Urtica merely nodded methodically, as if coming to terms with the threat. People reacted differently to such situations, didn’t they, some not caring much at all, others getting into such a panic that they never left their homes.

‘Our main current concern is the Freeze, of course,’ Urtica said. ‘It raises a number of crucial issues, the most important being the refugee crisis. There are already an estimated ten thousand of them camped outside the city gates, as you know.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re working on several solutions’ – Jeryd noticed Urtica’s expression alter slightly – ‘but ultimately, it will be up to the new Empress. She will make the final decision on what to do.’

‘How are other cities of the Empire coping?’ Jeryd said. ‘Vilhokr, Villiren, E’toawor, Vilhokteu?’

‘As well as can be expected. People have flooded in from rural areas. They’re accumulating grain supplies and fuel, building ice-breaker longships, imposing rationing. Like us, they see it as a challenge. Investigator, there will be many fatalities because of this ice age, and everyone is working hard to ensure that ordinary folk will survive.’

‘And you really care?’ Jeryd said boldly.

‘It’s not about caring, necessarily, rather it’s about making sure a city continues functioning. If you care too much, you get personal, and if you get personal, you inevitably fail. This is a business, investigator, pure and simple.’

Jeryd observed the body language of this consummate politician. Urtica crossed and re-crossed his legs repeatedly throughout their conversation. Also, he rarely made eye contact, and was obviously uncomfortable being questioned about Council matters.

‘Tell me, Chancellor Urtica, do you know if any of the councillors like painting as a hobby?’

Urtica looked up, raised an eyebrow. ‘I haven’t a clue, investigator. Why do you ask?’

‘I found small traces of fresh paint near both bodies.’ Urtica merely shook his head. ‘I’ve told you all I can.’ Jeryd stood up. ‘I think I’ve done all I can here.’ Urtica said, ‘Could you put another log on the fire on your way out? It tends to get very cold in here.’

Jeryd paused by the door. ‘Yes, I suspect it does.’ On his way down the corridor, Jeryd thumped the wall in frustration. Two murders, linked by only one bizarre similarity: paint. Why was there a dab of blue paint next to each corpse? Were they trying to fight their way out with a paintbrush?

The chancellor was no help so far. Neither was Doctor Tarr.

Suddenly he remembered how the suspect Tuya painted in her spare time. It was an obvious connection, maybe too obvious, but it was the only thing he had to go on. But why would an alienated prostitute want to kill top-level politicians, and so savagely? It just didn’t seem quite right. Perhaps she might have some suggestions to help his thoughts, and he decided he would visit her very soon.

But not tonight. Tonight he would be going home to Marysa.

Everyone deserved a life of their own – even an investigator.

Chancellor Urtica made his way down the crumbling stairwell, glancing back every now and then, just in case, just to be sure.

He held a lantern high, drew his cloak around him. A gust of wind rattled down from above, transforming his shadow into increasingly esoteric shapes. Urtica was descending into a little-remembered quarter of Villjamur. Deep underground. Messages were etched across the stone, bearing the names of lovers and enemies from across the ages. Bats, rodents, lizards, all competed for dark corners, like a reverse image of life on the surface. The smell of their faeces was intense, but this did not deter Urtica. He had dealt with more shit than this in his time.

For half an hour he descended, knowing the way well.

Faintly, he heard chanting. It meant he was nearly there. Voices were raised in an ancient variant of common Jamur, the language in which the Ovinists still sang. They were engaged in prayer – but not to Bohr or Astrid, or any approved deity – and that would change, wouldn’t it, when his time came.

A battered wooden door heralded the end of his route. After knocking seven times, the hatch slid open, curious eyes appeared. A flicker of recognition, then the door was unbolted, opened, and Urtica stepped inside.

A hundred candles were reflected in wall mirrors to create an unlikely brightness. Incense filled the air, as smoke wafted across the far side of the immense room. Dozens of black-robed, black-hooded men and women sat on benches facing the far wall, which was hung with ornate tapestries. Below them was a plinth supporting a metal tray containing a selection of pigs’ hearts rescued from the city slaughterhouses. The chanting continued as Urtica walked towards the front of the chamber, the hoods turning minutely as everyone’s gaze tracked his progress.

When he arrived directly before them, a young blonde girl stepped out from their ranks, leading a pig on a leash. She was dressed in white silk, which clung to her slender frame as she approached him, the pig shuffling behind her absent-mindedly. No sooner had Urtica stepped before the congregation than his audience drew out their rapiers simultaneously, brandishing the narrow blades in the air until silence fell. Urtica beckoned the girl to stand behind him, then raised both hands above his head. The swords were lowered and, once they were all seated again, Urtica began speaking.

‘Neophytes, minorus, majorus,’ he intoned.

‘Magus Urtica…’ the congregation replied in a chorus reverberating against the ancient stone walls.

‘My brothers and sisters, I have grave news on certain matters. Last night our esteemed Majorus Boll was brutally murdered in his sleep. This is the second member of our holy order to have been killed recently.’

Murmurs all round. Beneath the hoods were familiar faces, their eyes glistening like those of beasts reflected in firelight. Among them there were several Council members, in shadow, all of them concerned for their own safety.

Urtica held up his hand for silence. ‘Jamur Rika will arrive in Villjamur shortly, and I feel this interim period is an excellent opportunity for us to profit. I intend to make myself Emperor of the entire Jamur territories, and once in position, I can assure you all greater powers, greater influence.’

‘How will you remove Jamur Rika?’ someone enquired from the front row.

‘All will be revealed in good time. But now, for our holy rituals!’

Applause filled the huge underground chamber, then solemn chanting in the ancient language. The little pig squealed in fright and the girl had to struggle hard to keep it under control. Urtica beckoned her over to stand in front of the sacrificial plinth. He loomed down over the tethered creature, tucked it under one arm, produced a knife from his sleeve. He held the blade high, smiling wildly, the room heady with smoke and adulation.

Quickly, he lunged across the young girl and slit her throat.

She crumpled to the floor, her white silk robe reddening like blossoming roses. The pig eagerly thrust its snout in her lifeblood.

‘I promise that the sacred pig – our god reincarnate – shall feed well under my rule!’ Urtica thundered. The swords were held high again, the cheers and chants rising to an eerie crescendo. Urtica stood with his arms raised, breathing heavily with excitement. Sweat glistening down his forehead, he indicated for several men standing in the front row to approach him. The first was Aide Tryst, his head covered slightly by the hood, the lanterns casting subtle shadows across his face. The handsome young investigator held out his hands as Urtica lovingly offered him a pig’s heart.

‘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.