‘Point taken.’

‘So,’ Jeryd said, ‘I take it, as usual, you knew he’d be killed.’

‘Yes, but not until he was.’

Whatever the hell that means… ‘And it was too late by that point?’

‘It always is. We’re not life-savers.’ She drummed her slender fingers on the table. For a moment Jeryd was distracted by the rings adorning them that caught the dull light of the room.

‘No one suggested you were. So you were… in the area then? Or at least on the scene pretty quick.’

‘Yes, I was, as you say, in the area. I was merely buying some vegetables. Then came the vision – and you know what happens after that.’

‘Right,’ Jeryd said. ‘Up until that point, you saw nothing?’

‘No more than any normal person would.’

‘What about after?’

‘Again, no more than other people who came on the scene afterwards. I got there in reasonable time, but I saw nothing strange.’

Jeryd straightened. ‘OK, so tell me about the vision you experienced, if you don’t mind.’

‘It was like any other – the same glimpse through the eyes of the victim at his final heartbeat. Except… well, all I saw was a shadow, but it was like… like nothing I’ve seen before. A wild creature of some kind, I’d say. And then it seemed to disappear into the light – upwards.’

‘Go on,’ Jeryd said. This was the first concrete statement he’d received so far. If you could trust a banshee.

‘That’s it, just a shadow. A creature I’ve never seen before. Then I knew where I’d find him. And I instantly felt as if I wanted to vomit, so I knew he was just about to die.’

Jeryd said, ‘And you can tell me nothing more about the creature?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What did it look like?’

‘I can’t tell.’ She began to seem impatient. ‘It was definitely not human or rumel. That’s all.’

‘OK. There were no flashes in your vision that might indicate who’d want him dead?’

‘No, investigator. City politics makes little difference to our lives.’

A chair scraped over to one side in the other room, and Jeryd glimpsed one of the other banshees rush outside. As she slammed the door behind her, one of the lanterns flickered.

He turned to regard Mayter Sidhe once again. ‘Anything strange happening that you know of?’

‘Nothing that seems related. There’re rumours of some of the Council members being Ovinists…’

Jeryd was aware those rumours had been circulating for years, the degrees of information depending on which tavern you drank in. Stories told of politicians gathered in darkened rooms drinking pig’s blood. Divining secrets from these animals’ hearts. Bathing in offal. Ritualistic slaughter. Even if it was true, it was all possibly harmless. How much damage could you do with a dead pig?

‘Well,’ Jeryd said, ‘I’ve not seen any evidence of such practices. And it’s very hard to bring the law down on those who think they’re above it. Short of forcing them all into a Jorsalir church for cleansing, there’s not a lot we can do.’

Faintly, in the distance, there was a scream, and he realized that it must have come from the woman who had left a few minutes earlier.

Meanwhile, Mayter Sidhe regarded him with an unsettling gaze. Jeryd never knew what these banshees really thought about anything: they never opened up, never showed any emotion. Yet they seemed to get distraught and upset whenever a death was near, as if they felt the same pain, and were sharing it with the sufferer. Nor did they ever seem to age. Mayter Sidhe herself could be anywhere between forty and ninety years, yet she looked eternally young, didn’t she, and even vaguely beautiful. If anyone knew much about the secrets of these witch women of Villjamur, they didn’t share them. Amid all gossip purveyed in the taverns of the city, the banshees were least spoken of. Perhaps it was a healthy fear that they could announce anyone’s death simply at their own volition. As there existed the possibility it could be your own death, he felt it was best not to anger them.

Jeryd realized he would get no further information here, so he said goodbye, then proceeded on to interview the person whom he was least looking forward to talking to.

Up here the houses were also tall and narrow, three-floor constructions, most elaborately decorated with ridiculous statuettes of angelic creatures. The place reminded him of the ghost he was plays he’d watched in the underground theatres when he was still a young rumel. Beula Ghuda, of course, already knew about her husband’s death, something at least for Jeryd to feel relieved about. Dealing with dead bodies and criminals was much easier than talking to the relatives of someone who had died in suspicious circumstances. You had to look them directly in the eye while being prepared for any number of reactions, any number of extreme emotions.

How could this happen?

What do you mean, dead?

You bastard, don’t lie to me.

In his more morbid moments, back when his wife loved him still, he would wonder how she might react to being informed of Jeryd’s own death, and played out her possible reactions as if he was a fly on the wall. No matter how many years he had been in the Inquisition, these parts were often the most difficult, and as he knocked on the door the feeling was still as unpleasant as the very first time. A fragile-looking blonde answered it. She was about mid- to late-thirties, a green silk dress draped loosely over a tiny frame, with a face as gloomy as the banshees he had just been visiting – and you couldn’t blame her for that, could you, at a time like this?

‘Beula Ghuda? I’m Investigator Jeryd. Would it be all right for me to ask a few questions relating to… to your recent loss?’

‘Yes, of course, investigator,’ she said. ‘Please, step inside.’

Inside the house seemed as grand as the exterior, overloaded with what Jeryd considered were pointless ornaments and bad taste. To be rich in Villjamur seemed a waste of money: all they did with their wealth was buy unnecessary objects. The city having not been under threat for so long, the Empire having expressed its dominance far and wide, the result was that the wealthy citizens of Villjamur had become more attached to their material comforts, and the gap between the richest and poorest had only bloomed.

Beula Ghuda sat him down in an over-warm room full of jewelled lanterns, coloured lights. Rich fabric, desirable brand-weave from Villiren, was draped from each corner of the ceiling to the centre point. There was a large window of the highest-quality glass, from which were views over the summit of the city walls to the snow-flicked tundra beyond. The room smelled of stale incense, and he guessed by the number of books lying casually around that Beula was something of a lady of leisure.

‘How are you managing?’ Jeryd began tentatively.

‘Oh, so-so.’ She gave an ironic wince that he didn’t find unattractive. ‘Truth is, investigator, we were not really that close – in the end.’

He was surprised by her matter-of-fact response, but it made what he had to say a little easier. ‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘Yes, these things happen.’

She perched herself on the edge of a cushioned armchair of a style so typical of the era of the previous two Emperors, Gulion and Haldun, with motifs glorifying combat carved into its thick Quercus wood side-panels. She clasped her wrist with the other hand and stared to the floor for some time. He gave her a little while to gather her thoughts.

Eventually, she glanced up. ‘So, how can I help you?’

‘Were you aware of his final movements?’ Jeryd said.

She looked right past him. ‘No.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not what a wife would want to hear.’

She shrugged.

‘He was last seen leaving the apartment of another woman. She has confirmed that they spent the night together.’ He held her gaze for as long as she would allow.