Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  A sheep carcass was draped upon a table across the room, quietly stinking the place out.

  'Could do with some incense in here,' Brynd muttered.

  After a moment of intense frowning, Jurro spoke. 'Ah, a joke. Very good, Brynd Lathraea, very good. Irony, you call it, yes?'

  Brynd reclined further in the chair, and picked up a book, but found it was in a language he didn't know. The fonts suggested it might be something from Boll or Tineag'l, or some other Empire outpost.

  'That one is a history of dance on Folke,' Jurro explained.

  'Doesn't look like Folken,' Brynd replied.

  'Indeed not, Brynd Lathraea. It was written over a thousand years ago, and language changes.'

  Brynd pursed his lips, placed the book to one side.

  'I was looking at it because of the Snow Ball that the highborn humans and the rumel have organized. I do hope I will be able to attend it.'

  'Don't see why not,' Brynd said. 'You're no prisoner.'

  'Indeed not, but I do feel like one at times. I don't get many true visitors either, just those hoping I can help solve their petty problems. Yet I am not an oracle. I know no magic. And, besides, as if I would know . . .' the Dawnir trailed off to replace the book on one of the shelves.

  'So how does the study go?'

  'Nothing new. No revelations. These histories of the Boreal Archipelago are fascinating, though. There are many inconsistencies in the texts, which leads me to believe the history is deeper than is publicly known, and known less than is publicly history. And I have some . . . some considerable time on my hands. I'm in no hurry, therefore. The books I've read on the previous ice ages are indeed interesting. They seem to have been the bringer of death to many a good civilization, so I can see why our Council are anxious.' Jurro pushed forward a large chair constructed from iron, with heavy padding. The Dawnir sighed thunderously as he reclined. He held up one large text, a leather-bound tome the size of a small tabletop. 'This is called The Book of the Wonders of Earth and Sky, and it details eras so far ago that they are assumed legend. I read today our forests were once lost entirely. We now call trees by the names in which their seeds had been stored below the Earth. I read once again that the sun was once much more yellow than our own. If this is true, then our sun is losing strength, and it is dying slowly. There is, perhaps predictably, nothing within the pages to suggest my own origins. I remain full of pathos.'

  Brynd had heard many philosophical meanderings from Jurro. This creature had reportedly been within the city over a thousand years, nearly as long as this pile of stones had been called Villjamur. That's what Jurro himself claimed anyway. He had been originally discovered wandering the icy coastline of north Jokull, with no memory. Having survived this long, he was now assumed to be immortal, though Brynd wondered morosely what it would be like to live for so long without even knowing your roots. He himself shared something with the Dawnir in this respect. Brynd had been adopted as a child by wealthy parents, and therefore had no real concept of his own origins. Who would ever want to know where an albino came from anyway?

  'So how about your health? Do you feel well?' Brynd said.

  'No, I need more exercise. I envy you, endlessly on your little missions here and there.'

  Somehow, Jurro had just managed to belittle Brynd's entire career with a single sentence.

  'You must take me along with you some time, because I would like to see more of the Archipelago. It could jog my memory; I might recognize something of my own past. It might even be fun.'

  'Why not, if it helps at all? But, you obviously won't have heard about our latest mission.'

  Then Brynd gave the Dawnir the details of his last few days.

  'Indeed, a complex situation,' Jurro said. 'I will put my ear, as you say, to the ground for you.'

  'Thanks,' Brynd said. 'You heard about our Emperor?'

  'Yes. Again, curious. But his mind was never quite there, was it?'

  'I'll be fetching his elder daughter to be our new Empress.'

  'Jamur Rika? Of course. Is she not a child still?'

  'No, she's twenty now.'

  'How quickly you grow, you humans!' The Dawnir seemed utterly delighted at this observation.

  They talked a while longer about news from the city, the refugees camping outside the gates. And then Jurro began to ramble about the wild flowers of Dockull and Maour. Brynd could only listen to Jurro's expositions for so long, and gently interrupted him.

  'Jurro, I don't suppose you know anything of the killings reported on Tineag'l, do you?'

  'Killings?' Jurro made a contemplative steeple of his massive hands.

  'I don't think it's tribal revenge. Perhaps a new creature, or something?'

  'I know nothing about this - although, yes, I would like to know more. According to what I have read, there has not been any creature capable of large-scale killings for several dozen millennia. Fossils of such beasts exist, of course, on Y'iren. I will begin some research.'

  'Thanks,' Brynd said. 'I'd better be going now. I'll be back to see you when I return.'

  'Farewell, Brynd Lathraea,' the Dawnir said, hardly paying attention.

  *

  'You know what your problem is?' Apium said to Brynd. They were leaning over the bar counter in the Cross and Sickle. Close to midnight and the place was nearly empty. A veteran of the Ninth Dragoons slumped asleep in the corner still clutching his tankard, wearing the uniform he'd never need again. Two elderly rumel sat nearby in companionable silence. A fire crackled cosily, and you could hear the clink clink clink of empty glasses that a serving girl was carrying into the kitchen. The tavern was one of those places that made an effort with its decor: engraved mirrors, imported dark woods, lanterns bright enough to make women feel comfortable drinking here.

  'Go on then,' Brynd said. This wasn't the first time Apium had explained to Brynd what his problems were. Certainly it wouldn't be the last.

  Brynd took another sip of lager.

  'You're a pushover,' Apium continued. 'That's what you are, a pushover. You'll take anything up the arse and not complain about it. You're just a bitch to these councillors.'

  'Really?' Brynd said. 'Thanks for your support.'

  'Just stand up for yourself once in a while - that's what you should do. I would've given them hell!'

  'You're not really one for diplomacy, are you?'

  'Diplomacy's never won us soldiers a war.'

  Brynd pondered the inherent truth in Apium's statement.

  'Perhaps you're right.' As he spoke he realized that Apium's attention was drawn to the barmaid who was busy cleaning tables. 'You with me?'

  'I was with her in spirit,' Apium stated. 'I have been since we walked in here.'

  Brynd stared at him. 'Stop leering. Haven't you got a sense of decency?'

  'No, I'm not armed with a sense of decency,' Apium said. 'That way, my other senses are as sharp as they can possibly be.'

  Brynd laughed, shook his head, then glanced over the bar, silent in thought.

  *

  Because they were carousing at the top level of the city, they didn't have far to walk to reach the military quarters of Balmacara. Brynd considered such privileged accommodation a wasted luxury, because they were so frequently away from the city on military service. This housing could so easily be used for refugee families. Instead, the chambers they occupied were set into the cliff face just to the north of the late Emperor's private quarters, and usually a minimum two members of the Night Guard remained in residence at all times, in case the Emperor should need to call on them in an emergency. Not that there had ever been one in Brynd's memory, but it was a sensible precaution.

  As he was commander, Brynd's own chamber was by far the most extravagant, set slightly apart from the others. He liked the decor inside, a mixture of polished marble and slate, with purple drapes hanging on every wall. Hidden behind them were maps of the Empire's far-flung territories, should he need to examine them quickly. It often helped during sle
epless nights, to study these lands that he was charged to protect. It affirmed his sense of duty. Military medallions hung from the mirror on his dressing table.

  Then he noticed the letter left for him on a side table. He lit a lantern before opening it to reveal precise details, provided by Chancellor Urtica, of where Jamur Rika was living near the settlement of Hayk, on the Southfjords. The letter also confirmed that Chancellor Urtica would like an interview with Brynd before he left, in order to discover further details of the disastrous ambush at Daluk Point.

  Brynd was disturbed by the thought of now finding time to come to terms with the deaths in his regiment, and discovering who was responsible for their ambush. Such quieter moments were difficult for soldiers, as the killings they witnessed worked over and over again in the mind. He would have to organize letters of sympathy to be sent to the families of the deceased soldiers - there was still so much to be done, and he must be ready to leave early the next morning. Brynd settled down at his desk for a couple of hours' paperwork.

  *

  Brynd paused to look up at the clock. Not even an hour had passed, and he wasn't feeling particularly tired, but he decided the letters could wait. He needed some fresh air, he needed some relaxation. Perhaps Apium was right, and Brynd took life too seriously. The pressure was starting to get to him.

  He changed out of his uniform into a featureless brown tunic, threw on a hooded cloak, then walked quickly out into the chill of the night.

  *

  Brynd knocked on the door. The darkness felt suffocating, one of those nights when you felt like someone was watching your every move.

  Brynd's secret would then be out.

  And he would be executed on the city walls.

  He was standing outside an inconspicuous doorway near Gulya Gata, not far from where painters from the gallery customarily loitered in the company of poets inside bistros by Cartanu Gata and the Gata Sentimental. Nearby, past the bad hotel in the exposed street, there was always the sound of activity: erratic laughter, retreating footsteps, the clink of glass or the scrape of metal. Depending on the mood of the city, it could also mean drunkenness, lovemaking, even a murder. Such sounds were interpreted according to your own degree of paranoia - Villjamur was constructed by a state of mind.

  The door opened, and a slim young man stood there wearing only a flimsy robe. High cheekbones, thin lips, a wicked grin that Brynd could never stay away from too long. The young man brushed his sleek black hair back with his fingers. 'Well, if it isn't my big war hero. Haven't seen you for a while.'

  'I've had a hell of a week,' Brynd breathed, his gaze flickering from Kym's face to the ground. In a way it was a refusal to see himself reflected in Kym's eyes.

  'You look like you have, too,' Kym said. 'You look bloody terrible. And you haven't even come in uniform. Well, you're a right scruff, but I can live with that.'

  'If someone catches us together while I'm uniform we'll both be hanged. And think of how my unit would react if they discover the truth about me. My fellow soldiers are suspicious enough of me already.' Having no wife might arouse suspicion normally, but at least being an albino gave him an excuse to hide behind.

  Kym said, 'You're just paranoid because of the colour of your skin, honey. So stop being so self-conscious. People give less of a shit about you than you believe.'

  'I didn't come here to argue,' Brynd said.

  'Well, in that case, you may as well come in.'

  Still hesitant now. 'Are you . . . alone? No one else here?'

  'Of course I am, otherwise I'd say so.'

  Brynd followed him inside, looking around carefully before he closed the door. Kym was always so casual, and there was something deeply attractive about his carefree attitude. Or was it more carelessness? His lack of care was seen as a sign of strength by many. Women in particular were attracted to the deep confidence from which he drew his plenitude of sarcasm and humour and surreal wisdom. They felt the urge to be noticed by him, but he always came back to Brynd in the end.

  'That a cut on your face?' Brynd had noted a thin line under Kym's eye, in this clearer light.

  'Experienced some rough treatment, you know how it is. Well, you don't quite, I suppose, being all military and precise. This was just a little bit more than name-calling, though, a threat to inform the Inquisition. Just so happens the guy I was seeing at the time was tough, tall and muscled. Gave the guy who did this a broken jaw, poor bastard. Can't eat his meals without help now.' Kym gave the gentlest of smiles.

  'Indeed.' Brynd was not sure whether to feel jealous or angry. He had no right to be either. 'So how've you been? I see you've decorated the place again.'

  Brynd indicated the metal-frame chairs, the elaborate new murals, the stylish new lanterns that cast shades of green and blue all around them. He found it impressive, Kym's ability over the years to always find something new to do with the place.

  The first time they'd met was when Brynd was just a captain in the Second Dragoons. He didn't have such a high reputation to protect, so they were good days, relatively stress-free, when he could spend his evenings in lovemaking and easy companionship. The two of them would visit the galleries, even stroll on the bridges through the warmer evenings, just to get closer to the stars. But always in the darkness of the executioner's shadow because of a few lines in an ancient Jorsalir text. Back then, the Freeze was not something people even thought about, and he didn't have a crucial role to play in the Empire's development or safety, so he was less bothered about his reputation.

  In those more directionless younger days, he went about the city screwing man after man. There were always places to find it, discreet clubs dark enough so married men could be hypocrites. He'd felt a discreet thrill at the fact that he could be killed simply for being what he was. It always made sucking a cock so much more exciting. Brynd had now settled on just one man - in personality a strange opposite that he needed more than chose, for reasons he never wanted to investigate. Perhaps it was the distinct lack of machismo in Kym, a quality that was so evidently postured during his time in the army.

  'I sold a painting and got decent money for it . . .' Kym paused as he followed Brynd's gaze around the room. 'It wasn't even very good, but taste is a matter of taste.' He laughed at his own joke - something Brynd also found endearing. 'So, I thought I'd give the place a new look. You could do with one, too.'

  Kym walked towards Brynd and the two men held each other for a moment while their expressions relaxed into something more raw. Brynd inhaled and exhaled deeply, waiting for the moment, waiting for the sign in Kym's eyes, and then they thrust their faces together, lips touching with a soft aggression, time falling apart.

  Eventually Brynd withdrew with a sigh.

  'I hate you, just invading my evening like this.' Kym ran his hands along Brynd's arm, testing the ridges in his triceps. 'I hate you, and love you. How long can you stay?'

  'Only for the night, and I've got to be up early. Then it's not long until I leave the city again.'

  'I don't want to know.' Kym placed a finger to Brynd's lips, and for a moment Brynd closed his eyes and tasted it.

  Brynd parted Kym's robe, reached out, without really thinking, to feel the warmth of his body, more of a familiar reaction than an intention. He moved his palms very slowly down his lover's torso.

  Kym shuddered. 'Astrid, your hands are freezing.'

  Brynd smiled. 'Sorry.' He continued until Kym became hard, then kissed his stomach. 'I've got something a little warmer.'

  Brynd fell to his knees, then took Kym in his mouth.

  *

  Heading upstairs was something Brynd always enjoyed, as it prolonged the moment and the anticipation. Brynd taking solace in one of these rare moments when he could unbuckle the stresses of his complex, dangerous existence. It would be another one of those special nights in which he engaged solely with Kym.

  A soldier, a battle hero, and this was the most dangerous thing Brynd ever did.

  EIGHT

/>   Brynd was up with the sun, or what could be seen of it in this dank weather. Sometime after the bell tower had struck five, he spent a while poring over the maps of the Boreal Archipelago, Kym now a distant memory.

  Then, leaving his chamber, he joined Chancellor Urtica for a simple breakfast in one of Balmacara's dining halls. They were the only two there, but a fire had already been lit to warm the great chamber. Aged Imperial standards hung in strips in various states of decay. Some of them were over a thousand years old: faded icons of faded glory.

  'Please, commander,' the chancellor began after a few mouthfuls, 'tell me some more about what happened at Daluk.'

  At least the chancellor seemed more interested this time. Brynd carefully explained all that had happened, produced the arrow. He insisted it wasn't so much who had attacked him that mattered, more the point of how they managed to find out about his expedition.

  'You suspect that we've a spy among us, commander?' Urtica suggested.

  'I would say, chancellor, that it might be likely. The loyalties of certain people within Balmacara are complex. Councillors possess external connections that Emperor Johynn wouldn't have been informed of. People with friends in distant places. If you call that the activities of a spy, then, yes, but it didn't come from my mouth.'

  'You could make a politician yet, my dear fellow.'

  Brynd didn't respond, just ate another mouthful.

  Urtica picked up the arrow again. 'Varltung, you think?'

  'It's certainly possible, judging from the rune marks, while the metal work is definitely something I'd associate with non-Empire craftsmanship. I think it'd be worth you showing it to some of the experts in the arsenal workshops.'

  'I'll do that.' Urtica looked from the arrow to Brynd, then back again. 'Of course, if this was an attack mounted from Varltung, with the Freeze taking a firm grip, we may well need to brace ourselves for something more serious.'

  'You think?'

  'We must fear that the Varltungs are getting ready to seize Jamur territories,' Urtica said.