Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  'Oh, yes, but she isn't a part of my sect.' He took another bite.

  'Right.' Randur stretched his hand forward to take back the coin.

  The cultist stared at his recent wound. 'Been in a fight?'

  'Wasn't my choice,' Randur muttered, bringing his arm off the table.

  'Country boy ought to watch himself in this city,' the cultist said.

  'I can look after myself.'

  'Everyone says that. But, no one really can. What's your name, kid?'

  'Randur Estevu.'

  'Well, Randur Estevu, I'll tell you something for free.' The cultist rose from his seat. 'There's a temple at the end of this road with a double door made of Quercus wood. Knock hard on that, show them your little coin, and you may find you're in luck.'

  Randur stood up, offered his hand to shake. 'Thanks, um . . . Sorry, I didn't get your name.'

  'That's because I didn't tell you.' The cultist slung on his cloak and stepped out of the bistro.

  *

  With a free hour ahead, her last appointment having not shown up, Tuya sat down to paint. Inspired by the current mood of the city, she was starting afresh. She wanted to paint something fantastical that spoke about the people of the city feeling trapped in their homes. Perhaps she would paint a ycaged bird of sorts.

  She was wearing no clothes because, that way, there would be nothing to spill paint on except her unprotected skin. Similarly, she pinned her thick red hair up. Sitting herself on a stool, she tilted the easel so that she could look out of her window, across the architecture of the city, and she carefully noted the spires, the bridges, the pterodettes arcing across the sky. Water fizzed off the rooftops and suddenly the bell tower rang. She felt serene - all these pieces of the city coming together in a comforting collusion.

  She applied blue paste to the small canvas using a knife and a wide brush. The paint was her own concoction. Using local pigments, she blended this paste with an ingredient that only she knew of - in Villjamur, at least. A cultist had given the secret to her before he died, having been a client of hers, when he fancied someone normal. The substance was grainy, opaque, and he had instructed her carefully on its qualities, as rare as any other ancient relic the cultists used, perhaps originally ground by the Dawnir themselves. Or so the myth went. And myths went rather further than they should have in Villjamur.

  From time to time she closed her eyes, let the cold breeze tickle against her body until it aroused her again. She concentrated hard, took her mind away from what she was drawing in order to perceive it in a different way. Life was all about perception, and art was important to her. Maybe it wasn't to the people who walked past her window or used her sexually, but for her the least chance to express herself became simply wondrous.

  The creature she envisaged began to take form.

  It was something like a pterodette - same scales and batlike wings - but it possessed a noticeably mammalian body. It was blue simply because that was the pigment she had chosen today. Though it stood no higher than a child, she'd built a strong musculature into its physique, so much so that it could probably break down a door.

  It wasn't until the bell had struck again that she felt satisfied that she had finished for the moment. It wasn't meant to be precise yet, but would eventually take true form.

  She stood up from her stool, stepped closer to the window. Sunlight was reflecting wildly off the Astronomer's Glass Tower.

  Turning, with the breeze at her back, she regarded her painting again. It was definitely coming to life. The blue creature was almost pulsing, as if drawing real air into its specious body. She now began to paint in earnest the background, the life-source of the creature, summoning abstract ideas that would feed its soul. Powerful urges thronged in her mind, a desire to fly off into the distance, to explore the Boreal Archipelago, this land of the red sun. Maybe to know freedom, of a sort.

  Suddenly the creature began to peel itself off the canvas in fast, vacillating movements. It bubbled upwards, shook itself . . .

  And fell to the floor.

  Tuya laughed and cooed as she picked her creation up and placed it on the windowsill. It crawled along, then stood up properly on four legs. Its wings spread. Tuya gave a cry of delight. She didn't know how she made it happen each time and, if she was honest, she didn't really care, because her art didn't just reflect life - it created it.

  The creature flapped its new-found wings, then threw itself out the window. A gust transferred it to a new current, and it drifted across the spires and away from Villjamur, leaving her once again with that same sense of loneliness.

  *

  Randur found the door eventually, an inconspicuous entrance in an inconspicuous street. Certainly nothing to suggest it concealed a haven for cultists. He might have expected some kind of inscriptions in the pale stonework surrounding the door, some elaborate decoration, something to indicate an elite building associated with the Order of the Dawnir, the oldest and largest sect of all. A nice plaque even. There was merely bare stone and a single hanging basket with thrift sagging over the sides. A city guard on horseback was riding by, and there was something in his brief glance that made Randur feel guilty.

  He knocked on the door.

  The hatch opened, exposing a man's face to the daylight. 'Yes?'

  Randur held up the coin. 'I'm looking for someone called Papus.'

  The man's gaze was fixed on the coin. 'Hang on.'

  The door opened with the doorman gesturing for him to come in. The doorman wore a black cloak, underneath which Randur could see a dark, tight-fitting uniform, almost military in its design.

  'Wait here,' the man instructed, and walked away.

  The room was dark, but Randur could make out elaborate wood panelling, a few framed sketches on the wall. Incense burning gave a strangely comforting feeling about the room. It wasn't unlike the church of Bohr that had been built on Folke in the name of the Empire.

  The man shortly returned with a chubby blonde woman dressed similarly. The pair of them searched Randur for weapons, then sat him down on a wooden stool.

  They asked his business in Villjamur. And questioned his request to see Papus.

  He held up the coin again, explaining how she had given it to him. The pair looked at each other.

  'She's busy right now, but if you want to wait here, we'll enquire if she can see you sometime,' the woman said.

  They left him slumped on the chair in that cold dark room. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he had started to see the framed sketches in more detail. Diagrams of devices that he supposed to be relics, strange lettering surrounding each. He couldn't read Jamur as well as he could speak it, but this must be some older form of the language.

  He waited there for the best part of an hour before he was finally summoned.

  *

  He was led into a large stone chamber that obviously served as an office, judging by the books and papers that littered the shelves and floor as if it hadn't been tidied in years. Tiptoeing around the clutter, he was told to sit on a chair by the large pointed-arch window. It seemed these were the chambers of Papus. The two leading him used the bizarre term in reference to her: the Gydja of the Order of the Dawnir. A bit much, really . . .

  As he was left alone, staring through the window, a strange blue creature caught his eye. It flew down from one of the balconies on some higher level, arced awkwardly out of sight, then back into view briefly before banking up to one side.

  The ancient chamber had a musky smell, with broken bits of masonry here and there. He knew the city was old, but had never imagined buildings like this would still be standing. Everywhere, there were books littering the shelves and even the floor. Mouldy with their broken spines, pages stuck together, sprouting sheets of paper exposing diagrams and equations to the air. There were pieces of equipment too, strange unrecognizable masses of metal, mechanical-looking insects, precise and advanced shapes.

  Seeing all of this accumulated wisdom generated a feeling of
inadequacy about his own education. He knew he was intelligent, but here was a more structured knowledge: ancient languages, history, the names of rare flora and fauna, whereas he mostly knew about swords and dancing and women. He had his wits, though, and you couldn't find every answer in a book - some were out in the real world.

  The door opened, and a woman stepped in, garbed in the same outfit as the other two cultists. Her hair was darker than he remembered, and she was leaner.

  'Who wants to speak to me?' Her voice was deep, her blue eyes dazzling.

  Randur walked over to her, drew out the coin.

  She took it and studied it. 'Yes, I remember. Folke, 1757. You're the little boy that saved me.' She handed it back, and gave him something like a smile. The severe lines on her face suggested that this was a rare gesture. 'You've grown, I see.'

  'It happens,' Randur murmured, placing the coin back in his pocket. 'You said, at the time, if I ever needed a favour to come and find you.'

  'You have had a successful journey then, so far.' Papus walked over to the table, and began to shuffle some papers. 'Well, what is the favour?'

  'I need to find a cultist who can stop someone from dying, or else bring them back from the dead.'

  Regarding him seriously, she put down the papers she was holding and took a step closer.

  'I did save your life,' Randur said lamely. He thought at this point it might be an appropriate reminder.

  'Yes, so you did - but you're making an incredibly serious request, you realize? I mean, why would you want to live forever?'

  'It's not for me. It's my mother.'

  'Oh, I see.' Papus perched on one end of the table. 'Could you just wait here for a moment?'

  'I'm used to that by now.'

  Papus reached under her cloak with her right hand--

  - and vanished in a flash of purple light.

  Randur jumped up, as if scalded, and stepped towards the table. He scanned the heaps of books and papers as if they'd offer any clues. 'Now how the hell did she do that?'

  *

  Randur was back in the seat by the window, trying to fathom one of the books that he clearly didn't understand. He decided that he liked the diagrams aesthetically, however.

  The door opened. Papus re-entered.

  'I see you're using the door now?'

  'Look,' Papus said, 'I do owe you a major favour, and I've talked it over with a few of my colleagues here, but I fear I must tell you that what you've asked for isn't really where our expertise lies.'

  Maybe he was naive, but this was getting frustrating. 'You're magicians, aren't you?'

  'No,' she said, briefly.

  'No?'

  'No, we're much more than that. It isn't simple magic. There's a whole craft involved. We devote years to studying the subtleties of our technology.'

  It sounded like a speech recited many times before.

  'You made a promise. So what d'you suggest?'

  'Well, I'm referring you now to another sect. You've got to understand that we normally have nothing whatsoever to do with them. I'm not placing you in any direct danger, but you must be particularly careful. I'm only doing this, remember, because of your service to me all those years ago. I would not be doing it for any other reason.'

  'They sound pretty unsavoury,' Randur said. 'I'm not sure I like where this is going.'

  'Let's just say that this is a tough time for the orders. Relationships are strained.'

  'So I gather your lot and this other group don't like each other.'

  'That is putting it mildly.' Papus laughed. 'But I'm now handing you over to them, and that is my favour to you in exchange. I don't think you'll ever understand just how big a favour it is.' She paused, then explained. 'We have radically different ways of thinking.'

  'How so?' Randur enquired, noticing the anxiety in her expression.

  'They - the Order of the Equinox, they're called - like to . . . take the world apart. We prefer to put it back together. That's as easy as I can make it for you.'

  'Make it harder,' Randur said. 'I'm curious.'

  'They want to take the world to pieces, to find out all its secrets. To know how everything works, and they won't let anything like ethics get in the way. They're ruthless, cruel and destructive. Whereas I like to unify, to keep order, observe a high level of morals. We give our help to the Council of Villjamur, and the Emperor, whenever they need us. But, nevertheless, it is to the Order of the Equinox that I must take you, if you're ever to find that which you seek.'

  'There are two sides to every coin.' Randur had the token in his hand again. 'How do I know that you're not just finding an easy way of getting rid of me?' He flipped the coin in the air so that it shimmered in the light.

  She grabbed it even as it span, and handed the coin back to him. 'Come,' she said. 'I'll take you to meet them.'

  'Who exactly?' Randur said, his head tilted slightly.

  'Dartun Sur,' Papus replied, turning to leave the room. 'He's the Godhi of the Order of the Equinox.'

  'Means bugger all to me,' Randur muttered.

  She said sharply, 'It will, soon enough.'

  'One question,' Randur said. 'What was that thing you took from the man who was trying to kill you, all those years ago?'

  'That's not important now. It was a weapon, it was meant to hurt people, but nothing fancy, nothing world-changing. Nothing prophetic. We just didn't want it in his hands. As I said before, Randur, we're the ones with morals and ethics. We're just trying to keep order, to safeguard things for the benefit of the Empire.'

  *

  Through the streets of Villjamur once again.

  Down a route he wouldn't have noticed existed. Through constricted alleyways, along hidden bridges. Much about the city had faded, died - disused chambers and archways, remnants from another time with no place here any more. As they passed under passageways he could hear carts being hauled above, and if he looked up through drain holes he could see people walking. Down here there were different styles of brickwork, crumbling stone where moss and lichen had colonized profusely near constantly dripping water.

  'You know,' Randur said, 'the people who run this city could always ship those refugees from outside and set them up right here. It might be squatting, but still, if it means they don't die . . .'

  She looked at him dismissively and Randur knew when to shut up. Papus gave the air that she knew a great deal, and would put down with great skill anyone who got a bit too clever with her.

  They finally arrived at an underground chamber accessed by a door that you could barely see. Papus knocked, then turned to face him. 'These are the only cultists who can help you in what you're looking for.'

  The door opened. A bald man in a grey cloak stood there to greet them.

  'This is him,' Papus explained to the doorman, an anxious look on her face. She then walked away quickly, and Randur found himself visiting his second cultist sect of the day.

  *

  'So you see what I was promised.' Randur was sitting across a stone table from the man called Dartun Sur, who was sprawled in the chair opposite. 'And that's why I was told you could help.'

  The chamber exuded a wonderful smell that reminded Randur of some herbal wash worn by a girl he once knew. Otherwise the room was rather plain, with none of the carefully arranged relics, containers of strange liquids, preserved specimens, or crazy men with mad hair he might have expected.

  Dartun leaned forward in his plush chair. He had an assessing gaze, and there was an unsettling, ageless look to those eyes. They shone too bright for the dim light. 'An intriguing task, I'll give you that. But quite doable.'

  As an awkward silence stretched before them, Randur examined the man. Dartun was annoyingly handsome, with his square jaw, gently muscled physique. He had somehow even found some sunlight in this city to give his skin a healthy glow. Despite the greying hair, his looks remained youthful, and Randur placed him at around forty years, even though he gave the impression of being a more experienced man
.

  'That's a smart cloak you've got there,' Randur said to break the silence - and thinking he'd look good in it himself, with a little customization. 'Very dark. What colour's that?'

  'Fuligin,' Dartun replied. 'That's a colour darker even than black.'

  Another period of reflection, and Randur said, 'So, d'you think you can help me?'

  'Of course,' Dartun replied, looking amused at the naive question. 'That's well within our talents. It's one of my own areas of expertise, shall we say. No, my reflection on the matter is what can you do for us in return.'

  Randur knew that the favour Papus had given him was to introduce him to Dartun. He would now have to come to some agreement of his own with this cultist leader. 'Well, if it's any help, I'm on my way to take employment in the household of the Emperor himself.'

  'Old Johynn's place?' Dartun said. 'Now that's certainly an interesting point. And what'll you be doing there exactly?'

  'This and that,' Randur replied coolly. This encounter was beginning to give him a sense of angst. He waited a moment before he asked the inevitable. 'Would you want paying?'

  'A-ha! Now that, Randur Estevu, sounds more like it.'

  'I would've thought that, being cultists, you could get your hands on all the wealth you needed. And what would you need money for anyway?'

  'I love the way everyone assumes we can do anything, as and when we please. Our technology is rather specific, you see. And, precious though they are, relics don't buy food or sustenance. I have an order to pay regularly: that's what keeps people happy. No, money is useful indeed. I think to cover our time and costs for this task . . . say, four hundred Jamuns should do it?'

  'Four hundred!' Randur stood up with shock. Stunned someone could assign a monetary value to such a request. Was that how they did things deep in the Empire? Where was the fairness in that? He locked eyes with Dartun, but could see that the cultist leader wasn't a man to be argued with.

  'Well, what price would you put on a life, Mr Estevu?' Dartun said.

  Randur sat down again, feeling miserable. Four hundred Jamuns? An impossible sum. Calculating that a Jamun was worth ten Sota, each of which was worth fifty Lordils, he realized you could buy up most of the farms on Folke with that kind of money. It seemed utterly alien to price up a person's life.