Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [123]
“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 rumors 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 firsthand. 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 gray 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.
A Dawnir stood looking down at Jeryd, who gazed back in awe.
“An investigator here to see you,” the guard announced, then marched away.
Jeryd stared dumbly up at the creature, at the tusks, at the sheer height of him.
“Ah, a rumel!” the Dawnir said, very slowly as if he had just rediscovered speech. “I haven’t seen one of you for so long! Please, please, step this way.” His voice was thunderous, unexpected.
“Thank you.” Jeryd flashed his medallion with its ancient symbol of a triangular crucible, as proof of office. “Investigator Rumex Jeryd, and I take it you’re Jurro?”
“For what a name is worth, that is correct,” the Dawnir replied.
Jeryd watched the creature with fascination. Twice the size of a human, covered thickly in hair, it was an intimidating sight. “I fear I didn’t think you really existed, they were so keen to keep folk away from you.”
“Really? How intriguing. You know, I was beginning to think I didn’t exist either. They keep me locked up here … well not really locked up, but where am I to go? It