drummer to help us with the timing?' she persisted. 'Maybe he has got himself into Astrid-knows-what trouble, like yourself.'
'I wasn't in any trouble,' Randur protested, rubbing his eyes. 'I can handle myself just fine on these streets.'
'I'm sure you can,' Eir said tartly. 'Now I demand that you tell me where you were and what you were up to.'
'Caveside, if you must know.' He began to pace around the room in the hope of walking off his headache, occasionally stepping over to the window. Right now the cool air was the freshest he'd ever breathed.
'Caveside?' Eir said, frowning. 'Whatever were you doing down there? While you're in residence here, you ought to conduct yourself with more decorum. It's a bit reckless, don't you think, fraternizing with all those thugs? I've heard stories about serving girls who ventured down the wrong street and-'
'D'you have any idea what actually goes on down there?' Randur snapped, glancing despairingly at her. He shook his head. Bohr, how damn spoiled are people around here?
'Well,' Eir replied, 'I have been told of all sorts of thieves and murderers. Soldiers gone bad.'
'Yeah, well maybe there are some of those,' Randur admitted. They were so silent for a while he could hear the wind racing through Balmacara. Upon understanding the words she spoke, he said, 'You've lived here all these years and never actually been down there?'
Eir gave an impatient shrug. 'I don't really have much time for the business of such people. Why should I risk stepping foot in that darkness?'
Randur grunted to suppress a laugh. How could this girl be even temporarily in charge if she doesn't have a clue about half the type of people in her own damn city? It makes me glad I never grew up in a place like this.
Randur was feeling tired, knew he was getting grumpy as he always did when he hadn't had enough sleep. That, combined with his hangover, meant he was pretty pissed off. 'What is it with this place, this legendary city of sanctuary? The jewel of the Jamur Empire, the largest city in the Archipelago, yet you've got thousands of refugees camped right outside the gates, while the city's rulers turn a blind eye on the millions of ordinary citizens who don't own huge acreages of land, or who haven't grown fat off tribal slave labour, or what's practically wage slavery. They're just not real to you, are they?'
'Everyone's real to me,' Eir said.
'Reckon you're even real yourself?' Randur sneered. 'What kind of life have you ever led to make you so real?'
'A dutiful one, thank you. I've had pressures and responsibilities.'
'Responsibilities. Right. I bet you've always had every last thing done for you.'
'And who exactly are you to tell me this? I should have you strung up from the city walls as an example.'
'That's exactly my point, see?' Randur continued, unabashed. 'You just deal with life the way a spoilt child would. You want to eliminate someone just because he tells it how it is. What kind of ruler does that make you, if you can't even deal with ordinary people?'
She walked to the tapestry covering the window, drew it back and gazed over the countless spires of Villjamur. 'This is the only city I've really known. I've heard of the other places – Vilhokr, Vilhokteu, Gish. I've never visited them, never needed to, was always advised not to. Maybe I've been fortunate in my position and upbringing, but…' Anger now flared in those eyes, and frustration. '… Just because I haven't had to work for my living, doesn't mean my entire life has been worth less that anyone else's.'
Randur suspected he'd hurt her, though right now it was difficult to care. He had a throbbing head, a mouth as dry as a desert rock. He was angry at this rich girl. Her superior attitude added a whole new rancour to his thinking.
'For your information,' Eir said, 'there's perhaps a little more to me than you might think. I'm not a bad person. I've not wished ill on anyone. Every time we practise dance or combat you make a reference to my fortunate upbringing as if it was something you missed out on. Well, it isn't that lucky being imprisoned in a life you don't necessarily want. So maybe I'm a little short with people at times. To use a phrase of your own, maybe I do get pissed off. Some of us can't just go on pretending to be someone we're not.'
If she knew anything of his past, of his own secrets, she didn't show it. This was all getting a little bit near the knuckle.
She continued, her voice significantly softer, 'Perhaps you yourself should show me the other side of this city then, if you really think it would do me some good?'
'Like I'd be able to sneak you out of this place with no one noticing. I'll probably lose my head for that – but sure, why not? If you're genuinely up for it, we can find a way. But, look, we should be doing dance practice. Let's learn a few steps, shall we? I'll count time for us, in the absence of our drummer.'
Eir approached him. They assumed position, fingers locked, a close embrace, and more than ever she seemed small and vulnerable in his arms. She was now in one of those moods where she didn't seem to want to look at him, wanted to pull as far away as possible in each dance step. Maybe he would try to patch things up between them by just shutting up.
The door opened to reveal one of the resident guards. 'My Lady Stewardess, there is some urgent news.'
Eir stepped away from Randur quickly, as if she had been caught in some lewd act.
'What news?' she demanded.
'Your sister Jamur Rika's entourage is getting near the city, my lady. Garudas have sighted her carriage just under two hours away.'
TWENTY-THREE
The return of the elder sister, Rika, brought thoughts of his own family to Chancellor Urtica. Families were an important issue to him.
After all, he'd killed his own.
They used to ridicule him, and he just couldn't cope with that, no, not the everyday references to sneering at his shortcomings. Gathered around the table at night, every night, they would start to berate him for his failings, especially his mother. Even when he qualified for the junior ranks of the Council his family would carp at him for not progressing up the ranks quickly enough. They would question his lack of friends, they complained that he didn't earn enough; it seemed everything he did or did not do became a target, a focal point for savage criticism. Fearing that this constant undermining would ultimately limit his career prospects, the young Urtica decided one night that enough was enough.
Dispatching them had been a joy, a creative wonder, the kind of ingenious ploy to smile about as he remembered it. He contrived a way of tricking them into dropping something lethal in each other's food. One night just after he had turned eighteen, a treat to rid himself of all the shame and humiliation, the sheer joy of watching them cough up blood, retch bile, yet still take time to berate each other shrilly as they realized what was happening. He had a watertight alibi – paying off several old friends for their word, with promise of power to come – and he'd faked an entry in his mother's diary. When the Inquisition came they declared it an open and shut case. Sympathy had come pouring in from neighbours, for the poor boy so tragically orphaned. When he finally got away from their condolences, he began to savour the thrill to be obtained from the god-like power to terminate life. While he was engaged in the business of removing his family, he had taken the liberty to forge new wills – with ancient Jamur runes and seals and all – leaving more distant family members ostracized. Charitably, he gave them a little, because he was nice like that, but the majority of the wealth and estates came to him. Forgery, he thought at the time, is such a blissful art.
And soon there were others to suffer at his hand, like his older cousin in a freak sailing accident off the coast of Jokull, whose drowning was followed by a few drinks at the quayside celebrating the sudden inheritance of family estates on the east coast near Vilhokr. A glass to you, dearest cousin, for the comforts with which you've provided me. Cheers!
With his new-won independence and income, he had turned to the Ovinists. The traditional gods reminded him too keenly of his pious family. After all, a new faith for a new man!
Vaguely the whore he used last night had looked like his mother, a slender waif of a girl with sharp features. It
