Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [161]
An immense citadel loomed over the harbor. Turrets dominated every angle of the walls, and aside from the immense archways made from bone and the Ancient Quarter, the structures tended to be flat and featureless, a drab and endless latticework of streets, not at all like the grandeur of Villjamur.
As their longship navigated through the ice-plates, Brynd noted an alarming number of small vessels close to the harbor walls.
Apium joined him up on deck. “Well, here I am, back at this shit-hole. Still, maybe a fat purse will compensate me for the lonely nights ahead.
“Anyway look at that—”
Brynd interrupted his reminiscences, gesturing toward the hundreds of boats packed into the harbor, many left untied as if their owners didn’t care about them any longer.
Apium came and put his gut on the side. “What d’you suppose has caused that?”
“Either escaping the Freeze,” Brynd frowned, “or something to do with the killings on Tineag’l.”
It could’ve been merely smoke from the fire with some spices sprinkled on it for extra aroma, but Brynd just knew that wasn’t likely. This was the chamber of Fat Lutto, portreeve of Villiren, after all. The haze was intense, making him feel drowsy. Brynd couldn’t put a name to the drug he smelled, but it was close enough to arum weed. Probably some new variety that Lutto had nurtured for a little extra kick.
Bizarre sounds came from the middle of the chamber, which was decorated richly with purple cushions and silk hangings.
Brynd approached the source of the commotion, shouting, “Lutto, is that you?”
“What? Who? Who goes there?” A mound of flesh pushed itself up from the tangle of bodies, grasped for a sword lying by the cushions. “I’ll have you, getting in here like that! I am well connected with gangs!”
“Portreeve Lutto, it’s Commander Lathraea.”
A perspiring brown face leered through the smoke, a wedge of a mustache dominating it. Two bright blue eyes fixed themselves upon Brynd, before widening in recognition. “Commander Brynd! What a pleasure! Just give me a second.” He abruptly dismissed the three naked rumel girls, a brown-, a black- and a gray-skin. They threw on their robes, and scampered out of a door to one side. The gust of air let in began to clear some of the smoke.
“That’s better.” Fat Lutto waddled toward Brynd with all the grace of an old lady wading through shallow water with her skirts hitched up. He now wore a silver silk robe that billowed around him like a tent. “And how’s my favorite soldier these days? You bless Lutto with your presence with no warning. How kind. Or perhaps he comes to save Villiren in her time of need!”
“Rumel girls?” Brynd asked.
“Indeed!” Fat Lutto smiled, clasping his hands together. “Tough skins you see and there’s little chance of little Luttos coming forth.” He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Has my favorite warrior come to help us in these troubled times?”
“Everyone seems to be talking about troubled times,” Brynd observed. “Yes, we’re here to investigate the incidents on Tineag’l. And at your request, I believe.”
“At last! This humble city can’t put up with all these exiles for much longer. No, sir.”
“Exiles?” Brynd said. “Why didn’t you mention that in the message you sent to Villjamur?”
“Um … I hadn’t enough details.” He held his arms out wide in despair. “There were too few details then, but now I’m burdened with too many!”
Brynd said, “I hope you haven’t been neglecting your duties?”
“Would Lutto consider such a thing at the Empire’s expense? I am, after all, her most loyal servant.”
It was almost as if Fat Lutto was trying to convince himself that he was honorable. “What more can you tell me of the situation?”
Fat Lutto gestured for Brynd to sit on some cushions, then began to describe at