The Walrus and the Warwolf

So saying, the sucker-fool grabbed Drake by the collar.

Whereupon Drake slid his hand slick and swift between the sucker-fool's garments, grabbing him by the testicles. 'Wah!' said the fool, in alarm.

'Hush!' said Drake, squeezing slightly. 'Or I'll cripple you for life. Walk. Quiet like. Down that alleyway.'

Walking on tip-toe, the hapless fool obeyed. The alleyway opened onto a deserted mews. There Drake did his bit for international relations by teaching his Selzirk sucker-fool why he should respect King Tor and his hard-fisted minions.

After which Drake climbed onto the roof of a warehouse and sat there, brooding as he watched the ferrymen taking the soldiers across the broad reach of the river. So many soldiers! King Tor was done for. Drake was upset. Close, indeed, to crying. That morning, everything had looked so sweet. And now?

Man, this is rough.

What should he do? Three ambassadors had talked sweet for Tor, and had ended up getting torn to pieces for their troubles. Could Drake do better?

I'm smarter, surely. The fastest tongue this side of Chi'ash-lan, I reckon. If anyone could talk things right for Tor, it's me, surely. But the time for talk looks to have gone. Aye. But if I wanted to try?

If Drake chose to try talking things right for Tor, his first step would have to be to learn who the rulers of Selzirk were. But was it wise to ask questions?

Man, I can't question without risk. What happens if I'm named as Lord Dreldragon? Lord Dreldragon, beloved of Tor, heir to Stokos? Likely it'll be head-chopping time. Or I'll conceal my nobility, yet get killed anyway, as a common bandit.

It don't look too good, does it? Not now. But might look better if the army gets, a bloody nose. Aye. Army stuff, that's full of risk. Weather and such. Disease. Mutiny. Folks hot in temper don't talk too sweet. I reckon these – in Selzirk have got their blood up. Aye. Hot for the kill. But if their army gets pounded in Hok, they'll talk different then.Thus Drake came to a decision.

If the army of Selzirk returned from Hok defeated, mauled by Tor or decimated by the standard hazards of campaigning, then Drake would make discreet inquiries, with a view to determining whether it was safe for him to proclaim his royal status. Till then, he would have to shift for himself as best he could, hiding both his nationality and his nobility.

It's right hard being a prince in exile. Aye. A prince, having to live in the gutters. That doesn't sound right. Bui I'll have to bear with it for the while, if I'm to be king on Stokos. So what do I need? Bed and board. Aye. Work and eats. And how to find that?

Well. Go where there's talk, that's the way to start. Aye. For certain. A lesson here, isn't it? I was too close to my misery, back in Kelebes. Should have gone into the town more often earlier. Might have heard rumour sooner. Might have got to Selzirk in time to talk away the war. Talk, that's the thing! To know what the talk is! Well.Live and learn.

And now? Search talk!

So thinking, Drake scrambled down off the roof of his warehouse. If he'd found no shelter by nightfall he'd return there to sleep. Cold, yes, but sleeping at ground level might be rash in this big and evil city.

Searching for talk, Drake soon enough found himself a tavern. Alcohol, he knew, would do him no good – and no bad, either. Nevertheless, a tavern was the place to be. There, people would gladly keep him company and tell him – he was sure – the things he needed to survive.

The tavern he found was a cedar-built beer-barn filled with bodies mostly male, some for sale but most not, and with the wuthering uproar of a hundred upraised voices, and with the smells of sweat, porter, lager beer, arak, gin and zythum.

The denizens of this murky boozing hole, practical worshippers of the Demon to a man (whether they knew it or not), were mostly drunk, and were mostly talking Churl. Not the High Churl of the upper classes, or the City Churl of the commons, or any of the coarse country dialects known collectively as Field Churl, but a thieves' cant which named itself as Shurlspurl. Not one in a thousand upright citizens could have followed their conversations.

Drake elbowed his way between thief and fence, pimp and pad, and a dozen types of lout, loon, hoon and ruffian. He shoved past a cly-faker, scrattling away at a yuke while keeping conversation with a burly brute who might have been the city slave-brander or the public executioner.

'Shanema chovea,' said a man curtly, as Drake jostled past.'Up yours!' said Drake.

And pressed on through the babbling gloom to the bar, where he slapped down a coin and said, in Galish: 'Wine.'

Wine was served to him. He breathed in its bouquet, which made him cough. He poked a finger into the liquid, feeling for sediment. There was no sediment to speak of, but for half a broken tooth, which Drake hoicked out of his mug and discarded to the dogs which were snouting about at floor-level.'A good drop, doubtless,' he said.

And sipped at the wine, which was warm. A dog stuck its head into his lap, and looked at him with adoring eyes.

'In love with me, are you?' said Drake, scratching the dog behind the ears. 'Well, I'm pretty to look at, I know that proper. If I'm not fixed otherwise, you can sleep with me tonight.'

But, when Drake came up with no hound-pleasing tidbits, his dog went begging elsewhere.'Bugger you, then!' said Drake.

'Speaks Galish, does it? said something approximating to a face.'Aye,' said Drake staunchly. 'That it does.''And what might its business be? Pretty or ugly?' 'Ugly,' said Drake. 'Very ugly.' 'Blood on the blade, then?' 'Maybe,' he said.

'Are you pad, then? Or does it jugulate for hire, perhaps?''My business is to dare,' said Drake.

'Then where has it been daring, out in the big bold world with its iron and its ugly?'

'Aagh, after dragons and such,' said Drake. 'Aye, hunting basilisk at dusk and phoenix at dawn.'

'Sounds famous work. So are you famous? Should I know your name? Is it Git the Rape, by chance? Or Surly Cock-cutter?''My name is not for the unnamed,' said Drake.'Why, as for me,' said the stranger, T be Fimp.''Then I be Fimp-friend,' said Drake. 'Happy?''Always happy, lover. Always.'

Nearing the end of the wine, Drake drank slowly, straining out the lees as best he could with his teeth. He was right – there was virtually no sediment. Only a few dozen soft black things looking like tealeaves. An excellent wine, then. Cheap at twice the price. A pity he couldn't get drunk on it.

'What does it need?' said Fimp. 'Is it looking for help, by chance? Someone to idle and oxter it, maybe? Does it need to make money?'

'It might make some through sale,' said Drake, wondering if Fimp's purse was fat or thin. 'But not sale of itself.'

'Has treasure, has it? From adventures, perhaps? Ah … I vum you've treasure indeed, yes, riches fit to make the heart quop faster.'

'Something of the sort,' said Drake. 'But not with me. It's a Door, aye, to wealth of all description.''Oh yes!''Really. I've got a … a sample of the wealth with me.' 'Show.''Buy me a drink,' said Drake. 'Then I'll show.'

He assessed the stranger's purse as the fellow paid out for a shot of quetsch. That was strong stuff, but Fimp bought for himself a jug of oxymel, which Drake had seen in other places, and knew to be a drink as mild as water.'What have we bought then, me pretty one?''Sight only,' said Drake. 'No touching.'

And he pulled out the magic talking amulet which he had won in a Wishing Tower in Ling after a battle with a ferocious Guardian Machine and an encounter with a deserted skeleton and an invisible door.

'What have you got there, me younker?' said Fimp, as Drake held up the magic medallion by its necklace- chain of smoothflowing black links.

'Something precious,' said Drake, speaking so soft that Fimp could hardly hear him for the background babble. 'Something rare.'

Fimp stared at the cool, glossy lozenge of silver-splashed black with greedy eyes.

'What's that silver on the black, youngling? Stars, is it? A golden sun on one side, yes, and – oh, this I must see!'Drake snatched the amulet away as Fimp grabbed for it.'Sight only!' he warned.

'Where did it come from, then?' said Fimp. 'A lady's throat, perhaps?'