Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [97]
“A word with you later,” Urtica whispered.
“Of course, Magus.” Tryst retreated with a deferential bow, and the next man stood ready to receive his dripping reward.
After the proceedings, Urtica walked with Tryst back to the city proper.
As they traversed one of the bridges, Urtica paused to lean on one of the thick stone parapets, examining the city from this great height. A sea mist had come in, now filtering through the city. Occasional citizens appeared, walking it like ghosts with lanterns held out in front of them. There was the stench from crates of rotting vegetables discarded in corners behind bistros and taverns, disturbed occasionally by cats rooting through them for rodents. One of the tavern doors opened spilling light, and a group of men piled out into the cold evening air, singing wildly about a previous Emperor who had wrecked carnage all across Jokull.
Urtica glanced up to some of the narrow windows on the spire towers. Faint dabs of light, shadows moving inside the warmth. After a nod of confirmation from him, Tryst lit some prerolled arum weed, the embers glowing at the tip. Urtica didn’t mind a few bad habits now and then.
“I love these bridges, Tryst,” Urtica confessed. “They offer such a wonderful view, you can see nearly everything going on. And still, even after all these hundreds of years, the citizens below us always forget that other people can watch their movements at any time.”
“Indeed, Magus,” Tryst said, stepping up alongside the chancellor. “Anyone would think the whole place was designed with voyeurism in mind.”
“Perhaps,” Urtica sighed. “Yet I love this city. There is so much that it can do.”
“A pity the ice age restricts it,” Tryst said.
“Not a lot we can do about that,” Urtica said. “However, it’ll only last for a few decades. We inside can outlive that.” He then eyed the refugee camps, and the smoke-striated sky.
“It’ll mean we come back stronger, afterward.” Urtica slapped the stone with his palm, turned to face Tryst directly. “Your commander. Investigator Rumex Jeryd. What do you honestly think about him?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
He took another drag on the roll-up and breathed slowly into the night. “Well, Magus, it’s complicated. I mean we used to be good friends, and admittedly, he has helped me a lot. But now I feel differently because he’s thwarting my promotion.”
“All about the age thing?” Urtica suggested.
“Indeed. Because I won’t live as long as a rumel, he reckons I’ll never become experienced enough. So, he won’t do anything to help me. He won’t even try.”
“Of the fellow himself, then—is he a competent Inquisition officer?”
“Oh, yes, he’s good at his job. But he’ll never break with tradition. Won’t even try.” He scowled. “I think I deserve better.”
“Well, I’m not sure I like the sound of him too much,” Urtica said. “Now, I don’t want him removed either. That would only draw attention. It might suggest corruption in the Council. No, if he’s as good as some folk say then I hope he’ll find the murderer. I find something unnerving, though.” Urtica shivered as a damp wind stirred his robe. “I want him to find the killer, yet I don’t want him delving so deeply into Council business that he might stumble into Ovinist territory. Not now, with all these plans I have for us. He strikes me as one who takes his work extremely seriously, and I can’t risk him exposing us.”
Tryst said, “You wish me to help in some way?”
“Yes, tell me if there’s anything we can distract him with so he does not dig too deep.”
Tryst related the renewed relationship of Jeryd and Marysa, that he messed up things with her before, couldn’t afford to do so again.
“This might prove useful,” Urtica said. “Perhaps you could distract our investigator by somehow disrupting their relationship. I don’t know how,