FORTY-TWO

Randur had to admit he looked devastatingly handsome.

He regularly cut a very fine dash, but now couldn’t help but stare at himself in the gold-framed mirror. With his hair tied back, wearing the latest black breeches, a dark blue shirt and matching jacket, a black cloak to finish it off, he looked ready for anything. It was surely what being here in Villjamur was all about.

Eir had even given him some jewellery: a plain silver chain to go around his neck, two rings for his fingers. She had supported him so much that he felt he owed her his very soul, if only he could give it. Eir’s biggest gift to him wasn’t monetary, but psychological. Perhaps all he’d ever needed was to actually love someone else.

Somehow, the importance of helping his mother to survive had subtly diminished.

‘Stop admiring yourself in the mirror.’ Eir walked into his chamber. ‘You do that far too much.’

Randur turned to gaze at her. ‘You look pretty damn fine yourself.’

As she came nearer, her sinuous movements were highlighted by her dazzling new outfit. The striking and revealing dark-red dress that clung to her body made her look so much older, more sophisticated, bringing her curves to his attention. Her hair was adorned with black ribbons while elaborate mock-tattoos adorned each cheekbone.

She approached him with a new walk that was hers and yet also wasn’t, and she said, ‘Am I to take it, then, that this rare lack of words is a good thing?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, then blurted, ‘Eir, you look incredible.’

‘Well, you don’t look so bad yourself. We ready to set off?’

He said, ‘Yeah, is your sister ready too?’

‘She’s already on her way down there.’

‘Who’s to be her partner?’

‘She won’t have one because as Empress she must remain aloof. No one is deemed suitable, I suppose.’

‘Kind of sad, that,’ Randur observed, and he meant it.

They entered the ballroom to find themselves the happy focus of everyone’s gaze. All of the Empire’s most powerful were already present, dressed in their finery. Light skimmed off gold and silver and mirrors. A thousand candles, a hundred lanterns.

At the far end of the room, a band played fast-moving rhythms, violins leading the tune, harps providing the framework.

People gave the Sele of Jamur to her and Randur, and she was as polite as she could be whilst Randur maintained his cool aloofness.

Everyone was constantly looking at them and whispering. All the Imperial land- and capital-owners, retired military governors, influential civil servants, members of the Council and their partners. She didn’t mind their scrutiny, because tonight she was happier than she’d ever been. With Randur’s help, she had learned to dance better than many society ladies. There was, of course, Randur himself, who was the most good-looking man there.

Important people – notably the Council – would most certainly not think Randur suitable, not fitting to be part of the mechanics of the Empire. In her mind, that wasn’t an issue, and she didn’t care. She’d leave the city if she had to, giving up her rank and privileges.

There she was, Rika, in the centre of a throng of councillors. She had soon settled into the role of Empress, calm but serious in expression, but knowing how to laugh in all the right places.

Though she loved her, things weren’t the same between the two girls. It wasn’t that her sister had become a different person, but she would never again feel that closeness of their childhood. As Empress, Rika had now inherited a different set of priorities.

‘Look at this lot,’ Randur murmured dismissively.

Couples moved around the dance floor, segueing between the delicate shapes they made of their postures. Eir looked up at him questioningly.

‘Their dancing is totally crap.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re so much better than this.’

Even she, with her recent training, could see how out of time many of them were, how the women didn’t seem to move comfortably, their hips too rigid, spines hunched, while the men were even more awkward, clasping their partners with arms made of stone.

‘Shall we show ’em how it’s done?’ he suggested, then stepped forward with a flourish. He held his hand to her in invitation.

‘Could I possibly even stop you?’

Together they stepped onto the dance floor, and it came to her as naturally as walking. Together, the couple sliced an elegant swathe through the parting crowds. Everyone’s eyes were now fixed on her, and for the first time, she basked in the attention. Her own hands resting on Randur’s hips and shoulders, he led her through the now-familiar movements, and they suggested passion, they were passion, and the way they looked at each other linked the feelings together. Their steps, though so precise, created an illusion of a freedom that no other couples could ever come close to, maybe couldn’t even understand.

A quarter of an hour later, Randur guided her to one side of the room. ‘Let’s not waste it all now,’ he suggested coolly.

Her sister now approached, councillors stepping behind, sipping flutes of wine. Rika wore a regal purple dress, more conservative in style than her own.

‘Sister,’ Rika said, ‘how did you ever acquire such talent and skill? One might almost think you wore relics in your shoes to help you move so gracefully.’

Eir whispered the words, ‘This young man taught me well,’ to her sister, who began to regard the Folke islander in a new light.

‘Well, Randur Estevu, it seems I have you to thank for making my sister the envy of every woman in this room.’

‘An occupational hazard, my lady,’ Randur offered, and smiled and bowed deeply before stepping aside to let the sisters talk alone.

The Empress leaned closer to her sibling. ‘You seem rather tender towards each other, the two of you. Are you sure-?’

‘Let’s not talk about that now,’ Eir said. ‘Please.’

Rika eyed her carefully.

Eir changed the subject. ‘You seem to have quite a crowd of councillors following you.’ She indicated the men behind Rika.

‘Yes, I feel I’ve begun to win them over to my way of thinking.’

A thoughtful silence fell between them. Eir could not help thinking again of the refugees and those suffering Caveside. This was Randur’s doing, this change of perspective, and how different the world now seemed.

They separated and the evening rolled on towards the dance competition. The band began to build up the anticipation, and then the music stopped abruptly.

A sudden gasp from the crowd.

Whispers fluttered all around her.

A troop of soldiers had marched into the ballroom at its far end. Eir gripped Randur’s arm nervously. What could possibly warrant such an intrusion? A dozen of the city guard approached her sister, surrounding her.

From behind these armed men, Chancellor Urtica himself emerged, dressed in his full Council regalia. He strolled towards the front of the ballroom where the band leader stood, fuming indignantly.

The chancellor waved him away, turning to face the crowd of dignitaries.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for the disruption,’ Urtica began, projecting his voice to the far corners of the room, ‘but I bring grave news. I regret that I must take Empress Jamur Rika and her sister into immediate custody.’

He then paused, as if he was an actor on stage, for further attention, and was greeted with a hushed confusion, as faces tilted towards Eir. The whole scene became a blur of disconnected images.

Urtica said, ‘I have a document signed by both the Empress and her sister the Stewardess authorizing a mass execution of the refugees now encamped outside our gate.’

Several men advanced demanding explanations for the intrusion. Rows broke out, and the chancellor urged his military heavies forward.