Halfway down the square, Malkin turned suddenly and ducked into a low doorway. Hanging out over the door was a carved wooden sign depicting a rampant and wildly concupiscent pig, its head turned sideways and its tongue thrust out. The hooves, tongue and other parts were picked out in gold leaf, now faded to a mellow brown. Whether through lack of skill or excess of it, the sign carver had turned the conventional heraldic pose into a gesture of pornographic defiance.
Wiz ducked through the doorway and nearly fell headfirst down the short flight of uneven stone stairs that led into the room.
The place was long, narrow and mostly dark. The reek of old beer and stale urine told Wiz it was a tavern even before his eyes adjusted well enough to see the barrels stacked along one wall. A few mutton-tallow lamps added more stench than light to the scene, and here and there the fading rays of the sun peeked through cracks in the bricks. The three or four patrons scattered around at the rough tables and benches all possessed a mien that did not encourage casual acquaintance and a manner that made Wiz want to stay as far away from them as possible. The only one who paid any attention to the newcomers was the barkeep, a big man in a dirty white smock who looked them up and down and then went back to picking his teeth with a double-edged dagger.
It was definitely not the kind of drinking establishment Wiz was used to. There wasn’t a fern in sight, although Wiz thought he detected a smear of moss growing out of a seep of moisture on one wall.
Malkin put her hands on her hips, looked around and breathed a deep, contented sigh. She plopped herself down on the nearest bench and bellowed for the barkeep.
“Hi, Cully! Jacks of your best for me and the wizard here.” The big man grunted acknowledgement and turned to his barrels. It seemed Malkin was known, if not welcomed, in this place.
“Come here often?” Wiz asked casually.
“Often enough. The Prancing Pig’s the place to be if you want to meet folks in the Bog Side.”
Glancing around, Wiz couldn’t imagine going up to anyone in this place and asking him his sign.
Cully slapped down two leather mugs before them. From the stuff that slopped on the table Wiz could see the contents were beer. He picked his up and took a sip. It was thick, potent and flavored with some kind of bitter herb besides hops. The pine pitch used to seal the leather gave it a resiny aftertaste. Wiz was no judge of beer, but the stuff wasn’t bad.
“This is the real city,” Malkin said. “The folks down here don’t put on airs and there’s none of that social scramble and bicker, bicker, bicker you get on the other side of the bridge. Folks in the Bog Side stick together.”
“When they’re not slitting each others’ throats you mean.”
Malkin shrugged. “That’s in the way of business.” She took a long pull on her mug and slapped it down with a lusty sigh.
Wiz followed with a smaller pull on his tankard. “That reminds me. Those big buildings on this side of the river. Are those warehouses?”
Malkin shrugged. “Some were. A long time ago. Farmers’d bring in wool. Some of it would be spun and woven here and more would be traded downriver as it was.”
“What happened?”
Malkin looked at him as if he was a touch slow. “Dragons is what happened. You can’t grow much wool when there’s dragons using your flocks as a lunch counter, not to mention snapping up the crew of a riverboat or two. The farmers still graze sheep, but there’s not so much wool as there used to be. Not so many come to buy, either.”
It made sense, Wiz thought as he took another pull on the oddly flavored beer. Dragons matured slowly and few survived to adulthood. But in a place with little natural magic there was nothing to threaten an adult dragon and they lived a very long time. Over the centuries there would be a slow, steady increase in population and that would mean more dragons to bedevil their human neighbors.