Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [89]
He sifted through some of the parchments and scrolls strewn on the desk. They detailed movements of monies between some of the outer-island estates and Villjamur—most of the land across the Empire was owned by private individuals through inheritance or conquest. That way, the most efficient farms could be rewarded, and advancement in techniques easily encouraged. But recently large movements of funds were being treated as suspicious, especially if they were possibly being used by the wealthy to smuggle extra servants and laborers into Villjamur before the Freeze.
None of this stuff was of any use to Jeryd, however.
He moved on to a decree of death imposed upon several thieves from Caveside, for attempting to smuggle in refugees. One law for the rich, he sighed. He perused a scroll for transportation of grain to the Dragoons now being sent to Folke. He read about a landowner who was selling up all his properties before he came to the city to escape the ice. He read documents authorizing the movement of slaves from Folke to the mines on Tineag’l.
All in all, it was uninspiring stuff, and none of it seemed quite right, as if they had been left deliberately on his desk to create a positive image of Ghuda. Nothing damaging would have been left for the Inquisition to discover. These were politicians, after all.
There must have been somewhere that Ghuda concealed his private documents. It was always the way with councilors—their deceit and self-preservation was legendary.
There must be a loose stone in the wall, or maybe an opening behind a wooden panel. He felt along the walls first—no loose bricks. He tapped along the wood, but it all seemed to be set firmly against stone anyway. He approached the busts, eyed them. He picked up the one of Goltang, the Emperor who had died over two thousand years ago. Jeryd wondered how the artist could ever have carved something true to life. Goltang was the man who had created the Empire leading to its domination of the Boreal Archipelago, the land of the red sun. A history of brutal campaigns, then raping island resources and forcing subsidiary tribes into labor in his name. The history books said that he was exporting progress. And he did all this without recourse to cultist technologies, something his successors couldn’t cope without.
Jeryd set Goltang down, picked up an image of Johynn. The first thing he noticed was how light this statue was in comparison. He brought it to his ear then shook it. Something rattled inside. With a smile, he casually dropped it on the floor. It smashed into several large fragments, but with a piece of paper sticking out underneath.
Tryst entered the room without knocking. “Everything all right in here, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” Jeryd said blandly. “I just got a bit careless and knocked one of these chaps off their plinths with my tail. How’re your own inquiries going?”
“So, so,” the human replied. “I’m gradually building up a picture of his routine. All pretty dull stuff if you ask me.”
“It’s all essential, though,” Jeryd pointed out. “I don’t suppose you could fetch me a mug of hot water, could you? This cold weather’s playing havoc with my poor old chest.” He coughed for a little effect. “After that, why don’t you head back to the Inquisition chambers while I stay here and plow through all those documents. I’ll see if there’s anything worth taking away with us.”
“You sure?” Tryst’s voice betrayed suspicion. “I don’t mind helping you.”
“No, it’s okay. I need the silence to concentrate.” Jeryd began to cough violently again, resting one arm against the wall to enhance his performance.
“Certainly, investigator. I’ll fetch your hot water.” Tryst left the room, shut the door behind him.
Jeryd bent down to pick up the piece of paper. He unfolded it fully, regarded the strange lettering and symbols. It was clearly