Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [127]
A girl came to Tryst’s table to take his order of Black Heart rum and shark’s liver paste on coarse bread. When she fetched the bottle he asked her to leave it. If he had to spy on a prostitute during an ice age, he might as well stay warm while he was doing so.
A fat woman came on stage next to read some bad poetry about the dying earth, and though she had no decent cadence to her delivery, no one there seemed to care. The lute player came on again after, and remained for some time, preoccupying himself with minor chords and relaxing sevenths.
Tryst kept an eye on all the customers that came and went from the bistro, deciding eventually that indeed most of the clientele were men. The females were largely staff, and Tryst pitied them for the looks they were getting. Some of these men were old enough to be their grandfathers, but their frail hands grabbed whatever flesh they could reach, as if these youthful bodies would be the last thing they would ever hold. Everywhere in this city now it seemed such desperation was manifest.
His thoughts inevitably drifted from Inquisition business to his commitment to the Ovinists, and to Chancellor Urtica in particular. His mentor was an inspiring man: charming, bright, his dedication to Villjamur unquestionable. It was hard not to want to get involved with anything he was linked to. Like so many young men, Tryst was infused with a burning desire to succeed, to achieve. Life was stretched out ahead of him, a freshly plowed field waiting only for his potential, and Chancellor Urtica could help him harvest it.
As the lute player paused for a sip of lager, the sound of murmurs and whispers drew Tryst’s attention to the door. The prostitute, Tuya, was walking in from the fog, a silky grace to her stride, a look of deep remoteness in her eyes.
Tryst took another sip of rum as he watched her glide between the tables. She was wearing a carmine cloak, not unlike the color distinguishing the city guard, but carefully tailored to cling to her voluptuous curves. A lock of red hair curled down across her stubbornly beautiful face, whose other half—the half with the scar—was covered by a headscarf. She approached a table near the front of the stage, typical of someone wanting all the attention she could get. As she took off her cloak, revealing a green dress that seemed to contradict most of the city’s current fashions, more than a little of the conversation in the room fell silent. Her skin shimmered in the dull lighting, and smoke drifted away from her somehow, as if allowing everyone there to get a better look.
She sat alone at that table for around a quarter of an hour, the serving girls bringing her drinks simultaneously from two different admirers. She accepted them with grace, but didn’t acknowledge whoever had bought them for her.
Men passed close by, but she barely gave them a glance. After a while, she rolled herself something to smoke, probably arum weed, lit the end of the roll-up in a candle flame, then leaned back and exhaled the smoke. Her eyes remained fixed on the lute player, still singing moodily on top of his morose chords.
It was going to be a dull night for Tryst if all she did was sit and smoke and drink. He’d just have to wait until she left and then follow her home. One way he could get inside would be if he propositioned her as a customer, but then she would recognize him. Although maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, as he could use their brief acquaintance to become intimate with her. If she would only let him into her world. Then he could take a closer look at her paintings,