Seen In Agate

Sst. 441, Athk. Fae. Contents: Lecture on the Properties of Liquorice Root by the hon. Prof. Avicenna Status: Active in public service.

The world melted. There was a violent jolt in my stomach like the process of metamorphosis, when the innards always insist on changing a half-second before the rest of the body follows.

And then I was standing in a dimly lit bar-room, and a burly half-elf was scowling at me. "Where has that smug snake got to now?"

I opened my mouth to say, "Duncan, the smug snake is standing two foot away from you counting your nose-hairs. Are you planning on going into horticulture?"

Instead, I heard the unmistakably gravelly tones of a dwarf come from somewhere much further down my throat than normal. "A tankard of the local. There aren't any cloves in it, are there? I can't abide all that fancy slime with cloves and fruit in it."

A voice came from behind me. From slightly too close for comfort behind me, though two feet higher. "I saw him slip off to his little rat-trap over the way."

Duncan briefly pulled his scowl into a over-friendly smile. "One moment, good sir." The smile vanished. "Curse him. He's almost as shifty as you, Bishop."

"Took you long enough to notice. You did know he's from Luskan, right? Keep your eye on him, if you can."

"And another on you. Sure."

"No eyes in the back of your head. But for now, I'd just worry about the elf. He'll be selling pessaries to the mademoiselles for the rest of the evening. Good to know he takes your niece's case seriously, isn't it?"

I felt annoyed. I wanted a tankard of strong beer, and a comely young lass with just a dusting of blonde hair on her upper lip. I also – the real me – wanted to vomit slightly at the very idea. But the real me was the shadow of a dream within a dream.

The idea of kicking up a fuss occurred to me. I had spikes on the toes of my tough leather boots, which usually made kicking up anything an efficient and entertaining policy. This barman, however, and the voice from above – I realized it could go badly. So I calmed myself by jangling the coins in my purse in as meaningful a way as I could manage. It worked, more or less.

"Get out of here, Bishop," the barman growled through the side of his mouth, before glancing back to me. "A keg of beer coming right up, no cloves, no olives, no little lace parasols. You sit yourself down and the house's very own apprentice barmaid in training will bring you your order." He turned to bawl down the corridor to my left. "Qara! Where in all the hells are you? Qara! Out or I triple your rent, starting now."

"She's as thick as dead kobold,"said Bishop, still unseen, and, for my lucky host, ever to remain so."But even she knows that three times nothing is still nothing." Something heavy patted my shoulder. I bristled. "Your good health, dwarf. Enjoy the last of it."

My fist swung the rest of me round in a powerful semi-circle. I was expecting to make contact with the bastard's gut. What I hit was thin air, pure thin air, and as I staggered and grasped the bar to regain my balance, the tavern door slammed shut. My face flushed. I was happy that none of my mates from the wharves were there to see me. It had been hard enough to live down the duck trafficking incident.

The thick-necked barkeep had noticed nothing. "Qara!" he yelled again. I held my shoulders straight, and walked in the direction of the darkest corner of the tavern.

"Nice try, little one," a big brute chortled to me as he passed by with a cold meat platter for his friends, a gang of half-orcs and other scum. "That one ain't for you nor no one alive. Mask's own sweet son is Bishop."

I thought hard about the daggers strapped to my left thigh, and stumped onwards to the gloomy corner table. I hoped that its legs wouldn't be wonky.

They were. I couldn't even rest my elbows on the damn table without getting seasick. It was that kind of day. Shit morning, shit afternoon, and now a shit evening in a docks shithole with asymmetrical shitting furniture.

I really wanted my beer. Not that there was any sign of it coming any time soon. The barman left the tavern hurriedly, and his place at the tap was taken by a human female with a lot of red fuzz on top of her head. She was probably young. It's not easy to tell with humans. They all look like massive skinny bairnies with hair like feather-down and noses like squashed gooseberries.

At least she was drawing ale from the barrels. She took a deep sniff at one of the tankards and screwed up her gooseberry nose. Then she had a swig of the contents, and screwed up her plump bairnie face. Didn't seem to like the taste one bit, bless her.

I started to carve a geometric representation of a Kara-Turan Spotted Duck into the gnarled surface of the table. Difficult, since it kept rattling up and down and shaking my hand as I worked on the patterns on the wings and crest. Prettiest waterfowl in all the planes.

Clank.

"Come and have a suck on my beer tap, luv."

Clank.

"Give us a smile, darling."

Clank.

"Just bend over again. Not too flat are you?"

Clank.

A tankard had landed in front of me. Most of the beer was still inside. "Thank you, lass."

This girl – Qara? - really was young. Like all red heads, she had pale skin; the furious blush on her cheeks was glowing like blood on fresh snow. If I had a daughter her age, she wouldn't be allowed into a tavern on her own. She wouldn't be allowed out on her own until at least thirty. Humans don't know how to look after their children in these sprawling cities.

Qara blinked. "Er – you're welcome." She stalked away.

Clank.

"You'd look better if you smiled, honey."

Clank.

I noticed that the group of orcish louts, still waiting to be served, were mumbling charms to themselves. After a few seconds, the skin of each was illuminated with some kind of protection spell. One of them was wrapping an enchanted cloak around his shoulders. Another had his hands clasped, his eyes closed in apparent prayer. I tugged at my beard plaits, and looked back at the barmaid. In her little white paw of a hand, the metal casing of a tankard had turned white. The beer inside was steaming.

Oh.

I put away my pocket knife, and laid my two daggers out on the table. Just in case.

Clank.

"This beer is too hot." Cut-glass consonants. Loud, carrying voice. Stupid clothes. Pea brain. It could only be some nobleman's son out for a bit of rough. "Take it away. I ordered a tankard of cold ale."

"Get it yourself."

"I am paying your wages, waitress."

"You think I care? Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do?" Qara laughed brashly, recklessly. A big laugh for a human female. The whole tavern had stopped its business to listen to her. She seemed to enjoy it, shooting glances around the room to make sure she had everyone's full attention.

"You're a silly little hussy, is what you are, with confoundedly ill manners."

She tossed her head. "And you're about to be the barbecue du jour. You chose the wrong one to pick on. I'm not just some useless dockside trollop."

"We'll see about -"

And she tipped two pints of boiling hot ale mixed with melted pewter over his unprotected head. He screamed. Then he sobbed. Then he screamed again. The girl watched him all the while with large eyes, fascinated. Bubbles rose and popped in the droplets of beer that fell to the floor from his foaming hair.

"Get her, imbeciles," he said, waving to the three big fellows at the table nearest him. They rose up, hands on the sword-hilts. I went for my daggers automatically. All over the tavern, ready for trouble, the clientèle were producing clubs, knives, spikes and knuckle-dusters.

Qara spread her arms out wide, palms upward, like a priest of Moradin. Blue and green flames wound round her wrists, and on and up towards the rafters. "Try anything, and I'll bring the ceiling down on your heads."

The flames burnt more strongly. Shitting holy mercy, she meant every word.

I held my breath. Ten, nine, eight – I counted. If I got as far as one, I reckoned the men would back down. Seven – six – five – four – three – two -

They drew their swords.

"Qara, what by every devil in the nine hells do you think you are doing?" The barkeep was standing in the door. He had an elf mage with him, and a couple of humans in armour. A vein in his neck pulsed as he spoke. I was envious. I've been trying to get my neck to do that for years.

She dropped her hands and shifted uneasily. "I was just -"

"You haven't finished working off what you owe me for the last load of criminal damage," he growled. "Just sit down, will you?" he said to the bodyguards. They sat down.

It was as if the tension had been pricked with a pin. The customers looked at their weapons with expressions ranging from mild surprise to regret. Most stowed them away, while a few were already laughing amongst themselves, and smiling at the raw and trembling member of the nobility.

"What did this unfortunate do, Qara?" said the elf mage, crossing to room to stand by the broiled, sobbing aristocrat. "Refuse to do your homework for you? Try to teach you to read?"

"These cretins had to learn who they were dealing with. They treated me as if I was - ."

" - a barmaid? How dreadful." His voice dripped in fake sympathy. I hate that breed of elf. Smarmy buggers. Think they know it all, and they haven't got a clue. "Oh, but wait. You live in a tavern, have resisted all attempts to educate you into someone socially useful, and can't count well enough to know when your clientèle are cheating you. You are a barmaid!"

"What is it you do that's so marvellous, then? Make creams for the local tramps. Do they let you rub it in yourself if you give them a discount?"

The elf laughed. "If that's the worst you can imagine about me, Qara, you should thank your stars. Reality will hurt when it arrives at the gate of your little mental play-pen."

"I could -"

"Not now, Sand," snapped the barkeep, as the girl-witch began to swell again with anger. "Qara, get to your room. Before you burn down the whole damn city." She went. With bad grace, and much stomping, but she went. Unbelievable. Strange people, sorcerers.

I re-sheathed my daggers, shrugged. But my yen for a quiet few hours with a lass on my knee and a drink in my hand had vanished. My blood was up. All that fuss had made me feel alive. I jumped onto my chair. "You!" I roared as loud as I could, willing my neck to do its duty. "Half-orc son of a dog prostitute prick-licker. What are you looking at, coward?"

The big brute in the cloak of protection stood up. He had tusks. When he saw me, he lowered them. He actually seemed to be scraping the floor with his right boot. I beckoned him over with my index finger. His friends stood up. In the corner of my eye, I could see the barkeep put his head in his hands.

I was beginning to like this tavern. It was going to be a memorable night...