Nights of Villjamur

FOURTEEN

People showed signs of moving around the city out of context. They arrived places late, routines were disrupted, because normal routes were blocked in places. More time was needed to navigate the usual paths, and it was as if everyone had now come out of their homes simply in defiance of the longest winter they’d ever know. For many humans this extended season would be the last they would ever see. For rumel there was a greater chance of seeing the summer again, to watch for that moment when the trees and plants would explode with life.

Jeryd was annoyed that people kept stopping suddenly, right in front of him. More than once he considered delivering a small admonitory slap to someone’s head. It was always here they tended to pause, gazing around at the old Azimuth-inspired architecture, the smaller domes and intricate sandstone squares that contradicted the rest of the later additions to the city, which rose generally taller, and were hacked out of local limestone. Still, he liked the feeling of the snow under his boots, that crisp compaction.

Home to a lot of the oldest shops in the city, this street was a haven for antique dealers, traders in exotic products, spice dealers. On one side stood three cheap hotels. But things changed significantly at night: the street in front became the hang-out for dealers of less respectable substances. Quick hand movements in the moonlight, and something illegal was exchanged at an extravagant price. It was where you might meet a cultist who needed quick money, and some said that you could buy weird animals, sleek-looking hybrids, but Jeryd had never seen any in all his years.

As Jeryd headed down a narrow side alley, memories came flooding back of regularly accompanying Marysa here when they were both much younger. He couldn’t think of the last time she’d actually held his hand, but when they were still in love she’d drag him along to look at all those items that appealed to her. He was once so keen to learn about her interests, to discover more about her. It must have been over a hundred years ago when he first started coming down this way, waiting outside the shops in the sun, enjoying a moment to himself as she rustled around inside. He still wanted to hold on to the idea of his being with Marysa, even if things didn’t work out this time. Perhaps, in his old age, he was becoming sentimental, like humans did. Perhaps there were fewer differences between the two hominid species than anyone cared to admit.

Stepping over a bolting rat, Jeryd entered one particular antique store that looked familiar, and the door chime rang. His eyes adjusted to the murkiness, taking in piles of antiques stacked awkwardly wherever you looked, suggesting that one misjudged step on an uneven floorboard would bring about an expensive catastrophe. An old woman was standing behind the counter, while another stood with her back turned about ten armspans away. They looked identical, both in similar over-dresses, the sorts with floral patterns like the ones you used to see about thirty years ago, but now faded from over-washing. Nick-nacks and ornaments spilled on the floor amid random furniture. Strange instruments, pottery, art were propped up against any available wall space. Desperately, he hoped there were no spiders under all these objects waiting for him: because arachnids were this tough investigator’s hidden shame.

Jeryd stepped carefully around the large room searching for something that might appeal to Marysa, some small token to impress her, to show her that he still loved her. Was there possibly one item that could do all that on its own? Probably not. He tried desperately to think about the things she used to like, cursing his inability to make a decision. He scratched his head as he leaned over tables, picking up items, replacing them immediately.

Ever so slowly he started to mumble in frustration.

‘Talking to yourself, investigator? Maybe she’d like some of the brass instruments over there. They’re enough to pique the interest of the most ardent collector.’

Tuya was wearing a light-blue robe, a colour rarely favoured in current fashions, with a straw hat tilted down over the side of her face. He tried not to let his vision linger on her lissom figure, which could be noted despite her thick clothing. Pouting lips, all cheekbones and soft edges, there was an uncomfortable intensity about this woman.

‘You said your wife collected antiques, so you’re here to buy her something, aren’t you?’

She fingered a wooden statuette by her side. ‘You should at least consider some of the items over there. There’re some fine nautical gadgets.’

Tuya led him away.

She explained the various items to him in a way that unsettled him, though he couldn’t work out exactly why. Maybe because he remembered similar times with Marysa. He wondered if it was wrong to be talking so casually, and made the decision to be wary of her charms. Greater rumel in the Inquisition than himself had succumbed to feminine wiles.

A musky smell in these rooms, the stale aroma of time having passed, the remains of forgotten civilizations. He found it odd that people should want to collect many such items, even though they did not know their original purpose. He thought about what objects he owned himself, and if in a thousand years they would each become a mere ornament on a rich lady’s dresser. Perhaps some of the shit scrapers he used to flush out of the gutters would become some gift to charm a pretty girl. He smiled at the thought.

Tuya continued to point out and describe things, but his mind began drifting to his own past again.

‘Rumex, you’re not listening, are you? How’re you ever going to win a woman’s favour if you don’t pay attention while she’s talking?’

‘I always did when she was around,’ he said, a little annoyed. What business was it of Tuya’s anyway? Did she get her kicks from sifting through other people’s lives? ‘Well, maybe I wasn’t a very good partner.’

‘But you could be,’ she said.

‘And you could tell me how?’

‘So long as you don’t mind talking about such intimate things with a murder suspect.’

The pressures of his personal life were beginning to distract him from his job for the Inquisition. Yet above all he needed to sort out his private life. It felt uncomfortable to be here with her, but every minute he spent with her, he might be able to observe her closely, find out who this secretive woman was, and, more importantly, to probe her further about her involvement with Ghuda. ‘No, it’s fine. Just don’t take it personally if I’m obliged to arrest you later,’ he said, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

She seemed to like that. ‘Of course. Besides, because I spend a lot of time alone, I could do with the company. In my time, I’ve listened to a lot of men talk – and let me tell you, men do talk, if only to the right woman. You know my profession, so I get to peek into a lot of lives, see a lot of destruction – the amount of hidden secrets and lies that keep a partnership intact…’ She looked intently at a small metal clock and picked it up. ‘And, besides, I’m just making my living doing something I enjoy. If they didn’t come to me for their kicks, they’d only go elsewhere. I’m not the problem – just a symptom.’

‘No one suggested you were a problem,’ Jeryd observed bashfully.

She put the clock down, tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. ‘Anyway, what I’m saying is I know quite a bit about relationships.’ She laughed to herself, some hidden irony perhaps. ‘Yet I myself have never held one together. But, I’d like to think I could help you. And your partner obviously had good tastes.’ She gazed at Jeryd intensely.

He looked away awkwardly.

‘Relax, investigator,’ she said, laughing. ‘I meant she liked quality antiques.’

‘I know that,’ Jeryd said, defensively.

‘You shouldn’t take things so seriously. You’re so full of melancholy. I think you work too hard. What would you do if you didn’t work?’

Jeryd frowned. ‘I’m not sure really.’

‘It’s scary for some people to think what they’d do if they didn’t have to work constantly. I think that’s why many do work so much: because they’re frightened of stopping.’

‘What’s all this got to do with helping me get Marysa back?’

‘Because you’ve probably put your work ahead of her most of the time when she needed care and attention. You didn’t listen to her enough. You didn’t make her feel special. You therefore never earned the right to be loved. I dare say you worked so hard because you didn’t feel comfortable loving her.’

‘Compliments corner, this,’ Jeryd muttered dryly.

‘It’s a reality check,’ she said. ‘I can tell by your face that I’ve hit a nerve.’

‘Maybe you have. Look, I’m meeting her tonight. What could I do to… seduce her?’

She proceeded to give him some advice at length.

It was as if the secrets of womankind were being revealed to him.

He even had to make notes.

‘So,’ he said, after being numbed into silence by her advice, ‘what should I get Marysa as a present?’

‘A good-quality antique, one that could also be thought of as a relic. It’ll arouse her curiosity, will mystify her, play on her mind. You must be on her mind always.’

‘Of course.’ Jeryd folded his arms, leaned back, playing it cool. Yes, he could appear confident, he could persuade Marysa to come back to him. This seducing business was clearly a breeze. ‘You’re pretty clued-up on all this stuff.’

‘I know.’ She seemed satisfied with the compliment.

Turning to what he was genuinely more confident about, Jeryd risked another attempt to dig for information, now that she was more at ease with him. ‘So how did you really get to know Delamonde Ghuda?’

‘You don’t ever ease up on the work front, do you?’ she said.

‘My lunch hour is over, I fear.’

‘I met him in a tavern, Rumex. That’s all. He’s just one more handsome man I went to bed with. A man I wanted to sleep with out of choice. Not a crime, is it?’

It should be, he thought, but then he didn’t really understand his personal feelings in this. As a rumel who was out of touch with the way the modern world worked, he often understood himself even less than he did others.

Dusk, and standing outside of the Bistro Júula. Jeryd stared up at the pterodette that had narrowly missed excreting on him. The little reptile flew up to perch on the roof, looking down at him.

‘Not on these robes, you won’t, my friend,’ Jeryd said confidently, empowered by the advice of another woman.

Antique present tucked under his arm, carefully wrapped. He wore fine silk robes, in black, over a white silk undershirt with matching handkerchief. The outfit had cost him nearly a Jamún. He had shaved with an expensive blade earlier on, too. Consequently the breeze felt chillingly fresh against his smooth cheek, despite his thick rumel skin. He had even – though he would never admit this to anyone else serving in the Inquisition – scented his white hair with fragrant oils.

I may stink like a tart’s dressing table, but every little helps.

He tried to remember everything Tuya had told him. He had reread his notes a dozen times, and it put him in mind of those Inquisition entrance exams, back in his youth.

Jeryd cast an eye at the nearby clock tower. She was bound to keep him waiting – she always did. He felt nervous, as if this was their first date. The sky was darkening fast, the tall buildings becoming even blacker against it. Birds and pterodettes arced hypnotically above the countless spires. Lanterns were being lit along the street, their coloured glow catching the limestone. Sandalwood incense wafted from one of the taverns further upwind. Maybe he was going soft, but he thought the scene rather romantic.

There she was, Marysa, walking slowly along the path to meet him, hips swinging slightly as she came up the hill, and his heart was beginning to race. She caught his eye as she came closer, then looked at the ground. For a moment neither of them said anything. Her elegant, black robe was slightly darker than her skin, with a coloured scarf wrapped around her neck. Her white hair was tied up with something that sparkled, no doubt some current fashion he wasn’t aware of, and the coloured make-up around her eyes opened up her face in new ways. Her tail swayed back and forth sinuously.

‘Hello,’ Jeryd gulped. ‘You look incredible.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And I like your new robe.’

He hadn’t heard it for so long, that soothing voice. ‘Oh, this is for you,’ he forced himself to say, handing over the present. ‘Just a little something you might be interested in.’ He tried not to contain his eagerness as he urged, ‘Go on, open it.’

She unwrapped it quietly, and her face lit up. The gift was small, possibly some ancient navigational device, only a hand-span wide, with an intricate mechanism.

‘An antique,’ she said in awe. ‘Looks almost like a relic.’

Jeryd stood back, arms folded, feeling pleased with himself. ‘Should keep you busy for a few days trying to work out what it is.’

‘It’s really wonderful.’ She kissed him on the cheek, a gesture that could have meant anything, so he tried not to interpret it with wishful thinking.

‘Now, shall we?’ Jeryd indicated the nearby bistro.

After a deep initial awkwardness, the night went better than he could have imagined. He actually listened to her for the first time in years. Her main focus these days turned out to be ancient architectures – particularly newly discovered remains of the Azimuth Empire, undergoing restoration work here and there. She told him at length of the ancient Azimuth civilization: the great causeways now strewn under a hillside, the skeletal palaces submerged under marshes. Whilst she had been consorting with the archaeologists, bones of ancient creatures had been found, great mastodon ribcages unearthed near the coast, mammoth quidlo squids, human remains several armspans in length, even unknown beasts with three skulls. She gradually painted for Jeryd a vivid history of the Boreal Archipelago. Why had he never found her so fascinating before?

Gestures came and went, light touches to the wrist, a smile after meaningful words, catching each other’s eyes through the flame of the candle, every nuance so much more powerful, so much more lingering than before, as if the very fact of being apart had made them realize just how much they filled a gap in each other’s life.

Inevitably they got round to the breakdown of their marriage, whereupon Jeryd confessed to being a poor husband. She then gave him a list of demands, should they give it another go.

They were not unreasonable, he admitted, all to do with time, attention, details. Even he could manage that. He stopped short of pleading with her, was merely happy to be with her once again. And she responded positively to that, he hoped.

Later that evening, he walked her home to her temporary residence – a room on Gata du Seggr, the other side of the Gata Sentimental, where you found a lot of old soldiers living in retirement. She whispered to him that it would not be right to spend the night together, so at the door he merely pressed his lips to her hand, then turned away into the darkness.

On his way home he couldn’t help but notice that he was being followed by someone with heavy footsteps, but there was no incident. Once inside the door, seeing with clarity how much of a mess his house was, Jeryd decided to have a quick tidy up. Afterwards he sat naked on his bed by the burning wood stove, with his head in his hands, his tail motionless, his expensive new robe folded neatly on a chair in the corner. There was an ache in his chest as he reviewed the evening in his mind. Things seemed to have gone well, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Becoming over-optimistic could lead to very worst kind of disappointment.

It was interesting how Tuya had changed the way he looked at his marriage, at his entire life. She had been amazingly succinct in pointing out his errors, had been the only one ever to locate a direct channel to the things that were essential in his world. Without Marysa there would still be so much… emptiness. Emptiness which he had previously tried to fill with so much work, in some vague attempt to avoid thinking about how bad things had become.

He reclined back on the bed, began to drift off to sleep.

He was woken by footsteps, heels clipping the cobbles beneath his window. His heart missed a beat as the front door opened, then closed. He twisted round in his bed, rubbed his eyes, peering at the clock. He realized he had been asleep for only half a bell. Footsteps up the stairs, footsteps to his bedroom door. With one eye he watched it open, pretending he was still asleep.

A figure approached his bed, paused.

‘Some inquisitor you are,’ Marysa chuckled. ‘What if I was a thief?’

Everything I have is yours anyway, he wanted to say, but didn’t. She kicked off her shoes, slid her dress down, eased herself onto the bed. They kissed, and he was gentle with her, and as they made love she would bite his chest gently, and arc her back like a bow.

Tonight, and for as long as I’m alive, he promised himself, it will be all about her.

Outside Jeryd’s house, Aide Tryst was leaning against the wall watching the glint of the moon on the slick cobbles. He had sifted through the backstreets to get here, mannered and methodical in his stealth, sliding by the tenebrous traffic of Villjamur, past all the hustlers and the slick magic and weird hybrid beasts that filled the hour with a night-noir exoticness.

And now Marysa’s gentle groans came down to him occasionally above the noise of the breeze.

In his hand he held up the heart of a pig. Blood dripped along his arm under his sleeve as he silently incanted an Ovinists’ mantra, the words forming in a hushed murmur on his lips.

I curse that man, he thought. Because he won’t promote me to the position I deserve, yet instead of solving Brother Ghuda’s death he’s wasting his time with that wife of his.

Yet all the time he pretends to be my friend.

In his semi-trance, Tryst’s thoughts drifted, took control of things again. How had he got to be here, outside this house, in the middle of the night, so full of rage and jealousy?

As he reflected, memories came back to him, the ones of his youth, back when the summers seemed endless. The cottage just south of the city where his parents lived. His father, that colossal bearded man, a priest of Bohr, and an alcoholic, who abused both Tryst and his mother. His mother herself, small and fragile and beautiful, so undeserving of the hell his father brought home with him. Tryst loved her, wanted to protect her with every instinct of his being.

But to his father she meant nothing, because Bohr had become everything, a god Tryst could never see, and perhaps that was the reason why Tryst had become an Ovinist.

Because he excelled at his lessons, it was his mother who fought for him to stay at school as long as possible, even as his father’s drinking habits and bouts of violence worsened. She invested in him a sense of motivation, of freedom to get on in life, not to be held back by conditions. Perhaps some of her own fears laced her words. When she died of some mysterious illness, it destroyed his optimism. Strangely, it broke his father too, and Tryst didn’t expect that. So now that it turned out Tryst couldn’t expect any more promotions in the Inquisition, he thought back to those days constantly, relived those moments of helplessness again and again.

His mother had told him he was so clever he could achieve anything, and now Jeryd was stopping Tryst from achieving.

Tryst slid an ornamental dagger from his sleeve. He cut a slice of the pig’s heart, then took a bite to show his devotion to his new god – the one that had helped process his bad memories.

But he still could not do much about the problem of Jeryd.

Seething, he walked home, contemplating ways to hurt the investigator.