Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [47]
“We do have evidence,” Urtica said. “But I can tell you need further encouragement on the issue. This is about defense of our Empire, about protecting it against crimes such as that perpetrated at Dalúk Point. I suggest we should have another debate this very evening, following the evening prayer bell.”
Urtica was delighted as the motion was carried overwhelmingly.
Councilor Boll then stood up, his skinny frame barely noticeable. His manner was nervous, his voice uncertain. “Um, I’d like to announce briefly that we’ve had an approach from the Inquisition concerning the recent murder of our fellow councilor, Delamonde Rubus Ghuda. They would like to come into the Atrium itself to discuss the case.”
“Indeed,” Urtica replied. “But I’d recommend they come when we’re not in session, and instead interview us one by one in our private quarters.”
They all voiced their agreement, because Ghuda was a popular man, would be missed by all, and the sooner they reached the solving of his murder, the better. No one felt this more than Urtica. They shared the ideal that the city should be rid of the scum of refugees, that they presented the danger of disease and discontent. Urtica would endorse everything it took to find who had disposed of his ally.
A few hours outside of Villjamur, on the road to Gish, Brynd caught a glimpse of a curiously caparisoned horse being ridden through a clearing in the betula woodland ahead. They had come off the main road some time ago, preferring instead to follow one of the smaller gravel tracks that ran along the coast. They had avoided the villages and hamlets of Eelú, Fúe and Goúle. He thought it best that as few people as possible were aware of their movements.
He could tell that the horse was from one of the famous gangs, but he wondered which one. He always found the gatherings of these horse gangs to be a wonderful sight, and he halted his men with a gesture, interested to see if they were racing today.
“What’s up?” Apium said, following his gaze to the trees.
“Only a gang rider,” Brynd replied. “Might take a look to make sure. Let’s pause here for a quarter of an hour.”
The gap through the larix led him onto an open expanse of tundra, where two horse gangs were currently assembled. There were mainly men as the lead riders, but some girls rode alongside, all dressing their horses similarly to whichever group they favored. Many wore leather, even daggers, since this was about raw masculine pride: young people dressed up with nowhere to go. Such gangs would gather on exposed areas of tundra to race one another, or just to hang out, drinking alcohol away from the eyes of parents or city guards, and at night they would lie with each other indiscriminately. During races money would change hands as the onlookers gambled on the winners, and rags of different colors were attached to the horses’ legs or tails in a code Brynd didn’t understand. Tribal tokens were fixed to the reins, personalizing the horse as far as possible, in mimicry of the military cadres of the Empire.
Behind the rival groups lay a flat dark plain, under a drizzle-filled sky, with the smell of forests and of salt wafting from the sea to the south. For a short while they would be happy enough here, all the cares and impending changes now forgotten. Two young men presently lined up their horses, paused, then belted across the horizon, the others cheering on in feral calls.
The sight of such carefree enthusiasm made Brynd feel he was getting old. He had youthful dreams once, which seemed to be traveling further and further out of his reach. Perhaps he should stay out of Villjamur when the gates would be shut for all those years …
The garuda suddenly landed next to him. Brynd didn’t even flinch. He had spotted the creature hovering overhead only moments before.
With a chalk-white face offset by golden plumage, and large wings now tucked neatly behind his back, the garuda stood nearly six feet tall. He was wearing black breeches, with nothing covering his upper torso, revealing ferocious muscles