Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  'This was relentless brutality, investigator. It was evil, pure and simple.'

  'You were right, doctor, I don't think there's anything for me to examine properly here. I'm going back to warn the Council Atrium immediately. If something like this could be done in such secrecy, any one of their members could be next. I'll see myself out.' Jeryd turned away.

  As he stepped outside, he took a deep breath of the sharp evening air. He stroked his chin in disbelief, for a moment not actually wishing to catch this killer. Did he really want to encounter the individual who could turn a living being into slush? And how exactly would that confrontation go? Excuse me, sir, but I think you . . . Then no more Jeryd.

  What had Villjamur come to?

  He pulled up his hood, slid his hands deep into his pockets, strode off to find where he had tethered his horse.

  *

  'Chancellor Urtica,' Jeryd insisted, 'I'm not sure you understand. You'll need to consider maximum security. Double, triple your guard. I fear there may be someone intending to pick off councillors one by one.'

  Urtica stared at him in alarm.

  'This is a serious matter,' Jeryd continued, feeling he had got the man's attention. He was seated opposite a large table, in a pleasant wood-panelled chamber. The fire burning in the corner had nearly died to ashes. The rumel and human had already been chatting for half an hour.

  'I see you don't collect many things,' Jeryd said, looking around.

  'It makes for a purer mind, investigator.' Urtica sat back in his chair sipping tea. 'It makes my work more efficient. Less to distract me that way.'

  'Maybe I should try that and clear the crap out of my chamber,' Jeryd said. 'Anyway, as I asked you earlier: what might have linked these two councillors? What common projects could they have been working on? Such a link might help me find a motive.'

  'And as I keep telling you, investigator,' Urtica said, 'I just can't think of anything.'

  There was something intransigent about his tone that Jeryd found frustrating. There was an air of superiority, a suggestion that he considered himself invincible. Perhaps it concealed something darker? Jeryd wanted to challenge him, You know something and you're hiding it. 'Remember your own life might be at risk.'

  'We'll ensure all these corridors will be filled with guards by this evening.'

  'May I ask as to what are the most important concerns to the Council at the moment?'

  'Is it really necessary for you to know such things?' Urtica sat back in his chair, staring into the fire.

  'Perhaps,' Jeryd shrugged. 'Perhaps it may offer some clue to the reason for these killings. After all, any of you might be next.'

  Urtica merely nodded methodically, as if coming to terms with the threat. People reacted differently to such situations, didn't they, some not caring much at all, others getting into such a panic that they never left their homes.

  'Our main current concern is the Freeze, of course,' Urtica said. 'It raises a number of crucial issues, the most important being the refugee crisis. There are already an estimated ten thousand of them camped outside the city gates, as you know.'

  'Go on.'

  'We're working on several solutions' - Jeryd noticed Urtica's expression alter slightly - 'but ultimately, it will be up to the new Empress. She will make the final decision on what to do.'

  'How are other cities of the Empire coping?' Jeryd said. 'Vilhokr, Villiren, E'toawor, Vilhokteu?'

  'As well as can be expected. People have flooded in from rural areas. They're accumulating grain supplies and fuel, building ice-breaker longships, imposing rationing. Like us, they see it as a challenge. Investigator, there will be many fatalities because of this ice age, and everyone is working hard to ensure that ordinary folk will survive.'

  'And you really care?' Jeryd said boldly.

  'It's not about caring, necessarily, rather it's about making sure a city continues functioning. If you care too much, you get personal, and if you get personal, you inevitably fail. This is a business, investigator, pure and simple.'

  Jeryd observed the body language of this consummate politician. Urtica crossed and re-crossed his legs repeatedly throughout their conversation. Also, he rarely made eye contact, and was obviously uncomfortable being questioned about Council matters.

  'Tell me, Chancellor Urtica, do you know if any of the councillors like painting as a hobby?'

  Urtica looked up, raised an eyebrow. 'I haven't a clue, investigator. Why do you ask?'

  'I found small traces of fresh paint near both bodies.' Urtica merely shook his head. 'I've told you all I can.' Jeryd stood up. 'I think I've done all I can here.' Urtica said, 'Could you put another log on the fire on your way out? It tends to get very cold in here.'

  Jeryd paused by the door. 'Yes, I suspect it does.' On his way down the corridor, Jeryd thumped the wall in frustration. Two murders, linked by only one bizarre similarity: paint. Why was there a dab of blue paint next to each corpse? Were they trying to fight their way out with a paintbrush?

  The chancellor was no help so far. Neither was Doctor Tarr.

  Suddenly he remembered how the suspect Tuya painted in her spare time. It was an obvious connection, maybe too obvious, but it was the only thing he had to go on. But why would an alienated prostitute want to kill top-level politicians, and so savagely? It just didn't seem quite right. Perhaps she might have some suggestions to help his thoughts, and he decided he would visit her very soon.

  But not tonight. Tonight he would be going home to Marysa.

  Everyone deserved a life of their own - even an investigator.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Chancellor Urtica made his way down the crumbling stairwell, glancing back every now and then, just in case, just to be sure.

  He held a lantern high, drew his cloak around him. A gust of wind rattled down from above, transforming his shadow into increasingly esoteric shapes. Urtica was descending into a little-remembered quarter of Villjamur. Deep underground. Messages were etched across the stone, bearing the names of lovers and enemies from across the ages. Bats, rodents, lizards, all competed for dark corners, like a reverse image of life on the surface. The smell of their faeces was intense, but this did not deter Urtica. He had dealt with more shit than this in his time.

  For half an hour he descended, knowing the way well.

  Faintly, he heard chanting. It meant he was nearly there. Voices were raised in an ancient variant of common Jamur, the language in which the Ovinists still sang. They were engaged in prayer - but not to Bohr or Astrid, or any approved deity - and that would change, wouldn't it, when his time came.

  A battered wooden door heralded the end of his route. After knocking seven times, the hatch slid open, curious eyes appeared. A flicker of recognition, then the door was unbolted, opened, and Urtica stepped inside.

  A hundred candles were reflected in wall mirrors to create an unlikely brightness. Incense filled the air, as smoke wafted across the far side of the immense room. Dozens of black-robed, black-hooded men and women sat on benches facing the far wall, which was hung with ornate tapestries. Below them was a plinth supporting a metal tray containing a selection of pigs' hearts rescued from the city slaughterhouses. The chanting continued as Urtica walked towards the front of the chamber, the hoods turning minutely as everyone's gaze tracked his progress.

  When he arrived directly before them, a young blonde girl stepped out from their ranks, leading a pig on a leash. She was dressed in white silk, which clung to her slender frame as she approached him, the pig shuffling behind her absent-mindedly. No sooner had Urtica stepped before the congregation than his audience drew out their rapiers simultaneously, brandishing the narrow blades in the air until silence fell. Urtica beckoned the girl to stand behind him, then raised both hands above his head. The swords were lowered and, once they were all seated again, Urtica began speaking.

  'Neophytes, minorus, majorus,' he intoned.

  'Magus Urtica . . .' the congregation replied in a chorus reverberatin
g against the ancient stone walls.

  'My brothers and sisters, I have grave news on certain matters. Last night our esteemed Majorus Boll was brutally murdered in his sleep. This is the second member of our holy order to have been killed recently.'

  Murmurs all round. Beneath the hoods were familiar faces, their eyes glistening like those of beasts reflected in firelight. Among them there were several Council members, in shadow, all of them concerned for their own safety.

  Urtica held up his hand for silence. 'Jamur Rika will arrive in Villjamur shortly, and I feel this interim period is an excellent opportunity for us to profit. I intend to make myself Emperor of the entire Jamur territories, and once in position, I can assure you all greater powers, greater influence.'

  'How will you remove Jamur Rika?' someone enquired from the front row.

  'All will be revealed in good time. But now, for our holy rituals!'

  Applause filled the huge underground chamber, then solemn chanting in the ancient language. The little pig squealed in fright and the girl had to struggle hard to keep it under control. Urtica beckoned her over to stand in front of the sacrificial plinth. He loomed down over the tethered creature, tucked it under one arm, produced a knife from his sleeve. He held the blade high, smiling wildly, the room heady with smoke and adulation.

  Quickly, he lunged across the young girl and slit her throat.

  She crumpled to the floor, her white silk robe reddening like blossoming roses. The pig eagerly thrust its snout in her lifeblood.

  'I promise that the sacred pig - our god reincarnate - shall feed well under my rule!' Urtica thundered. The swords were held high again, the cheers and chants rising to an eerie crescendo. Urtica stood with his arms raised, breathing heavily with excitement. Sweat glistening down his forehead, he indicated for several men standing in the front row to approach him. The first was Aide Tryst, his head covered slightly by the hood, the lanterns casting subtle shadows across his face. The handsome young investigator held out his hands as Urtica lovingly offered him a pig's heart.

  'A word with you later,' Urtica whispered.

  'Of course, Magus.' Tryst retreated with a deferential bow, and the next man stood ready to receive his dripping reward.

  *

  After the proceedings, Urtica walked with Tryst back to the city proper.

  As they traversed one of the bridges, Urtica paused to lean on one of the thick stone parapets, examining the city from this great height. A sea mist had come in, now filtering through the city. Occasional citizens appeared, walking like ghosts with lanterns held out in front of them. There was the stench from crates of rotting vegetables discarded in corners behind bistros and taverns, disturbed occasionally by cats rooting through them for rodents. One of the tavern doors opened spilling light, and a group of men piled out into the cold evening air, singing wildly about a previous Emperor who had wreaked carnage all across Jokull.

  Urtica glanced up to some of the narrow windows on the spire towers. Faint dabs of light, shadows moving inside the warmth. After a nod of confirmation from him, Tryst lit some pre-rolled arum weed, the embers glowing at the tip. Urtica didn't mind a few bad habits now and then.

  'I love these bridges, Tryst,' Urtica confessed. 'They offer such a wonderful view, you can see nearly everything going on. And still, even after all these hundreds of years, the citizens below us always forget that other people can watch their movements at any time.'

  'Indeed, Magus,' Tryst said, stepping up alongside the chancellor. 'Anyone would think the whole place was designed with voyeurism in mind.'

  'Perhaps,' Urtica sighed. 'Yet I love this city. There is so much that it can do.'

  'A pity the ice age restricts it,' Tryst said.

  'Not a lot we can do about that,' Urtica said. 'However, it'll only last for a few decades. We inside can outlive that.' He then eyed the refugee camps, and the smoke-striated sky. 'It'll mean we come back stronger, afterwards.' Urtica slapped the stone with his palm, turned to face Tryst directly. 'Your commander. Investigator Rumex Jeryd. What do you honestly think about him?'

  'Honestly?'

  'Honestly.'

  He took another drag on the roll-up and breathed slowly into the night. 'Well, Magus, it's complicated. I mean we used to be good friends, and admittedly, he has helped me a lot. But now I feel differently because he's thwarting my promotion.'

  'All about the age thing?' Urtica suggested.

  'Indeed. Because I won't live as long as a rumel, he reckons I'll never become experienced enough. So, he won't do anything to help me. He won't even try.'

  'Of the fellow himself, then - is he a competent Inquisition officer?'

  'Oh, yes, he's good at his job. But he'll never break with tradition. Won't even try.' He scowled. 'I think I deserve better.'

  'Well, I'm not sure I like the sound of him too much,' Urtica said. 'Now, I don't want him removed, either. That would only draw attention. It might suggest corruption in the Council. No, if he's as good as some folk say, then I hope he'll find the murderer. I find something unnerving, though.' Urtica shivered as a damp wind stirred his robe. 'I want him to find the killer, yet I don't want him delving so deeply into Council business that he might stumble into Ovinist territory. Not now, with all these plans I have for us. He strikes me as one who takes his work extremely seriously, and I can't risk him exposing us.'

  Tryst said, 'You wish me to help in some way?'

  'Yes, tell me if there's anything we can distract him with so he does not dig too deep.'

  Tryst related the renewed relationship of Jeryd and Marysa, that he messed up things with her before, couldn't afford to do so again.

  'This might prove useful,' Urtica said. 'Perhaps you could distract our investigator by somehow disrupting their relationship. I don't know how, but don't kill her or anything. That would knock him off the case completely, and all I want is just a little distraction. Something that will keep his nose out of Council matters and concentrating only on surface issues. Anything to keep him on the streets hunting the killer.'

  'I'm sure it can be arranged.' Tryst frowned. 'I only need to find a way.'

  'You know, you've proved very useful to me, Tryst. I would like to see you standing a little closer to me in future. We've got some important schemes to develop, particularly regarding the refugee situation.' Urtica waved an arm vaguely towards the edge of the city. 'Those vermin beyond the walls, spreading their filth and disease. I need someone to help me deal with them. When the time comes, it won't be a pretty job at all. So do you reckon you're up to it?'

  'Magus Urtica,' Tryst smiled. 'It would be an honour.'

  'Good, then let me tell you more about my proposals on the matter, my dear boy . . .' Urtica turned his gaze once again to Villjamur.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was, Randur concluded, pushing himself off the cobbles of an alley next to the tavern, an unwise decision to drink so much and so quickly.

  He felt damp grit on his palms, and the muscles in his arms quivered as he levered himself upright. His head ached so much he wanted to cut it off. He looked up to see Denlin perched on top of a small wooden stool nearby.

  Still drinking.

  Still talking.

  'Morning, lad,' Denlin said cheerfully.

  Randur collapsed to the ground with a groan, and the old man burst out laughing.

  'Trouble with you youngsters is, you think you can keep up with us. But we've been at it for years, lad. I was drinking this horse piss before you could let go of your mother's teat . . .'

  'Bollocks,' Randur muttered, then groaned again. His hair was dishevelled, mud plastered all over one side of his face. There was a faintly foul smell he hoped he had nothing to do with.

  So, another night of drinking with Denlin. This ritual had been going on for days, the cycle repeating itself: seduction of a lady, take what pickings he could, then flee into the darkness of the caves where Denlin would soon arrange a buyer. Celebrations would ensue, naturally, and it wasn't
normal for him to drink this much, but last night he had a particularly good haul. A diamond bracelet snatched from a sixty-year-old widow. Her age hadn't limited her sexual appetite, but it had taken her an age to reach orgasm, and she lay so still afterwards that he thought she was dead. As he left she kept murmuring thank-yous.

  Before he had stepped into the night, he managed to swipe his most expensive trophy yet.

  A clock tower chimed, each strike ricocheting around Randur's head. He counted eight hours, and realized that within the next one he had a dance lesson with the Lady Eir. He cursed loudly.

  'What's up, lad?'

  Randur said, 'I've got to go.' He stood up at last, brushed himself down, his damp clothes stinking of smoke and alcohol.

  'Well, I'll be here when you need me,' Denlin said.

  'I'll be back as soon as I've got more stuff to sell.' Randur turned and began to hurry away through Caveside.

  He abruptly frowned, noticing the unusual light. It shouldn't be daylight down here, not still underground, though it occurred to him that he had only ever visited the caves at nighttime, and now it was morning.

  Randur rubbed his eyes again, looked up. 'Well, would you look at that . . .'

  Light ran in strips down the underside of the immense cavern, as if he was standing under the glowing ribcage of some gargantuan beast. These ribs sparkled like glass. At the apex, in the very centre of the cave, shone a bright hub of light that intruded from the outside, directly from the brightening sky above. There were similar smaller hubs located at intervals throughout the caves, each one projecting light to this neglected expanse of city. Perhaps this was the real Villjamur from time immemorial, not the other city that every traveller saw, or the one the wealthy and powerful now lived in.

  But this was no time to dawdle, or speculate. He was late, and reeking of alcohol. He sprinted back to Balmacara.

  *

  It was the same morning that Commander Brynd Lathraea was bringing the new Empress to Villjamur, and a large contingent of the Fourth and Fifth Dragoons was riding towards the city through the mist. The horses' hooves thumped on sodden tundra, leaving a muddy trail. It wouldn't be at all difficult for anyone to follow, but there were so many troops in attendance that you need not fear a surprise attack. Brynd rode directly alongside the carriage in which Rika sat with the windows veiled. Apium was astride his horse, one of those pulling the vehicle, while Nelum and Lupus were riding directly behind. All around them on either side, keeping pace precisely, were columns of Dragoons.