Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [25]
He didn’t bother unpacking much, as he derived an almost masochistic pleasure from having the entire contents of his life contained in a few small bags. It offered him a freedom he’d never before known. The idea that you could get up and go anywhere, at any time. What was more, he was living someone else’s life. And he was living that one near the edge.
After a lunch of fish and root vegetables, he wandered aimlessly for a while, just absorbing the flavor of Villjamur. He felt a sense of melancholy about the people of the busy city. That wasn’t surprising considering they were going to be confined more or less as prisoners here in order to have the best chance of staying alive through the ice. Families were being either torn apart or reunited, jobs were being lost, and people talked about a “Caveside” where most of the inhabitants would end up living. But few people ever seemed to speak of cultists.
He would have to ask someone.
“Excuse me, madam,” he addressed an elderly woman with a basket of fish, “I’m trying to find a cultist.”
Her eyes turning ferocious, she spat at him as she walked away. After another couple of such incidents, he realized that cultists were generally not much liked, but, finally, a little girl was prepared to answer his question.
“You’ll find them on the level just before you reach Balmacara. Best to ask more directions up there.”
Randur smiled at the somewhat grubby child, and gave her a couple of Drakar, thinking she might spend them more wisely than himself.
He walked on.
A black-feathered garuda with clipped wings was slumped in a doorway, rags across his legs, nervously smoking a roll-up of arum weed, and in front of his feet was a hat and a sign asking for donations for an ex-soldier. As he passed, Randur flipped him a couple of coins, and the birdman was grateful, creating shapes in a hand-language that Randur couldn’t comprehend.
“Really, it’s okay,” Randur mumbled, wondering what happened to those who offered service to the Empire?
Around the next corner, two men stepped out from an alleyway. They wore brown tunics, heavy boots, no cloaks, and had a dirty look to them, as if they slept on the streets. He guessed them both to be around their thirties, but you couldn’t be sure.
“Fuck you staring at me for?” one of them snarled.
“Sorry,” Randur mumbled.
“Hey, gay boy. Nice shirt. Expensive, yeah?”
Randur felt suddenly conscious of his clothing: well-sewn black breeches, white shirt with all those traditional Folke cuts. A fine cloak on top. Did people in this city really object to men being stylishly dressed?
“Can tell by your accent you’re not from around here,” one of the men said, approaching. “So no one will notice if you disappear—isn’t that so?”
“That’s right. Disappear,” the other man echoed. “Happens a lot round here.”
Randur noticed the edge of a blade protruding from under a sleeve. “What’s this about?” He stepped back.
“Money,” one of them said.
“Ah, well, I can’t help you there.”
The street was now empty save for the three of them, the rattle of sleet having become more prominent over the last few minutes. The ambience seemed like a fight premonition.
“An expensive dresser like you, I’m sure you’ve got something on you,” the other said. “A Lordil or a Sota would do us fine.”
“Ah, and I thought he didn’t speak, this one,” Randur said.
“I’m warning you,” the man snarled, wiping drizzle from his face.
Short blades were produced, glinting weakly in the poor light.
“I really haven’t got anything on me.” Randur took off his cloak, scrunched it under one arm.
The first man lunged forward, swiping his weapon across Randur’s midriff. Just as quickly Randur leaned away, took steps to one side, lightly. Then two to the other side. A dance maneuver modified for dueling.
“Come here, you bastard,” the man said, enraged now, swiping