Nights of Villjamur (25 page)

'I think you'll find,' Papus said, 'that most people are rather caught up in their own world. Men and women, rumel and human, that way they can escape the real one.'

'I just wanted someone else to know, who could do something about the situation if something came through into this world. And since yours is the biggest order, you're obviously the most influential.'

'Apparently so.' Papus sighed. 'Thank you for reassuring me.'

*

Dartun hunched in one of his special chambers. There were several lock mechanisms to pass through, with complex codes. He needed sanctuary at times, a place in which he could retreat, a place that more importantly offered somewhere for him to work in peace. No one knew of this place, and they would not have been able to find it. It was where he kept his more important relics. This small, dark metal-lined room was it, deep underground in his order's headquarters. He lit a candle and set about his search.

He was looking for the
uphiminn-kyrr
. It was a relic pioneered initially by one of the legendary underground cultists, the ones who worked alone without a sect but were skilful and elusive. Feltok Dupre was sometimes thought to be more a rumour than a person, a cultist who was said to have taken to alcohol and operated now in Villiren for coin to get by. The
uphiminn-kyrr
was his development, and he had sold the designs to a handful of cultists. Dartun was one, and he had been able to construct the device himself from complex plans that he thought initially were impossible to work with, written in old text and with root words he could barely understand. It took several years before he realized he had not in fact been conned.

Where is it?
For a moment he leaned against the wall, pressure suddenly escalating in his head. It hit him just how much he wanted to do this, to find a new world, and to find a cure for mortality again. Why did people have to die? Why did their own worlds have to end? He fought back an urge to cry, something he wasn't used to. What had become of him? The lump in his throat seemed unmovable. What would Verain think of him, like this? Well, perhaps she would see that he was normal, after all, a quality it was often obvious she craved from him. He just couldn't be the man she wanted him to be. He wanted to discover things, didn't he, to push the boundaries of what was known, not to settle for something quiet. Yet she was the only girl who had affected him in recent memory. He knew that, often escaping into her company, her tender affections. Only last month they shared drinks in the corner of a bistro, just like a
normal
couple, shrouded in that anonymous darkness brought by their fuligin cloaks, and they talked of things that didn't matter, things that he never knew about her. That she never wanted to be a mother, even though she loved children - because of her own orphaned upbringing. That she disliked sweet foods - something he surely should have noticed. That she feared ever being imprisoned, and would suffer nightmares about it periodically.

It seemed there were worlds to discover in her, too.

She meant something to him, but his new-found situation of losing his immortality had changed the context in which he lived - and he could not let her know she was important to him, not if he was going to die. If only he had just a few more
guaranteed
years, some time to discover more about these islands that lay under the red sun, about what everything meant, about where their civilization had come from. Such a history had always been there to discover,
somewhere
. If only he had more time.

If only . . .

There it was, the
uphiminn-kyrr
, a hexagonal box constructed from some metal that he could not identify. It was certain there was no known current stock of this ore. It possessed a sheen similar to steel, but the properties and structure were different. Glass dials indicated the points of a compass, with marks indicating degrees of trajectory. He took the box to his chest and left the chamber.

*

Later, early evening, up on one of the bridges, staring blankly into the wind like he was doing so much these days. If he had so little time left alive, why was he spending much of it experiencing such existential crises? A laugh snapped him out of it. No one was around on this bridge, leading between one derelict building and one disused theatre. Occasionally a gust would draw his fuligin cloak across his face, forcing upon him a darkness so total he thought it death itself.

The
uphiminn-kyrr
was to clear the skies as best as possible. The clouds were potent these days, and they needed dispersal if he was going to travel north for long periods. He placed the device on the ground, set the dials for maximum trajectory, then set it to start. There was a timer that he salvaged from another relic, so he was never quite sure how efficient it was, so he remained focused on the device from a distance of twenty paces. It was like waiting for a firework. The sounds of the city drifted up from below, bottles clinking, a little laughter, reverb of horses' hooves navigating tight alleyways, every night so similar.

Eventually, a fizz - a light glow from the
uphiminn-kyrr
, and a small ball of white light launched with velocity into the skies.

He did not know how long it would take to know if it had worked, or even if the effects would be useful, but he had to do all he could.

Jeryd watched the night sky vibrate with light and colour. Marysa held his arm tighter. She shivered a little, and he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or the eerie event above their heads, but it wasn't important, just the fact that she was holding him once again, just like old times. As the lights reflected off her glossy black eyes, he was so grateful to be with her again. It had taken her absence to make him realize just how much she meant to him, and he was shocked that, as a rumel, he was actually
suffering
from such emotions as humans normally did. He had always assumed that it was that rumel quality of level-headedness that put them a notch above their hominid cousins.

'Rumex,' Marysa breathed, 'isn't this wonderful? What's causing it?'

Jeryd had no answers, and his tail was perfectly still in contemplation. 'Perhaps this is some prior indication of the ice age? Perhaps not. I'm even willing to put a few Drakar on it being some kind of cultist trickery.'

They were both hypnotized by the display, these beams and flickering shafts of light changing form and colour in front of the stars. All around them, other people were equally entranced, craning their necks to see more clearly between the tall buildings, stepping out on balconies, scrambling for the higher bridges, as if getting closer would enable them to understand the bizarre occurrence any better.

Jeryd had taken Marysa out for a few drinks that evening and to watch a golem dance display put on by cultists from the Order of Pugandr. He had been genuinely impressed with the dwarfish, clay-like creatures that skipped about on stage.

But all through this magical evening, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of being the victim of observation, even when he found himself lost in contemplation of the extraordinary events in the sky. This was a city where at night you would easily see shadows stepping out of alleyways behind you, or hear the sound of ghostly feet scuffing on the cobbles. It was a city that bred paranoia.

But who cares if someone is tailing me, just as long as it isn't those Gamall Gata kids.

*

Randur stared out of the window, his slender, naked body illuminated by the weirdly ignited sky. His sword, garments and boots lay scattered on the floor somewhere behind him as he grasped the edge of the window frame to watch the varying colours shoot across the heavens. A diffuse glow of green and red undulated like an immense curtain drifting in a slow breeze. Impossibly high. Impossibly wide.

Lady Yvetta Fol stepped up behind him, placed her palms on his buttocks. 'Impressive,' she said, sliding them slowly up and down, then giving a gentle squeeze.

'Yeah,' Randur said. 'I've never seen the sky look like this before. I wonder what the hell is happening?'

'I wasn't talking about the sky.' She slapped his rump. Her many gold rings stung his bare skin, and he shuddered at the cold metal. Her breath crept slowly up the back of his neck as she moved his long hair to one side. Her fingers skimmed the ridges of his shoulder blades and spine. She kissed one shoulder hungrily.

As he turned around, her palms continued to move across his lithe dancer's torso, which she had already compared favourably to that of her husband, old and fat and lazy, and she murmured something vaguely about waiting for him all her life. But he couldn't keep this up all night. Where the hell did she get her appetite from? It made him wonder if she had been storing up frustrated libido for years, releasing it all tonight, on him, and now he was the prey instead of the hunter.

His lips touched her rings, caressing the display of wealth. Earlier he had cautioned her about a thief, one of Randur's latest fictions, suggesting that a wave of crimes was washing through the upper levels of the city, with wealthy ladies being targeted for their vulnerability. And after seeing the concern on her face, he pressed her fingers to his lips and offered his loyal protection for the evening. 'You simply don't need all these right now.' Randur slipped the rings from her fingers, dropped them discreetly into one of his upright boots. 'You're beautiful enough just as you are, my dear.'

Eyes creasing, she gave one of those small exhalations of pleasure, like the ones he had been hearing all night. 'You really think that?'

He placed a finger over her lips. 'I imagine
every
man would.'

'Well, certainly not
him
.'

Him
would be her husband, the influential Lord Hanton Fol.

Her grey hair was now ruffled after making love three times already. For a lady of fifty years, she was still slim, only mildly wrinkled. He had enjoyed what they did tonight - she was certainly a skilled performer, despite the dents in her confidence from her husband's complaints, and the fact that he was always sleeping with much younger women, whenever he was actually in Villjamur. Lord Fol was a wealthy landowner, who supplied the army with crucial foodstuffs distributed to their garrisons across the Archipelago. Lady Yvetta was rich in her own right, owning a substantial estate on Jokull, and also several trading ships. Randur was aware of these facts from gossiping with the servants before he came here. He confirmed her value from the proliferation of jewellery and ornaments that were crammed into her balconied mansion.

Her hand cupped his groin, and he groaned, partly in pleasure, and partly in dismay. She began kissing his neck, holding her lips for a moment on his collar bone. He ran his hands along her spine, noting the suppleness in her ageing skin.
You can mix gain and pleasure so long as you're doing things right.
He was now pushed against the window frame, the glass chilling his back. Her hand continued to work on him, perhaps a little too eagerly.

Oh please, not a fourth time
. . .

To the bed again, sliding his hands along her legs, his tongue licking feverishly from her ankles to her thigh, until she couldn't stop groaning. The soft light from the window - the heavenly display - enhanced every curve of her body, smoothed every line of ageing. At an agonizingly slow pace, Randur's mouth advanced across her body. She groaned ecstatically, her fingertips gripping the bed sheets.

A thumping at the door.

Randur stared into her startled eyes.

Bugger.
He whispered, 'Who is it?'

'How should I know?'

Thumping again. A voice shouted, 'Lady Yvetta, this is Anton!'

Yvetta whispered, 'My husband's brother.'

Shit
, Randur thought, immediately checking for an obvious escape route. The window, the exit of so many a lover in the night, seemed an appropriate choice.

'I know you're in there, Yvetta,' the voice continued. 'I was brought news that you entered your chamber in the company of some young man. I can't allow our family name to be disgraced in this way.'

'Nonsense,' she shrilled. 'I'm utterly alone.'

Randur leapt off the bed, threw on his shirt and breeches.

Yvetta hurried over to the door to intercede.

While she wasn't looking, he flipped a couple of bracelets from the dresser into his pocket.

'There's no one here, Anton. Really,' she protested.

'Let me in to see for myself,' the voice said.

'Give me a moment,' she said. 'I must make myself decent.'

Randur, meanwhile, had alternative concerns: '
Where's my other fucking boot?
Oh.' He grabbed it, fled to the window, opened it silently, then stepped out on the balcony. Before he closed the window again, he blew her a final kiss, and whispered, 'When you next read some sweet stanza, think of me, as I will of you,
my love
.' She returned his gaze with a look of anxious foreboding.

It was a freezing cold night. Colours still drifted across the sky, but there was no time to appreciate the view. With one of his boots still in his hand, he emptied its contents and pocketed the jewellery.

As the sound of raised voices came from within Lady Fol's room, Randur quickly shoved his boot on, leapt to the next balcony with his dancer's agility, then climbed up to the roof. There must, he reflected, be easier ways to acquire some money. Careful not to slip to his death on the icy stonework, he edged along until he came upon an emergency spiral staircase. He descended it quickly, then jumped out onto the street.