'Me?' replied the man in the hat. 'I just run this little show. I suppose, technically, I'm therefore your killer.'
'But I'm not dead… Am I?' Another glance around the room, just to make sure – but still, none of the signs might encourage him to believe he was in a safe world any more.
'Give it time, dear boy,' the man said. 'A grammatical amendment: I will be your killer. We must be correct on such points! You really did pick the wrong night for a stroll, didn't you?'
Haust felt himself being lifted up, confirming the presence of a rope around his waist – then it occurred to him that the rope wasn't tight, wasn't connected to anything else. As if noting his expression of confusion, the well-dressed man said, 'Oh, it's for hanging you up to drain and cool afterwards. Procedures, procedures, I do tire of them occasionally… you know how these things work.'
Thin smoke trails took the shape of arms, forming faint outlines of bodies, mere wisps of figures smothering him, touching him, caressing his hands, his neck, his face – in a faintly erotic manner – and he noticed how their eyes were suggested by featureless holes.
'What are they?' Haust was petrified – his body shuddering within the resolute grip of these wraiths.
'You're being lifted by what we call Phonoi,' the man told him. 'Grand creatures, aren't they?'
A whisper emerged from one of the apparitions: 'Shall we dump him now, sir…? Shall we?'
'Sir, what will you have us do with him, sir?' another murmured. 'What now?'
'Shall we break his bones?'
'Shall we rip him first?'
'Spill his offal?'
'Can we?'
He was hauled through the air towards a massive cauldron, with fire licking up its sides, steam skimming across its surface. Haust began to shout again, as the smiling-faced man in the top hat offered him a wave and a bow.
A sudden drop, a desperate scream – and for the second time that night, everything faded to black…
ONE
It started with a knock at his door in the middle of the night, then someone urgently whispering his name through the keyhole, a voice he didn't recognize.
'Investigator Jeryd?'
In his still dreamlike state, the words seemed to float towards him like a ghost of sound.
What was going on?
He was in bed with his wife, Marysa, spending his eighth full night in Villiren. Jeryd had only just become used to the late-night noises of the city, the constant hubbub, and people walking by his window at all hours – sounds that played on his mind even when his eyes were closing. Sleep was a precious business, and being in a different bed was like living in a different context. His life felt full of disorder – which was ironic, really, considering that it had now been stripped down to the bare minimum.
He rubbed his hand over his paunch, and absent-mindedly swished his tail back and forth at the tip. Too damn late in the evening for such a disturbance. Over a hundred and something years to reflect on, and he couldn't remember the last time his life seemed like this, so constantly up in the air. Until recently his work had always been his life. He had felt safe when representing the Inquisition of Villjamur. He knew what the routines were, what was expected of him. He had substance, a knowledge of where he did and did not fit in, and now without his regular routine, the confidence of his many years was undermined.
The only calibrator of his previous existence was his wife, Marysa. Marriages had their ups and downs, didn't they, but recently they had both rediscovered their love for each other, and that made his existence just fine. In fact, their separation from their home city had brought them even closer together. He couldn't want much else. He glanced instinctively towards Marysa, whose white hair, such a contrast to her tough black skin, now attracted the glare of one of the moons as it slanted through the shutters in strips. Her own tail wafting gently beneath the sheets, the presence of her sleeping form was deeply comforting.
Again came that whisper: 'Investigator Rumex Jeryd!'
'Oh, hang on!'
Now he was more annoyed at his sleep being disturbed, than curious as to the reason someone wanted to speak to him. For a moment he lay there thinking, If someone calls on you in the middle of the night it's seldom to tell you anything nice. Should I bother seeing who it is?
Embers were still glowing in the grate, and the dust that had accumulated over the years in the room was pungent. This was only temporary accommodation because, with a war predicted, he didn't know how long he'd stick around here.
'Please, open up.' The voice was calm and firm, one clearly used to issuing orders.
Focus, Jeryd.
He flipped himself out of bed, hanging his legs over the end. Already wrapped up in thick layers, he was wearing outside them an outrageous pair of red night-breeches with hundreds of tiny gold stars stitched into the fabric. Marysa had bought them for him on their way out of Villjamur. She claimed he was too grumpy, that he needed cheering up, that he should smile more often. Vaguely ashamed, the ability to smile almost forgotten, he tiptoed across the room, his heels creaking on the floorboards.
A spider scurried across the floor, then under the cupboard, and he froze. This was Jeryd's secret shame: he feared and hated the creatures, always had since he was a child. They infested him with paralysis and brought him out in a cold sweat. The bulbous shape, their skittering movements – such disgusting creatures.
Shuddering, but now very much awake, he crouched to look through the keyhole, but could only see blackness beyond…
Then an almost red eye appeared on the other side and stared back at him.
Jeryd jumped back and said, 'Just a moment.' He opened the door.
An albino was standing there, his pale skin glowing white even in this light, so you might easily think him a ghost. A Jamur star was pinned to his breast, conspicuous against the black fabric of his uniform. 'Sele of Jamur, Investigator Jeryd. I'm Commander Lathraea.'
Jeryd recognized the softly spoken officer, one he had known from Villjamur but never met. He was a tall man, with narrow cheeks, a thin nose, and there was the faint whiff of aristocracy about him. But Jeryd had heard he possessed a little grit and know-how, qualities to be admired, attributes he could rely on. He'd also heard stories about how good this man was with a sword, how logical his mind was on a battlefield, how unusually compassionate he was as a leader.
'Sele of Jamur, commander,' he mumbled in response, rubbing his eyes. 'What can I do for you?'
The commander moved aside as Jeryd stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door shut to allow Marysa some quiet. For a moment, the officer eyed Jeryd's breeches with fascination. Why couldn't she have bought him a pair in black or brown, a colour that would blend with the night? Red with gold stars, indeed.
The commander continued, 'I put the word about for an investigator, and was told you'd come up recently from Jokull. I'd rather put my trust in someone from any other island than this one.'
Jeryd liked that because it confirmed two suspicions right away. One, the commander was a man who operated on loyalty; and two, Jeryd wasn't the only one to assume this city was full of scumbags.
He replied, 'Well, I'm as paranoid as any man can become these days, so your secrets are safe with me, commander. Though you could also say I'm not exactly welcome back there…'
'What did you do to end up here?'
Only piss off the Chancellor – now Emperor – by uncovering corruption at the heart of the Empire. Then went on the run from those who might call me in. Came to the only city in the Empire that takes the law into its own hands, and whose Inquisition is independent of the Villjamur – though it's not meant to be. Therefore found somewhere I could use my official medallion and connections to get work, and not starve during this ice age. All without any questions being asked. These were the things he wanted to say, just to tell anyone to get it off his chest.