'Look, we can either sit and be miserable, or cheer up,' he continued. 'I'm going downstairs to get some food. Who's with me?'
Both girls stood up immediately.
*
They took precaution with their disguises, Rika and Eir slouching affectively as girls of royal birth could manage, in the rear of tharkened tavern. Randur's narrow sword was always ready by his side. Cards flipping, a glass being settled back on a table, a ticking clock: these were the only sounds for much of the afternoon. Things pickep a little come the evening, they way they always did, people witittle money coming to spend it, wasting their daily wage on socianvestments that could barely show useful returns.
Young women came in now and then, displaying different looks and levels of attractiveness. They would sit at the bar waiting to be bought drinks, and men inevitably approached, older, rough agricultural types, some like the cliche he'd imagined, yet some surprisingly well spoken. And he wondered, again and again: Is this all there is for these people?
His life had changed so completely. Doing something now seemed to matter.
The three of them made relaxed and innocent conversation, the kind that could occur anywhere at all, anywhere in time. Eir had found a niche for herself in teasing Randur lightly, while Rika asked him about his upbringing here on Folke. For one of the most loftily placed people he had ever known, she certainly showed a deep interest in other people.
In that dark corner they all became closer.
Then under the light of the lanterns throughout the rest of the tavern, a man came shambling inside, wrapped in a wax-covered cape and wearing ridiculously colourful breeches. He even had a frilly black shirt that would have been at home in Randur's own wardrobe. Although naturally slender, he carried the paunch of a man whose drinking habit had finally caught up with him, protruding under a grubby complexion, with a broad jaw smothered in greying stubble.
It couldn't be.
'Drink, by thunder, sir!' the man called out across the bar, before wiping his nose on his sleeve. 'How's a man to quench his thirst in such a Bohr-forsaken hellhole.'
This much was obvious: it wouldn't be this man's first drink of the day. He swayed as he reached hesitantly in his pockets for some coins, then slapped them on the counter. He leaned forwards, slowly counted three, then shoved them over. 'Lager – a pint thereof, barman.'
'You're back, then,' the landlord grunted. 'Didn't think this place was good enough for you, after all that crap you warbled last night. What was it you said? As welcoming as a nun's cunt, I believe.'
'I spout such rubbish most nights, sir, unless you'd forgotten.'
Noticing his reaction, Eir nudged Randur in the ribs. 'What is it?'
'I think I know him,' Randur mumbled. He stood up, brushing his hair back behind his ears. Randur called out a name across the bar room.
'Munio Porthamis.'
The man was about to take his first sip, then paused. An expression slid across his face, something that suggested he was not at ease being known as anything other than the drunken stranger. Was there comfort to be found in the anonymous role he had carved for himself?
He continued with his drink, choosing to ignore the interruption.
Randur strutted over to the man's side, ignoring any glances from others in the room. To hell with keeping a low profile. 'Munio Porthamis. So, this is the glory you aspired to, is it? This what all the money was intended for?'
'Don't know who you mean, stranger.' The man resolutely faced the bar.
Randur could see the old rapier carried by his side still, beneath the man's thick cloak. 'Rule one of Vitassi,' Randur said. ''One perceives everything and nothing, and that way one can identify everyone and everything in the world.' '
A deep intake of breath and the figure glanced sideways at Randur. His thick, dirty thumbs rubbed the tankard. Munio's eyes could not belie his identity. The old man's soul was still in there, still as sharp as ever. 'I know you, kid?'
Randur drew his sword slowly, in a non-threatening manner, aware of the numerous sets of eyes fixed on him now that the metal caught the light of the lanterns. A hush descended. Randur used the tip of his sword to tap on Munio's old rapier, still resting in its sheath, the ornate gold trimmings on the hilt looking more degraded than he remembered. 'I think we should talk with these.'
'I speak a fine language with it,' Munio muttered. 'Too fine a tongue for anyone to barter with.'
'I suspect I can correct your grammar, these days,' Randur replied.
Munio slid back his stool, flipped his cloak to the ground, and in a heartbeat his sword was in his hand. There was nothing about his manner that betrayed his earlier lack of coordination.
'Randur!' Eir cried, and he turned back to her briefly: 'It's all right, really.'
The two men began to circle slowly, leaning back and forth to judge each other, and he remembered exactly how Munio would react: a flash of blade striking down to his left. The rest of the ritual, Randur knew by heart. He countered, parried, then worked a series of moves to drive the old man back towards the bar. For a moment, Munio smiled.
His sword clattered to the floor, and the older man moved away to pick up his drink.
After three thick gulps, he said, 'By thunder, Kapp Brimir, you've grown. And you still haven't cut your hair.'
'You've grown yourself,' Randur replied, indicating Munio's stomach. He wasn't sure how he felt to see his old teacher like this, already drunk in a bar in the middle of nowhere.
A place where dreams lay down to die…
'I can still fight, even in my state,' Munio stated.
'What, pissed?'
'Indeed, yes, some say I fight better like this. But I see you're still wearing those ridiculous fancy outfits.' He indicated Randur's black shirt with wide sleeves, his tight breeches and heeled boots of polished, Villjamur-branded leather.
'I'm not as well-heeled as I would like.' Randur smiled, leaning on the bar beside him. 'And where do you think I learned to dress in such a way? Always dress like you don't know how to fight, you advised me. That way it's easier to slap them around the room.'
'I did say that.' Munio rubbed his chin. 'Full of nonsense back then, wasn't I?'
'You want to join us?' Randur indicated with his chin where Eir and Rika sat at the corner table.
'Is one woman not enough, Kapp Brimir? You were always more interested in chasing after the girls, if I remember.'
'Not all the time. I stayed around for your lessons.'
'Only because I forced you. I tell you that you've a gift, and you ignore me. I clip you round the ear, and you stay and listen. Simple, really.'
From the age of four until fourteen, Randur attended the private lessons given by Munio Porthamis. Because of his unusual skills, his mother never had to pay – and she could never afford to. In that plain room overlooking the river, on a bare wooden floor they would spend hours working through postures and manoeuvres and techniques. Blisters came and went. Two days a week at first, then more, in between learning the dance variations. Until one night, for evening training, Munio never turned up, and a letter arrived the week after, declaring that, due to an inheritance from his uncle, he would no longer be available to teach. Randur had never forgotten sitting on that wooden floor staring out of the window at the sky, wondering how someone could abandon him just for money.
'Come, I'll accept your invitation. But I warn you I'm not much company these days.' Munio straightened up, put a palm on each of Randur's cheeks. 'Let me look at you. Still a handsome lad, though you look as though you need feeding. And get your hair cut, boy. How's anyone supposed to fight wearing long black locks like that?'
*
Randur gave his two companions false introductions. Later, as Munias up buying another bottle of wine, he apologized to the girls, bue didn't think Munio paid much attention to the political climate of Villjamur, which
