Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [63]
They did not.
The snowballs came arcing through the air, but exploded too short, smashed at his feet, and he smiled. “Not today, lads.”
He turned, sniffed the chill air, began to walk away—
—A snowball slapped his head.
Bastards.
He could see the blond and the redhead running off, their arms windmilling with excitement, the others nowhere to be seen, then all that was left was the echo of laughter as snow dripped off Jeryd’s head.
Robes wrapped tight around him, snowballs nowhere to be seen, Jeryd proceeded along one of the lesser known paths of the city, his breath clouding in front of his face like a ghost that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He ran what few details there were of Delamonde Ghuda’s murder over and over in his mind. The case was particularly difficult because the number of people who might have a motive to murder the councilor were high. So, a high-profile death, and such a cruel way of dying.
The only likely cause could have been use of a relic, so that made a cultist the most likely suspect. But in general, cultists seemed to have no use for councilors, considered that they operated at a level above government. Above everyone else, in fact. And because of their valuable services in military campaigns, cultists tended to remain on good terms with those high up in Villjamur. So no, a cultist didn’t seem likely after all, although he still had to consider them.
He would have to penetrate the Council Atrium to find out what projects Ghuda was working on before he was killed. It must have been something significant, if his murder was the best way to stall it.
And what about the woman, Tuya, who was the last person to see him alive? Nor was he looking forward to confronting Ghuda’s wife to explain how he had spent his final night on earth.
On top of all of this, he was due to meet with his own wife, Marysa, this evening. And how was he going to persuade her to come back to him?
What a day.
Tryst had arranged to meet him later. The young human was currently “interrogating” a man suspected of burglary that had taken place in a street in Caveside. Jeryd let him get on with it on his own, because torture was something Tryst was good at—and it wouldn’t necessarily be physical. Tryst had a gift for mental torture, would frequently have the suspect in fits of tears or else exploding with rage. Either way, he got what he wanted, which suited Jeryd fine so long as it was conducted within the legal guidelines. You had to do things by the book or those higher up would use it against you, some day when you happened to fall out of favor.
Jeryd loved this side of the city. He was now standing just beyond the Astronomer’s Glass Tower, its bizarre octagonal structure towering above him, its expanses of glass capturing a rare moment of red sunlight that was trying to penetrate the cloud and mist. This side of Villjamur was certainly preferable to the neighborhood adjoining the caves. Unfortunately, most of his cases inevitably led to Caveside. Living conditions were terrible there, back where poverty was kept hidden out of sight. Inferior sanitation pervaded the area with a constant stench, though many might think it preferable to being locked outside the city.
Armed with questions, he approached a little house virtually hidden among its neighbors. Despite being so central within the city, people usually walked straight past the place as if they didn’t want to see, without even knowing they were doing so. Its inconspicuous metal door was set in smooth pale stone. He knocked firmly and waited, and it was eventually opened by a raven-haired woman, her long, thin face pallid and gaunt.
She was a banshee.
“Morning. Investigator Rumex Jeryd. I have a few questions.”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice was soothingly deep as they always