Nights of Villjamur (38 page)

'I want you to see something. I really think you need to see it.'

*

'Well, this is home. Ain't a palace, mind, but I like to think there are those who'd kill for a spot like this.' Denlin stood back proudly as Eir gazed around his home. He hastily cleared away a couple of cups, as if the gesture would improve the appearance of the place.

The room was tiny, probably just a quarter of the size of her own sleeping chambers. Two lanterns illuminated the room in a dreary shade of brown. Simple wooden furniture, one small table with several chairs and Jorsalir ornaments scattered here and there. Religious paintings on the wall, in frames that had seen better days. The walls were crumbling, and even the incense burning in an adjacent room could not disguise a smell of dampness in the air.

Outside in the streets a banshee began her keening, and everyone turned to face the window instinctively to confirm it wasn't themselves.

'There goes another one,' Denlin complained, 'and there'll be more as these temperatures plummet further - especially down this street, where a lot of oldies like me live.' Denlin quickly moved aside some wooden plates. 'Damn sister of mine, but I suppose she does have her hands full.'

At that moment a bundle of noise came piling down the narrow stairway. 'Uncle Denny!' three young girls shrilled in unison, as they pawed at his cloak. Dressed in identical white night dresses, they paused to stare at Eir with uncertainty, before turning their attention to Randur. 'Randy!'

'Hello, you lot.' Randur picked up the youngest, a blonde angel with dark smudges all over her face. 'So how're Denlin's little golems?'

'Oi, we're not golems,' the child griped. 'Denny, tell him we're not golems.' She began to pull at locks of Randur's long black hair.

'Indeed you are all golems,' Denlin said, his face creasing with delight. 'But, girls, I want you to be on your best behaviour now because we've a very special visitor.' He tilted his head towards Eir.

'Oh no,' Eir objected. 'Don't be wary on my behalf. Pretend I'm not here.'

The girls all stared at Eir with renewed awe.

'Lovely to meet you all,' Eir said, self-consciously. 'Have you all just woken up?'

'Well, yes,' the tallest said. 'Actually we've been up for ages, thanks to Opri's fidgeting. She even woke our mam up with her kickin'.'

Eir looked to Denlin in disbelief. 'They all sleep in the same bed?'

'Aye, lady,' he replied. 'It's a small house, like. Big compared to most down here, and there's only room for one bed. I'm out most of the night, you see, while they sleep, earning some coin. Then when I come back in the morning, the bed's all nice and warm for me. And when they all wake me up again in the evening, the bed's all nice and warm for them.'

Eir said nothing to that. Denlin allowed the girls to go out and play in the streets, but only as long as they fetched some water back from the well.

It was then that Eir turned to Randur, her face showing distress. Coming here, seeing how people actually lived in her city, might do her the world of good, he reckoned. The girl needed some enlightening.

'I'd offer you some tea,' Denlin apologized, 'but I ran out last week. And as for food, well . . . we haven't got too much in just now, you see. The lad here has been my main employer, so to speak, in recent weeks.'

'Oh, no, I'm quite all right,' Eir said. 'Really. I never realized quite how . . . well, it's very tough for you, isn't it?' She took a seat at the table, resting her elbows on the grimy wood.

'Aye, miss.' Denlin subsided onto the wooden chair opposite her. 'Times is tough, and not many jobs down this side of the city. I mean, you got your traders and smiths. You got your leather workers, bakers, craftsmen, that sort of thing naturally. You got a lot of gambling going on - dogfights, mainly - and some stranger things happening in the really old caves. You get cultists there - just the rubbish, solitary ones. Ones that's addicted to their relics like it's a drug. They make a fair living by tricking people, like. People'll buy anything with their last coin if they think it might help them. But I ain't sure how long it'll all last when the Freeze sets in. Meanwhile, people find odd jobs, and wealth trickles about. There's usually something that needs doing, like, even if it's not really legal.'

He gazed silently across the table for a moment, his fingers prodding at the wood delicately as if searching blindly for solutions.

Denlin then continued. 'Some people get desperate, head right down through the caves to the old mining systems. Sometimes they disappear for days. Older men, mainly, remembering the old tunnels. They come back covered in blackness, but clutching a bit of precious metal, a gemstone found here and there.' He grinned. 'Bit of a metaphor, that. In times like these you find people quickly forget coin as a currency. They start bartering, trading things for favours. There's a lot of whores in that respect - women and men too. This anarchist group is gaining some big interest in trying to stop that sort of thing, aye, and they've got the support of a lot of women who want proper equality.' He absent-mindedly placed his hand on a copy of the pamphlet
Commonweal
. 'People's starting to feel like slaves to those what gives us jobs, like. I shouldn't be saying this, lady, but if you want to know what the real world is like then . . . Well, it's all nice and fancy up there, but you can be blinded by all those sparkling trinkets no doubt.' Again there was silence, and Randur was surprised by its intensity. Denlin continued. 'Anyway, trade used to come in from the docks - so you'd get the odd exotic treasure from Randur's island, and from your Blortath, Tineag'l, Y'iren. Most things pass through Villiren, to be honest. There's still the odd religious trinket from Southfjords and Jorsalir priests come pushing some text. There's a lot that rely only on their faith in those two gods to get 'em through the night. Then there's the gangs, humans fighting against young rumels for no reason other than the right to trade something exclusively. Some nights the banshees don't stop keening. Other nights you hear nothing at all, and have to wonder if that's worse.'

Eir was focusing intently on every word.

'But it's not
all
bad! Here am I painting you such a nasty picture of your fair city. No, you get the nice things, too. For instance, there's a much better spirit of community this side. You get a lot of communal dances on street corners. Drums beat, fires are lit, and then people make pretty shadows, laughing over a bit of drink and food. There's not much else to do, you see.'

Randur glanced at him suddenly. 'When does that happen next?'

'They pretty much occur when people make them happen. I'll let you know about the next one, soon as I hear word of it.'

'Yeah, us two can come back and join in,' Randur said. 'They've got a fancy dance up in Balmacara soon, you see. We could do with getting some practice amongst others.'

'Oh, it won't be as grand as your
fancy
ones up there,' Denlin grinned. 'No polished floors or big feasts. No fancy music.'

'Never mind,' Randur said, thinking this sounded better all the time. 'I'm sure the Lady Eir would like to see how dance should be performed properly.'

Glancing up to Randur, she smiled her reply. Then she faced Denlin once again. 'Thank you for your insight.'

'Pleasure, miss,' he said.

She reached beneath her cloak, brought out a gold Sota, placed it on the table.

'My lady . . .' Denlin muttered.

Randur had never seen the old man so short of words.

'. . . I can't accept such generosity. I . . .'

Eir said firmly, 'For the girls.'

Another one of those icy mornings on which no one wise really wanted to venture outside. But Investigator Rumex Jeryd wasn't one of those intending to stay sensibly in the warm. For once he would have given a lot to go out, rather than be slumped here at his desk. It might have been warm, but paperwork was dull. And unfortunately the arch-inquisitor was visiting later in the afternoon to follow up the Council murders, and Jeryd hadn't progressed a great deal on the case. Not only that, but there was need for an investigation into a surge of organized crime against the refugees camped outside the city gates. Groups of men, and some women, stalked the evenings, launching weapons from the higher walls of the city to rain murder on those they feared would threaten their survival. Apparently some of those were beaten up by the supposed anarchist group from Caveside. All official attempts at dissuasion were ignored, because it was the nature of mankind that these anti-refugee groups wouldn't be persuaded by logic alone.

Jeryd was expecting a visit this morning from Investigator Fulcrom, a relatively young, well-groomed, brown-skinned rumel who, Jeryd suspected over the years, was a homosexual. He could never admit it, but Jeryd thought he could hear it in the gaps of his sentences. Jeryd considered him a damn good member of the Inquisition. Fulcrom had solved the North Caveside Rapist case. He had discovered who organized a raid on the Treasury. He had stopped a vicious child molester as he was about to strike again.

Fulcrom and Jeryd had now been chosen to address the refugee crisis in more detail, but because of his existing workload Jeryd had passed on the bulk of the actual planning to Fulcrom.

Besides, Jeryd wanted to have more time to spend with Marysa. Things kept getting better between them, and he was maybe even starting to really enjoy life. He was not uxorious, but who would have thought that simply holding hands and kissing, as the snow fell about them in a garden of glass flowers, could be so enjoyable?

But she still had the occasional feeling that someone was following her through the icy streets after dark. He imagined that whenever she whirled round, her long coat flowing around her, all she would hear would be boots scuffing the cobbles as they departed in haste. Or maybe a sharp inhalation of breath from some dark corner. He had not told anyone else in the Inquisition about this yet; he felt embarrassed to do so.

Jeryd pulled a key from his pocket, slid open a panel on the wall, drew out a small chest, unlocked it. Inside was the Ovinist letter that he had discovered in the broken statue. He knew only that this was the banished cult somehow at work, but the actual contents he could only guess at. Maybe this was something for Fulcrom's acute mind to work on, and as the thought came to mind the young rumel entered Jeryd's chamber.

'Sele of Jamur, Investigator Fulcrom.' Jeryd stood up to shake his colleague's hand. 'Cold morning?'

'I'd say,' Fulcrom replied. A cool confidence about his movements as he shook off his damp cloak, hung it on a hook on the wall.

Jeryd threw a couple more logs on the fire, stoked it to entice some more heat. A cloud of smoke wafted straight back into his face like a cultist trick, and he stumbled back to his desk, coughing.

Fulcrom was one of those rumels that looked almost human in his features: soft skin, prominent cheekbones, a friendly look in his eye that told you he was pleased to see you. He possessed a likeable and trustworthy manner that made people open up to him. Jeryd considered the other rumel undoubtedly handsome, and Fulcrom always wore the smartest grey tunic under his crimson Inquisition cloak. Despite the slush outside, even his boots were much cleaner than Jeryd's.

'Please.' Jeryd indicated a cushioned chair over by the window.

Fulcrom made himself comfortable, gazing out to see what he could observe of the street below.

'Anything interesting happening?' Jeryd asked.

'Just the usual problems - people being smuggled into the city, and a couple of brutal murders Caveside. As for the refugee situation, I've got a list of names that involves some pretty senior people.'

'How senior?' Jeryd glanced back to the fire.

'If I said it went all the way to the top, would you be surprised?' Fulcrom shifted in his seat.

'The Council?' Jeryd said.

A nod.

'I wouldn't be surprised at all,' Jeryd said, trusting his years of experience. 'What exactly do you know?'

'I think there's someone at work in the Council who wants these refugees completely removed. Someone who thinks they're too much of a stain on Villjamur. Coin's moving between someone close inside to some of the gangs Caveside. Don't know who it is, but . . . Well, you get the idea.'

Jeryd made a steeple of his hands as he considered his colleague's words.

'Any thoughts?' Fulcrom said.

Jeryd leaned in, and whispered, 'I bet you that Urtica himself is behind all this somehow.'

'It goes
that
high? What makes you say so?'

Jeryd went to retrieve the scroll he had found in the image of the dead Emperor. As the younger rumel scanned the document, Jeryd explained, 'Found that inside a hollow bust of Johynn in the office of that murdered councillor, Ghuda. I know it's an Ovinist text, but I can't work out what the hell it means.'

Fulcrom raised an eyebrow. 'Looks like an old runic text, if you ask me. Ancient stuff - judging by the forms of the letters I'd say a thousand years old, at least.'

'Can you interpret it, though?' Jeryd said. He walked around the desk to stand before the fire. 'I've been trying on and off for days, but nothing comes to mind.'