Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [18]
The iren behind was busy with traders and customers. A food stand was starting to cook thick hunks of seal meat, the smoke rising between the bridges and balconies higher up. Furs were available straight off the hide—bear, deer, lynx—so that you could craft them yourself in any number of ways. There were shoddy tribal ornaments and spurious island craftsmanship on display. They were manufactured on the cheap, but the people of Villjamur couldn’t tell or, if they did, they certainly didn’t show it.
Randur paid special attention to clothing, noting all the latest styles—tiny collars with little ruffs, pale earthy tones on the women that did nothing for them, two brooches worn where possible right next to each other. The swords people carried tended to be short messer blades, and he thought that they must be more efficient to kill with in the narrow corridors and pathways of Villjamur.
The Inquisition had eventually sealed off the area around the dead body, and they were now beginning to erect wooden panels to hide the death scene.
The rumel approached him, a cool and graceful individual.
“Sele of Jamur to you, sir. I’m Investigator Rumex Jeryd. Could you tell me your name please?”
“Randur Estevu, from Folke. Just arrived this morning.”
“You’re from out of town? I thought I could detect an accent. You speak Jamur well, though. I’m surprised the guards let you in.”
Randur shrugged, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.
“Do you mind if I ask what you’re here for? People from outside aren’t generally admitted because of the Freeze, you see. We get all sorts of trouble here.”
“Not at all. I’ve got employment at the Emperor’s halls, and I’ve shown my identification at each of the three gates. It’s all official.”
“Right, well, we can’t ever be too careful. We’ve got a bit of a refugee problem, as you’ve no doubt seen on your way in.”
“Yeah, poor guys.” Randur pulled up the collars on his cloak. “Are you, y’know, letting them all in before the ice comes?”
“It’s not up to me, but the Council assure the people of the city that the matter’s in hand though. So, can you now tell me everything you saw? Please, leave nothing out.”
“Well, not much to say really. He came running and screaming from up there somewhere.” He indicated an alley at the opposite end of the iren. “Beetles were already swarming all over his wound, then he just collapsed on the ground, right where he is now.”
The rumel scribbled some notes in a small book. “Nothing else that seemed odd or out of place?”
“Everything seems a little odd to me today.”
The rumel grinned. “Welcome to Villjamur, lad.”
Jeryd crouched by the body, taking in the details of the wound, how the blood trickled across the cobbles. A while later he glanced up at Aide Tryst, who was stepping carefully around the confines of the alley. At the far end lay several broken frames and pots of paint from the adjacent gallery.
Around Cartanu Gata, especially where it intersected with the Gata Sentimental, nothing had changed for thirty or forty years, ever since it had been arrogated by the evening bohemians.
All along its lower walls were scribbles etched deep by knife blades over the centuries. Odes to lovers. Threats to all and anyone. Who watches the Night Guard? So-and-so sucks dicks. That sort of thing. Some of the cobbles were splashed with paint, too, and you could smell stale food despite the dampness. At night, lanterns cast long, feral shadows down here, and if there was no breeze the darkness was suffocating in such narrow confines. And there were always rumors of cultist-bred animal hybrids walking along here with awkward gaits before sunrise.
Weighing up all these possibilities, Jeryd