Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1

by Mark Charan Newton

  Eir had chosen to wear a tight-fitting brown garment, and purposely made her dark hair a dishevelled mess so that she wouldn't appear wealthy. It felt liberating, to strip herself of normality and forced manners.

  They walked the vacant, snow-slushed streets leading to the caves, the real Villjamur. Being packed together so close, she liked to think that each house would share some heat with its neighbours. And at least here there was shelter, while other zones of the Empire would be struggling with the encroaching onslaught of ice, struggling to find adequate food. It was no wonder that despite such urban hardships she had witnessed, the refugees had accrued outside the city gates. The poverty in her own city had been revealed to her, and as they continued along the streets she passed more homeless people: young girls her own age asleep in decaying archways, rumel families staring lifelessly into contained fire-pits. Her wealthy existence had been so disconnected from it all. She had not known until Randur pointed this out, and just the one visit down here had opened her eyes. She never knew the city possessed such darkness. If she had known how the world really worked, would she have done more about it?

  Through labyrinthine passageways, into a well-lit stone square, overlooked by cramped terraced housing, where women leaned out of narrow windows to men who called back up to them from below. A sense of ritual. Someone began beating a drum and a few of the gaudily dressed women sidled into the centre of the scene, whilst old men sat together on benches in the corner, smoking pipes and talking loudly, their faces displaying a happiness she had not witnessed since the temperature began falling.

  'Randy, you made it!' She recognized the voice as Denlin's. 'And you've brought your girly. Ain't that swell.'

  'Denlin, you old bastard.' Randur turned instantly back to Eir as if to apologize for his language, then back to address him. The old man slapped Randur on the shoulder and gave a low bow towards Eir.

  'Not here, Denlin,' she hissed. 'Here I'm just like any other woman.'

  'Sure you are.' He smiled.

  'No, really. Tonight I just want to dance.'

  'That'll be the lad speaking, I reckon.' Denlin turned to study Randur.

  'It's not like that,' Randur protested. 'She's her own woman, this one. Takes more than a fool like me to have an effect.'

  She liked the reference to her being a woman. For some reason it seemed important.

  'If you say so,' Denlin said. 'Anyhow, looks as if they're readying…' He indicated the couples poised to take to the music.

  Eir watched with wonder as the local women guided the men, so naturally led them. Rhythms became precise, fast, heavy till footsteps became quickly moving across the square. The dancers kept calling out to each other, drawing attention to the next flamboyant move. They kicked in the half-light and the scene filled Eir with a primitive excitement.

  'You ready?' Randur whispered, and held out his hand to her.

  'I'm not sure,' she faltered. 'They're so good. I don't want to embarrass you.'

  Denlin interrupted, 'Whale cocks, lady. Get out there and enjoy yourself. This is about fun, not being all prim and proper.'

  So they joined in the Formanta, more about leg movements than anything else. She didn't like this one too much, hadn't practised it to the extent of the others, and at first she felt awkward, to be dancing here in front of all these strangers. But with increasing confidence they weaved a complex pattern through the other dancers. There was exhilaration and tension and poignancy. Their contact soon began to transcend the postures. They held each other intimately, for an age it seemed, in that forgotten corner of Villjamur.

  With these humble people she felt totally at ease for the first time in her life. This was an unlearning of her childhood, stripping away her pretentiousness, her airs and graces.

  At the end of the first few dances, Randur poured the two of them some cheap wine, while she watched the revellers around her. People talked in shadows, laughter spilling across the cobbles. Children ran to meet the adults who had just performed, staring at them with a renewed sense of awe. No doubt at all about this, these people had more fun than any she had ever witnessed in the fore-city.

  As the evening crept on, a wide variety of dances were performed. They both became inebriated and their rehearsed postures collapsed regularly. She found it hilarious. Inside her mind there was a letting go of something she didn't realize she was unconsciously clinging on to.

  *

  Hours later, people began to leave. The silence of the drums left her feeling vaguely disappointed. Torches burned down low. Denlin had left earlier with an old woman, their arms linked, and Eir felt this was heart-warming somehow, and perhaps this was just how you felt about other couples when you were falling in love yourself.

  Eir and Randur danced quietly across the courtyard. She was drunk, perhaps, but she desired him, right then, in whatever way it could be offered. She wasn't aware of the rules of such a situation, and was tentatively exploring the limits of her own self. A line had been crossed and she realized that she could not simply return to being who she was before she met him. There was no going back. It surprised her pleasantly to understand that she could now only push forwards.

  'What are you thinking?' she asked. 'I need to know.'

  'Nothing much.'

  She liked the way that there were just the two of them here now. It brought a surreal texture to the scene, as if the sun had finally died leaving only the pair of them on earth. Utterly alone.

  'It must be something. I can tell by the way you're looking at me.'

  'You wouldn't like to know,' he said.

  'No, I would.' She was willing the words into his mouth.

  Randur absent-mindedly placed his hands on her waist.

  Finally he said, 'I was thinking how… how much I'd like to take your clothes off.'

  'Here?' she said, considering her heart might stop beating. His language was so direct.

  Eir looked around to make sure their conversation wasn't being overheard, and by that gesture she let him know his suggestion was all right. Randur bent down to kiss her neck.

  'How do… how do I know that you're not just treating me like any other conquest?' She could barely voice the words, so tightly was she holding on.

  'If I said anything, would it matter anyway? You'd always suspect me of not being serious, wouldn't you?'

  Eir didn't know what to say so she just moved towards him and kissed him with a startling gentleness. His hands shifted up around her back, slid down to her thighs as she shuddered in anticipation.

  She led him by the hand to the corner of the square, then down a small alley that she had barely noticed earlier.

  Randur said, 'You sure you want this?'

  'Yes.' She laughed at his sudden uncertainty.

  'You've never, uhm, done this before, I take it?'

  'If I said anything, would it matter?' she replied, and he seemed to like that.

  'Wouldn't you at least prefer to be somewhere more comfortable?'

  'I've spent my whole life being somewhere comfortable,' she said, then pulled his shirt off him, dropped it to one side.

  Randur spun her around so that he was stood behind her, a perverse version of one of their dances. Gently, he then guided her through manoeuvres that seemed so natural simply because he made it all so uncomplicated, his stubble brushing down her shoulder, his hand gliding across her stomach, then lower. She groaned with relief as it finally worked its way between her legs.

  All sense of time disappeared entirely as she became lost in the rhythms of the most primeval movements yet… until afterwards, with Randur's back against a wall and Eir in front of him with her head buried in his neck, surrounded by the darkness, and, aside from the thumping of her heart, she could hear nothing.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Investigator Jeryd regarded the morning sky.

  He could almost enjoy it, way up here at the higher levels of the city, away from those Gamall Gata kids and their little missiles of snow. Here, he didn't h
ave to look over his shoulder at every heartbeat, questioning where they'd be, or if he was in their sights.

  The rumel was getting some fresh air whilst he talked to Tryst about developments. Jeryd wanted to clear his head, hoped for some inspiration regarding the murders of the two councillors. Time was passing, and there were too many things to think about. There had been further tensions developing between the city's people and the refugees. The mood of the situation had been heavily influenced by Council pamphlets that suggested the citizens of Villjamur ought to stay away from those seeking asylum due to disease or potential criminal activity. Jeryd knew fear was being utilized – there were now more soldiers on the streets, more citizens were being stopped and searched at random to hunt down illegal immigrants. In response to the fear, over the past few evenings, several long-range arrows had been released from the city's bridges towards the refugee encampment. Just about anyone could have fired them – it was claimed – but names and addresses began to fill the fringe pamphlets such as Commonweal before soldiers could confiscate them and cover up the incident.

  Jeryd had to deal with so much.

  People shambled by them churning up slush with their boots, while men were heaping the snow on the sides of the streets. Much of it was then taken on carts and dumped in the sea, but as soon as they had cleared one area, it began filling with a fresh layer of snow. This was the sort of scene that might provide a bitter-sweet nostalgia in his old age.

  Jeryd found a kind of stubborn pride in the people, in their dogged defiance of the Freeze. Life went on, they didn't moan. Small open fires were now permitted at intervals along the streets to keep the traders warm, the constant trails of smoke drifting above Villjamur. Traders couldn't restock their supplies of furs quick enough, and fights broke out regularly among customers over various new skins freshly imported. There was an awkward moment between a group of rumel and some men he knew to be Caveside gangsters, which reminded him of scenes from the rumel riots fifty years back.

  He turned to Tryst. 'Found out anything more from Tuya then?'

  Tryst shook his head. 'She's very elusive. I'm hoping to get somewhere sooner or later. I've found a convenient balcony nearby where I can hang about and spy on her. But she doesn't entertain that many customers.'

  'I suspect she's made enough money over the years already,' Jeryd murmured, gazing into the snow once again. 'Only got herself to look after, and I think she feels trapped by the concept of money.'

  Tryst sniffed, shuffled back and forth indecisively, his gaze fixed on the ground. Suddenly he asked, 'How's Marysa these days?'

  'Grand, since she's moved back in with me.' Jeryd gave him a sideways glance. 'Why d'you ask?'

  'No reason really. Just that I thought I spotted her, at the Cross and Sickle the other night.'

  'You what?' Jeryd was genuinely surprised. It was not her sort of venue.

  'She seemed to be in a meeting with some gentleman, that's all. I didn't actually speak to them, just saw them over in the corner.'

  Now what the hell's that about? Jeryd turned away abruptly. 'Come on, I'm freezing my tail off.'

  They headed back into the Inquisition chambers, where Jeryd began lighting a fire. He remained silent while it built up to a fierce glow. Tryst pulled up a chair to sit alongside him.

  Eventually, Jeryd spoke up. 'Cross and Sickle, you say? When was this?'

  'Two days ago,' Tryst replied. 'It was fairly early in the night – I'd say about the eighth or ninth bell. Is everything all right, Jeryd? You look a bit worried.'

  Jeryd said, 'Yes… Yes, well, it's just that she told me she was out with a friend, that's all.'

  Tryst leaned back, stretching his legs before the flames. 'Oh, well then. Nothing to it.'

  'What did he look like?' Jeryd said.

  'Tall, dark rumel, but no one I knew of. A swarthy chap, with a decent set of robes on him. They seemed like good friends, anyway. There was a lot of laughing, you know, like people who go a long way back. Old friends.'

  Jeryd said, 'Doesn't sound like any of her old friends that I know of. Anyway, she told me she would be meeting a woman.'

  'I wouldn't worry too much. Probably a chance encounter. You know what people are like.'

  'Right…' Jeryd said. What Tryst just said had made things worse.

  Tryst stood up. 'Now I'd better get back to watching Tuya.'

  The rumel watched Tryst leave the room and was left alone with the crackling fire. He became increasingly lost in his thoughts, his suspicions.

  *

  That evening he arrived home early to the smell of warm bread. It should've filled him with anticipation, but he possessed little appetite.

  He took off his cloak, shook the snow from his boots, and placed them by a fire in the kitchen, where Marysa was busy baking. She was humming one of those popular tunes from ten years back, the sort they would be singing in all the bars, and that poignant memory seemed to unbuckle time in his mind.

  'You're home early,' she observed as she kissed him on the cheek.

  Is she surprised? Was she expecting someone else?

  'Yes, I couldn't seem to get any work done today, so decided I needed time off to think.'

  She returned to kneading dough. 'I'll be finished quite shortly. I just want to make a few more rolls. It makes a change from all my other work.'

  'Great,' he said half-heartedly, then left the room only to berate himself. Why was he feeling so negative towards her? He didn't know anything for certain, yet he was already being short with her. What would he be like if something really was going on? He took a step back to watch her, but far enough away so that she couldn't see him in the shadow of the doorway. And he watched her, as if for the first time, because it seemed important now, to think of these little things.

  Slender for her age, she had kept her figure well, and was certainly attractive. Other men would be interested in her. Jeryd's mother had always said that if anyone, male or female, wanted a good night's sleep, then they should choose a plain-looking partner, but he rarely shared opinions with his mother on matters like that.

  Maybe Tryst was mistaken, maybe it wasn't Marysa that he had seen.

  Jeryd couldn't help but feel a deep pain when he thought about her with another man. It made him feel weak, vulnerable, angry. Had it had been months earlier, when she was no longer living with him, it wouldn't have been so difficult. But it was the fact that she had come back to him, and he loved her with an intensity greater than he could remember.

  He deliberately clunked against the door frame, and Marysa glanced his way before returning her concentration to the rolls. 'Everything OK, Jeryd?'

  He stepped back into the kitchen. 'I never asked about your evening with Lanya.'

  'We had a nice time, thanks. I hadn't seen her for far too long.'

  'Where did you end up?'

  'We stayed at her house, because she didn't fancy venturing out into the snow.'

  'Tryst thought he saw you at some tavern.'

  He thought he noticed a small change in her posture, some tension there perhaps, or a little uncertainty.

  She said, 'On the way to her place, you mean?'

  'I'm sure he said you were in a tavern, but he could've been mistaken.'

  'Oh, it couldn't have been me. I was at Lanya's all the time. We stayed at home and talked. She's got some new guy on the go who treats her so well, as his equal, and he sounded lovely.'

  Jeryd wasn't reassured by this. Maybe it was his naturally cynical nature after having worked for so long in the Inquisition.

  *

  Late afternoon sunlight broke through the clouds highlighting some bizarre texture in the sky. The city's spires and bridges sparkled. Tryst had opened the balcony door to help rid Tuya's room of the acrid stench of her painting materials. The chill in the air was enough to sharpen his senses again. He rested his chin on steepled fingers as he regarded the sculpted Marysa before him. Tuya was crouching on her knees as she made some barely noticeable alt
erations to this creation.

  Tryst had drugged the woman earlier, keeping the dosage safe but regular, so that he could manipulate her more easily. He felt pleased with himself, in fact was getting a kick out of his recent elaborate manipulations. He had planted in Jeryd's mind a seed of doubt about his wife's fidelity, and soon he would show Jeryd a display of his wife in action.

  'There,' Tuya murmured, then pushed herself upright, a sheer blue gown clinging to her curves. Tryst considered that a baser man than himself would take advantage at this moment, but he possessed good morals.

  'She looks… utterly real,' Tryst admitted.

  Indeed, the clay woman was an exact replica of Jeryd's wife, though he had never seen the latter naked. By her stillness, she looked like a statue, however, and Tryst wasn't quite certain what would happen next.

  The previous evening, Tryst had led Tuya to observe Marysa in person as she walked through the frozen streets. The advantage of working so closely with Jeryd was that he could learn most of his wife's idiosyncrasies. Tryst had even thrown a purse, spilling coins at Marysa's feet, so that Tuya would be able to get the closest possible examination.

  Tryst fully intended to be present when Jeryd encountered this. That would be too much of a treat to miss.

  Within the bell, Tuya had gone on to perform some strange rituals with a collection of relics. Tryst observed her as best he could, asking occasional questions, but she was vague in her answers. There was obviously a history to this woman that was never going to be discussed.

  Dawnir magic was beyond him, beyond any normal person. To him there seemed no way of understanding it. He just sprawled on Tuya's bed, waiting for the animation to begin. The statue of the female rumel began to glow, then faded. Glowed and faded. He tried to say something, but Tuya waved him to silence, the woman now deep in concentration as she walked around the statue, touching it in places, a hint of eroticism to her gestures. The fake rumel began to twitch slightly. Its arms jutted forward as if to embrace someone, then relaxed. The sculpture slowly performed arm and leg and head movements, as if learning these for the first time, getting used to its own body. Discovering motility.