Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [53]
He heard the bell tower strike thirteen: midday already, and he was meant to be meeting Tryst to look more closely at the body of Councilor Ghuda.
Jeryd swore at the horse that splashed an icy puddle onto his breeches. Tryst, a good armspan away, stared at Jeryd in faint amusement as the offending carriage proceeded into the distance.
The iren across the road was packed. Cold in the shade of a nest of architectural monstrosities, dozens of stalls lined the cobbled streets edging this trading center of the city, not far from the Council Atrium. The investigator’s hands were clasped behind his back as he glanced casually at the arrays of food imported in from the surrounding agricultural communities where cultists had been treating crops to help yields survive the bad weather.
Noticing a display of several pots, vases, ornaments, he made a mental note to investigate some of the antiques shops further away in the city’s expensive iren district during his lunch hour. Maybe he could find an interesting object for Marysa, something to impress her when they met for dinner. Moving on, he guided Tryst up a spiral passageway leading to the next level of the city.
Along some of these higher roads they encountered some huge flies that must have just swarmed in, their wings a handspan wide. They were feeding near the stables of the chancellor’s horses. They made a rather pleasant drone, and in a mildly disgusted way, he admired them. Usually they were harmless enough, occurring in twos or threes, the pterodettes keeping their numbers in check. It was not known if these giant insects had some collective consciousness, but he remembered investigating an odd incident last year, where a two-bit stage cultist used some of these creatures in his routine, to aid with his levitation. One night the insects picked him up, led him to a window, then promptly dropped him to his death. No one in the audience seemed to care that much at the time.
The investigator and his assistant reached a low wooden door set in an unimpressive stretch of limestone. Whereas much of the upper city was decorated and ornamental, this thoroughfare was plain to the point of functional. A remnant from earlier days, perhaps, in a city that had changed its perspectives innumerable times.
Jeryd knocked, turned to Tryst and explained, “This should bring some leads, I hope.”
Tryst was silent.
“It was the Big Date last night, wasn’t it?” Jeryd leaned against the wall, folded his arms.
“Yes, it was nice,” Tryst murmured. “But we didn’t kiss at the end.”
“Bloody hell, it doesn’t always have to end with a kiss. You should be happy it didn’t end with a slap.” He banged on the door again.
This time it opened, and a man with a haggard face beckoned the two of them inside, his white gown stained an alarming red down the front. “I’m sorry to have kept you gentlemen waiting, but I was in the middle of cleaning a corpse. My name’s Doctor Tarr, and I’m pleased to meet you.” He offered a wrinkled hand.
Jeryd eyed it uncertainly, and introduced himself and Tryst. So this was Tarr, then, a man who dealt daily with the dead. Jeryd wondered if he would be as jolly or remote compared to the other doctors he had worked with in the past. They were certainly an odd bunch, these people who chose to spend their day away from the living.
“It’s interesting to finally meet you, after reading so many of your forensic reports these last couple of years,” Jeryd said. “And interesting that we should meet over Councilor Ghuda, certainly my biggest case.”
“Yes, yes, Delamonde Ghuda is a most interesting case.” Doctor Tarr gestured for them to follow him.
There were no windows in the room they entered, which was lit poorly by lanterns. Due to a proliferation of dried flowers and herbs, the odor wasn’t as bad as Jeryd thought it would be. There was a faint melody coming from another room. “You employ a musician here?” he asked in surprise.
Doctor Tarr stopped. “Why, yes, of course.” He glanced