The city of Galsh Ebrek, a muddy urbanization on the Riga Rimur River, was the Chivalric Centre of the Yudonic Knights and the capital of Wen Endex. Once Alfric and his orks reached the city they would be safe, at least from Her.
They set forth on the last march to Galsh Ebrek on a night of bitter cold. This final stage of their trek from the Qinjoks was dangerous, for they had to pass through a tract of wilderness where She liked to hunt, for She was close enough to the city to have hope of prey, yet far enough removed from its halls of power to have sure hope of escape after Her murders.
Alfric confessed to no fear, and gave his orks no hint of the danger. But he kept his sword loose in its scabbard. However, the journey was uneventful, and toward midnight they came in sight of the Riga Rimur and the city on the far side of the river. To close with the fast-flowing waters, they had to follow a gnarled track through rucked swamplands where marsh lights flared a ghostly blue-white in the night. Unlike many of his people, Alfric had no fear of the cold lilting flames of marsh-wisp. If anything, he loved the night: his greatest danger being that he would love it too well.
‘So that’s Galsh Ebrek,’ said Cod, looking at the huddling houses and the huge upsurge of Mobius Kolb which lay on the far side of the river.
‘It is,’ said Alfric.
There was a whimpling on the waters of the Riga Rimur where the wind rucked the surface. Here and there, lights gleamed briefly in the liquid black and then were gone again. Those lights were signs of organic life: for in the river there swam fish with phosphorescent eyes.
‘How do we get across?’ said Cod.
‘We swim,’ said Alfric.
‘Swim!’ cried Morgenstem. ‘But we can’t!’
All orks can swim. Their blubber-burdened bodies are well equipped for enduring the cold of the rivers of Wen Endex in winter. Furthermore, since orks can breathe underwater, it is impossible for them to drown. However, the grey-skinned monsters are ever reluctant to dare fresh running water, for in most of the rivers and streams of Wen Endex dwell ferocious worms which eat orks.
‘Relax,’ said Alfric. ‘I was only joking.’
‘Joking!’ said Morgenstem. ‘You call that a joke?’
And the ork was so upset that Alfric feared he might have created a major diplomatic incident. But, slowly, Morgenstem’s fright eased, and the ork at last accepted Alfric’s apologies.
‘But,’ said Morgenstem, ‘if we don’t swim, how do we get across?’
‘By ferry,’ said Cod. ‘It’s coming for us already.’
And so it was. The ferryman looked at the orks in askance. Of course he would have to take them across the river. The ferryman was a commoner and Alfric a Knight, so that settled that. But there remained the chance that the ferryman would create a diplomatic incident by insulting Alfric’s monsters.
‘Greetings, my good man,’ said Alfric, in the tones of hearty condescension with which a Yudonic Knight often addresses a commoner. ‘Hurry us across to the further shore if you will. Our good king Stavenger is waiting for these his guests. The Wormlord will not be pleased if you delay us, for these are the ambassadors from the Qinjoks, the ambassadors for whom he has long been waiting.’
This was a bluff, but it worked. The ferryman made no untoward comments about the orks, but instead maintained a sullen silence as he took the expedition across on his creaking boat. Alfric and Morgenstem went on the first trip, Cod came across with a horse on the next, then the remaining horses were shuttled across the Riga Rimur.
As Alfric and his orks were waiting for the last of the horses to arrive, a zana came dancing toward them across the waters.
‘Look!’ said Cod. ‘What is it?’
‘A zana,’ said Alfric. ‘One of the wild rainbows of Wen Endex. Have you never seen one before?’
‘No,’ said Cod, watching the zana come nimbling up the riverbank.
The ork’s unfamiliarity with this phenomenon is not surprising, for the zana are rare once one moves any distance from Galsh Ebrek. Zana are not really rainbows, for the colours displayed by the splay of a zana are red, gold, green, blue and pink. Furthermore, unlike rainbows they can be touched, though it is unwise to do so because they sting.
‘Yow!’ cried Cod, having just been so wounded.
‘Did you touch it?’ said Alfric.
‘Yes,’ said Cod. ‘And it bit me!’
Morgenstem picked up a handful of mud and hurled it after the retreating zana. Hit by the mud, it hummed, shattered into spectral splinters, then reformed and slid onwards.
‘Are you hurt?’ said Alfric.
‘Yes,’ said Cod, who was not disposed to be brave.
So Alfric was forced to sympathize, and gentle the ork’s hand to soothe the pain.
Meanwhile, he noticed they were drawing a lot of odd glances from the passing foot traffic. In theory, while She was on the loose, night was far more dangerous than day. In practice, since the Yudonic Knights were constrained by custom to walk the night until She had ceased her depredations, the nights were actually safer. With so many knights out hunting Her, bandits and such preferred to strike by the winterlight sun. Thus those who travelled favoured the dark.
Among those who went past were old men and older woman stooped beneath huge burdens of firewood. Others laboured past carrying buckets of water balanced on shoulder-poles, buckets filled from the river just upstream from the dungdump. Some muttered to themselves, but none insulted the orks to their faces. Still, Alfric was glad when the last of the horses came ashore and he was ready to proceed.
‘What’s in the barrels, master?’ said the ferryman.
‘A ransom of jade from the Qinjoks,’ said Alfric. ‘The annual tribute from King Dimple-Dumpling.’
‘Wealth of the orgre king, eh?’ said the ferryman.
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘You should have taken your chance. You could have been rich for life.’
Then both laughed, and Alfric led horses and orks towards the city gates.
As has been said, Galsh Ebrek lay on (and, when the rain had been exceptionally heavy, at least partially in) the Riga Rimur River. Once it had been a walled city, but the swampy ground and the periodic delinquencies of the Riga Rimur had conspired to defeat the stonemason’s art; with the result that nothing remained of the masonry of lore and yore but for the massive bastions of the Stanch Gates. In place of stonework battlements, a rickety pale enclosed the city, this enclosure being largely notional due to the extent to which the fence had been vandalized by lawless wreckers in search of firewood.
While the city proper was very much a lowland affair, it was backed by a huge upthrust of rock. Mobius Kolb was the name of this mountainous granitic crescendo, and its bare and barren slopes were notable for the majestic monuments to power which they supported.
Atop the lowest shoulder of Mobius Kolb there stood the monstrous battlements of Saxo Pall. There dwelt the Wormlord, Tromso Stavenger by name, lord of Galsh Ebrek, king of Wen Endex, emperor of the Qinjoks and ruler of the Winter Sea. Old the Wormlord was, so old that many thought him close to death; though others disputed this, saying the king was known to have purchased the secret of immortality in his youth.
Higher yet, on a ridge of rock exposed to the full force of the gaunt winds of the Winter Sea and the haggling rains of all seasons, stood the expansive outworks of the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association of Galsh Ebrek. Set inside those outworks was the gaunt donjon of the Bank, the Rock of Rocks which protected the greatest secret of that organization.
The secret protected by the Rock of Rocks served to maintain the wealth of the Bank, but there was no secret at all about the origins of the Bank’s prosperity. The Flesh Traders’ Financial Association had first become wealthy in the days when Galsh Ebrek had been a great orking centre. Those granite outworks were a monument to lucrative murder and ever-rewarding terror. Tales of those days of joyful slaughter were still alive and well in Galsh Ebrek. Thus Alfric knew, for example, of the piteous screams of orklings thrown into the blubber pots while still alive. He knew of But this is a hideous, shameful, disgraceful phase of history. And recalling the horrors of those days does nothing to resurrect the victims. Suffice it to say that Alfric felt more than a little uncomfortable when he looked upon those distant walls and contemplated the first source of the money which had built him.
But there was something else which made him more uncomfortable yet. On the very highest point of Mobius Kolb was something that looked very much like a full moon. So much so that Alfric shuddered when he gazed upon its swollen light, even though he knew it was no moon but the Oracle of Ob, an occult machine which had ruled the heights for time out of mind.
The rains of millennia had weathered the carapace of that ancient arcanum. It had been ancient even before the ogres first came to the Qinjoks. In their archives, the ogres preserved fragmentary records of a few of the many temples which had risen on the heights of Mobius Kolb, pretending to understand or even to control that artefact which was also called the Ob, the Gloat, the Tynox and the Vo Un Ala Ma Drosk. But all those temples had at last fallen into ruins, sometimes under circumstances which still disconcerted later generations.
The good which could be done by the Oracle was uncertain, whereas the disasters it could cause were certain indeed; in consequence of which, all shunned its presence. Alfric in particular had good reason to keep his distance, and so had never climbed the slopes lying uphill from the Bank.
‘Is that the Oracle?’ said Cod, pointing at the Moon of the Mountain.
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Watch out!’
Cod ceased his Ob-gazing in time to save himself from extinction beneath the wheels of a heavily laden cart. It was piled high with seaweed, huge scorlins of the stuff. Not the old, dead, brackeny seaweed which is found shangled with sand and sheals on the sea’s spumestrand. No, this was fresh. The best select seacow’s greed. At the smell of the stuff (a briny smell tinged with a faint, ever so faint aroma of codliver oil) Alfric’s mouth watered; and he thought of seaweed soup with sideplates of garlic cockles, raw oysters and mussels marinated in wine.
Alfric abandoned such fantasy as he and his expedition followed the cart into the city. For, as always, soldiers were standing guard at the Stanch Gates; and, as always, those soldiers were armed with ceremonial orking harpoons. The harpoons were painted a bloody black (for the blood of orks is closer to night than to fire). Worse, globs of tar dangled from the harpoons, these globs representing gouts of hardened black ork blood. Alfric had never really noticed these sentries before, but now he noticed them furiously, because Cod and Morgenstem had stopped to stare.
‘Blood of the Gloat!’ said one of the guards. ‘It’s an ork!’
‘No,’ said his companion. ‘I can count, though your mother could not. It’s two orks.’
True. And both the lubbery animals were crying shamelessly. How embarrassing!
‘Two orks,’ said Alfric roughly, ‘and one Yudonic Knight.’
So saying, he drew his sword and planted it in the mud between his feet.
‘A Yudonic Knight?’ said one guard to the other. ‘I see no Yudonic Knight. I see a-’
‘Say it not!’ said Alfric. ‘I am a Knight. With me I have two ambassadors sent by the king of the Qinjoks to the lord of Saxo Pall.’
Alfric’s open anger warned the sentries they had almost gone too far. They did not apologize, but nor did they proceed to venture an irretrievable insult. Instead, one said something softly to the other, mouth to ear. Both laughed. Alfric slapped the leading pack horse. It got a move on, and the banker led his still-weeping orks into the streets of Galsh Ebrek.
One of the first things they passed was a boggy pit in which three swamp dragons were mulching garbage. These creatures are not true dragons any more than an ork is a true whale, but the naming of things proceeds without regard for scientific taxonomy, hence dragons they were to Galsh Ebrek.
But to the orks they were something else altogether. ‘Hunters!’ sa id Morgenstem fearfully.
The next moment, the swamp dragons scented the orks. With fearsome roars, they flung themselves at the walls of the pit, struggling to get out. Such escape was impossible, but the orks fled regardless, mud splattering in all directions as they charged down the street.
‘Pox,’ said Alfric.
And abandoned his pack horses while he went in pursuit.
Alfric found the orks huddled under a dung cart, clutching each other and sobbing fearfully. Inwardly he swore, then squatted down and began to sweet-talk the distraught creatures until their fears eased. Then he went back to recover his pack horses, only to find a gang of street boys had taken them in charge. That cost him some coppers (and, given the lawlessness of the streets, he was lucky it didn’t cost him silver or gold).
After Alfric had rescued his horses, one of the homicidal dandiprats asked him:
‘What’s in the barrels, grandad?’
‘Qinjok jade,’ said Alfric shortly. ‘The ogres’ tribute. So you’re lucky you didn’t steal it. All Galsh Ebrek would’ve been after your blood. ’
‘I’ll bet! ’ said his interlocuter.
Then laughed, and led his dwarfish army away in search of other amusements.
Alfric then led his expedition through the streets towards the Embassy housing the mission from Ang. And where and what is Ang? Why, Ang is an upland region in the heartland of the continent of Yestron, far south of Wen Endex. In Ang we find the city of Obooloo lies in that region, and from there the Izdimir Empire is ruled.
The Izdimir Empire’s current ambassador in Galsh Ebrek was the eminent Pran No Dree. Once, No Dree had been the weatherman of Babrika. But now he was Al’three’s ambassador to Wen Endex, which was not exactly a sought-after position. Still, No Dree had survived his first year in Galsh Ebrek, and with a little luck he might last out a second.
‘Where are we going?’ said the ever-curious Cod.
Alfric told him.
‘That’ll make for trouble,’ said Morgenstem gloomily.
‘Why?’ said Alfric.
‘This No Dree is of Janjuladoola race, is he not?’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric.
He was puzzled. What was the problem? Was there some deep-seated orkish prejudice against the Janjuladoola folk? His ethnology texts had made no mention of any such prejudice.
‘He’s a greyskin, then,’ said Morgenstem.
‘Well, yes,’ said Alfric, still puzzled.
‘So,’ said Morgenstem, ‘six to one he’ll think you’ve brought us along by way of insult.’
Alfric was about to say that this was nonsense. Then he thought about it. The grey-skinned Janjuladoola were notorious racists and not exactly slow to take offence. And, to be honest, a baggy and blubbery ork could be construed as a grotesque parody of a Janjuladoola. So No Dree might quite possibly take offence. But — what a remarkable feat of insight on Morgenstem’s part! Particularly since the ork had probably never seen a person of the Skin in his life. Perhaps there was more to these orks than met the eye.
‘I have to admit,’ said Alfric, ‘you’ve out-thought me on this one.’
‘That’s Wen Endex all over,’ grumbled Morgenstem. ‘Nobody gives an ork the credit for half a brain. You don’t think King Dimple-Dumpling chose us by accident, do you? He chose the best. After all, we’ve important business to do.’
‘What business?’ said Alfric.
Since Alfric Danbrog was a Banker Third Class, he had mastered the nuances of diplomacy. But, since he was a Yudonic Knight by birth and breeding, he was ever inclined to lapse into undiplomatic directness. Hence the bluntness of his probe. A probe which met with failure, for Morgenstem said:
‘We can’t tell you that!’
Alfric thought:
— Why not?
And was about to ask as much, but restrained himself successfully. Instead, he flattered Morgenstem by asking his advice, saying:
‘Well, since your secret mission’s so important, whatever it is, I’d like to do everything I can to ensure your welcome in Galsh Ebrek. Doubtless a row with a Janjuladoola would be the wrong way to start. But I have to go to the Embassy without delay. That’s a duty I can’t avoid or postpone. So how would you suggest we handle this little difficulty?’
‘I suggest,’ said Morgenstem, ‘that we orks would be quite comfortable waiting in the Embassy stables while you go in to meet the ambassador.’
‘But I want to see the Skin!’ said Cod.
‘You would,’ retorted Morgenstem. ‘You wanted to watch your mother’s autopsy.’
‘I did watch it,’ said Cod. ‘And it was very interesting.’ Morgens tem shuddered, and said, as if pronouncing an imperial edict:
‘We will wait in the stables. ’
And wait they did. Under Alfric’s orders, stable hands took his six barrels into the Embassy. In the reception chamber, a representative of the Bank was waiting; for there was always a banker stationed in the Embassy when the ogres’ tribute was expected.
The banker on duty tonight was the elderly Eg, a Banker Third Class like Alfric.
‘Greetings, Iz’bix,’ said Eg.
‘And to you, greetings,’ replied Alfric.
Then they had to wait while the ambassador was roused from sleep. No Dree was asleep? At night? Though She was on the loose? Yes, he was. He was shamelessly asleep. For Pran No Dree was not a Yudonic Knight, therefore did not share the burden of honour which compelled Alfric and his peers to guard the dark against Her depredations.
It was an uncomfortable wait, for Alfric and Eg had little to say to each other. Alfric’s meteoric rise to Banker Third Class had made him no friends and many enemies. While his superiors smiled upon him, he had yet to find a welcome among the ranks of his peers, and it was unlikely that he ever would. Furthermore, the reception chamber was physically uncomfortable, since a blazing fire kept the room at sweat-heat. Alfric shed his furs, but still felt choked by the heat.
When the grey-skinned ambassador at last presented himself in the reception chamber, the seals of all six barrels from the Qinjoks were checked by Banker Danbrog, Banker Eg, No Dree himself and a full half dozen ambassadorial aides and attaches. After due consideration, it was agreed that the seals were intact. At a signal from No Dree, an aide began to open one of the barrels.
The lid came free.
Now the critical question would be answered: would the fortune of fragile jade have survived the journey from the Qinjoks intact?
The lid came off.
No Dree gasped.
‘The jade!’ said he.
In the barrel was nothing but a rubbish of broken sticks and autumn leaves.
‘This cannot be!’ said No Dree. ‘Where is the jade, the jade?’
Alfric, with difficulty, kept himself from yawning.
‘It is as we feared,’ said Banker Eg gravely. ‘The Curse of the Hag has struck again.
‘Curse?’ said No Dree. ‘What curse? This is unpardonable!’ He turned on Alfric. ‘You barbarian fool! You lost the jade. You got yourself robbed. Or did you steal it?’
Alfric withstood this insult without blinking or protesting. That was what he was paid for. No Dree plunged his hands into the barrel and began shovelling out handfuls of leaves and sticks. Stuck to one stick were a couple of snails, snug in their winter sleep. No Dree cursed the snails. Then flung them into the blazing fire. Alfric silently regretted this minor tragedy: for he had a soft spot for snails.
No Dree heaped curses on the taciturn Knight. Then began to threaten.
‘I’ll have you boiled alive,’ said No Dree. ‘I’ll have you torn apart with hooks and pinchers.’
‘My lord is merciful,’ said Alfric, before he could stop himself.
‘You joke?’ said No Dree. ‘You dare to joke? This is no joke, you barbarous piece of yak dung.’
And, because of Alfric’s unwise indulgence in sarcasm, honour could not be satisfied until No Dree had ranted himself hoarse.
But the end result of all these histrionics was a foregone conclusion. The ambassador at last had to admit (though with every show of reluctance) that the seals had not been tampered with. And he had to accept (to do otherwise would have been to precipitate both his own death and a disastrous war) that King Dimple-Dumpling’s tribute had been sealed into those barrels in Alfric’s presence; and, furthermore, that the said tribute had been converted to rubbish by the Curse of the Hag.
This Curse of the Hag, a foul and poxy malison if ever there was one, had thus afflicted Wen Endex for generations. But it was not just Wen Endex which was thus affected. It would seem that a variant of this curse operates in, among other places, Port Domax. There, many an unsuspecting person has paid good money for some bauble which the retailing merchant has then beautifully packaged to enhance customer satisfaction; the sorry outcome being that, when opened, the gift-package has proved to hold no more than a few broken stones or similar rubbish. However, in Wen Endex, the Curse of the Hag seldom struck except to hex the ogre king’s tribute into rubbish.
It may be asked why the Izdimir Empire (as represented by its ambassadors) persisted in demanding the annual collection of this tribute when the Curse of the Hag inevitably converted it to garbage. The answer to any such question is simple. While the enterprise was empty of profit, the collection of this tribute and the delivery of the same to the ambassador from Ang allowed the Izdimir Empire to demonstrate that both Wen Endex and the Quinjoks were subject states obedient to the dictates of Obooloo.
By such diplomatic finesse was the need for war avoided; for, thanks to such annual proofs of obedience, Aldarch the Third (like his predecessors before him) had no need to go to the trouble and expense of marching armies into the northernmost regions of the continent of Yestron to take physical possession of those lands he was so confident he ruled.
Thus, once No Dree had ranted himself into silence, the delivery of the tribute was accepted as a fact, its conversion to leaves and such rubbish was officially attributed to the Curse of the Hag, various papers were signed attesting to this fact and this attribution, then hands were shaken in accordance with the custom of Wen Endex, reverence was made after the Janjuladoola fashion, and Alfric, his mission over, was able to escape from the heat and hostility of the Embassy.
A light rain was falling outside, misting against Alfric’s spectacles so that, had he wanted perfect vision, he would have had to cleanse those optical devices thrice in every sixty heartbeats. He did no such thing, having found it wiser to avoid such full-time occupation. Instead, he cursed a couple of times, then went and collected his orks and his pack horses from the bam.
‘Where now?’ said Cod.
‘Now,’ said Alfric, ‘we find you two somewhere to sleep for the night.’
Alfric thought this should not prove too difficult. But, once his orks had been refused lodgings by five foul netherskens of the lowest kind, he began to revise his estimate of the difficulties involved in finding lodgings for a pair of orks in Galsh Ebrek in the dead of night.
‘Don’t worry about us,’ said Morgenstem. ‘We can sleep in the mud.’
Doubtless they could. But Alfric had more than a rough idea of how the ogre king would react if he knew his ambassadors had been so insulted. The possibilities were appalling.
‘No,’ said Alfric. ‘I’ll find you somewhere to sleep. Somehow.’
Should he take them up Mobius Kolb? He had the option of presenting them to the Wormlord that very night. By rights the Wormlord should offer them the freedom of Saxo Pall. But what if the Wormlord refused them hospitality? That would be a dreadful blow to Alfric’s prestige. Doubtless the Bank itself would quarter the orks if all else failed. But how would that look on Alfric’s dossier? He was a Banker Third Class, not a miserable clerk or an appretice shroff. One of his rank was meant to be ambassador, negotiator and arbitrator all rolled into one. It would be a black mark against him if he came whining to his superiors complaining that he couldn’t find a couple of spare beds in the largest city in Wen Endex.
Then inspiration struck.
‘The Green Cricket, that’s the place.’
He had to go there anywhere, to return the pack horses he had hired.
‘What place?’ said Cod.
‘It’s an inn,’ said Alfric. ‘An inn in Fraudenzimmer Street.’
With orks in tow, Alfric ventured to the backlands of Galsh Ebrek, to Fraudenzimmer Street and the dark-gabled frontage of the Green Cricket. There Alfric delivered the pack horses into the care of Brock the Ostler.
‘How are you for beds tonight?’ said Alfric.
‘That,’ said Brock, eyeing the orks doubtfully, ‘is something you’d have to ask Herself.’
So Alfric took his orks to the front door and knocked. The overhang of the second storey sheltered the doorway from the downfalling rain. Under that overhang was a huge iron cauldron, a relic of the orking days of yore. Its bottom had rusted out years ago, but it remained a potent token of the horrors of the past. To Alfric’s disgust, both Cod and Morgenstem burst into tears at the sight of it.
‘Gods,’ muttered Alfric.
He banged on the door of the lushery, demanding an entry. He wanted to be gone, gone, away from these embarrassingly over-sensitive animals. However, his unsubtle overtures drew no response from the Green Cricket.
‘Allow me,’ said Cod the ork, wiping away his tears.
And Cod fisted the door until its timbers shivered.
A dwarf-hole level with Alfric’s knees opened abruptly and a dwarf looked out.
‘Who is it?’ said the dwarf Du Deiner.
‘Myself,’ said Alfric.
‘And who’s that?’ said Du Deiner, who was looking from candlefire brightness into the murk of an overhung night.
‘Myself is Herself,’ said Alfric. ‘I come from bog, my body drenched with blood but my appetites unsated. I seek a dwarf. I yearn to ravage its flesh for its liver, to gouge out its eyes and pull off its ears for my porridge.’
‘Oh, you,’ said Du Deiner, belatedly recognizing the voice. ‘Hang about, I’ll open the door.’
The dwarf was as good as his word, and shortly laboured the door open with some help from his colleague Mich Dir.
‘Come in,’ said Du Deiner.
‘In, in,’ urged Mich Dir, for the draught from the open door was making the candles flaze.
In went Alfric with his orks following on his heels.
‘No!’ said Du Deiner, when he saw the first of the monsters. ‘They can’t come in. They’re-’
‘They’re friends,’ said Alfric, inverting the dwarf.
Du Deiner kicked, struggled and bit. When he bit, Alfric dropped him.
‘Stop that!’ This command came from Anna Blaume herself, she bedizened in flame-coloured taffeta, she enshrined in state behind the battlements of her bar. She followed up her order by saying: ‘Why, it’s Ally!’ Then, cheerfully: ‘Come in, come in!’
‘I am in,’ said Alfric, somewhat vexed that this blowsy publican should name him ‘Ally’ in public.
Izdarbolskobidarbix was the name he preferred. Failing that, Mister Danbrog. Or, as a minimum courtesy, Alfric. He had told Ms Blaume as much on many occasions; but she was immune to lectures.
‘Do you drink?’ said Blaume, speaking not to Alfric but to the orks.
‘Beer,’ said Cod.
A wide-eyed Morgenstem said nothing, but looked in askance at the roistering room where drunks sat in each other’s laps or lay on the floor, hammered artificial flatulence from empty wine skins, and made popcorn in a huge wok perched atop a charcoal brazier. A drunk tossed a handful of popcorn skywards. A velvety green vogel swooped from the rafters and snapped one nipplebit nicely. Then it settled on Morgenstern’s head. The ork clawed at it in a frenzy.
‘Skaps,’ said Blaume, sharply.
The vogel launched itself into the air, circled thrice, then hooked itself on to a smokey rafter and chittered with malicious laughter. The vogel is the parrot-bad of Wen Endex, a creature noted more for misbehaviour than for speech.
‘She’ll have a beer too,’ said Cod, putting his arm around a much-shaken Morgenstem.
‘He,’ said Alfric, by way of correction.
(Did orks have their own native tongue in addition to Toxteth? Or did they, like the ogres of the Qinjoks, acquire that language with their mothers’ milk? A question worth pursuing, but not now.)
‘Hello Anna,’ said Alfric, as beers for all were served.
‘Hello,’ said she. ‘Good to see you again.’
Then Anna Blaume broke off to talk to her child, little Ben Zvanzig (son of Sin Zvanzig), who was crying.
‘There now,’ said Blaume, giving him a tea-towel. ‘Dry your pepper-weepers and don’t be poorly.’
‘But it bit me,’ sobbed Ben.
‘Well, that’s what they do, my dear,’ said Blaume. ‘Any time you try to strangle them, at any rate. Sheila, my love. Taken Ben upstairs and put him to bed.’
Whereupon little Ben Zvanzig was led away by Anna Blaume’s girl child, a slip of a thing who was aged eleven. (And who was her father, then? That must remain one of the smaller but nevertheless insoluble mysteries of the universe, for even Anna Blaume herself had not the slightest idea.)
‘Well, Ally,’ said Blaume. ‘What have you got for me, apart from trouble?’
‘This,’ said Alfric, pulling a saladin ring from his pocket.
This had cost him nothing, for it was a gift from the ogre king. (Strange, that it had not been converted to treefall rubbish like the rest of the Qinjok tribute — but perhaps Alfric’s pocket was possessed of magical properties which protected its contents from the Curse of the Hag.) Though the gift had cost nothing, it was a handsome present even so; and Alfric experienced a certain amount of painful regret as Blaume took it from him.
‘That’s lovely,’ said she, and lent over the bar to kiss him.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Alfric, kissing back politely.
As he did so, he caught Blaume’s smell, which was that of a well-greased frying pan; for Anna Blaume regularly rubbed her skin with lard to check the progress of a discomforting disease of the integumentary system.
‘Will you marry me?’ said Blaume.
‘I’ve told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I’m married already.’
‘She’s no good for you,’ said Blaume. ‘She’s a bloodless thing bereft of passion.’
‘But so am I,’ said Alfric.
‘So in combination you’re naught but disaster,’ said Blaume.
Then leant across the bar and kissed him again. But he was not tempted, not tonight; so he brushed her away.
Anna Blaume was a red; or, to put it more politely, a person of Ebrell Island descent. However, she had not the red hair so typical of that breed; instead, her hair was yellow. It was so filthy that its texture was that of coarse straw, and it was streaked with blue dye and green. Is it any wonder that Alfric was not attracted? What attracted him was the thought of a warm bed, a good long sleep without tree-roots ribbing into his back, and then work at the Bank. Ah yes, the Bank.
‘So you’re not in the mood,’ said Anna Blaume.
‘I’m not,’ said Alfric. ‘Not tonight.’
‘But you came here for something. Not just to bring back the horses, I’ll warrant.’
‘You’re right,’ said Alfric.
‘You want a favour, I suppose. Let me guess. You want me to quarter these orks.’
‘If you would,’ said Alfric.
‘Of course I would,’ said Blaume. ‘I can’t have you taking them home, can I? You might cook them — like you cooked the last lot.’
Anna Blaume laughed uproariously as a shocked and terrified Morgenstem clung to Cod for comfort.
‘Never mind, love,’ said Blaume, reaching out and patting Morgenstem on the arm. ‘You won’t get eaten here.’
‘They’d better not,’ said Alfric, with feeling. ‘They’re ambassadors. Ambassadors from the king of the Qinjoks.’ ‘Oh, ambassadors, are they?’ said Blaume. ‘You’d be an ambassador yourself, by the looks of it. An ambassador from the realms of the dead, if I be a judge. Time you were home and in your own bed, if you’re not going to jump into mine.’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Alfric.
Then Alfric Danbrog and Anna Blaume exchanged goodbye kisses, and Alfric started for home, leaving his orks in the care of the proprietor of the Green Cricket.
Of Alfric Danbrog’s domestic relations, the less that is said the better, for the subject is a sorry one. However, some comment must necessarily be made.
There was trouble when Alfric reached home. First, because his thoughts were all for the various despatches from the Bank which awaited his arrival. Second, because he had brought his wife no present from the Qinjoks. Third, because he answered her welcoming kiss in the most perfunctory manner. Fourth, because he supped her hot soup hastily, reading a despatch from the Bank as he did so; his lack of appreciation being so great that he quite failed to realize that this was the very seaweed soup he had lusted for as he drew near the Stanch Gates.
Is it any wonder that a quarrel shortly ensued?
The quarrel became a raging row. And, in a moment of blind anger, Alfric lashed out and caught his wife with a four-knuckle punch which laid her out on the floor. He tried to apologize, but that did'him no good and her less; and when at last they retired to bed, she made her body a flesh-clothed skeleton, and rejected his every advance.
Not that he advanced too strenuously, for he was weary, and his greatest lust was for sleep.