TWELVE

As the sun rose lazily over Villjamur, Investigator Rumex Jeryd left his house in the Kaiho district. He walked past Gulya Gata, down alongside the irens near Gata du Quercus, Hotel Villjamur, and the inn called the Dryad’s Saddle. There were a few eccentric shops down this way, high-end purveyors of drugs and erotica, where you could apparently find ‘love potions’ conducive to controlled rape. Nothing like as described in romantic songs, and why the potions were allowed, he had no idea. That was Villjamur for you – as long as you had enough money you could get whatever you wanted, and to hell with ethics. You could wander these streets and become defined by your fetishes.

In the shadows of high walls, where the road curved down to the right, the kids of Gamall Gata were already waiting for him. From the top of the street you could clearly see the two main culprits, the two that were always there, each maybe ten years old, a blond and a redhead, layered up with warm clothing, thick gloves on, and with snowballs ready in their palms. Jeryd stared hard at the kids – he had to make them wonder for a moment if this was a mistake.

They did not.

The snowballs came arcing through the air, but exploded too short, smashed at his feet, and he smiled. ‘Not today, lads.’

He turned, sniffed the chill air, began to walk away-

– A snowball slapped his head.

Bastards.

He could see the blond and the redhead running off, their arms windmilling with excitement, the others nowhere to be seen, then all that was left was the echo of laughter as snow dripped off Jeryd’s head.

Robes wrapped tight around him, snowballs nowhere to be seen, Jeryd proceeded along one of the lesser-known paths of the city, his breath clouding in front of his face like a ghost that wouldn’t leave him alone.

He ran what few details there were of Delamonde Ghuda’s murder over and over in his mind. The case was particularly difficult because the number of people who might have a motive to murder the councillor were high. So, a high-profile death, and such a cruel way of dying.

The only likely cause could have been use of a relic, so that made a cultist the most likely suspect. But in general, cultists seemed to have no use for councillors, considered that they operated at a level above government. Above everyone else, in fact. And because of their valuable services in military campaigns, cultists tended to remain on good terms with those high up in Villjamur. So no, a cultist didn’t seem likely after all, although he still had to consider them.

He would have to penetrate the Council Atrium to find out what projects Ghuda was working on before he was killed. It must have been something significant, if his murder was the best way to stall it.

And what about the woman, Tuya, who was the last person to see him alive? Nor was he looking forward to confronting Ghuda’s wife to explain how he had spent his final night on earth.

On top of all of this, he was due to meet with his own wife, Marysa, this evening. And how was he going to persuade her to come back to him?

What a day.

Tryst had arranged to meet him later. The young human was currently ‘interrogating’ a man suspected of burglary that had taken place in a street in Caveside. Jeryd let him get on with it on his own, because torture was something Tryst was good at – and it wouldn’t necessarily be physical. Tryst had a gift for mental torture, would frequently have the suspect in fits of tears or else exploding with rage. Either way, he got what he wanted, which suited Jeryd fine so long as it was conducted within the legal guidelines. You had to do things by the book or those higher up would use it against you, some day when you happened to fall out of favour.

Jeryd loved this side of the city. He was now standing just beyond the Astronomer’s Glass Tower, its bizarre octagonal structure towering above him, its expanses of glass capturing a rare moment of red sunlight that was trying to penetrate the cloud and mist. This side of Villjamur was certainly preferable to the neighbourhood adjoining the caves. Unfortunately, most of his cases inevitably led to Caveside. Living conditions were terrible there, back where poverty was kept hidden out of sight. Inferior sanitation pervaded the area with a constant stench, though many might think it preferable to being locked outside the city.

Armed with questions, he approached a little house virtually hidden amongst its neighbours. Despite being so central within the city, people usually walked straight past the place as if they didn’t want to see, without even knowing they were doing so. Its inconspicuous metal door was set in smooth pale stone. He knocked firmly and waited, and it was eventually opened by a raven-haired woman, her long, thin face pallid and gaunt.

She was a banshee.

‘Morning. Investigator Rumex Jeryd. I have a few questions.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice was soothingly deep as they always were – unless they were screaming. ‘Please, do come in.’

Jeryd stepped inside her fragrant home, drawing his tail in behind him so that it didn’t get caught in the heavy door. The house was intensely dark, the smell of lavender powerful. He’d been here several times before, and on each visit he wished they had put in a window to let in some daylight and fresh air. Coloured lanterns burned, as did a small log fire. There were several women ranging from young to old, all wearing black, grey or white fabrics. They were sitting on chairs placed randomly throughout the house. All of them had similar gaunt faces, similar mannerisms. Some were reading or studying, others were weaving material. There was a claustrophobia here amongst these women, maybe sisters and mothers or something closer still, as if they were suffocating in unison, tightening their bonds on each other as they suffered. He never understood, or commented on their situation.

‘Please, be seated, investigator,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll go and fetch Mayter Sidhe.’

She left the room.

Jeryd sat himself down on a simple wooden chair. The furniture here was rustic – as if they couldn’t afford anything else. It seemed out of place for a home so near the Astronomer’s Tower and the richer irens, but maybe it had been here from generations ago. A few of the women hummed gently, rocking back and forth in their chairs as if mildly insane: not a comforting noise, more an eerie lament. Paranoia forced him to wonder vaguely if this meant he would die at any point soon, as if just being around them was putting him a step closer.

Mayter Sidhe suddenly arrived, the banshee who had been present at the scene of Ghuda’s murder, and her wail had declared his death to the whole of Villjamur. Black-haired, white-gowned, young-looking, too, but with that same haunted expression that the other banshees possessed. Blue eyes, with a strange distance within them that he could never understand. As with the others, he had encountered her before, because whenever there was a death in the city, they were always the first on the scene.

He stood up as she appeared.

‘Good morning, Investigator Jeryd.’

‘Morning, Mayter.’ He sat down again.

‘So this is about Councillor Ghuda?’ She pulled up a chair, sat next to him, and unnerved him a little, this close presence. This air of death.

‘Yes,’ Jeryd said. ‘Just the normal procedure. But this has to be considered an extremely high-profile murder. The victim, as you know, was a very senior member of the Council.’

‘We’re all the same, once we’re dead, investigator. Our titles do not follow us.’

‘Right. But while the rest of us are still alive, there’s work to be done that can make the whole… pre-death concept a little easier to deal with.’