Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [117]
Randur drew her hood back up, then took her outside, Denlin following.
“Eir,” he hissed, “what’re you doing here?”
She spun around in the dark street, and suddenly she was as passive-aggressive as usual.
“Actually, Randur Estevu, I think it’s you who should be answering that question. I’ve just witnessed you admit to stealing, and from a lady of the court, what’s more. You’ve stolen within Balmacara, so I should have you executed. You’re nothing but a common thief. I should’ve known better.”
“She’s got a point there, lad,” Denlin concurred from the doorway of the tavern.
Randur looked back at the old man. Fortunately there was no one else within earshot in the dirty backstreet. “Thank you for that, Denlin.”
Randur looked to Eir, sighed. He took some time to think of a suitable answer, then shrugged. “You’re right, I’ve stolen. Maybe I can explain. Though I reckon I should be getting you back to Balmacara before the sun rises. It’s not safe here.”
“I think a common thief is the last person who should be responsible for my safety, don’t you think?” She folded her arms, glared at him.
Randur took a deep breath. Be careful what you say, Rand. You’ve blagged your way into the city, and now your mouth might get you kicked right back out again.
Denlin stepped forward, stood in between them. “This, uhm, who I think it is? Jamur Eir?”
Eir stared at Randur, unspoken questions in her gaze, waiting for reassurance.
“Go on,” Randur prompted.
“Yes, yes it is,” Eir said. “And who are you?”
“Friend of the lad, here, that’s all.”
“A thief too?” Eir said.
“Ha! No. Though some might call me that, especially in there.” Denlin gestured vaguely toward the tavern, then scratched his head, ruffling his already messy gray hair. “No, I’m an odd-job man, like. I do a bit of this, a bit of that. You need something, I’ll find it—for a price of course. At your service, my lady.” He took a bow.
Randur couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic or not. “Den, you think you could leave us alone for a bit?”
“Anything you have to say,” Eir snapped, “you can say here, in the open.”
Randur looked between them, sighed. “I don’t know about you two, but I want a drink.” He went back into the Garuda’s Head.
Denlin scratched his crotch, followed, muttering, “At last, some sense.”
“What, you’re going to just leave me out here alone?” Eir protested.
Randur turned in the doorway. “You want answers, step into my office.”
“I’m a thief, yes,” Randur admitted, then took a swig of his lager, staring at Eir across the table. She clasped a cup of watered wine from which she took occasional sips, making a face as if she’d sucked at a lump of salt. “But, I’m stealing with good reason.”
“Doesn’t every thief?” Eir said.
“She’s got a point, lad,” Denlin said, then belched.
“Thank you, Denlin.” Randur glared at him. Back to Eir, he continued, “I’m stealing because I need the money to …” He paused for a moment. He might as well tell everything. “To save my mother from dying.”
Eir’s expression softened.
“From tunthux.”
Denlin whistled. “Nasty.”
“What’s tunthux?” Eir inquired.
“The slow death, they call it,” Denlin volunteered. “Can take a few years for someone to die from it. At the end they say you bleed from every orifice, blood pouring from your arsehole—”
“Thank you, Denlin!” Randur interrupted. “We don’t need to hear all that.” Then, to Eir, “My mother is dying and I came to Villjamur to find a cure, from a cultist. I need to raise money, you see, since a cultist won’t do it for nothing. And that’s why I’m taking things—jewelry, gemstones—from certain women I give… satisfaction to. As you yourself explained, Eir, I can’t exactly take stuff from Balmacara, so …”
“So you seduce vulnerable ladies of the court for their wealth,” Eir sneered. “How honorable of you.”
“I gave them plenty in return. I give them excitement and attention, albeit for a short while. They certainly aren