Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [71]
Home to a lot of the oldest shops in the city, this street was a haven for antiques dealers, traders in exotic products, spice dealers. On one side stood three cheap hotels. But things changed significantly at night: the street in front became the hangout for dealers of less respectable substances. Quick hand movements in the moonlight, and something illegal was exchanged at an extravagant price. It was where you might meet a cultist who needed quick money, and some said that you could buy weird animals, sleek-looking hybrids, but Jeryd had never seen any in all his years.
As Jeryd headed down a narrow side alley, memories came flooding back of regularly accompanying Marysa here when they were both much younger. He couldn’t think of the last time she’d actually held his hand, but when they were still in love she’d drag him along to look at all those items that appealed to her. He was once so keen to learn about her interests, to discover more about her. It must have been over a hundred years ago when he first started coming down this way, waiting outside the shops in the sun, enjoying a moment to himself as she rustled around inside. He still wanted to hold on to the idea of his being with Marysa, even if things didn’t work out this time. Perhaps, in his old age, he was becoming sentimental, like humans did. Perhaps there were fewer differences between the two hominid species than anyone cared to admit.
Stepping over a bolting rat, Jeryd entered one particular antiques store that looked familiar, and the door chime rang. His eyes adjusted to the murkiness, taking in piles of antiques stacked awkwardly wherever you looked, suggesting that one misjudged step on an uneven floorboard would bring about an expensive catastrophe. An old woman was standing behind the counter, while another stood with her back turned about ten armspans away. They looked identical, both in similar overdresses, the sorts with floral patterns like the ones you used to see about thirty years ago, but now faded from over-washing. Knickknacks and ornaments spilled on the floor amid random furniture. Strange instruments, pottery, art were propped up against any available wall space. Desperately, he hoped there were no spiders under all these objects waiting for him: because arachnids were this tough investigator’s hidden shame.
Jeryd stepped carefully around the large room searching for something that might appeal to Marysa, some small token to impress her, to show her that he still loved her. Was there possibly one item that could do all that on its own? Probably not. He tried desperately to think about the things she used to like, cursing his inability to make a decision. He scratched his head as he leaned over tables, picking up items, replacing them immediately.
Ever so slowly he started to mumble in frustration.
“Talking to yourself, investigator? Maybe she’d like some of the brass instruments over there. They’re enough to pique the interest of the most ardent collector.”
Tuya was wearing a light-blue robe, a color rarely favored in current fashions, with a straw hat tilted down over the side of her face. He tried not to let his vision linger on her lissom figure, that could be noted despite her thick clothing. Pouting lips, all cheekbones and soft edges, there was an uncomfortable intensity about this woman.
“You said your wife collected antiques, so you’re here to buy her something, aren’t you?”
She fingered a wooden statuette by her side. “You should at least consider some of the items over there. There’re some fine nautical gadgets.”
Tuya led him away.
She explained the various items to him in a way that unsettled him, though he couldn’t work out exactly why. Maybe because he remembered similar times with Marysa. He wondered if it was wrong to be talking so casually, and made the decision to be wary of her charms. Greater rumel in the Inquisition than himself had succumbed to feminine wiles.
A musky smell in these rooms, the stale aroma of time having passed, the