Denlin nodded thoughtfully, then brought a pipe from out of his pocket already loaded with arum weed. ‘You in some kind of trouble, lad?’ He lit the pipe. ‘Someone who wants coin this way has gotta be havin’ some problems.’

Randur shook his head.

‘You in trouble?’ Denlin pressed. ‘Got the Inquisition pounding at your door? A wife who’s blackmailing you?’

Randur snorted a laugh. ‘I have my own reasons. But, all you need to know is that I owe a bit of money to someone.’

‘You need this cash quick then, like?’ Denlin took a sip of lager. ‘Worry not, lad. I’ll soon sort you out.’

‘No funny business, though.’ Randur picked up the knife, flicked it in the air, caught it by the handle, before concealing it within his sleeve again. He finished his lager, slammed the tankard on the counter. ‘So we’ve a deal, Denlin the Archer.’

‘That’s a name I like the sound of, y’know – Denlin the Archer. Yeah, we got a deal, lad.’

‘Good,’ Randur said. ‘So, where can we find a buyer?’

‘Look around you, lad. There’s dozens of buggers in here who’d buy anything you can offer.’

‘Have they got enough cash, though?’

‘’Course they have. Why d’you think they can afford to spend all their time drinking?’

Randur shrugged. ‘I guess so.’ Maybe the barman had not been rooking him after all.

‘Give me half an hour and sit over at that table in the corner.’ Denlin indicated a bench at the far end of the tavern in a dark corner. A small brass instrument glittered next to it in the half-light. ‘I’ll be back with some punters, but you’ll need to get another round in, though.’

Randur sighed, rolled his eyes, ordered them two more tankards.

‘Thought you didn’t have any more cash on you,’ Denlin crowed, concealing a smug grin behind his tankard as he took a first gulp.

Randur muttered, ‘Your ability to see through me is admirable. I guess your vision isn’t all that troubling.’

Denlin raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. ‘Looks can be deceiving down these parts, lad. You just remember that, and you’ll get on fine.’

After Denlin had made a quick inspection of the jewellery Randur had to offer, he disappeared without another word. Randur sat at the table on his own, staring out into the darkness and the smoke, listening to the furtive chatter, wondering how long the tavern would stay open.

He took a look around at the other customers. There was a blonde woman crying into her hands while the man reclining next to her was smoking away, uninterested in her distress. An old man was now standing at the counter without any shoes. On stools alongside him sat two labourers, covered in dirt, the grime suggesting there were mines underneath the city. Detritus of every kind was scattered across the floor, including specks and spots of something he took to be blood.

It suddenly struck him just how many physically damaged people he had encountered in the city. Many had hands missing or savage wounds across their faces, black eyes and ripped ears. One man nearby had a leg severed beneath the knee. Knives were brandished openly, and swords rested against the tables, on open display.

Randur hadn’t really thought about it before, but he guessed that was what you should expect in a world where the sword, axe and arrow formed a common language. The inhabitants therefore wore the signs of constant violence. He ran his hand across his own pale face, reassuring himself in the absence of any wound. You made your own luck in this world, and you played the cards you were dealt. He had been lucky so far, but put it down to Vitassi, nothing more.

Denlin returned with a square-jawed swarthy man, dressed only in a black tunic in a gesture of defiance to the coming ice.

‘This is the gentleman I spoke of,’ Denlin said to his stocky companion.

Randur stood up, offered his hand. ‘Randur Estevu. I’m pleased to meet you.’

The swarthy man nodded. ‘Coni Inrún – trader.’

‘Well, please take a seat,’ Randur said, wondering if this man was capable of uttering words of more than two syllables. All three of them sat down at the table.

Coni leaned forward. ‘Denlin says you got jewels.’

‘That’s right,’ Randur said. He reached into his pocket, drew out an emerald set in a silver ring. Resisting any temptation to flamboyance, he placed it on the table before Coni.

The man pulled out an eyeglass and began to examine it in detail. Randur glanced over at Denlin who merely raised his eyebrows.

‘Very good,’ Coni said. ‘Good workmanship this. Where d’you get it?’

‘An old lady gave it to me,’ Randur lied. ‘Decided she didn’t want it any more.’

‘Hmm,’ Coni said. ‘Give you five Sota. Not a bad price for this.’

‘I’d expect at least a Jamún for this,’ Randur said.

‘Seven Sota,’ Coni said.

‘Nine,’ Randur said.

‘Eight.’

‘Nine, and that’s it,’ Randur said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Estevu,’ Coni said, standing.

‘Eight it is,’ Randur said.

‘OK.’ Coni sat down. He produced the coins, picked up the ring. ‘You got more such items?’

‘A few, but not as good as that one.’

The two younger men went on discussing the jewels that Randur had stolen for over half an hour. Denlin meanwhile had remained quiet, merely observing the transaction whilst keeping one eye open for trouble. With his first commission payment in his pocket, Denlin bought exotic drinks from the counter, including the legendary Black Heart rum. At first Randur refused, but the old man insisted they were not that strong. After Coni had departed with much less coin, but a good stash of jewellery, the men drank progressively. Candles burned low around them, men came and went from the tavern. Denlin related tales of his exploits in the military, himself and Randur talking the way an old man and a young one tended to do. Wisdom was shared: Randur happy to listen, Denlin happy to talk.

Randur drank and his eyes became heavy. He wasn’t used to such quantities.

It wasn’t long until he reached that point where he knew, in his heart, he was well…

… and truly…

… gone…

EIGHTEEN

Jeryd entered the Chamber of Inquisition, a dusty, ceremonial office in which the arch-inquisitor and his three aides of justice were already seated at a large marble table. They greeted him with the barest of glances.

Not a good sign.

It was a wood-panelled room with an expensive stained-glass window overlooking several of the lower levels of the fore-city of Villjamur. Shafts of coloured light filtered through, and a fire crackled welcomingly at the far end. Various ancient decrees, written on cloth, hung from the walls, something to inspire the current office-holders, they said. Or in Jeryd’s eyes, something to remind him of all the forms he had to fill in daily. Still, it was nothing compared with the level of state control that the Council could impose elsewhere.

The arch-inquisitor himself was a brown-skinned rumel who had served nearly two hundred and twenty years in the Inquisition, and he could tell you about his life all right, giving endless narratives that always ended in him wondering what had happened to so-and-so. Because his tough old skin was so wrinkled, Jeryd initially had trouble making out where the aged rumel’s eyes were. All three were dressed formally in the uniform of the Inquisition: crimson robes, with a medallion representing a crucible.

‘Investigator Jeryd, please be seated.’ The arch-inquisitor gestured to an empty chair.

Jeryd pulled his own formal robes aside and sat down. How he hated these meetings. He felt as if some people in the Inquisition lived only for moving paper from one file to another. They were not his kind at all, as he liked to get out and about. He placed his notebook on the table, met the drifting gaze of the senior inquisitor.