Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  It seems our friend Ghuda had been an Ovinist.

  *

  Jeryd didn't understand the significance of Ghuda's connection to that underground religion, nor did he have any clue about what the lettering meant on the accompanying parchment taken from the statue. Back at his apartment, he contemplated these items at length.

  After a while, he dropped another log on the fire, took a break to look out of the window. Night-time again, and, despite the cold, Villjamur vibrated with activity. Off-duty soldiers had come thronging in search of company for the evening. They staggered between taverns and street corners, bellowing and whistling into the chilly air. Such intemperance was becoming more noticeable as the Freeze became a reality.

  Youths climbed on walls to throw snow at citizens. Running footsteps faded into the distance. In the neighbouring buildings, squares of light emerged at the higher levels as lanterns were lit for the evening. As his eyes focused, Jeryd noticed figures appear at these windows, gazing out across the city, perhaps staring right back at him. Directly below his own window, he suddenly noticed Marysa approaching quickly, wrapped in a thick winter cape, returning from her day of study in the library. As he waited for her to come in, he sat down at the table.

  A moment later, she pushed the study door open with some force. She was breathless from her rapid progress, and walked straight towards the fire.

  Jeryd rose to greet her, squeezed her cold hands gently. 'How was your day?'

  'Rumex, I swear someone was following me.' Her dark eyes were wide with panic, her tail twitching anxiously from side to side.

  'Following you?' His tone became serious. 'Please, sit down and I'll make some tea. Tell me, what did you see?'

  'I'd prefer some whisky.' Marysa sat down at the table.

  As he handed her the glass, she continued, 'I didn't get a good look at him. Every time I turned to look, he'd be gone. I know it sounds silly, but I swear that someone was there.'

  Jeryd placed a hand on her cold knee as he sat alongside her. 'You're not being silly, because these are strange times. How did you first realize you were being followed?'

  'Footsteps - always the same footsteps. I'm not going mad, I swear.'

  'It's all right,' Jeryd soothed, giving her a look that confirmed he knew she wasn't making it up. He hugged her more tightly.

  She sipped her whisky with urgency. 'Who could it be?'

  For a moment he wondered if it had something to do with his own work. Perhaps someone was frightening her to get at him? He kissed Marysa's hand reassuringly, and she curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. The intimacy made him feel like they were a couple again, that he could look after her. There was something so reassuring about this, and it affected him deeply.

  He had no plans to let her go for the best part of an hour.

  NINETEEN

  Shrouded delicately in lantern light, Tuya rested her hands on the windowsill to gaze out through the night. The window was open slightly and, because she wore only a white silk evening robe, the stirred air raised the hairs on her arm. The moonlight from Astrid was now concealed only slightly. Pterodettes arced upwards towards the nearby cliffs as a few pedestrians stalked the frozen streets hunched up in thick clothing. Not a time to be out. Why could she never connect to Villjamur? What was it that made her think she belonged outside the city?

  She thought she could even hear refugees huddled outside the gates, in the icy conditions. Maybe it was her imagination, but the thought ceaselessly saddened her. Surely there was no need for them to remain outside?

  She considered what Councillor Ghuda had revealed to her that night, which perhaps other than the councillors involved, only she knew. Surely she owed it to the city, owed it to herself to divulge it.

  She needed to give something back to Villjamur.

  She turned back to her painting, remembered who was next.

  She began to apply herself to her only escape from her tenebrous world. She lifted up a brush and began to create.

  Lines of paint spread thickly. Diagonals, verticals, curves. A body began to form.

  Once she had finished, she stood back, her white robe splattered. This was certainly one of her most sinister pieces. There was no theme with such creations, no references, no premeditated allusions.

  She walked to a mirror, noting her hair was a mess that would need fixing.

  A gust of wind abruptly blew out the lantern beside her, bathing her in darkness. Already the pigments were beginning to glow, a subtle light pulsing with the regularity of a heartbeat.

  She lay on the bed, her gown parting across her angled knee, gazing towards the window as the wind stirred her curtains. The glow in the room brightened, and she stared down her body.

  Councillor Boll would die tonight.

  *

  Councillor Boll stepped out of the chamber facilities, realizing how he always hated communal toilets. It never seemed right to be engaged in a conversation whilst taking a shit. Especially to Councillor Eduin, who might have only just crept out of someone else's arse, for all Boll knew. Why did anyone expect you to conduct a conversation in those private moments? You couldn't exactly walk away from the situation either.

  Boll shuffled down the corridor towards his chamber in Balmacara. He had to prepare for an early morning meeting with Chancellor Urtica, who apparently, judging from a message he had received only an hour ago, had discovered a brilliant method to eliminate all the unwanted refugees from Villjamur, involving someone from the Ovinists drawing on their expertise with poisons. But the last thing they wanted was for thousands of people to die on the doorstep of the city. That simply wouldn't do. They should die somewhere else, Boll reckoned, with subtlety, far enough away so that the stench of death wouldn't drift over its gleaming spires and bridges. The citizens of Villjamur deserved better treatment than that.

  Boll entered his own chamber, which was littered with a collection of gold antiques from previous ages. Like many people in this city, he had a fondness for a previous era, but didn't know why. In his case he wanted to absorb as much as he could about the great Dawnir creations, of the legendary Pithicus race that was wiped out by the Dawnir in the War of the Gods. His shelves were accordingly crammed with texts on the Mathema civilization, about the Azimuths who followed. He also possessed an expert knowledge of the history of the Jamur Empire. That was his main strength, his knowledge of previous civilizations. He prided himself on it. He would stop people to get them to ask him questions about it - go on, anything from any era - and then he would let his words wash over them, a one-way conversation to say I know more than you do.

  The lantern light was caught in a myriad places around the immense room. He stood at the window, scratched his groin, watching the lights in other houses being doused for the night, one by one. Then he lay down on his feather bed, picked up a history book entitled Mythical Azimuth Battles. He began to read, but the prose was so dry and lifeless that not one sentence registered, and he drifted off to sleep.

  *

  Boll woke in darkness. All the candles had gone out. The shrieking of pterodettes just outside made him strangely vulnerable.

  'Must be the damn wind,' he grunted to himself. He climbed out of bed to shut the window that had blown open. Then he shivered, uncontrollably, sensing that he was not alone in the room.

  He leapt onto his bed, reached up to the shelf above it, then stepped back down with a short sword in one hand. Circling with bare feet on the cold tiles, he held the blade out in front of him. His heart was beating so violently in his ears it seemed to suffocate all other sounds.

  In the corner something began to glow, and eventually took on the form of a decayed corpse with luminous bones. In one, claw-like hand it held a gleaming metal axe.

  'What . . . what d'you want?' Boll stammered, drawing his night robe tighter with his free hand.

  There was no response, and Boll noticed the creature possessed no reflection in the adjacent mirror. He quivered with fear as it c
ame nearer, seeing directly through the gaps in the glowing bones. The thing barely owned a face, just crudely assembled features of two sockets for its eyes, a black circle for its mouth. 'I have money . . .' Boll began pleading.

  As the ethereal skeleton towered over him, Boll slashed the blade in some vague attempt at self-defence. It merely stood there regardless, the sharp metal passing through it as if slicing water.

  The axe in its hand seemed real enough. As the blade descended Boll twisted to one side, but it still crunched into his shoulder generating an explosion of pain. He howled, sprawling flat on the floor, his right arm now functionless, blood pooling around him. The next blow gashed his groin, severing an artery before thudding into the floor tiles.

  TWENTY

  Investigator Jeryd was not at all amused.

  He just stared thoughtfully at the wall, sipping a cup of tea, and for a long while no comment issued from his lips. Eventually, with a sigh, he said simply, 'Another councillor?'

  'Councillor Boll,' Aide Tryst confirmed, standing close by Jeryd's desk.

  'Councillor Boll.' Then, contemplating the paperwork, Jeryd said, 'Bugger.'

  'I understand the body is now in the possession of Doctor Tarr, but he's spent all morning in the House of Life.'

  'What the hell's he doing there?' Jeryd grumbled. 'Bohr, he's a miserable git.'

  'Meditating, I believe,' Tryst said.

  'Well, let me guess,' Jeryd pondered. 'Bizarre wounds again, no useful evidence, a general waste of time and utter confusion for all involved? Just more stress and paperwork for you and me?' Jeryd pursed his lips. 'How many people know about it?'

  'According to the servant who found him, not many. He contacted another member of the Council who lives nearby, who in turn contacted Doctor Tarr's people to remove the body immediately, then he sent word straight to us.'

  'That's one thing to be grateful for, at least,' Jeryd said. 'So, we've got ourselves a murderer with a taste for butchering members of the Council?'

  'So it seems,' Tryst agreed.

  'Let's drop in on Tarr again, then I think I'd better have another chat with Chancellor Urtica.'

  *

  The Hall of Life was one of the more depressing places in Villjamur. Though close to the octagonal Astronomer's Tower, it was located at a much lower level. The only access was via several stairways that spiralled deep down into the city. Reaching it required negotiating a complicated labyrinth of dark passageways, and rumour had it that if visitors strayed too far off the main route, they might never be seen again. It was like a route to one of the lower realms, a symbolic reminder of the final journey.

  If Doctor Tarr even needed reminding of death, he had come to the right place. There, deep underground, in a high-ceilinged cavern, it was said that a candle was lit for every child born in the city. They burned there in their thousands, arranged in neat rows that extended on all sides.

  It was an ideal place for meditation, as encouraged by the Jorsalir tradition - somewhere for contemplation. People entered and departed, some to sit quietly, some weeping, others staring blankly at the candles.

  Time became lost in deep contemplation.

  Doctor Tarr was seated on a wooden bench to one side, surrounded by shades of darkness, a metaphor for death.

  The doctor glanced up briefly, then resumed his contemplation of the burning candles. Symbols of the fragility of existence, the slightest draught could blow out these flames, at any moment.

  'Right, let's go talk to the morose git.'

  Tarr sat up sharply as the words echoed across the vast chamber. He recognized Investigator Rumex Jeryd, emerging from one of the stairwells with his human assistant.

  'Ah, Doctor Tarr.' Jeryd approached him. 'Sele of Jamur to you.'

  'And to you, investigator,' Tarr replied, standing.

  'What on earth are you doing down here?' Jeryd enquired. 'Surely you're familiar with the trappings of death by now?'

  The doctor gave a gentle smile that rather unnerved the investigator. 'Familiar, yes, but prepared, no. I've seen too many mutilated corpses, and Councillor Boll's murder has to be one of the most horrific sights I've ever encountered.'

  Jeryd said nothing, merely glanced across the sea of candles before them. Finally he said, 'I don't understand why you're here, though. Surely you should be examining the body?'

  'There's not too much left of it to examine, truth be told,' Tarr said. 'I've come to realize through the years, investigator, how life can be so easily, and so horrifically, taken from us. This Empire has led an easy existence over the last few decades. No major wars, no great plagues, no crop failures on a large scale. Every single one of us has been safe, as if we have never left our mother's knee. Look at the flames, both of you. Yet we are a besieged city, investigator. Disease attacks within our city walls, and every sunrise takes us yet another step towards our inevitable death. One wonders what happens afterwards, on the other side.'

  'Will you tell us what you've found, doctor?' Tryst interrupted.

  'Of course,' Tarr said. 'You're quite right to ask. Come to the mortuary later, though. In all honesty, there's little to see, since his body was hacked into mincemeat.'

  He sighed gently. These days anything seemed possible in Villjamur.

  *

  'I honestly knew nothing about it,' Chancellor Urtica confessed, the shock on his face genuine enough for Jeryd. He ran his hands through his hair, now clearly lost for words.

  They were standing inside the door of Boll's chambers, staring at the huge bloodstain covering the floor. They stared, for what seemed like an entire bell. It had spattered the walls, too, and even the glass on the window was smeared with gore.

  Jeryd was quietly grateful that at least the body had been removed.

  'First Ghuda . . . and now Boll.' Urtica's gaze flicked about anxiously.

  And next you? Jeryd wondered, recognizing the fear in the councillor's expression.

  'Please excuse me,' Urtica turned, and left the chamber.

  'Bit of a mess, all this,' Jeryd sighed.

  Tryst approached the worst of the carnage with a narrow step. 'Guess we should have this cleaned up before we examine the room thoroughly?'

  'Soon enough,' Jeryd agreed, 'but let's just take a look around first.'

  For over an hour, Jeryd and Tryst examined every corner of the room. They rooted assiduously through all of Boll's books, documents, even ornaments. All the time Jeryd was careful to keep his tail well tucked in, away from the crimson mess. He finally did a search for hidden drawers, checked for concealed panels - but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  He was about to give up when he noticed a stain on a mirror. As he brushed his finger against it, Tryst stepped next to him. 'What've you got there?'

  'Blue paint,' Jeryd said in surprise, holding up his hand to inspect it.

  'Was he an artist in his spare time?' Tryst suggested, staring at Jeryd's finger.

  'I doubt it,' Jeryd replied. 'There're no sketchbooks. Not even any paintings on the walls - only tapestries. So how did he get blue paint on the mirror?'

  'You reckon it's important?'

  'Everything can have some importance, Tryst. The good investigator must always think that.'

  Tryst walked away stiffly, as if wounded by the minor reprimand.

  But Jeryd continued, 'You know, on the day of Ghuda's death, I saw some blue paint stains on the cobbles, right beside his body. At the time we assumed it was probably from a pot spilled on its way to the nearby gallery.'

  Tryst stood by the window, staring out across the snow-burdened skies. 'So we have a link between the cases? It's not much to go on.'

  'It's something, though,' Jeryd said. 'And it's more than we had before. Bohr, it seems we hardly even get a body to examine this time around.'

  He pulled a handkerchief from inside his robe, wiped the blue paint from the mirror, then from his finger. He wrapped it up deftly, concealed it beneath his clothing, and made his way back towards the do
or.

  *

  'Doctor Tarr,' Jeryd said later, 'we're here, as agreed.'

  'Good afternoon, investigator,' Tarr said, beckoning Jeryd into the mortuary. 'The human has not come with you this time?'

  'No, he apparently had some administrative tasks to see to,' the rumel replied, stomping his boots to rid them of snow. 'Maybe the sight of Boll's chambers was enough to put him off.'

  'But not you?' Tarr said, cheerfully.

  'No, I guess not then,' Jeryd laughed dryly. 'Maybe I've developed a stomach for such things after all these years.'

  They proceeded into the depths of Tarr's workplace, where a single lantern struggled to provide light. Its oil flame flickered as he shut the door. Jeryd found himself still pondering Tarr's presence in the Hall of Life. Why would a man so used to working with death bother to go there in the first place? He had clearly been in a state of intense soul-searching when Jeryd had found him there, so perhaps there was more to Doctor Tarr than his surface demeanour implied.

  The doctor led him to a table on which lay a large metal tray about two armspans wide, three in length.

  'What've we got here?' Jeryd enquired.

  'This is it, investigator.' Tarr gestured towards the contents of the tray. 'This is Councillor Boll.'

  Even Jeryd was amazed. In all his decades of work in the service of the Inquisition, he had never seen a body left in this horrific state. He had seen the results of torture, of fierce battles, of poisons that ate a body slowly - but nothing like this.

  At one end of the tray were assembled the bones of the late councillor, or what was left of those that had not been fragmented into finger-length pieces. The other end contained the 'flesh' - a grisly pink and red mound like you might see in the gutters of a slaughterhouse. The stench was powerful.

  Jeryd said in awe, 'How could this have been achieved?'

  'With a large axe, and plenty of time,' Tarr said. 'I would reckon the murderer to have been kept busy for nearly two hours.'

  'At least he was dedicated to his task then,' Jeryd muttered, scanning up and down the tray. 'And yet no one seemed to notice?'