Nights of Villjamur (27 page)

The outline of a vague shape was stretching across the entire roof of the cavern. Something up there glittered faintly like starlight. But that would have been impossible.

And it suddenly struck him how completely anonymous he was in Caveside. Despite his new position at court, he was now in an alien city where no one had heard of him. That gave him a peculiar sensation when he paced the muddy cobbles.

Suddenly, from a building to his left, two men burst onto the street brawling. A cloud of alcohol followed as several men piled out of the tavern after them, cheering them on. Light from the open doorway spilled out on the grotesque scene. The brawlers cursed each other and rolled about on the ground. They punched each other's faces and grabbed each other's garments as if to frantically swap clothes.

I reckon this must be one of the places I'm looking for.

Someone from the crowd stepped forward and kicked one of the fighters on the head with a solid-looking boot. It snapped back, neck broken, its owner lying perfectly still. The other man got up, brushed himself down, patted the killer on the shoulder. Together with the gathered onlookers, who were muttering approvingly, they returned inside. Randur studied the inn's sign. He had indeed arrived at the Garuda's Head, a crudely whitewashed building, with a pair of external torches burning. As the corpse lay on the ground in a pool of blood, a banshee could be seen approaching in the murky light. Randur stepped quickly into the tavern.

Everyone turned to stare as the stranger walked towards the bar, the sound of conversation dipped. Even with a shelf of candles distributed around the room, the place was barely navigable. The walls were plain, with little decoration, just the odd dull and faded painting of battle and hunting scenes mainly, the odd seascape. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling, wood panelling glowing behind. He tried to gauge the tenor of conversations, but all he could hear was the hushed mumble of men talking into their drinks.

Randur leaned boldly against the wooden countertop at the far end of the tavern. Rough-looking types stared at him suspiciously through a cloud of pipe smoke. He could smell arum weed, lager, and fish being fried in some other room. The counter was littered with tankards and used plates that no one had bothered to clear up.

Randur produced a knife from out of his sleeve, and slammed it on the counter followed by a handful of coins, which eventually rattled to a rest. 'Lager,' he announced to the grubby man standing behind the counter.

'You'll need more money than that,' the fat barman replied, wiping sweat from his cheek.

Randur laughed awkwardly, pretended to rummage in his various pockets. He placed another few Drakar on the table. 'That's all I've got.'

The barman counted the coins slowly before grunting what sounded close to an approval. He turned to one side to pull the drink. Having given that little display, surely no one would think Randur worth robbing.

A grey-haired man propped to his right muttered, 'Pretty flashy blade that.' He indicated the onyx-handled knife that Randur had placed on the bar counter. 'You wanna be careful you don't get it taken from you. You can never be too careful in Caveside, like.'

'I wouldn't worry yourself,' Randur replied defensively.

'Just sayin', like.' The old man blew his nose into his hands, which he then wiped on his breeches.

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 neighbour 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, y'know - Denlin the Archer. Yeah, we got a deal, lad.'

'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 acknowledgement. '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 jewellery 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 blonde 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 labourers, 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 Inrun - 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 any more.'

'Hmm,' Coni said. 'Give you five Sota. Not a bad price for this.'

'I'd expect at least a Jamun 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.

'OK.' 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.'

The two younger men went on discussing the jewels that Randur had stolen for over half an hour. Denlin meanwhile had remained quiet, merely observing the transaction whilst keeping one eye open for trouble. With his first commission payment in his pocket, Denlin bought exotic drinks from the counter, including the legendary Black Heart rum. At first Randur refused, but the old man insisted they were not that strong. After Coni had departed with much less coin, but a good stash of jewellery, the men drank progressively. Candles burned low around them, men came and went from the tavern. Denlin related tales of his exploits in the military, himself and Randur talking the way an old man and a young one tended to do. Wisdom was shared: Randur happy to listen, Denlin happy to talk.

Randur drank and his eyes became heavy. He wasn't used to such quantities.

It wasn't long until he reached that point where he knew, in his heart, he was well . . .

. . . and truly . . .

. . .
gone
. . .

Jeryd entered the Chamber of Inquisition, a dusty, ceremonial office in which the arch-inquisitor and his three aides of justice were already seated at a large marble table. They greeted him with the barest of glances.