Something wasn’t right, however. ‘What’s wrong this time?’ Jeryd asked. ‘Is it about the promotions? You know I think you’re one of the best aides there is. You’re nearly family to me by now, but you’re a human – and rules are rules.’

Jeryd felt bad for not actually nominating Tryst to be promoted, considering the young aide had shown great promise, had done well to even achieve his current position. They’d worked on hundreds of cases together. Jeryd genuinely wanted to nominate him, but knew how the powers-that-be would frown upon it. Humans were simply not allowed to achieve senior positions in the Inquisition. They didn’t live long enough, and it was as simple as that. A rumel averaged around two hundred years, which meant truly great wisdom could only be achieved by that species. It was an ancient ruling, decreed by the first Emperor, to help smooth over the uneasy coexistence of the two hominid races. You couldn’t break tradition, so Tryst would go no further.

‘It’s not that,’ Tryst said, with a glance to the floor. ‘That’s fine. I understand.’ Clearly, it was still a sore point, whatever he might say. ‘No, you’d better come and see for yourself. Warkur is out of the city, so they need you to take a look at the scene.’

‘I hope it’s not the refugees again,’ Jeryd said. ‘We could do without another scene there.’

‘No, not that. It’s a murder.’

‘Murder?’ Jeryd said, standing up, his tail perfectly still.

‘Yes. Very high-profile.’ Tryst said. ‘We’ve only recently heard the banshee’s keening. It’s a councillor, this time.’

Randur studied the rumel investigator and his aide. They both wore official-looking robes in dark red, although the rumel wore brown breeches underneath, as if he never really liked his uniform. They were taking notes at the scene of the death, where Randur had been told to remain as a witness. He hadn’t encountered many rumel on Folke and now wondered if it was a result of their evolving alongside humans that ended in both species becoming so alike in their thinking. Was it nature or nurture? It was probably a result of both.

The rumel was black-skinned, and you could see the coarse creases of age even from a distance, so Randur guessed he’d seen more than just a few winters. There were the usual rumel broad features with sunken cheeks, black, glossy eyes. He meandered around the alleyway as if with no real purpose, his tail waving back and forth with each step. Every now and then he’d turn his head to the sky, as if to check it for snow.

The iren behind was busy with traders and customers. A food stand was starting to cook thick hunks of seal meat, the smoke rising between the bridges and balconies higher up. Furs were available straight off the hide – bear, deer, lynx – so that you could craft them yourself in any number of ways. There were shoddy tribal ornaments and spurious island craftsmanship on display. They were manufactured on the cheap, but the people of Villjamur couldn’t tell or, if they did, they certainly didn’t show it.

Randur paid special attention to clothing, noting all the latest styles – tiny collars with little ruffs, pale earthy tones on the women that did nothing for them, two brooches worn where possible right next to each other. The swords people carried tended to be short messer blades, and he thought that they must be more efficient to kill with in the narrow corridors and pathways of Villjamur.

The Inquisition had eventually sealed off the area around the dead body, and they were now beginning to erect wooden panels to hide the death scene.

The rumel approached him, a cool and graceful individual.

‘Sele of Jamur to you, sir. I’m Investigator Rumex Jeryd. Could you tell me your name, please?’

‘Randur Estevu, from Folke. Just arrived this morning.’

‘You’re from out of town? I thought I could detect an accent. You speak Jamur well, though. I’m surprised the guards let you in.’

Randur shrugged, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.

‘Do you mind if I ask what you’re here for? People from outside aren’t generally admitted because of the Freeze, you see. We get all sorts of trouble here.’

‘Not at all. I’ve got employment at the Emperor’s halls, and I’ve shown my identification at each of the three gates. It’s all official.’

‘Right, well, we can’t ever be too careful. We’ve got a bit of a refugee problem, as you’ve no doubt seen on your way in.’

‘Yeah, poor guys.’ Randur pulled up the collars on his cloak. ‘Are you, y’know, letting them all in before the ice comes?’

‘It’s not up to me, but the Council assures the people of the city that the matter’s in hand. So, can you now tell me everything you saw? Please, leave nothing out.’

‘Well, not much to say really. He came running and screaming from up there somewhere.’ He indicated an alley at the opposite end of the iren. ‘Beetles were already swarming all over his wound, then he just collapsed on the ground, right where he is now.’

The rumel scribbled some notes in a small book. ‘Nothing else that seemed odd or out of place?’

‘Everything seems a little odd to me today.’

The rumel grinned. ‘Welcome to Villjamur, lad.’

Jeryd crouched by the body, taking in the details of the wound, how the blood trickled across the cobbles. A while later he glanced up at Aide Tryst, who was stepping carefully around the confines of the alley. At the far end lay several broken frames and pots of paint from the adjacent gallery.

Around Cartanu Gata, especially where it intersected with the Gata Sentimental, nothing had changed for thirty or forty years, ever since it had been arrogated by the evening bohemians.

All along its lower walls were scribbles etched deep by knife blades over the centuries. Odes to lovers. Threats to all and anyone. Who watches the Night Guard? So-and-so sucks dicks. That sort of thing. Some of the cobbles were splashed with paint, too, and you could smell stale food despite the dampness. At night, lanterns cast long, feral shadows down here, and if there was no breeze the darkness was suffocating in such narrow confines. And there were always rumours of cultist-bred animal hybrids walking along here with awkward gaits before sunrise.

Weighing up all these possibilities, Jeryd was trying to build a picture.

Delamonde Rubus Ghuda. The victim – a human male, in his forties – was a senior member of the Villjamur Council. His ribcage had been opened and exposed in a most bizarre way. The robes had just melted away around the wound, and some of his flesh appeared as if it had been scooped out. There were no traces of anything else around the corpse. Jeryd had never seen such an injury before.

This made a difference from the usual crimes he investigated. An old rumel like Jeryd could easily become bored with his job: people only ever committed the same few misdemeanours. You had murders, usually affairs of the heart; people stole things because they couldn’t afford them; then you had the excesses of drug addicts. Generally it was about people either snatching more from life, or people trying to escape it completely.

But this crime had indications of something else…

Tryst paused alongside him.

‘Not a pretty sight,’ Jeryd observed.

‘Indeed not.’

‘What’s this?’ Jeryd shuffled over to one side, dabbed his finger to a cobble. A blue substance stuck to it.

‘Must be paint,’ Tryst suggested, ‘from the gallery. Load of paint pots stored back there.’

Jeryd stood up, wiped the finger on his robe. ‘No witnesses yet from there?’

‘I’ll get someone to ask questions. Knock on a few doors, maybe. I’m not hopeful, though.’

‘Get one of the others onto it immediately. I need to know if there was anything remotely strange going on here. Anyone unusual walking by. Any scuffles or swordfights, anything. And we need to find out what he was up to last night and earlier this morning.’