Mark Newton: Nights of Villjamur

Brynd felt pangs of sympathy as he moved past, a desire to help.

Behind him, on the cart, Apium was still half asleep.

'Captain,' Brynd said sharply, and the man jolted awake.

'Eh? What? We're here, then, commander?'

The horses approached the main gate, a towering granite structure framing huge iron doors.

'Sele of Jamur,' Brynd addressed a city guard dressed in a blood-coloured tunic, who straightened his fur hat and saluted.

'Commander Lathraea, the Sele of Jamur to you. Everything well?'

'Been better,' Brynd said sourly.

'Commander, we're obliged to ask you about the contents of the cart.'

Brynd nodded, knowing the security procedures. The guard walked over to the cart, greeted Apium, pulled back the blanket covering their wounded passenger.

'Spot of bother at Daluk Point,' Apium said. 'And he was one of the lucky ones.'

'What happened to him?' the guard asked, covering Fyir up again.

'We'd like to know that, too,' Brynd confessed.

The guard gave him that knowing smile between soldiers. 'Right, in you go.'

He signalled for the gates to open. As they groaned apart, twenty more city soldiers advanced towards and around them, to prevent any of the refugees from attempting to get into the city. Not that they could, because there were two more gates to get past. And both were firmly closed to them.

So the Night Guard soldiers entered Villjamur.

Today was Priests' Day in the city. Twice a year, otherwise forbidden religions were allowed such an airing. The streets were filled with priests from the outlying tribes, allowed in on a one-day permit, but watched closely by soldiers from the Regiment of Foot. Sulists gathered around their shell-reading priests. Noonists were standing semi-naked in a circle, smeared in fish oils, holding hands and singing a melisma while a bunch of city cats tried to lick the oil off their legs. Ovinists were holding up pigs' hearts, as was their custom, allowing the blood to drip from them slowly into their mouths. Apparently this brought them closer to nature, but Brynd could think of less disgusting ways.

Aside from the devotees of the official two gods – Bohr and Astrid, worshipped under the umbrella of the Jorsalir Church – no priests were normally allowed to practise in the streets. Tradition allowed only these two days of the year for citizens to be exposed to other religions. Brynd thought it all rather pointless, since even if you did decide to follow some other creed, you would be forced to leave the city to pursue your new persuasion.

Brynd led the surviving Night Guardsmen along the main thoroughfares that would take them up on the next level where the streets and passageways became quieter.

Brynd leapt off his horse as a flicker of purple light caught his attention.

'What?' Apium demanded, puzzled.

'Back in a moment.' Brynd headed off down the narrow passage, till he spotted a cultist slumped against a wall. The man was clutching a slim cylinder to his chest, from which purple sparks flew onto his bare skin. The device itself was somehow fixed to his hand, a web of skin keeping it in place. The man's face was contorted into a mixture of bliss and pain. Brynd turned away in disgust.

'What was it?' Apium enquired, as he returned.

'Magic junkie,' Brynd muttered, mounting his horse again.

*

'What?' Jamur Johynn demanded, looking up from his dining table.

The Emperor was chewing on a fish platter, now and then examining his food for stray bones. His distant gaze suggested he might as well have been eating a plate of lemons. At times, Johynn refused to eat at all and sometimes he would assure servants that he'd eaten everything, only for them to find remains of his plate on the rocks directly below the window, or maybe stuffed into one of the ornamental jugs. Whether it was because he suffered from anorexia or was paranoid about being poisoned was anybody's guess. No explanations were offered, and no one dared to ask.

The dining chamber was a narrow room, but the numerous mirrors everywhere made the palace seem larger that it was. Early Jamur murals depicting grid-like astrological phenomena were painted between a myriad of identical arches. No one knew what they really meant. A row of plinths held the smoke-stained busts of previous Emperors, all Johynn's ancestors, like silent guests, while a handful of servants looked on, as always, from behind the pillars, neither wanting nor required to be seen. There was always a hint of fear in them as Brynd walked past, an inhalation of breath, a straightening of the back. Maybe they just feared this military intrusion because Brynd himself usually felt relaxed and informal in the Emperor's presence. They had developed over the years a relationship of intimacy, till Johynn could trust few people apart from the albino. Maybe that was because as Johynn had once hinted, it looked as if Brynd had some secrets to conceal himself.

'Killed to the last man, my Emperor. All apart from those of us you're now looking at.'

'So this means…?' Johynn made a steeple of his hands.

'No firegrain, Majesty, so the only resource there will be now is wood.' Brynd stood to attention alongside Apium, but Fyir had been allowed a chair, a rare concession in the Emperor's presence.

'So, commander…?'

'Our heat sources are therefore questionable,' Brynd continued. 'But let's not overlook the fact that half your personal guard has been slaughtered.'

'No heat, no heat…' Johynn moaned, as if reciting some destructive mantra.

Brynd glanced across at Apium. The captain merely shrugged.

Jamur Johynn walked over to the window. 'And how, how am I now going to keep the people of my city – of my Empire – warm?'

Brynd thought, As if you give a shit about anyone who's not Empire-issued nobility or a landowner.

'How can I look after them now the moons are in place? Everyone depends on me, Commander Lathraea. Everyone needs me.'

'Perhaps we'll manage OK without-'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Johynn snapped. 'This failure makes it even worse for everyone. They're going to rebel and have me killed now, aren't they?'

'Who?' Brynd said.

Johynn turned to face him again. 'Them.' He tilted his head towards the window, and the city beyond. 'My people.'

'But it's not your fault an ice age is starting. There've been hundreds of years of accurate predictions, you were merely the Emperor to face the challenge. There's always stocks of wood-'

'But I have to look after them. It means four hundred thousand responsibilities. You wouldn't have a clue what that's like.'

'They know you try to look after them,' Brynd insisted. 'Your Imperial lineage has always been popular.'

'The ones already living here, perhaps. But any other idiot arriving from whatever benighted corner of this Empire they inhabit will be surprised when we can't let them enter. Then they'll hardly love me, will they?'

Johynn's voice started to falter. His fingers were drumming the sill as he stared out of the window again. Every movement suggested an increasing sense of panic.

Johynn said, 'But I'm their saviour, oh yes. It is my right, before the Dawnir, before the movements of Bohr and Astrid. I'm their saviour.'

'My Emperor, perhaps this isn't the best time to ask, but do you know who else was aware of our mission?'

'What mission?'

'The one from which we've only just returned,' Brynd said patiently, looking to Apium, who raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and mouthed the word 'nuts'.

'Only a few of our Council members – Ghuda, Boll and Mewun. Chancellor Urtica, too. Only those four, no one else. No one else. No, absolutely nobody.'

'Is it possible that any of them could've informed an enemy? Is it possible one of them didn't want us to succeed?'