Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [58]
Randur couldn’t put his finger on what exactly, but there was a strange mood in Balmacara. Everyone talked continuously about the gates of the city being closed. It made Randur wonder how he would ever get out of this city, should he gather up enough Jamúns to pay the Order of the Equinox. At all times, in Villjamur, it seemed there was someone, somewhere, talking about the impending ice. Many people prophesied doom—the end of civilization as they knew it. Randur himself generally lived for each day at a time, so tended not to think about the future. If it was something you could not see for yourself, why worry about it? He was more concerned with how quickly he could pull a girl.
And there were plenty of them in Balmacara. Randur was soon conscious of turning the heads of the female servants and courtiers. He was used to such attention, so he smiled at the more attractive and winked at the least pretty ones. It helped that his personal guard was so ugly, too. There was a certain amount of tactical calculation in this, since a few of these women might have money he could extract with a kiss. Dartun’s demands had forced such thoughts into Randur’s head. Was he prostituting himself? This didn’t really bother him. Sex was sex, and that was that—people made such a fuss about it.
He made sure always to be wearing good attire to mark himself out as a man of distinction, of rare breeding. He wore shirts as black as his own hair, the collar a fraction undone, britches worn tight, boots with pointed toes—as was fashionable in this city.
A declaration of intent. Here was someone to reckon with.
The next day he was taken to a small, rather poorly lit stone chamber in which the Lady Eir was waiting for him dressed in a baggy white outfit.
Randur studied her clothing, shook his head. “Well, for a start, you’ll be better wearing something that fits to your body tightly.”
“Really?” Eir said. “Why exactly would I need tight clothing? To enable the fetishes of your mind to flourish?”
“Lady, I’m afraid my mind gets its kicks from much wilder fetishes than that …” He shrugged. “No, I meant you’ll get your sword caught in such loose material.”
“I shall be wearing loose clothes most of my time. What’s the use of training in things I won’t be wearing when I’m attacked?”
“Whatever you wish. Now, first we’ll need swords.”
The door burst open.
What now?
Two city guard troops stepped in, then bowed to her. “My Lady Stewardess, Chancellor Urtica requires your urgent presence.”
“What is it?” Eir said irritably.
“The chancellor’s pressing for a motion of war, and this step requires your presence in the Atrium.”
“War?” She frowned. “Who with?”
“The Varltung nation, my lady. There is now evidence that it was they who slaughtered our Night Guardsmen at Dalúk Point. Intelligence suggests they may well now provoke further attacks on the subsidiary nations of the Empire.”
Randur listened carefully. Would the Varltungs really dare attack the Empire? If so his home island Folke would be first in line.
“Tell him I’ll be there immediately.” She turned her attention to Randur. “We’ll continue this practice some other time. Meanwhile, the smiths are expecting you. You can choose any weapon you like.”
“Cheers.” He bowed and watched as she left the room.
Out into the corridor, and he shambled around a corner into a gallery area where he spotted several richly dressed women about fifty paces away, their hair elegantly pinned up in the latest styles. His eyes lit up, a thousand opportunities flashing through his mind. For a moment he paused to watch them from behind the cover of what looked like the shell of a giant insect. At first he had taken it to be a suit of armor, but on closer inspection he realized the plating wasn’t made of metal. It was the exoskeleton of some bizarre creature, pinned to the wall with a bolt, its mouth still open as if in a dying scream.
Randur shivered, regarded the women instead. He tried to listen to the snippets of conversation that echoed along