Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [79]
“Rumex,” Marysa breathed, “isn’t this wonderful? What’s causing it?”
Jeryd had no answers, and his tail was perfectly still in contemplation. “Perhaps this is some prior indication of the ice age? Perhaps not. I’m even willing to put a few Drakar on it being some kind of cultist trickery.”
They were both hypnotized by the display, these beams and flickering shafts of light changing form and color in front of the stars. All around them, other people were equally entranced, craning their necks to see more clearly between the tall buildings, stepping out on balconies, scrambling for the higher bridges, as if getting closer would enable them to understand the bizarre occurrence any better.
Jeryd had taken Marysa out for a few drinks that evening and to watch a golem dance display put on by cultists from the Order of Pugandr. He had been genuinely impressed with the dwarfish, claylike creatures that skipped about on stage.
But all through this magical evening, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being the victim of observation, even when he found himself lost in contemplation of the extraordinary events in the sky. This was a city where at night you would easily see shadows stepping out of alleyways behind you, or hear the sound of ghostly feet scuffing on the cobbles. It was a city that bred paranoia.
But who cares if someone is tailing me, just as long as it isn’t those Gamall Gata kids.
Randur stared out of the window, his slender, naked body illuminated by the weirdly ignited sky. His sword, garments, and boots lay scattered on the floor somewhere behind him as he grasped the edge of the window frame to watch the varying colors shoot across the heavens. A diffuse glow of green and red undulated like an immense curtain drifting in a slow breeze. Impossibly high. Impossibly wide.
Lady Yvetta Fol stepped up behind him, placed her palms on his buttocks. “Impressive,” she said, sliding them slowly up and down, then giving a gentle squeeze.
“Yeah,” Randur said. “I’ve never seen the sky look like this before. I wonder what the hell is happening?”
“I wasn’t talking about the sky.” She slapped his rump. Her many gold rings stung his bare skin, and he shuddered at the cold metal. Her breath crept slowly up the back of his neck as she moved his long hair to one side. Her fingers skimmed the ridges of his shoulder blades and spine. She kissed one shoulder hungrily.
As he turned around, her palms continued to move across his lithe dancer’s torso, which she had already compared favorably to that of her husband, old and fat and lazy, and she murmured something vaguely about waiting for him all her life. But he couldn’t keep this up all night. Where the hell did she get her appetite from? It made him wonder if she had been storing up frustrated libido for years, releasing it all tonight, on him, and now he was the prey instead of the hunter.
His lips touched her rings, caressing the display of wealth. Earlier he had cautioned her about a thief, one of Randur’s latest fictions, suggesting that a wave of crimes was washing through the upper levels of the city, with wealthy ladies being targeted for their vulnerability. And after seeing the concern on her face, he pressed her fingers to his lips and offered his loyal protection for the evening. “You simply don’t need all these right now.” Randur slipped the rings from her fingers, dropped them discreetly into one of his upright boots. “You’re beautiful enough just as you are, my dear.”
Eyes creasing, she gave one of those small exhalations of pleasure, like the ones he had been hearing all night. “You really think that?”
He placed a finger over her lips. “I imagine every man would.”
“Well certainly not him.”
Him would be her husband, the influential Lord Hanton Fol.
Her gray hair was now ruffled after making love three times already. For a lady of fifty years, she was still slim, only mildly wrinkled. He had enjoyed what they did tonight—she was certainly