The arch-inquisitor gave a hollow laugh, which evolved into a cough. His aides passed him a wooden cup, and the old rumel slurped gratefully. 'Well, we've a frayed relationship with the Council, I fear, so please don't ruin it further.'
Jeryd said nothing, thinking, I don't give one iota as long as things get done and the streets are safe again.
*
The air was constantly filled with a bone-chilling sleet, enough to make you think that the sky was breaking up, that you would never again see the sun. People opened doors and windows to the same dismal sight every morning, hoping for a little sun, perhaps naively. It sent disappointment through the city like ripples on a pond of depression.
Jeryd showed his Inquisition medallion to the guards at the city level where Balmacara stood. The three grim- looking men eyed Jeryd and Tryst suspiciously, even more so after Jeryd reminded them of the rights of the Inquisition – including freedom of the city of Villjamur, free pass to all quarters of the Empire, which was the sort of privilege no guard wanted to hear. The pair of visitors left their horses to be led off to the stables to one side, and proceeded to climb the main steps leading to the Atrium.
Chancellor Urtica came to meet them with a well-rehearsed grin, a lightness in his step.
'Ah, the investigator,' Urtica said cheerfully. 'I'm delighted to welcome you to our humble chambers. May I ask you how you'd like to proceed?'
Jeryd shook his hand. 'I'm Investigator Rumex Jeryd, and this is Aide Tryst.'
'Aide Tryst,' the chancellor acknowledged. 'Sele of Jamur to you both.'
Jeryd noticed a strange look in Urtica's face, a sort of flicker of facial muscles – the classic, knowing look that suggested he might have met Tryst before. And if that was the case, Jeryd wondered how it would have been possible.
'As you know, we're here to follow up on the murder of Delamonde Ghuda,' Jeryd confirmed.
'Good.' The chancellor's face darkened. 'He was… a close friend of mine. Any idea yet who might have committed such a foul crime, investigator?'
'Some leads,' Jeryd said. 'But there's a lot of questions that still need asking. I'd like to see Ghuda's chambers, and trust that everything has been left exactly as it was?'
'I can't guarantee that precisely, but much of it is how it was.'
'Have you been in there yourself?' Jeryd enquired.
'Of course. Many of the documents were worked on by the two of us.'
'You were close then, it seems. Did Ghuda have any enemies? Anyone who would've wanted him out of the way?'
'We all would,' Urtica smiled. 'It's the nature of our position. We can't hope to please everyone, all the time.'
'That's not really answering my question, is it?' Jeryd said, perhaps more sharply than he should have.
'I can't think of anyone who would specifically want him killed, let's put it that way.' The chancellor glanced past Jeryd, down the corridor. Jeryd followed his stare. Some of the other Council members were heading through a large marble arch. 'You'll have to excuse me, investigator, but I've a meeting to attend. Feel free to contact me again, once I'm finished.'
Urtica brushed past him, proceeding down the corridor.
Tryst meanwhile was staring absent-mindedly at a tapestry on the wall.
Jeryd turned to the guard escorting them. 'Show me Ghuda's chamber.'
*
Smooth stone, dark-wooden panels, the smell of decay – such were the chambers in which every Council member performed his or her administrative duties. The decoration and carvings were old yet rich, as if, Jeryd thought dryly, to remind each official of the wealth they enjoyed at the top. Something that said Look how far you've come. Plinths held small busts of the Emperors of the current dynasty: Haldun, his son Gulion, Goltang, and of course mad old Johynn himself. Parchments were heaped upon a large wooden desk situated beneath a window that was carved in the mock-Azimuth design: simple rectangles, elegant precision. The view wasn't spectacular: a dreary sea and the sheer cliff face. Pterodettes had nested in the crevices of the latter, and their faeces stained it in bold grey streaks. None the less it was certainly an improvement on Jeryd's office.
The investigator had sent Tryst to interview one of the guards about the councillor's daily movements, something to get an impression of his typical routine. Jeryd was beginning to suspect his human assistant. The way he made eye contact with Chancellor Urtica had been rather unsettling. For the moment, Jeryd thought it best to get him out of the way. In this job, you had to follow your hunches.
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 labourers 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 councillors – their deceit and self-preservation were 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 labour 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 enquiries 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 plough 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 OK. I need the silence to concentrate.' Jeryd began to cough violently again, rested 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 written in some sort of code. One symbol at the top, though, he did recognize: a rough sketch of a boar. Instinctively, he looked back to the floor, began rummaging though the broken pieces, then paused to pick up
