Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [118]
“That’s different,” Eir protested, rather uncertainly.
“Is it really?” Randur said. He gripped his tankard, took a sip of lager. “Is it really so different for a man to expect payment?”
“Whoring,” Denlin offered. “That’s what that is. At least common whores is more honest about taking money, like. And I’ve known some lovely ones in my time …”
“Thank you, Denlin.” Randur wondered if the old man would ever shut up. “All I’m doing is giving some emotional and physical attention to certain neglected ladies who need it, and taking an unofficial fee in the unspoken market. The jewelry I take is in order to save my mother’s life. If you’re going to get all moral over this, I still reckon I’ve got the higher ground—so there you have it. I’m working to get my mother’s life back, but I’m still a little short in coin.”
“How much do you need?” Eir said suddenly.
Randur tried to read her expression and said, “Four hundred Jamúns.”
As he took a sip she said, “I can get that for you.”
Randur nearly spat the drink on the table. “Really? You can?” He wanted to be a gentleman, to refuse her kindness, but despite his inherent politeness, despite his pride, he couldn’t refuse something like that—because his mother’s life depended upon it.
For a normally proud man, he wasn’t feeling much pride right now.
“Yes,” Eir said, “that is, if what you say really is true.”
“You think I’d lie about a thing like that? If that’s what you think, you can keep your fucking money.” Randur stood to leave, shuffled along the table. A few customers turned to watch. “Fuck you looking at?”
Eir rose with him. “Randur, don’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
He looked at her for a moment, then sat back down. He wasn’t sure he’d really have walked out, but it was one of those gestures, a little drama in a situation that required it. And it was time for him to show a lack of trust—why was she willing to give him so much money, to help him so blatantly? It made him highly suspicious. For someone so solipsistic, he rarely believed in himself.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand though. Why do you blame yourself for her illness?”
“Because I was more busy having fun than being there for her—being there for my own mother. I was too young and selfish to notice.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself …” Eir began.
“Well, I do. I have to save her. That’s why I’m here, in this miserable city.”
Her brow furrowed. “So, does that mean you’re actually not my genuine sword and dance instructor?”
“No, I’m not the genuine Randur Estevu.” He then explained how he’d been able to enter the city.
“And your real name?” Eir said.
“Can’t be much worse than the one you’re using,” Denlin suggested.
“I’d rather remain known as Randur Estevu, for the time being anyway.”
“Fine. And you will at least continue teaching me dance until the Snow Ball is over?”
“If I’m not hanged for theft, meanwhile, sure,” he said. “Although I’ll need to leave soon afterward—once I get whatever the cultist gives me—and then get back to my mother.”
Randur wasn’t sure what to feel at this moment. Jamur Eir was sitting here, in a dingy tavern in the roughest area of the city. It was not only bizarre enough that she had followed him all this way, but also was now going to give him all the money he needed to pay Dartun Súr. He had assumed it would take much longer to get the funds, so what did he feel now—gratitude, relief?
“Why’re you being so kind to me?” Randur demanded.
“I think what you’re doing here is quite brave—especially since you’re doing it all for your mother. I in particular can appreciate the importance of a mother in someone’s life … And if it means you don’t have to service every rich widow in the city, then I’d feel—then that’s good.”
Randur tried not to show his sudden confusion at her words. He would never understand the female mind. “I truly appreciate it, I really do.”
“One condition,” she said.
“What’s