Perilous Seas (35 page)

He
emptied his tray and headed for the door. Krat and Birg were there already, for
it was the safest place to watch the early stages, and the most strategic. You
worked inward from the door, usually. God of Battle, but there were some big
ones around tonight! And yet ... and yet somehow the tingle in his gut was not
throbbing like it used to, couple of months ago, even. Was it possible that a
guy could get tired of fighting? Not scared, just bored? Or just need a night
off once in a while? Missing the sea, maybe?

Leaning
back against the wall, Bithbal folded his arms and thus managed to jostle his
broken fingers. He winced. That had been done two nights ago, and the buzzing
in his right ear. . . four nights ago, or was it five? It wasn’t showing
any signs of quieting down.

There
was a whaler in town looking for hands.

He
smirked at Birg and Krat on the other side of the doorway, and they winked back
to show they were ready and eager. The room was rocking like a lugger in a nor’wester-not
long now. He wondered where it would start. The big part-djinn over in the far corner
was sure to be irresistible to someone.

Then
the doors flapped open, and closed. Three men. Holy Balance!

One
of them was bigger than anything else on two feet, a middle-aged jotunn, big as
a troll-weird tattoos all over a punchbag face. A jotunn wearing forester garb?
In garish colors like a namby elf? God of Blood! Bithbal revised his opinion of
where the action was going to start. His scalp prickled, and he wished he was a
little farther from that very spot-for the newcomers were just standing there,
in a patch of good light. The noise level was falling rapidly as they gained
attention.

And
the one on the far side, near Birg and Krat ... another jotunn, with a sailor
mustache, and dressed up in the same sort of frippery! What was this-mass
suicide? That one had the twitchy-shoulder look they did when they first hit
port and were ready to fight anything.

The
shouting had almost stopped. Men at the far side of the room were reeling to
their feet to get a better view, rubbing their eyes and looking again. Some who
had been almost at each other’s throats were exchanging grins of
incredulity and anticipation. Any moment now ... Bithbal began planning his
retreat. Tough was good, but being trampled to death could seriously hurt a
man.

Then
the third newcomer turned to him and smiled.

In
six months’ hard service, Bithbal thought he’d seen everything
possible in the Mainbrace, but an elf was new. A threeway suicide pact? He
wondered if elf blood would dry in the same brown-black color as the rest of
the floor.

“Excuse
me,” trilled the elf. “There wouldn’t be any tailors’
shops open at this time of night, I suppose?”

So
his many-colored finery was dirty and Little Precious wanted something prettier
to wear? There was a strong smell of wet horse about him, detectable even over
the odors of beer and sweat.

“Not
a chance! “ Curious ... elves and their shiny curls usually made Bithbal’s
knuckles itch like crazy, but this kid had a winning sort of wry grin.

“It’s
just that my friends feel a little conspicuous.”

“Sonny,
if you want my advice-”

“Yes,
I do. I don’t suppose a tailor would have the big one’s size in
stock anyway.” The elf frowned. “Should have thought of that! Well,
what I really need is an elf saloon.”

“Elf
saloon?” The ringing in Bithbal’s ears must be getting worse. “You
didn’t say `elf saloon’?”

“Don’t
elves-I mean, aren’t there any drinking establishments for elves?”

“Not
here,” Bithbal muttered, aware that the whole room was silent as a crypt
now. Even to be seen talking to an elf hereabouts was plain stupid. You could
hear blood pounding. You could hear fists clenching. “Never see elves
near the docks.”

“Near
where, then?”

“Dunno.
Theaters, maybe?”

“Direct
me ... quickly!” The elf’s eyes twinkled in sea green and sky blue.
Lamplight flashed where the metallic gold of his hair peeked out from under his
cutesy cap.

“Dunno,”
Bithbal repeated dumbly. He was streaming sweat. The Mainbrace was going to
explode into full riot from a standing start. He could smell it coming. This
poor elf kid would be stamped flat for starters, and Bithbal for associating
with him. He wondered why he didn’t just turn the brat around and boot
him straight out the door. Krat and Birg would handle the two jotnar. But he
just said, “Sonny ... for your own good, please go away. Quickly.”

“First
tell me where I might find an elf saloon.”

Bithbal
could not even imagine an elf saloon. “Go west to the square, then nor’west
and veer starboard at the fork and up the companionway, then bear west again to
the temple and tack northerly about three cables’ length, there’s
theaters around there. Best I can do, sir. “

Since
when had he ever called an elf sir? “Thank you. Come, guys.”

The
elf turned on his heel.

His
companions started to turn, also, very obediently. Someone whistled at the back
of the room.

The
two jotnar spun around to see who had whistled at the back of the room.

A
chorus of whistles, then . . .

...but
Bithbal did not really see what happened then. The door closed behind the
strangers and the room erupted in deafening booms of mirth. Bithbal stared
across at Krat, who was laughing, and Birg, who had turned as pale as pack ice.

So
maybe Birg had suffered the same delusion he had. Sensing the customers’
change of mood, the waiters all hurried over to the cage to get more beer, and
Bithbal never did ask Krat to tell him exactly what had really happened.

What
he thought he’d seen was the two jotnar leap forward to start the rumble.
And then . . . then it had seemed as if the weedy elf boy moved even faster and
took both of them from behind, by the scruffs of their necks ...

And
stopped them in their tracks? ... turned them around?

...and
pushed them out the door ahead of him? God of Madness!

When
he eased his bruises into bed around dawn, Bithbal discovered that he was
strangely unable to sleep. He soon decided that his buzzing ear must be worse
than he’d thought, and might even need a little peace and quiet to heal.

He
pulled on his boots, slung his bindle on his shoulder, and departed-by way of
the window, as he was slightly behind in the rent. He swaggered along the
harborfront till he found the whaler that was hiring. The bosun offered a hand
to shake and Bithbal won, so they took him on. He made his mark in the log and
sailed with the tide.

Sailor
Bithbal lived to a fair age, but he never again dropped anchor in Noom. And he
never again had anything to do with elves.

The
two legionaries still gleamed in the torchlight like bronze statues, flanking
the entrance to the Enchanted Glade. With a sigh of relief, Arth’quith
tiptoed back around the comer to the inner vestibule, silent on opulent carpet.

He
had been afraid that the boors might have slipped away while he was busy with
the guests, not watching. And they were boors, too! They had come an hour early
in the filthiest armor he had ever seen, and they had eaten four meals apiece
while his already overworked staff polished it up for them. Parasites! But of
course they expected to be stroked like everyone else, and at least he had not
had to shell out money for them. The senator had thrown in guards as part of
his contribution. Big, impressive types, too, if your taste ran to imps, or
beef. Arth’quith’s did not, but the apes were a sensible and
necessary precaution.

He
winced at a twinge of dyspepsia. The doctors had warned him to avoid
excitement, but an artist must pursue his art. Arth’quith gazed lovingly
into the main dining room-only his third night in business, and every table
filled! Gold plate reflecting blazing chandeliers . . . the finest elvish
orchestra in Noom serenading discreetly in the corner ... sumptuously dressed
women dancing with rich, fat men. Mostly imps, alas. It was a tragedy that so
few elves would ever be able to afford his prices. Odors of the best food in
all South Pithmot Province mingling with heady flower scents. Fine fabrics,
shiny wood, damask like fresh snow on the tables ...

All
his life Arth’ had dreamed of owning his own restaurant, an establishment
of class and taste. How proud Mother would have been of what he had achieved!
With the theater crowd here now, there was not a vacant seat in the house.

Of
course he had been forced to take in an imp as business partner, and of course
the inkstained little grub had turned out to have more needy relations than a
queen termite, but an artist could not be expected to soil his mind with such
sordid matters as money. And enlisting the senator as silent partner had been a
shrewd move, too, however much it offended one’s sensibilities. All the
best people in Noom were showing up because the senator had come on the first
night.

The
future looked very secure. The senator would dine here every few days when he
was in town. That was the arrangement, and it would cost him nothing, no matter
how large his party. The quality would always be unsurpassed-Arth’quith
himself would see to that, implacably. He had studied impish customs in Hub
itself. He had trained in Valdolyn and Valdopol and even Valdofen, been
instructed in high cuisine by Loth’fen herself. Father would have wept
with pride to see the Enchanted Glade. The decor was a miracle in pink and
gold.

The
orchestra ended a gavotte and struck up a minuet. It was time for the host to
begin mingling discreetly with the diners. Something went clang out in the
street-a collision of carriages, perhaps.

The
lictor’s guests were returning to their seats. Arth’quith must make
a good impression there, too-perhaps send over a couple of bottles of the
Valdoquiff? Or even the Valdociel? Another muffled clang . . .

Arth’quith
felt more twinges from his despicable innards and a sudden trickle of iced
water down his backbone. He wheeled round and headed for the entrance.

An
elf came around the comer. God of Trees!

Arth’quith
shied like a startled foal and stepped in front of him. “May I be of
assistance, sir?”

The
elf raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.” He was just a
youth, and his clothes were disgusting. He stank of ... of animal!

This
time Arth’quith’s ulcers clenched hard. “Have you a
reservation, sir? “

“I
have quite a few,” the yokel remarked calmly, peering over Arth’quith’s
shoulder at the assembly, “but I also have instructions. This seems to be
a likely place. “

“Sir,
I regret we are full this evening. If you do not have a reservation-”

Round
the corner came-a jotunn! And another! A giant! A monster!

Hot
knives stabbed into Arth’quith’s abdomen, twisting. He felt
defiled. Those two metallic noises he had heard from the entrance ...

“Is
this some kind of shakedown?” he screamed. “Because I would have
you know that the lictor himself-” I The youth smiled faintly at him, and
he forgot what he had been about to say.

“Whom
would you select as the most important elf present?”

“Imp-important?”
Arth’quith stuttered.

“Elf.
Important elf?” The lad was staring across the room. “Who’s
he?”

Reluctantly
Arth’quith turned to see where the insolent finger pointed. “That
is Lord Phiel’. The others with him-”

“He
is an important person?”

“Lord
Phiel’nilth? He is Poet Laureate of the Impire!”

“Excellent.
Excuse me.”

With
astonishing agility, the lad slipped past Arth’quith, and before he could
move to follow, a fist like an alligator’s jaws closed on his shoulder.
The smaller jotunn stepped close and snarled, “Be silent!” through
his revolting walrus mustache.

And
the smelly young elf in the bedraggled workclothes went stalking across the
floor toward the table where Lord Phiel’nilth was holding court among his
admirers.

It
was pure disaster.

Never
before in her life had Inos known such a headache, a genuine eye-popping,
suicide-provoking bone-splitter. It might be due to the bright sunlight,
although she ought to be used to that and she was shaded by a fringed canopy.
It might stem from the continuous tooth jarring rattle of wheels on stone as
Skarash played at being charioteer when he was only driving a one-horse chaise.
The most likely cause was just simple frustration.

Kade
was back at the couturier’s again. Azak had gone spying. Feeling her head
starting to ache, Inos had asked Skarash to take her for a drive in the fresh
air and show her some of the sights. She had not expected chariot races.

This
was her second day in Ullacam, and she was being torn apart by too many
questions chasing too little information. Should she try to escape from
Elkarath? If she believed his story, he was going to send her on to Hub, and
that was where she wanted to go, to appeal to the Four. But Elkarath was
certainly capable of lying, and whether he served Rasha or Olybino, Inos was
not likely to have much freedom of action in Hub if she was still controlled by
any one of the three of them.

And
how could she escape anyway? Even if she could avoid the mage’s farsight,
there was still Skarash hovering everywhere, and Imperial guards. Worse still,
in Ullacarn she had no friends, and she had no money. Azak’s gold had
been taken from him. Stealing mules in the desert had been easy compared to the
problem of stealing horses in a big city and then evading pursuit. Moreover,
the only possible way to travel from Ullacarn to the Impire was by ship, and
Inos could not imagine Kade and herself as stowaways.

Money
was the worst problem of all. The sheik was being incredibly generous. Skarash
would offer to buy anything that caught her eye, price no consideration. But he
would certainly demur if she asked for actual gold to use for bribes and
disguises.