Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [98]
“I’m sure it can be arranged.” Tryst frowned. “I only need to find a way.”
“You know, you’ve proved very useful to me, Tryst. I would like to see you standing a little closer to me in the future. We’ve got some important schemes to develop, particularly regarding the refugee situation.” Urtica waved an arm vaguely toward the edge of the city. “Those vermin beyond the walls, spreading their filth and disease. I need someone to help me deal with them. When the time comes, it won’t be a pretty job at all. So do you reckon you’re up to it?”
“Magus Urtica,” Tryst smiled. “It would be an honor.”
“Good, then let me tell you more about my proposals on the matter, my dear boy …” Urtica turned his gaze once again to Villjamur.
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS, RANDUR CONCLUDED, PUSHING HIMSELF OFF THE COBBLES OF AN alley next to the tavern, an unwise decision to drink so much and so quickly.
He felt damp grit on his palms, and the muscles in his arms quivered as he levered himself upright. His head ached so much he wanted to cut it off. He looked up to see Denlin perched on top of a small wooden stool nearby.
Still drinking.
Still talking.
“Morning, lad,” Denlin said cheerfully.
Randur collapsed to the ground with a groan, and the old man burst out laughing.
“Trouble with you youngsters is, you think you can keep up with us. But we’ve been at it for years, lad. I was drinking this horse piss before you could let go of your mother’s teat …”
“Bollocks,” Randur muttered, then groaned again. His hair was disheveled, mud plastered all over one side of his face. There was a faintly foul smell he hoped he had nothing to do with.
So, another night of drinking with Denlin. This ritual had been going on for days, the cycle repeating itself: seduction of a lady, take what pickings he could, then flee into the darkness of the caves where Denlin would soon arrange a buyer. Celebrations would ensue, naturally, and it wasn’t normal for him to drink this much, but last night he had a particularly good haul. A diamond bracelet snatched from a sixty-year-old widow. Her age hadn’t limited her sexual appetite, but it had taken her an age to reach orgasm, and she lay so still afterward that he thought she was dead. As he left she kept murmuring thank-yous.
Before he had stepped into the night, he managed to swipe his most expensive trophy yet.
A clock tower chimed, each strike ricocheting around Randur’s head. He counted eight hours, and realized that within the next one he had a dance lesson with the Lady Eir. He cursed loudly.
“What’s up, lad?”
Randur said, “I’ve got to go.” He stood up at last, brushed himself down, his damp clothes stinking of smoke and alcohol.
“Well I’ll be here when you need me,” Denlin said.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve got more stuff to sell.” Randur turned and began to hurry away through Caveside.
He abruptly frowned, noticing the unusual light. It shouldn’t be daylight down here, not still underground, though it occurred to him that he had only ever visited the caves at nighttime, and now it was morning.
Randur rubbed his eyes again, looked up. “Well, would you look at that …”
Light ran in strips down the underside of the immense cavern, as if he was standing under the glowing ribcage of some gargantuan beast. These ribs sparkled like glass. At the apex, in the very center of the cave, shone a bright hub of light that intruded from the outside, directly from the brightening sky above. There were similar smaller hubs located at intervals throughout the caves, each one projecting light to this neglected expanse of city. Perhaps this was the real Villjamur from time immemorial, not the other city that every traveler saw, or the one the wealthy and powerful now lived in.
But this was no time to dawdle, or speculate. He was late, and reeking