He emptied his tray and headed for the door. Krat and Birg were there already, for it was the safest place to watch the early stages, and the most strategic. You worked inward from the door, usually. God of Battle, but there were some big ones around tonight! And yet . . . and yet somehow the tingle in his gut was not throbbing like it used to, couple of months ago, even. Was it possible that a guy could get tired of fighting? Not scared, just bored? Or just need a night off once in a while? Missing the sea, maybe?
Leaning back against the wall, Bithbal folded his arms and thus managed to jostle his broken fingers. He winced. That had been done two nights ago, and the buzzing in his right ear. . . four nights ago, or was it five? It wasn’t showing any signs of quieting down.
There was a whaler in town looking for hands.
He smirked at Birg and Krat on the other side of the doorway, and they winked back to show they were ready and eager. The room was rocking like a lugger in a nor’wester—not long now. He wondered where it would start. The big part-djinn over in the far corner was sure to be irresistible to someone.
Then the doors flapped open, and closed. Three men. Holy Balance!
One of them was bigger than anything else on two feet, a middle-aged jotunn, big as a troll—weird tattoos all over a punchbag face. A jotunn wearing forester garb? In garish colors like a namby elf? God of Blood! Bithbal revised his opinion of where the action was going to start. His scalp prickled, and he wished he was a little farther from that very spot—for the newcomers were just standing there, in a patch of good light. The noise level was falling rapidly as they gained attention.
And the one on the far side, near Birg and Krat . . . another jotunn, with a sailor mustache, and dressed up in the same sort of frippery! What was this—mass suicide? That one had the twitchy-shoulder look they did when they first hit port and were ready to fight anything.
The shouting had almost stopped. Men at the far side of the room were reeling to their feet to get a better view, rubbing their eyes and looking again. Some who had been almost at each other’s throats were exchanging grins of incredulity and anticipation. Any moment now . . . Bithbal began planning his retreat. Tough was good, but being trampled to death could seriously hurt a man.
Then the third newcomer turned to him and smiled.
In six months’ hard service, Bithbal thought he’d seen everything possible in the Mainbrace, but an elf was new. A threeway suicide pact? He wondered if elf blood would dry in the same brown-black color as the rest of the floor.
“Excuse me,” trilled the elf. “There wouldn’t be any tailors’ shops open at this time of night, I suppose?”
So his many-colored finery was dirty and Little Precious wanted something prettier to wear? There was a strong smell of wet horse about him, detectable even over the odors of beer and sweat.
“Not a chance!” Curious . . . elves and their shiny curls usually made Bithbal’s knuckles itch like crazy, but this kid had a winning sort of wry grin.
“It’s just that my friends feel a little conspicuous.”
“Sonny, if you want my advice—”
“Yes, I do. I don’t suppose a tailor would have the big one’s size in stock anyway.” The elf frowned. “Should have thought of that! Well, what I really need is an elf saloon.”
“Elf saloon?” The ringing in Bithbal’s ears must be getting worse. ”You didn’t say `elf saloon’?”
“Don’t elves—I mean, aren’t there any drinking establishments for elves?”
“Not here,” Bithbal muttered, aware that the whole room was silent as a crypt now. Even to be seen talking to an elf hereabouts was plain stupid. You could hear blood pounding. You could hear fists clenching. “Never see elves near the docks.”
“Near where, then?”
“Dunno. Theaters, maybe?”
“Direct me . . . quickly!” The elf’s eyes twinkled in sea green and sky blue. Lamplight flashed where the metallic gold of his hair peeked out from under his cutesy cap.
“Dunno,” Bithbal repeated dumbly. He was streaming sweat. The Mainbrace was going to explode into full riot from a standing start. He could smell it coming. This poor elf kid would be stamped flat for starters, and Bithbal for associating with him. He wondered why he didn’t just turn the brat around and boot him straight out the door. Krat and Birg would handle the two jotnar. But he just said, “Sonny . . . for your own good, please go away. Quickly.”
“First tell me where I might find an elf saloon.”
Bithbal could not even imagine an elf saloon. “Go west to the square, then nor’west and veer starboard at the fork and up the companionway, then bear west again to the temple and tack northerly about three cables’ length, there’s theaters around there. Best I can do, sir.”
Since when had he ever called an elf sir? “Thank you. Come, guys.”
The elf turned on his heel.
His companions started to turn, also, very obediently. Someone whistled at the back of the room.
The two jotnar spun around to see who had whistled at the back of the room.
A chorus of whistles, then . . .
. . .but Bithbal did not really see what happened then. The door closed behind the strangers and the room erupted in deafening booms of mirth. Bithbal stared across at Krat, who was laughing, and Birg, who had turned as pale as pack ice.
So maybe Birg had suffered the same delusion he had. Sensing the customers’ change of mood, the waiters all hurried over to the cage to get more beer, and Bithbal never did ask Krat to tell him exactly what had really happened.
What he thought he’d seen was the two jotnar leap forward to start the rumble. And then . . . then it had seemed as if the weedy elf boy moved even faster and took both of them from behind, by the scruffs of their necks . . .
And stopped them in their tracks? . . . turned them around?
. . .and pushed them out the door ahead of him? God of Madness!
When he eased his bruises into bed around dawn, Bithbal discovered that he was strangely unable to sleep. He soon decided that his buzzing ear must be worse than he’d thought, and might even need a little peace and quiet to heal.
He pulled on his boots, slung his bindle on his shoulder, and departed—by way of the window, as he was slightly behind in the rent. He swaggered along the harborfront till he found the whaler that was hiring. The bosun offered a hand to shake and Bithbal won, so they took him on. He made his mark in the log and sailed with the tide.
Sailor Bithbal lived to a fair age, but he never again dropped anchor in Noom. And he never again had anything to do with elves.
3
The two legionaries still gleamed in the torchlight like bronze statues, flanking the entrance to the Enchanted Glade. With a sigh of relief, Arth’quith tiptoed back around the comer to the inner vestibule, silent on opulent carpet.
He had been afraid that the boors might have slipped away while he was busy with the guests, not watching. And they were boors, too! They had come an hour early in the filthiest armor he had ever seen, and they had eaten four meals apiece while his already overworked staff polished it up for them. Parasites! But of course they expected to be stroked like everyone else, and at least he had not had to shell out money for them. The senator had thrown in guards as part of his contribution. Big, impressive types, too, if your taste ran to imps, or beef. Arth’quith’s did not, but the apes were a sensible and necessary precaution.
He winced at a twinge of dyspepsia. The doctors had warned him to avoid excitement, but an artist must pursue his art. Arth’quith gazed lovingly into the main dining room—only his third night in business, and every table filled! Gold plate reflecting blazing chandeliers . . . the finest elvish orchestra in Noom serenading discreetly in the corner . . . sumptuously dressed women dancing with rich, fat men. Mostly imps, alas. It was a tragedy that so few elves would ever be able to afford his prices. Odors of the best food in all South Pithmot Province mingling with heady flower scents. Fine fabrics, shiny wood, damask like fresh snow on the tables . . .
All his life Arth’ had dreamed of owning his own restaurant, an establishment of class and taste. How proud Mother would have been of what he had achieved! With the theater crowd here now, there was not a vacant seat in the house.