Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  'I apologize for disturbing you, father, but the Dawnir wishes to speak to the commander.'

  The Emperor stared at her as if he did not recognize who she was.

  Brynd intervened. 'We were just discussing what our Dawnir could want--'

  'Some more plots against me, no doubt,' Johynn muttered.

  'Should we see him now, my Emperor, if you've finished with our business?' Brynd asked.

  'Yes, yes. Why not.' He waved Brynd away, walked to the window. This time he opened it, allowing the icy air to enter the room, stepped aside, his fists clenched, then suddenly burst past them, out of the room, leaving the three men and his daughter behind with the echo of a slammed door.

  'Hello, commander,' she said.

  There was always a slight informality between her and the Night Guard soldiers, engendered by their close proximity over the years. 'Lady Eir, I fear your father's been drinking.'

  'And you think that's my fault?' Anger dissolved into disappointment on her face. He knew she had been trying her best to stop her father from drinking excessively, taking away half-empty bottles once he'd fallen asleep, had stared at him reproachfully with those big green eyes every time he refilled a glass. Now she just gazed at the wall as if some comfort could be found there, but there were too many mirrors to encourage her to look for long.

  'Yes, I didn't mean to be harsh, but your father has islands and cities to help run. There's enough bad judgement being made in this city without our ruler drinking as well.'

  'I know, I know,' Eir said. Her tone was confident, though her posture suggested it wasn't natural, that she had something to prove to herself. 'Anyway, what happened to you all?'

  'Ambush, and massacre. We're the remaining survivors from . . . from where we were sent last.'

  Eir said, 'The firegrain trip? Who were you fighting?'

  Brynd couldn't believe it. 'Even you know about it. Is nothing sacred in these halls?'

  'I'm sorry,' Eir said. 'Fyir, will you be all right?' She lay a hand on him kindly, a gesture that other men might envy.

  'Suffice to say,' Fyir squirmed in his chair, 'that my soldiering days are over, Jamur Eir.'

  'Girls' talk,' Apium snorted. Then, to Eir, he murmured, 'No offence.'

  'None taken.'

  'He'll be up and about in no time,' Apium continued. 'We'll strap a decent bit of wood on that leg and he'll be back on horseback ready for training--'

  Brynd gestured Apium to be silent.

  There was a disturbance outside.

  He hurried over to the window. Shit!

  A scene was developing down below in the drizzle.

  Emperor Jamur Johynn could be seen retreating to the outer edge of the balcony below, almost as if he was being backed into a corner. In his own mind he had probably reached such a position long ago.

  Several guardsmen edged tentatively towards him, uncertain of how to act. A move forwards suggested a threat to him. A move back might mean they would be too late.

  Brynd fled the room to go and help.

  *

  'Stand back,' he shouted, pushing his way through the growing crowd. From this stone platform you could view the whole front section of the city, the spires, the bridges, the sweeping dark hills in the distance, even the sea in the other direction. Only a knee-high granite wall separated you from a vertiginous drop. Servants and administrative staff were here to witness the drama unfolding, and even some councillors had come to watch, too. The Emperor was still positioned as before, but he now faced the sky as if experiencing a purely religious moment. And maybe he was - in these moments you could never tell what was really going on. Brynd knew he had to stop him doing something stupid, had to bring the Emperor back safely into the hall. With the ice age setting in, Johynn would be needed as a national figurehead. People required his guidance, support, because in times of crisis you wanted someone to reassure you it would be OK, even when it wouldn't be.

  They needed someone to lie to them clearly and loudly.

  'My Emperor, what're you doing?' Brynd called out, icy sleet gusting against his cheeks.

  'It's easier this way,' Johynn said. 'As I said before, it's over.'

  His motions were awkward, like those of someone who had been drinking heavily. He regained his footing, shuffled further along the low parapets.

  'I have no great words, commander,' Johynn said. 'Nothing profound to say, at the end.'

  'Please, I think you should step back a bit,' Brynd argued. 'Think about what you're doing.'

  'Think is all I damn well do, Commander Lathraea. All I do is think about things. All the time thinking.'

  'But the people of Villjamur need you,' Brynd said desperately. 'That's what you said earlier. That they need you!'

  'Father!' Eir appeared, running onto the scene.

  Whether it was because he lost his footing, or he genuinely intended to step off the edge, Brynd would never know, but just then the Emperor collapsed ungracefully off the wall, a flurry of his robes the last thing to be seen.

  Everyone gasped . . .

  Surged forwards in disbelief.

  Eir had to be held back, launching muffled screams into Brynd's chest.

  A moment later they were greeted by the keening of the banshee.

  FIVE

  'I'd like a room - just for the night, please,' Randur said.

  'A room?'

  'Yes, a room. For the night.' He fluttered his long eyelashes at the landlady, pushed a lock of glossy hair back in order to gaze at her more intensely, but she kept on peering down at the register.

  'One night.' She was old enough to be his mother - old enough, but not actually, so it was all right by him. You could tell she had once been a beautiful girl - her eyes showed you that, not so much a spark within them, but definitely something to provoke wild rumination. Short brown hair, good skin, a decent figure: not too much, not too little. Not that he really cared - he could enjoy any shape of woman. Most ages, too. Her white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal cleavage like a bad cliche, she made the most of what she had. Randur made the most of it too. Made sure she saw him looking. He gave her a smile, all teeth and soft eyes, trying to suggest there were things she needed to know about herself.

  'Well, we're pretty busy at the moment . . . but I'll see what I can do.' She turned with something he took and hoped to be a grin, walked away from the bar.

  It was a crowded but clean bistro-tavern located on the second level of Villjamur. The furnishing was wooden throughout, tables were shiny from polishing, and it was crammed with equine decor: horse shoes, parers, rasps, farrier tools, riding boots on the higher shelves. Randur guessed the landlady was an admirer of horses, or a fan of horse riders. He noticed the whips.

  Now there's a thought.

  As Randur sipped his apple juice, he glanced about. He wanted to listen in on conversations, to discover what people talked about in Villjamur, to maybe capture the mood of the city. If you wanted to charm your way up the social ladders, you had to know what the main concerns of the local people were. You could perhaps learn something that way, because whatever image a city presented in the history books, it was the ordinary people who delineated the depth and character of a place, ended up moulding the outsider's judgement and experiences.

  '. . . It's possible we won't see our Ged ever again,' a middle-aged woman confided to her friend. 'And Dendu's going to have to quit his work just to stay in the city. I'm not sure what we'll do . . .'

  '. . . Well, we're very lucky. I haven't seen my own child for ten years. But, I'm nearest family, so she can come to the city to stay with me, you see. And her partner, too . . .'

  A smartly dressed man at a nearby table glanced up as a lady of around the same age approached him and asked, 'Is anyone using this chair?' He shook his head, stood up as she sat down at the same table, then commented something about the weather as he lowered himself again slowly. Randur wondered how many people of his own age he'd ever seen make that polite gesture. Too few in this ci
ty, at least: maybe younger people felt threatened in some way. Or, perhaps, when people reached 'a certain age', they felt themselves to be a dying breed, and considered it best if they stuck together. Either way, it was sweet to still see such courtesy enacted.

  There was ubiquitous conversation about the Freeze, how the temperature was falling further. Always talk of the weather, but he also heard gossip regarding some of the outer islands of the Empire. And chatter about cultists acting strangely . . .

  He focused immediately on the latter conversation.

  '. . . You shouldn't hang 'round there, you know. Cultists is bad news.'

  'But there were purple flames sparking from whatever he was holding, I'm telling ya,' a swarthy lad explained to someone Randur took to be his father. There was something vaguely bird-like about their appearance, something similar about the nose.

  'Anyway, this wasn't near any of those temples of theirs.'

  'Just steer clear,' the older man said. 'I've never trusted them, or their damn relics. All stupid magic if you ask me.'

  The landlady returned. 'You're in luck. We've got a room. It's right next to mine, so try not to keep me awake.'

  Randur leaned closer and whispered, 'If you promise not to keep me awake.'

  'You outer-island boys,' she said, waving her hand dismissively, repressing a grin. 'You're all the same. Come on then, bring your bags, and I'll show you the way. What's your name?'

  'Randur Estevu.' He scrambled after her. 'So, I take it you like riding?'

  *

  A simple room - just a bed and a table and a chair. Some shoddy reproductions of island art on the walls. The window looked out at the rear of the building, which he actually preferred, as he didn't like the idea of being woken early by morning traders heading for irens.

  He didn't bother unpacking much, as he derived an almost masochistic pleasure from having the entire contents of his life contained in a few small bags. It offered him a freedom he'd never before known. The idea that you could get up and go anywhere, at any time. What was more, he was living someone else's life. And he was living that one near the edge.

  After a lunch of fish and root vegetables, he wandered aimlessly for a while, just absorbing the flavour of Villjamur. He felt a sense of melancholy about the people of the busy city. That wasn't surprising considering they were going to be confined more or less as prisoners here in order to have the best chance of staying alive through the ice. Families were being either torn apart or reunited, jobs were being lost, and people talked about a 'Caveside' where most of the inhabitants would end up living. But few people ever seemed to speak of cultists.

  He would have to ask someone.

  'Excuse me, madam,' he addressed an elderly woman with a basket of fish, 'I'm trying to find a cultist.'

  Her eyes turning ferocious, she spat at him as she walked away. After another couple of such incidents, he realized that cultists were generally not much liked, but, finally, a little girl was prepared to answer his question.

  'You'll find them on the level just before you reach Balmacara. Best to ask more directions up there.'

  Randur smiled at the somewhat grubby child, and gave her a couple of Drakar, thinking she might spend them more wisely than himself.

  He walked on.

  A black-feathered garuda with clipped wings was slumped in a doorway, rags across his legs, nervously smoking a roll-up of arum weed, and in front of his feet was a hat and a sign asking for donations for an ex-soldier. As he passed, Randur flipped him a couple of coins, and the bird-man was grateful, creating shapes in a hand-language that Randur couldn't comprehend.

  'Really, it's OK,' Randur mumbled, wondering what happened to those who offered service to the Empire?

  Around the next corner, two men stepped out from an alleyway. They wore brown tunics, heavy boots, no cloaks, and had a dirty look to them, as if they slept on the streets. He guessed them both to be around their thirties, but you couldn't be sure.

  'Fuck you staring at me for?' one of them snarled.

  'Sorry,' Randur mumbled.

  'Hey, gay boy. Nice shirt. Expensive, yeah?'

  Randur felt suddenly conscious of his clothing: well-sewn black breeches, white shirt with all those traditional Folke cuts. A fine cloak on top. Did people in this city really object to men being stylishly dressed?

  'Can tell by your accent you're not from around here,' one of the men said, approaching. 'So no one will notice if you disappear - isn't that so?'

  'That's right. Disappear,' the other man echoed. 'Happens a lot round here.'

  Randur noticed the edge of a blade protruding from under a sleeve. 'What's this about?' He stepped back.

  'Money,' one of them said.

  'Ah, well, I can't help you there.'

  The street was now empty save for the three of them, the rattle of sleet having become more prominent over the last few minutes. The ambience seemed like a fight premonition.

  'An expensive dresser like you, I'm sure you've got something on you,' the other said. 'A Lordil or a Sota would do us fine.'

  'Ah, and I thought he didn't speak, this one,' Randur said.

  'I'm warning you,' the man snarled, wiping drizzle from his face.

  Short blades were produced, glinting weakly in the poor light.

  'I really haven't got anything on me,' Randur took off his cloak, scrunched it under one arm.

  The first man lunged forward, swiping his weapon across Randur's midriff. Just as quickly Randur leaned away, took steps to one side, lightly. Then two to the other side. A dance manoeuvre modified for duelling.

  'Come here, you bastard,' the man said, enraged now, swiping repeatedly. He was grunting with frustration each time Randur slipped out of his reach.

  Taunting them physically was fun. Made them lose a little control, become angrier. They stepped away from each other, coming at him from separate sides. Randur allowed himself to drop to the floor as they attacked simultaneously, then he kicked one behind the knees, watching him fall as Randur spun away.

  'Look,' Randur said as he wiped his wet hands on his breeches. 'Let's just leave it here, and you can keep some dignity.'

  'Cunt,' one of the men yelled, and lashed again. His blade flashed across Randur's knuckles on one hand, instantly drawing blood. Randur stepped back, kicked the knife from his opponent's hand, then kicked the man in the groin. The attacker collapsed in agony to the ground. As the other now made to attack, Randur ducked expertly, grabbed the arm holding the knife, spun him around and brought the arm down over his knee with a crack of bone. The man screamed in pain.

  Randur retrieved the knife.

  Sleet meanwhile became drizzle became rain sparkling off the cobbles. Randur was now drenched, his black hair limp, shirt clinging to his lean body, his cloak heavy with moisture. He glanced down at it dubiously, reached down again to rip a section off one of the men's cloaks, wrapped it around his stinging knuckles.

  His attackers lay unresisting on the ground.

  He walked away, flipping up the collars on his cloak.

  *

  Each of the lower levels of Villjamur looked much the same, but on the higher levels the buildings became taller, narrower, somehow more elegant. They were also built of a lighter-coloured stone - limestone rather than granite. Wealthier people lived here, or at least they were certainly better dressed.

  A smartly turned-out man in a red cloak walked by.

  'Excuse me,' Randur said, 'you don't know where I could find a cultist, do you?'

  The man gave him a cold stare, but answered politely. 'There's a bistro, just up there, near one of their temples. You'll likely find a couple of them drinking there.'

  Randur approached the bistro: a narrow, white-painted building that appeared to tilt to the right. He pressed his face against the roughly made window, but the glass was too steamed up.

  He entered to find the place packed mostly with men. Several of the chairs had cloaks draped over the backs, a counter at the rear was
serving pastries, and there was the faint smell of perfume from the only woman, sitting at a table by the door. He walked up to the counter. The girl behind it was short, blonde, pretty - a suitable target if he didn't have other things on his mind. He ordered a drink made from juniper berries, like they used to make on Folke.

  As the girl handed it to him he said, 'Thanks. I love your hair.'

  'Really?' she said, eyes round and wide.

  'Stunning.' Sure that he had her attention, he persevered. He leaned forward over the counter to gaze at her absorbedly. 'Look, miss, I don't suppose you know of any cultists around here, do you? I'm new to the city, and it's quite important.'

  'There's two, over there in the corner. Another just here. One there.' She pointed them out in turn. 'But if you ask me, you should stay away from them.'

  'Thanks.' He handed her a Lordil for the drink. 'Don't worry about the change.'

  He studied the various figures she had pointed out. The one seated nearest to the counter was of slender build, with a pointed black beard that enhanced his well-carved features. Randur stepped up to his table. 'This seat taken?'

  The man stared at his food. 'If no one's sitting there, then I'm guessing not.'

  Randur sat down with his drink, took a sip. Beneath his black shirt, a small medallion glistened. On it was a strange symbol, two letter Cs, one reversed so that the curve touched what was a diamond between them.

  'Girl at the counter mentioned you're a cultist,' Randur said.

  The man looked up. 'What's that to you?'

  Randur reached into his pocket and brought out the same coin he had been given all those years ago on Folke. He placed it alongside the man's plate. The man instantly stopped eating. Randur continued sipping his drink.

  The cultist regarded him acutely. 'And where would an island boy get hold of a coin like that?'

  'It was given to me once by one of your lot,' Randur explained. 'Said her name was Papus.'

  'She's not,' the man replied firmly, 'one of my lot, as you put it.' Something about the way he said it suggested that these cultists weren't so much the close bunch everyone made out.

  'You're not a cultist, then?' Randur enquired.