After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
AN ALEWIFE IN KISH - Benjamin Tate
WHY THE VIKINGS HAD NO BARS - S. C. Butler
THE EMPEROR’S NEW GOD - Jennifer Dunne
THE TALE THAT WAGGED THE DOG - Barbara Ashford
SAKE AND OTHER SPIRITS - Maria V. Snyder
THE FORTUNE-TELLER MAKES HER WILL - Kari Sperring
THE TAVERN FIRE - D.B. Jackson
LAST CALL - Patricia Bray
THE ALCHEMY OF ALCOHOL - Seanan McGuire
THE GRAND TOUR - Juliet E. McKenna
PARIS 24 - Laura Anne Gilman
STEADY HANDS AND A HEART OF OAK - Ian Tregillis
FORBIDDEN - Avery Shade
WHERE WE ARE IS HELL - Jackie Kessler
IZDU-BAR - Anton Strout
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITORS
“The alehouse can never be destroyed. Never.”
“It will simply move to another place. So the gods have decreed. And I will move with it. I will be an alewife forever. What the gods have refused to give you, Gilgamesh—immortality—they have given me.”
Then she stepped away, pitcher still in hand. He stood stunned, tall, muscular body unmoving, rigid with shock and pain: Gilgamesh, once-king of Uruk, slayer of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven.
Then he exhaled. “And the gods mock me still, even here.”
She sneered. “Did you not feel their presence in this room? Do you not feel their mantle spread over this building? Over me? Is that not why you came here?”
“No. I came because I had nowhere else to look, nowhere else to search.”
Kubaba nodded. Her arms prickled and itched as she said, “Perhaps the gods do not mock you. Perhaps I can help.”
—from “An Alewife in Kish” by Benjamin Tate
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Copyright © 2011 by Joshua Palmatier, Patricia Bray and Tekno Books
All Rights Reserved
DAW Book Collectors No. 1542.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction copyright © 2011 by Joshua Palmatier and Patricia Bray
“An Alewife In Kish,” copyright © 2011 by Joshua Palmatier
“Why the Vikings Had No Bars,” copyright © 2011 by S. C. Butler
“The Emperor’s New God,” copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Dunne
“The Tale That Wagged the Dog,” copyright © 2011 by Barbara Ashford
“Sake and Other Spirits,” copyright © 2011 by Maria V. Snyder
“The Fortune-Teller Makes Her Will,” copyright © 2011 by K. L. Maund
“The Tavern Fire,” copyright © 2011 by David B. Coe
“Last Call,” copyright © 2011 by Patricia Bray
“The Alchemy of Alcohol,” copyright © 2011 by Seanan McGuire
“The Grand Tour,” copyright © 2011 by Juliet E. McKenna
“Paris 24,” copyright © 2011 by Laura Anne Gilman
“Steady Hands and a Heart of Oak,” copyright © 2011 by Ian Tregillis
“Forbidden,” copyright © 2011 by Avery Shade.
“Where We Are Is Hell,” copyright © 2011 by Jackie Kessler
“Izdu-Bar,” copyright © 2011 by Anton Strout
INTRODUCTION
SEVEN authors walk into a bar. . . .
No, seriously. This entire anthology began when seven authors—a group that calls itself the Magnificent Seven, for obvious reasons—got together at a bar after a multi-author signing. Drinks were had, alcohol was consumed, and at some point during the conversation someone brought up anthologies, bars, and . . . well, there you have it.
We really didn’t think the anthology idea would amount to anything. Thousands of ideas are thought up at the bar by authors; some of them are even good. But the idea was written up as a proposal (a crucial first step that is generally never taken; we were drinking after all) and within the space of five months or so it was pitched and sold.
It’s the perfect idea for an anthology: nearly every fantasy novel has a scene in a bar or tavern or inn. It�
��s often where the storyline either starts, takes a major turn (usually for the worse), or where it ends. So why not have a bar as the central theme of the anthology? A bar that’s magical in nature, that travels through time. A bar that is the quintessential representation of everything that makes a bar great. The Ur-Bar.
And who better to watch over the Ur-Bar than the immortal Gilgamesh?
So here you have fifteen stories spread throughout time, from the moment that Gilgamesh took over the Ur-Bar into one possible future. All of the stories are set on Earth—perhaps an alternate Earth—and in each, the Ur-Bar is key to how the story unfolds. Pour yourself a drink—or let Gil pour one for you—sit back, relax, and enjoy.
The first round’s on us.
AN ALEWIFE IN KISH
Benjamin Tate
KUBABA glared out the door of her alehouse over the sun-baked mud walls of the city-state of Kish and muttered darkly, for the thousandth time, “Curse you, Enlil. And curse this prison.”
From her vantage, a maze of streets cut down from the hill through the rectangular houses of the workers, artisans, and merchants that made up this quarter, the pale red clay punctuated here and there by splashes of green from gardens and the occasional glint of sunlight reflecting off of water from a fountain or pool. The land rose again in the distance, houses giving way to the larger temples of the priests and the walls of the king’s palace. The temple of Anu rose higher than all of the rest, as befit the god of heaven, but Enlil’s and Ishtar’s temples were also prominent. Kubaba’s glare darkened as it raked across Enlil’s shrine and she spat to one side, lip curled. She tossed the contents of the slop bucket she held out onto the side of the street.
“Watch where you throw that offal, you heaping pile of entrails!”
The merchant who’d shouted gestured rudely as he dodged out of the reeking path of slop, then continued on his way up the street. Kubaba bristled and stepped forward, a scathing retort on her lips. As soon as her foot touched the ground beyond the entrance to the alehouse, searing pain lanced up from her sole into her upper thigh. She hissed and lurched backwards, choking back her reply. The man barked out laughter, but she ignored him, focusing on her leg as she ducked back into the shade of the inner room. Hurling curses at Enlil, she hobbled through the mostly empty tables and chairs toward the small room in the back where the urns of barley beer were waiting to be served. The pain faded, but her entire leg now tingled as if it were being feasted on by ants.
“You should be careful cursing Enlil.” The slurred voice rumbled outwards from the far corner of the room. “The gods are vengeful, especially one such as he.”
Kubaba halted at the edge of the main room, weight on her good leg, back rigid. “I know of the gods and their vengeance,” she snapped. “I suffer under their hateful gaze every day.” She’d nearly forgotten the man was there, although she wasn’t certain how that was possible. He’d arrived early, ducking down beneath the doorway as he entered because he was so tall, possibly the tallest man she’d ever seen. His well-built chest glistened with sweat, streaked with dirt and dust from the road, his finely made fringed kilt also layered with mud. The braids of his beard were loosened, as if he hadn’t bothered to groom himself for days, and his face was haggard, lined with age and weariness, even though his entire body strained with subtle strength.
That strength irritated her. He shouldn’t exude such controlled danger. Not after the amount of beer he’d drunk.
She turned toward him, toward the shadows where he sat. She could barely see him, although her eyes had already recovered from the blaze of sunlight at the door. The other two patrons glanced between them both warily. They came nearly every day and knew of her foul temper, although today she felt particularly trapped. They’d ordered their beer and settled into their usual chairs with a minimum of words.
Not this man.
“But what of you?” Kubaba asked caustically. “What do you know of the gods? What have they ever done to you?”
The man laughed, a hard sound that reverberated throughout the room, no mirth in it. It was bitter, filled with grief, pain, and a despair so deep that Kubaba, even in her own bitter rage, felt her heart shudder. Her hand clutched at the baked mud of the doorway until the horrid laughter trailed down into silence.
“You ask what the gods have done to me,” he said after a long silence. His wooden cup thunked down onto the table top, then scraped across its surface as he pushed it toward her. His eyes caught hers and even in the shadows she could feel his attention settle on her. “Bring me more beer and perhaps I’ll tell you.”
She drew back a step beneath that gaze, then frowned at herself and straightened her shoulders. Without a word, she slipped into the back room, dipped out a pitcher of beer from the largest urn, and grabbed a bowl of dates. The tingling in her leg had stopped, but it still felt numb. She refilled cups to grateful nods and tentative smiles, before circling back to the man’s table. Up close, she could smell his sweat, heavy and dense. His hair glistened with oil. Age radiated from him, although he did not appear old.
She held his gaze, then frowned and set the bowl of dates before him with a clatter. “Would you like a reed straw?” she asked as she refilled his cup, even though he had not asked for one before and this was his seventh cup since his arrival. The quality of his kilt and his bearing spoke of the high caste, but he was no priest. She didn’t know what he was.
He grinned, the expression leonine. “I can handle the barley hulls.”
She nodded, a little surprised.
“Sit.” He gestured toward the nearest chair.
She frowned at him. She hadn’t expected him to tell his tale, whatever it was, however wild and unbelievable. She’d been trapped in this alehouse long enough to know when a man came to drink simply to forget. But if he wanted to talk, let him talk. The gods had certainly granted her enough time to listen, she thought with a twisted half-smile.
She set the nearly empty pitcher of beer on the table and sat, arms crossed on her chest. “So talk,” she said. She couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. “How have the gods assailed you?”
The man leaned back, legs stretched out before him, beer in one hand. He drank deeply from the cup, his eyes never leaving Kubaba, then set the cup down as he glanced around the alehouse. The other patrons stared intently at their own cups and pretended they had not been listening, but the man didn’t care. A dark melancholy settled over his shoulders.
“I met him in a place much like this,” he finally rumbled, in a voice so low Kubaba had to force herself to remain still. The two others were not so controlled, chairs creaking as they leaned forward. “In an alehouse, at the end of a wedding ceremony. As soon as he entered, I knew he had been sent by the gods to challenge me, a wild man sent to tame me. It wasn’t until Shamhat entered behind him that I realized how vicious and sadistic the gods truly were. I had sent Shamhat to find him, to seduce him, to bring this wild man I had heard of to me, not realizing what the gods intended the wild man for. I had summoned my own destruction.
“So the wild man challenged me, there in front of the wedding guests, there in that alehouse. He challenged my right to bed the wife on her marriage night, before her husband. But it was my right, my duty!” The man slammed his hand onto the table, making the boards jump, his cup rattling but staying upright.
Kubaba stirred in her seat. Not a priest, no, but a king. Only kings could bed a virgin bride on the wedding night. But which king?
She scowled and squashed the tiny flicker of hope. He could not be a king. Kings did not squat in alehouses, beard unraveling, covered in sweat and dust. Kings did not drink barley beer without reed straws. It was a story only. A madman’s story.
“But the reason for the challenge was meaningless,” the madman murmured, calm again. “He would have challenged me over the texture of the rice, or the color of the sky. The true challenge came from the gods, and so I rose to meet it. I shrugged aside the robes of my city, of my sta
tion, and I boomed, ‘You dare to defy the king?’
“The wild man straightened where he stood. No fear touched his eyes, nor quivered in any muscle. He held himself proud, rigid with anger, and answered, ‘I do.’
“The arrogance enraged me. I was the king! I was god-touched, god-blessed—or so I thought. I roared my rage and charged him.
“The wild man stood, solid as a rock, and met the charge. We collided, grappled with each other, until we struck the far wall. It cracked beneath the impact, chunks of baked mud cascading down. The wild man twisted in my grip, his arm snaking down under my leg and then lifting, toppling me backwards. I roared again as I fell, grunted as my back slammed into the bare earth, rolled away, and surged to my feet.
“But the wild man moved fast, as fluid as a lion, as deadly. He closed and tackled me, drove me back into the feasting table. Wood splintered and food flew. The wedding guests began to scream, but neither of us heard them. I pounded my fists into his back, his arms still latched around my waist, the side of his face pressed into my stomach so tight I could feel his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. He twisted and spun and flung me back. I landed hard, lurched upright in time to catch him as he attempted to leap onto my back, jammed my hands into his shoulder and stomach, knelt and pivoted, and flung him over me with a growl. He slammed into more tables and chairs, scrambled from the wreckage, lithe body tensed with his rage, face twisted and feral. I saw his primal nature then, felt it throbbing in the air, tasted it in the sweat that slicked my face and salted my lips, breathed in its musk with every ragged breath.