Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  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.

  After a long interlude of whispering, they seemed to remember that other people were gathered around them, listening, waiting.

  The young page showed them into a formal chamber where several members of the Council were seated, all immediately rising to their feet.

  Brynd and the rest of his Night Guard followed silently.

  There he was, Chancellor Urtica, walking over to the new Empress. He took her hand, pressed it to his lips, after he briefly went down on one knee. 'Jamur Rika, a great honour. As your chancellor, may I welcome you to Villjamur, on behalf of the Council. Your presence here in this difficult time is most reassuring.'

  'Hey,' Apium muttered to Brynd, 'he's not wasting his time in greasing up to her, is he?'

  Brynd grunted a quiet laugh. He looked across to Nelum and Lupus, who stood silently, watching the Empress's every move - as they had been trained to do for her father.

  'Who's that swarthy-looking stick of a fellow over there?' Apium whispered.

  Brynd followed his gaze to a thin, handsome man standing in one corner of the chamber. With glossy black hair that cascaded down in curls, he wore smart clothes of the kind usually seen on the outer islands, but updated to make a splash in the city. He seemed a bit of a cliched dandy - even to Brynd. The man stood tall, his chin raised, his head angled in calculated postures. Several ladies of the court were huddled close to him, and every now and then he'd flash them a rehearsed grin.

  Brynd raised an eyebrow. 'I've never seen him before. Why not ask one of the servants.'

  Apium stepped away and returned moments later.

  'His name is Randur Estevu, and apparently he's Lady Eir's tutor for sword and dance. I think I remember Johynn talking about getting someone in. I don't know, holding a bloody dancing event because the Archipelago's about to be plunged into an ice age. Ridiculous, if you ask me, these bloody nobles.'

  'Aren't we ourselves technically nobles?' Brynd said.

  'Aye, but, uh, at least we do something useful, not just prance about to music.'

  'Last time you danced you cleared the floor - and not in a good way.'

  'I had a bit to drink, I'll admit. Anyway, why should a soldier need rhythm?'

  'Good sword skills,' Brynd explained. 'I'll bet that waif of a man can look after himself.'

  Brynd regarded the curious-looking newcomer, this Randur. He certainly had good dress sense. The man suddenly looked back at him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Randur glanced away.

  Brynd turned his attention to Urtica, who was still fawning upon the new Empress, with forced laughter, fake smiles, overstated gestures - it was enough to make Brynd feel sick.

  *

  Later that afternoon, the sisters were allowed time in private, once it had been decided that Emperor Johynn's state funeral would take place in the morning. He was to be buried in the crypt under Balmacara, inside the caves, just like every ruler before him. For all other citizens, their bodies were burned on a pyre, much in line with the ancient tribal religions. It was thought that cremation sped their spirits towards one of the otherworlds, depending on how your life had been lived. Emperors alone were destined to stay in Villjamur forever, their bodies in the caves, decaying till they became part of the city, part of legend itself.

  Their bones becoming Villjamur's bones.

  Brynd discovered that after he'd gone, news of the Emperor's death had sent a slow shockwave through these corridors. Councillors had flapped around the place, murmuring portentous utterings, but all the time adding to a sense of unease. Brynd himself had noticed this malaise grow in the short time since his return. It manifested in a general lack of confidence, in an escalating mood of fear. But perhaps this mood was exacerbated by the coming of the ice age.

  An initial ceremony would take place as the red sun rose. Then as the sun set, Rika would be proclaimed Empress, therefore finishing a day to change history - or at least the history books. Brynd had stationed two soldiers from the Night Guard outside Eir's and Rika's chambers, whilst he himself liaised with Chancellor Urtica, at that politician's request. The two men met in the War Chamber usually reserved for discussions on battle tactics, and perhaps this was the first indication to the commander that something was wrong.

  Brynd opened the door to find Urtica standing at the far end of a massive stone table, his back to a spitting fire. No tapestries garlanded this room, only lanterns and examples of ancient weaponry on the walls. As he entered Brynd realized the conversation wouldn't be going his way.

  'Commander, do step inside and close the door. Hell of a draught coming in.'

  Brynd shut the door and approached, his steps clicking in the awkward silence. 'What's the problem, chancellor?'

  'War, commander,' Chancellor Urtica sighed. 'I fear it's war.'

  'And why so? I've been away for less than a month, so what can have arisen? Surely we should be looking for peace at all costs in these distressing times?'

  'Of course, but our experts have now analysed the arrow that you retrieved from Daluk Point. It was indeed a Varltung shaft.'

  'Really?' Brynd said, his eyes narrowing. 'But I still don't see why the Varltungs would make a raid on us.'

  'Yes, well, these are strange days. Furthermore I've intelligence from our garudas suggesting that the Varltungs have planned more raids - now that our city is at its weakest. So I was forced to put some defensive plans in motion after you left. Troops are moving across the Empire as we speak.'

  'What intelligence exactly?' Brynd said. Were the city's forces already marching to war without his knowledge?

  'Not only from garudas, but rumours from various outposts. So I have initiated troop movements for a coastal raid on the Varltung nation. I'll be using cultists from the Order of Dawnir to help, too, as I want to stop any chance of our outlying islands being assaulted after our city closes its doors. It is a purely defensive tactic, and we aim to minimize casualties, and work with them once they submit.'

  'And you're absolutely certain of this strategy? Surely, as commander of the armies, I should be allowed some say in this decision. Surely I should have some role in this?' It appeared that Urtica had already made up his mind even before Brynd had left to fetch Jamur Rika. Now it wouldn't surprise Brynd to learn that soldiers were already dying.

  'That's certainly true, and I will need your agreement. The Council felt constrained to pass an urgent order of war in your absence. The Empress must be briefed immediately. More Dragoons and Regiments of Foot are currently being readied, but there's now another threat, for which I think your personal attention is more essential.'

  Brynd analysed every word that Urtica uttered, scanning for the gaps in what he said to find the real story. Being chief commander of military operations appeared to mean little to these politicians, these articulate men who had no direct experience of combat. They just rolled the dice from a safe distance, not understanding the real
costs in terms of resources and emotion.

  Urtica said, 'You were aware of your next task, I think, even before you returned here. Those killings on our islands further north - on Tineag'l to be precise.'

  'The mining island?'

  'We've now had two reports of large-scale massacres there. Towns have been wiped out, and so far hundreds have died - possibly thousands. I sent a garuda to investigate and he hasn't returned yet - that was some time ago now.' Urtica reached across the table for a parchment, passed it to Brynd. 'This, however, came through to us.'

  Brynd read the message.

  To Emperor Johynn, and the Council of Villjamur

  I must alert you to a potential crisis as we've had reports of terrible events occurring on Tineag'l. Many have been fleeing atrocities of an unknown nature, that quite frankly leaves me to be astounded. There have been severe numbers of disappearances on the island, and interviews have been held with those who have fled. There is something killing whole communities, cleansing entire cities and towns. I estimate from listening to those escapees, and by studying old maps, that tens of thousands may no longer exist. It is rumoured that a host of many thousand refugees are fleeing from the north on foot, and it will take them some weeks to reach the south tip of Tineag'l. But when they reach it they will sail to Villiren. And, good sirs, we can't cope with such quantities in our city. Already we've local people seeking shelter from the ice, so what is Lutto Fendor to do? I request you send aid, in whatever form possible, to this city and investigate the atrocious incidents on Tineag'l before this evil spreads here to the island of Y'iren. We are but a humble trading city, so we are not equipped to resist, or indeed help the refugees fleeing these killings. We need protection. Send it quick!

  Your servant, and in the name of Bohr and Astrid, and of the Jamur Empire and Council.

  Lutto Fendor, Portreeve of Villiren, on the island of Y'iren

  Brynd glanced twice over the parchment, noticing it possessed the mark of Jorsalir, a discreet symbol of the moons in each corner, behind the star of the Empire. That meant it was official all right, blessed by the priest, but Brynd tended to ignore those kinds of blessings. He grunted. So Fat Lutto actually does his job, for once. He handed it back to Urtica. 'Yes, this is bad news all right. You wish me to assemble what exactly?'

  'I think at least a few units of Dragoons, plus a cultist from the Order of the Dawnir should suffice. And the rest of your Night Guard, of course. But I'm not sure we can spare much more than that just yet if we're to organize a proper defence against the Varltung nation. Remember, they won their freedom six hundred years back, they've defeated the Empire's forces once. And they've enough population to furnish a few hundred thousand fighting men if they can unite all their tribes. I would like to make them . . . submit before the Freeze becomes too severe. So I'm leaving this matter in your capable hands.' Urtica was silent for a moment as he contemplated some of the maps lying in front of him.

  'You don't think this is a more important issue than the Varltung operation?'

  'You know very well what Lutto's like. He can be . . . inaccurate in what he says. He's fat, he's lazy, he's a gambler, and a criminal.'

  'But he's in charge of an entire city and he's panicking,' Brynd said.

  'In charge because he rigs the voting. Anyway, I think that given the information so far, the greatest issue lies on the eastern fronts. Should you need more men, you can send for reinforcements. Oh, incidentally, that Dawnir friend of yours has been grumbling about wanting to go with you.'

  'Jurro?' Brynd said, puzzled. 'Why does he need to come anyway?'

  'Why not take him with you? The activity might finally jog his blasted memory, and then we can get some useful information out of him. I mean what's the use of an Ancient if he doesn't have memory? I don't want him just rotting away reading books for another several generations and only have the benefit of his misery to put up with. Take him with you, let him see a bit more of the world. Before the ice sets in.'

  Brynd considered just how exactly he could take one of the Ancient race on a scouting mission, travelling through towns where he'd undoubtedly be mobbed by villagers who would see him as some kind of oracle, some saviour to them in the ice age. That was the exact reason he'd been hidden for so long.

  'What of the firegrain?' Brynd said. 'Have the remaining stocks of grain and oil been calculated?'

  'Of course,' Urtica said. 'Anyway, there's wood remaining on Jokull, and plenty on the other islands. That's what the military will use for their warmth. That's what other cities are relying on. Emperor Johynn was just mad sending you out there in the first place. Now, shall we thrash out some details about the current crises facing the Empire? I believe our two fine minds should deliver some decent logistical analysis, what d'you say?'

  'Yes.' Times were awkward all right. He would prefer to be in control of the raids on Varltung, or else remain here to stand by the new Empress, but this threat, on one of the fringes of the Empire, appeared urgent, and what the hell could be causing it anyway?

  'Why all this effort to subdue Varltung now? This Freeze could last thirty-odd years, and much of the Empire will be changed as we know it. Hell, there may be no Empire left when we come out of hibernation.'

  As Urtica met his gaze, it seemed a gust of wind came in from somewhere, flickering shadows adopting new postures across the old walls. 'Commander Lathraea, I don't think you fully understand the purpose of the Jamur Empire?'

  'I'm not sure I follow.'

  'I didn't think so. What does an empire do We extend ourselves, we acquire new territories. We take control there. We grow. We make progress. We seize the world for our people, and we give them additional wealth as a reward. You're a military man, commander. I expect better of you than to doubt our purpose.'

  'Bohr, we've not had a skirmish in years - except for that incident on Daluk Point, of course. And the lack of military action has been a positive thing. We've found more diplomatic ways to establish relationships with tribes locally. You think I've risen to the top of my career by rearing to fight everything I come across?'

  'Did it never occur to you that you've risen so far so quickly because you were adopted by a wealthy family? That's how things work in Villjamur. I'd hoped for more from you, Commander Lathraea. There's a population of some millions out there that it's our responsibility to feed and nurture. We need to raise them from the squalor of their mud huts, and give them a better quality of existence. Your role isn't that of politician, but as a guardian of the Empire. That now means going to Tineag'l, to prevent a bigger threat than even the Varltungs may prove.'

  The chancellor had a valid point, even if Brynd didn't trust him, wondering how much of what slipped off his tongue was sincere. There were far too many bizarre happenings recently to trust the politicians, and perhaps the recent cycles of the moons were affecting more than just the weather. Maybe they were creating some kind of insanity across the Boreal Archipelago, generating a subtle tension you couldn't perceive exactly. And in the years to come, things would only get worse.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jamur Rika perched on the windowsill staring out across the early morning snowflakes sifting through the air in thick flurries, collecting on the rooftops, on stationary carts, upturned barrels, walls. People were shuffling in and out of bleak streets and alleyways, avoiding the worst of it, miserable faces sheltering from the sky, only children looking up with glee, maybe not understanding what it meant.

  She could breathe the tension even from up here.

  All a necessary distraction, but she had to turn around and face her bed chamber eventually. It was so unfamiliarly full of luxuries that weren't her own - not that she'd possessed many before anyway. Leading a life studying Astrid had meant little need for such accoutrements. Purple furnishings, numerous gold and silver objects that she had no idea how to use, that perhaps had no real use anyway. Over there was the white silk gown she must wear for her father's burial in the crypts. Its layered silk was s
o much richer than the simple, black cotton she wore to sleep in.

  And why should those refugees have to suffer when she enjoyed all this? She wanted to help them somehow, had already drawn up an idea to present to Chancellor Urtica at the earliest opportunity. To feed them, send aid, a food package from the city, from the new Empress. A positive move that would say she was trying her best. Even after only a brief moment back in Villjamur, it seemed as if the Council made all the decisions. But if she was going to insist on one thing it would be that.

  Sleep hadn't come easily. Innumerable criers had stalked the evening until late, announcing her father's funeral to the echoing walls, their clear voices filtering through to her dreams, filling her slumber with visions of death and rebirth.

  Rika felt trapped in a place that wasn't home, with such great responsibility. Jorsalir training had at least given her the luxury of accepting her fate. Now she felt such a longing, but for some time she didn't know what for. Perhaps she missed the remoteness of Southfjords, where there was little to occupy her mind except the daily texts, interrupted with a few thoughts of her sister. That those days could never be repeated made them all the more desirable. She must seek out a priestess in this alien city, so that she could have the benefit of Astrid's aspects to guide her through this difficult period.

  *

  She couldn't let her past go. She had tried for so long to avoid it, had perhaps even fled the city to escape thinking about it. Always, when abroad, her life came back to her in images:

  Shafts of sunlight bleaching stone floors. Eir crying after being covered in flour in the kitchens. Pock-faced tutors issuing grammar instructions whilst it rained. The first time she ever saw a garuda. The day the tapestries caught fire in the dining hall. Two servants kissing with intensity against the wall of one of the studies. On a balcony eating an apple in the fading autumn heat. A city cat licking the sole of her bare foot - its tongue strangely rough.