Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [56]
Shitting weather, he thought. Just a day of sunshine, that’s all I ask for.
Balmacara was an intimidating sight, and its dark stone was imbedded in symmetrical lines, slabs of some shimmering-black material. It seemed impossibly high, almost reaching into the low cloud base. Bold pillars and arches, crenulations in the surface and crenellations crowning towers, all with a design nothing like he’d ever seen, and it didn’t even seem to match anything in the city. The building loomed. It imposed itself upon Villjamur.
Having shown his papers to the guards at the gate to the outer compound of Balmacara, he was mortified to see yet more steps rising between two octagonal pillars marking the main entrance.
He wondered what he’d be doing if he was back on Folke. When he had left, people were starting to panic because of the Freeze. People in his hometown had begun building and excavating new homes underground. His mother, fortunately, was going to be looked after by a brother residing in one of the harbor towns, so he knew exactly where she’d be when he returned to find her with the cultist’s cure.
As he dragged his sorry, soaking body up the steps to the door of Balmacara two men barred his way, ordinary city guards by the looks of them, red uniform, basic armor, fur-lined hats. After they checked his papers again, he was instructed to wait in the entrance hall.
Though impressive on the outside, Randur wasn’t expecting quite this level of grandeur or skillful decoration inside Balmacara. In fact, the level of detail and wealth everywhere on display was simply arrogant. There were carvings of naturalistic foliage adorning every wall, every doorway. Gold and silver leaf glittered on the coving and picture frames. Floors and fireplaces were made from slabs of black marble, and elaborate lanterns shone along the main corridor, people’s footsteps echoing some way in the distance.
Now this, Randur thought, is definitely somewhere I could call home. A fine luxurious lifestyle to match my fine tastes.
Another pair of guards escorted him to an antechamber. Within a heartbeat several more guards had entered, stared at him closely. Randur felt uneasy, began to reach again for his fake identification papers. Then suddenly he saw a young girl approaching defiantly through the corridor of guards. She marched up to him—all long strides and flowing hips, black-haired and definitely cute, but a little innocent for his tastes.
She stood there, and glared at him.
“Morning, lass.” Randur offered her his papers.
She glanced briefly at them without saying a word. He knew enough about girls like that to know to put his documents back in his pocket.
“Randur Estevu.” He risked offering her his hand to shake. “Can you show me where I need to go?”
“I am Jamur Eir,” she announced, not even glancing at his offered hand. “I am Stewardess of Villjamur.”
“Ah.”
“I believe, Randur Estevu, that you are the man from Folke?”
“I am, yes.”
“I am yes, my lady,” she snapped. “Do they not teach manners on your island, or do they breed you all to be as backward as yourself?”
Well, so much for her prettiness lasting, with a scowl like that on her. He looked her up and down, still considering whether or not to keep on flirting. “I humbly apologize. My lady.” He was never much one for formalities, unless there was a chance things might lead toward a little bedroom action.
“I was expecting someone a little older.”
What was he supposed to say to that? A little older for what? “So was I,” he returned, his face expressionless.
“Do you have a sword? I can’t see one on you.”
“No, they said I wouldn’t be allowed to bring one in with me.”
“Well, that’s not very useful now, is it? How is a teacher meant to instruct without a sword?”
A teacher? What in Bohr’s arse am I supposed to teach?
“At least you don’t need one to dance, I suppose,” Eir said.
“Dance?”
“Yes, dance. You did realize you were to teach sword and dancing, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, lady.” Ha! So all I have to do is dance and fight! “I apologize,