Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [86]
“Good,” Randur said. “So, where can we find a buyer?”
“Look around you, lad. There’s dozens of buggers in here who’d buy anything you can offer.”
“Have they got enough cash though?”
“’Course they have. Why d’you think they can afford to spend all their time drinking?”
Randur shrugged. “I guess so.” Maybe the barman had not been rooking him after all.
“Give me half an hour and sit over at that table in the corner.” Denlin indicated a bench at the far end of the tavern in a dark corner. A small brass instrument glittered next to it in the half-light. “I’ll be back with some punters, but you’ll need to get another round in though.”
Randur sighed, rolled his eyes, ordered them two more tankards.
“Thought you didn’t have any more cash on you,” Denlin crowed, concealing a smug grin behind his tankard as he took a first gulp.
Randur muttered, “Your ability to see through me is admirable. I guess your vision isn’t all that troubling.”
Denlin raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Looks can be deceiving down these parts, lad. You just remember that, and you’ll get on fine.”
After Denlin had made a quick inspection of the jewelry Randur had to offer, he disappeared without another word. Randur sat at the table on his own, staring out into the darkness and the smoke, listening to the furtive chatter, wondering how long the tavern would stay open.
He took a look around at the other customers. There was a blond woman crying into her hands while the man reclining next to her was smoking away, uninterested in her distress. An old man was now standing at the counter without any shoes. On stools alongside him sat two laborers, covered in dirt, the grime suggesting there were mines underneath the city. Detritus of every kind was scattered across the floor, including specks and spots of something he took to be blood.
It suddenly struck him just how many physically damaged people he had encountered in the city. Many had hands missing or savage wounds across their faces, black eyes and ripped ears. One man nearby had a leg severed beneath the knee. Knives were brandished openly, and swords rested against the tables, on open display.
Randur hadn’t really thought about it before, but he guessed that was what you should expect in a world where the sword, axe, and arrow formed a common language. The inhabitants therefore wore the signs of constant violence. He ran his hand across his own pale face, reassuring himself in the absence of any wound. You made your own luck in this world, and you played the cards you were dealt. He had been lucky so far, but put it down to Vitassi, nothing more.
Denlin returned with a square-jawed swarthy man, dressed only in a black tunic in a gesture of defiance to the coming ice.
“This is the gentleman I spoke of,” Denlin said to his stocky companion.
Randur stood up, offered his hand. “Randur Estevu. I’m pleased to meet you.”
The swarthy man nodded. “Coni Inrún—trader.”
“Well, please take a seat,” Randur said, wondering if this man was capable of uttering words of more than two syllables. All three of them sat down at the table.
Coni leaned forward. “Denlin says you got jewels.”
“That’s right,” Randur said. He reached into his pocket, drew out an emerald set in a silver ring. Resisting any temptation to flamboyance, he placed it on the table before Coni.
The man pulled out an eyeglass and began to examine it in detail. Randur glanced over at Denlin who merely raised his eyebrows.
“Very good,” Coni said. “Good workmanship this. Where d’you get it?”
“An old lady gave it to me,” Randur lied. “Decided she didn’t want it anymore.”
“Hmm,” Coni said. “Give you five Sota. Not a bad price for this.”
“I’d expect at least a Jamún for this,” Randur said.
“Seven Sota,” Coni said.
“Nine,” Randur said.
“Eight.”
“Nine, and that’s it,” Randur said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Estevu,” Coni said standing.
“Eight it is,” Randur said.
“Okay.” Coni sat down. He produced the coins, picked up the ring. “You got more such items?”
“A few, but not as good as that one.