explained to someone Randur took to be his father. There was something vaguely bird-like about their appearance, something similar about the nose.
'Anyway, this wasn't near any of those temples of theirs.'
'Just steer clear,' the older man said. 'I've never trusted them, or their damn relics. All stupid magic if you ask me.'
The landlady returned. 'You're in luck. We've got a room. It's right next to mine, so try not to keep me awake.'
Randur leaned closer and whispered, 'If you promise not to keep me awake.'
'You outer-island boys,' she said, waving her hand dismissively, repressing a grin. 'You're all the same. Come on then, bring your bags, and I'll show you the way. What's your name?'
'Randur Estevu.' He scrambled after her. 'So, I take it you like riding ?'
*
A simple room - just a bed and a table and a chair. Some shoddy reproductions of island art on the walls. The window looked out at the rear of the building, which he actually preferred, as he didn't like the idea of being woken early by morning traders heading for irens.
He didn't bother unpacking much, as he derived an almost masochistic pleasure from having the entire contents of his life contained in a few small bags. It offered him a freedom he'd never before known. The idea that you could get up and go anywhere, at any time. What was more, he was living someone else's life. And he was living that one near the edge.
After a lunch of fish and root vegetables, he wandered aimlessly for a while, just absorbing the flavour of Villjamur. He felt a sense of melancholy about the people of the busy city. That wasn't surprising considering they were going to be confined more or less as prisoners here in order to have the best chance of staying alive through the ice. Families were being either torn apart or reunited, jobs were being lost, and people talked about a 'Caveside' where most of the inhabitants would end up living. But few people ever seemed to speak of cultists.
He would have to ask someone.
'Excuse me, madam,' he addressed an elderly woman with a basket of fish, 'I'm trying to find a cultist.'
Her eyes turning ferocious, she spat at him as she walked away. After another couple of such incidents, he realized that cultists were generally not much liked, but, finally, a little girl was prepared to answer his question.
'You'll find them on the level just before you reach Balmacara. Best to ask more directions up there.'
Randur smiled at the somewhat grubby child, and gave her a couple of Drakar, thinking she might spend them more wisely than himself.
He walked on.
A black-feathered garuda with clipped wings was slumped in a doorway, rags across his legs, nervously smoking a roll-up of arum weed, and in front of his feet was a hat and a sign asking for donations for an ex-soldier. As he passed, Randur flipped him a couple of coins, and the bird-man was grateful, creating shapes in a hand-language that Randur couldn't comprehend.
'Really, it's OK,' Randur mumbled, wondering what happened to those who offered service to the Empire?
Around the next corner, two men stepped out from an alleyway. They wore brown tunics, heavy boots, no cloaks, and had a dirty look to them, as if they slept on the streets. He guessed them both to be around their thirties, but you couldn't be sure.
'Fuck you staring at me for?' one of them snarled.
'Sorry,' Randur mumbled.
'Hey, gay boy. Nice shirt. Expensive, yeah?'
Randur felt suddenly conscious of his clothing: well-sewn black breeches, white shirt with all those traditional Folke cuts. A fine cloak on top. Did people in this city really object to men being stylishly dressed?
'Can tell by your accent you're not from around here,' one of the men said, approaching. 'So no one will notice if you disappear - isn't that so?'
'That's right. Disappear,' the other man echoed. 'Happens a lot round here.'
Randur noticed the edge of a blade protruding from under a sleeve. 'What's this about?' He stepped back.
'Money,' one
'Anyway, this wasn't near any of those temples of theirs.'
'Just steer clear,' the older man said. 'I've never trusted them, or their damn relics. All stupid magic if you ask me.'
The landlady returned. 'You're in luck. We've got a room. It's right next to mine, so try not to keep me awake.'
Randur leaned closer and whispered, 'If you promise not to keep me awake.'
'You outer-island boys,' she said, waving her hand dismissively, repressing a grin. 'You're all the same. Come on then, bring your bags, and I'll show you the way. What's your name?'
'Randur Estevu.' He scrambled after her. 'So, I take it you like riding ?'
*
A simple room - just a bed and a table and a chair. Some shoddy reproductions of island art on the walls. The window looked out at the rear of the building, which he actually preferred, as he didn't like the idea of being woken early by morning traders heading for irens.
He didn't bother unpacking much, as he derived an almost masochistic pleasure from having the entire contents of his life contained in a few small bags. It offered him a freedom he'd never before known. The idea that you could get up and go anywhere, at any time. What was more, he was living someone else's life. And he was living that one near the edge.
After a lunch of fish and root vegetables, he wandered aimlessly for a while, just absorbing the flavour of Villjamur. He felt a sense of melancholy about the people of the busy city. That wasn't surprising considering they were going to be confined more or less as prisoners here in order to have the best chance of staying alive through the ice. Families were being either torn apart or reunited, jobs were being lost, and people talked about a 'Caveside' where most of the inhabitants would end up living. But few people ever seemed to speak of cultists.
He would have to ask someone.
'Excuse me, madam,' he addressed an elderly woman with a basket of fish, 'I'm trying to find a cultist.'
Her eyes turning ferocious, she spat at him as she walked away. After another couple of such incidents, he realized that cultists were generally not much liked, but, finally, a little girl was prepared to answer his question.
'You'll find them on the level just before you reach Balmacara. Best to ask more directions up there.'
Randur smiled at the somewhat grubby child, and gave her a couple of Drakar, thinking she might spend them more wisely than himself.
He walked on.
A black-feathered garuda with clipped wings was slumped in a doorway, rags across his legs, nervously smoking a roll-up of arum weed, and in front of his feet was a hat and a sign asking for donations for an ex-soldier. As he passed, Randur flipped him a couple of coins, and the bird-man was grateful, creating shapes in a hand-language that Randur couldn't comprehend.
'Really, it's OK,' Randur mumbled, wondering what happened to those who offered service to the Empire?
Around the next corner, two men stepped out from an alleyway. They wore brown tunics, heavy boots, no cloaks, and had a dirty look to them, as if they slept on the streets. He guessed them both to be around their thirties, but you couldn't be sure.
'Fuck you staring at me for?' one of them snarled.
'Sorry,' Randur mumbled.
'Hey, gay boy. Nice shirt. Expensive, yeah?'
Randur felt suddenly conscious of his clothing: well-sewn black breeches, white shirt with all those traditional Folke cuts. A fine cloak on top. Did people in this city really object to men being stylishly dressed?
'Can tell by your accent you're not from around here,' one of the men said, approaching. 'So no one will notice if you disappear - isn't that so?'
'That's right. Disappear,' the other man echoed. 'Happens a lot round here.'
Randur noticed the edge of a blade protruding from under a sleeve. 'What's this about?' He stepped back.
'Money,' one
Similar Books
Mystery Of The Sea Horse
Lee Falk
The Coal War
Upton Sinclair
Come To Me
LaVerne Thompson
Breaking Point
Lesley Choyce
Wolf Point
Edward Falco
Fallowblade
Cecilia Dart-Thornton
Seduce
Missy Johnson
