by Alexey Pehov
“No,” I replied without even thinking about it, and the conversation fizzled out of its own accord.
Eel and I turned our attention back to what was happening down by the lectern.
The professor was clutching the instrument of torture in one hand as he lectured the students.
“… As you can see, the dental system of gnomes is rather similar to the human dental system. But there are certain differences. The structure of the skull and the alveolar appendages is not quite the same in gnomes. This race has a straight bite, and fewer teeth than humans—only twenty-four, twelve in each jaw. They have no canines and only one set of premolars. Unfortunately, my friends, I am not able to show you the teeth of orcs or elves. But believe me, they are absolutely identical, which proves just how closely related the two races are. The hyperdevelopment of the lower canines has led to the development of a rather specific bite in the elves and the Firstborn—when the mouth is opened, the lower jaw is displaced.… But I am digressing. The reason that has brought our patient to us today is the fourth tooth on the upper right. I am inclined to believe that the factor that induced the pain was abrupt hypothermia of the entire organism. But here, of course, it would be better to take a case history, because suppositions will not get you very far. I remember I had a case in which my patient…”
“I think this will go on and on for a very long time.” Eel chuckled.
The Garrakian wasn’t the only one who thought so. Several of the students were looking quite frankly bored. Kli-Kli was gazing curiously at the glittering knife left lying beside the corpse, and Deler was yawning desperately, covering his mouth with his massive hand. Hallas was squirming impatiently in the chair, his color gradually changing from pale to scarlet. Just as the talkative professor started analyzing the tenth clinical case from his own practice, the gnome’s patience finally ran out.
“Aaah! I swear by the ice-worms!” the gnome roared, then he leapt up out of his chair and set off resolutely in our direction.
“Where are you going, dear sir?” the professor exclaimed in amazement. “What about the tooth?”
All the students, suddenly roused from their lethargy, started gaping wide-eyed at the gnome.
When he heard the question, Hallas stopped, turned round, and made an indecent gesture to everyone there. The poor professor clutched at his heart. Pleased with the effect he had created, the gnome strode on toward the exit with his head held high.
“And where to now, Hallas?” Deler asked.
“To a tavern! Maybe drink will do something to ease this damned pain.…”
* * *
The gnome strode in determinedly through the door of the Sundrop tavern. It was probably the worst of all such establishments in the Upper City. Although it was so close to the university and the school of magicians, the characters who gathered there were by no means the most trustworthy types.
My cautious glance immediately picked out a table with five Doralissians and a table with men wearing the badge of the Guild of Stonemasons. The Doralissians and the masons were eyeing each other dourly, but had not yet moved on to active hostilities. I was inclined to think that things wouldn’t get as far as a fight until the lads downed another five jugs of wine.
Another danger zone in the bar room of the Sundrop was the tables where a dozen or so Heartless Chasseurs were sitting, apparently celebrating a leave pass. They cast sideways glances at the Doralissians and the stonemasons. The soldiers’ faces were set in an expression of gloomy determination to batter the faces of both groups if they tried to stop them having a good time.
Of course, there were plenty of ordinary folks in a more peaceable frame of mind, but there was definitely tension in the air and the innkeeper was dashing about like a lunatic, trying to defuse the situation.
“Hmm…,” I said, trying to shout above the din. “Maybe we should find somewhere a bit calmer?”
“Don’t be afraid, Harold, you’re with me!” Hallas declared, taking a seat at the only free table, which was right beside the bar.
I wasn’t afraid. I had no doubt that if the regulars of this tavern suddenly found themselves in the Knife and Ax, they would faint in sheer fright. But why were we here? What was the point in sticking your nose into a bear’s den just for the sake of a fight? We needed to take good care of ourselves.
A serving wench appeared in front of us as if by magic.
“Beer for these four, and something very, very strong for me,” said the gnome.
“We have wheat liquor and krudr—Doralissian vodka.”
“Mix the liquor with the krudr, add some dark beer and a bit of Gnome’s Fire,” the gnome decided after a moment’s thought. “Do you have Gnome’s Fire?”
“We can probably find some, sir.”
If the serving wench was surprised by this strange selection, she didn’t show it.
“Listen, Hallas,” Deler said to the gnome, “if you want to commit suicide, you don’t have to drink garbage. Just tell me, and I’ll dispatch you to the next world at the drop of a hat.”
Hallas adopted a rather unusual tactic in response to this jibe—he ignored it.
“And no beer for me, please, just carrot juice,” Kli-Kli put in.
“We don’t serve that here.”
“Well, some other kind of juice, as long as it tastes good.”
“We don’t have any,” the serving wench said, not very politely.
“How about milk? Do you have milk?”
“Beer.”
“All right then, beer.” Kli-Kli sighed disappointedly.
“Fancy finding people like this in such a place!” said a familiar voice.
Lamplighter, Arnkh, and Marmot walked up to us. Invincible jumped off Marmot’s shoulder, thudded down onto our table, and started twitching his pink nose in hopes of finding something tasty to eat. Kli-Kli thrust a carrot at the ling, but the beast just bared his teeth. He didn’t give a damn for the goblin’s attempts to make friends with him.
“What wind blows you in here?” the gnome asked the new arrivals in a none-too-friendly voice.
“I can tell you’re not very pleased to see us,” Arnkh laughed as he took a seat.
Mumr and Marmot followed their companion’s example, although Marmot had to take a chair from the next table, where the goat-men were sitting. The Doralissians looked the warrior over dourly, but they didn’t bother him, deciding that it wasn’t worth risking their horns and beards for anything as petty as a chair.
“He’s not pleased to see anyone today,” Deler replied for the gnome.
“Have they pulled that tooth out?” Lamplighter asked.
“Listen, Mumr,” Hallas said irritably, “go tootle your whistle and leave me alone.”
“Oo-oo-ooh, things are really bad,” said Lamplighter, shaking his head with disappointment.
“Why hasn’t it been pulled out?” asked Arnkh, joining in the conversation.
“I changed my mind!” the gnome suddenly exploded. “I’m allowed to change my mind, aren’t I?”
“All right, Hallas, all right,” Arnkh said good-naturedly, trying to calm the gnome down. “So you changed your mind. What’s all the shouting about?”
The serving wench brought beer for us and the fiery mixture for Hallas. She took the order from the three Wild Hearts who had just joined us and went away again.
“So how do you come to be here?” I asked Marmot, who was feeding his ling.
“Arnkh dragged us out for a walk round the city. It’s a lousy little town. And we dropped in here to wet our whistles.”
“And did you see anything interesting in the city?” Kli-Kli asked, sniffing cautiously at the beer he had been served: It was obviously not much to his liking. “Hallas, why aren’t you drinking?”
“And you?” the gnome snarled back, staring at his booze as if there was a dead snake floating in it.
“I’m sniffing it!” Kli-Kli retorted. “That’s quite enough for me!”
“Me, too.”
“Well now, the krudr smells even worse than the goats,” Lamplighter chuckled.
“Well, how do you like the race of gnomes?” Deler asked with a cunning grin as he took a sip of dark beer. “Afraid of having a tooth pulled on, so they order a brew of fire and they’re afraid to drink that, too.”
“Who’s afraid, hathead? On the Field of Sorna we weren’t afraid to break your horns for you, and you think we’re afraid to drink this water? Watch!”
Hallas poured the liquid down his throat in a single gulp, without pausing for breath. I shuddered. One drop of the explosive mixture that the gnome had ordered would have been enough to fell a h’san’kor.
Our bearded friend drank, grunted, banged his mug down on the table, focused his wandering eyes together on a single point, and flared his nostrils as he tried to figure out what he was feeling. We all gazed at him in genuine admiration.
“That’s dis…,” the gnome said, scorching us all with the indescribable aroma of that repulsive mixture. “That’s dis … disgusting, may the Nameless One take me!”
“Are you alive?” Deler asked, squinting warily at his friend.
“No, I’m already in the light! The only time I’ve ever felt this good was when you dragged my butt off that Crayfish Duke’s scaffold! We-ench! Another three mugs of the same brew!”
“Well then?” Marmot asked after a pause. “Shall we drink to Tomcat?”
“May the earth be a feather mattress to him, and the grass his blanket!” said Lamplighter, raising his mug.
“May he walk in the light,” said Hallas.
“A good winter to him,” said Eel.
We drank in silence, without clinking glasses.
That’s the way it goes: Some are already in the light, and some are still alive. Tomcat had been left behind in the ground beside the old ravine in Hargan’s Wasteland, the first to die of those who had set out to escort me to Hrad Spein. I hoped very much that the Wild Hearts’ scout would also be the last one to die during our journey.
Time passed imperceptibly, people came and people went; the stonemasons, Doralissians, and chasseurs kept filling themselves up with wine. Two hours later, when I had my third mug of beer standing in front of me, and Hallas had the eighth mug of his fiery “remedy,” an old man with a whistle appeared out of nowhere and started playing a jolly djanga.
Those who were most sober and could still stand firmly on their feet got up and started dancing. Arnkh grabbed a serving wench by the arms, setting her squealing in indignation and then in delight, and launched into the swirling dance. The stonemasons sang along merrily, the Doralissians banged their fists on the table, and we stamped our feet, trying to keep time with the music. Only Hallas paid no attention to the general merriment and systematically drank his swill.
A gnome or a dwarf can drink as much as an entire crowd of men and still not get drunk. But Hallas had had more than enough, his speech was getting noticeably slurred, his nose had turned red, and his eyes were glittering. The apotheosis of the cure came when he made a confession of genuine love to Deler.
“Hey you! Hatface! What would I do without your ugly mug to look at?” the gnome muttered drunkenly and tried to kiss his friend. “We-ench! Hic! The same again!”
A little more time went by, and my comrades were no longer even thinking of going anywhere else. They had a new entertainment now—Mumr and Marmot were trying to stare down the Doralissians. Each side was trying to drill a hole in the other. The stonemasons, realizing that they might have acquired new allies, started getting a bit livelier, and the chasseurs started wondering whose side to take in the fight ahead.
The gentlemen students came pouring into the tavern in a jolly crowd to celebrate passing their exam. Hallas fell into a doze on Lamplighter’s shoulder and Deler heaved a sigh of relief—the irascible gnome had finally shut his mouth.
Rather unexpectedly a quarrel sprang up at our table about the cuisines of the various races of Siala. The dwarf thumped himself on the chest and said that no one knew how to cook better than his race, to which Kli-Kli replied by suggesting we should wake Hallas and ask his opinion on the matter. Deler said rather hastily that it probably wasn’t worth waking him up, gnomes didn’t have a blind notion about food in any case—it was enough to remember the chow the gnome had cooked up during our journey.
“In general, the goblins are masters at preparing any kind of food,” Kli-Kli claimed.
“Right, only normal people can’t eat your grub,” Lamplighter snorted.
“It’s hard to call you Wild Hearts normal people,” Kli-Kli objected. “I’m sure you eat all sorts of garbage on your raids into the Deserted Lands.”
“There have been times,” Lamplighter agreed. “I remember once we had to eat the meat of a snow troll, and that, I tell you, is some chow!”
“Aw, come on, now,” Kli-Kli said impatiently, taking a sniff at the beer in his mug to pep himself up. “What kind of exotic food’s that? Troll meat! Ha!”
“Have you tried anything more unusual, then?” Eel asked the goblin.
“Sure I have!” Kli-Kli declared proudly. “We even have an old drinking song about food like that.”
“Right then, give us a blast,” Mumr suggested.
“No, don’t,” said Deler, waving his hands in the air. “I know what you greenskins are like. Worse than those bearded loons! If you start to sing, you’ll have every dog within a league howling.”
“It’s an interesting song. It’s called ‘The Fly in the Plate,’” the jester said with a grin.
“Drink your beer, Kli-Kli, and keep quiet,” Lamplighter warned the goblin in a threatening voice. The little ratbag sighed in resignation and stuck his nose into his mug.
“Good gentlemen!” said an old fellow who had come up to our table. “Help a poor invalid, buy him a mug of beer.”
“You don’t look much like an invalid,” growled Deler, whom the gods had not blessed with the gift of generosity.
“But I am,” the beggar said with a tragic sigh. “I spent ten years wandering the deserts of the distant Sultanate, and I left all my strength and my fortune behind in the sand.”
“Right,” Deler chortled mistrustfully. “In the Sultanate! I don’t think you’ve ever been more than ten yards away from the walls of Ranneng.”
“I’ve got proof,” said the old man. He was swaying on his feet a bit; he’d obviously already taken a good skinful that day. “Look!”
With a theatrical gesture the old man pulled something from under his old patched cloak, something that looked a bit like a finger, only it was three times bigger and it was green, and it had thorns on it, and it was in a small flowerpot.
“What kind of beast is that?” Deler asked, moving back warily to a safe distance from this strange object.
“Ah, these young people,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Haven’t been taught a thing. It’s a cactus!”
“And just what sort of cactus is that?” the dwarf asked.
“The absolutely genuine kind! The rare flower of the desert, with healing properties, and it blossoms once every hundred years.”
“What a load of nonsense!” Arnkh pronounced after inspecting the rare flower of the desert suspiciously.
“Aw, come on, buy grandpa some beer,” good-natured Lamplighter put in.
“And not just grandpa,” Hallas muttered, opening his eyes. “Me, too! Only not beer, but that stuff I was drinking already. My tooth’s started aching again!”
“Go to sleep!” Deler hissed at the gnome. “You’ve had enough for today.”
“Aha!” the gnome snorted. “Sure! Some old-timer can have a drink, but I can’t! I’m going to get up and get it for myself.”
“How can you get up, Hallas? Your legs won’t hold you.”
“Oh yes they will!” the gnome protested. He moved his chair and stood up. “See!”
He was swaying quite noticeably from side to side, which made him look like a sailor during a raging storm a
t sea.
Hallas took a couple of uncertain steps and bumped into a Doralissian who was carrying a mug full of krudr back to his table; the entire drink spilled on the goat-man’s chest.
The bearded drunk glanced up at the Doralissian towering over him, smiled sweetly, and said what you should never say to any member of the Doralissian race: “Hello there, goat! How’s life?”
On hearing what his people regard as the deadliest of insults (the word “goat”), the Doralissian didn’t hold back: He socked the gnome hard in the teeth.
When Deler saw somebody else hit his friend, he howled, grabbed a chair, and smashed it against the Doralissian’s head. The Doralissian collapsed as if his legs had been scythed away.
“Mumr, give me a hand!” said Deler, grabbing the goat-man under the arms.
Lamplighter rushed to help him. They lifted up the unconscious Doralissian and on the count of three launched him on a long-distance flight to the chasseurs’ table.
The soldiers accepted this gift with wide-open arms and immediately dispatched it homeward, to the table where several rather angry goat-men were already getting to their feet. The Heartless Chasseurs didn’t have as much experience as Deler and Lamplighter in the launching of unconscious bodies, so the Doralissian fell short of the target and came crashing down on the stonemasons. That seemed to be just what they had been waiting for. They jumped to their feet and went dashing at the chasseurs, fists at the ready. The Doralissians ignored the brawl between the soldiers and the masons and attacked us.
Kli-Kli squealed and dived under the table. Knowing the incredible strength possessed by the mistake of the gods that is known as a goat-man, I grabbed the legendary cactus plant off the table and threw it into the face of the nearest attacker. The owner of the cactus and my target both cried out at the same time. One in outrage, the other in pain. The old-timer dashed to rescue his precious plant from under the goat’s hooves and the Doralissian made a repulsive bleating sound as he pulled the quills out of his nose.
By this time the fight had become universal. Everybody was fighting everybody. There were beer mugs flying through the air, aimed at any dopes who were still getting their bearings. One almost caught Marmot in the head, but he ducked just in time.
