Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [35]
How had her existence got to this point?
Was the reason that she had become capital—goods and services?—was that why she would remain trapped in Villjamur? She suspected that her position was shared, in some ways, by many other ladies in the city. Mothers and housewives, and women like her who might actually earn money. For as long as women could be viewed in such transactional manners, their emancipation would remain incomplete. When had it become too late to change everything? Did she even choose this lifestyle or did it force itself upon her?
Sighing, she went back to her bed, lay down, drew the sheets over her. Watched the light through the window. Listened to the busy sounds of the city.
And closed her eyes.
Jeryd knocked, and a woman eventually opened the door. She wore just a flimsy gown that wasn’t going to keep out the chill. Red hair, a fuller figure, the sort that came with a little expensive dining now and then. Down one side of her face was a livid scar and Jeryd tried desperately not to focus on it.
“Investigator Rumex Jeryd, Villjamur Inquisition.” He held up his Inquisition medallion. “And this is Aide Tryst. We’re investigating the murder of Delamonde Ghuda, and we’re hoping you can help us with our inquiries.”
“Delamonde Ghuda?” she said. “Oh, my … Come in, please. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Jeryd said.
Tryst took out a pencil and notebook.
She found two ornate wooden chairs, and placed them for the men to sit on near the window.
“Many thanks,” Tryst said, seating himself.
“These are impressive.” Jeryd indicated the chairs, but remained standing. He decided that he didn’t want to get too comfortable. “Antiques?”
“Yes. Do you yourself collect, investigator?”
“Nah,” Jeryd replied, glancing over at Tryst who merely stared around the room. “My wife was once a collector of sorts. Sometimes I tagged along with her to various markets. Never got into it myself, but I can recognize something half decent.” For a moment he appreciated the fact that Marysa had taught him enough to pick out a decent antique. Then appreciation transformed into pain, again.
“Was once a collector. You’re no longer married then?” Tuya said, sitting down on the bed, her crossed legs revealed in the gap in her gown.
Jeryd sighed, “We’re here to investigate a murder, Miss …?”
“Daluud. Tuya Daluud.”
Tryst began taking notes as Jeryd began his routine, “You were seen with the victim on the evening of the murder.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, that’s right.”
“What exactly is it you do for a living, may I ask?”
She said, “You two are men of the world, I take it?”
Jeryd glanced at Tryst, then back to Tuya. “Where’s this leading?”
“Follow me.” She gestured them over to the elaborate door leading to her bedroom, paused them briefly with her outstretched arm. “Just a quick glimpse, okay?” Then she opened the door.
It was clearly a whore’s boudoir. Luxurious bed, oils, candles, the large mirrors, the smell of sex. Jeryd stepped back out of the room, nodding to Tryst, who blinked rapidly. Tuya closed the door and turned back to them.
Only then did Jeryd realize just how tall she was. “None of this is of any concern to us, Miss Daluud.”
“I know.”
Jeryd placed his hands in his pockets, walked slowly around her living room, noting further the fine ornaments, paintings, furnishings. “Still, it obviously pays well.”
“Yes, and there’s no one else for me to spend the money on. But at least I get time to myself, and to pursue my other pleasures.”
Jeryd paused, looking over at Tryst