Nights of Villjamur (21 page)

Mayter Sidhe suddenly arrived, the banshee who had been present at the scene of Ghuda's murder, and her wail had declared his death to the whole of Villjamur. Black-haired, white-gowned, young-looking, too, but with that same haunted expression that the other banshees possessed. Blue eyes, with a strange distance within them that he could never understand. As with the others, he had encountered her before, because whenever there was a death in the city, they were always the first on the scene.

He stood up as she appeared.

'Good morning, Investigator Jeryd.'

'Morning, Mayter.' He sat down again.

'So this is about Councillor Ghuda?' She pulled up a chair, sat next to him, and unnerved him a little, this close presence. This air of death.

'Yes,' Jeryd said. 'Just the normal procedure. But this has to be considered an extremely high-profile murder. The victim, as you know, was a very senior member of the Council.'

'We're all the same, once we're dead, investigator. Our titles do not follow us.'

'Right. But while the rest of us are still alive, there's work to be done that can make the whole . . . pre-death concept a little easier to deal with.'

'Point taken.'

'So,' Jeryd said, 'I take it, as usual, you knew he'd be killed.'

'Yes, but not until he was.'

Whatever the hell that means
. . . 'And it was too late by that point?'

'It always is. We're not life-savers.' She drummed her slender fingers on the table. For a moment Jeryd was distracted by the rings adorning them that caught the dull light of the room.

'No one suggested you were. So you were . . . in the area then? Or at least on the scene pretty quick.'

'Yes, I was, as you say, in the area. I was merely buying some vegetables. Then came the vision - and you know what happens after that.'

'Right,' Jeryd said. 'Up until that point, you saw nothing?'

'No more than any normal person would.'

'What about after?'

'Again, no more than other people who came on the scene afterwards. I got there in reasonable time, but I saw nothing strange.'

Jeryd straightened. 'OK, so tell me about the vision you experienced, if you don't mind.'

'It was like any other - the same glimpse through the eyes of the victim at his final heartbeat. Except . . . well, all I saw was a shadow, but it was like . . . like nothing I've seen before. A wild creature of some kind, I'd say. And then it seemed to disappear into the light - upwards.'

'Go on,' Jeryd said. This was the first concrete statement he'd received so far. If you could trust a banshee.

'That's it, just a shadow. A creature I've never seen before. Then I knew where I'd find him. And I instantly felt as if I wanted to vomit, so I knew he was just about to die.'

Jeryd said, 'And you can tell me nothing more about the creature?'

'Nothing.'

'What did it look like?'

'I can't tell.' She began to seem impatient. 'It was definitely not human or rumel. That's all.'

'OK. There were no flashes in your vision that might indicate who'd want him dead?'

'No, investigator. City politics makes little difference to our lives.'

A chair scraped over to one side in the other room, and Jeryd glimpsed one of the other banshees rush outside. As she slammed the door behind her, one of the lanterns flickered.

He turned to regard Mayter Sidhe once again. 'Anything strange happening that you know of?'

'Nothing that seems related. There're rumours of some of the Council members being Ovinists . . .'

Jeryd was aware those rumours had been circulating for years, the degrees of information depending on which tavern you drank in. Stories told of politicians gathered in darkened rooms drinking pig's blood. Divining secrets from these animals' hearts. Bathing in offal. Ritualistic slaughter. Even if it was true, it was all possibly harmless. How much damage could you do with a dead pig?

'Well,' Jeryd said, 'I've not seen any evidence of such practices. And it's very hard to bring the law down on those who think they're above it. Short of forcing them all into a Jorsalir church for cleansing, there's not a lot we can do.'

Faintly, in the distance, there was a scream, and he realized that it must have come from the woman who had left a few minutes earlier.

Meanwhile, Mayter Sidhe regarded him with an unsettling gaze. Jeryd never knew what these banshees really thought about anything: they never opened up, never showed any emotion. Yet they seemed to get distraught and upset whenever a death was near, as if they felt the same pain, and were sharing it with the sufferer. Nor did they ever seem to age. Mayter Sidhe herself could be anywhere between forty and ninety years, yet she looked eternally young, didn't she, and even vaguely beautiful. If anyone knew much about the secrets of these witch women of Villjamur, they didn't share them. Amid all gossip purveyed in the taverns of the city, the banshees were least spoken of. Perhaps it was a healthy fear that they could announce anyone's death simply at their own volition. As there existed the possibility it could be your own death, he felt it was best not to anger them.

Jeryd realized he would get no further information here, so he said goodbye, then proceeded on to interview the person whom he was least looking forward to talking to.

*

Up here the houses were also tall and narrow, three-floor constructions, most elaborately decorated with ridiculous statuettes of angelic creatures. The place reminded him of the ghost he was plays he'd watched in the underground theatres when he was still a young rumel. Beula Ghuda, of course, already knew about her husband's death, something at least for Jeryd to feel relieved about. Dealing with dead bodies and criminals was much easier than talking to the relatives of someone who had died in suspicious circumstances. You had to look them directly in the eye while being prepared for any number of reactions, any number of extreme emotions.

How could this happen?

What do you mean, dead?

You bastard, don't lie to me.

In his more morbid moments, back when his wife loved him still, he would wonder how she might react to being informed of Jeryd's own death, and played out her possible reactions as if he was a fly on the wall. No matter how many years he had been in the Inquisition, these parts were often the most difficult, and as he knocked on the door the feeling was still as unpleasant as the very first time. A fragile-looking blonde answered it. She was about mid- to late-thirties, a green silk dress draped loosely over a tiny frame, with a face as gloomy as the banshees he had just been visiting - and you couldn't blame her for that, could you, at a time like this?

'Beula Ghuda? I'm Investigator Jeryd. Would it be all right for me to ask a few questions relating to . . . to your recent loss?'

'Yes, of course, investigator,' she said. 'Please, step inside.'

Inside the house seemed as grand as the exterior, overloaded with what Jeryd considered were pointless ornaments and bad taste. To be rich in Villjamur seemed a waste of money: all they did with their wealth was buy unnecessary objects. The city having not been under threat for so long, the Empire having expressed its dominance far and wide, the result was that the wealthy citizens of Villjamur had become more attached to their material comforts, and the gap between the richest and poorest had only bloomed.

Beula Ghuda sat him down in an over-warm room full of jewelled lanterns, coloured lights. Rich fabric, desirable brand-weave from Villiren, was draped from each corner of the ceiling to the centre point. There was a large window of the highest-quality glass, from which were views over the summit of the city walls to the snow-flicked tundra beyond. The room smelled of stale incense, and he guessed by the number of books lying casually around that Beula was something of a lady of leisure.

'How are you managing?' Jeryd began tentatively.

'Oh, so-so.' She gave an ironic wince that he didn't find unattractive. 'Truth is, investigator, we were not really that close - in the end.'

He was surprised by her matter-of-fact response, but it made what he had to say a little easier. 'I'm sorry.'

She shrugged. 'Yes, these things happen.'

She perched herself on the edge of a cushioned armchair of a style so typical of the era of the previous two Emperors, Gulion and Haldun, with motifs glorifying combat carved into its thick Quercus wood side-panels. She clasped her wrist with the other hand and stared to the floor for some time. He gave her a little while to gather her thoughts.

Eventually, she glanced up. 'So, how can I help you?'

'Were you aware of his final movements?' Jeryd said.

She looked right past him. 'No.'

'I'm afraid it's not what a wife would want to hear.'

She shrugged.

'He was last seen leaving the apartment of another woman. She has confirmed that they spent the night together.' He held her gaze for as long as she would allow.

'I understand, investigator,' she said. Then added, 'What was she like?'

'You mean the woman he was with?'

'Yes, the woman.'

'She was a prostitute by profession, although I believe it wasn't something he paid for in this instance.'

'That's a relief,' she murmured bitterly.

Jeryd contemplated her words. It wasn't as if he actually understood the female mind these days. He gave her a moment before he spoke again.

'You know of anyone who might want him dead?'

'Other than me? Is that what you mean?'

'No, I mean because of his activities within the Council, mainly.'

'Well, there were plenty who were jealous of his success, but he was a popular man other than that.'

'Were you aware of any controversial new policies he was campaigning for?'

'No, regarding his work, he never really talked much to me. You know, for such a popular man, he wasn't all that popular here at home.'

'If you don't mind me saying, you seem fairly comfortable with his death.'

'I'm a strong believer in Astrid, investigator. I therefore believe in rebirth, and that he'll be reborn soon in a position reflecting his behaviour here in this past life. You know, investigator, I did love him in my own way.'

Jeryd felt sympathy and some concern. He himself wasn't much of a religious type.

'Over the last year or so I was hurt that he stopped coming with me to church. He wouldn't pray in the Bohr section, and seemed to forget all about spirituality. I'd even almost say he'd discovered something else.'

'Something else?'

'Yes. As if something took his mind. I say this only as I'm a moral and spiritual woman, but it was like he stopped being the man I knew, and began operating with a different set of beliefs entirely.' She stood, turned to the window. 'Just look how much it's snowing now!'

Jeryd stepped alongside her, looked out across Villjamur.

The snow had begun to fall as hard as he had ever seen it, leaving the spire-crowded skies of Villjamur looking even more claustrophobic.
By Bohr, this is enough to fuel those brats in Gamall Gata for several weeks now.

Despite the thick drifts building up, it was hypnotic, gentle. Beula began to cry quietly as if the snow itself had altered her emotional state, bringing on some primitive madness. Jeryd walked away to the other side of the room, as he always felt uncomfortable with the intensity and depth of emotions that humans seemed so ready to express.

He watched her crying at the window, framed by the snow falling outside.

Randur stepped back with a flamboyant gesture, watched Eir tumble to the cold floor, her sword slipping across the stone in a sideways fall. She cursed at him as she retrieved it.

'Pretty keen to inflict a wound, weren't we?' he remarked. 'And I didn't realize you Imperial ladies had such a sweet way with words.'

Eir pushed herself up, panting heavily, much more than anger in her face.

'With
Vitassi
, you shouldn't fight with the heart,' Randur reminded her, sauntering back to his starting position. 'Such sentiments are likely to make you appear brave in your obituary, admittedly. You weren't mindful enough. You weren't in the
moment
. You let anger cloud your skills. Remember, it's not all about the sword - that's simply an extension of you.'

Eir eyed him with contempt, and he had left many bedrooms in the dawn light to be familiar with that look. She moved in to attack him again, but was then rapidly on the defensive as he forced her into a series of classic
Vitassi
postures. Metal clashed, boots scuffed on stone, noises so familiar to him that at times like this he could often forget he was still even holding a sword.

'Good,' Randur said. 'That's much better.' He sighed as he pushed past her, then slapped her buttocks lightly with the flat of his sword, deliberately fuelling her anger, working her into a rage, forcing her to get more control of herself. He tripped her up, and she fell forwards.