Nights of Villjamur

TEN

Randur made his way through the increasingly bad weather up towards the Imperial residence of Balmacara, his travelling bags slung across his shoulder, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin. Sleet to rain to snow to sleet, Villjamur was now only differing shades of grey, and he prayed to Bohr that the waxed leather on his bags was holding the water at bay or the rest of his clothes would be ruined otherwise. His long hair trailed lankly in front of his eyes. He was thoroughly miserable.

Shitting weather, he thought. Just a day of sunshine, that’s all I ask for.

Balmacara was an intimidating sight, and its dark stone was imbedded in symmetrical lines with stabs of some shimmering-black material. It seemed impossibly high, almost reaching into the low cloud base. Bold pillars and arches, crenulations in the surface and crenellations crowning towers, all with a design nothing like he’d ever seen, and it didn’t even seem to match anything in the city. The building loomed. It imposed itself upon Villjamur.

Having shown his papers to the guards at the gate to the outer compound of Balmacara, he was mortified to see yet more steps rising between two octagonal pillars marking the main entrance.

He wondered what he’d be doing if he was back on Folke. When he had left, people were starting to panic because of the Freeze. People in his hometown had begun building and excavating new homes underground. His mother, fortunately, was going to be looked after by a brother residing in one of the harbour towns, so he knew exactly where she’d be when he returned to find her with the cultist’s cure.

As he dragged his sorry, soaking body up the steps to the door of Balmacara two men barred his way, ordinary city guards by the looks of them, red uniform, basic armour, fur-lined hats. After they checked his papers again, he was instructed to wait in the entrance hall.

Though it was impressive on the outside, Randur wasn’t expecting quite this level of grandeur or skilful decoration inside Balmacara. In fact, the level of detail and wealth everywhere on display was simply arrogant. There were carvings of naturalistic foliage adorning every wall, every doorway. Gold and silver leaf glittered on the coving and picture frames. Floors and fireplaces were made from slabs of black marble, and elaborate lanterns shone along the main corridor, people’s footsteps echoing some way in the distance.

Now this, Randur thought, is definitely somewhere I could call home. A fine luxurious lifestyle to match my fine tastes.

Another pair of guards escorted him to an antechamber. Within a heartbeat several more guards had entered, stared at him closely. Randur felt uneasy, began to reach again for his fake identification papers. Then suddenly he saw a young girl approaching defiantly through the corridor of guards. She marched up to him – all long strides and flowing hips, black-haired and definitely cute, but a little innocent for his tastes.

She stood there, and glared at him.

‘Morning, lass.’ Randur offered her his papers.

She glanced briefly at them without saying a word. He knew enough about girls like that to know to put his documents back in his pocket.

‘Randur Estevu.’ He risked offering her his hand to shake. ‘Can you show me where I need to go?’

‘I am Jamur Eir,’ she announced, not even glancing at his offered hand. ‘I am Stewardess of Villjamur.’

‘Ah.’

‘I believe, Randur Estevu, that you are the man from Folke?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘I am, yes, my lady,’ she snapped. ‘Do they not teach manners on your island, or do they breed you all to be as backward as yourself?’

Well, so much for her prettiness lasting, with a scowl like that on her. He looked her up and down, still considering whether or not to keep on flirting. ‘I humbly apologize. My lady.’ He was never much one for formalities, unless there was a chance things might lead towards a little bedroom action.

‘I was expecting someone a little older.’

What was he supposed to say to that? A little older for what? ‘So was I,’ he returned, his face expressionless.

‘Do you have a sword? I can’t see one on you.’

‘No, they said I wouldn’t be allowed to bring one in with me.’

‘Well, that’s not very useful now, is it? How is a teacher meant to instruct without a sword?’

A teacher? What in Bohr’s arse am I supposed to teach?

‘At least you don’t need one to dance, I suppose,’ Eir said.

‘Dance?’

‘Yes, dance. You did realize you were to teach sword and dancing, didn’t you?’

‘Indeed, lady.’ Ha! So all I have to do is dance and fight! ‘I apologize, but my thoughts were distracted momentarily, uhm, by the liquid depth and beauty of your eyes, my lady.’ There was a quiet groan from one of the guards, and he flashed her one of his better grins.

‘I see there’s nothing wrong with your island-boy oiliness.’ Eir was already turning away. ‘Balmacara is full of men. Don’t think I don’t know how the male mind works. Well, come along then. We can’t have you dripping water all over these floors.’

One of the servants showed Randur to his room, a small, well-decorated chamber with animal hides draped across the bed and floor. There was no glass in the window, but a thick tapestry kept the draught out, and a roaring log fire kept the heat coming. Several lanterns gave it a welcoming look. He considered it fit enough for entertaining ladies, should the opportunity arise.

He dumped his belongings on the bed, then turned to the male servant. ‘Stewardess of Villjamur is a strange title,’ Randur probed. ‘What happened to the Emperor?’

‘There isn’t one, not at the moment.’ Little emotion came from the servant’s answer. ‘The Emperor passed away a few days ago. The lady is in charge of matters until her elder sister, Jamur Rika, returns to the city.’

Jamur Eir looked too young to be in charge, he reflected, but perhaps such a life of public duty had matured her. Her eyes had showed nothing for him to analyse.

Still, he was due to be paid a whole Jamún a month. Which was phenomenally high considering his food and accommodation were also provided.

Over the next hour, Randur discovered more about his new duties, about why they were hiring a dance master from so far away. ‘I mean, from Folke of all places,’ he had said with surprise. ‘I imagine there’re numerous candidates to be found around Villjamur.’

Why had the actual Randur Estevu been chosen? Was there some hidden agenda?

When they met later, the Lady Eir herself provided the missing details. ‘We’ll hold a dance competition, which is now a part of my sister’s investiture celebration, called the Snow Ball,’ Eir explained. ‘The problem is that I can’t dance particularly well, and it is known that Folke islanders are famous for their skills in that art.’

What a ridiculous name for an event.

Randur remembered how very seriously they took dancing at home. It was more than just entertainment – it was a way of communicating, a kind of language, an art that had to be worked at, assiduously, that could tell stories, heal wounds, bring lovers together or drive them apart. Indeed, a physical expression of the soul. As a child he would often slip out of his mother’s house at night to watch the local people expressing themselves in complex physical ways.

‘And why sword skills? We know how seriously you Jokull folk take your fighting.’ He couldn’t help a touch of bitterness as he said it, considering how the now-dependent populations of the Empire didn’t exactly bask in the joy of Jokull’s military dominance.

‘My father’s always warned that if I ever found myself in danger, it would be most likely from within the gates of Villjamur. I believe you on Folke have a special art of fighting at close-quarters.’

‘Yes,’ Randur said. ‘We call it Vitassi. It was originally part of Vitassimo, the dance which is one of our oldest traditions.’

‘Well, quite,’ Eir said, clearly losing interest. ‘The point being, my father urged me to learn some duelling style different enough to perhaps give me an advantage.’

‘This Snow Ball… Is it particularly important?’

‘To some,’ Eir said. ‘It’s to take everyone’s mind off the Freeze. There is an award of around two hundred Jamúns for the winning participants.’

Two hundred Jamúns. Randur tried not to show his eagerness. That was halfway to paying the cultist’s fee. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the money mattered to people like you – at the top of the social ladder, I mean?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t. We can buy anything we ever want.’

Randur wondered why she had to say it with so much pride. ‘Well, with so much money, the people here must have all the happiness they could wish for.’

‘You might think that,’ she said, then quitted the room, leaving him alone with the remnants of her melancholy.

Randur couldn’t put his finger on what exactly, but there was a strange mood in Balmacara. Everyone talked continuously about the gates of the city being closed. It made Randur wonder how he would ever get out of this city, should he gather up enough Jamúns to pay the Order of the Equinox. At all times, in Villjamur, it seemed there was someone, somewhere, talking about the impending ice. Many people prophesized doom – the end of civilization as they knew it. Randur himself generally lived for each day at a time, so tended not to think about the future. If it was something you could not see for yourself, why worry about it? He was more concerned with how quickly he could pull a girl.

And there were plenty of them in Balmacara. Randur was soon conscious of turning the heads of the female servants and courtiers. He was used to such attention, so he smiled at the more attractive and winked at the least pretty ones. It helped that his personal guard was so ugly, too. There was a certain amount of tactical calculation in this, since a few of these women might have money he could extract with a kiss. Dartun’s demands had forced such thoughts into Randur’s head. Was he prostituting himself? This didn’t really bother him. Sex was sex, and that was that – people made such a fuss about it.

He made sure always to be wearing good attire to mark himself out as a man of distinction, of rare breeding. He wore shirts as black as his own hair, the collar a fraction undone, breeches worn tight, boots with pointed toes – as was fashionable in this city.

A declaration of intent. Here was someone to reckon with.

The next day he was taken to a small, rather poorly lit stone chamber in which the Lady Eir was waiting for him dressed in a baggy white outfit.

Randur studied her clothing, shook his head. ‘Well, for a start, you’ll be better wearing something that fits to your body tightly.’

‘Really?’ Eir said. ‘Why exactly would I need tight clothing? To enable the fetishes of your mind to flourish?’

‘Lady, I’m afraid my mind gets its kicks from much wilder fetishes than that…’ He shrugged. ‘No, I meant you’ll get your sword caught in such loose material.’

‘I shall be wearing loose clothes most of my time. What’s the use of training in things I won’t be wearing when I’m attacked?’

‘Whatever you wish. Now, first we’ll need swords.’

The door burst open.

What now?

Two city guard troops stepped in, then bowed to her. ‘My Lady Stewardess, Chancellor Urtica requires your urgent presence.’

‘What is it?’ Eir said irritably.

‘The chancellor’s pressing for a motion of war, and this step requires your presence in the Atrium.’

‘War?’ She frowned. ‘Who with?’

‘The Varltung nation, my lady. There is now evidence that it was they who slaughtered our Night Guardsmen at Dalúk Point. Intelligence suggests they may well now provoke further attacks on the subsidiary nations of the Empire.’

Randur listened carefully. Would the Varltungs really dare attack the Empire? If so, his home island of Folke would be first in line.

‘Tell him I’ll be there immediately.’ She turned her attention to Randur. ‘We’ll continue this practice some other time. Meanwhile, the smiths are expecting you. You can choose any weapon you like.’

‘Cheers.’ He bowed and watched as she left the room.

Out into the corridor, and he shambled around a corner into a gallery area where he spotted several richly dressed women about fifty paces away, their hair elegantly pinned up in the latest styles. His eyes lit up, a thousand opportunities flashing through his mind. For a moment he paused to watch them from behind the cover of what looked like the shell of a giant insect. At first he had taken it to be a suit of armour, but on closer inspection he realized the plating wasn’t made of metal. It was the exoskeleton of some bizarre creature, pinned to the wall with a bolt, its mouth still open as if in a dying scream.

Randur shivered, regarded the women instead. He tried to listen to the snippets of conversation that echoed along the corridor.

‘He’s got a lot of Jamúns to his name, so I’ve heard…’

‘Not quite sure he’s marriage material…’

‘Could you love him, though?’

‘That’s not the point, is it? He doesn’t have to know what you might get up to on the side.’

‘Astrid knows, I’ve seen better examples of a man… Not much physically, and he’s also pretty old…’

‘But still, there’s a lot to be said for his house. I know I could be very happy living there. So I think you should go for him…’

Money-grabbing sows, Randur thought.

He took a deep breath, and proceeded towards them, arming himself with a few sweet lines to deprive them of their wealth.