Nights of Villjamur (18 page)

'Would you like me to show you some other victims,' Tarr said, 'to see how their wounds differ?'

'No thanks,' Jeryd said.

'I'll just show you one more.'

He showed them four.

They entered a chamber lined with recent corpses. Many of the bodies were male, and over thirty. Their faces were peaceful, their wounds dreadful - two inflicted by swords, one from a mace. One of them had clearly died only moments before Jeryd arrived.

Tarr was almost motherly in his pride. 'This one took poison,' he explained, standing next to a body resting on a raised platform. 'It wasn't the poison that actually killed him, because he choked on his own bile. Note the dried blood on his fingertips. He spent his final heartbeats clawing at the stone floor on which he had collapsed.' Tarr shook his head solicitously. It looked as if he wanted to stroke the body to comfort it.

Jeryd shuddered.

They came upon the lute player finally, a young man perched on a crate in the corner of one of the various rooms. The whole place was a network of small chambers. Its complexity reminded Jeryd of the interior of a lung.
What is the real point of this musician - to drown out their dying screams?

'We really must be going shortly,' Jeryd decided.

Tarr eyed the investigator fixedly. 'I hope you can visit again. Not many people seem as comfortable around the dead as you do.'

'My assistant and I, we're pretty used to being around corpses. It comes with Inquisition business.'

'There's far too many that like to avoid being reminded that life tends to be a little shorter than we'd like.'

'Some think it's too long,' Jeryd said. 'Suicide is less rare than you'd think, especially with the ice age on the horizon and families being split because of the lack of accommodation in the city.'

Tarr walked over to inspect a young woman. 'This one was raped, slaughtered, left on her doorstep.' Her face was pale, calm-looking, as if her death came as a relief to the terrible moments leading up to it. 'What a waste every time this happens. Very few people have a true appreciation of life. If we realized death might come upon us at any moment, do you think we'd waste time arguing or fighting or being idle?'

'You can't force people to appreciate such things,' Jeryd said. 'They've got to come to terms with it for themselves. And I suspect that it's rumel nature too, as well as human, not to want to think about it. It's all too sobering for most of us to cope with. Now, we really must be on our way. Do contact me if you need anything from us. Good day, Doctor Tarr.'

*

Tarr watched the two investigators leave, closed the door, then headed back into the chambers. He found the lute player. 'You can stop now. They've gone.'

Tarr heard that hum again, louder than before. As the lute player disappeared into the darkness, leaving Tarr alone, where he waited until the humming ceased.

Dartun Sur entered the chamber.

The cultist leader had been working somewhere else in the building, the doctor did not know where. Maybe it was that damn strange cloak that allowed him to hide so effectively in the shadows. Tarr felt the tall man bearing down on him.

'Dear doctor, that was a wonderful tour you gave our investigator.' Dartun gripped the other man's shoulder.

'Thank you, sir.'

'So, what else've you got for me today? I've just finished working on that last fellow.' Dartun clasped his hands, and looked eagerly around the room as if he were in an iren.

'Another one?' Tarr said.

'Yes, we must keep busy, you know,' Dartun said. 'That's what I was doing in the other room - just a bit of practice on an older corpse. And that was a nice touch of yours, covering it up with the lute player.'

'Well, I couldn't have the investigator poking around and getting suspicious. You should have warned me you were coming. The lute player was the best I could do. I bet our friend Jeryd now thinks I'm totally insane.'

Dartun clasped his hands together. 'Can't have the Inquisition prying around too much. I heard you saying you had some fresh ones? The fresher they are, the easier they are for me to work with.'

'But those ones all have families,' Tarr protested. 'We've not had any unclaimed bodies arrive today.'

'That's a bit of an inconvenience, really.' Dartun frowned, rubbing his chin. He ambled around the room, his boots loud on the stone. 'Listen, d'you think I could reserve the next unclaimed one that comes in? I'm having to . . . begin some other schemes of mine very shortly, and I might need to leave the city very soon. And I could do with a few more corpses, no questions asked.'

Tarr hated Dartun for this secretiveness, but he had been embroiled in it for far too long now. And it was no longer out of choice, since every time Dartun made a suggestion, it seemed to come across more as a threat.

'Right,' Tarr said, 'look, I'll try and keep one for you, but you know this really is most abnormal.'

'So are most things, doctor.' Dartun turned, something flashed in his hands, and even before he walked into the wall he had vanished.

'Why can't he just use the door like everybody else?' Tarr muttered.

Randur made his way through the increasingly bad weather up towards the Imperial residence of Balmacara, his travelling bags slung across his shoulder, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin. Sleet to rain to snow to sleet, Villjamur was now only differing shades of grey, and he prayed to Bohr that the waxed leather on his bags was holding the water at bay or the rest of his clothes would be ruined otherwise. His long hair trailed lankly in front of his eyes. He was thoroughly miserable.

Shitting weather
, he thought.
Just a day of sunshine, that's all I ask for.

Balmacara was an intimidating sight, and its dark stone was imbedded in symmetrical lines with stabs of some shimmering-black material. It seemed impossibly high, almost reaching into the low cloud base. Bold pillars and arches, crenulations in the surface and crenellations crowning towers, all with a design nothing like he'd ever seen, and it didn't even seem to match anything in the city. The building loomed. It imposed itself upon Villjamur.

Having shown his papers to the guards at the gate to the outer compound of Balmacara, he was mortified to see yet more steps rising between two octagonal pillars marking the main entrance.

He wondered what he'd be doing if he was back on Folke. When he had left, people were starting to panic because of the Freeze. People in his hometown had begun building and excavating new homes underground. His mother, fortunately, was going to be looked after by a brother residing in one of the harbour towns, so he knew exactly where she'd be when he returned to find her with the cultist's cure.

As he dragged his sorry, soaking body up the steps to the door of Balmacara two men barred his way, ordinary city guards by the looks of them, red uniform, basic armour, fur-lined hats. After they checked his papers again, he was instructed to wait in the entrance hall.

Though it was impressive on the outside, Randur wasn't expecting quite this level of grandeur or skilful decoration inside Balmacara. In fact, the level of detail and wealth everywhere on display was simply arrogant. There were carvings of naturalistic foliage adorning every wall, every doorway. Gold and silver leaf glittered on the coving and picture frames. Floors and fireplaces were made from slabs of black marble, and elaborate lanterns shone along the main corridor, people's footsteps echoing some way in the distance.

Now this
, Randur thought,
is definitely somewhere I could call home. A fine luxurious lifestyle to match my fine tastes.

Another pair of guards escorted him to an antechamber. Within a heartbeat several more guards had entered, stared at him closely. Randur felt uneasy, began to reach again for his fake identification papers. Then suddenly he saw a young girl approaching defiantly through the corridor of guards. She marched up to him - all long strides and flowing hips, black-haired and definitely cute, but a little innocent for his tastes.

She stood there, and glared at him.

'Morning, lass.' Randur offered her his papers.

She glanced briefly at them without saying a word. He knew enough about girls like that to know to put his documents back in his pocket.

'Randur Estevu.' He risked offering her his hand to shake. 'Can you show me where I need to go?'

'I am Jamur Eir,' she announced, not even glancing at his offered hand. 'I am Stewardess of Villjamur.'

'Ah.'

'I believe, Randur Estevu, that you are the man from Folke?'

'I am, yes.'

'I am, yes,
my lady
,' she snapped. 'Do they not teach manners on your island, or do they breed you all to be as backward as yourself?'

Well, so much for her prettiness lasting, with a scowl like that on her.
He looked her up and down, still considering whether or not to keep on flirting. 'I humbly apologize.
My
lady.' He was never much one for formalities, unless there was a chance things might lead towards a little bedroom action.

'I was expecting someone a little older.'

What was he supposed to say to that? A little older for what? 'So was I,' he returned, his face expressionless.

'Do you have a sword? I can't see one on you.'

'No, they said I wouldn't be allowed to bring one in with me.'

'Well, that's not very useful now, is it? How is a teacher meant to instruct without a sword?'

A teacher? What in Bohr's arse am I supposed to teach?

'At least you don't need one to dance, I suppose,' Eir said.

'Dance?'

'Yes, dance. You did realize you were to teach sword
and
dancing, didn't you?'

'Indeed, lady.'
Ha! So all I have to do is dance and fight!
'I apologize, but my thoughts were distracted momentarily, uhm, by the liquid depth and beauty of your eyes, my lady.' There was a quiet groan from one of the guards, and he flashed her one of his better grins.

'I see there's nothing wrong with your island-boy oiliness.' Eir was already turning away. 'Balmacara is full of men. Don't think I don't know how the male mind works. Well, come along then. We can't have you dripping water all over these floors.'

*

One of the servants showed Randur to his room, a small, well-decorated chamber with animal hides draped across the bed and floor. There was no glass in the window, but a thick tapestry kept the draught out, and a roaring log fire kept the heat coming. Several lanterns gave it a welcoming look. He considered it fit enough for entertaining ladies, should the opportunity arise.

He dumped his belongings on the bed, then turned to the male servant. 'Stewardess of Villjamur is a strange title,' Randur probed. 'What happened to the Emperor?'

'There isn't one, not at the moment.' Little emotion came from the servant's answer. 'The Emperor passed away a few days ago. The lady is in charge of matters until her elder sister, Jamur Rika, returns to the city.'

Jamur Eir looked too young to be in charge, he reflected, but perhaps such a life of public duty had matured her. Her eyes had showed nothing for him to analyse.

Still, he was due to be paid a whole Jamun a month. Which was phenomenally high considering his food and accommodation were also provided.

Over the next hour, Randur discovered more about his new duties, about why they were hiring a dance master from so far away. 'I mean, from Folke of all places,' he had said with surprise. 'I imagine there're numerous candidates to be found around Villjamur.'

Why had the actual Randur Estevu been chosen? Was there some hidden agenda?

*

When they met later, the Lady Eir herself provided the missing details. 'We'll hold a dance competition, which is now a part of my sister's investiture celebration, called the Snow Ball,' Eir explained. 'The problem is that I can't dance particularly well, and it is known that Folke islanders are famous for their skills in that art.'

What a ridiculous name for an event.

Randur remembered how very seriously they took dancing at home. It was more than just entertainment - it was a way of communicating, a kind of language, an art that had to be worked at, assiduously, that could tell stories, heal wounds, bring lovers together or drive them apart. Indeed, a physical expression of the soul. As a child he would often slip out of his mother's house at night to watch the local people expressing themselves in complex physical ways.

'And why sword skills? We know how seriously you Jokull folk take your fighting.' He couldn't help a touch of bitterness as he said it, considering how the now-dependent populations of the Empire didn't exactly bask in the joy of Jokull's military dominance.

'My father's always warned that if I ever found myself in danger, it would be most likely from within the gates of Villjamur. I believe you on Folke have a special art of fighting at close-quarters.'

'Yes,' Randur said. 'We call it
Vitassi
. It was originally part of
Vitassimo
, the dance which is one of our oldest traditions.'