Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [116]
But this Randur was someone who was finally interesting. The fact that she’d heard through servants’ gossip that he went to the caves made him more so. What was it he got up to? For some unaccountable reason she wanted to find this out, but it looked like nothing was going to happen tonight.
No sooner had she thought that, when the door opened. Randur stepped out.
She pursued him down the corridor, her careful footsteps whispering over the tiles. Guards queried her route, but she lied to each of them, stating a Night Guard soldier was to meet her shortly. For a place that pretended to be so secure, it seemed remarkably easy to slip away.
It took Randur half an hour to reach the Garuda’s Head. The door was open, as it nearly always was, throwing a square of light on the street outside. There was little noise from within, but Denlin sat at a table with a fat man, several cards laid out before them under the glow of lanterns. Denlin noticed Randur’s entrance, but remained focused on his game.
A crowd stood around them, whispering amid urgent laughter.
The fat man he played with, dressed in a scruffy brown tunic, held his head in his hands. There were beads of sweat across his forehead as he stared at the cards with his mouth slightly open, as if a knife had been shoved in his stomach.
“What’s it to be?” Denlin said to the fat man.
His opponent poked one thick finger at a card in the middle. Denlin flipped it over to a gasp from the crowd. An image of a dragon on the upturned card meant Denlin was the victor.
The fat man simply gazed at the card for some time as those watching gave an almost embarrassed laugh that suggested they’d seen this guy lose a lot of money before, that this might even be his weekly routine before he disappeared penniless into the deep night. He clutched the table, shook his head.
Denlin held out his hands to collect his coins.
“A pleasure.” He gathered up the cards, left the table.
“You’re late this evening,” Denlin said to Randur, as they walked to the bar.
“Yes. She fell asleep on me. Twice.”
“Not during, I hope?”
“As if.”
“Well, spare me the tales, lad. Been a long time since I dipped me wick, like. My drought’s moved into its second year.” Then, to the landlord, “Two lagers.”
Randur glanced around, noticed a stranger standing at one end of the bar, a hood pulled over his face.
“So,” Denlin said between sips, “what you got this time?”
Randur handed over two gold rings, each set with a precious stone. “Either of these any good?”
Denlin put the items under the light, tilted them this way and that. His face screwed up into wrinkles, highlighting his age. “Not bad at all, lad. Who’s this lot from?”
“A Lady Iora,” Randur replied. “Recently widowed, and damn wealthy as a result.”
The hooded stranger gasped, then looked down at a tankard.
Denlin glanced quickly over to the figure, then at Randur. “You gonna tell me who your mate is?”
“I’m sorry?” Randur said.
“Your pal who came in here with you.” Denlin indicated the hooded newcomer.
“I came alone,” Randur said, then, to the stranger, “Mate, does our business interest you?”
The figure made to leave, then Denlin grabbed one arm. The stranger gave a high-pitched squeal.
“Den, stop that.” With a shocked realization, Randur walked over, pulled aside the hood. “Lady Eir, for fuck’s sake, what are you doing here? How the hell did you get out of Balmacara?”
Her eyes widened with uncertainty, then all she could do