forwards, intending to intimidate the weasel from his perch, but thought better
of the move. His affairs in the Maze demanded discretion, not reckless bullying.
From a lesser location he signalled the bartender. No honest wench would work
the Unicorn so Buboe himself brought the foaming mug, then returned a moment
later with one of the Enii-bar oranges he had arranged behind the counter.
Walegrin broke the peel with his thumbnail; the red juice ran through the ridges
of the peel forming patterns not unlike those on his pottery shard.
A one-armed beggar with a scarred face and a pendulant, cloudy eye sidled into
the Unicorn, careful to avoid the disapproving glance of Buboe. As the ragged
creature moved from table to table collecting copper pittance from the disturbed
patrons, Walegrin noted the tightly wound tunic under his rags and knew the left
arm was as good as the one that was snapping up the coins. Likewise, the scar
was a self-induced disfigurement and the yellow rheum running down his cheek the
result of seeds placed under his eyelids. The beggar announced his arrival at
Walegrin’s table with a tortured wheeze. Without looking up Walegrin tossed him
a silver coin. He had run with the beggars himself and seen their cunning deceit
become crippling reality many times too often.
Buboe split the last accessible louse in his copious beard between his grimy
fingernails, looked up, and noticed the beggar, whom he threw into the street.
He shuffled a few more mugs of beer to his patrons, then returned to the never