Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [31]
“That’s a smart cloak you’ve got there,” Randur said to break the silence—and thinking he’d look good in it himself, with a little customization. “Very dark. What color’s that?”
“Fuligin,” Dartun replied. “That’s a color darker even than black.”
Another period of reflection, and Randur said, “So, d’you think you can help me?”
“Of course,” Dartun replied, looking amused at the naive question. “That’s well within our talents. It’s one of my own areas of expertise, shall we say. No, my reflection on the matter is what can you do for us in return.”
Randur knew that the favor Papus had given him was to introduce him to Dartun. He would now have to come to some agreement of his own with this cultist leader. “Well, if it’s any help, I’m on my way to take employment in the household of the Emperor himself?”
“Old Johynn’s place?” Dartun said. “Now that’s certainly an interesting point. And what’ll you be doing there exactly?”
“This and that,” Randur replied coolly. This encounter was beginning to give him a sense of angst. He waited a moment before he asked the inevitable. “Would you want paying?”
“A-ha! Now that, Randur Estevu, sounds more like it.”
“I would’ve thought that, being cultists, you could get your hands on all the wealth you needed. And what would you need money for anyway?”
“I love the way everyone assumes we can do anything, as and when we please. Our technology is rather specific, you see. And, precious though they are, relics don’t buy food or sustenance. I have an order to pay regularly: that’s what keeps people happy. No, money is useful indeed. I think to cover our time and costs for this task … say, four hundred Jamúns should do it?”
“Four hundred!” Randur stood up with shock. Stunned someone could assign a monetary value to such a request. Was that how they did things deep in the Empire? Where was the fairness in that? He locked eyes with Dartun, but could see that the cultist leader wasn’t a man to be argued with.
“Well, what price would you put on a life, Mr. Estevu?” Dartun said.
Randur sat down again, feeling miserable. Four hundred Jamúns? An impossible sum. Calculating that a Jamún was worth ten Sota, each of which was worth fifty Lordils, he realized you could buy up most of the farms on Folke with that kind of money. It seemed utterly alien to price up a person’s life.
“Don’t look too miserable,” Dartun continued. “Just think about it, you’ll be ensconced in Balmacara, where there’re many wealthy people hanging about. I’m sure you can use your imagination in finding a way to ensure that some of that money comes your way. You’re a handsome lad, and you’ll find that being pleasing to the eye gives you a head start in these affairs.”
Randur ignored the man’s bluntness. He stared at the stone table nearby, at the small engravings around it, the runes. He wasn’t aware of how long he remained lost in thought, but when he looked up, Dartun was still grinning at him.
Randur said, “Is there a time limit on this sort of thing? I mean, say my mother passed away today, how long would it be before it gets too late to … you know, do whatever it is you can do?”
“A fine question. Well, we experiment all the time, because progress is what I’m after. It’s what this entire order is after: to distill the essence of life, to discover just whatever it is that makes us all us. So far we’ve successfully reanimated a man who had died up to two years before we worked on him, although his mind wasn’t quite what it used to be. This is the result of generations of our research, Randur. We’re not just some iren trader trying to offload a stack of cheap tat.”
That was a relief to Randur. It provided some time for him to get hold of the four hundred Jamúns.
“A deal?” Dartun said.
“Yeah, a deal.”
They shook hands.
“Could I just ask one thing?” Dartun folded his arms. “Why the hell d’you want to do this for your mother?”
A wave of nausea surged through Randur