Nights of Villjamur (48 page)

'You're home early,' she observed as she kissed him on the cheek.

Is she surprised? Was she expecting someone else?

'Yes, I couldn't seem to get any work done today, so decided I needed time off to think.'

She returned to kneading dough. 'I'll be finished quite shortly. I just want to make a few more rolls. It makes a change from all my other work.'

'Great,' he said half-heartedly, then left the room only to berate himself. Why was he feeling so negative towards her? He didn't know anything for certain, yet he was already being short with her. What would he be like if something really was going on? He took a step back to watch her, but far enough away so that she couldn't see him in the shadow of the doorway. And he watched her, as if for the first time, because it seemed important now, to think of these little things.

Slender for her age, she had kept her figure well, and was certainly attractive. Other men would be interested in her. Jeryd's mother had always said that if anyone, male or female, wanted a good night's sleep, then they should choose a plain-looking partner, but he rarely shared opinions with his mother on matters like that.

Maybe Tryst was mistaken, maybe it wasn't Marysa that he had seen.

Jeryd couldn't help but feel a deep pain when he thought about her with another man. It made him feel weak, vulnerable, angry. Had it had been months earlier, when she was no longer living with him, it wouldn't have been so difficult. But it was the fact that she had come back to him, and he loved her with an intensity greater than he could remember.

He deliberately clunked against the door frame, and Marysa glanced his way before returning her concentration to the rolls. 'Everything OK, Jeryd?'

He stepped back into the kitchen. 'I never asked about your evening with Lanya.'

'We had a nice time, thanks. I hadn't seen her for far too long.'

'Where did you end up?'

'We stayed at her house, because she didn't fancy venturing out into the snow.'

'Tryst thought he saw you at some tavern.'

He thought he noticed a small change in her posture, some tension there perhaps, or a little uncertainty.

She said, 'On the way to her place, you mean?'

'I'm sure he said you were in a tavern, but he could've been mistaken.'

'Oh, it couldn't have been me. I was at Lanya's all the time. We stayed at home and talked. She's got some new guy on the go who treats her so well, as his equal, and he sounded lovely.'

Jeryd wasn't reassured by this. Maybe it was his naturally cynical nature after having worked for so long in the Inquisition.

*

Late afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds highlighting some bizarre texture in the sky. The city's spires and bridges sparkled. Tryst had opened the balcony door to help rid Tuya's room of the acrid stench of her painting materials. The chill in the air was enough to sharpen his senses again. He rested his chin on steepled fingers as he regarded the sculpted Marysa before him. Tuya was crouching on her knees as she made some barely noticeable alterations to this creation.

Tryst had drugged the woman earlier, keeping the dosage safe but regular, so that he could manipulate her more easily. He felt pleased with himself, in fact was getting a kick out of his recent elaborate manipulations. He had planted in Jeryd's mind a seed of doubt about his wife's fidelity, and soon he would show Jeryd a display of his wife in action.

'There,' Tuya murmured, then pushed herself upright, a sheer blue gown clinging to her curves. Tryst considered that a baser man than himself would take advantage at this moment, but he possessed good morals.

'She looks . . . utterly real,' Tryst admitted.

Indeed, the clay woman was an exact replica of Jeryd's wife, though he had never seen the latter naked. By her stillness, she looked like a statue, however, and Tryst wasn't quite certain what would happen next.

The previous evening, Tryst had led Tuya to observe Marysa in person as she walked through the frozen streets. The advantage of working so closely with Jeryd was that he could learn most of his wife's idiosyncrasies. Tryst had even thrown a purse, spilling coins at Marysa's feet, so that Tuya would be able to get the closest possible examination.

Tryst fully intended to be present when Jeryd encountered this. That would be too much of a treat to miss.

Within the bell, Tuya had gone on to perform some strange rituals with a collection of relics. Tryst observed her as best he could, asking occasional questions, but she was vague in her answers. There was obviously a history to this woman that was never going to be discussed.

Dawnir magic was beyond him, beyond any normal person. To him there seemed no way of understanding it. He just sprawled on Tuya's bed, waiting for the animation to begin. The statue of the female rumel began to glow, then faded. Glowed and faded. He tried to say something, but Tuya waved him to silence, the woman now deep in concentration as she walked around the statue, touching it in places, a hint of eroticism to her gestures. The fake rumel began to twitch slightly. Its arms jutted forward as if to embrace someone, then relaxed. The sculpture slowly performed arm and leg and head movements, as if learning these for the first time, getting used to its own body. Discovering motility.

Then suddenly it began to move with the flowing grace of the real Marysa. Somehow Tuya had managed to capture the very essence of Jeryd's wife in her art. The woman was
more
than a mystery. Tryst slid off the bed, the hair on his arms standing on end. Here in front of him was the power of the Ancient race, operating specially for his benefit. It took half an hour to dress the figure in the style favoured by Jeryd's wife. That didn't have to be perfect, because Marysa's tastes in clothes were varied.

As they applied make-up, the sculpted Marysa sat at the dresser, silently staring at herself in the mirror.

Tuya finally collapsed on her bed with exhaustion, saying to Tryst petulantly, 'Is that all you need me for? Why are you still here anyway?'

Time to drug her further, but he didn't have enough supplies on him. Plus he needed to pick up a little something to slip in Jeryd's drink later. He picked up an ancient tribal decoration, composed of long strips of coloured beads hanging from a sphere. He swept it in an arc and struck her across the head. She slid to the floor with a grunt, a small trickle of blood oozing onto the tiles.

The fake Marysa glanced across at him with a look of surprise on her face, then instantly she had become motionless, as a statue once again.

'It's OK,' Tryst said. 'She's a criminal.' Why was he talking to this thing? It certainly didn't feel right. Did this creation have emotions? It still stared at him unnervingly.

He threw the artefact on the bed. 'Don't go anywhere,' he muttered, then walked out into the cold night.

Cloud had obscured the stars, but that meant it wouldn't be as cold as it had been recently. Out in the street, he glanced up at Tuya's balconied window, the lantern light still visible inside, and he wondered again at the powers that the Ancients had once possessed before they disappeared from history.

He knew that you got good days and you got bad days. It was the life of an Inquisition officer. It wasn't the sort of career that just anyone could do, because you saw some harsh things on the streets of Villjamur.

Dawn on a Priests' Day, a hundred and forty years back: the bodies of three children found naked and butchered in the good side of the city. Their internal organs littering the cobbles, fresh blood sparkling in the light. It was his first solo case and according to the Council they had to make sure none of the nearby wealthy residents saw it.
That's the thing about this city: you've always got to keep the rich ones happy.
They eventually traced the deaths back to a Jorsalir priest, and had to keep that quiet too - the rules were that the Inquisition had to keep the Jorsalir happy. Jeryd caught the bastard, made sure justice was served, but it wouldn't be talked about in any of the taverns.

Given all the horrors he'd witnessed, he expected that he would be able to cope more easily with the crap life threw at him. Hell, he'd even put up with those little buggers on his street, allowing their snowballs to crash into him, into his house.

But Jeryd was a broken man.

*

Tryst had suggested they go for a quick drink after work and Jeryd thought why not? He could do with putting a few opinions about the world across a table.

Snow was frozen solid along the streets before it could be scraped away, and he had to cling on to windowsills along the terraced housing to make sure he didn't fall over. He noticed, however, that Tryst was taking him towards Cartanu Gata, where Councillor Ghuda was murdered.

So, there they were, finally, the two Inquisition officers, enjoying a drink. They made it to a night-time tearoom called Vilhallan, named after the original city, and, judging by the decor, Jeryd assumed it had been around for just as long.

'Nothing's original,' Tryst confessed. 'Everything's a carefully contrived copy: the furniture design, the bars, the coloured lanterns.'

He was right. It was a dreary-looking place.

Jeryd said to him, 'Not really my scene,' as they took their seats at a small wooden table in a secluded corner.

It wasn't much to speak of otherwise. Little candles clustered on tables threw light upwards onto the faces of the customers. It made everyone look sinister, as if they were here for any reason other than pleasure. There was a tribal drummer in the room beyond and someone playing an instrument he'd never heard before. Jeryd got the feeling he had arrived on some far-off island of the Empire.

'So, you come here often?' Jeryd said, and laughed.

Tryst merely smiled and turned to the serving girl, who was dressed in some mysterious black outfit with over-elaborate collars and cuffs. Jeryd could never keep up with fashions. He could never keep up with Villjamur. Sometimes he thought the world was now something he'd never understand any more.

'What'll you have, gentlemen?' she asked.

'I'll just have black tea,' Tryst said. 'And if you've got any pastries, I'd love to take a look.'

'Of course,' she smiled. 'And you, sir?'

'Tea with milk, thanks. No pastries for me. I'm watching my weight.'

'You've been up to that Council Atrium quite a bit recently . . .' Tryst offered, obviously curious.

He'd been to the Atrium four times already to interview a selection of councillors, but he'd been coming up against a brick wall. No one would tell him anything. After that initial lead of something involving the refugees, there was nothing to go on and Jeryd was beginning to feel depressed. And it seemed Tryst couldn't find out much about Tuya, either, despite tracking her for so long. Tomorrow Jeryd thought that he might go and interview her again himself. But suddenly tonight, Jeryd began to trust his aide a little more. The man made the effort to spend time in his company, and he had been loyal in his work in recent months. Maybe they could put the whole promotion business behind them, and carry on like they used to. Maybe Jeryd was being too harsh on him, too paranoid.

'I suspect something,' Jeryd said, 'that's not related to the murder of the councillors.'

'Go on,' Tryst replied.

He paused as the girl brought the teas, and the pastry menu for Tryst. He took only a moment to point to a couple of the choices, then she walked away.

'You know the Ovinists?' Jeryd asked.

Tryst held his gaze for a moment. 'Yes, I do . . . well, I know
of
them, anyway. Why?'

'They're a weird little cult with some strange plans, it seems. They're banned, of course, being an alternative religion.'

'Except on Priests' Day,' Tryst reminded him.

'Yes, except then. Anyway, I found some documents whilst searching their offices, and I think that Boll and Ghuda could have both been practising members.'

'What was it you found?' Tryst looked suddenly interested.

'I found a message to one of the councillors from someone in that organization.' Jeryd leaned forwards, keeping his voice down. 'It hinted at a massacre. Thousands of refugees would be slaughtered. It's a plan that seems to have been cooking for some time.'

Tryst was frowning. 'That sounds . . . just too crazy. No one would allow it.'

'Don't be too sure. Remember we live in unusual times. These murders in the Council. All sorts of strange rumours from abroad, too.'

At that moment, the waitress returned with Tryst's selection, and he commenced eating.

Jeryd sipped his tea, and went on. 'What I'm saying is that anything can happen, and Villjamur's got a chequered and violent history. A massacre of its own people wouldn't be at all out of place.'

Tryst remained a bit quiet for Jeryd's liking. Just then Tryst stopped eating. His eyes suddenly widened as he gazed over Jeryd's shoulder.

Jeryd turned, and there she was, his wife Marysa, sitting at a table with another rumel. They were holding hands - he could see it in the dim candlelight and her face was full of joy and interest. Her companion was some smooth bastard with white hair slicked to one side. Jeryd didn't want to believe it.