Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [57]
“I see there’s nothing wrong with your island-boy oiliness.” Eir was already turning away. “Balmacara is full of men. Don’t think I don’t know how the male mind works. Well come along then. We can’t have you dripping water all over these floors.”
One of the servants showed Randur to his room, a small, well-decorated chamber with animal hides draped across the bed and floor. There was no glass in the window, but a thick tapestry kept the draft out, and a roaring log fire kept the heat coming. Several lanterns gave it a welcoming look. He considered it fit enough for entertaining ladies should the opportunity arise.
He dumped his belongings on the bed, then turned to the male servant. “Stewardess of Villjamur is a strange title,” Randur probed. “What happened to the Emperor?”
“There isn’t one, not at the moment.” Little emotion came from the servant’s answer. “The Emperor passed away a few days ago. The lady is in charge of matters until her elder sister, Jamur Rika, returns to the city.”
Jamur Eir looked too young to be in charge, he reflected, but perhaps such a life of public duty had matured her. Her eyes had showed nothing for him to analyze.
Still, he was due to be paid a whole Jamún a month. Which was phenomenally high considering his food and accommodation were also provided.
Over the next hour, Randur discovered more about his new duties, about why they were hiring a dance master from so far away. “I mean, from Folke of all places,” he had said with surprise. “I imagine there’re numerous candidates to be found around Villjamur.”
Why had the actual Randur Estevu been chosen? Was there some hidden agenda?
When they met later, the Lady Eir herself provided the missing details. “We’ll hold a dance competition, which is now a part of my sister’s investiture celebration, called the Snow Ball,” Eir explained. “The problem is that I can’t dance particularly well, and it is known that Folke islanders are famous for their skills in that art.”
What a ridiculous name for an event.
Randur remembered how very seriously they took dancing at home. It was more than just entertainment—it was a way of communicating, a kind of language, an art that had to be worked at, assiduously, that could tell stories, heal wounds, bring lovers together or drive them apart. Indeed, a physical expression of the soul. As a child he would often slip out of his mother’s house at night to watch the local people expressing themselves in complex physical ways.
“And why sword skills? We know how seriously you Jokull folk take your fighting.” He couldn’t help a touch of bitterness as he said it, considering how the now-dependent populations of the Empire didn’t exactly bask in the joy of Jokull’s military dominance.
“My father’s always warned that if I ever found myself in danger, it would be most likely from within the gates of Villjamur. I believe you on Folke have a special art of fighting at close-quarters.”
“Yes,” Randur said. “We call it Vitassi. It was originally part of Vitassimo, the dance which is one of our oldest traditions.”
“Well, quite,” Eir said, clearly losing interest. “The point being, my father urged me to learn some dueling style different enough to perhaps give me an advantage.”
“This Snow Ball … Is it particularly important?”
“To some,” Eir said. “It’s to take everyone’s mind off the Freeze. There is an award of around two hundred Jamúns for the winning participants.”
Two hundred Jamúns. Randur tried not to show his eagerness. That was halfway to paying the cultist’s fee. “I wouldn’t have thought the money mattered to people like you—at the top of the social ladder, I mean?”
“Oh, it doesn’t. We can buy anything we ever want.”
Randur wondered why she had to say it with so much pride. “Well, with so much money, the people here must have all the happiness they could wish for.”
“You might think that,” she said, then left