Nights of Villjamur

TWENTY

Investigator Jeryd was not at all amused.

He just stared thoughtfully at the wall, sipping a cup of tea, and for a long while no comment issued from his lips. Eventually, with a sigh, he said simply, ‘Another councillor?’

‘Councillor Boll,’ Aide Tryst confirmed, standing close by Jeryd’s desk.

‘Councillor Boll.’ Then, contemplating the paperwork, Jeryd said, ‘Bugger.’

‘I understand the body is now in the possession of Doctor Tarr, but he’s spent all morning in the House of Life.’

‘What the hell’s he doing there?’ Jeryd grumbled. ‘Bohr, he’s a miserable git.’

‘Meditating, I believe,’ Tryst said.

‘Well, let me guess,’ Jeryd pondered. ‘Bizarre wounds again, no useful evidence, a general waste of time and utter confusion for all involved? Just more stress and paperwork for you and me?’ Jeryd pursed his lips. ‘How many people know about it?’

‘According to the servant who found him, not many. He contacted another member of the Council who lives nearby, who in turn contacted Doctor Tarr’s people to remove the body immediately, then he sent word straight to us.’

‘That’s one thing to be grateful for, at least,’ Jeryd said. ‘So, we’ve got ourselves a murderer with a taste for butchering members of the Council?’

‘So it seems,’ Tryst agreed.

‘Let’s drop in on Tarr again, then I think I’d better have another chat with Chancellor Urtica.’

The Hall of Life was one of the more depressing places in Villjamur. Though close to the octagonal Astronomer’s Tower, it was located at a much lower level. The only access was via several stairways that spiralled deep down into the city. Reaching it required negotiating a complicated labyrinth of dark passageways, and rumour had it that if visitors strayed too far off the main route, they might never be seen again. It was like a route to one of the lower realms, a symbolic reminder of the final journey.

If Doctor Tarr even needed reminding of death, he had come to the right place. There, deep underground, in a high-ceilinged cavern, it was said that a candle was lit for every child born in the city. They burned there in their thousands, arranged in neat rows that extended on all sides.

It was an ideal place for meditation, as encouraged by the Jorsalir tradition – somewhere for contemplation. People entered and departed, some to sit quietly, some weeping, others staring blankly at the candles.

Time became lost in deep contemplation.

Doctor Tarr was seated on a wooden bench to one side, surrounded by shades of darkness, a metaphor for death.

The doctor glanced up briefly, then resumed his contemplation of the burning candles. Symbols of the fragility of existence, the slightest draught could blow out these flames, at any moment.

‘Right, let’s go talk to the morose git.’

Tarr sat up sharply as the words echoed across the vast chamber. He recognized Investigator Rumex Jeryd, emerging from one of the stairwells with his human assistant.

‘Ah, Doctor Tarr.’ Jeryd approached him. ‘Sele of Jamur to you.’

‘And to you, investigator,’ Tarr replied, standing.

‘What on earth are you doing down here?’ Jeryd enquired. ‘Surely you’re familiar with the trappings of death by now?’

The doctor gave a gentle smile that rather unnerved the investigator. ‘Familiar, yes, but prepared, no. I’ve seen too many mutilated corpses, and Councillor Boll’s murder has to be one of the most horrific sights I’ve ever encountered.’

Jeryd said nothing, merely glanced across the sea of candles before them. Finally he said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re here, though. Surely you should be examining the body?’

‘There’s not too much left of it to examine, truth be told,’ Tarr said. ‘I’ve come to realize through the years, investigator, how life can be so easily, and so horrifically, taken from us. This Empire has led an easy existence over the last few decades. No major wars, no great plagues, no crop failures on a large scale. Every single one of us has been safe, as if we have never left our mother’s knee. Look at the flames, both of you. Yet we are a besieged city, investigator. Disease attacks within our city walls, and every sunrise takes us yet another step towards our inevitable death. One wonders what happens afterwards, on the other side.’

‘Will you tell us what you’ve found, doctor?’ Tryst interrupted.

‘Of course,’ Tarr said. ‘You’re quite right to ask. Come to the mortuary later, though. In all honesty, there’s little to see, since his body was hacked into mincemeat.’

He sighed gently. These days anything seemed possible in Villjamur.

‘I honestly knew nothing about it,’ Chancellor Urtica confessed, the shock on his face genuine enough for Jeryd. He ran his hands through his hair, now clearly lost for words.

They were standing inside the door of Boll’s chambers, staring at the huge bloodstain covering the floor. They stared, for what seemed like an entire bell. It had spattered the walls, too, and even the glass on the window was smeared with gore.

Jeryd was quietly grateful that at least the body had been removed.

‘First Ghuda… and now Boll.’ Urtica’s gaze flicked about anxiously.

And next you? Jeryd wondered, recognizing the fear in the councillor’s expression.

‘Please excuse me,’ Urtica turned, and left the chamber.

‘Bit of a mess, all this,’ Jeryd sighed.

Tryst approached the worst of the carnage with a narrow step. ‘Guess we should have this cleaned up before we examine the room thoroughly?’

‘Soon enough,’ Jeryd agreed, ‘but let’s just take a look around first.’

For over an hour, Jeryd and Tryst examined every corner of the room. They rooted assiduously through all of Boll’s books, documents, even ornaments. All the time Jeryd was careful to keep his tail well tucked in, away from the crimson mess. He finally did a search for hidden drawers, checked for concealed panels – but found nothing out of the ordinary.

He was about to give up when he noticed a stain on a mirror. As he brushed his finger against it, Tryst stepped next to him. ‘What’ve you got there?’

‘Blue paint,’ Jeryd said in surprise, holding up his hand to inspect it.

‘Was he an artist in his spare time?’ Tryst suggested, staring at Jeryd’s finger.

‘I doubt it,’ Jeryd replied. ‘There’re no sketchbooks. Not even any paintings on the walls – only tapestries. So how did he get blue paint on the mirror?’

‘You reckon it’s important?’

‘Everything can have some importance, Tryst. The good investigator must always think that.’

Tryst walked away stiffly, as if wounded by the minor reprimand.

But Jeryd continued, ‘You know, on the day of Ghuda’s death, I saw some blue paint stains on the cobbles, right beside his body. At the time we assumed it was probably from a pot spilled on its way to the nearby gallery.’

Tryst stood by the window, staring out across the snow-burdened skies. ‘So we have a link between the cases? It’s not much to go on.’

‘It’s something, though,’ Jeryd said. ‘And it’s more than we had before. Bohr, it seems we hardly even get a body to examine this time around.’

He pulled a handkerchief from inside his robe, wiped the blue paint from the mirror, then from his finger. He wrapped it up deftly, concealed it beneath his clothing, and made his way back towards the door.

‘Doctor Tarr,’ Jeryd said later, ‘we’re here, as agreed.’

‘Good afternoon, investigator,’ Tarr said, beckoning Jeryd into the mortuary. ‘The human has not come with you this time?’

‘No, he apparently had some administrative tasks to see to,’ the rumel replied, stomping his boots to rid them of snow. ‘Maybe the sight of Boll’s chambers was enough to put him off.’

‘But not you?’ Tarr said, cheerfully.

‘No, I guess not then,’ Jeryd laughed dryly. ‘Maybe I’ve developed a stomach for such things after all these years.’

They proceeded into the depths of Tarr’s workplace, where a single lantern struggled to provide light. Its oil flame flickered as he shut the door. Jeryd found himself still pondering Tarr’s presence in the Hall of Life. Why would a man so used to working with death bother to go there in the first place? He had clearly been in a state of intense soul-searching when Jeryd had found him there, so perhaps there was more to Doctor Tarr than his surface demeanour implied.

The doctor led him to a table on which lay a large metal tray about two armspans wide, three in length.

‘What’ve we got here?’ Jeryd enquired.

‘This is it, investigator.’ Tarr gestured towards the contents of the tray. ‘This is Councillor Boll.’

Even Jeryd was amazed. In all his decades of work in the service of the Inquisition, he had never seen a body left in this horrific state. He had seen the results of torture, of fierce battles, of poisons that ate a body slowly – but nothing like this.

At one end of the tray were assembled the bones of the late councillor, or what was left of those that had not been fragmented into finger-length pieces. The other end contained the ‘flesh’ – a grisly pink and red mound like you might see in the gutters of a slaughterhouse. The stench was powerful.

Jeryd said in awe, ‘How could this have been achieved?’

‘With a large axe, and plenty of time,’ Tarr said. ‘I would reckon the murderer to have been kept busy for nearly two hours.’

‘At least he was dedicated to his task then,’ Jeryd muttered, scanning up and down the tray. ‘And yet no one seemed to notice?’

‘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.