Captain Apium Hol ignored the jibe, instead paced around Fyir's sleeping body. He was stocky, pale skinned with red hair. On his breast, Apium wore the distinctive silver brooch of the Night Guard, a seven-pointed star representing all of the Empire's occupied nations, and it was only then that Brynd noticed that he'd lost his own.
'Looks like old Fyir here bit off more than he could chew,' Apium remarked.
'Not even funny, captain. You should've seen him when he was still awake. Never seen a man in such agony.'
'Beetles?' Apium enquired.
'Yes, some of it. He'd already lost up to his knee from the blast. I stopped the bleeding, left him here for a bit, and… well.'
'At least it wasn't gheels. So, how many of us are left, sir?' Apium sat down on the ground beside Brynd with a groan.
'You're looking at us.'
'By the balls of the dragon gods of Varltung.' The captain shook his head.
'I wouldn't mention that nation's name right now.'
'You suspect it's them?'
'Ah, who knows.'
'So, what happened to you, commander?'
'Think I was thrown right from the ship into the forest,' Brynd explained. 'But the trees must've broken my fall. How about you?'
'I was on the shore when your ship… went up. Saw the archers heading into the forest, so I followed them. Got one of them, saw two others dead as I came back. I looked around for a catapult – because something must've propelled that fire – but there was nothing to see. Just an empty clearing. There were at least four of us on the shore – like, Gyn, Boldar, Awul – but they weren't there when I got back.'
Silence.
To see your comrades die was something to be expected in the army. It was tough, of course. You formed a close bond. Men became an extended family. You saw more of the world together than most lovers ever would. There would be mourning, that was certain, as there always was. Brynd couldn't let it get to him right now, though, so he placed the issue into a region of his mind that he would later revisit.
'Any idea who did this?' Apium asked. 'Not the clansmen, I mean, but who actually planned it?'
After a pause Brynd muttered, 'It's a set-up. Someone in Villjamur wanted this to happen.'
'But why?'
'So we're not properly prepared for the Freeze, I guess. Otherwise, no idea, really.'
'Leaves us well screwed,' Apium continued. 'Do you think we should've brought a cultist along with us?'
'It's all well and good saying that now, but everyone wanted to keep this low-key. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Cultists would've only drawn more attention. And they would've known too, which defeats the objective. Although why all this secrecy just for a bit of fuel? I realize Johynn wants us relying on them less. You know, he even told me before we came away that he suspected the cultists would bugger off to do their own thing during the ice age. It's not exactly classified information that he wants to be able to manage things without them, get used to them not being around. He might be a little weird at times, but there's some wisdom there, I'll say that much.'
'Hmm.' Apium wore an expression of uncertainty. 'Still, would've helped though.'
'I'm going to be asking some awkward questions when we get back home.'
'So you think we're going to be in trouble?' Apium suggested.
'It's not by any means an emergency. There's enough wood in the forests across the Empire to keep the home fires burning, for sure. This was more Johynn's doing. He was convinced the firegrain was needed – and you know what his mind's been like of late.'
Apium stifled a laugh, then he pointed through the trees.
Two moons could be seen between the tall hills rising either side of the fjord, one moon significantly larger than the other, and both an ethereal white, hanging low in the sky. Astrid, the smaller, appeared sometimes to be unnatural, as if it was made of some pale ore, out of place even – something Brynd felt an affinity for.
The men stared for several moments. There was a sense of stillness. Stars gradually defined the hillside.
'Looking nice tonight, aren't they?' Apium said. 'Strange to think they'll do it.'
'What?'
'The ice age. Strange to think just the moons are causing it.'
'When you think about it logically-'
'You see, that's your problem. I just said it's weird that it comes to that. You never just think plainly about stuff.'
'It's not a plain world, captain.'
'You need to get laid more often,' Apium grumbled, lying back flat on the ground, his arms behind his head.
Brynd stood up suddenly. He could perceive movement nearby.
'What's wrong with you?' Apium said. 'Touched a nerve, have I?'
Brynd gestured for him to silence.
The red-haired man pushed himself upright to follow Brynd's gaze. 'Can't see anything.'
Brynd stepped to the right, his eyes wide, alert. Within seconds he knew Apium had lost him, could see the man's gormless face lit up by the moon, even at a distance. How Apium had managed to stay alive in the Night Guard was beyond Brynd. Perhaps he worshipped some outlawed god who knew something no one else did. The injections this elite group received on their induction should have worn off over the years due to Apium's excessive drinking.
Brynd took several slow steps over to where he had seen the foliage move. He reached carefully for his sabre. Behind a sapling, he saw him. A man, naked, covered in mud. Brynd frowned, then reached for a stone from the ground. He threw it, the stone connected, but the man didn't move, didn't even flinch. Brynd repeated the action. Still no movement. He whistled back to Apium.
After a few seconds, his companion shambled through the forest to his side. 'What's up?'
'There's a man over there.' Brynd indicated the figure. 'He's naked.'
'Naked?'
'I said naked.'
'You're right,' Apium said. 'What's he doing way out here with nothing on? Bit of outdoors action, eh?'
'How the hell should I know?' Brynd said. Little harm could come from investigating this, surely? There was no sign of anyone else around, and he was sure they were alone. 'Let's get closer.' Brynd led the way towards the naked man, who had remained still for some time. If he was aware of their approach, he didn't show it.
'The Sele of Jamur to you, sir,' Brynd said, thinking the traditional Jamur greeting would prompt some response. Nothing. He looked the man up and down. 'You, er… you must be cold.'
Apium snorted a laugh.
The man still didn't move, just stared vacantly ahead. They stepped cautiously to within an armspan of him, noticing his face lacked blood as if totally drained of it. His eyes were slightly slanted, and they gazed directly past Brynd. There were strange wounds around his neck, then Brynd noticed that his head was shaven unevenly, so that tufts of black hair blossomed on it in patches.
'Looks dead, doesn't he?' Apium remarked.
Brynd reached out, prodded the man in the chest. Still no reaction. The commander took a bold step forward and reached out to feel his wrist. 'Well, I'll swear by Bohr, he is.'
'What?' Apium gasped. 'Dead?'
'Yes. There's no sign of pulse.' He let go of his wrist, and the man's arm slumped back to his side.
'This is cultist work, Brynd,' Apium warned, reaching for Brynd's shoulder with fear in his eyes. 'Nothing natural here. I don't like it. I've no idea what they've done to him, but we should send this fellow on his way and stay with Fyir. In fact, I think we ought to move off a little.'
Although stunned, Brynd didn't know what to make of it. A hardened soldier, he was used to seeing the worst of life, but this individual out here spoke of technologies he was unaware of. What options did he have? If they killed this man, there might be more in waiting. Should he provoke it? In their depleted state, Brynd considered it best to leave things be and report it back in Villjamur. 'I think you're right. This can wait. I'll maybe put it in a report.'
They carried Fyir gently to the ruins o
f an Azimuth temple.
Little was known about that civilization, and hardly anything was left there aside from hidden and subtle masonry. One of the towers had fallen so that it rested flat against a hillside, just beyond Daluk Point, the lower side now wedged firmly into the slope. Lichen and mosses suffocated much of it, but there were still discernible patterns, squares within squares, that were known to be traditional religious symbols. It was thought that the Azimuth had worshipped numerology and mathematical precision, a sentiment he liked: looking for beauty in the most abstract of places. Brynd pondered this reverence as Apium fell asleep alongside Fyir.
The commander sat at the foot of the tower, his knees pulled up, back resting against the stone. His sabre remained unsheathed at his side. Stars now defined the hills surrounding the fjord, and he concentrated on sounds, the way you always did on these shifts, hoping and yet not hoping to hear footsteps, maybe snapping branches, someone coming their way. But there was little activity apart from that of nocturnal birds and mammals, every one of their eerie calls reminding him how they were quite alone.
In fact, he began to feel he was barely there himself.
THREE
The hardest cynic, Investigator Rumex Jeryd thought, is often fundamentally the most romantic person, because he so often feels let down by the world. He couldn't detect much romance in himself today, but all the cynicism he could wish for.
He could hear the rain driving against the old stone walls. He liked the sound: it reminded him of the outside world. Lately, he'd spent far too many days in this gloom, had begun to feel a little too disconnected from Villjamur. Everything the city stood for these days was something he found a struggle to perceive.
The rumel looked down at the returned theatre tickets in his right hand, then his gaze switched to the note in his left hand.
It read: Thanks, but it's just all a bit too late, don't you think? Marysa x
Jeryd sighed, his tail twitched. It was from his ex-wife. They were a rumel couple, and had been together for over a hundred years. There were benefits in not being human. Not only was rumel skin tougher, but because of their longevity they could take time with things, have some patience. As a rumel you never ended up running around frantically after matters. You let them come to you. However, it made his being away from Marysa all the more painful, because it was as if he'd lost half his life along with her.
He folded up the paper, placed it and the tickets in the drawer of his desk. He would have to find someone else to take to the production. Or not go at all, just forget about it.
The Freeze was going to be cold enough without spending it alone. He sighed.
She'd hinted she was going to leave him, before that final day, but that was during one of the months of fighting between groups of the newly arriving refugees and Villjamur's far-right protesters, so a period where nothing really registered in his mind. The Inquisition had hauled in and executed several men – all disillusioned ex-soldiers of the Regiment of Foot – just to set an example, and it was known secretly that the soldiers were sympathizers with these extremists.
But it all meant Jeryd had been ignoring Marysa.
She liked antiques. In a city as old as this there was a plentiful supply. Sometimes, she told him, she hoped she would find a grand relic, one that the cultists had overlooked, maybe make a fortune with it. But Jeryd had his head in the real world, or so he said. It was only his job, after all. He brought home the trauma of these ancient streets, carried it as his own burden. Keeping order in a city of over four hundred thousand individuals was partly his responsibility, and when he came home there she was: parading some new item around the house, telling him eagerly about what its history might have been, researching it in those pointless books she purchased. A luxury! The Jamur society was the latest in an endless line of civilizations, and each had left their own funk and detritus. Of course, the cultists would have long claimed anything useful from the Dawnir remains. All that was left now was a hint that things were once greater – that life in Villjamur today was more primitive and less civilized than life under those ancient societies, the Qintans, the Azimuths, despite the city's constant attempts to hide that under the veneer of Imperialism.
It was only natural the couple would drift apart. One night she looked right at him, through him, continued that fixed stare, as if she was weighing up there and then whether to leave him. There was no argument, no discussion, and he didn't even want to ask in case he found out some harsh truth.
When the truth did arrive, it wasn't such a bitter exit, and that somehow made things even worse. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he could hear her footsteps as she departed, the sight of her tail trailing out before the door finally closed. The stillness of the room afterwards. He didn't think there was another rumel man involved. He supposed there had never been any real man in her life, which was why she went. She had left only a forwarding address, and an instruction for him not to follow her there.
Jeryd was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his life.
Not only that, but those kids from further along his street had been throwing stones at his windows again. Every winter they'd regularly arc snowballs into the door, and he'd end up answering it to encounter nothing as they vanished with urban skill down lanes and backstreets. They knew he was a member of the Inquisition all right, and that prestigious honour only made him more of a target. He had become a badge of honour, a snowball medal, the ultimate highlight of their day.
Bastards.
He looked up from his desk in mid-yawn as his aide, Tryst, entered his office. 'Work keeping you up late, Jeryd?'
'Like always,' Jeryd replied. 'But I try my best.'
He studied the young human form of Investigator-Aide Tryst, though didn't linger on his athletic physique, bright blue eyes or his thick dark hair. He wasn't even envious, strictly speaking, but the young man was a reminder of times long past – a hundred years ago, or thereabouts, when Jeryd had kept himself trim. Still, Jeryd retained a sharp mind, and he had his experiences.
Something wasn't right, however. 'What's wrong this time?' Jeryd asked. 'Is it about the promotions? You know I think you're one of the best aides there is. You're nearly family to me by now, but you're a human – and rules are rules.'
Jeryd felt bad for not actually nominating Tryst to be promoted, considering the young aide had shown great promise, had done well to even achieve his current position. They'd worked on hundreds of cases together. Jeryd genuinely wanted to nominate him, but knew how the powers-that-be would frown upon it. Humans were simply not allowed to achieve senior positions in the Inquisition. They didn't live long enough, and it was as simple as that. A rumel averaged around two hundred years, which meant truly great wisdom could only be achieved by that species. It was an ancient ruling, decreed by the first Emperor, to help smooth over the uneasy coexistence of the two hominid races. You couldn't break tradition, so Tryst would go no further.
'It's not that,' Tryst said, with a glance to the floor. 'That's fine. I understand.' Clearly, it was still a sore point, whatever he might say. 'No, you'd better come and see for yourself. Warkur is out of the city, so they need you to take a look at the scene.'
'I hope it's not the refugees again,' Jeryd said. 'We could do without another scene there.'
'No, not that. It's a murder.'
'Murder?' Jeryd said, standing up, his tail perfectly still.
'Yes. Very high-profile.' Tryst said. 'We've only recently heard the banshee's keening. It's a councillor, this time.'
*
Randur studied the rumel investigator and his aide. They both wore official-looking robes in dark red, although the rumel wore brown breeches underneath, as if he never really liked his uniform. They were taking notes at the scene of the death, where Randur had been told to remain as a witness. He hadn't encountered many rumel on Folke and now wondered if it was a result of their evolving alongside humans that ended in both species becoming so alike in their thinking. Was it
nature or nurture? It was probably a result of both.
The rumel was black-skinned, and you could see the coarse creases of age even from a distance, so Randur guessed he'd seen more than just a few winters. There were the usual rumel broad features with sunken cheeks, black, glossy eyes. He meandered around the alleyway as if with no real purpose, his tail waving back and forth with each step. Every now and then he'd turn his head to the sky, as if to check it for snow.
The iren behind was busy with traders and customers. A food stand was starting to cook thick hunks of seal meat, the smoke rising between the bridges and balconies higher up. Furs were available straight off the hide – bear, deer, lynx – so that you could craft them yourself in any number of ways. There were shoddy tribal ornaments and spurious island craftsmanship on display. They were manufactured on the cheap, but the people of Villjamur couldn't tell or, if they did, they certainly didn't show it.
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.
Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1 Page 4