City of Ruin

FOURTEEN

Jeryd was reminded that it was Nanzi's day off – not by her absence, but by the chaos of paperwork in his office. Amid this mess, he spent the first hour of the morning in deep contemplation. Actually that wasn't quite true. The first half-hour he spent enjoying a luxurious breakfast, hungry after his attempts at starting a diet the previous day, which he had regretted immediately as hunger pangs stabbed through his stomach.

After perusing the reports of the previous night's crimes, he stared at the large map of the city he had pinned to the wall, noting all the marks he'd made to indicate where disappearances had taken place over recent months. Then following the lines and notation, he decided to investigate those urban areas physically. He picked up his cloak and his broad-brimmed hat.

Just as he was leaving, one of his colleagues, a young and rather lazy grey-skinned rumel called Yorjey, entered and dropped a letter on his desk. Yorjey seemed to him typical of the Inquisition members here in Villiren, more concerned with his social networking rather than with getting any serious work done.

'What's this?' Jeryd indicated the letter, ever sceptical of official documents.

'An invite,' Yorjey replied. 'A number of top-level officers get entertained at the Citadel at Portreeve Lutto's request, every now and then. And what with you being a seasoned professional from Villja-mur, you're considered top-level. It'd be a good idea to go, sir, get your face seen around, you know? You need to loosen up a bit, Rumex. People say there's a war coming, you might as well enjoy yourself like the rest of the city.'

Like the rest of you sorry excuses for investigators.

That last sentence summed up the whole attitude of the Inquisition here in Villiren. Jeryd gave a paper-thin smile as the grey-skinned rumel strode out of the room. Then he wondered if he really should perhaps socialize with the others a bit more, thus forging acquaintanceships, making friends as potential future allies if there was indeed any future for this city. Would he be sucked into the easygoing lifestyle these other investigators favoured?

*

A bright day – tall skies, the red sun slouching through its southerly arc. Streets were being cleared of ice and snow by cultist-treated water. Occasionally he might see the underground piping cough up plumes of steam into the air, the firegrain doing its work to keep people warm. Jeryd marvelled at this, and wondered why such systems couldn't have been used in Villjamur. Bureaucracy, for one thing. A lack of decent leadership under a mad Emperor, then his poor daughter who was set up to replace him, then that bastard Urtica who deposed and imprisoned her. No doubt Urtica was thoroughly enjoying the perks of his new-found position. How long would it be, Jeryd thought, until the name of the Empire officially changed – even out this far. The only alteration so far was that an order had gone out for new government stationery with new lettering. 'The Urtican Empire,' he muttered, the words bitter on his lips. It was probably used as a mantra in Villjamur.

He had to adjust dramatically to his new life here: this was a hedonistic city, a more liberal society, one without the tight laws of Villjamur. Now and then he'd come upon a shop that sold items he didn't agree with, some kind of new drug he didn't approve of, or someone used a phrase involving far too much vulgarity. People here tended not to queue for things in an orderly fashion. People pushed past him rudely. Women were too forward for his tastes. Hookers loitered in doorways, calling over to him with half a smile, half something else entirely, almost suggesting an exhaustion at the lifestyle they led.

Having memorized the wall map, he walked up and down the various areas where people had gone missing in the largest numbers. What was unique about this neighbourhood? Why were people being targeted here? To the south lay the Ancient Quarter, the Onyx Wings almost silhouetted against the lowering sun. To the north stood the barracks and Citadel, their ramparts bold against the horizon. He tipped his hat to two old rumel ladies who seemed to be admiring him, smiling gently in his direction.

It was generally the middle- and upper-class zones that had lost most residents, although what had surprised Jeryd was how a significant number of the others who were missing had held high-profile roles in the local labour movements or were known for their political activism. Among miners and stevedores and tradesmen, it was those most active in defending labour laws who had vanished. That wasn't much to go on, and he was cynical about government methods at the best of times, but he had to look for trends wherever he could.

Irens cropped up all over the place, using any corner they could find. From cooking equipment to clothing, it seemed you could find anything on the stalls scattered about here. Jeryd made his way through one of the larger markets.

'What animals do these come from?' Jeryd innocently asked one meat trader, a slender, bearded man who constantly rubbed his hands together.

He responded with a shrug at first. 'Got all sorts, mate. What y'after?'

'I'm just browsing for the moment,' Jeryd replied.

Temptation plagued him. A good steak goes a long way in satisfying an investigator.

Once he had cleared the huddle of irens, the city became quieter.

So, once more: why were people disappearing from relatively prosperous streets? Was it simply because the poorer districts didn't bother reporting their losses, or was there something shared by these people that made them targets?

He made a note to make enquiries in the Wasteland district, a loosely applied name that covered the endless shacks and crudely constructed shelters spreading to the south of the main city.

An external stairway led up to the top of a range of houses, whereby you could walk for some distance along the outer edge of the roofs overlooking the districts of Scarhouse, Saltwater and Deeping, which were to the north of the wasteland, but where the old southern boundaries of the city were to be found. Jeryd decided to go up, if only to discover what the view offered. His ascent wasn't particularly dignified, since the stone steps were very slippery. Luckily, a handrail stopped him from falling off in complete embarrassment, and he gripped it like a drunk holding on to a friend.

He sighed with relief as he reached the top. From up here he could see more of the roofline and many of the defined landmarks: squarish Jorsalir churches, multi-storey tenement blocks and, on the other side, over towards the Ancient Quarter, columns of smoke indicating street vendors busy cooking, and a clutch of mixed architectural styles displaying history heaped up on itself. Rising up amidst this cityscape were several vast and blandly built towers. As he studied them he was exposed to the wind and had to hold on tightly to his hat to stop it from being gusted across the city.

What was he looking for exactly?

Suddenly something caught his eye.

Along the walkway where two streets intersected, something weblike seemed to be dripping from the handrail. He approached it cautiously; the stuff looked utterly alien to him. White gloop drooped thickly, like frayed rope, from one surface to another. It was everywhere around. He took a small, blunt blade from his boot, then prodded at it. Opaque and viscous, and with a confusing texture, it was firmly attached to the metal rail. What the hell creature could produce something like this?

Jeryd thought immediately of cultists, as he so often did when he found no rational answer for something. He twirled the viscous substance on the blade, spinning it, lengthening it, testing it for consistency. It was nothing he knew of, and why would cultists devise something like this? He took a handkerchief from his pocket, smeared a thick globule of the gunk inside it, then placed it back in his pocket. There was nothing else around to arouse much thought; one or two smashed masks lying further down the walkway, but they could be found everywhere in the city.

*

Jeryd spent his lunchtime chatting with the commander, eating a seafood platter that was very agreeable, while the albino spoke intensely of troop movements, of statistics and probabilities. The two voiced their dislike of the eerie-looking masks that people in Villiren hid behind. What was that nonsense all about? They were seated in the canteen of the Citadel barracks, a dreary granite building that rang with the boisterous laughter of soldiers.

Jeryd was impressed that Brynd, despite his seniority, saw fit to sit there with his subordinates. Says a lot about a man, a gesture like that. Jeryd watched him eat with precision and fine etiquette, so much so that he was almost scared to continue eating himself, in case he spilt sauce down his dark robes. Every now and then, he couldn't help but be held captive by those burning eyes.

'I'm no closer to finding Private Haust, I have to admit,' Jeryd muttered eventually. 'Finding just one man in a city as large and as chaotic as this one isn't going to be simple. The fact that he had no friends outside the military makes things worse – because that leaves us very short on leads to explore. But I have since confirmed there have been a lot of other disappearances, just like you said. An extraordinary amount, in fact.'

'You seem somewhat surprised, investigator,' the commander drawled.

'I am, to be honest.'

'Could it be fear of the war?'

'Nah, I thought that,' Jeryd replied. 'But folk are safer here than out in the wilds during the Freeze. Plus, they don't seem to care much – haven't you noticed?'

'I have actually. I've found, by and large, that people focus on what's in front of them, rather than the big picture. And, with this severe weather, I don't blame them. Any other thoughts?'

'Well, I don't know why it should be the case, but most of the missing have vanished – that's if they're reported at all – from between the Scarhouse area and the Ancient Quarter, also around the Citadel, Althing, Shanties and the Old Harbour.'

'The wealthiest areas, more or less,' Brynd observed.

'Right,' Jeryd agreed. 'Now don't you find that all a tad strange?'

'Could be, investigator. So what are your thoughts?'

Jeryd paused to finish a mouthful of crab. Damn this is tasty. 'Well, I've a couple of theories. It could just be that the poor don't bother reporting their missing people. And these aren't murders, either, as we've got too few corpses to support that suggestion. Deaths, otherwise – well they're mainly gang-related affairs. No, these are people being taken straight off the streets, in my opinion, and then completely vanishing.' He waved his fork as he voiced his thoughts. 'Could be that the wealthier ones are simply being kidnapped.'

'Being held to ransom, you mean? There's plenty of money around,' Brynd observed. 'Half the city has been thriving here in recent years, what with Lutto's expansion policies. Some people are much better off than ten years ago. Many less so.'

'Exactly. Except we've got no evidence of demands for ransom, no contact so far from whoever's snatching all these people.'

'So how many, precisely, are we talking about?'

'Four hundred and eighty-five reported so far in the last six or seven months – and that's just reported.' Jeryd nodded at Brynd's reaction of surprise. 'Yeah, that's a lot, isn't it? Doesn't take into account anyone missing who lived alone, those who didn't have any friends, things like that. People vanish all the time for any number of reasons. And this doesn't fit with any conventional theories about criminals that I've come across. They'd almost certainly die out there, on the ice.'

'They certainly would,' Brynd agreed.

'So,' Jeryd said, fancying a change of subject, 'you any closer to knowing when the fighting will begin, or what the rest of the city'll be doing?'

'Goes no further,' Brynd warned, and Jeryd nodded. 'Enemy units are gathering on the opposite shore in frightening numbers – reaching tens of thousands at the moment. They mass like a swarm of insects, and I've witnessed their capabilities for violence first-hand. Meanwhile, our own army is spread too thin. I'm calling in as many Dragoon regiments as we can get – the Fourteenth, Sixteenth just came in, and we soon expect more of the Regiment of Foot. Garudas are constantly on patrol, or dropping Brenna devices to serve as ice-breakers – anything to stop the enemy simply walking across the ice to us. And although the city is well prepared for evacuation through its numerous escape tunnels, the mass of people themselves… they will have to fight. Could do with some of the gangs agreeing to join us, too, but they're reluctant to help anyone other than themselves. It's likely to be an occasion where every man will count. You think you yourself can be a soldier when the time comes?' Brynd finished, with a dry smile.

It wouldn't be the first time Jeryd had put his life on the line for the greater good. 'When duty calls,' he sighed.

*

If Jeryd needed any further guidance along the path to total disillusionment with the world at large, that evening provided it.

As a treat, he took Marysa to the Citadel's masked ball, a more glamorous affair than he had thought could be staged given the Freeze and the forthcoming war. There must have been a hundred people fluttering around each other in the hall, a strangely opulent place with eclectic decorations derived from every corner of the Empire.

People milled about dressed in their finery, clutching delicate glasses. Everyone wore fancy eye-masks, with gold trim and ribbons in dozens of striking colours. The whole atmosphere seemed so unnaturally decadent to Jeryd: this was an ice age, for Bohr's sake, and a war was looming around the corner. Women were necking wine or vodka copiously, men admiring them. How could they party like this, appearing all so carefree? Lute players sat up on a stage in the corner, harmonizing their chords, though Jeryd thought them worse than the city buskers he'd seen earlier in the day.

Marysa was more than happy for this opportunity to meet new people and within a few minutes she was off mingling with other guests. How was it she could just go off and chat to strangers like that? It wasn't his own style. He could speak to people, of course, but not in casual situations like this. Usually he needed a dead body at hand to prompt him into conversation.

A couple of the young Inquisition rumel had gone off chasing after a couple of pretty rumel girls, grey skins, and all big eyes. Within moments, each of them had succeeded in kissing one of the girls in turn.

I'm more out of touch with things than I realized, Jeryd decided, mildly envious of them.

Still, at least without Marysa at his side, he could sneak a few of these delicious-looking nibbles. Diet, my arse. And if he was going to be miserable and not talk to anyone, he might as well wander around and listen in, to get a flavour of Villiren, maybe pick up on a little gossip, perhaps even fill in some information gaps. He badly needed to learn more about the city.

Jeryd circled the entire room a few times, loitering while pretending to sample dishes. The wine was far too sweet for his liking, but he drank it anyway. Jeryd was a skilled eavesdropper and so, through snippets of conversation, Villiren's history gradually came alive.

Portreeve Lutto had been elected for a third term after the success of his expansionist economic policies, namely trading with as many of the other islands in the Empire as possible, and thereby turning Villiren into a centre of negotiations. People said that Lutto had delivered economic growth consistently since new deposits of ores had been discovered. The previous portreeves, Fell and Gryph, had never capitalized on the minerals coming from Tineag'l. Apparently there had been several assassination attempts on Lutto's life, but none were successful.

Lutto's wife was the plump Lady Oylga, daughter of the largest estate owner on the island of Y'iren. Depending on who Jeryd listened to, Lutto either had numerous whores visiting his private chambers, especially rumels for those hard-skin kicks – or else he was having an affair with a star of the local theatres, called Felina Fetrix, spending exuberant amounts of taxpayers' money entertaining her and buying her jewels.

Jeryd listened with great interest as two guests, wearing plush masks and robes with matching gold features, had a heated debate at a corner table.

'The poor are no longer as poor as they once were, dear boy,' declared one man, an ill-favoured fellow with a moustache. Even the eyes of his mask sloped downwards, giving him a permanently sinister expression. 'At least that is on average. Admittedly, yes, there does exist a few – namely the bigger landowners – who are benefiting most, but that's for the best. Meanwhile, you and I-'

'Fucksake man,' the other shouted, slamming his hand on the table, rattling cutlery. 'Look at this place! Look at it. We're pissing away money on wine and food and dancing while not two streets away a family makes do with a bowl of oats that must last them a week.'

'You're drunk again, you soft sod. Think of the success of our city and have some more whisky.'

Jeryd shook his head in weariness. How many of these rich kids would ever deign to pick up a sword once the war began?

A scream-

It came from near one of the exits, a woman's voice. A murmur of dismay rippled across the room towards Jeryd.

He pushed his way through the throng, stepping this way and that, saying 'Excuse me, pardon me' as he squirmed under flickering candelabras and between chinking glasses to investigate, his instinct to investigate aroused. The cold air from the open doorway hit him refreshingly hard, and there stood a woman in a thick green dress and cloak, her hair pinned up ornamentally. She was sobbing into her partner's robed shoulder, and both their masks lay discarded on the floor.

'Investigator Rumex Jeryd, of Villiren Inquisition. What's going on here?' Jeryd reached beneath his garments to find the medallion, and clumsily displayed it.

The woman's partner, tall and handsome in his black attire, simply shrugged. 'I don't know what the hell's wrong with her. I just turned my back for a moment and…'

The woman, who wasn't far off being just a girl, gestured towards the balcony, and Jeryd stepped outside, as a crowd gathered behind him. The starlight was obscured in patches by cloud, but you could see the harbour, an arc whose rim was defined by street fires and lantern light showing people sifting through the streets, and dogs barking above a wind that seemed to groan as it passed through the city.

And there it was, close to where he was standing, the same substance he'd discovered earlier that same day, a thick white mass dripping from the edge of the parapet up to the roof behind, slick and web-like. A few tables and chairs were laid out, and those nearest were covered in this mucus-like gloop.

He turned back to the woman, whose head was still angled away from him, and then he noted her bracelets and coloured nails, more brash than anything he remembered from Villjamur.

'Did you see what did this?' Jeryd pointed to the gloop.

She shook her head, and mumbled, 'No, but something big was moving out there. I knew it as soon I came out for some fresh air. I felt as if I was being watched. Then…' – a sharp inhalation of air as she choked back on her sobs – 'then that white stuff just appeared from nowhere.'

'How much have you had to drink?'

'Hardly anything!' she snapped. 'Don't you believe me? I know what I saw, all right, I'm not fucking pissed.'

'My apologies,' Jeryd said. 'I meant nothing by it. I'm simply trying to build a picture of what happened. Please, you said you didn't see anything.'

'I could feel it. Something was watching me, as if waiting. I turned around and this stuff just materialized right by my shoulder – right there, look, as it is now. I may have heard some shuffling of stones, but I don't know if that was because of anything else.'

Jeryd nodded nervously, believing what she said, and stepped over to draw a blade from his boot. He prodded tentatively at the mysterious substance. He knew in his heart that this was the same stuff he'd encountered earlier. He contemplated what kind of creature could produce something like this, and in such quantities.

Finally he faced the guests huddled in the doorway and for a moment wondered morosely how he'd ended up in a situation so absurd, with a bunch of pissed-up rich nobodies staring at him as if expecting some answers.

He said, 'All right, back to your drinks now. There's nothing more to see out here.'