'Back in a moment.' Brynd headed off down the narrow passage, till he spotted a cultist slumped against a wall. The man was clutching a slim cylinder to his chest, from which purple sparks flew onto his bare skin. The device itself was somehow fixed to his hand, a web of skin keeping it in place. The man's face was contorted into a mixture of bliss and pain. Brynd turned away in disgust.

  'What was it?' Apium enquired, as he returned.

  'Magic junkie,' Brynd muttered, mounting his horse again.

  *

  'What?' Jamur Johynn demanded, looking up from his dining table.

  The Emperor was chewing on a fish platter, now and then examining his food for stray bones. His distant gaze suggested he might as well have been eating a plate of lemons. At times, Johynn refused to eat at all and sometimes he would assure servants that he'd eaten everything, only for them to find remains of his plate on the rocks directly below the window, or maybe stuffed into one of the ornamental jugs. Whether it was because he suffered from anorexia or was paranoid about being poisoned was anybody's guess. No explanations were offered, and no one dared to ask.

  The dining chamber was a narrow room, but the numerous mirrors everywhere made the palace seem larger that it was. Early Jamur murals depicting grid-like astrological phenomena were painted between a myriad of identical arches. No one knew what they really meant. A row of plinths held the smoke-stained busts of previous Emperors, all Johynn's ancestors, like silent guests, while a handful of servants looked on, as always, from behind the pillars, neither wanting nor required to be seen. There was always a hint of fear in them as Brynd walked past, an inhalation of breath, a straightening of the back. Maybe they just feared this military intrusion because Brynd himself usually felt relaxed and informal in the Emperor's presence. They had developed over the years a relationship of intimacy, till Johynn could trust few people apart from the albino. Maybe that was because as Johynn had once hinted, it looked as if Brynd had some secrets to conceal himself.

  'Killed to the last man, my Emperor. All apart from those of us you're now looking at.'

  'So this means . . . ?' Johynn made a steeple of his hands.

  'No firegrain, Majesty, so the only resource there will be now is wood.' Brynd stood to attention alongside Apium, but Fyir had been allowed a chair, a rare concession in the Emperor's presence.

  'So, commander . . . ?'

  'Our heat sources are therefore questionable,' Brynd continued. 'But let's not overlook the fact that half your personal guard has been slaughtered.'

  'No heat, no heat . . .' Johynn moaned, as if reciting some destructive mantra.

  Brynd glanced across at Apium. The captain merely shrugged.

  Jamur Johynn walked over to the window. 'And how, how am I now going to keep the people of my city - of my Empire - warm?'

  Brynd thought, As if you give a shit about anyone who's not Empire-issued nobility or a landowner.

  'How can I look after them now the moons are in place? Everyone depends on me, Commander Lathraea. Everyone needs me.'

  'Perhaps we'll manage OK without--'

  'Don't be ridiculous,' Johynn snapped. 'This failure makes it even worse for everyone. They're going to rebel and have me killed now, aren't they?'

  'Who?' Brynd said.

  Johynn turned to face him again. 'Them.' He tilted his head towards the window, and the city beyond. 'My people.'

  'But it's not your fault an ice age is starting. There've been hundreds of years of accurate predictions, you were merely the Emperor to face the challenge. There's always stocks of wood--'

  'But I have to look after them. It means four hundred thousand responsibilities. You wouldn't have a clue what that's like.'

  'They know you try to look after them,' Brynd insisted. 'Your Imperial lineage has always been popular.'

  'The ones already living here, perhaps. But any other idiot arriving from whatever benighted corner of this Empire they inhabit will be surprised when we can't let them enter. Then they'll hardly love me, will they?'

  Johynn's voice started to falter. His fingers were drumming the sill as he stared out of the window again. Every movement suggested an increasing sense of panic.

  Johynn said, 'But I'm their saviour, oh yes. It is my right, before the Dawnir, before the movements of Bohr and Astrid. I'm their saviour.'

  'My Emperor, perhaps this isn't the best time to ask, but do you know who else was aware of our mission?'

  'What mission?'

  'The one from which we've only just returned,' Brynd said patiently, looking to Apium, who raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and mouthed the word 'nuts'.

  'Only a few of our Council members - Ghuda, Boll and Mewun. Chancellor Urtica, too. Only those four, no one else. No one else. No, absolutely nobody.'

  'Is it possible that any of them could've informed an enemy? Is it possible one of them didn't want us to succeed?'

  Johynn spun around, approached Brynd. 'Are you saying we've a traitor within our own halls now? For the love of Bohr, what next? Are you quite sure, Commander Lathraea, that such accusations have good foundation?'

  'Our force was almost wiped out. You say no one outside the Council knew of our mission, yet we were ambushed. Sire, I'm only trying to find out who might threaten the Empire.'

  'You're a good man, Commander Lathraea. A good man. You were all good men, you Night Guards.' He leaned close to Brynd, then whispered, 'I can trust you, can't I?'

  Brynd straightened up, bowing fractionally. 'Beyond my life, your Majesty.'

  Johynn came closer still, the smell of alcohol on his breath now as intense as a bad perfume. 'It's over.'

  'I'm not sure I follow,' Brynd said.

  'I've had increasing suspicions that someone in here is after me. They all are, maybe. They want to take my life, my existence. They want this.' Johyn
n indicated the halls, the furnishings. 'They want it all before the ice comes. I've heard them whispering in their chambers, making decisions for me. Doing my job for me.'

  'My lord,' Brynd said, 'they're your Council. That's what they're supposed to do. No one is out to get you.'

  Brynd considered his own words, because perhaps that wasn't altogether the case. There was usually something devious going on. This was government, after all.

  Jamur Johynn took a step away from Brynd and looked him up and down as if judging his character in one simple gesture. A childlike gesture. Brynd began to feel self-conscious again. Johynn opened his mouth, but the door opened just then.

  A welcome break as the Emperor's daughter walked into the room.

  When he had first joined the Night Guard, he remembered seeing her, in her younger days, when she seemed confined in this building like a butterfly in a net. Hers seemed a delicate energy waiting to be restrained. Serious meetings would be interrupted by her childish conversations with her older sister, Rika, the heir to the Imperial seat, and their joyful shrieks filled the corridors with warmth. But those days were soon gone, departed at about the same time their mother was killed. Johynn had tried to replace parental love with treats and indulgences, something the little girl never seemed to desire, but altering her in some remote way.

  Eir possessed a certain natural grace, a distinctive quality of manner. With short-cropped black hair, and tall for her age, her attitude to dress was cavalier, wearing items from any number of eras without caring how they matched. Her eyes were intense, her eyebrows two thin lines, and her face lacked the symmetry necessary to appeal to Villjamur convention. She liked to dress a little bit different. Despite her non-traditional looks, a queue of eligible suitors waited to claim her hand, and maybe decisions had already been made for her by her father over who she would be betrothed to. Maybe that was why she was rude to almost every boy she ever spoke to. For all her privileges, Brynd guessed it was no real existence for a woman in Villjamur.