Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [17]
It was only natural the couple would drift apart. One night she looked right at him, through him, continued that fixed stare, as if she was weighing up there and then whether to leave him. There was no argument, no discussion, and he didn’t even want to ask in case he found out some harsh truth.
When the truth did arrive, it wasn’t such a bitter exit, and that somehow made things even worse. Sometimes when he closed his eyes he could hear her footsteps as she departed, the sight of her tail trailing out before the door finally closed. The stillness of the room afterward. He didn’t think there was another rumel man involved. He supposed there had never been any real man in her life, which was why she went. She had left only a forwarding address, and an instruction for him not to follow her there.
Jeryd was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with his life.
Not only that, but those kids from further along his street had been throwing stones at his windows again. Every winter they’d regularly arc snowballs into the door, and he’d end up answering it to encounter nothing as they vanished with urban skill down lanes and backstreets. They knew he was a member of the Inquisition all right, and that prestigious honor only made him more of a target. He had become a badge of honor, a snowball medal, the ultimate highlight of their day.
Bastards.
He looked up from his desk in mid-yawn as his aide, Tryst, entered his office. “Work keeping you up late, Jeryd?”
“Like always,” Jeryd replied. “But I try my best.”
He studied the young human form of Investigator-Aide Tryst, though didn’t linger on his athletic physique, bright blue eyes or his thick dark hair. He wasn’t even envious, strictly speaking, but the young man was a reminder of times long past—a hundred years ago, or thereabouts, when Jeryd had kept himself trim. Still, Jeryd retained a sharp mind, and he had his experiences.
Something wasn’t right, however. “What’s wrong this time?” Jeryd asked. “Is it about the promotions? You know I think you’re one of the best aides there is. You’re nearly family to me by now, but you’re a human—and rules are rules.”
Jeryd felt bad for not actually nominating Tryst to be promoted, considering the young aide had shown great promise, had done well to even achieve his current position. They’d worked on hundreds of cases together. Jeryd genuinely wanted to nominate him, but knew how the powers-that-be would frown upon it. Humans were simply not allowed to achieve senior positions in the Inquisition. They didn’t live long enough, and it was as simple as that. A rumel averaged around two hundred years, which meant truly great wisdom could only be achieved by that species. It was an ancient ruling, decreed by the first Emperor, to help smooth over the uneasy coexistence of the two hominid races. You couldn’t break tradition, so Tryst would go no further.
“It’s not that,” Tryst said, with a glance to the floor. “That’s fine. I understand.” Clearly, it was still a sore point, whatever he might say. “No, you’d better come and see for yourself. Warkur is out of the city, so they need you to take a look at the scene.”
“I hope it’s not the refugees again,” Jeryd said. “We could do without another scene there.”
“No, not that. It’s a murder.”
“Murder?” Jeryd said, standing up, his tail perfectly still.
“Yes. Very high profile.” Tryst said. “We’ve only recently heard the banshee’s keening. It’s a councilor, this time.”
Randur studied the rumel investigator and his aide. They both wore official-looking robes in dark red, although the rumel wore brown breeches underneath, as if he never really liked his uniform. They were taking notes at the scene of the death, where Randur had been told to remain as a witness. He hadn’t encountered many rumel on Folke and now wondered if it was their evolving alongside humans that resulted in both species becoming so alike in their thinking. Was it nature or nurture? It was probably a result of both.
The rumel was black-skinned, and