Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [83]
Randur slid his hands into his pockets, could feel the jewelry, sharp and cool against his palm. He didn’t know exactly how he should be feeling about his latest behavior, but he would sell the stuff and use the money to pay Dartun. Surely granting his mother the gift of life counted as a positive moral act. He could be doing nothing wrong if he was saving a life. Lady Yvetta would barely miss those trinkets, and he would continue doing the same with many other women in Balmacara. I’m fine with this, he decided. Lady Yvetta was hardly going to expose herself by branding him a thief.
An excellent plan had been initiated. Randur’s fictional thief, the one that stole from rich lonely ladies, had been spotted. Or rather, Randur was spreading rumors to anyone who would listen about a short, fat, blond man that dressed in baggy breeches—crimes to fashion too!—who had been sighted on more than one occasion, slipping from windowsills into darkness. Randur even suggested that the culprit might have been loitering near Lady Yvetta’s apartment the previous night. His tracks had to be covered. He had managed to blag himself this far through life—another set of lies would hardly hurt him. But from now on he would have to select his women and jewels with more caution.
The further he penetrated them, the caverns became bizarrely higher. Some of the spires from the main city could have easily fitted under here. There was the eerie high-pitched sound of bats echoing far off above, and there was a lot of thick smoke due to the lack of ventilation. How far back did this strange section of the city extend?
He came across a fenced-off open section, like an excavation. It was about fifty paces by a hundred, stretching back from his path to the rock of the cave itself. By the light of a lantern stood a hooded man working with a shovel in his hands.
“Hey,” Randur hailed him.
The man stopped digging. “Fuck you want?”
“What’s going on here? Archaeology dig?”
The man laughed. “Graveyard, mate. A new one.”
“New one?” Randur echoed, resting both hands on the low wooden fence.
“Yep,” the hooded man said. “They’ve filled all the deeper holes down in the caves. Our esteemed Council raised funds for a building here to be cleared, so we could fill the land it occupied with the dead.”
“Thought they always burned the dead. It’d save room, too, wouldn’t it?”
“Aye, you’re right.” The man began to chuckle. “Only thing is, this place here is for murderers they’ve executed.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Burying them keeps their spirits trapped here. Can’t have their foul spirits passing on to the next realm, can we? Ha! They’ll be filling it up quick. Take it you’ve not been down this way much? Where y’headed, mate?”
“I’m not sure exactly,” Randur said. “I’m looking to sell something.”
“Whatcha got?”
“A few bits of jewelry,” Randur replied. “Not on me now though. Any dealers down this way?”
“Depends. You won’t get much cash down here unless you go, well … even deeper underground, if you follow. See, shops here in the caves ain’t likely to hold much in the way of jewelry. Would soon get stolen.”
Randur said, “So, where do I go to find such a customer?”
“That depends. You can look after yourself okay?”
Randur peered into the hooded darkness concealing the man’s face. “I reckon as well as anyone in this city.”
“That’s the spirit, lad! Couple of taverns further in’s what ya need. Probably a half bell’s walk if you carry right on down this road. Look out for the Jinn or the Garuda’s Head. You just tell the bar staff there that you’re trying to offload some goods. There’ll probably be some sort of brawl in there most likely.”
“Thanks for that.”
From under his soiled cloak, the man extended a bony hand that appeared utterly bloodless, as if he should have been lying in one of the graves himself.
“Right,” Randur acknowledged, and reached into his pocket for a coin.
“Much obliged,” the man murmured, and headed back to tend to his graves.
Deeper in, the houses became much