When Alfric woke, it was still night. Was he at the end of his dragon-fighting night? Or had he slept right through the day to the start of a new night? He could not say, for clouds obscured the sky, denying him the timetelling stars. Regardless of how long he might have slept, he felt weary, his body aching like a resurrected carcass. Pain still dwelt in his dragon-scorched hands, and to this annoyance was added a pressing hunger which he had no means of satisfying.
Hunger-driven, Alfric resumed his journey, at length passing between the Stanch Gates and entering Galsh Ebrek. Then he stopped in the nightmud street, momentarily unsure of how to cope with his many conflicting priorities. He wanted to rest, to eat and to drink; he wanted, also, to signal his success to Saxo Pall; and he should by rights report his successful return to the Bank.
Very well.
He was a Yudonic Knight, was he not?
Of course he was!
With that settled, Alfric backtracked to the Stanch Gates and acted like the Knight he was. He ordered one of the guards to the Bank to deliver a message, and directed another man to take a despatch to Saxo Pall.
‘My lord,’ said one of the men so commanded, ‘where will we look for you if there is a reply to your messages?’
Alfric considered. He didn’t want common guardsmen tramping into his own house.
‘You can leave any reply to my messages at the Green Cricket,’ he said.
A good choice, this, since Anna Blaume was a reliable holder of messages, and since Alfric meant to call round to the inn in any case to check on the progress of the orks.
With duties of communication thus satisfactorily discharged, Alfric took himself off to his own house, where he hoped a meal would be waiting for him. But it was not. Nothing was waiting for him. Not even his wife. Alfric foraged for food, eventually finding and consuming two (cold) baked potatoes and a cup of (equally cold) half- cooked moon beans. Then he went in search of his missing spouse: but his enquiries were fruitless.
What now?
Why, he must go to the Green Cricket, of course, to see if there were any messages for him.
When Alfric entered that insalubrious inn, he found a great many people within. But the place was not lively, for most of the patrons were in a near-corpse-like state in the aftermath of a party. What had occasioned such celebrations? Alfric did not ask. He was near collapse: though he knew not whether the cause of his suffering was indigestion, fatigue or emotional stress.
‘Hello Alfric,’ said the ork Morgenstem, addressing him from behind the bar. ‘How are you?’
‘Not very well,’ said Alfric. ‘Where’s Anna?’
‘In bed,’ said Morgenstem.
Alfric had taste enough not to ask: who with? Instead, he said to Morgenstem:
‘What puts you behind the bar? A career change?’
‘No, no,’ said Morgenstem.’ ‘I like it here.’
‘Good,’ said Alfric, for the sake of politeness. ‘Has anyone been here tonight?’
‘All kinds of people,’ said Morgenstem. ‘Many of them yet remain.’
So saying, the ork gestured at the sleeping drunks. ‘That’s not wh at I meant,’ said Alfric. ‘I meant messengers.’
‘You didn’t say messengers,’ said Morgenstem.
‘I say it now,’ said Alfric, resisting an impulse to hit the soft and blubbery animal. ‘Has anyone been here tonight? With a message, I mean? A message for me? Or a letter, a scroll, a parchment, a despatch, or anything else for me for that matter?’
‘No,’ said Morgenstem.
So much for that.
Alfric wondered what the orks were still doing at the Green Cricket. Had Tromso Stavenger refused them lodgings in Saxo Pall? Or had they proved too timid to present their diplomatic credentials to the Wormlord? Or- Earlier, he had been most curious to discover the fate which had met the orkish Embassy; but his weariness had increased considerably since then. He decided it was best that he stay resolutely uninvolved. He had enough to cope with on his own account without getting involved in any actual or potential diplomatic disasters.
‘Give me a beer,’ said Alfric.
‘Certainly,’ said Morgenstem. ‘If you’ve got the cash.’ ‘Put it on the slate,’ said Alfric.
‘You have one?’
‘Of course,’ said Alfric. ‘I come here often.’
The ork hunted around among the slates, found Alfric’s, chalked up a beer. Alfric took it to a seat by the fire and drank slowly. He felt oddly deflated and depressed. Maybe it was just the result of so much nightliving.
‘How did your quest go?’ said Morgenstem, who was polishing the bar.
Alfric looked up.
‘So-so,’ he said.
‘Did you kill your dragon?’
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘But I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same with you.’
Thereafter Morgenstem left him alone. Alfric drank in silence, watching a band of untunchilamons making warfaring forays from the fireplace. Time and again the miniature dragons descended on slumbering drunks, raiding hair and clothing for whatever livestock they could find. Occasionally, in an excess of enthusiasm, a dragon singed human skin while crisping a hapless louse: which occasioned some sleepy swearing and ineffectual dragon- swatting.
In due course, Alfric started on a second beer. An unusual procedure, this, for he usually stopped at one. Alfric Danbrog valued self-control above all else, and feared ill consequences should he ever lose his grip on his will thanks to alcoholic intoxication.
The self-controlled banker was halfway through his second mug when a woman came down the stairs. Anna Blaume? No. Viola Vanaleta!
‘Viola!’ said Alfric, upsetting his mug as he started to his feet.
The woman momentarily looked startled, but recovered her poise almost immediately.
‘Why, Alfric,’ she said, coolly, ‘what a surprise. What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you, as it happens,’ said Alfric.
‘Are you?’ said Vanaleta. She turned to Morgenstem and said: ‘Did he ask after me when he came in?’
The ork looked uneasy.
‘Well?’ said Vanaleta. ‘I take it we can say your silence means no. Alfric, you didn’t come here to look for me. You came to get drunk.’
‘If I did,’ said Alfric, ‘such is my privilege. Just as it is my privilege, or should be, to return to my own home in every confidence of finding my wife in residence within.’ ‘You have lost yourself that privilege,’ said Vanaleta. At this stage the appropriate question was: why?
But Alfric did not ask this question, hence remained unenlightened. Instead he said:
‘I don’t like the tone of your voice. Let’s go home and sort this out.’
‘Home?’ said Vanaleta. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you.’
‘Your abstraklous contumely ill befits you,’ said Alfric coldly. ‘You are my wife. My handmaiden.’
After that, things went from bad to worse.
Both Alfric Danbrog and Viola Vanaleta were in moods most unreasonable. Alfric because he was suffering from fatigue, and from a murderer’s guilt, and from fear of his uncertain future. Vanaleta because she believed Alfric to be in the process of divorcing her, and thought his intemperate attempt to command her to be most unreasonable. Finally, Alfric was roused to such an anger that he tried to use force on his woman.
All things being equal, Alfric would have overwhelmed Vanaleta and would have dragged her home in triumph. But things were not equal. Before Alfric knew it, two dwarves had joined the battle. Du Deiner had him by the ankle while Mich Dir was doing his best to apply a stranglehold.
‘Unhand me, you filthy ablach!’ said Alfric, trying to kick away Du and claw away Mich.
He was still trying when two more people came down the stairs: Anna Blaume and Cod the ork. Shortly, Alfric found himself being set upon by one ork, two women and a pair of dwarves: a state of affairs which left him with no option except to surrender.
