Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [26]
Taunting them physically was fun. Made them lose a little control, become angrier. They stepped away from each other, coming at him from separate sides. Randur allowed himself to drop to the floor as they attacked simultaneously, then he kicked one behind the knees, watching him fall as Randur spun away.
“Look,” Randur said as he wiped his wet hands on his breeches. “Let’s just leave it here, and you can keep some dignity.”
“Cunt,” one of the men yelled, and lashed again. His blade flashed across Randur’s knuckles on one hand, instantly drawing blood. Randur stepped back, kicked the knife from his opponent’s hand, then kicked the man in the groin. The attacker collapsed in agony to the ground. As the other now made to attack, Randur ducked expertly, grabbed the arm holding the knife, spun him around and brought the arm down over his knee with a crack of bone. The man screamed in pain.
Randur retrieved the knife.
Sleet meanwhile became drizzle became rain sparkling off the cobbles. Randur was now drenched, his black hair limp, shirt clinging to his lean body, his cloak heavy with moisture. He glanced down at it dubiously, reached down again to rip a section off one of the men’s cloaks, wrapped it around his stinging knuckles.
His attackers lay unresisting on the ground.
He walked away, flipping up the collar on his cloak.
Each of the lower levels of Villjamur looked much the same, but on the higher levels the buildings became taller, narrower, somehow more elegant. They were also built of a lighter colored stone—limestone rather than granite. Wealthier people lived here, or at least they were certainly better dressed.
A smartly turned-out man in a red cloak walked by.
“Excuse me,” Randur said, “You don’t know where I could find a cultist, do you?”
The man gave him a cold stare, but answered politely. “There’s a bistro, just up there, near one of their temples. You’ll likely find a couple of them drinking there.”
Randur approached the bistro: a narrow, white-painted building that appeared to tilt to the right. He pressed his face against the roughly made window, but the glass was too steamed up.
He entered to find the place packed mostly with men. Several of the chairs had cloaks draped over the backs, a counter at the rear was serving pastries, and there was the faint smell of perfume from the only woman, sitting at a table by the door. He walked up to the counter. The girl behind it was short, blond, pretty—a suitable target if he didn’t have other things on his mind. He ordered a drink made from juniper berries, like they used to make on Folke.
As the girl handed it to him he said, “Thanks. I love your hair.”
“Really?” she said, eyes round and wide.
“Stunning.” Sure that he had her attention, he persevered. He leaned forward over the counter to gaze at her absorbedly. “Look, miss, I don’t suppose you know of any cultists around here, do you? I’m new to the city, and it’s quite important.”
“There’s two, over there in the corner. Another just here. One there.” She pointed them out in turn. “But if you ask me, you should stay away from them.”
“Thanks.” He handed her a Lordil for the drink. “Don’t worry about the change.”
He studied the various figures she had pointed out. The one seated nearest to the counter was of slender build, with a pointed black beard that enhanced his well-carved features. Randur stepped up to his table. “This seat taken?”
The man stared at his food. “If no one’s sitting there, then I’m guessing not.”
Randur sat down with his drink, took a sip. Beneath his black shirt, a small medallion glistened. On it was a strange symbol, two letter Cs, one reversed so that the curve touched what was a diamond between them.
“Girl at the counter mentioned you’re a cultist,” Randur said.
The man looked up. “What’s that to you?”
Randur reached into his pocket and brought out the same coin he had been given all those years ago on Folke. He placed it alongside the man’s plate. The man instantly stopped eating.