wishing to alert my feminine benefactor to my realization, I added, “It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”
It took bare minutes to free the terrified Pisspot from the very large sack that imprisoned him and an interminable few minutes more to get him to stop groveling.
We quickly gained the streets of Waterdeep at which point the rotund thespian sped off in search of a bar where he would no doubt soon be bragging about his latest adventure. Kitten and I set off to claim a new piece of the puzzle that was my past, the taste of unnecessary death still fresh in my mind as well as new suspicions about whom I could really trust.
Darkly, Through A Glass of Ale
The sun sank into a golden haze of clouds and dark
“Who seeks entry into the Free City of Tharkar?” inquired one in a bored tone, as he grounded his halberd by his side.
The driver of the cart coughed and shook his head, clearing the dust from his eyes and throat. “I am Necht of the Free City of Whitevale. This,” he said, gesturing to his companion, “is Avarilous, a merchant of Ulgarth, with goods to sell.”
“What nature of goods?” The guard yawned.
“Fifty kegs of ale for the Tavern of the Tall Tankard,” said the driver.
The guard, coming more awake than he had been all day, stepped back a pace and whistled loudly. From the long evening shadows of the gate behind him emerged the chief guard, a rotund fellow barely contained in his stretching chainmail. The chief glanced at his fellows and chuckled, turning his attention to the passenger.
“Well, Avarilous of Ulgarth, as you’re doubtless aware, none pass into Tharkar without paying tax.”
“Tax?” The merchant stared angrily at the guard. The driver put a hand on his companion’s shoulder and whispered urgently, but Avarilous shrugged him off. “There’s no entry tax. I paid for an import permit and for a scroll of sales submission. They cost me enough.”
The fat guard stepped a pace nearer. Sweat streamed down his face, dripping onto the rolls of flesh that surrounded his neck. From the corner of his mouth came a tiny dribble of dark juice; he had been chewing kalava leaves, a mild narcotic that, while technically illegal, were nonetheless widely available in the Free Cities. He rested a hand casually on his sword.
“This is a new tax,” he grunted. “A special tax on Ulgarthan slime-dogs. It comes to exactly two kegs of ale. And since you’re so anxious to pay it”-he glanced back at the other guards and grinned-”you can get down from there and unload the kegs yourself.”
Avarilous stared at the dirty faces of the gate watch and snorted contemptuously. The driver descended into the roadway and smiled ingratiatingly at the guard. “You’ll forgive my employer, sir,” he said. “He’s new to the Five Kingdoms, and our ways.”
Without moving his eyes from Avarilous, the guard brought his fist around in a smashing blow that knocked the driver on his back five feet away. Blood spilled from his lips and ran down his chin. The guard smiled at Avarilous, showing all his teeth. “Well, slime-dog?”
The merchant hesitated and glanced at the driver, who sat up in the white dust of the road, wiping his mouth. A subtle signal seemed to pass between the two men. Avarilous climbed from his seat and, going around the wagon, unhitched the back flap. He quickly rolled out two of the barrels, setting them upright on the ground, and refastened the wooden flap. He began to walk back to the front of the wagon, but the guard hadn’t finished his game.
“Just a minute,” he growled. “Let’s see if you’re paying this tax in good coin. Leethron, get a spout to tap this keg.”
One of the other watchmen disappeared into a narrow recess in the wall, then reemerged a moment later with a tap and mallet. Swiftly, with the air of one well accustomed to such duty, he tapped the keg and, taking a dirty tin cup from one of the other guardsmen, filled it full of the frothy ale and passed it to his chief.
The head of the watch took a long draught, then looked at the merchant and smiled soapily.
“Pig’s piss. That’s what this is. But what do you expect from the hogs of Ulgarth? They’ve nothing to do all day but brew foul-smelling rot-gut like this.” He chuckled. “Here, merchant, you try some of this swill.”
He held the glass toward Avarilous, but as the latter reached for it, the captain suddenly upended it and poured the ale onto the ground while his other hand, holding a blade, came up to Avarilous’s throat. “Well, merchant, go on. Drink up.”
Avarilous gave him a disbelieving look and stared at the muddy spot on the ground. The driver, who had regained his feet, started forward with a cry, choked off as one of the other guards clamped a hand round his throat. Another, coming up behind the merchant, gave the back of his knees a violent kick, knocking him to all fours. The captain thrust his foot on the smaller man’s neck, pushing his head down. “Drink, Ulgarthan pig!”
There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the watch. Avarilous twisted away and came to his feet, mud splashed around his mouth, streaking his cheeks. With as much dignity as he could muster he remounted his wagon and sat still, waiting for his driver. The man from Whitevale hastily climbed into his place and shook the reins. They drove down the winding street and out of sight. The guards laughed scornfully, then the captain thrust his glass at his lieutenant. “Here, lad. I’m off for the evening. Where did that fool say he was going?”
“The Tall Tankard?”
“Aye. Well, maybe I’ll seek him out there and make him pay another tax.”
Avarilous and his companion proceeded through the streets of Tharkar in silence for some moments. Silent groups of heavily armed men glared suspiciously at the wagon from arched doorways. Avarilous took no notice of them; he was well aware of the tense stalemate that existed between the Five Kingdoms, whose rulers jealously guarded their most powerful magical items. The bloodforges allowed them to conjure armies to defend against attacks from fiends and from each other. In the Utter East, temporary, armed truce was the status quo.
The oncoming evening was hot, and steam rose from the horses’ flanks. After passing a few streets, the merchant cleared his throat. “How is your mouth, Necht?”
The driver shrugged and touched the blood crusted on his lip. “Could be worse.” He turned to Avarilous. “But you really must be more careful, sir. This isn’t Ulgarth, and our ways aren’t yours. The gate watch almost always steals from goods wagons, especially those from Ulgarth.”
The merchant nodded humbly. “I see. I’ll try to do better in future.”
He sank into a thoughtful silence, broken by Necht asking him, “Just what are you selling, sir?” Avarilous glanced at him, surprised. Necht, looking resolutely ahead, continued, “Mind, it’s really none of my business, but if you’re planning to get me into any more fights, I think I should know what’s going on.” He turned from the road and looked his employer full in the face. “So what’s really in the barrels?”
Avarilous gave him a look of astonishing blandness. “Why, ale, of course. Just what we told those louts at the gate.”
Necht shrugged and shook the reins again. “Whatever you say, sir. Ale’s as good a story as anything else.”
There was a moment of silence between the two men. Avarilous glanced sideways at his companion, then cleared his throat. “Just in case something does happen, though, I’d much appreciate a pair of eyes at my back.” He stared hard at Necht, who grinned back cheerfully.
Necht swung his wagon into the courtyard of the Tavern of the Tall Tankard and leaped easily from his seat. The merchant descended more slowly, as befitted his greater age and weight. In the dark beneath the stars, his
