Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [125]
“I thought as much, but it is nice for it to be confirmed. I’m a sponge for facts.”
“Maybe you need to get out a bit more.”
“I plan to.”
“Tryst.” Investigator Jeryd leaned into his subordinate’s office—a small, stone room with no windows. A lantern stood on the desk at which the young human sat.
Tryst looked up from the documents he was working on. “Jeryd, please, come in.” Tryst stood up, motioned for Jeryd to enter the room.
The rumel stepped in, then he looked behind the door before shutting it firmly. He glanced at the plate of fried locusts to one side. Always eating, still as slender as a Salix tree, damn him. “Working on anything special?”
“Just going over financial accounts from one of the smaller Council treasuries. I’m looking out for any movements of monies that could be of interest.” Upon seeing Jeryd’s expression, he then added, “You look as if you’ve something on your mind.”
Jeryd keenly wanted to discuss what the Dawnir had revealed, but not just yet. Aide Tryst wasn’t quite senior enough to be entrusted with something so … profound. And besides, Jeryd had his reservations about the man’s character. “I wonder if you could do me a favor, as I had some new ideas about the murder of those councilors. I think we were right at the beginning—in suspecting the prostitute— though I haven’t got anything solid yet.” Jeryd related his latest thoughts.
Tryst leaned back in his chair, the lantern light casting a savage shadow across his face. “Sounds worth looking into, but what did you have in mind?”
“I want her shadowed,” Jeryd explained. “Maybe you could observe her for a few days.”
“Are you too busy yourself then?”
He’s shrewd, this one, Jeryd thought, his tail twitching in irritation. “Yes, I am. I’m seeking out a motive, so I want to spend the next few days examining Council activities.”
“Okay,” Tryst said. “I’ll start later today.”
All through the afternoon Jeryd scrutinized his notes, tried to work out how everything added up. Perhaps a little self-indulgently he had seated himself in the corner of a favorite bistro, ordered a sweet pastry and a beaker of hot juniper tea. What he was doing was too sensitive to be pursued within the Inquisition chambers.
He was getting really paranoid.
What did it all mean? Why would one of the esteemed Council be planning the death of so many people? Was that why Ghuda and Boll were killed? Did someone find out what they were up to? And, above all, who was the coded message from? At least, he had Tryst watching the prostitute. Hopefully the young human would find out something useful.
The bistro was fairly quiet. Across the stone-flagged room sat an old couple dressed in matching smart brown tunics, like they used to make down Foulta Gata when the cotton boom was in full swing, a classic Villjamur stitch. They were sitting drinking tea, each reading a book, perfectly comfortable in each other’s silent presence, and every time the man finished a chapter he would look up and smile at his partner. A few weeks back, Jeryd would have found the pair simply depressing, but now he warmed to such a display of affection.
This was a time of day when the city would pause. The morning throng had had its moment, the bustle had gone, and in the bistros you mostly found only those who chose to drink alone to ruminate. Even the serving girl looked a little distant, either anxious to go home or taking a moment to relax before it became busy again.
Jeryd contemplated his next move on the Council, how he would spy on them, digging deep in order to find out who was working on what. He would send a message, to each councilor in private, warning how their lives might be at risk unless they opened up. He folded up his notes, threw some coins on the table and turned to leave, eyeing the old couple as the man brought his loved one’s hand to his lips.
What a city, Jeryd thought. What a place to live, despite the extremes of existence here. The