Jeryd was expecting a visit this morning from Investigator Fulcrom, a relatively young, well-groomed, brown-skinned rumel who, Jeryd suspected over the years, was a homosexual. He could never admit it, but Jeryd thought he could hear it in the gaps of his sentences. Jeryd considered him a damn good member of the Inquisition. Fulcrom had solved the North Caveside Rapist case. He had discovered who organized a raid on the Treasury. He had stopped a vicious child molester as he was about to strike again.

Fulcrom and Jeryd had now been chosen to address the refugee crisis in more detail, but because of his existing workload Jeryd had passed on the bulk of the actual planning to Fulcrom.

Besides, Jeryd wanted to have more time to spend with Marysa. Things kept getting better between them, and he was maybe even starting to really enjoy life. He was not uxorious, but who would have thought that simply holding hands and kissing, as the snow fell about them in a garden of glass flowers, could be so enjoyable?

But she still had the occasional feeling that someone was following her through the icy streets after dark. He imagined that whenever she whirled round, her long coat flowing around her, all she would hear would be boots scuffing the cobbles as they departed in haste. Or maybe a sharp inhalation of breath from some dark corner. He had not told anyone else in the Inquisition about this yet; he felt embarrassed to do so.

Jeryd pulled a key from his pocket, slid open a panel on the wall, drew out a small chest, unlocked it. Inside was the Ovinist letter that he had discovered in the broken statue. He knew only that this was the banished cult somehow at work, but the actual contents he could only guess at. Maybe this was something for Fulcrom’s acute mind to work on, and as the thought came to mind the young rumel entered Jeryd’s chamber.

‘Sele of Jamur, Investigator Fulcrom.’ Jeryd stood up to shake his colleague’s hand. ‘Cold morning?’

‘I’d say,’ Fulcrom replied. A cool confidence about his movements as he shook off his damp cloak, hung it on a hook on the wall.

Jeryd threw a couple more logs on the fire, stoked it to entice some more heat. A cloud of smoke wafted straight back into his face like a cultist trick, and he stumbled back to his desk, coughing.

Fulcrom was one of those rumels that looked almost human in his features: soft skin, prominent cheekbones, a friendly look in his eye that told you he was pleased to see you. He possessed a likeable and trustworthy manner that made people open up to him. Jeryd considered the other rumel undoubtedly handsome, and Fulcrom always wore the smartest grey tunic under his crimson Inquisition cloak. Despite the slush outside, even his boots were much cleaner than Jeryd’s.

‘Please.’ Jeryd indicated a cushioned chair over by the window.

Fulcrom made himself comfortable, gazing out to see what he could observe of the street below.

‘Anything interesting happening?’ Jeryd asked.

‘Just the usual problems – people being smuggled into the city, and a couple of brutal murders Caveside. As for the refugee situation, I’ve got a list of names that involves some pretty senior people.’

‘How senior?’ Jeryd glanced back to the fire.

‘If I said it went all the way to the top, would you be surprised?’ Fulcrom shifted in his seat.

‘The Council?’ Jeryd said.

A nod.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised at all,’ Jeryd said, trusting his years of experience. ‘What exactly do you know?’

‘I think there’s someone at work in the Council who wants these refugees completely removed. Someone who thinks they’re too much of a stain on Villjamur. Coin’s moving between someone close inside to some of the gangs Caveside. Don’t know who it is, but… Well, you get the idea.’

Jeryd made a steeple of his hands as he considered his colleague’s words.

‘Any thoughts?’ Fulcrom said.

Jeryd leaned in, and whispered, ‘I bet you that Urtica himself is behind all this somehow.’

‘It goes that high? What makes you say so?’

Jeryd went to retrieve the scroll he had found in the image of the dead Emperor. As the younger rumel scanned the document, Jeryd explained, ‘Found that inside a hollow bust of Johynn in the office of that murdered councillor, Ghuda. I know it’s an Ovinist text, but I can’t work out what the hell it means.’

Fulcrom raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks like an old runic text, if you ask me. Ancient stuff – judging by the forms of the letters I’d say a thousand years old, at least.’

‘Can you interpret it, though?’ Jeryd said. He walked around the desk to stand before the fire. ‘I’ve been trying on and off for days, but nothing comes to mind.’

‘No,’ Fulcrom admitted. ‘But I think I know someone who can?’

‘Who?’

‘The Dawnir.’

‘What, the one living in Balmacara? Do they even allow access? I know his existence isn’t common knowledge in the city.’

‘Well, you’re a member of the Inquisition, so I’m sure they’ll allow it.’

Jeryd shrugged. ‘These days, who knows.’

Fulcrom handed the scroll back to Jeryd, who placed it safely away once again.

‘So,’ Fulcrom said. ‘You suspect Urtica’s behind it? That’s a bold claim to be making.’

‘I know,’ Jeryd said, ‘and I’ve not got any hard evidence. There were rumours a while back that he was involved with the cult. And he reacts evasively to questioning, though I wouldn’t think he’s behind the murders. He seemed genuinely shocked at the horrors located in Boll’s chambers. You want my opinion, he doesn’t have the stomach to be a killer, at least not at first hand. He’s more your manipulator, behind-the-scenes kind of guy. The only thing I can assume is that he might have been up to something with Boll and Ghuda. Well, after what happened to them, he must be shitting himself now.’

‘So, how exactly d’you think he’s involved?’

‘I’ve no real idea. The Council murders are the most bizarre I’ve ever come across. You know what the only clue is, if you can even call it that?’

Fulcrom shook his head.

‘Paint.’

‘Paint?’

‘Yeah. I found a smear of paint in Boll’s chambers, amidst all that blood. Then I remembered I found paint by Ghuda’s body, too.’

Fulcrom appeared to be processing this fact carefully. ‘So, some sort of artist or craftsman involved? You sure it’s not a cultist?’

‘Seriously doubt it, because they live by their own rules. Plus why such spectacular, unsubtle deaths? That’s not their style at all. They’re more stealthy in their methods.’

‘Maybe the murderer decided to paint an image of his victims? As a keepsake perhaps… I don’t know, I’m just throwing things your way.’

‘The paint could mean anything,’ Jeryd said gloomily. ‘All I can do now is check every jobbing artist in Villjamur.’

Jeryd was suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘Damn!’

‘What?’ Fulcrom said. ‘I can tell you’ve thought of something.’

‘Damn,’ Jeryd repeated, and sat back in his chair. He laughed, his tail thrashing from side to side. ‘How stupid of me. All the time I’ve been telling myself it wasn’t her.’

‘Who?’ Fulcrom sat straighter.

‘The prostitute that Ghuda spent his last night with, she had paintings all over her place. I think I should pay her another visit. Maybe I’ll send Tryst along to keep an eye on her. I just thought it was too obvious, and therefore it didn’t seem right. Only thing is, if she is involved, why?’

‘Who knows why anyone does anything,’ Fulcrom said. ‘Many of our actions are a lot stranger than they need be. Especially humans, led so easily by their emotions.’

Jeryd felt uncomfortable, recalling how susceptible to emotions he himself was.

‘This way, investigator,’ the guard gestured.

Jeryd followed his lead, all the time mulling over his thoughts, the red and grey military uniform at the periphery of his vision. Ten minutes later, he found himself descending into a cold stone corridor that seemed to have no end. Eventually they arrived at a large wooden door. The guard knocked, and it opened.