Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [164]
“Tomorrow’s military operation,” Blavat said. “How confident are you?”
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Brynd admitted. “We face an utterly unknown enemy. We have no surveillance information to hand. As far as getting the refugees back to safety, it depends what state they’re in. We can only do our best.”
“Where do you see my powers fitting in?” Blavat inquired.
“Any medical relics you can apply to the refugees, and, of course, enhancement of our weapons.”
“You’ll need explosives?” she suggested.
“Yes, indeed,” Brynd said. “If you could prime some for us to deploy across the ice sheets, that might be useful in cutting us off—from whatever those refugees have coming after them.”
After that the three of them watched the falling snow in companionable silence. Street fires and lantern lights glared defiantly for another bell, but one by one they fell into shadow. Voices in the streets beyond quietened and soon there was only the sound of the wind probing the city’s countless alleyways.
CHAPTER 39
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT ELBOWS THAT TOLD YOU A LOT ABOUT A woman, Randur contemplated. You could tell her age easily by the quality of skin there, and no amount of makeup or exercise could cover it up. Eir’s elbow-skin was young and firm, he noted, and he considered, for the first time in his life, how he might enjoy watching her age …
Blimey, what’s happening to me?
These aimless mornings brought Randur much enjoyment, in running his hands in exploration over unknown zones of her body. The inward curve behind the knee, for example: there was joy to be found there. Randur considered her collarbone particularly delightful. And, of course, her elbows.
Randur was in bed with the Stewardess of Villjamur, and they had made love. He was acutely conscious of a change in his attitude, an inner paradigm shift—he was a different man now.
One of her legs was sprawled on top of his as they lay there sharing body warmth, perspiring from their recent exertions. Contented. Shafts of daylight infiltrated from behind the tapestries that hung across the window, a cool draft penetrating. Eir turned over so that he lay behind her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and her fingers grasped his lazily. He kissed her neck hungrily.
Randur wanted to savor this intimacy for as long as possible.
They were in love the way only young people can be: full of passion, unaware of anyone other than themselves.
Why did he suddenly feel like this now, for the first time in his life? Randur had read about it in books, never quite believed it; but it had found him too. The days spent together seemed to stretch out forever, and their late-night intimacies made them feel they had been lovers for years. Time itself began to seem a little pointless.
Randur was aware that people in Balmacara were beginning to whisper, asking questions. There were already political maneuvers, he suspected, being concocted in the shadows of the richer taverns, men looking at boys looking at men, and somewhere between them a knife would be placed on the table, his name would be mentioned, some young thing’s dreams of riches would blossom.
For them, an unknown outsider such as Randur wasn’t meant to be for Eir. It broke the rules, it diluted the concentrated power at the top of the Empire. Secretly her fate had been discussed and decided. Possibly by senior members of the Council. In his newfound bliss, he didn’t give a shit what such people thought. Had this cynical island boy finally been hooked? He’d told her everything about himself, his disreputable past.
That was the one honest move he’d ever made.
He had thought once the Snow Ball was over he could simply leave, taking with him whatever cultist trickery he’d bought to extend his mother’s life longer. He sighed. That