Below the sign, tacked to the post at the left-hand edge of the portal, was a printed notice:
Today's Availables
Beet Pullers and Potato Diggers (3 male amp; healthy)
Moderate Quality Young Virgin (slightly used)
Apprentice Clown
Positions Open:
Journeyman Cart drivers (2 needed)
Advanced Barkscraper (experienced help only)
Toothbuilder (1-will train to suit)
With a sick feeling in his belly Grantin recalled Grey-horn's evaluation of his abilities. If he didn't find the amulet, here lay his future: apprentice toothbuilder-trained to suit.
With his left hand Grantin held the coat in front of him while he searched the garment. Hadn't he put the amulet in his right-hand pocket? But now that one lay slack and empty. But wait, the coat was facing him. He had checked the wrong pocket! Grantin thrust his fist into the left-hand pocket as the coat faced him. There, at the bottom, tangled with the lining, lay Greyhorn's necklace. With a great exhalation of breath, knees weak and shaking, arms limp, Grantin removed the amulet, checked the clasp, then placed it solidly around his neck.
Ahead the road continued straight for a hundred yards, then began a series of zigs and zags according to the dictates of the tectors. Occasionally, at apparently random points, side streets joined the main highway. By the time Grantin reached the Hall of Fabricators, no open spaces were left on either side. Some of the structures were tall and narrow, others low and wide. An odd mixture of shapes assailed the eye:
conical buildings with exterior spiral staircases, squat cubes whose ceilings towered some thirty feet above their floors. A confusion of materials and styles was presented. The left third of a structure might be of wood and brick, the center of quarried stone, and the right-hand side white stucco with timbered beams.
A peculiar mingling of odors penetrated Grantin's nostrils: scents from the perfumers, from the inns the fragrance of honey and spice and boiling gruel, and occasional whiffs of the garbage pits at the far end of town, all intermixed with the underlying stench of the leavings of the carthorses and the occasional unmannered dog.
Now, past the eighth hour, dinnertime was approaching. The villagers were making a last attempt at completing their business before supper. The road ballooned unpredictably, forming areas where merchants, fabricators, and artisans had set up stalls. A yard or two ahead it narrowed to but a few feet in width, then swelled again, Looking down on it from above, one would have imagined a tangled stretch of beads on a string.
These widenings in the highway formed the many specialized markets of the city. The narrow paths between allowed the constabulary to keep close watch on all who patronized Alicon's businesses. Footpads had little chance of threading their way through the narrow sections of the road. Such men would find short shrift with the sturdy citizens of Alicon. Were they captured, at best they would complete their lives less the tips of their noses and the lobes of both ears. At worst their organs would make a fine contribution to the sawbones' always understocked apothecary.
Just beyond the Hall of the Fabricators, the Street of the Artisans cut away from the main road. The new avenue formed a round, bulging loop which rejoined the highway a hundred yards ahead.
Grantin turned to his left, elbowed through the crowded passage, then entered the first of the artisans' alcoves. Here stood the stalls of the leather workers. Belts, coin purses, coats, and saddlery abounded. Toward the end of the cul-du-sac stood the wares of a small subgroup of the guild, the taxidermists. Here were displayed stuffed dogs, boars, and occasionally a well-established citizen's favorite relative.
At one of these booths Grantin chanced to pause and examine the handiwork of a master craftsman. Grantin's eyes were arrested by a small, spindly, mean-faced, squinty-eyed old man who stood in a menacing position. Lank, stringy, black hair drooped down either side of a long, narrow head. The mop framed a sallow face from which protruded a thin, beak-like nose and a pointed, out-thrust jaw. The eyes were narrow and stared menacingly ahead. The figure's right hand was raised, index finger pointed forward, as though the old man had been frozen in the midst of a vengeful, bitter threat.
So menacing and clearly evil was the creature that Grantin pulled the finger and pinched the cheek to assure himself that the villain was indeed dead.
"A true work of art, is he not, sir?" the taxidermist whispered in Grantin's ear.
Grantin jumped back, startled, then relaxed as his eyes focused on the artisan.
"For a fact he does seem most unusual," Grantin allowed. "Is there much of a market for items such as this?"
"Oh, yes, sir, to be sure. A rare find is old Theleb. Notice the narrow, beady eyes, the blackened teeth, the thin-lipped, leering smile, the hand caught the instant before the fingers clench, then open again to fling poison into the face of his enemy. Oh, yes, indeed, Theleb would make a fine addition to any manor house. Why, equipped with a simple spell from almost any medium-grade wizard, his presence would keep away poachers, trespassers, burglars, footpads, mendicants, and tax collectors. And for you, sir, whom I see to be a man of rare discernment and high standards, I would be willing to part with Theleb for the price of a mere two golds and four silvers."
"Two golds and four silvers for this stuffed old reprobate!" Grantin replied in amazement.
"Why, sir, in the first year alone Theleb would save you that much in flowers trampled by ill-mannered children. Surely you recognize a bargain such as this when you see it."
"That vile-smelling old heathen isn't worth a-" Grantin snapped shut his mouth. The blue eyes seemed to hold an even more malevolent cast. Had Grantin noticed a slight twitch at the corner of the mouth? And was it not the index finger which formerly had been pointed outward?
"Careful, sir, I am a true craftsman if I do say so myself. Much magic is wrapped up in my creations. Though he may be dead, Theleb is still a sensitive man and sometimes given to extremes of conduct."
"Perhaps you are right. On second thought Theleb is probably worth every iron of two golds and four silvers, perhaps more. Alas, I have but a few coppers in my pocket, and those reserved for a modest dinner."
"Well, sir, don't let that stop you. Never let it be said that Adolf the taxidermist was a difficult man with whom to deal. I see you wear a crude, but somewhat interesting, amulet. I might be induced to trade Theleb for the necklace and five silvers, the coin to be paid one year from today. Further, if you are not satisfied at the end of that time, you may return Theleb for a full refund."
"Ah, Master Adolf, you do present a tempting offer. Unfortunately my castle is not nearly grand enough to warrant such an imposing figure. In fact, if the truth be known, the roof leaks, and the fine old fellow would no doubt be drenched in the first rain."
"Sir, you do yourself an injustice. I am sure that your manor would do honor to my creation. If the only thing that stands between us and the bargain is the five silvers at the end of the year, why, then, forget them. Let no man say that Adolf is not magnanimous with his art. Here, take Theleb in fair exchange, an even trade across the board for your amulet. Merely throw the old gentleman across your shoulders and take him home. To show my true colors, should he mildew, stain, or rot at any time during the next ten months, I will take him back and happily give you a full credit of two golds in satisfaction of your purchase price."
"Adolf, you make a tempting offer. Theleb might well serve as a grand adjunct to my poor home. I am almost of a mind to accept your proposal. Let me do this: I will go through yonder passageway and relax myself with a cup of wine and, perhaps, a hot sausage or two. When I am refreshed and unburdened, like as not I will return and accept your kind offer."
So saying, Grantin smiled at Adolf, curtly nodded in Theleb's direction, and then, vowing to exit the Street of the Artisans without again passing the taxidermist's shop, pushed onward into the next marketplace.
This new bulge in the street was filled with the stalls of the pottery makers and stonemasons. Not merely purveyors of goblets, cups, and plates, the members of this guild made anything and everything which might be constructed of clay or stone. Grantin saw not only household crockery and decorative statues but also pendants, rings, bookends, tiles, and simple mechanical parts.
One by one Grantin traversed the markets of the Street of the Artisans. He passed through the shops of the glass-blowers, toy makers, painters, and scribblers. By half past the ninth hour he was tired, footsore, and hungry. Ahead of him still lay the metalworkers, jewelry makers, clothiers, weavers, rug makers, cartographers, and woodcarvers.
On one side of the glassblowers' market reposed three food stalls and a modest, though appealing, tavern. A few chairs and tables had been set beneath a great awning in front of the public house. Serving the diners was a young woman, nicely rounded in all the proper places. At one table she set out a jug of frosty purple-black wine.
Grantin detected a dry, rasping ache in his throat. No doubt the dust from the market also had found a home in the lining of his nose. Yes, there was no question that Grantin needed a tonic to refresh himself. Perhaps also a bite to eat would be helpful before completing his uncle's errand.
Grantin edged through the crowd and found himself a comfortable seat beneath the tavern's striped awning. Behind him at the far end of the dining area, the serving girl joked with one of Alicon's substantial citizens. She turned to re-enter the building. A moment later another female came to the patio and headed for Grantin's table.
This new waitress was far different from the first. Her face was square and solid. A wart adorned her right cheek an inch below her eye. Her bust was flat, her hips wide, her legs like the stumps of two trees. The woman's age was indeterminate, somewhere on the far side of thirty-five but not so old as fifty.
"You wanted something?" she asked Grantin in an almost accusatory tone.
"A cup of throttleberry wine and perhaps some dinner if your menu is to my pleasure. What do you have to offer?"
In half an instant the waitress had appraised Grantin's form, clothing, and demeanor. She replied in a flat tone:
"Hot fried gruel and salt crackers."
"Gruel is not to my taste. If that's all you have perhaps I should seek dinner elsewhere."
"We also have sliced steak cooked in wine with boiled tubers and peas, but such a meal comes dear, four coppers-plus tip. On the other hand, for merely an extra iron we could add some of the trimmings from the roast to the gruel."
"How dare you suggest that I appear to be a man who could afford only gruel! I'll have the meat and all the trimmings, and don't forget my throttleberry wine. Be quick about it or there'll be no tip!"
The waitress anxiously nodded her head. Perhaps thinking of her tip, she even gave Grantin a slight curtsy which caused her ear-length black ringlets to bounce like corroded springs.
Now the sun was nearing the horizon. Its rays shifted from gold to a deep orange red. By some trick of perception, the shadows appeared tinted in shades of bluish green. The air was filled with the scents from the food booths. Around Grantin swirled the fragrance of good eating and vast comfort.
The waitress, one Flourice by name, soon returned with a clear crystal goblet of plum-colored wine. Grantin examined the rays of the dying sun through the fluid, then treated himself to a healthy swallow. Bittersweet, with a sharp, full, fruity flavor, it slid down his throat in thin, burning rivulets. In its wake the wine left the spicy warmness for which it was so renowned.
Grantin finished the beverage just as the innkeeper ignited the torches which surrounded the patio. New sounds now textured the twilight-the sputtering snap of the flames, the sizzles and tiny squeals of the night moths who flung themselves into the fires, there to be incinerated and fall to the earth in broiled husks. At the end of the evening, Grantin knew the innkeeper would salvage mounds of the little bodies and add them to his larder as a protein extender for the gruel.
Grantin turned back to the steaming sliced steak and side dishes which Flourice had now set before him. He popped a small morsel into his mouth. It was excellent- hot, rich, juicy, and full-bodied. Grantin reached for his goblet and, to his dismay, found it empty. Detecting Flourice at a table a few feet away, he waved his hand, then pointed to his glass. In a moment she set another portion of wine to hand.
Four coppers for the dinner, two more for the wine, perhaps one more for Flourice herself… but what matter, he had more than that in his pouch. Where would he sleep that night? A worry for a later time. No doubt something suitable would suggest itself.
Grantin speared another forkful of meat, washed it down with a heavy swallow of the tart, sweet wine, and reflected that his life was not so unpleasant after all.