‘OK.’ Tryst turned to go.

‘Meanwhile don’t tell anyone about this,’ Jeryd continued. ‘I’ll contact the Council myself, let them know. We can’t do with this getting out just for the moment. The people who witnessed him die didn’t necessarily realize his position, and I don’t want Emperor Johynn finding out via rumours. Bohr knows, it’d just become part of a conspiracy in his head.’

Jeryd walked slowly to the far end of the alley, glancing up through the morning drizzle at three spires visible in the distance, and at the bridges that arced between them.

Tryst interrupted his thoughts. ‘Investigator, should we take him back to headquarters now?’

Jeryd slipped his hands in the pockets beneath his robe. He was studying the dead-end behind, where a heap of garbage lined the side wall of the gallery. Considering himself a man of the Arts, he had always wanted to visit all the galleries, but had never quite found the time for this one. Marysa had often mentioned it, painting a wonderful picture he never quite got to see. Then again, she always did exaggerate. He’d seen far too much crime here over the years for him to look at this part of the city with naivety. Especially nearby Caveside, where the buildings themselves breathed decay.

‘Yes, get him back now,’ Jeryd said. ‘We could do with wrapping this up as soon as possible.’

FOUR

They rode past hundreds of refugees camped alongside the Sanctuary Road. The numbers grew daily, conditions worsened. Filthy children ran between tents on either side of the road, where grassy banks had become mud baths. Livestock had been brought, too, and makeshift pens had been constructed. The previous evening’s fires had been reduced to ashes overnight. This morning faces were glum, and they looked at him with a sense of embarrassed pleading – these were people, unused to poverty, who had never dreamed that this might be where they’d end up.

Another city was growing outside the city.

People had come here in hope. Hope that they wouldn’t be left to freeze in the wild when the ice came. Hope that the Empire’s main city would be able to house them in its labyrinth. Hope that there would be enough food and warmth. They’d come from Kullrún, Southfjords, Folke, Y’iren, Tineag’l, Blortath – heard in their accents. They had gathered whatever belongings they had and set off for the Sanctuary City. But the city could only accommodate a limited number during the estimated fifty years of ice to come – that was the official line. The very government that ruled over them did not want to offer them shelter. Had they been landowners, there might be an open door, such was the way of things here.

Brynd felt pangs of sympathy as he moved past, a desire to help.

Behind him, on the cart, Apium was still half asleep.

‘Captain,’ Brynd said sharply, and the man jolted awake.

‘Eh? What? We’re here, then, commander?’

The horses approached the main gate, a towering granite structure framing huge iron doors.

‘Sele of Jamur,’ Brynd addressed a city guard dressed in a blood-coloured tunic, who straightened his fur hat and saluted.

‘Commander Lathraea, the Sele of Jamur to you. Everything well?’

‘Been better,’ Brynd said sourly.

‘Commander, we’re obliged to ask you about the contents of the cart.’

Brynd nodded, knowing the security procedures. The guard walked over to the cart, greeted Apium, pulled back the blanket covering their wounded passenger.

‘Spot of bother at Dalúk Point,’ Apium said. ‘And he was one of the lucky ones.’

‘What happened to him?’ the guard asked, covering Fyir up again.

‘We’d like to know that, too,’ Brynd confessed.

The guard gave him that knowing smile between soldiers. ‘Right, in you go.’

He signalled for the gates to open. As they groaned apart, twenty more city soldiers advanced towards and around them, to prevent any of the refugees from attempting to get into the city. Not that they could, because there were two more gates to get past. And both were firmly closed to them.

So the Night Guard soldiers entered Villjamur.

Today was Priests’ Day in the city. Twice a year, otherwise forbidden religions were allowed such an airing. The streets were filled with priests from the outlying tribes, allowed in on a one-day permit, but watched closely by soldiers from the Regiment of Foot. Sulists gathered around their shell-reading priests. Noonists were standing semi-naked in a circle, smeared in fish oils, holding hands and singing a melisma while a bunch of city cats tried to lick the oil off their legs. Ovinists were holding up pigs’ hearts, as was their custom, allowing the blood to drip from them slowly into their mouths. Apparently this brought them closer to nature, but Brynd could think of less disgusting ways.

Aside from the devotees of the official two gods – Bohr and Astrid, worshipped under the umbrella of the Jorsalir Church – no priests were normally allowed to practise in the streets. Tradition allowed only these two days of the year for citizens to be exposed to other religions. Brynd thought it all rather pointless, since even if you did decide to follow some other creed, you would be forced to leave the city to pursue your new persuasion.

Brynd led the surviving Night Guardsmen along the main thoroughfares that would take them up on the next level where the streets and passageways became quieter.

Brynd leapt off his horse as a flicker of purple light caught his attention.

‘What?’ Apium demanded, puzzled.

‘Back in a moment.’ Brynd headed off down the narrow passage, till he spotted a cultist slumped against a wall. The man was clutching a slim cylinder to his chest, from which purple sparks flew onto his bare skin. The device itself was somehow fixed to his hand, a web of skin keeping it in place. The man’s face was contorted into a mixture of bliss and pain. Brynd turned away in disgust.

‘What was it?’ Apium enquired, as he returned.

‘Magic junkie,’ Brynd muttered, mounting his horse again.

‘What?’ Jamur Johynn demanded, looking up from his dining table.

The Emperor was chewing on a fish platter, now and then examining his food for stray bones. His distant gaze suggested he might as well have been eating a plate of lemons. At times, Johynn refused to eat at all and sometimes he would assure servants that he’d eaten everything, only for them to find remains of his plate on the rocks directly below the window, or maybe stuffed into one of the ornamental jugs. Whether it was because he suffered from anorexia or was paranoid about being poisoned was anybody’s guess. No explanations were offered, and no one dared to ask.

The dining chamber was a narrow room, but the numerous mirrors everywhere made the palace seem larger that it was. Early Jamur murals depicting grid-like astrological phenomena were painted between a myriad of identical arches. No one knew what they really meant. A row of plinths held the smoke-stained busts of previous Emperors, all Johynn’s ancestors, like silent guests, while a handful of servants looked on, as always, from behind the pillars, neither wanting nor required to be seen. There was always a hint of fear in them as Brynd walked past, an inhalation of breath, a straightening of the back. Maybe they just feared this military intrusion because Brynd himself usually felt relaxed and informal in the Emperor’s presence. They had developed over the years a relationship of intimacy, till Johynn could trust few people apart from the albino. Maybe that was because as Johynn had once hinted, it looked as if Brynd had some secrets to conceal himself.

‘Killed to the last man, my Emperor. All apart from those of us you’re now looking at.’