City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [67]
Perhaps there had once been sumptuous decoration in this double-cube room. Tapestries were now saturated with mould, and the carpet’s pattern suffocated under dust. Paintings were smeared with smoke, the unknown faces within having faded to ghostly apparitions. Ornaments that Randur couldn’t identify, silver-coloured and clunky, sat gauchely on the mantelpiece and on the side tables, as if they had been collected by whim. Most of the furniture was made from the same dark wood, quercus, and everything needed a good polish. Leather chairs were arranged neatly enough by the fireplace, at which Munio was now working to introduce some warmth into the room.
‘I have several bedrooms upstairs,’ Munio offered optimistically. ‘I do hope you think it suitable to stay.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Rika agreed. ‘Very kind of you to invite us.’ She turned to Eir and Randur questioningly.
‘Yes, it is,’ Eir replied. ‘Thank you.’
What does the old bugger want? Randur wondered. It’s not like him to be so altruistic.
*
In the middle of the night Randur lay awake, on a bed in the centre of the ‘suite’ they occupied, an uncared-for corner of the manse. Eir huddled next to Rika in a double cot near the window, through which nothing but darkness could be seen, no distant lights to suggest a town or a village. Wind raked constantly against the glass. A candle glowed in one corner.
Sleep didn’t come. His mind continuously sifted through his memories, contorting them into obscure forms and references. He grunted a laugh: his old sword tutor, a ruined drunk. How things had changed. Munio was no longer someone who bullied him, who pushed him around.
With a glance at the girls, Randur rose to his feet and left the room. Cautiously, he shuffled downstairs in the pitch-black, one hand against the wall for navigation. Because the rest of the manse was so dark, a glow from one of the rooms was immediately obvious.
Randur nudged the door further, the hinges groaning. There, next to one of the leather settees, stood Munio, and he was sobbing.
‘What’s wrong?’ Randur headed over to the old man, his words muted by the vastness of the decaying room.
‘Oh, Kapp.’ The silhouette of his swordmaster shambled towards him, past the light of the one candle that was left burning. ‘Kapp . . .’
He could smell the alcohol even from this distance, his sense of smell being pretty much all he had to go on. Randur approached and paused before him. ‘Why the hell are you crying?’
‘I wasn’t,’ he blubbered.
‘Yes, you were, I could hear you.’
Silence, then Munio shuffled back to his chair, and collapsed into it with a grunt. ‘Join me, won’t you?’
Randur searched for the best way there, now and then kicking against tables or footstools by accident. He located the settee only by bumping into the arms of it with his thigh, then he sat down beside Munio, though some distance from the alcoholic fumes. ‘You’ve been drinking all night long?’
A contemplative sigh. ‘Indeed I have, young man.’
‘Why on earth have you become like this?’ Randur said. ‘You’d once have clipped me round the ear just for hinting at such a lack of discipline. What the hell’s happened to you?’
‘I came here and I was rich. I had no need for anything any more. I no longer even had to try.’
‘So you just gave up then,’ Randur said. ‘Just like that.’
‘You have never found yourself in a position where so much money comes into your possession in one go,’ Munio mumbled. ‘It ruined me – quite simple, really. I have no excuses.’
‘When I saw you in the bar, I wanted to hit you at first.’
‘You would have been well within your rights to do so. Nothing more than I deserve.’
‘How could you just abandon