Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [104]
“Hey,” Apium muttered to Brynd, “he’s not wasting his time in greasing up to her, is he?”
Brynd grunted a quiet laugh. He looked across to Nelum and Lupus, who stood silently, watching the Empress’s every move—as they had been trained to do for her father.
“Who’s that swarthy looking stick of a fellow over there?” Apium whispered.
Brynd followed his gaze to a thin, handsome man standing in one corner of the chamber. With glossy black hair that cascaded down in curls, he wore smart clothes of the kind usually seen on the outer islands, but updated to make a splash in the city. He seemed a bit of a clichéd dandy—even to Brynd. The man stood tall, his chin raised, his head angled in calculated postures. Several ladies of the court were huddled close to him, and every now and then he’d flash them a rehearsed grin.
Brynd raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen him before. Why not ask one of the servants.”
Apium stepped away and returned moments later.
“His name is Randur Estevu, and apparently he’s Lady Eir’s tutor for sword and dance. I think I remember Johynn talking about getting someone in. I don’t know, holding a bloody dancing event because the Archipelago’s about to be plunged into an ice age. Ridiculous, if you ask me, these bloody nobles.”
“Aren’t we ourselves technically nobles?” Brynd said.
“Aye, but, uh, at least we do something useful, not just prance about to music.”
“Last time you danced you cleared the floor—and not in a good way.”
“I had a bit to drink, I’ll admit. Anyway, why should a soldier need rhythm?”
“Good sword skills,” Brynd explained. “I’ll bet that waif of a man can look after himself.”
Brynd regarded the curious-looking newcomer, this Randur. He certainly had good dress sense. The man suddenly looked back at him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then Randur glanced away.
Brynd turned his attention to Urtica, who was still fawning upon the new Empress, with forced laughter, fake smiles, overstated gestures—it was enough to make Brynd feel sick.
Later that afternoon, the sisters were allowed time in private, once it had been decided that Emperor Johynn’s state funeral would take place in the morning. He was to be buried in the crypt under Balmacara, inside the caves, just like every ruler before him. For all other citizens, their bodies were burned on a pyre, much in line with the ancient tribal religions. It was thought that cremation sped their spirits toward one of the otherworlds, depending on how your life had been lived. Emperors alone were destined to stay in Villjamur forever, their bodies in the caves, decaying till they became part of the city, part of legend itself.
Their bones becoming Villjamur’s bones.
Brynd discovered that after he’d gone, news of the Emperor’s death had sent a slow shock wave through these corridors. Councilors had flapped around the place, murmuring portentous utterings, but all the time adding to a sense of unease. Brynd himself had noticed this malaise grow in the short time since his return. It manifested in a general lack of confidence, in an escalating mood of fear. But perhaps this mood was exacerbated by the coming of the ice age.
An initial ceremony would take place as the red sun rose. Then as the sun set, Rika would be proclaimed Empress, therefore finishing a day to change history—or at least the history books. Brynd had stationed two soldiers from the Night Guard outside Eir’s and Rika’s chambers, while he himself liaised with Chancellor Urtica, at that politician’s request. The two men met in the War Chamber usually reserved for discussions on battle tactics, and perhaps this was the first indication to the commander that something was wrong.
Brynd opened the door to find Urtica standing at the far end of a massive stone table, his back to a spitting fire. No tapestries garlanded this room, only lanterns and examples of ancient weaponry on the walls.