Mark Newton: Nights of Villjamur

Randur tramped along the streets of Caveside, collar flipped up, head down, a couple of bags slung over his shoulder. He was a totally focused man. His ribs still ached from the beating he received from the soldiers in Balmacara. The dogs that ran around his feet were skinny to the point of death, with no energy even to bark and he knew that feeling all right, was himself close to it right now.

He approached Denlin's house, then stopped and stood looking at the door. If he was the religious sort he would have said a prayer right now, because things were that bad. He couldn't believe what had happened, how his life had changed so quickly. One moment she was in his arms, amid the dazzling pinnacle of wealth and society, all elegant postures and smiles, the focus of everyone's gaze. And now she was locked away with an order of execution hanging over her.

Randur didn't believe for a minute that she was guilty. She didn't have it in her, and he knew her almost better than anyone. And he couldn't believe her sister capable either. This had the trappings of a set-up, but it was outside his control. You couldn't fight directly with people that well connected, with that much influence. His problem now was how to get her out of there. If he succeeded, from that point on he'd be a hunted man, so he had to get himself well clear of Villjamur too.

He banged on Denlin's door, glancing across the decaying structure of the house. There were architectures in this city that were beyond his comprehension, astonishing in either their complexity or simplicity, employing layers and techniques that were alien to more recent craftsmen.

The door creaked open. '… fucking knocking at this time? Oh, Randy lad, what can I do you for? You look right pissed off.' Denlin, standing in white night wear, waved him in.

Randur said nothing as he passed through the doorway and dumped his bags on the table. 'You alone?'

'No, I have several of the most sexually active women in the city keeping my bed warm,' Denlin muttered as he closed the door.

Randur sat down at the table.

'What's wrong then?' Denlin took a seat opposite him, poured himself a cup of water from a jug, gesturing for Randur to help himself. The young man shook his head.

After a moment, Randur opened one bag, pulled out a purse of money, the same purse that Eir had given him as payment for Dartun Sur, and clutched it on his lap, frowning in contemplation of some distant fury. 'I need you to gather together some of the toughest men you know. And to get hold of some swords.'

Randur explained the dramatic events at the Snow Ball, explained what his plans were.

Denlin observed, 'A right bollocksed-up situation.'

'You could say that. But can you help? Look, Den, I need your help now in a big way. It's more than likely I'll need you to leave the city with me, and I've no idea when we'll ever get back. If, that is, we survive. We'd be going up against the city guard, and up against the Council. It won't be pretty, however…' Randur opened up the bag of money, then began to count it all out, all in Jamuns. Every next one that he placed on the table, Denlin whistled softly, his eyes growing wide.

Randur said, 'I realize that it seems a lot, but this is for you if you help me out. It might go some way to providing a decent life for your nieces during the Freeze. It'll buy them a nice education, decent food. Because you yourself might not have much use for it if you're on the run. As for the rest of this money, well, we're going to need the best weapons, the best fighters – a private army, if you like. Possibly the roughest bunch – ones most likely to have grudges against the Council and their kind.'

'Shouldn't be too hard, that,' Denlin muttered. Then, 'How many men do you need, like?'

'However many it buys. It's real danger money, but I need enough men to overwhelm the city guard.'

Denlin said, 'And you want me to go with you, after it's all done?'

'Yeah, we'll need some extra protection. You used to be a demon archer in your younger days.'

'Aye, I was, lad.' Denlin wore that distant look of a man remembering his youth, of those bittersweet regions that only he could explore. 'This lot could keep the girls living well for years. A rare chance, given all the misery around. So to rescue this girl of yours, you'd give up any hope of helping your mother?'

There was no way Randur could rationalize his answer. It wasn't simply a question of which one he loved more – there were different kinds of love involved. All he knew was that he must follow his current instincts. Maybe he'd regret it in the future, but he was someone who made this sort of decision on impulse. 'It was her money to start with,' he mumbled.

Randur held eye contact with the old man, and something passed between their glances. 'I really need your help, Den.'

'Aye, count me in. I never got to be a proper hero in the damn army, but maybe I can be to my girls instead. So, when d'you need these fellows by?'

'Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. The Council plan to execute Eir and Rika at sunset.'

*

They began to gather inside the Garuda's Head, fifty-six of the roughest types money could buy. The landlord reckoned he had never seen such a profitable evening. Randur had paid for only one round, though. Clear heads would be needed. Denlin mingled with the throng, a socialite amongst these down-and-outs. There were about twenty rumel, brown-skinned or grey-skinned, and thirty-four humans, their faces mostly concealed beneath their hoods. Some of these thugs were even meant to be from the underground anarchist group. There were weapons in abundance. Denlin had even managed to get hold of two garudas who had been sacked from Imperial duty. Fortunately, Denlin knew the hand-language they responded to.

As he murmured instructions to several of the gathering, every now and then the old man would gesture towards Randur. Scarred heads would turn in his direction, and Randur would shuffle nervously under their gaze. He had made a point of not carrying the rest of the cash on him. One payment up front, the rest securely hidden till later. Denlin himself had thought it best this way.

Denlin struggled to climb onto a table, clasping a spoon and a metal tankard. He rapped the one on the other to get everyone's attention. A reluctant silence fell. 'Right, you lot, I've gone through the details with all of you individually. Now, Randur here is going to say a few words.'

Randur leaped onto the table with his dancer's agility, conscious of how fifty-six people looked four times as many when you were stood up in front of them.

He cleared his throat. 'You know the arrangement. I'm betting most of you don't care about that. But there's something else I need to say. We have to save two innocent women from this bastard Council, the same one that uses its powers to keep you lot trapped down in the caves year after year. Here's your chance to put one over on the fuckers, and to make some cash in the process.'

A cheer went up around the tavern. They liked that. Randur glanced across at Denlin, gave him a relieved grin.

Randur detailed what was essentially Denlin's strategy. The old man had the better knowledge of the city, of how things worked, of how public executions were conducted. It wasn't a wonderful plan. It wasn't even a particularly well-thought-out plan. But Randur hoped it would suffice. The councillors themselves wouldn't provide much opposition, being politicians, not fighters.

It was street thug against soldier, the rough stuff.

Randur himself would at least offer some fine sword skill, a little flair maybe where it was needed.

In response the hired men thrust their fists in the air, an eerie unison to the gesture.

One by one, the participants slipped out of the tavern till Denlin and Randur stood staring at each other in sudden emptiness, and the evening seemed to take on a new quality entirely.