And her father, the Emperor, was dead.
*
'Your breath, Randur Estevu, smells as if a horse has just passed wind. I trust you've a decent reason for entering my presence in such a state?' Eir folded her arms as she examined Randur.
'And what would you know of a horse's bodily functions, a pretty little rich girl like you?' Randur slumped into a chair in the minor chamber he had commandeered for dancing lessons. The fire was spitting rather too loudly for his liking, even though tapestries covered the windows in an attempt to exclude draughts. Randur was at least grateful for the dim lighting, since his head pounded even when confronted with a candle. His pupil was today wearing one of her green silk numbers, something he had to admit she looked particularly attractive in.
If only she could shut her mouth for more than a second.
Placing his head in his hands, he began to massage his scalp. 'Oh, Bohr.'
'And may I ask how you managed to end up in this state?' Eir enquired.
'You may not,' Randur groaned, glancing up at her. Her face displayed an expression of disgust he wasn't used to seeing from women. He was a man of style, after all, so maybe things weren't looking so great.
'Do you realize who you're talking to?' Her tone was indignant.
'Sure I do,' Randur replied.
'Yet you obviously have no respect for me?'
'I'm sorry.' Randur stood up, gave her as sarcastic a bow as he could manage, given the pain in his head. He wasn't in the mood for this formal nonsense.
Her expression suggested that she wasn't sure whether he was being serious. 'I thought you requested for a drummer to help us with the timing?' she persisted. 'Maybe he has got himself into Astrid-knows-what trouble, like yourself.'
'I wasn't in any trouble,' Randur protested, rubbing his eyes. 'I can handle myself just fine on these streets.'
'I'm sure you can,' Eir said tartly. 'Now I demand that you tell me where you were and what you were up to.'
'Caveside, if you must know.' He began to pace around the room in the hope of walking off his headache, occasionally stepping over to the window. Right now the cool air was the freshest he'd ever breathed.
'Caveside?' Eir said, frowning. 'Whatever were you doing down there? While you're in residence here, you ought to conduct yourself with more decorum. It's a bit reckless, don't you think, fraternizing with all those thugs? I've heard stories about serving girls who ventured down the wrong street and-'
'D'you have any idea what actually goes on down there?' Randur snapped, glancing despairingly at her. He shook his head. Bohr, how damn spoiled are people around here?
'Well,' Eir replied, 'I have been told of all sorts of thieves and murderers. Soldiers gone bad.'
'Yeah, well maybe there are some of those,' Randur admitted. They were so silent for a while he could hear the wind racing through Balmacara. Upon understanding the words she spoke, he said, 'You've lived here all these years and never actually been down there?'
Eir gave an impatient shrug. 'I don't really have much time for the business of such people. Why should I risk stepping foot in that darkness?'
Randur grunted to suppress a laugh. How could this girl be even temporarily in charge if she doesn't have a clue about half the type of people in her own damn city? It makes me glad I never grew up in a place like this.
Randur was feeling tired, knew he was getting grumpy as he always did when he hadn't had enough sleep. That, combined with his hangover, meant he was pretty pissed off. 'What is it with this place, this legendary city of sanctuary? The jewel of the Jamur Empire, the largest city in the Archipelago, yet you've got thousands of refugees camped right outside the gates, while the city's rulers turn a blind eye on the millions of ordinary citizens who don't own huge acreages of land, or who haven't grown fat off tribal slave labour, or what's practically wage slavery. They're just not real to you, are they?'
'Everyone's real to me,' Eir said.
'Reckon you're even real yourself?' Randur sneered. 'What kind of life have you ever led to make you so real?'
'A dutiful one, thank you. I've had pressures and responsibilities.'
'Responsibilities. Right. I bet you've always had every last thing done for you.'
'And who exactly are you to tell me this? I should have you strung up from the city walls as an example.'
'That's exactly my point, see?' Randur continued, unabashed. 'You just deal with life the way a spoilt child would. You want to eliminate someone just because he tells it how it is. What kind of ruler does that make you, if you can't even deal with ordinary people?'
She walked to the tapestry covering the window, drew it back and gazed over the countless spires of Villjamur. 'This is the only city I've really known. I've heard of the other places – Vilhokr, Vilhokteu, Gish. I've never visited them, never needed to, was always advised not to. Maybe I've been fortunate in my position and upbringing, but…' Anger now flared in those eyes, and frustration. '… Just because I haven't had to work for my living, doesn't mean my entire life has been worth less that anyone else's.'
Randur suspected he'd hurt her, though right now it was difficult to care. He had a throbbing head, a mouth as dry as a desert rock. He was angry at this rich girl. Her superior attitude added a whole new rancour to his thinking.
'For your information,' Eir said, 'there's perhaps a little more to me than you might think. I'm not a bad person. I've not wished ill on anyone. Every time we practise dance or combat you make a reference to my fortunate upbringing as if it was something you missed out on. Well, it isn't that lucky being imprisoned in a life you don't necessarily want. So maybe I'm a little short with people at times. To use a phrase of your own, maybe I do get pissed off. Some of us can't just go on pretending to be someone we're not.'
If she knew anything of his past, of his own secrets, she didn't show it. This was all getting a little bit near the knuckle.
She continued, her voice significantly softer, 'Perhaps you yourself should show me the other side of this city then, if you really think it would do me some good?'
'Like I'd be able to sneak you out of this place with no one noticing. I'll probably lose my head for that – but sure, why not? If you're genuinely up for it, we can find a way. But, look, we should be doing dance practice. Let's learn a few steps, shall we? I'll count time for us, in the absence of our drummer.'
Eir approached him. They assumed position, fingers locked, a close embrace, and more than ever she seemed small and vulnerable in his arms. She was now in one of those moods where she didn't seem to want to look at him, wanted to pull as far away as possible in each dance step. Maybe he would try to patch things up between them by just shutting up.
The door opened to reveal one of the resident guards. 'My Lady Stewardess, there is some urgent news.'
Eir stepped away from Randur quickly, as if she had been caught in some lewd act.
'What news?' she demanded.
'Your sister Jamur Rika's entourage is getting near the city, my lady. Garudas have sighted her carriage just under two hours away.'
TWENTY-THREE
The return of the elder sister, Rika, brought thoughts of his own family to Chancellor Urtica. Families were an important issue to him.
After all, he'd killed his own.
They used to ridicule him, and he just couldn't cope with that, no, not the everyday references to sneering at his shortcomings. Gathered around the table at night, every night, they would start to berate him for his failings, especially his mother. Even when he qualified for the junior ranks of the Council his family would carp at him for not progressing up the ranks quickly enough. They would question his lack of friends, they complained that he didn't earn enough; it seemed everything he did or did not do became a target, a focal point for savage criticism. Fearing that this constant undermining would ultimately limit his career prospects, the young Urtica decided one night that enough was enough.
Dispatching them had been a joy, a creative wonder
, the kind of ingenious ploy to smile about as he remembered it. He contrived a way of tricking them into dropping something lethal in each other's food. One night just after he had turned eighteen, a treat to rid himself of all the shame and humiliation, the sheer joy of watching them cough up blood, retch bile, yet still take time to berate each other shrilly as they realized what was happening. He had a watertight alibi – paying off several old friends for their word, with promise of power to come – and he'd faked an entry in his mother's diary. When the Inquisition came they declared it an open and shut case. Sympathy had come pouring in from neighbours, for the poor boy so tragically orphaned. When he finally got away from their condolences, he began to savour the thrill to be obtained from the god-like power to terminate life. While he was engaged in the business of removing his family, he had taken the liberty to forge new wills – with ancient Jamur runes and seals and all – leaving more distant family members ostracized. Charitably, he gave them a little, because he was nice like that, but the majority of the wealth and estates came to him. Forgery, he thought at the time, is such a blissful art.
And soon there were others to suffer at his hand, like his older cousin in a freak sailing accident off the coast of Jokull, whose drowning was followed by a few drinks at the quayside celebrating the sudden inheritance of family estates on the east coast near Vilhokr. A glass to you, dearest cousin, for the comforts with which you've provided me. Cheers!
With his new-won independence and income, he had turned to the Ovinists. The traditional gods reminded him too keenly of his pious family. After all, a new faith for a new man!
Vaguely the whore he used last night had looked like his mother, a slender waif of a girl with sharp features. It brought back some complex thoughts to his mind. What does it mean, sleeping with a substitute for my mother? And in sleeping with whores, well, he was just becoming like his father, wasn't he? Bohr, families can fuck you up… Urtica slid out of bed, walked over to the fire to throw another log on it, then on went his favourite green tunic.
A guard entered the room. 'Sir, Commander Lathraea approaches the city with the new Empress.'
So, she was back at last, and it was time to see exactly how easily he might manipulate her.
He walked over to a window, pulled back the tapestry to reveal the view over the fore-city. A gust of wind whistled in, but he didn't even feel it.
Such beauty, such potential… Until his gaze focused on the refugees camped outside the gates of the city, their numerous little fires already coughing smoke weakly into the air. Their makeshift homes stretched far into the distance, where disease was spreading rapidly. Decent people feared leaving the city. Resentment at this encroachment was growing, and with it a feeling of hatred.
Other concerns loomed now in his thoughts, first and foremost the final campaign against the Varltungs. He had to convince Commander Lathraea to be out of the way so that Urtica himself could assume full control of the military. The Empress, too, would need to be persuaded to put her trust in him, but that fitted in nicely with the troubles now erupting on the northern fringes of the Empire. In fact he needed Brynd's expertise in handling this crisis, so that wasn't just a lie.
*
Rika leaned out of the carriage, looked up at the grey sky. The wind whipped her hair around her face as she pulled strands of it back. 'Why have we stopped?' she asked.
Brynd rode over, the spires of Villjamur towering behind him on the hilltop, and the sight of the city sparked a thousand memories in her, and she was overcome by a strange sensation in her stomach. This was the home of her youth that she hadn't seen for years. A part of her that she had almost forgotten about. It was an uncomfortable feeling to realize she wasn't that same person any more. A famous ancient scribe had once recommended never returning to a place with happy memories, because it could never be the same. What about bad memories – would they diminish too?
She had to confront the girl – now woman – she had once been, and remember the day she had walked out on her family. Well, her father, anyway, but he was gone now.
'I wanted to advise you of a problem, Jamur Rika, before you approach the gates of Villjamur.' Brynd steered his horse till he faced her directly.
His sinister appearance: burning red eyes, black horse, black uniform, narrow white features belied his true nature. The brooch of the Empire glistened reassuringly on his chest. She had never seen anyone quite like him in her life. There was something about his demeanour that said she was safe in his hands, that he would protect her. It was those things that really mattered, not the colour of skin or eyes.
'What is it you're saying, commander?' she demanded, hoping she sounded very much like an Empress.
'I must warn you there are thousands of refugees outside the city gates. They are hoping to find protection inside the city during the Freeze.'
'And they can't come in?' Rika said.
Mild regret in his eyes, despite his military firmness.
'No,' Brynd admitted. 'It's been decided there's a limited capacity for Villjamur once the gates finally close. The city has to protect its own interests during the many years of ice to come.'
'So please stop me if I'm incorrect in my assumptions that no one can come into the city? And these people will die here. In front of us. As we watch on?'
'Pretty much,' Brynd said. 'But they'll die anyway. Meanwhile military personnel will be allowed in and out – or people with the right documentation, of course. It's the only way the city could last for so long.'
Rika pressed on, 'And nothing can be done? Nothing in our hearts can be found for their plight?'
'Not my place to say, Empress,' Brynd replied. 'There are many other things I'm involved with at the moment. As soon as I'm equipped and rested, the Night Guard will be leaving to investigate some skirmishes in the north.'
'How significant are they, these skirmishes?'
'Too early to tell, my lady.'
So much for her to take in. She could have done with Brynd staying with her for a while longer, because although alarming on first sight, he radiated confidence, a quiet compassion – as much as any military man could. 'Commander, can I trust you?' she said. 'I feel… quite vulnerable here. As if people might take advantage of my naivety.'
'Empress. I was sworn in as one of your father's favoured guard, to be sent on any mission in his name, to uphold his honour. As his chosen successor, you inherit my service also, and that of my soldiers. Of all the Jamur armies, in fact. And as soldiers we're not paid to think about our orders, and we serve only your word. Though I can fully appreciate how great that responsibility must seem right now.'
She sat back further into the carriage. 'Thank you, commander. Your skill with words and encouragement are a great help to one so new and unversed as myself.'
She then heard the commander order the escort of Dragoons to move on, and the carriage was in motion.
Next stop: Villjamur.
*
Lines of troops kept back the refugees by sword and bow, making sure none dared closely approach the roadway. They formed two distinct lines on either side of the route stretching all the way from the city gates, and she could hear the helpless moans, the cries of fear as metal was brandished in their direction, and the cursing of soldiers as they shouted for them to keep back, stay off the road. The stench of their encampment was awful, intense.
She was the Empress, or would very shortly be, so surely she must do something to stop this ill-treatment of her own people? Or perhaps this was the first lesson she would learn: her own powerlessness to achieve everything she might wish.
Brynd was riding to one side, and turned to nod at her briefly before again scanning the troubled scene. She saw the gaunt, muddied faces of her people staring at her carriage between the lines of Dragoons and horses. Shouts of commands. Then the gates of the city were opening, whereupon more soldiers streamed forward in a clatter of armour and weaponry. Garudas circled above her, ever watchful, as screams from the refugees
reached a crescendo.
Her eyes widened at the alarming spectacle. All this fuss just for her – she refused to believe it. The carriage rocked its way onto the cobbled streets of the city, and within a few moments she was inside Villjamur, safe, the noise of the refugees muffled as the doors closed behind.
Then they stopped. Was this where she must get out? Again that uncertainty.
The commander leaned into the carriage. 'We'll now progress through the main streets of the city. People may stare in at you. They don't really know you from sight. You may remind some of the older citizens of your mother, perhaps…' He stopped at that sensitive point, and changed tack. 'Many of them probably don't know the current state of rulership despite the announcements that should have been made.'
'Very kind of you to warn me, commander. But I'm sure I'm capable of looking after myself.'
Brynd retreated, ordered the entourage to ride on.
Rika stared up at the city, her city, its landscape furnished with a sense of possession, so nothing would be the same as before.
Everything was as she remembered, and bittersweet memories lapped over her. The dream-like spires that disappeared up into damp mist. The hanging baskets everywhere encaging the beautiful flowers of the tundra. The soaring bridges, the grey-red stone, the ever-busy people. And Balmacara in the centre. Her own history came back in flashes: a childhood spent staring out of windows at these same sights, not being permitted to have much contact outside Balmacara. Days of boredom. The trauma of her father beating her mother, of beating Rika herself. And little Eir brightening random moments with her naivety, a child's voice echoing down the corridors. It was amazing what mere clusters of assembled rock could do to the mind.
Forget about all that. It's the past. Think of the future.
*
Her sister already stood waiting for her inside, her face erupting in emotions. After the initial formality, Eir and Rika embraced for what, to Brynd, seemed like a season. The fond memories were returning, the gradual remembrance of their idiosyncrasies, all reflected in the softness of their glances and the way they would touch each other's arms.
Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1 Page 23
