Nights of Villjamur lotrs-1

by Mark Charan Newton

They stepped together to that opening in the thick stone walls which looked over one entire side of the city. The view was partially obscured by numerous bridges and spires. A thick fall of snow drifted down from the grey sky. In its smothering embrace, the horizon was no longer perceptible.

  'So much of it,' Eir murmured, lost in her thoughts.

  'Yeah,' Randur said, becoming lost in his own.

  *

  Dartun watched the young boy snatch the relic from the group of cultists. The lad had guts, he'd give him that. Those men weren't from his order, and were simply holding the device out for all to see. Too cocky, too arrogant, not nearly careful enough. The fuckers deserve to lose it.

  Dartun drew his fuligin cloak around him, absorbing shadow, then followed the boy who now ran in his direction, a scruffy little chap dressed in thick rags, obviously from Caveside. Darting down an arterial series of alleyways, the boy had soon lost everyone except Dartun.

  Last night he had coughed so much he thought he would emit blood, and he had never felt like this before.

  The cobbles were slick with snow in the sun since the last snowstorm. Some streets had already been washed down with salt water. The wind worked its way relentlessly through the cramped alleys. Dartun cornered the boy finally at a dead end where buildings towered up on every side, leaving the pair in shadows. A strange serenity prevailed this far away from the main streets of the city, suggesting that the further he walked down these passageways, the less easily he'd find his way back.

  'Hand it over,' Dartun demanded.

  The boy eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance, obviously weighing up the cultist. His blue eyes were dazzling. 'Fuck you, mister.'

  Dartun laughed. 'Some spirit in you, I see.'

  'What's it to you, wanker?' The lad shuffled from one foot to the other, looking for a way past.

  'Just give the relic to me.' Dartun extended his hand. 'You don't want any harm to befall you.'

  'No, it's meant to be mine, it's my destiny,' the boy said. Then, he threatened, 'I'll use it on you.'

  'You really don't want to try that.'

  'No?' The boy reached into his pocket, then was holding up the silver device itself. It looked like a compass, a subtle navigational tool of some kind, perhaps used to divine directions.

  'No,' Dartun insisted.

  The boy ignored him, flicked the relic open, began to press on it at random, looking to and from Dartun with eager eyes, and all Dartun did meanwhile was take several slow steps backwards, guessing what might happen, wondering only what form it would take.

  A ball of purple smoke erupted, extending in every direction.

  Just enough time to see the skin of the boy peel back before he became a myriad of chunks of flesh and bone, which distorted then liquidized as if it was paint. Dartun had ducked in time before he heard the gentle explosion, bringing his fuligin cloak over his face. He felt the remains of the child hitting him first, then slapping against the cobbles.

  Dartun stood up to regard the mess. Blood was sprayed in a circle all around the relic, which remained intact on the ground, a glistening unstained piece of metal. Mere fragments of the boy remained: the odd bone, a tiny segment of skull. At least his fuligin cloak was so intensely dark that the stains were barely showing up on it.

  Primed with an explosion detonator. Haven't seen one of those for a while.

  'They'll never learn,' he said out loud; he reached down, scooped up the relic, pocketed it, then walked away.

  Two nights earlier, he had felt a stiffness in his legs that he'd never noticed before.

  *

  Four days ago, he had grazed his hand on stone, drawing blood.

  He'd looked at his injury for an hour, contemplating why this was happening, contemplating that narrowing line between life and death.

  If you cannot die, it means you're not alive to begin with. And now the system of relics is gradually failing me.

  Dartun repeated this mantra over and over again in his mind, forcing himself to believe it. Home, in a darkened chamber within the headquarters of the Order of the Equinox, he stared at the relic taken from the dead boy. Every relic was somehow protected against use by any lay person, the secrets of handling it known only to the numerous cultists who frequented these islands. Ignorant meddlers were poisoned for their trouble, or corrupted by holding something unknown, the lucky ones only losing a single limb. Other relics used bolts of energy to stop the heart, and some used a toxic gas. Their fate was never pleasant, but it ensured that cultist secrets remained exactly that. And so it had worked for tens of thousands of years.

  He held the artefact up to a shaft of light penetrating a slat in the wooden shutter. This new relic was a type of wend, that would have assisted the Ancients in their travels. Even though it wouldn't help him regain his immortality, he was always delighted to find another relic, whatever its powers. This one was a particularly wonderful piece of equipment. The internal materials were not of this era, that was nearly always certain, although the casing was some form of current silver, so perhaps it had been modified. Round, fitting easily in the palm of his hand, it absorbed the thin beam of light from the daylight outside, and it held his attention endlessly.

  Dartun considered himself the best cultist around. He could not only use relics, but modify them, develop his own devices from the ancient wonders. He could combine them, could manipulate the different technologies for his own research and, over his abnormally long lifetime, he had made countless notes, developed theories, tested them, tried to fill in the numerous gaps in knowledge. He had pushed the boundaries of what was known and, by doing so, blurred the boundaries between life and death. But there was something evading him that he wanted to achieve. And he wanted to attain it more than ever because of his sudden awareness of mortality.

  This is the way my world ends, he reflected: not with a whimper, but with a fucking big bang.

  Again, today he had contemplated the signs of his ageing.

  Deeper lines in his face.

  Grey hairs.

  Aches.

  Cuts and grazes on his skin.

  These were the legacy of mortals, things he hadn't been used to. Every time he identified one of these minor deteriorations, he would stand still and examine it for the best part of an hour, trying to accept the fact that he was dying. It took over nearly every part of his mindspace. There seemed no room to think of anything else.

  He finally placed the relic to one side, walked over to one of his numerous bookshelves, selected a notebook. From another shelf he drew a map from a large stack. Then he lit three lanterns, placed one on his desk, set to work.

  Last month he had suffered a migraine for two days. His first such inconvenience in hundreds of years.

  The main subject of concern for everyone in Villjamur, on Jokull island, and every other island of the Empire, was the Freeze – the ice age, long predicted by astronomers and historians. But it had to have its good points, and for Dartun, it meant that he could finally investigate one of the celebrated myths of the world.

  The Realm Gates.

  The mythical doors to other worlds. It was said that the Dawnir built them, the race that constructed the islands under the red sun, to link worlds with others. Some priests whispered that there would be direct access to the realms of the gods, some said that instead you could walk straight to the realms of hell. No one seemed to know for certain and, as a result, many assumed that they were simply stories spread by Jorsalir priests. Dartun himself had spent hundreds of years documenting all the historical accounts available. But he had access only to what the empires of the west had detailed, a skewed history. The nations of Varltung and further east passed on their history by word of mouth only, by the warmth of a fire no doubt. Romantic, Dartun thought, but it only gives me one side of the picture. He had, however, pieced together the rough location of where he thought the Realm Gates lay. That meant traversing endless water, over the seas to the north of the Empire's domains, way be
yond Folke and far north of Tineag'l. But the Freeze had now caused the formation of thick and stable ice sheets. It meant he could now explore those regions more easily, without being knocked endless days off course by the hazards of rough seas.

  The coming ice age meant he was finally able to travel to other worlds.

  The fact that his immortality was fading only spurred him on to achieve this quickly, didn't it, because there was no more luxury of time. So he would soon be leaving Villjamur accompanied by members of the Order of the Equinox, some of whom had already left in advance. They'd find new worlds to the north. And there was always a vague, desperate hope in his mind that somewhere in these new worlds would lie the technology to help him prolong his life. He had little else to bank on.

  There was a knock at the door, and he looked up in surprise. 'What is it?'

  'It's me, Verain,' replied a female voice.

  He registered her slender figure before her face; as he tended to do, even though her face was equally exquisite – slender and symmetrical features beneath rook-black hair. She always wore a snug-fitting dark uniform, too. Dartun had come upon her as an orphan girl using a relic to entertain customers for money in some questionable Caveside tavern. Firstly he wondered how she had got hold of it, then he wondered how she had learned to use it. It turned out she'd stolen it off a cultist who'd been trying to get her to give him a blow job, so she'd taken what was his after he'd shown her how to use it. She was only thirteen at the time, but quickwitted from the start. Dartun had immediately hunted down the cultist in question, one from some useless, minor sect. He had beaten him with Dawnir energy and left him with just enough life so that he could realize he didn't really have a life any more.

  It was soon obvious that even at such a young age, Verain connected with the Dawnir technology in a manner worthy of any cultist. So he decided to take her in rather than leave her on the streets of Villjamur. Ten years later, they had entered a relationship. He was flattered by the young woman's attentions, perhaps, but when he had been immortal he found it easier that way, to be attracted to someone for their looks only, rather than connect with someone who would inevitably die before he did.

  Verain smiled at him with one side of her face, as she always did. His attraction to her was mainly sexual. Being immortal meant that he would frequently lose the partners he'd form emotional ties with. None of them had wanted to live forever, even on the rare occasions when he dared to offer that gift, so he had been hurt more times than he cared to remember. It was these light-hearted, purely sexual partnerships that brought him most pleasure, and as little pain as possible. Even now he knew he was dying.

  'Some of the others are setting off to reach Tineag'l by boat,' she announced.

  'Are the first lot there already?'

  'Not quite, but any day now.'

  'OK,' he sighed with relief. Everything was now starting. Everything was about to be put into action. All his years of experience and study and knowledge would soon be tested; his theories, his hopes, his desires fulfilled.

  'Are you feeling OK?' Verain said, noticing his exhalation.

  'Do you think I wouldn't be?'

  'No. It's just… well, things are going to change, aren't they?'

  'Of course. That's the nature of the world.'

  'I'm just worried, Dartun. You've been so different these past few weeks. You once said if I ever got scared I was to come to you. But what if it's you I'm scared of?'

  'Me?' Dartun laughed. 'Why be scared of me, you of all people?' He walked over and took her hands in his. Then he kissed her forehead in a way that was more parental than lover.

  She glanced up at him with that familiar distance in her eyes. There was a lack of understanding, he sensed – perhaps a lack of willingness in her to understand him. But maybe she couldn't.

  It was possible no one could understand him.

  'Go to the others,' he said, 'and tell them to prepare. Next stop, the north. Then we'll find somewhere warmer.'

  Somewhere I might recover my immortality once again.

  FOURTEEN

  People showed signs of moving around the city out of context. They arrived places late, routines were disrupted, because normal routes were blocked in places. More time was needed to navigate the usual paths, and it was as if everyone had now come out of their homes simply in defiance of the longest winter they'd ever know. For many humans this extended season would be the last they would ever see. For rumel there was a greater chance of seeing the summer again, to watch for that moment when the trees and plants would explode with life.

  Jeryd was annoyed that people kept stopping suddenly, right in front of him. More than once he considered delivering a small admonitory slap to someone's head. It was always here they tended to pause, gazing around at the old Azimuth-inspired architecture, the smaller domes and intricate sandstone squares that contradicted the rest of the later additions to the city, which rose generally taller, and were hacked out of local limestone. Still, he liked the feeling of the snow under his boots, that crisp compaction.

  Home to a lot of the oldest shops in the city, this street was a haven for antique dealers, traders in exotic products, spice dealers. On one side stood three cheap hotels. But things changed significantly at night: the street in front became the hang-out for dealers of less respectable substances. Quick hand movements in the moonlight, and something illegal was exchanged at an extravagant price. It was where you might meet a cultist who needed quick money, and some said that you could buy weird animals, sleek-looking hybrids, but Jeryd had never seen any in all his years.

  As Jeryd headed down a narrow side alley, memories came flooding back of regularly accompanying Marysa here when they were both much younger. He couldn't think of the last time she'd actually held his hand, but when they were still in love she'd drag him along to look at all those items that appealed to her. He was once so keen to learn about her interests, to discover more about her. It must have been over a hundred years ago when he first started coming down this way, waiting outside the shops in the sun, enjoying a moment to himself as she rustled around inside. He still wanted to hold on to the idea of his being with Marysa, even if things didn't work out this time. Perhaps, in his old age, he was becoming sentimental, like humans did. Perhaps there were fewer differences between the two hominid species than anyone cared to admit.

  Stepping over a bolting rat, Jeryd entered one particular antique store that looked familiar, and the door chime rang. His eyes adjusted to the murkiness, taking in piles of antiques stacked awkwardly wherever you looked, suggesting that one misjudged step on an uneven floorboard would bring about an expensive catastrophe. An old woman was standing behind the counter, while another stood with her back turned about ten armspans away. They looked identical, both in similar over-dresses, the sorts with floral patterns like the ones you used to see about thirty years ago, but now faded from over-washing. Nick-nacks and ornaments spilled on the floor amid random furniture. Strange instruments, pottery, art were propped up against any available wall space. Desperately, he hoped there were no spiders under all these objects waiting for him: because arachnids were this tough investigator's hidden shame.

  Jeryd stepped carefully around the large room searching for something that might appeal to Marysa, some small token to impress her, to show her that he still loved her. Was there possibly one item that could do all that on its own? Probably not. He tried desperately to think about the things she used to like, cursing his inability to make a decision. He scratched his head as he leaned over tables, picking up items, replacing them immediately.

  Ever so slowly he started to mumble in frustration.

  'Talking to yourself, investigator? Maybe she'd like some of the brass instruments over there. They're enough to pique the interest of the most ardent collector.'

  Tuya was wearing a light-blue robe, a colour rarely favoured in current fashions, with a straw hat tilted down over the side of her face. He tried not to let his vision linger on h
er lissom figure, which could be noted despite her thick clothing. Pouting lips, all cheekbones and soft edges, there was an uncomfortable intensity about this woman.

  'You said your wife collected antiques, so you're here to buy her something, aren't you?'

  She fingered a wooden statuette by her side. 'You should at least consider some of the items over there. There're some fine nautical gadgets.'

  Tuya led him away.

  She explained the various items to him in a way that unsettled him, though he couldn't work out exactly why. Maybe because he remembered similar times with Marysa. He wondered if it was wrong to be talking so casually, and made the decision to be wary of her charms. Greater rumel in the Inquisition than himself had succumbed to feminine wiles.

  A musky smell in these rooms, the stale aroma of time having passed, the remains of forgotten civilizations. He found it odd that people should want to collect many such items, even though they did not know their original purpose. He thought about what objects he owned himself, and if in a thousand years they would each become a mere ornament on a rich lady's dresser. Perhaps some of the shit scrapers he used to flush out of the gutters would become some gift to charm a pretty girl. He smiled at the thought.

  Tuya continued to point out and describe things, but his mind began drifting to his own past again.

  'Rumex, you're not listening, are you? How're you ever going to win a woman's favour if you don't pay attention while she's talking?'

  'I always did when she was around,' he said, a little annoyed. What business was it of Tuya's anyway? Did she get her kicks from sifting through other people's lives? 'Well, maybe I wasn't a very good partner.'

  'But you could be,' she said.

  'And you could tell me how?'

  'So long as you don't mind talking about such intimate things with a murder suspect.'

  The pressures of his personal life were beginning to distract him from his job for the Inquisition. Yet above all he needed to sort out his private life. It felt uncomfortable to be here with her, but every minute he spent with her, he might be able to observe her closely, find out who this secretive woman was, and, more importantly, to probe her further about her involvement with Ghuda. 'No, it's fine. Just don't take it personally if I'm obliged to arrest you later,' he said, and raised a questioning eyebrow.