Werenight

by Turtledove, Harry

Turgis led Elise off to whatever facilities he had for making beautiful women more so. She seemed as much captivated by the innkeeper as was Gerin himself; though this was a new building, the same atmosphere of comfort and good cheer the Fox had always known was here. Other hostels might have had more splendid accommodations, but none of them had Turgis.

  The bath-houses masseur was a slim young Sithonian with outsized hands, arms, and shoulders. His name was Vatatzes. As if by magic, he had two steaming tubs ready and waiting. He helped Van unlace his corselet. When the outlander shed his bronze-studded leather kilt, Vatatzes, true to the predilections of his nation, whistled in awe and admiration.

  “Sorry, my friend,” Van chuckled, understanding him well enough. “Gerin and I both like women.”

  “You poor dears,” Vatazes said. His disappointment did not stop him from kneading away the kinks of travel as the hot water soaked off grime. Swathed in linen towels and mightily relaxed, Gerin and Van emerged from the bath to find Jouner waiting outside. “I’ve taken the liberty of moving your gear to your rooms,” he said. “Follow me if you would, sirs.” He also offered to carry Van’s cuirass but, as usual, the outlander declined to be parted from it even for a moment.

  The rooms were on the second floor of the hostel. They offered a fine view of the Palace Imperial. A door which could be barred on either side gave access from one to the other. “Don’t bother to put things away,” Gerin told Jouner. “I’d sooner do it myself—that way I know where everything is.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Jouner pocketed a tip and disappeared.

  Gerin surveyed the room. If nothing else, it was more spacious than the cubicle he had called his own during his former stay in the capital. Nor would he sleep on a straw pallet as he had then. He had a mattress and pillow, both stuffed with goosedown, and two thick wool blankets to ward off night’s chill. By the bed were a jug, bowl, and chamberpot, all of Sithonian ware fine enough to be worth a small fortune north of the Kirs. A footstool, chair, and stout oaken chest completed the furnishings. On the chest were two fat beeswax candles and a shrine to Dyaus with a pinch of perfumed incense already smoking away. Above it hung an encaustic painting of a mountain scene done by a Sithonian homesick for his craggy native land.

  The baron quickly unpacked and threw himself onto the bed, sighing with pleasure as he sank into its soft stuffing. Van rapped on the connecting door. “This is the life!” he said when Gerin let him in. “I haven’t seen beds so fine since a bordello I visited in Jalor. I don’t know about you, Fox, but I’m all for sacking out for a while. It’s been a long, hard trip.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Gerin told him. Yawning, Van went back into his own room. The baron knew he should go down to see how Elise liked her chamber in the women’s quarters. Enervated from the hot bath and massage and tired from many nights with little sleep, he could not find the energy.…

  The next thing he knew, Jouner was knocking on the door. “My lord,” he called, “Turgis bids you join him in the taproom for supper in half an hour’s time.”

  “Thanks, lad. I’ll be there.” Gerin yawned and stretched. He heard Jouner deliver the same message to Van, who eventually grumbled a reply.

  It was a bit past sunset. Tiwaz’s razor-thin crescent, almost invisible in the pink in the west.

  The Fox splashed water on his face, then went rummaging through his gear for an outfit that might impress Turgis and, not incidentally, Elise. After some thought, he decided on a maroon tunic with sleeves flaring out from the elbows and checked trousers of contrasting shades of blue. A necklace of gold nuggets and a belt with a bronze buckle in the shape of a leaping longtooth (Shanda work, that) completed the outfit. Wishing for a mirror, he combed his hair and beard with a bone comb. I look the very northerner, he thought: well, fair enough, that’s what I am. He set out for the taproom.

  Folk of every race filled the high-ceilinged hall. Three musicians—flautist, piper, and mandolin-player—performed on a small stage at one end, but they were all but ignored. Every man’s attention was on Turgis’ cook.

  A dark, burly fellow with hooked noise, bushy beard, and black hair drawn back into a bun, he worked behind a great bronze griddle in the center of the room, and in his own way was more a showman than the musicians. He kept up a steady stream of chatter about every dish he was preparing, and knives were quicker in his hands than in those of any warrior Gerin had ever seen. Its gleam reflecting off his sweaty face, bronze danced as if alive, shining in the torchlight, dicing vegetables and slicing meat with a rhythm of its own. No, not quite; with a small shock, Gerin realized the knives were providing a percussion accompaniment to the music from the stage.

  A waiter hovering by his elbow, Turgis sat at a quiet corner table. He surged to his feet and embraced Gerin, who pointed to the cook and asked, “Where did you find him?”

  “He’s something, isn’t he?” Turgis beamed. “He’s good for business, too. Just watching him makes people hungry.” He turned to the server, saying, “Bring me my special bottle. You know the one I mean. Bring some ordinary good wine, too, and—hmm—four glasses.”

  The Fox’s eyes widened. “That can’t be the same ‘special bottle’ you used to keep when I was here before?”

  “The very same, and not much lower, either. Where would I get another? You know as well as I that it was salvage from a ship of some unknown land that wrecked itself down in the southeast on the Bay of Parvela’s rocks. Aye, it’s precious stuff, my friend—see, I still call you that, highway robber though you be—but then how often do we look upon friends thought lost forever?”

  “Not often enough.”

  “Truth in your words, truth in your words.”

  The waiter returned. Careful not to spill even one drop, Turgis worked at the cork of the flask they had been discussing. Even that flask was special: small and squat and silvery, like no other glass Gerin had seen. “Here it is,” Turgis said. “Nectar of the sun.”

  Gerin had a sudden terrible fear that when Van came down, he would loudly announce he had traveled with whole shiploads of the brew. By rights, there should be no more than this one miraculous bottle.

  At Turgis’ murmured invitation, the baron enjoyed the rare drink’s rich fragrance. A silence fell over the hall. For a moment, Gerin thought his nose’s pleasure had made him ignore his other senses, but the quiet was real. He looked up. There in the doorway stood Van, helm and armor gleaming, crimson cloak over his shoulders matching helm’s crest. He was a splendid sight: indeed, too splendid, for Gerin heard a mutter of superstitious marvel. “Come in and sit down, you great gowk,” he called, “before everyone decides you’re a god.”

  Van’s earthy reply sent relieved laughter echoing through the room. The outlander joined his friend and his host. He looked with interest at the bottle Gerin still held. “Never seen glasswork like that before,” he said, and the Fox, too, knew relief.

  A few moments later, Elise arrived. The buzz of conversation in the taproom again lowered, this time in appreciation. As Gerin rose to greet her, he realized once more how fair she was. He had grown used to her in battered traveler’s hat and sturdy but unlovely clothes. Now, in a clinging gown of sea-green linen, she was another creature altogether, and startlingly beautiful.

  Turgis’ servitors had subtly enhanced the colors of her eyes and lips, and worked her hair into a pile of fluffy curls. The style became her; it was popular in Elabon this year, and several other women in the hall wore their hair thus. The baron saw more than one jealous glance directed at Elise, and felt proud to have earned the affection of such a woman.

  Turgis was also on his feet. He bowed and kissed Elise’s hand. “The sunshine of my lady’s beauty brightens my hostel,” he exclaimed. When he saw he had flustered her, he added with a wink, “What in Dyaus’ name do you see in this predacious lout who brought you here?” Put at her ease, she smiled and sat. Turgis poured a drop or two of his nectar of the sun into each of the four glasses, then reseale
d the flask. He raised his glass. “To past friendships now restored and successes yet to come!”

  Everyone drank. Gerin felt the brew caress his tongue like smooth silk, like soft kisses. He heard Van’s hum of approval and was glad his far-traveled friend had found a new thing to enjoy.

  Turgis poured again, this time from the local bottle. As Gerin’s stomach began to growl, the waiter returned, bringing dinner just in time, he thought, to save him from starvation. The first course was a delicate clear soup, made flavorful by bits of pork and chopped scallion. It was followed by what Turgis called a “meat tile,” which convinced the Fox that Turgis’ cook was a genius as well as a showman: simmered and sautéed pieces of lamb and veal in a spicy sauce which also featured pounded lobster tail and nutmeats. Whole lobster tails garnished the incredible creation; Gerin had never tasted anything so delicious in his life. He could hardly look at the fruits and spun-sugar confections that came after. All the while, Turgis made sure no glass stayed empty long.

  The baron’s head was beginning to spin when Turgis announced, “Now I will have the tale of your coming here.”

  All three travelers told it, each amplifying the others’ accounts. Gerin tried to slide through the tale of his fight with the aurochs, but to his annoyance Elise made him backtrack and tell it in full.

  Turgis looked at him shrewdly. “Still carrying your lantern with a hood on it, are you?” He turned to Elise: “My lady, here we have the most talented of men, the only one who does not know it being himself. He can sing a song, cut a purse (even mine, the unprincipled highwayman!), tell you what that finger-long bug is on friend Van’s cuirass—and the cure for its bite as well—”

  Snarling an oath, Van crushed the luckless insect. “No need for that,” the Fox said. “It was only a walkingstick, and it doesn’t bite at all; its sole food is tree sap.”

  “You see?” Turgis said triumphantly. The wine had flushed his face and loosened his tongue. “He can conjure you up an ever-filled purse—”

  “Of mud, perhaps,” Gerin said, wishing Turgis would shut up. The innkeeper’s paean of praise made him nervous. Most plaudits did; as a second son, he’d seldom got them and never quite worked out how to deal with them. He knew his virtues well enough, and knew one of the greatest was his ability to keep his mouth shut about them. They were often of most use when employed unexpectedly.

  Turgis was not about to be quiet. “Besides all that,” he said, “this northern ruffian is as kind and loyal a friend as one could ever hope for”—Elise and Van nodded solemnly—“and worth any three men you could name in a brawl. I well recall the day he flattened three rascals who thought to rob me, though he wasn’t much more than a stripling himself.”

  “You never told me that one,” Van said.

  “They were just tavern toughs,” Gerin said, “and this fellow here did a lot of the work. He’s pretty handy with a broken bottle.”

  “Me?” Turgis said. “No one wants to hear about me, fat old slug that I am. What happened after the aurochs was slain?” The hosteler howled laughter to hear how Mavrix had been thwarted. “Truly, I love the god for his gift of the grape, but much of his cult gives me chills.”

  The baron quickly brought the journey down to the capital: too quickly, again, for Elise. She said, “Once more he leaves out a vital bit of the story. You see, as we traveled we came to care for each other more and more, try though he would to hide himself behind modesty and gloom.” She gave him a challenging stare. He would not meet her eye, riveting his attention on his glass. She went on, “And so it’s scarcely surprising that when he asked if he might come south to court me when the trouble is done, I was proud to say yes.”

  “Lord Gerin, my heartiest congratulations,” Turgis said, pumping his hand. “My lady, I would offer you the same, but I grieve to think of your beauty passed on to your children diluted by the blood of this ape.”

  Gerin jerked his hand free of the innkeeper’s grip. “A fine excuse for a host you are, to insult your guests.”

  “Insult? I thought I was giving you the benefit of the doubt.” Turgis poured wine all around. A sudden commotion drowned out his toast. Two men who had been arguing over the company of a coldly beautiful Sithonian courtesan rose from their seats and began pummeling each other. Three husky waiters seized them and wrestled them out to the street.

  Turgis mopped his brow. “A good thing they chose to quarrel now. The could have broken Osnabroc’s concentration—see, here he comes!”

  A rising hum of excitement and a few spatters of applause greeted Osnabroc, a short, stocky man whose every muscle was so perfectly defined that it might have been sculpted from stone. He wore only a black loincloth. In his hand he carried a pole about twenty feet long; a crosspiece had been nailed a yard or so from one end.

  A pair of young women followed him. They, too, wore only loincloths, one of red silk, the other of green. Both had the small-breasted, taut-bellied look of dancers or acrobats; Gerin doubted if either was five feet tall.

  The musicians vacated the stage and Osnabroc ascended. More torches were brought. Each girl took one and set the rest in brackets. After a sharp, short bow to his audience, Osnabroc arched his back and bent his head backwards, setting the pole on his forehead. He balanced it with effortless ease. At his command, both girls shinnied up the pole, torches in their teeth. Once at the crosspiece, they turned somersaults, flips, and other evolutions so astounding Gerin felt his heart rise into his throat. All the while, the pole stayed steady as a rock.

  One girl slid down headfirst, leaving the other hanging by her knees twenty feet above the floor. But not for long—she flailed her arms once, twice, and then she was upright again, going through a series of yet more spectacular capers. Despite her gyrations, the supporting pole never budged. A grimace of concentration distorted Osnabroc’s face; sweat ran streakily down his magnificent body.

  “Who do you think has the harder job?” Turgis whispered to Gerin: “Osnabroc or his girls?”

  “I couldn’t begin to tell you,” the baron answered.

  Turgis laughed and nodded. “It’s the same with me. I couldn’t begin to tell you, either.”

  Van, though, had no doubts: his eyes were only on the whirling girl. “Just think,” he said, half to himself, “of all the ways you could do it with a lass so limber! She all but flies.”

  “Speak to me not of people flying!” Turgis said as the second girl slid down the pole to a thunderous ovation. She skipped off the stage, followed by her fellow acrobat and Osnabroc. He sagged now as he walked, and his forehead looked puffy.

  Van tried to catch the eye of one of the girls, but with no apparent luck. Disappointed, he turned his attention back to Turgis. “What do you have against people flying?” he asked.

  “Nothing against it, precisely. It does remind me of a strange story, though.” He waited to be urged to go on. His companions quickly obliged him. He began, “You’ve told me much of the Trokmoi tonight; this story has a Trokmê in it too. He was drunk, as they often are, and since the place was crowded that night, he was sharing a table with a wizard. You know how some folk, when they go too deep into a bottle, like to sing or whatever. Well, this lad flapped his arms like he was trying to take off and fly. Finally he knocked a drink from the wizard’s hand, which was the wrong thing to do.

  “The wizard paid his scot and walked out, and I thought I’d been lucky enough to escape trouble. But next thing I knew, the northerner started flapping again, and—may my private parts shrivel if I lie—sure enough he took off and flew around the room like a drunken buzzard.”

  “A boozard, maybe,” Gerin suggested.

  “I hope not,” Turgis said.

  “What befell?” Elise asked.

  “He did, lass, on his head. He was doing a fine job of flying, just like a bird, but the poor sot smashed against that candelabra you see up there and fell right into someone’s soup. He earned himself a knot on the head as big as an egg and, I hope, enough sense not
to make another wizard annoyed at him.

  “This tale-telling gets to be thirsty work,” Turgis added, calling for another bottle of wine. But when he opened it and began to pour, Elise put a hand over her glass. A few minutes later she rose. Pausing only to bestow a hurried but warm kiss on Gerin, she made her way to her room.

  The three men sat, drank, and talked a bit longer. Turgis said, “Gerin, you’re no fool like that Trokmê was. You’re the last man I ever would have picked to make a sorcerer your mortal foe.”

  “It was his choosing, not mine!” The wine had risen to Gerin’s head, adding vehemence to his words. “The gods decreed I am not to be a scholar, as I had dreamed. So be it. Most of my bitterness is gone. There’s satisfaction in holding the border against the barbarians, and more in making my holding a better place for all to live, vassals and serfs alike. Much of what I learned here has uses in the north: we no longer have wells near the cesspits, for instance, and we grow beans to refresh the soil. And, though my vassals know it not, I’ve taught a few of the brighter peasants to read.”

  “What? You have?” Van stared at the Fox as if he’d never seen him before.

  “Aye, and I’m not sorry, either.” Gerin turned back to Turgis. “We’ve had no famines round Fox Keep, despite two bad winters, and no peasant revolts either. Wizard or no wizard, no skulking savage is going to ruin all I’ve worked so hard to kill. He may kill me—the way things look now, he likely will kill me—but Dyaus knows he’ll never run me off!”

  He slammed his glass to the table with such violence that it shattered and cut his hand. The pain abruptly sobered him. Startled by his outburst, his friends exclaimed in sympathy. He sat silent and somber, staring at the thin stream of blood that welled from between his clenched fingers.

  VIII

  After the Alley’s hurley-burley, the calm, nearly trafficless lanes of the nobles’ quarter came as a relief. Jouner had given the Fox careful directions on how to find Elise’s uncle’s home. For a miracle, they proved good as well as careful.