Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [85]
Randur frowned at this display. The man who had addressed him was so thin and starved looking, he appeared half-dead. His cloak was in good condition though, and still a deep green. He wore several polished copper bangles and brooches, all bearing leaf motifs, and even his boots were particularly well-shined.
Randur decided his neighbor wouldn’t be able to give much trouble. “Thanks for your concern.” The barman placed the tankard of lager on the bar. Having remembered his identity wasn’t real, he felt safe in continuing the conversation. “I’m Randur. Who the hell are you?”
“They call me many things round here, young Randur …” the old man began. There was an authority in his voice, the sort that made you suspect some kind of prophecy was imminent.
Randur waited for a moment as the man stared ahead aimlessly. “Well, you going to tell me one of them at least?”
“You can call me Denlin.”
“Well, Denlin, what do you do exactly, apart from propping up this bar?”
“Ex-soldier. Jamur Eighth Dragoons—and for forty years, too. Forty years of the military.”
Randur sipped his lager casually. “So, what did you fight with?”
“Longbow and crossbow, lad. I was an archer by trade, before my eyes started failing me, that is.”
“And is that why you quit?” Randur said. “Your vision failed you?”
“Wasn’t that really,” Denlin said. “I’m no dribber—I can still bring down a garuda from the sky on a windy day.” He looked down at the beer-stained floor. “Admittedly my vision’s not what it used to be.”
“Well anyway, Denlin the Archer,” Randur raised his tankard, “here’s to things not being quite what they used to be.”
“You seem too young to be mouthing words like those,” Denlin muttered. “Those’re words only a man who’s lived a bit should be saying.”
Randur shrugged. “You don’t have to be old to know that life will throw a good deal of shit your way.”
They clinked tankards.
“So, lad, tell me,” Denlin said, a new froth of beer on his lips, “what brings you Caveside?”
Randur checked the barman was out of earshot. “I’m looking for… certain people.”
“Know a lot of people, me,” Denlin pressed. “Who you looking for? Anyone specific?”
“Look,” Randur decided suddenly that the old man could be a lead, “I need someone interested in buying some stuff from me.”
“Buying and selling, yeah? Hmm. You wanna be careful with your valuables round these parts.”
Randur said, “D’you know of anyone who might be into regular trading with me?”
“Well that depends, lad,” Denlin said. “Depends what needs trading.”
Randur leaned closer to the old man. “Look, I screwed a lady, and I took her jewels. I need to make myself some coin, and I need it quick.”
Denlin burst into a hoarse laugh. “Ah, I used to do a bit of that myself, lad. Ha! You sort of remind me of me.”
I truly, truly hope not, Randur reflected, leaning back to examine him. That would not be a great reason to continue living. “Anyway, can you help me out?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Denlin said. “What’s in it for me?”
“One in every ten coin is yours,” Randur said. “I’ve got a lot of jewels already, and I plan to have a lot more. You’ll end up making a fair bit out of me.”
Denlin nodded thoughtfully, then brought a pipe from out of his pocket already loaded with arum weed. “You in some kind of trouble, lad?” He lit the pipe. “Someone who wants coin this way has gotta be havin’ some problems.”
Randur shook his head.
“You in trouble?” Denlin pressed. “Got the Inquisition pounding at your door? A wife who’s blackmailing you?”
Randur snorted a laugh. “I have my own reasons. But, all you need to know is that I owe a bit of money to someone.”
“You need this cash quick then, like?” Denlin took a sip of lager. “Worry not, lad. I’ll soon sort you out.”
“No funny business, though.” Randur picked up the knife, flicked it in the air, caught it by the handle, before concealing it within his sleeve again. He finished his lager, slammed the tankard on the counter. “So we’ve a deal, Denlin the Archer.”
“That’s a name I like the sound of,