matched. Her eyes were intense, her eyebrows two thin lines, and her face lacked the symmetry necessary to appeal to Villjamur convention. She liked to dress a little bit different. Despite her non-traditional looks, a queue of eligible suitors waited to claim her hand, and maybe decisions had already been made for her by her father over who she would be betrothed to. Maybe that was why she was rude to almost every boy she ever spoke to. For all her privileges, Brynd guessed it was no real existence for a woman in Villjamur.
'I apologize for disturbing you, father, but the Dawnir wishes to speak to the commander.'
The Emperor stared at her as if he did not recognize who she was.
Brynd intervened. 'We were just discussing what our Dawnir could want-'
'Some more plots against me, no doubt,' Johynn muttered.
'Should we see him now, my Emperor, if you've finished with our business?' Brynd asked.
'Yes, yes. Why not.' He waved Brynd away, walked to the window. This time he opened it, allowing the icy air to enter the room, stepped aside, his fists clenched, then suddenly burst past them, out of the room, leaving the three men and his daughter behind with the echo of a slammed door.
'Hello, commander,' she said.
There was always a slight informality between her and the Night Guard soldiers, engendered by their close proximity over the years. 'Lady Eir, I fear your father's been drinking.'
'And you think that's my fault?' Anger dissolved into disappointment on her face. He knew she had been trying her best to stop her father from drinking excessively, taking away half-empty bottles once he'd fallen asleep, had stared at him reproachfully with those big green eyes every time he refilled a glass. Now she just gazed at the wall as if some comfort could be found there, but there were too many mirrors to encourage her to look for long.
'Yes, I didn't mean to be harsh, but your father has islands and cities to help run. There's enough bad judgement being made in this city without our ruler drinking as well.'
'I know, I know,' Eir said. Her tone was confident, though her posture suggested it wasn't natural, that she had something to prove to herself. 'Anyway, what happened to you all?'
'Ambush, and massacre. We're the remaining survivors from… from where we were sent last.'
Eir said, 'The firegrain trip? Who were you fighting?'
Brynd couldn't believe it. 'Even you know about it. Is nothing sacred in these halls?'
'I'm sorry,' Eir said. 'Fyir, will you be all right?' She lay a hand on him kindly, a gesture that other men might envy.
'Suffice to say,' Fyir squirmed in his chair, 'that my soldiering days are over, Jamur Eir.'
'Girls' talk,' Apium snorted. Then, to Eir, he murmured, 'No offence.'
'None taken.'
'He'll be up and about in no time,' Apium continued. 'We'll strap a decent bit of wood on that leg and he'll be back on horseback ready for training-'
Brynd gestured Apium to be silent.
There was a disturbance outside.
He hurried over to the window. Shit!
A scene was developing down below in the drizzle.
Emperor Jamur Johynn could be seen retreating to the outer edge of the balcony below, almost as if he was being backed into a corner. In his own mind he had probably reached such a position long ago.
Several guardsmen edged tentatively towards him, uncertain of how to act. A move forwards suggested a threat to him. A move back might mean they would be too late.
Brynd fled the room to go and help.
*
'Stand back,' he shouted, pushing his way through the growing crowd. From this stone platform you could view the whole front section of the city, the spires, the bridges, the sweeping dark hills in the distance, even the sea in the other direction. Only a knee-high granite wall separated you from a vertiginous drop. Servants and administrative staff were here to witness the drama unfolding, and even some councillors had come to watch, too. The Emperor was still positioned as before, but he now faced the sky as if experiencing a purely religious moment. And maybe he was – in these moments you could never tell what was really going on. Brynd knew he had to stop him doing something stupid, had to bring the Emperor back safely into the hall. With the ice age setting in, Johynn would be needed as a national figurehead. People required his guidance, support, because in times of crisis you wanted someone to reassure you it would be OK, even when it wouldn't be.
They needed someone to lie to them clearly and loudly.
'My Emperor, what're you doing?' Brynd called out, icy sleet gusting against his cheeks.
'It's easier this way,' Johynn said. 'As I said before, it's over.'
His motions were awkward, like those of someone who had been drinking heavily. He regained his footing, shuffled further along the low parapets.
'I have no great words, commander,' Johynn said. 'Nothing profound to say, at the end.'
'Please, I think you should step back a bit,' Brynd argued. 'Think about what you're doing.'
'Think is all I damn well do, Commander Lathraea. All I do is think about things. All the time thinking.'
'But the people of Villjamur need you,' Brynd said desperately. 'That's what you said earlier. That they need you!'
'Father!' Eir appeared, running onto the scene.
Whether it was because he lost his footing, or he genuinely intended to step off the edge, Brynd would never know, but just then the Emperor collapsed ungracefully off the wall, a flurry of his robes the last thing to be seen.
Everyone gasped…
Surged forwards in disbelief.
Eir had to be held back, launching muffled screams into Brynd's chest.
A moment later they were greeted by the keening of the banshee.
FIVE
'I'd like a room – just for the night, please,' Randur said.
'A room?'
'Yes, a room. For the night.' He fluttered his long eyelashes at the landlady, pushed a lock of glossy hair back in order to gaze at her more intensely, but she kept on peering down at the register.
'One night.' She was old enough to be his mother – old enough, but not actually, so it was all right by him. You could tell she had once been a beautiful girl – her eyes showed you that, not so much a spark within them, but definitely something to provoke wild rumination. Short brown hair, good skin, a decent figure: not too much, not too little. Not that he really cared – he could enjoy any shape of woman. Most ages, too. Her white blouse, unbuttoned to reveal cleavage like a bad cliche, she made the most of what she had. Randur made the most of it too. Made sure she saw him looking. He gave her a smile, all teeth and soft eyes, trying to suggest there were things she needed to know about herself.
'Well, we're pretty busy at the moment… but I'll see what I can do.' She turned with something he took and hoped to be a grin, walked away from the bar.
It was a crowded but clean bistro-tavern located on the second level of Villjamur. The furnishing was wooden throughout, tables were shiny from polishing, and it was crammed with equine decor: horse shoes, parers, rasps, farrier tools, riding boots on the higher shelves. Randur guessed the landlady was an admirer of horses, or a fan of horse riders. He noticed the whips.
Now there's a thought.
As Randur sipped his apple juice, he glanced about. He wanted to listen in on conversations, to discover what people talked about in Villjamur, to maybe capture the mood of the city. If you wanted to charm your way up the social ladders, you had to know what the main concerns of the local people were. You could perhaps learn something that way, because whatever image a city presented in the history books, it was the ordinary people who delineated the depth and character of a place, ended up moulding the outsider's judgement and experiences.
