though it was as thick as the perennial fog-but because they were both aware
that the walls were the most porous part of the palace and that nothing private
should be said in their shadow. They continued in silence, Tempus leading,
through the better pans of town into the Maze and toward the Vulgar Unicom
where, improbably enough, privacy was sacred.
“I’d leave that picture wherever you’ve hidden it if I were you, priest,” Tempus
warned after he’d bellowed their orders toward the bar,
“Certainly it would be cleaner if the little ginger-man had painted a simpler
picture. I gather he’s had more problems with things coming to life. He claims
not to know at all what happens when his paintings cease to exist.”
Molin looked at a recently replastered section of the wall, still noticeably
less grimy than the rest and completely unmarked by grafitti or knife gouges.
Lalo had painted the soul of the tavern there once and a score of people had
died before it had been laid to rest again. Both men were thinking about the
painter’s unpredictable art when a warty, gray arm thrust between them.
“Good beer. Special beer for the gentlemen^” the wall-eyed bouncer with the
garish orange hair said with a smile that revealed corroded, and not quite
human, teeth.
Tempus froze and Molin, whose aplomb was sturdier, took the mugs.
“A fiend, I should think. Not quite what Brachis and his entourage will be
expecting when they order a drink. If we’re lucky they’ll blame it on the beer,”
Molin commented as the acid, lifeless brew crossed his lips.