"Oh, no," said Talbot. "If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times."
"I am certain that your audience will appreciate my story of a monarch much abused by his ungrateful children."
"We…don't… do…"
"With that great big sword of yours," said Krion, "you did cut a rather kingly figure."
"Did you really think so?"
"Let's talk terms."
"Fifty thousand fivestars."
"Bah! Twenty."
"Plus another twenty for my assurance not to revive King Krion."
"What? That's extortion!"
"No, that's an annual, renewable stipend."
"You drive a mean bargain, wolf," said the dragon.
"Thank you," said Talbot. "I learned it from my father."
BEER WITH A FAT DRAGON
Don Bassingthwaite
Late Tarsakh, the Year of Rogue Dragons
The caravan moved slowly down the dusty slope and into the oasis, the sinking sun at the riders' backs throwing long shadows across scrub trees and coarse grass. Tuigan women watched the riders from benches outside round, felt-covered yurts while children raced about in the fading heat of the day, running alongside the caravan's horses, pack mules, and ox carts. A few of the caravan travelers laughed and threw trinkets to the boldest children, but Tycho Arisaenn threw smiles toward the watching women. Especially the pretty ones.
A young woman with a delicately squared face and the rich bronze complexion of the steppe tribes gave him a smile and lingering glance in return. As the caravan coiled to a stop beside one of the stones that marked the long route of the Golden Way east across the Endless Wastes, Tycho grinned at his companion.
"Only the women at home, Li!" he crowed. "The men must be out raiding!"
"It's strange they wouldn't leave some men behind to guard the oasis." Kuang Li Chien tilted back the broad straw hat that had shaded him from the searing sun and scanned the oasis. His face darkened. "Mother of dogs," he muttered. "I know where we are. I remember this place from my journey west."
Tycho followed his gaze. Beyond the yurts of the Tuigan, an enormous pavilion sprawled on the edge of the muddy pond that was the oasis's heart. A large figure-a man as fat as any Tycho had ever seen-was just emerging from the door flap, one thick arm raised in greeting.
"Well met, thirsty travelers," he bellowed in a voice that carried across the entire oasis. "Come! Come and drink at Ong's tavern!"
"Tavern?" As the rest of the caravan let out a cheer, Tycho looked to Li. The Shou's expression was glum. "Li, we haven't seen anyplace that called itself a tavern since we left Almorel on the Lake of Mists. What's wrong with a tavern?"
"Look after your horse," Li said, sliding out of the saddle, "then come with me. You'll see what's wrong."
– -QER-»
Tycho stepped through the door flap of the pavilion and was immediately engulfed by fetid warmth. The main chamber of the makeshift tavern was already crowded with the guards and passengers of the caravan. Some sat at rough tables, others on rickety chairs, but most lounged against heaped cushions of indeterminate age and color. All of them held vessels-earthenware mugs, waxed leather drinking jacks-and drank and laughed with a vengeance. Many of the women of the oasis were there as well, a few serving the tavern's customers, but many customers themselves, gathered in clusters to talk or around tables to play some boisterous game involving rune-carved bone tiles and a number of knives.
"Hoil" shouted the women around one table.
They snatched up cups and drank. Their knives, striking the tabletop in an intricate rhythm, didn't miss a beat.
Charcoal braziers added to the heat. Fat dripped, sizzling and popping, from long skewers of meat onto the hot coals, the heavy smell of it fighting a valiant battle with the odors of smoke and bodies. Soot and grease from the braziers left a shiny coating on the fabric of the pavilion's walls. High in the folds of the roof, long strands of black grease swayed like noxious icicles. Stained carpets covered the ground, though they might have supported a small garden on the dirt mashed into them. Tycho's foot came down in a wet spot where something had been spilled and simply left to soak in.
Tycho turned and glared at Li as the Shou followed him in.
"Sweet chum in a bucket, Li! Are you saying you don't like this place because it's dirty?"
Li shifted, as if longing for the heavy dao saber he had left back at the caravan's campsite, and said, "I don't like it because it's the most foul drinking house I have ever seen."
"Then I'll look forward to seeing the wine shops of Shou Lung. They must all be scrubbed out every night and painted fresh every morning."
He took a deep breath, savoring the smell of grilling meat and-
"Beer!" he gasped. "Blessed Lliira, a break from that foul horse milk drink the Tuigan make!" He captured two mugs from a passing serving woman and thrust one at Li. "Drink!" he ordered and drained his mug at a gulp.
The beer within was thin, sour, and studded with tiny, soft chunks that lodged against Tycho's throat and threatened to make him gag. Li gave him a gloating smile.
"Millet beer," the Shou said casually. "Brewed by the tavernkeeper in big goat skin bags."
"Pagh." Tycho stared at the residue that clung to the bottom of his mug and said, "It tastes like the goats are still inside them!"
"Here, here," boomed a loud, deep voice, "who's giving away my secrets?"
A heavy hand fell on Tycho's shoulder and spun him around. Tycho stared up into the face of another Shou easily as tall as Li, but plump where Li was lean and smiling where Li was dour. It was the big man who had greeted the arriving caravan-and almost certainly the tavernkeeper. Tycho bent low.
"Honored master Ong," he said in Shou, "my humblest apologies-"
Ong waved him to silence.
"My beer is terrible," he replied cheerfully. He held up a pitcher. "Would you like some more?"
Tycho blinked, then laughed and held out his mug.
"Bad beer gets better the more it's drunk!" he said and toasted Ong when his mug had been refilled.
The tavernkeeper turned to Li.
"Countryman?" he asked, lifting the pitcher.
Li shook his head and replied, "I learned my lesson last time."
Ong's smile, almost impossibly, grew even wider. "A return guest," he said. "I thought I recognized you. Let me see…" he closed his eyes in concentration. "A warrior and a servant of the imperial bureaucracy unless I misjudge your stance. Your voice has the sound of Keelung in Hai Yuan province-one of the silk families of Keelung, I think." Ong opened his eyes. "Kuang LiChien."