Boll entered his own chamber, which was littered with a collection of gold antiques from previous ages. Like many people in this city, he had a fondness for a previous era, but didn’t know why. In his case he wanted to absorb as much as he could about the great Dawnir creations, of the legendary Pithicus race that was wiped out by the Dawnir in the War of the Gods. His shelves were accordingly crammed with texts on the Máthema civilization, about the Azimuths who followed. He also possessed an expert knowledge of the history of the Jamur Empire. That was his main strength, his knowledge of previous civilizations. He prided himself on it. He would stop people to get them to ask him questions about it – go on, anything from any era – and then he would let his words wash over them, a one-way conversation to say I know more than you do.

The lantern light was caught in a myriad places around the immense room. He stood at the window, scratched his groin, watching the lights in other houses being doused for the night, one by one. Then he lay down on his feather bed, picked up a history book entitled Mythical Azimuth Battles. He began to read, but the prose was so dry and lifeless that not one sentence registered, and he drifted off to sleep.

Boll woke in darkness. All the candles had gone out. The shrieking of pterodettes just outside made him strangely vulnerable.

‘Must be the damn wind,’ he grunted to himself. He climbed out of bed to shut the window that had blown open. Then he shivered, uncontrollably, sensing that he was not alone in the room.

He leapt onto his bed, reached up to the shelf above it, then stepped back down with a short sword in one hand. Circling with bare feet on the cold tiles, he held the blade out in front of him. His heart was beating so violently in his ears it seemed to suffocate all other sounds.

In the corner something began to glow, and eventually took on the form of a decayed corpse with luminous bones. In one, claw-like hand it held a gleaming metal axe.

‘What… what d’you want?’ Boll stammered, drawing his night robe tighter with his free hand.

There was no response, and Boll noticed the creature possessed no reflection in the adjacent mirror. He quivered with fear as it came nearer, seeing directly through the gaps in the glowing bones. The thing barely owned a face, just crudely assembled features of two sockets for its eyes, a black circle for its mouth. ‘I have money…’ Boll began pleading.

As the ethereal skeleton towered over him, Boll slashed the blade in some vague attempt at self-defence. It merely stood there regardless, the sharp metal passing through it as if slicing water.

The axe in its hand seemed real enough. As the blade descended Boll twisted to one side, but it still crunched into his shoulder generating an explosion of pain. He howled, sprawling flat on the floor, his right arm now functionless, blood pooling around him. The next blow gashed his groin, severing an artery before thudding into the floor tiles.

TWENTY

Investigator Jeryd was not at all amused.

He just stared thoughtfully at the wall, sipping a cup of tea, and for a long while no comment issued from his lips. Eventually, with a sigh, he said simply, ‘Another councillor?’

‘Councillor Boll,’ Aide Tryst confirmed, standing close by Jeryd’s desk.

‘Councillor Boll.’ Then, contemplating the paperwork, Jeryd said, ‘Bugger.’

‘I understand the body is now in the possession of Doctor Tarr, but he’s spent all morning in the House of Life.’

‘What the hell’s he doing there?’ Jeryd grumbled. ‘Bohr, he’s a miserable git.’

‘Meditating, I believe,’ Tryst said.

‘Well, let me guess,’ Jeryd pondered. ‘Bizarre wounds again, no useful evidence, a general waste of time and utter confusion for all involved? Just more stress and paperwork for you and me?’ Jeryd pursed his lips. ‘How many people know about it?’

‘According to the servant who found him, not many. He contacted another member of the Council who lives nearby, who in turn contacted Doctor Tarr’s people to remove the body immediately, then he sent word straight to us.’

‘That’s one thing to be grateful for, at least,’ Jeryd said. ‘So, we’ve got ourselves a murderer with a taste for butchering members of the Council?’

‘So it seems,’ Tryst agreed.

‘Let’s drop in on Tarr again, then I think I’d better have another chat with Chancellor Urtica.’

The Hall of Life was one of the more depressing places in Villjamur. Though close to the octagonal Astronomer’s Tower, it was located at a much lower level. The only access was via several stairways that spiralled deep down into the city. Reaching it required negotiating a complicated labyrinth of dark passageways, and rumour had it that if visitors strayed too far off the main route, they might never be seen again. It was like a route to one of the lower realms, a symbolic reminder of the final journey.

If Doctor Tarr even needed reminding of death, he had come to the right place. There, deep underground, in a high-ceilinged cavern, it was said that a candle was lit for every child born in the city. They burned there in their thousands, arranged in neat rows that extended on all sides.

It was an ideal place for meditation, as encouraged by the Jorsalir tradition – somewhere for contemplation. People entered and departed, some to sit quietly, some weeping, others staring blankly at the candles.

Time became lost in deep contemplation.

Doctor Tarr was seated on a wooden bench to one side, surrounded by shades of darkness, a metaphor for death.

The doctor glanced up briefly, then resumed his contemplation of the burning candles. Symbols of the fragility of existence, the slightest draught could blow out these flames, at any moment.

‘Right, let’s go talk to the morose git.’

Tarr sat up sharply as the words echoed across the vast chamber. He recognized Investigator Rumex Jeryd, emerging from one of the stairwells with his human assistant.

‘Ah, Doctor Tarr.’ Jeryd approached him. ‘Sele of Jamur to you.’

‘And to you, investigator,’ Tarr replied, standing.

‘What on earth are you doing down here?’ Jeryd enquired. ‘Surely you’re familiar with the trappings of death by now?’

The doctor gave a gentle smile that rather unnerved the investigator. ‘Familiar, yes, but prepared, no. I’ve seen too many mutilated corpses, and Councillor Boll’s murder has to be one of the most horrific sights I’ve ever encountered.’

Jeryd said nothing, merely glanced across the sea of candles before them. Finally he said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re here, though. Surely you should be examining the body?’

‘There’s not too much left of it to examine, truth be told,’ Tarr said. ‘I’ve come to realize through the years, investigator, how life can be so easily, and so horrifically, taken from us. This Empire has led an easy existence over the last few decades. No major wars, no great plagues, no crop failures on a large scale. Every single one of us has been safe, as if we have never left our mother’s knee. Look at the flames, both of you. Yet we are a besieged city, investigator. Disease attacks within our city walls, and every sunrise takes us yet another step towards our inevitable death. One wonders what happens afterwards, on the other side.’

‘Will you tell us what you’ve found, doctor?’ Tryst interrupted.

‘Of course,’ Tarr said. ‘You’re quite right to ask. Come to the mortuary later, though. In all honesty, there’s little to see, since his body was hacked into mincemeat.’

He sighed gently. These days anything seemed possible in Villjamur.