The success of his listening in on their conversation was somewhat dampened by them speaking in Karsinian. Of course, Durham thought, giving the lump of cheese-ball a chew. It tasted like the inside of a boot with a hint of basil. He choked and sputtered. A servant bearing a tray of wine goblets arrived with a graceful bow, pausing just long enough for him to take one before moving on.
He took a swallow as he turned back to the table, only to find the two men he’d been eavesdropping on now standing directly in front of him. He coughed on his swallow of wine, distributing it over all three of them. He paused in horror then remembered Dadger’s advice. He spilled the remainder of his wine down the front of his tunic. “I’m so sorry! I’d better go get cleaned up.”
“Not at all!” The tall man in purple had a grin that gleamed with authenticity and his Karthorian was crisp and musical. “It is a compliment to the host of the party. It shows that you do not want for drink and is also a tribute to Hedowul, the god of wine. No party is complete without a splash of red on the robes, yes?” He sloshed a little more wine onto his white-robed companion.
In Durham’s mind, most conversations had a pattern they followed. A series of predictable phrases and responses. It was when conversations broke from that pattern that he struggled to keep pace. At least until he had learned what he called the ‘question reflection’. At a loss? Repeat what they said as a question.
“You have a god of wine?” he asked.
The man spread his hands expansively, spilling more wine onto his companion who looked progressively less enthused about the amount of tribute he was on the receiving end of. “Don’t all lands have a god of wine? Wine and religion go together like eggs and chickens.” He bowed his head. “My name is Pojah and this is Monkwin. You are a visitor to our city?”
“Durham,” Durham said, bowing back. This was a pattern he knew. “Yes. It’s very nice. Do you have any recommendations?”
“’Nice’ he says!” Pojah said, elbowing Monkwin in his dripping ribs, then “Thank you!” as he took the wine goblet out of Monkwin’s hand and took a swallow.
“I’m sorry,” Durham said. “’Amazing’ would be the better word. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”
“By the grace of Knearaoh Khomen,” Pojah said with a smile, waving toward the statue at the other end of the plaza and giving another splash of wine in tribute. Monkwin was beginning to look like he’d been stabbed several times.
Durham looked at the statue thoughtfully. He had a lot of questions about Knearaoh Khomen but asking the devout about their deity could be tricky ground as far as conversation patterns went.
“So, Knearaoh Khomen is your leader?”
“Well of course he’s the leader. He’s a god. They get to be in charge of things.”
“How do you know he’s a god?” Durham asked.
“Well, he puts his toga on one arm at a time like anyone else but he can do the usual god-things. Control the local weather, make the river flood, the occasional plague. And, of course, he has got a rabbit-head.”
“Why does he have a rabbit-head?”
“Because he’s a god.” Pojah frowned at him quizzically. “Just think if it was the other way around. All the people with animal-heads and the Knearaoh the one with the human-head.”
“A human with a human-head as god?” Monkwin asked, finally joining in on the conversation. Now that all of the wine goblets were empty he had less to worry about. “That wouldn’t work. Some guy named Walter would wander into town and take over the whole place.” He held his belly and chortled as if this was the funniest thing he’d heard all week.
“He’ll be here soon,” Pojah added.
“Who? The Knearaoh? He comes to parties?”
“This is his party. You need a god’s budget for a ship like this one. Come out with us and you can watch him arrive.”
“I’ll be along just after you,” Durham said. He gestured at the table. “Just want to grab a few things first.”
The pair nodded and drifted away. Durham let out a slow breath. He told himself that staying behind while everyone went out to watch the Knearaoh seemed like the sort of clandestine thing he was supposed to be doing, not that he was sure what it would accomplish. The real reason was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to chance meeting a god. He’d met one of The Hermits once, in the Northern Realms. And while The Hermits weren’t gods they were purported to have a piece of their god’s power contained within them. Even remembering the meeting made Durham felt dizzy and slightly nauseous. He wasn’t sure he was eager to repeat the experience.
And for the immediate moment he finally had a chance to investigate the meatballs.
***
The pier leading to the servant’s entrance was lined with empty litters and palanquins, a bored looking footman by each one to make sure that no one wandered off with any of the trappings. Thud gave them each a smile and a nod as he went by then ascended the narrow gangplank at a trot. It entered at one end of a wide passage that ran the width of the ship. People bearing trays of food or returning with empties jostled by each other from an opening on the right side of the hall. The smell of roasting meat, the clatter of cookware and someone yelling in Farsish suggested it was the kitchen. The waitstaff all wore white with matching orange turbans to stand out in a crowd.
The sign in front of him, however, had an arrow pointing to the left. He followed it through an arch into the Karsinian palace-boat equivalent of a servant’s hall. Thick carpets covered the deck and the hull was lined with low couches mounded with silk pillows. There were several dozen servants already there, playing cards or dice, waiting on their patrons above. Undoubtedly a treasure-trove for gossip but gossip wasn’t what he was here for. Thud took his hat off and gave it a tap to pop it out into its top-hat shape. He pulled a pair of foot-long green feathers out of his vest and affixed one on each side of his hat-band. One feather just made you look like a bard. Two made you look invited. He took his vest off and flipped it inside out to show the shimmering green side then unbuttoned the tails to turn it into a formal coat.
Thud stepped back into the hall and around the sign to join the servers heading for the stairs midway down the hall. There was at least one curious glance in his direction but Thud pretended not to see it. He knew kitchen staff. Heading out of the kitchen area made him a problem that would solve itself if ignored and they had better things to do with their time. The stairs ran perpendicular to the hall. Thud turned the corner to begin the ascent then slowed. There was an annoyed grunt from behind him and a waiter tossed a glare his way as he dodged around. Thud didn’t pay him any mind. Any fool knew better than to follow a dwarf up a flight of stairs. He’d slowed for a different reason though. There was a man at the top of the stairs talking to one of the staff. The staff member looked like someone in charge of something. He wasn’t carrying a tray and had an orange sash to go with his orange turban. The man talking to him was dressed in over-designed black leather with more straps and snaps than could possibly be useful. His right hand was missing, replaced by a hook. Or not missing, rather. It was a pile of sand on a tray in Giblet’s wagon a league away in a warehouse parking lot. Either this was the assassin the team had chased earlier or he’d loaned someone his outfit. The hand turning to sand was an event Thud hadn’t figured the meaning of yet and it made him wary.
The discussion at the top of the stairs finished and the servant went one way, the possible-assassin the other. By the time Thud reached the top of the stairs neither were still in sight. Nor were they likely to be again. He was waist-high in a crowd and it made for poor sight lines. The leather-fellow had been heading toward the bow of the ship as he’d walked away and that seemed as good of an idea as any. Even if he wasn’t the assassin, he’d looked like someone worth following around for a bit. Thud began elbowing his way through, looking for a glimpse of black as he went.
****
The incense bearers came first, two by two up the gangplank, carrying brass
burners the size of watermelons, clouds of perfumed smoke leaking from their lids like tendrils. Agent Mungo watched from his perch along the rail. There weren’t any other options at the moment. The entire party had stepped aside to leave an open route for the arriving Knearaoh.
Mungo studied the party-goers around him, collecting and analyzing important intel. Foreign dignitaries, famous adventurers, powerful merchants and the butteriest of the social butterflies were packed shoulder to shoulder along the Knearaoh’s route. He focused on the shadows between them, searching for anyone suspicious, anyone furtive, anyone that looked to be carrying hidden daggers. He was ready for anything. The ambient intrigue was thick and danger lurked.
It was times like this that he could hear the music playing in his head.
Behind the incense bearers came handmaidens scattering flowers on the ground, followed by servants with giant fans made of fronds, waving them back and forth to create a soft breeze for the palanquin that followed. It was the largest that Mungo had seen, nearly the size of a garden shed. Polished wood was trimmed with gold and turquoise, painted and carved, baskets of leafy greens and flowers piled on the litter that carried it. The sides were woven screens and Mungo glimpsed movement within as it passed. Knearaoh Khomen, the hare-headed god.
Dozens of retainers followed. Priests, guards, attendants and scribes. The procession made for the front of the ship and Mungo hopped down into the swirl of people in its wake.
There was a dais on the foredeck with a throne facing the bow. The palanquin stopped in front of it and when it moved away the Knearaoh was on his throne. After the pomp of his arrival the actual Knearaoh was anticlimactic. He had a slender build and was short if you didn’t include the two foot long ears. He sat there, nose twitching and ears folded back, munching on a piece of lettuce.
Of more interest to Mungo was the gnome next to him. She was in a formal blue outfit with the look of a uniform. While she obviously wasn’t Frothnozzle she WAS a gnome turning up in an unexpected place and that made her a gnome of interest.
“Your eminence, lords, ladies and gentlemen!” a voice rang out from the prow. Mungo looked over to see a tall man in white gleaming in the light of a dozen pixie-lanterns. “Allow me to welcome you to the grand opening celebration!” There was a fanfare of horns from the pier. Behind the presenter he could see deckhands coiling rope. The barge had cast off. The floating palace began a slow drift into the current of the river.
Mungo diverted his attention back to the gnome on the dais. He’d filed the presenter away as largely irrelevant but one corner of his mind continued listening on the chance that there was important safety information. Mungo liked safety information. More concerning at the moment was that when he returned his attention to the gnome he found that she was also paying attention to him, staring straight at him with the hint of a frown at one corner of her wide mouth. The hint of an expression on a gnome was the equivalent of someone else’s face screaming out loud.
He watched as she leaned over slightly to whisper something to the Knearaoh; an easy task as his ears were enormous. He gave the faintest of nods and made a slight gesture with one hand. The gnome stepped behind the throne and disappeared from view.
Mungo began noodling his way through the crowd in that direction. He didn't expect her to still be there when he arrived but she was the first thing he'd seen worthy of investigation.
***
It occurred to Durham that this was a golden opportunity to supplement his daily diet. Gammi’s culinary creations for the team meals rarely took human tastes into account and Durham lived on a tight supply of whatever he managed to pick up along the way in the places they passed through. Ruby was in the same situation but she seemed able to subsist for weeks on a pouch of tea, a wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread.
The buffet spread had its share of regional specialties that Durham was avoiding but it also contained plenty of recognizable foods. Durham slid a wedge of cheese into one of his pouches. Always a good start. A handful of boiled quail eggs were easy enough to toss into a pocket. A couple of sausages that fit perfectly into his vest lining were next and there was a basket of fresh fruit on the next table that Durham felt could stand to be missing a few pieces. He sidled over and appropriated a fig. His hand froze midway.
It was the assassin, mere meters away, making his way through spinning circles of dancers.
Durham dropped down into a crouch behind the table which, due to the fact that tablecloths were not a thing oft used in Karsin, made him more conspicuous than if he’d just remained still. No one paid mind to a man holding a fig but a man crouching under a table and holding a fig? That added interest. It also came with a lowered perspective on things and Durham found himself looking directly at Thud, following behind the assassin but now arching an eyebrow at Durham under the table. Durham stood back up, slightly red in the face.
The assassin either hadn’t noticed or had and was pretending not to. He was walking past the pool in the center, making for the front of the ship. Thud strolled after him, easy to track now due to a ridiculous pair of feathers he’d added to his hat that bobbed about in the crowd like antennae.
The assassin stopped midway along the pool to talk to a gnome going the other way.
Durham didn’t think it was Frothnozzle, the gnome they were supposed to be watching for. He didn’t know what Frothnozzle looked like but this gnome seemed to be female which eliminated her from the profile. He spotted Mungo not far behind her, standing at the far corner of the pool pretending to intently study the lily pads.
The conversation between the two was brief. The assassin continued on toward the front, the gnome toward the back. Which meant that the gnome was going to walk directly past Thud. This was unlikely to be a problem. It also meant that the assassin was going to walk directly past Mungo and that could be much more of a problem. They hadn’t seen many gnomes in Karthor and the assassin was sure to remember the one that had arrived just as he’d finished killing one of the other ones. There needed to be a distraction, fast, or the night was going to be in danger of an ugly turn.
Durham threw the fig.
It had been plump and ripe when he’d first picked it up but he’d been nervously pressing and squeezing it in his hand for a minute and now it was soft and lumpy. The aerodynamic properties of a fig are resilient, however, and it sailed happily into the air.
The throwing motion he’d made had caught the eye of the gnome heading in his direction and she was frowning at him now, maybe trying to identify if he was a problem guest. She never saw Thud go past, mere feet away, feathers bobbing.
The fig and the assassin had a more direct encounter. Durham had been trying to land the fig in the water, figuring a splash was about as good of a distraction as he could hope for. The throw and the fig’s flight capabilities were better than he’d expected and the fig descended in a perfect arc to the side of the assassin’s head.
Almost.
At the last moment the assassin’s hand snapped up into the air and caught it.
Almost.
The fig impaled itself on his hook with a gooey squish. He blinked at the oozing fruit several times then turned slowly to see where it had come from.
Durham ducked back beneath the table and busied himself pretending to look for something. He could only hope that the distraction had been enough for Mungo to have noticed and gotten out of sight.
A shadow fell across him. It was attached to a pair of legs, thick in both girth and hair. Durham looked up. He had to crane his neck out from under the table to get his gaze all the way to the top end of the legs where the head was. There was a lot of armor and muscle along the route. The face frowning down at him was the sort you might see on a poster in an alley. Durham had seen ogres often enough in Karthor. They were great for carrying things around. The guards tended to follow them everywhere, however, and the city laws said they had to be outside the walls by sundown. He’d never been this close to one. The ogre reached down with on
e meaty hand and grabbed Durham by the back of his robe, lifting him out from under the table and dangling him front of its face.
“No throwing figs.” Its voice was like a brick dropped on your foot.
“My apologies,” Durham said in his politest voice. It had the full impact of sincerity behind it. “I assure you that it will not happen again. Sir.”
“Good.” The ogre opened its hand and Durham dropped to the floor, back behind the table. There was a piece of cheese there he’d dropped on one of his prior visits. “And quit crawling around on the floor.”
Durham struggled to his feet ready to apologize some more but the ogre had already turned away to make for a couple that were splashing about in the pool.
“Ah, I see you got to meet Yorgi.” Pojah was smiling down at him, the wine-stained Monkwin frowning alongside. “Easy to get along with as long as you remember that the rules are exactly what Yorgi thinks the rules are. Have you tried the figs?”
“I just saw someone I need to talk to,” Durham said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He took the proffered fig and popped it in his mouth then hurried in the direction he’d seen Mungo going. If anyone was going to need further help it was likely going to be Mungo. It seemed the sort of thing a good sidekick would do.
Chapter Seven
The party floated down the river past palm trees and temples that gleamed in the moonlight. Thud wondered how they got the palace-barge back upstream. Did they tow it? Was there a sub-deck for rowers? He was impressed that it floated at all. The river it was drifting down ended at the sea and he doubted that the ship would hold together well if it encountered open ocean. The two hulls would go their separate ways and the palace perched on top would have to choose from a menu of bad options.
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