Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [42]
“Just stand up for yourself once in a while—that’s what you should do. I would’ve given them hell!”
“You’re not really one for diplomacy, are you?”
“Diplomacy’s never won us soldiers a war.”
Brynd pondered the inherent truth in Apium’s statement.
“Perhaps you’re right.” As he spoke he realized that Apium’s attention was drawn to the barmaid who was busy cleaning tables. “You with me?”
“I was with her in spirit,” Apium stated. “I have been since we walked in here.”
Brynd stared at him. “Stop leering. Haven’t you got a sense of decency?”
“No, I’m not armed with a sense of decency,” Apium said. “That way, my other senses are as sharp as they can possibly be.”
Brynd laughed, shook his head, then glanced over the bar, silent in thought.
Because they were carousing at the top level of the city, they didn’t have far to walk to reach the military quarters of Balmacara. Brynd considered such privileged accommodation a wasted luxury, because they were so frequently away from the city on military service. This housing could so easily be used for refugee families. Instead, the chambers they occupied were set into the cliff face just to the north of the late Emperor’s private quarters, and usually a minimum two members of the Night Guard remained in residence at all times, in case the Emperor should need to call on them in an emergency. Not that there had ever been one in Brynd’s memory, but it was a sensible precaution.
As he was commander, Brynd’s own chamber was by far the most extravagant, set slightly apart from the others. He liked the decor inside, a mixture of polished marble and slate, with purple drapes hanging on every wall. Hidden behind them were maps of the Empire’s far-flung territories should he need to examine them quickly. It often helped during sleepless nights, to study these lands that he was charged to protect. It affirmed his sense of duty. Military medallions hung from the mirror on his dressing table.
Then he noticed the letter left for him on a side table. He lit a lantern before opening it to reveal precise details, provided by Chancellor Urtica, of where Jamur Rika was living near the settlement of Hayk, on the Southfjords. The letter also confirmed that Chancellor Urtica would like an interview with Brynd before he left, in order to discover further details of the disastrous ambush at Dalúk Point.
Brynd was disturbed by the thought of now finding time to come to terms with the deaths in his regiment, and discovering who was responsible for their ambush. Such quieter moments were difficult for soldiers, as the killings they witnessed worked over and over again in the mind. He would have to organize letters of sympathy to be sent to the families of the deceased soldiers—there was still so much to be done, and he must be ready to leave early the next morning. Brynd settled down at his desk for a couple of hours’ paperwork.
Brynd paused to look up at the clock. Not even an hour had passed, and he wasn’t feeling particularly tired, but he decided the letters could wait. He needed some fresh air, he needed some relaxation. Perhaps Apium was right, and Brynd took life too seriously. The pressure was starting to get to him.
He changed out of his uniform into a featureless brown tunic, threw on a hooded cloak, then walked quickly out into the chill of the night.
Brynd knocked on the door. The darkness felt suffocating, one of those nights when you felt like someone was watching your every move.
Brynd’s secret would then be out.
And he would be executed on the city walls.
He was standing outside an inconspicuous doorway near Gulya Gata, not far from where painters from the gallery customarily loitered in the company of poets inside bistros by Cartanu Gata and the Gata Sentimental. Nearby, past the bad hotel in the exposed street, there was always the sound of activity: erratic laughter, retreating footsteps, the clink of glass or the scrape of metal. Depending on the mood of the city, it could also mean drunkenness, lovemaking, even a murder. Such sounds were