Nights of Villjamur

THIRTY-NINE

There was something about elbows that told you a lot about a woman, Randur contemplated. You could tell her age easily by the quality of skin there, and no amount of make-up or exercise could cover it up. Eir’s elbow-skin was young and firm, he noted, and he considered, for the first time in his life, how he might enjoy watching her age…

Blimey, what’s happening to me?

These aimless mornings brought Randur much enjoyment, in running his hands in exploration over unknown zones of her body. The inward curve behind the knee, for example: there was joy to be found there. Randur considered her collarbone particularly delightful. And, of course, her elbows.

Randur was in bed with the Stewardess of Villjamur, and they had made love. He was acutely conscious of a change in his attitude, an inner paradigm shift – he was a different man now.

One of her legs was sprawled on top of his as they lay there sharing body warmth, perspiring from their recent exertions. Contented. Shafts of daylight infiltrated from behind the tapestries that hung across the window, a cool draught penetrating. Eir turned over so that he lay behind her. He wrapped one arm around her waist and her fingers grasped his lazily. He kissed her neck hungrily.

Randur wanted to savour this intimacy for as long as possible.

They were in love the way only young people can be: full of passion, unaware of anyone other than themselves.

Why did he suddenly feel like this now, for the first time in his life? Randur had read about it in books, never quite believed it; but it had found him too. The days spent together seemed to stretch out forever, and their late-night intimacies made them feel they had been lovers for years. Time itself began to seem a little pointless.

Randur was aware that people in Balmacara were beginning to whisper, asking questions. There were already political manoeuvres, he suspected, being concocted in the shadows of the richer taverns, men looking at boys looking at men, and somewhere between them a knife would be placed on the table, his name would be mentioned, some young thing’s dreams of riches would blossom.

For them, an unknown outsider such as Randur wasn’t meant to be for Eir. It broke the rules, it diluted the concentrated power at the top of the Empire. Secretly her fate had been discussed and decided. Possibly by senior members of the Council. In his new-found bliss, he didn’t give a shit what such people thought. Had this cynical island boy finally been hooked? He’d told her everything about himself, his disreputable past.

That was the one honest move he’d ever made.

He had thought once the Snow Ball was over he could simply leave, taking with him whatever cultist trickery he’d bought to extend his mother’s life. He sighed. That was no longer so easy.

He slid his other arm from under Eir’s neck.

‘You going somewhere?’ she whispered, still facing the wall.

He moved her short dark hair away from her ear, with no specific purpose, just tenderness. He kissed her arm. ‘I have to go and pay the cultist today. I’d almost forgotten.’

‘Of course. I’ll get you the money.’ She looked up, smiling softly.

Randur felt awkward as he thanked her for the four hundred Jamúns, though she insisted impatiently that money meant little to her. A month ago he would have called her a spoilt brat for being so reckless with it. Funny, he thought, how love can affect your outlook so quickly.

Tomorrow, she reminded him excitedly, was the Snow Ball. To spend a wonderful evening with a man she chose to love. Even someone as cynical as Randur was surprised to find he, too, was looking forward to it. He made a note to examine the latest fashions in the city, then to push it on a bit more, as it was his secret mission to enhance the unadventurous trends of Villjamur.

Down the steps of Balmacara he strode, a sack of Jamúns under his cloak, then out across the raised platform offering views of a fog-caked city. He couldn’t see half as many spires as yesterday, but at least it wasn’t snowing. A garuda sailed overhead, disappearing into the white, but there weren’t as many people out and about these days.

For a quarter of an hour he sought out the street of the cultists, searching his memory for the way there amidst the deceptively surreal routes of the alleyways. Eventually he arrived at what seemed the right location, and frowned to see no door any longer, only a cloaked figure standing guard.

‘Morning,’ Randur said, trying to skim past her.

‘Get out,’ the woman spat.

‘I need to see Dartun,’ Randur protested. ‘I’ve something for him. We had a deal.’

‘He’s not here,’ the woman replied sourly.

‘Anyone from the Order of the Equinox?’

She stared at him angrily. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

After he explained, he was taken inside to be questioned further.

Randur was ushered into one of those dreary underground chambers that Villjamur possessed no shortage of – with minimal light and no warmth. He was instructed to wait on an uncomfortable stool in the corner. Randur was beginning to panic, having all these months assumed that all he need do was hand over the money to the cultist, and his mother would be miraculously saved.

There were sounds: the clattering of a metal door opening, the shuffle of footsteps, heavy breathing nearby. Then someone grabbed his shoulder, pushed him back against the wall.

Another female voice snarled, ‘Why are you here to see Dartun?’

Randur squinted through the darkness, the fingers tightening on his shoulder. ‘I was just coming to make him a payment as agreed. And I find out he’s not here, and there’s some weird shit going on. Now will you let go of my shoulder, and tell me what has happened to him?’

‘He won’t be coming back to Villjamur.’

‘But… what of the rest of his group of cultists?’ Randur was getting desperate. Dartun should have been here.

‘They’ve either gone with him or been arrested. The Order of the Equinox is now outlawed throughout the territories of the Empire.’

‘Shit,’ Randur gasped in alarm, then further explained his situation.

‘I remember you now,’ the voice said. ‘You’re the boy I pointed in his direction as a favour, for saving my life. But I can’t help you any more.’

‘You must. You have to. That’s the whole fucking reason I’m even in this city.’

‘I’m sorry. But you’re free to go.’

‘Can’t any other cultists help me? I’ve got money – I’ll show you.’ Randur stood up but found, after a lengthy silence, that he was now totally alone. Torch light entered the chamber and he was escorted out.

His world had imploded. Lying on Eir’s bed later, he felt he wanted to vomit, but instead he cried like a ten-year-old as he told her everything. She sat next to him waiting for him to finish – he knew that, and he felt ashamed, to expose his emotions like this. But, despite her age, she possessed an unexpected motherly quality. He liked that. After that he got up and left, walked for two hours across the city bridges, then returned, damp and cold.

Then he resumed crying.

Eir held his hand. ‘It’s understandable you’re upset, Rand, so don’t be so harsh on yourself.’

She got up and lit lanterns and soothing incense and waited for him to compose himself. He realized he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her. Soon he began to feel better, until somehow his failings as a son didn’t seem to matter quite as much.