Nights of Villjamur

by Mark Charan Newton

  'Exaggerations?' Fat Lutto affected to look mortified.

  'Well, there's the time you spread gossip that some of the Kyalku had sailed across from Varltung to merge with the Froutan and provoke a rebellion on the Empire's shores - all so that you could charge protection money throughout Villiren and Y'iren? Remember that?'

  'Such accusations! Lutto is hurt!'

  'So why didn't you send any further messages?'

  'To be honest, no messengers dared leave the city.' Lutto placed a fat hand on Brynd's shoulder. 'You may think it isn't often I show anxiety, but I have never seen such a crisis. We've already accepted a few hundred into our city, but more are waiting on Tineag'l, trying to make their way across the ice sheets. More will die.

  'And within months the ice sheets will be too much to disperse. A path will be formed directly between Tineag'l and Y'iren. Leading right to this city. What then?'

  Brynd said, 'I'm surprised you haven't made a run for it already.'

  'You joke, of course, Commander Brynd! But, there is safety in these walls. This is a fortress city, after all, with many skilled fighters.'

  'I want you to tell me every possible thing you can about the position of these refugees on Tineag'l, which of their settlements have been attacked and where they intend to sail from. Can you manage that?'

  Fat Lutto nodded, his chins wobbling. 'To save our city, I'll do anything.'

  *

  Brynd ensured that his military were properly housed for the night at one of the empty garrisons at the northern periphery of the city, overlooking the crowded harbour. They were to be kept off the city streets, as Brynd knew only too well what kind of trouble they might get into.

  The Dawnir, Jurro, was provided with a chamber all to himself, seeming happy enough to spend his evening alone with his books. The last thing Brynd wanted was a panicking city assuming a saviour of sorts had come to the rescue.

  Hopefully the operation would be straightforward enough, though Brynd wasn't certain as to the enemy's capabilities. The next morning he ordered that all the empty boats abandoned in the harbour should be reclaimed, tied together, and then be towed by several Jamur longships to the southern shores of Tineag'l in preparation for evacuation.

  As he lay awake that night on a makeshift bed in the garrison dormitory, even through the thick walls and above the snoring alongside him he could hear the faint sounds of laughter and debauchery from the city beyond. It made him wonder how life could go on in this way with a crisis looming that could soon be tearing the population's lives apart. How much did they know of this threat?

  *

  Unable to sleep, he finally pushed his sheets aside, dressed himself in his uniform, went outside to stand on the long balcony overlooking the harbour. It was ice cold, and what clouds had followed them during the day now moved southwest. Stars were reflected in the water, the harbour stretching down in a sweeping arc from left to right and, from where he stood, he could see the lights of coloured lanterns burning all around the city. Stray dogs and massive trilobites shuffled between upturned crates on the stone docks below while people walked home in twos and threes through grubby alleyways behind flat-topped buildings.

  Brynd wanted to think about almost anything just to take his mind off tomorrow's operation. He thought of Kym; one particular night the two of them fucked on a balcony, the risk of getting caught seeming a thrill at the time - merely a warming feeling now.

  Such absent-minded retrospection delayed his observation of two figures standing in the umbra further along the balcony. It was Apium, and the cultist Blavat.

  As he approached them, Apium enquired, 'You couldn't sleep either?'

  'No,' Brynd replied. 'When there's a big day ahead, I never can sleep easy.'

  'Been far too long since we've had a proper big day,' Apium grumbled. 'If it wasn't for that business at Daluk Point I would've totally forgotten how to fight by now.'

  'Unlike you to be so glum,' Brynd observed.

  The stocky soldier merely shrugged.

  The cultist turned to face him, her aged skin somehow timeless in the starlight. 'You want me to light a fire to get you warm?'

  'Please,' Brynd said, gratefully.

  She reached into her pocket, twisted something. A purple light started from nothing, and she set it down on the edge of the balcony until it soon transformed into a welcome glow.

  'Handy, that,' Apium commented in admiration.

  The three of them stared out northwards, towards Tineag'l. Brynd couldn't imagine what state the refugees would now be in. It could take days to reach them, and you had to factor in how far the ice sheets had descended, and how much distance they would have to travel on horseback.

  'I won't necessarily be able to get you out of any difficult situation,' Blavat said dully, now gazing into the fire. 'Don't start thinking we cultists are the stuff of epic poems. We're ordinary people, just like you.'

  'So who did you piss off back home?' Apium enquired. 'Since you're the lucky sod who's forced to come out all this way north with the army, instead of keeping your arse safe and warm in Villjamur.'

  'There's a certain amount of loyalty owed to the order, but Papus is a bit too fond of being in authority. She doesn't like her position challenged and apparently I became a bit too popular with the rest of my order. Times are uncertain, and she wanted to make it very clear who is in charge, especially right now.'

  'Especially now?' Brynd queried, surprised at the intensity of her tone.

  'Yes, it's all to do with Dartun Sur of the Order of the Equinox. Papus hates him, even holds him responsible for the draugr. I don't know if it's just a personal vendetta, or whether she truly holds the moral high ground. Don't be surprised, if when we get back to Villjamur, you find all cultists are at war with each other. And I was hoping to spend my time quietly on Ysla during the Freeze.'

  'So this Ysla place,' Apium said, 'what's it really like?'

  'It is an incredible place, you've no idea how much so. There are problems, just like any place, but there is a governing board of cultists from every order who make sure everything runs smoothly. It will be significantly warmer there than elsewhere in the Archipelago, so I doubt the ice will cause too much of a problem.'

  Brynd interrupted, 'I believe you can control the weather there, so why can't you do that for the rest of the Empire?'

  'A couple of members of the Order of Natura can alter cloud patterns in order to keep the sunlight on us - also drive snowstorms away - but not for long periods of time. It's a difficult science, and though there is a heritage from the times in our history when the sun shone brighter, we only comprehend a fraction of it all.'

  For a moment no one said anything, merely studied the city before them. The stars had become increasingly obscured, a bank of cloud rolling in from the north, which made Brynd wonder how long it would be till it started to snow. It didn't surprise him, therefore, when it began, gently at first, and then grew into something more acute.

  'Tomorrow's military operation,' Blavat said. 'How confident are you?'

  'Honestly? I don't know,' Brynd admitted. 'We face an utterly unknown enemy. We have no surveillance information to hand. As far as getting the refugees back to safety, it depends what state they're in. We can only do our best.'

  'Where do you see my powers fitting in?' Blavat enquired.

  'Any medical relics you can apply to the refugees, and, of course, enhancement of our weapons.'

  'You'll need explosives?' she suggested.

  'Yes, indeed,' Brynd said. 'If you could prime some for us to deploy across the ice sheets, that might be useful in cutting us off - from whatever those refugees have coming after them.'

  After that the three of them watched the falling snow in companionable silence. Street fires and lantern lights glared defiantly for another bell, but one by one they fell into shadow. Voices in the streets beyond quietened and soon there was only the sound of the wind probing the city's countless alleyways.

  THIR
TY-NINE

  There was something about elbows that told you a lot about a woman, Randur contemplated. You could tell her age easily by the quality of skin there, and no amount of make-up or exercise could cover it up. Eir's elbow-skin was young and firm, he noted, and he considered, for the first time in his life, how he might enjoy watching her age . . .

  Blimey, what's happening to me?

  These aimless mornings brought Randur much enjoyment, in running his hands in exploration over unknown zones of her body. The inward curve behind the knee, for example: there was joy to be found there. Randur considered her collarbone particularly delightful. And, of course, her elbows.

  Randur was in bed with the Stewardess of Villjamur, and they had made love. He was acutely conscious of a change in his attitude, an inner paradigm shift - he was a different man now.

  One of her legs was sprawled on top of his as they lay there sharing body warmth, perspiring from their recent exertions. Contented. Shafts of daylight infiltrated from behind the tapestries that hung across the window, a cool draught penetrating. Eir turned over so that he lay behind her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and her fingers grasped his lazily. He kissed her neck hungrily.

  Randur wanted to savour this intimacy for as long as possible.

  They were in love the way only young people can be: full of passion, unaware of anyone other than themselves.

  Why did he suddenly feel like this now, for the first time in his life? Randur had read about it in books, never quite believed it; but it had found him too. The days spent together seemed to stretch out forever, and their late-night intimacies made them feel they had been lovers for years. Time itself began to seem a little pointless.

  Randur was aware that people in Balmacara were beginning to whisper, asking questions. There were already political manoeuvres, he suspected, being concocted in the shadows of the richer taverns, men looking at boys looking at men, and somewhere between them a knife would be placed on the table, his name would be mentioned, some young thing's dreams of riches would blossom.

  For them, an unknown outsider such as Randur wasn't meant to be for Eir. It broke the rules, it diluted the concentrated power at the top of the Empire. Secretly her fate had been discussed and decided. Possibly by senior members of the Council. In his new-found bliss, he didn't give a shit what such people thought. Had this cynical island boy finally been hooked? He'd told her everything about himself, his disreputable past.

  That was the one honest move he'd ever made.

  He had thought once the Snow Ball was over he could simply leave, taking with him whatever cultist trickery he'd bought to extend his mother's life. He sighed. That was no longer so easy.

  He slid his other arm from under Eir's neck.

  'You going somewhere?' she whispered, still facing the wall.

  He moved her short dark hair away from her ear, with no specific purpose, just tenderness. He kissed her arm. 'I have to go and pay the cultist today. I'd almost forgotten.'

  'Of course. I'll get you the money.' She looked up, smiling softly.

  *

  Randur felt awkward as he thanked her for the four hundred Jamuns, though she insisted impatiently that money meant little to her. A month ago he would have called her a spoilt brat for being so reckless with it. Funny, he thought, how love can affect your outlook so quickly.

  Tomorrow, she reminded him excitedly, was the Snow Ball. To spend a wonderful evening with a man she chose to love. Even someone as cynical as Randur was surprised to find he, too, was looking forward to it. He made a note to examine the latest fashions in the city, then to push it on a bit more, as it was his secret mission to enhance the unadventurous trends of Villjamur.

  Down the steps of Balmacara he strode, a sack of Jamuns under his cloak, then out across the raised platform offering views of a fog-caked city. He couldn't see half as many spires as yesterday, but at least it wasn't snowing. A garuda sailed overhead, disappearing into the white, but there weren't as many people out and about these days.

  For a quarter of an hour he sought out the street of the cultists, searching his memory for the way there amidst the deceptively surreal routes of the alleyways. Eventually he arrived at what seemed the right location, and frowned to see no door any longer, only a cloaked figure standing guard.

  'Morning,' Randur said, trying to skim past her.

  'Get out,' the woman spat.

  'I need to see Dartun,' Randur protested. 'I've something for him. We had a deal.'

  'He's not here,' the woman replied sourly.

  'Anyone from the Order of the Equinox?'

  She stared at him angrily. 'Why d'you want to know?'

  After he explained, he was taken inside to be questioned further.

  *

  Randur was ushered into one of those dreary underground chambers that Villjamur possessed no shortage of - with minimal light and no warmth. He was instructed to wait on an uncomfortable stool in the corner. Randur was beginning to panic, having all these months assumed that all he need do was hand over the money to the cultist, and his mother would be miraculously saved.

  There were sounds: the clattering of a metal door opening, the shuffle of footsteps, heavy breathing nearby. Then someone grabbed his shoulder, pushed him back against the wall.

  Another female voice snarled, 'Why are you here to see Dartun?'

  Randur squinted through the darkness, the fingers tightening on his shoulder. 'I was just coming to make him a payment as agreed. And I find out he's not here, and there's some weird shit going on. Now will you let go of my shoulder, and tell me what has happened to him?'

  'He won't be coming back to Villjamur.'

  'But . . . what of the rest of his group of cultists?' Randur was getting desperate. Dartun should have been here.

  'They've either gone with him or been arrested. The Order of the Equinox is now outlawed throughout the territories of the Empire.'

  'Shit,' Randur gasped in alarm, then further explained his situation.

  'I remember you now,' the voice said. 'You're the boy I pointed in his direction as a favour, for saving my life. But I can't help you any more.'

  'You must. You have to. That's the whole fucking reason I'm even in this city.'

  'I'm sorry. But you're free to go.'

  'Can't any other cultists help me? I've got money - I'll show you.' Randur stood up but found, after a lengthy silence, that he was now totally alone. Torch light entered the chamber and he was escorted out.

  *

  His world had imploded. Lying on Eir's bed later, he felt he wanted to vomit, but instead he cried like a ten-year-old as he told her everything. She sat next to him waiting for him to finish - he knew that, and he felt ashamed, to expose his emotions like this. But, despite her age, she possessed an unexpected motherly quality. He liked that. After that he got up and left, walked for two hours across the city bridges, then returned, damp and cold.

  Then he resumed crying.

  Eir held his hand. 'It's understandable you're upset, Rand, so don't be so harsh on yourself.'

  She got up and lit lanterns and soothing incense and waited for him to compose himself. He realized he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her. Soon he began to feel better, until somehow his failings as a son didn't seem to matter quite as much.

  FORTY

  There were times in his long life where Jeryd had been afraid. Cornered in an alley with a sword against his throat. Going undercover with gangs in his youth. Chasing suspects along icy bridges and precarious rooftops. Dealing with crime, you'd expect that.

  But as he now awaited Marysa to wake from her slumber, he was truly frightened.

  She had slept right through for two nights as if under some spell. His life was balanced, waiting for these moments for her to wake up. He'd already forgiven her for her misdemeanour. Didn't matter that she'd found something, momentarily, with someone else. That wouldn't be the first thing he would think about when she finally opened her eyes. His tacti
c was to pretend it had not happened. He loved her so much, it caused him an entirely new level of pain inside.

  As the milky light of day began to filter through from the window, he looked around at the clutter of junk filling the bedroom. It was all hers, of course. Jeryd was one of those who didn't care to accumulate anything much. As soon as he'd finished with it, it was gone. His rooms had been bare, before she was around. She'd filled the void systematically, buying steadily over the years, nearly all of it antiques. Maybe much of it was junk, but it was her junk.

  He had got comfortably used to her filling his otherwise empty life with objects of uncertain purpose, and he'd often wander around the house, simply to uncover items he'd have no recognition of. It seemed to suggest something deeper about their relationship.

  As he rested a hand affectionately on her arm, she finally stirred, her fingers gripping the white bedsheets gently. He sprang to life, a silent prayer to Bohr on his lips.

  She lifted herself up, and stared at him vacantly.

  'Good morning,' he said. 'You've slept through two nights without waking. I hope someone didn't try any love potions on you. There's a lot of it about these days.'

  'Two nights?' she said, her eyes focusing on him intently, a million thoughts clearly darting through her mind. 'I had such a weird dream . . . I dreamt I came home and you were really angry. It's strange how real it all seemed. The mind can do scary things . . .'

  With those few words he knew he was safe. All he had to do now was behave as normal.

  *

  Jeryd knew he had to leave the house before too long. Minor cases were mounting up in his office, and he still had to solve the councillor murders. Today not even that tiny snowball army, the Gamall Gata kids, annoyed him. Jerrryd.

  As he walked the ice-slicked streets of Villjamur he felt in a particularly strange mood. His eyes felt heavy, barely took in the constant streams of people passing him. The keening of a banshee echoed somewhere unnaturally far away. His mind was left abandoned on a melancholy plane neither here nor there.