‘Dear doctor, that was a wonderful tour you gave our investigator.’ Dartun gripped the other man’s shoulder.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘So, what else’ve you got for me today? I’ve just finished working on that last fellow.’ Dartun clasped his hands, and looked eagerly around the room as if he were in an iren.

‘Another one?’ Tarr said.

‘Yes, we must keep busy, you know,’ Dartun said. ‘That’s what I was doing in the other room – just a bit of practice on an older corpse. And that was a nice touch of yours, covering it up with the lute player.’

‘Well, I couldn’t have the investigator poking around and getting suspicious. You should have warned me you were coming. The lute player was the best I could do. I bet our friend Jeryd now thinks I’m totally insane.’

Dartun clasped his hands together. ‘Can’t have the Inquisition prying around too much. I heard you saying you had some fresh ones? The fresher they are, the easier they are for me to work with.’

‘But those ones all have families,’ Tarr protested. ‘We’ve not had any unclaimed bodies arrive today.’

‘That’s a bit of an inconvenience, really.’ Dartun frowned, rubbing his chin. He ambled around the room, his boots loud on the stone. ‘Listen, d’you think I could reserve the next unclaimed one that comes in? I’m having to… begin some other schemes of mine very shortly, and I might need to leave the city very soon. And I could do with a few more corpses, no questions asked.’

Tarr hated Dartun for this secretiveness, but he had been embroiled in it for far too long now. And it was no longer out of choice, since every time Dartun made a suggestion, it seemed to come across more as a threat.

‘Right,’ Tarr said, ‘look, I’ll try and keep one for you, but you know this really is most abnormal.’

‘So are most things, doctor.’ Dartun turned, something flashed in his hands, and even before he walked into the wall he had vanished.

‘Why can’t he just use the door like everybody else?’ Tarr muttered.

TEN

Randur made his way through the increasingly bad weather up towards the Imperial residence of Balmacara, his travelling bags slung across his shoulder, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin. Sleet to rain to snow to sleet, Villjamur was now only differing shades of grey, and he prayed to Bohr that the waxed leather on his bags was holding the water at bay or the rest of his clothes would be ruined otherwise. His long hair trailed lankly in front of his eyes. He was thoroughly miserable.

Shitting weather, he thought. Just a day of sunshine, that’s all I ask for.

Balmacara was an intimidating sight, and its dark stone was imbedded in symmetrical lines with stabs of some shimmering-black material. It seemed impossibly high, almost reaching into the low cloud base. Bold pillars and arches, crenulations in the surface and crenellations crowning towers, all with a design nothing like he’d ever seen, and it didn’t even seem to match anything in the city. The building loomed. It imposed itself upon Villjamur.

Having shown his papers to the guards at the gate to the outer compound of Balmacara, he was mortified to see yet more steps rising between two octagonal pillars marking the main entrance.

He wondered what he’d be doing if he was back on Folke. When he had left, people were starting to panic because of the Freeze. People in his hometown had begun building and excavating new homes underground. His mother, fortunately, was going to be looked after by a brother residing in one of the harbour towns, so he knew exactly where she’d be when he returned to find her with the cultist’s cure.

As he dragged his sorry, soaking body up the steps to the door of Balmacara two men barred his way, ordinary city guards by the looks of them, red uniform, basic armour, fur-lined hats. After they checked his papers again, he was instructed to wait in the entrance hall.

Though it was impressive on the outside, Randur wasn’t expecting quite this level of grandeur or skilful decoration inside Balmacara. In fact, the level of detail and wealth everywhere on display was simply arrogant. There were carvings of naturalistic foliage adorning every wall, every doorway. Gold and silver leaf glittered on the coving and picture frames. Floors and fireplaces were made from slabs of black marble, and elaborate lanterns shone along the main corridor, people’s footsteps echoing some way in the distance.

Now this, Randur thought, is definitely somewhere I could call home. A fine luxurious lifestyle to match my fine tastes.

Another pair of guards escorted him to an antechamber. Within a heartbeat several more guards had entered, stared at him closely. Randur felt uneasy, began to reach again for his fake identification papers. Then suddenly he saw a young girl approaching defiantly through the corridor of guards. She marched up to him – all long strides and flowing hips, black-haired and definitely cute, but a little innocent for his tastes.

She stood there, and glared at him.

‘Morning, lass.’ Randur offered her his papers.

She glanced briefly at them without saying a word. He knew enough about girls like that to know to put his documents back in his pocket.

‘Randur Estevu.’ He risked offering her his hand to shake. ‘Can you show me where I need to go?’

‘I am Jamur Eir,’ she announced, not even glancing at his offered hand. ‘I am Stewardess of Villjamur.’

‘Ah.’

‘I believe, Randur Estevu, that you are the man from Folke?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘I am, yes, my lady,’ she snapped. ‘Do they not teach manners on your island, or do they breed you all to be as backward as yourself?’

Well, so much for her prettiness lasting, with a scowl like that on her. He looked her up and down, still considering whether or not to keep on flirting. ‘I humbly apologize. My lady.’ He was never much one for formalities, unless there was a chance things might lead towards a little bedroom action.

‘I was expecting someone a little older.’

What was he supposed to say to that? A little older for what? ‘So was I,’ he returned, his face expressionless.

‘Do you have a sword? I can’t see one on you.’

‘No, they said I wouldn’t be allowed to bring one in with me.’

‘Well, that’s not very useful now, is it? How is a teacher meant to instruct without a sword?’

A teacher? What in Bohr’s arse am I supposed to teach?

‘At least you don’t need one to dance, I suppose,’ Eir said.

‘Dance?’

‘Yes, dance. You did realize you were to teach sword and dancing, didn’t you?’

‘Indeed, lady.’ Ha! So all I have to do is dance and fight! ‘I apologize, but my thoughts were distracted momentarily, uhm, by the liquid depth and beauty of your eyes, my lady.’ There was a quiet groan from one of the guards, and he flashed her one of his better grins.

‘I see there’s nothing wrong with your island-boy oiliness.’ Eir was already turning away. ‘Balmacara is full of men. Don’t think I don’t know how the male mind works. Well, come along then. We can’t have you dripping water all over these floors.’

One of the servants showed Randur to his room, a small, well-decorated chamber with animal hides draped across the bed and floor. There was no glass in the window, but a thick tapestry kept the draught out, and a roaring log fire kept the heat coming. Several lanterns gave it a welcoming look. He considered it fit enough for entertaining ladies, should the opportunity arise.

He dumped his belongings on the bed, then turned to the male servant. ‘Stewardess of Villjamur is a strange title,’ Randur probed. ‘What happened to the Emperor?’

‘There isn’t one, not at the moment.’ Little emotion came from the servant’s answer. ‘The Emperor passed away a few days ago. The lady is in charge of matters until her elder sister, Jamur Rika, returns to the city.’