Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [149]
“I’m sure I can find something suitable for the occasion,” she said. “You certainly take me to the loveliest of places.”
With some urgency they moved through the narrow streets, their footsteps light on the cobbles. They had tricked soldiers in Balmacara into thinking Eir was retiring early, wasn’t feeling well. Eir herself felt a warm thrill of anticipation at the venture. Occasionally, she gripped Randur’s hand when descending steep stairwells. The sky was a dull smear of blue-gray, the air filled with snowflakes that fell so hypnotically slowly they seemed stationary. Icicles glinted on the bridges as if they were decorated with daggers. People seldom ventured outside in the evenings these days, but you could see their faces peering from between curtains, gloomy silhouettes staring from their warm prisons.
Eir had chosen to wear a tight-fitting brown garment, and purposely made her dark hair a disheveled mess so that she wouldn’t appear wealthy. It felt liberating, to strip herself of normality and forced manners.
They walked the vacant, snow-slushed streets leading to the caves, the real Villjamur. Being packed together so close, she liked to think that each house would share some heat with its neighbors. And at least here there was shelter, while other zones of the Empire would be struggling with the encroaching onslaught of ice, struggling to find adequate food. It was no wonder that despite such urban hardships she had witnessed, the refugees had accrued outside the city gates. The poverty in her own city had been revealed to her, and as they continued along the streets she passed more homeless people: young girls her own age asleep in decaying archways, rumel families staring lifelessly into contained fire-pits. Her wealthy existence had been so disconnected from it all. She had not known until Randur pointed this out, and just the one visit down here had opened her eyes. She never knew the city possessed such darkness. If she had known how the world really worked, would she have done more about it?
Through labyrinthine passageways, into a well-lit stone square, overlooked by cramped terraced housing, where women leaned out of narrow windows to men who called back up to them from below. A sense of ritual. Someone began beating a drum and a few of the gaudily dressed women sidled into the center of the scene, while old men sat together on benches in the corner, smoking pipes and talking loudly, their faces displaying a happiness she had not witnessed since the temperature began falling.
“Randy, you made it!” She recognized the voice as Denlin’s. “And you’ve brought your girly. Ain’t that swell.”
“Denlin, you old bastard.” Randur turned instantly back to Eir as if to apologize for his language, then back to address him. The old man slapped Randur on the shoulder and gave a low bow toward Eir.
“Not here, Denlin,” she hissed. “Here I’m just like any other woman.”
“Sure you are.” He smiled.
“No, really. Tonight I just want to dance.”
“That’ll be the lad speaking, I reckon.” Denlin turned to study Randur.
“It’s not like that,” Randur protested. “She’s her own woman, this one. Takes more than a fool like me to have an effect.”
She liked the reference to her being a woman. For some reason it seemed important.
“If you say so,” Denlin said. “Anyhow, looks as if they’re readying …” He indicated the couples poised to take to the music.
Eir watched with wonder as the local women guided the men, so naturally led them. Rhythms became precise, fast, heavy till footsteps became quickly moving across the square. The dancers kept calling out to each other, drawing attention to the next flamboyant move. They kicked in the half-light and the scene filled Eir with a primitive excitement.
“You ready?” Randur whispered, and held out his hand to her.
“I’m not sure,” she faltered. “They’re so good. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Denlin interrupted, “Whale cocks, lady. Get out there and enjoy yourself. This is about fun, not being all prim and proper.