City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [65]
‘You’re back, then,’ the landlord grunted. ‘Didn’t think this place was good enough for you, after all that crap you warbled last night. What was it you said? As welcoming as a nun’s cunt, I believe.’
‘I spout such rubbish most nights, sir, unless you’d forgotten.’
Noticing his reaction, Eir nudged Randur in the ribs. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I know him,’ Randur mumbled. He stood up, brushing his hair back behind his ears. Randur called out a name across the bar room.
‘Munio Porthamis.’
The man was about to take his first sip, then paused. An expression slid across his face, something that suggested he was not at ease being known as anything other than the drunken stranger. Was there comfort to be found in the anonymous role he had carved for himself?
He continued with his drink, choosing to ignore the interruption.
Randur strutted over to the man’s side, ignoring any glances from others in the room. To hell with keeping a low profile. ‘Munio Porthamis. So, this is the glory you aspired to, is it? This what all the money was intended for?’
‘Don’t know who you mean, stranger.’ The man resolutely faced the bar.
Randur could see the old rapier carried by his side still, beneath the man’s thick cloak. ‘Rule one of Vitassi,’ Randur said. ‘“One perceives everything and nothing, and that way one can identify everyone and everything in the world.” ’
A deep intake of breath and the figure glanced sideways at Randur. His thick, dirty thumbs rubbed the tankard. Munio’s eyes could not belie his identity. The old man’s soul was still in there, still as sharp as ever. ‘I know you, kid?’
Randur drew his sword slowly, in a non-threatening manner, aware of the numerous sets of eyes fixed on him now that the metal caught the light of the lanterns. A hush descended. Randur used the tip of his sword to tap on Munio’s old rapier, still resting in its sheath, the ornate gold trimmings on the hilt looking more degraded than he remembered. ‘I think we should talk with these.’
‘I speak a fine language with it,’ Munio muttered. ‘Too fine a tongue for anyone to barter with.’
‘I suspect I can correct your grammar, these days,’ Randur replied.
Munio slid back his stool, flipped his cloak to the ground, and in a heartbeat his sword was in his hand. There was nothing about his manner that betrayed his earlier lack of coordination.
‘Randur!’ Eir cried, and he turned back to her briefly: ‘It’s all right, really.’
The two men began to circle slowly, leaning back and forth to judge each other, and he remembered exactly how Munio would react: a flash of blade striking down to his left. The rest of the ritual, Randur knew by heart. He countered, parried, then worked a series of moves to drive the old man back towards the bar. For a moment, Munio smiled.
His sword clattered to the floor, and the older man moved away to pick up his drink.
After three thick gulps, he said, ‘By thunder, Kapp Brimir, you’ve grown. And you still haven’t cut your hair.’
‘You’ve grown yourself,’ Randur replied, indicating Munio’s stomach. He wasn’t sure how he felt to see his old teacher like this, already drunk in a bar in the middle of nowhere.
A place where dreams lay down to die . . .
‘I can still fight, even in my state,’ Munio stated.
‘What, pissed?’
‘Indeed, yes, some say I fight better like this. But I see you’re still wearing those ridiculous fancy outfits.’ He indicated Randur’s black shirt with wide sleeves, his tight breeches and heeled boots of polished, Villjamur-branded leather.
‘I’m not as well-heeled as I would like.’ Randur smiled, leaning on the bar beside him. ‘And where do you think I learned to dress in such a way? Always dress like you don’t know how to fight, you advised me. That way it’s easier to slap them around the room.’
‘I did say that.’ Munio rubbed his chin. ‘Full of nonsense back then,