Jamur Eir looked too young to be in charge, he reflected, but perhaps such a life of public duty had matured her. Her eyes had showed nothing for him to analyse.

Still, he was due to be paid a whole Jamún a month. Which was phenomenally high considering his food and accommodation were also provided.

Over the next hour, Randur discovered more about his new duties, about why they were hiring a dance master from so far away. ‘I mean, from Folke of all places,’ he had said with surprise. ‘I imagine there’re numerous candidates to be found around Villjamur.’

Why had the actual Randur Estevu been chosen? Was there some hidden agenda?

When they met later, the Lady Eir herself provided the missing details. ‘We’ll hold a dance competition, which is now a part of my sister’s investiture celebration, called the Snow Ball,’ Eir explained. ‘The problem is that I can’t dance particularly well, and it is known that Folke islanders are famous for their skills in that art.’

What a ridiculous name for an event.

Randur remembered how very seriously they took dancing at home. It was more than just entertainment – it was a way of communicating, a kind of language, an art that had to be worked at, assiduously, that could tell stories, heal wounds, bring lovers together or drive them apart. Indeed, a physical expression of the soul. As a child he would often slip out of his mother’s house at night to watch the local people expressing themselves in complex physical ways.

‘And why sword skills? We know how seriously you Jokull folk take your fighting.’ He couldn’t help a touch of bitterness as he said it, considering how the now-dependent populations of the Empire didn’t exactly bask in the joy of Jokull’s military dominance.

‘My father’s always warned that if I ever found myself in danger, it would be most likely from within the gates of Villjamur. I believe you on Folke have a special art of fighting at close-quarters.’

‘Yes,’ Randur said. ‘We call it Vitassi. It was originally part of Vitassimo, the dance which is one of our oldest traditions.’

‘Well, quite,’ Eir said, clearly losing interest. ‘The point being, my father urged me to learn some duelling style different enough to perhaps give me an advantage.’

‘This Snow Ball… Is it particularly important?’

‘To some,’ Eir said. ‘It’s to take everyone’s mind off the Freeze. There is an award of around two hundred Jamúns for the winning participants.’

Two hundred Jamúns. Randur tried not to show his eagerness. That was halfway to paying the cultist’s fee. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the money mattered to people like you – at the top of the social ladder, I mean?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t. We can buy anything we ever want.’

Randur wondered why she had to say it with so much pride. ‘Well, with so much money, the people here must have all the happiness they could wish for.’

‘You might think that,’ she said, then quitted the room, leaving him alone with the remnants of her melancholy.

Randur couldn’t put his finger on what exactly, but there was a strange mood in Balmacara. Everyone talked continuously about the gates of the city being closed. It made Randur wonder how he would ever get out of this city, should he gather up enough Jamúns to pay the Order of the Equinox. At all times, in Villjamur, it seemed there was someone, somewhere, talking about the impending ice. Many people prophesized doom – the end of civilization as they knew it. Randur himself generally lived for each day at a time, so tended not to think about the future. If it was something you could not see for yourself, why worry about it? He was more concerned with how quickly he could pull a girl.

And there were plenty of them in Balmacara. Randur was soon conscious of turning the heads of the female servants and courtiers. He was used to such attention, so he smiled at the more attractive and winked at the least pretty ones. It helped that his personal guard was so ugly, too. There was a certain amount of tactical calculation in this, since a few of these women might have money he could extract with a kiss. Dartun’s demands had forced such thoughts into Randur’s head. Was he prostituting himself? This didn’t really bother him. Sex was sex, and that was that – people made such a fuss about it.

He made sure always to be wearing good attire to mark himself out as a man of distinction, of rare breeding. He wore shirts as black as his own hair, the collar a fraction undone, breeches worn tight, boots with pointed toes – as was fashionable in this city.

A declaration of intent. Here was someone to reckon with.

The next day he was taken to a small, rather poorly lit stone chamber in which the Lady Eir was waiting for him dressed in a baggy white outfit.

Randur studied her clothing, shook his head. ‘Well, for a start, you’ll be better wearing something that fits to your body tightly.’

‘Really?’ Eir said. ‘Why exactly would I need tight clothing? To enable the fetishes of your mind to flourish?’

‘Lady, I’m afraid my mind gets its kicks from much wilder fetishes than that…’ He shrugged. ‘No, I meant you’ll get your sword caught in such loose material.’

‘I shall be wearing loose clothes most of my time. What’s the use of training in things I won’t be wearing when I’m attacked?’

‘Whatever you wish. Now, first we’ll need swords.’

The door burst open.

What now?

Two city guard troops stepped in, then bowed to her. ‘My Lady Stewardess, Chancellor Urtica requires your urgent presence.’

‘What is it?’ Eir said irritably.

‘The chancellor’s pressing for a motion of war, and this step requires your presence in the Atrium.’

‘War?’ She frowned. ‘Who with?’

‘The Varltung nation, my lady. There is now evidence that it was they who slaughtered our Night Guardsmen at Dalúk Point. Intelligence suggests they may well now provoke further attacks on the subsidiary nations of the Empire.’

Randur listened carefully. Would the Varltungs really dare attack the Empire? If so, his home island of Folke would be first in line.

‘Tell him I’ll be there immediately.’ She turned her attention to Randur. ‘We’ll continue this practice some other time. Meanwhile, the smiths are expecting you. You can choose any weapon you like.’

‘Cheers.’ He bowed and watched as she left the room.

Out into the corridor, and he shambled around a corner into a gallery area where he spotted several richly dressed women about fifty paces away, their hair elegantly pinned up in the latest styles. His eyes lit up, a thousand opportunities flashing through his mind. For a moment he paused to watch them from behind the cover of what looked like the shell of a giant insect. At first he had taken it to be a suit of armour, but on closer inspection he realized the plating wasn’t made of metal. It was the exoskeleton of some bizarre creature, pinned to the wall with a bolt, its mouth still open as if in a dying scream.

Randur shivered, regarded the women instead. He tried to listen to the snippets of conversation that echoed along the corridor.

‘He’s got a lot of Jamúns to his name, so I’ve heard…’

‘Not quite sure he’s marriage material…’

‘Could you love him, though?’

‘That’s not the point, is it? He doesn’t have to know what you might get up to on the side.’

‘Astrid knows, I’ve seen better examples of a man… Not much physically, and he’s also pretty old…’

‘But still, there’s a lot to be said for his house. I know I could be very happy living there. So I think you should go for him…’

Money-grabbing sows, Randur thought.