Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [122]
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 likable and trustworthy manner that made people open up to him. Jeryd considered the other rumel undoubtedly handsome, and Fulcrom always wore the smartest gray 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 councilor, 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