Mark Newton: Nights of Villjamur

'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.

'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 city, 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?'