Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [20]
Brynd felt pangs of sympathy as he moved past, a desire to help.
Behind him, on the cart, Apium was still half asleep.
“Captain,” Brynd said sharply, and the man jolted awake.
“Eh? What? We’re here, then, commander?”
The horses approached the main gate, a towering granite structure framing huge iron doors.
“Sele of Jamur,” Brynd addressed a city guard dressed in a blood-colored tunic, who straightened his fur hat, and saluted.
“Commander Lathraea, the Sele of Jamur to you. Everything well?”
“Been better,” Brynd said sourly.
“Commander, we’re obliged to ask you about the contents of the cart.”
Brynd nodded, knowing the security procedures. The guard walked over to the cart, greeted Apium, pulled back the blanket covering their wounded passenger.
“Spot of bother at Dalúk Point,” Apium said. “And he was one of the lucky ones.”
“What happened to him?” the guard asked, covering Fyir up again.
“We’d like to know that, too,” Brynd confessed.
The guard gave him that knowing smile between soldiers. “Right, in you go.”
He signaled for the gates to open. As they groaned apart, twenty more city soldiers advanced toward and around them, to prevent any of the refugees from attempting to get into the city. Not that they could, because there were two more gates to get past. And both were firmly closed to them.
So the Night Guard soldiers entered Villjamur.
Today was Priests’ Day in the city. Twice a year, otherwise forbidden religions were allowed such an airing. The streets were filled with priests from the outlying tribes, allowed in on a one-day permit, but watched closely by soldiers from the Regiment of Foot. Sulists gathered around their shell-reading priests. Noonists were standing semi-naked in a circle, smeared in fish oils, holding hands and singing a melisma while a bunch of city cats tried to lick the oil off their legs. Ovinists were holding up pigs’ hearts, as was their custom, allowing the blood to drip from them slowly into their mouths. Apparently this brought them closer to nature, but Brynd could think of less disgusting ways.
Aside from the devotees of the official two gods—Bohr and Astrid, worshipped under the umbrella of Mániism—no priests were normally allowed to practice in the streets. Tradition allowed only these two days of the year for citizens to be exposed to other religions. Brynd thought it all rather pointless, since even if you did decide to follow some other creed, you would be forced to leave the city to follow your new persuasion.
Brynd led the surviving Night Guardsmen along the main thoroughfares that would take them up on the next level where the streets and passageways became quieter.
Brynd leaped off his horse as a flicker of purple light caught his attention.
“What?” Apium demanded, puzzled.
“Back in a moment.” Brynd headed off down the narrow passage, till he spotted a cultist slumped against a wall. The man was clutching a slim cylinder to his chest, from which purple sparks flew onto his bare skin. The device itself was somehow fixed to his hand, a web of skin keeping it in place. The man’s face was contorted into a mixture of bliss and pain. Brynd turned away in disgust.
“What was it?” Apium inquired, as he returned.
“Magic junkie,” Brynd muttered, mounting his horse again.
“What?” Jamur Johynn demanded, looking up from his dining table.
The Emperor was chewing on a fish platter, now and then examining his food for stray bones. His distant gaze suggested he might as well have been eating a plate of lemons. At times, Johynn refused to eat at all and sometimes he would assure servants that he’d eaten everything, only for them to find remains of his plate on the rocks directly below the window, or maybe stuffed into one of the ornamental jugs. Whether it was because he suffered from anorexia, or was paranoid about being poisoned was anybody’s guess. No explanations were offered, and no one