Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [193]
He approached Denlin’s house, then stopped and stood looking at the door. If he was the religious sort he would have said a prayer right now, because things were that bad. He couldn’t believe what had happened, how his life had changed so quickly. One moment she was in his arms, amid the dazzling pinnacle of wealth and society, all elegant postures and smiles, the focus of everyone’s gaze. And now she was locked away with an order of execution hanging over her.
Randur didn’t believe for a minute that she was guilty. She didn’t have it in her, and he knew her almost better than anyone. And he couldn’t believe her sister capable either. This had the trappings of a setup, but it was outside his control. You couldn’t fight directly with people that well connected, with that much influence. His problem now was how to get her out of there. If he succeeded, from that point on he’d be a hunted man, so he had to get himself well clear of Villjamur too.
He banged on Denlin’s door, glancing across the decaying structure of the house. There were architectures in this city that were beyond his comprehension, astonishing in either their complexity or simplicity, employing layers and techniques that were alien to more recent craftsmen.
The door creaked open. “… fucking knocking at this time? Oh, Randy lad, what can I do you for? You look right pissed off.” Denlin, standing in white nightwear, waved him in.
Randur said nothing as he passed through the doorway and dumped his bags on the table. “You alone?”
“No, I have several of the most sexually active women in the city keeping my bed warm,” Denlin muttered as he closed the door.
Randur sat down at the table.
“What’s wrong then?” Denlin took a seat opposite him, poured himself a cup of water from a jug, gesturing for Randur to help himself. The young man shook his head.
After a moment, Randur opened one bag, pulled out a purse of money, the same purse that Eir had given him as payment for Dartun Súr, and clutched it on his lap, frowning in contemplation of some distant fury. “I need you to gather together some of the toughest men you know. And to get hold of some swords.”
Randur explained the dramatic events at the Snow Ball, explained what his plans were.
Denlin observed, “A right bollocksed-up situation.”
“You could say that. But can you help? Look, Den, I need your help now in a big way. It’s more than likely I’ll need you to leave the city with me, and I’ve no idea when we’ll ever get back. If, that is, we survive. We’d be going up against the city guard, and up against the Council. It won’t be pretty, however …” Randur opened up the bag of money then began to count it all out, all in Jamúns. Every next one that he placed on the table, Denlin whistled softly, his eyes growing wide.
Randur said, “I realize that it seems a lot, but this is for you if you help me out. It might go some way to providing a decent life for your nieces during the Freeze. It’ll buy them a nice education, decent food. Because you yourself might not have much use for it if you’re on the run. As for the rest of this money, well, we’re going to need the best weapons, the best fighters—a private army, if you like. Possibly the roughest bunch—ones most likely to have grudges against the Council and their kind.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard, that,” Denlin muttered. Then, “How many men do you need, like?”
“However many it buys. It’s real danger money, but I need enough men to overwhelm the city guard.”
Denlin said, “And you want me to go with you, after it’s all done?”
“Yeah, we’ll need some extra protection. You used to be a demon archer in your younger days.”
“Aye, I was, lad.” Denlin wore that distant look of a man remembering his youth, of those bittersweet regions that only he could explore. “This lot could keep the girls living