Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [41]
Brynd had heard many philosophical meanderings from Jurro. This creature had reportedly been within the city over a thousand years, nearly as long as this pile of stones had been called Villjamur. That’s what Jurro himself claimed anyway. He had been originally discovered wandering the icy coastline of north Jokull, with no memory. Having survived this long, he was now assumed to be immortal, though Brynd wondered morosely what it would be like to live for so long without even knowing your roots. He himself shared something with the Dawnir in this respect. Brynd had been adopted as a child by wealthy parents, and therefore had no real concept of his own origins. Who would ever want to know where an albino came from anyway?
“So how about your health? Do you feel well?” Brynd said.
“No, I need more exercise. I envy you, endlessly on your little missions here and there.”
Somehow, Jurro had just managed to belittle Brynd’s entire career with a single sentence.
“You must take me along with you sometime, because I would like to see more of the Archipelago. It could jog my memory; I might recognize something of my own past. It might even be fun.”
“Why not, if it helps at all? But, you obviously won’t have heard about our latest mission.”
Then Brynd gave the Dawnir the details of his last few days.
“Indeed, a complex situation,” Jurro said. “I will put my ear, as you say, to the ground for you.”
“Thanks,” Brynd said. “You heard about our Emperor?”
“Yes. Again, curious. But his mind was never quite there, was it?”
“I’ll be fetching his elder daughter to be our new Empress.”
“Jamur Rika? Of course. Is she not a child still?”
“No, she’s twenty now.”
“How quickly you grow, you humans!” The Dawnir seemed utterly delighted at this observation.
They talked awhile longer about news from the city, the refugees camping outside the gates. And then Jurro began to ramble about the wildflowers of Dockull and Maour. Brynd could only listen to Jurro’s expositions for so long, and gently interrupted him.
“Jurro, I don’t suppose you know anything of the killings reported on Tineag’l, do you?”
“Killings?” Jurro made a contemplative steeple of his massive hands.
“I don’t think it’s tribal revenge. Perhaps a new creature, or something?”
“I know nothing about this—although, yes, I would like to know more. According to what I have read, there has not been any creature capable of large-scale killings for several dozen millennia. Fossils of such beasts exist, of course, on Y’iren. I will begin some research.”
“Thanks,” Brynd said. “I’d better be going now. I’ll be back to see you when I return.”
“Farewell, Brynd Lathraea,” the Dawnir said, hardly paying attention.
“You know what your problem is?” Apium said to Brynd. They were leaning over the bar counter in the Cross and Sickle. Close to midnight and the place was nearly empty. A veteran of the Ninth Dragoons slumped asleep in the corner still clutching his tankard, wearing the uniform he’d never need again. Two elderly rumel sat nearby in companionable silence. A fire crackled cozily nearby, and you could hear the clink clink clink of empty glasses that a serving girl was carrying into the kitchen. The tavern was one of those places that made an effort with its decor: engraved mirrors, imported dark woods, lanterns bright enough to make women feel comfortable drinking here.
“Go on then,” Brynd said. This wasn’t the first time Apium had explained to Brynd what his problems were. Certainly it wouldn’t be the last.
Brynd took another sip of lager.
“You’re a pushover,” Apium continued. “That’s what you are, a pushover. You’ll take anything up the arse and not complain about it. You’re just a bitch to these councilors.”
“Really?” Brynd