“No,” he told himself. “Not this time.” There were a thousand reasons not to get involved and not a single good one to do so. Not. A. Single. One. And yet…“Shit,” he muttered. “You damned bastard.”
“What did you call me?” Palla demanded.
“Wait, what?” Chall asked, realizing he’d forgotten the woman was there at all, thinking maybe it was time he gave up drinking. “No, not—forget it.”
She snorted. “That shouldn’t be too hard,” she said, shooting a pointed look at his stomach and down past it where the covers had been draped over his waist, covering his member—not that hard a task, he had to admit. A doily would have served well enough. Still, the blankets didn’t cover his ample gut or spindly legs, and even he had to admit that the parts which did show weren’t all that impressive. Maybe even grotesque.
“Look, there’s no cause for that, alright? I mean…” He paused, giving his own meaningful glance—never let it be said that Chall couldn’t give as good as he could get. “It’s not as if anyone’s coming by to pin a ribbon on you anytime, unless there’s a livestock competition in town that I haven’t heard about.”
“You son of a bitch,” she growled, then turned toward the door. “Herb!” she screamed. “Get up here! We’ve got some trash needs takin’ out!”
“I’ll tell you what’s trash, your lovemaki—” Chall froze in his insult—not his best, maybe, but certainly not his worst—as the woman grabbed a candleholder off the nightstand and stared toward him. He leapt off the bed—or would have done, if his leaping days weren’t far behind him. What he did, instead, was a panicked roll which sent him spilling onto the other side of the bed from the enraged innkeeper. The next few minutes were spent in a mad, painful scramble as he tried to put on his clothes and fend off the mad woman and her candlestick at the same time.
By the time he was out of the room and into the hall, one trouser leg on and his shirt hanging from about his neck, aching in several spots where he was quite sure there would be some livid bruises later, he had to count it a failure on both counts. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered, walking toward the stairs with what dignity he could muster while several other of the inn’s guests—no doubt woken by the woman’s screams and threats, how could they not be the way she was carrying on?—looked on.
“Everything okay?” an older man asked. “Thought I heard someone cry out.”
“Everything’s fine,” Chall assured him as he moved past, “just an upset woman, is all.”
“Sounded like a man.”
Chall turned to scowl at the man. “Crazy bitch,” he muttered again, then he started toward the stairs.
“What’s that, you son of a bitch?” the woman screamed, and then she was in the hall, and Chall was forced to abandon what dignity he’d managed to gather—along with his trousers—as his stately walk turned into a mad dash for the stairs, stairs which he took two at a time—very nearly all at a time as his foot caught on one and he only just managed to save himself from falling.
He made it down them though and reached the door, turning and meaning to shout some rejoinder, some answer to his current state, at the woman. He had even begun, getting so far as “You filthy ha—” when something which looked and felt suspiciously like a bronze candlestick struck him in the head, and he abruptly forgot what he’d been about to say. Hag, maybe? Or had it been harlot? He wasn’t sure as the first blow drove the thought from his head, and the second drove him out of the door, rolling down the inn steps to plop very unceremoniously—and with no signs of dignity anywhere in sight—in the dirt of the village road. Or, at least, it would have been dirt had the gods not seen fit to send what had apparently had been a real bitch of a storm the night before.
Lying there, staring up at the pale morning sky, Chall consoled himself with the fact that mud was far softer than dirt and that he had never really liked those trousers anyway. They were only his second favorite pair. Of course, he only had the two pairs…one now. “Shit,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
He turned his aching head to glance dumbly over at the woman standing in the doorway, some poor bastard’s blood on the candlestick she held. She was still naked, and the early morning light didn’t do her in favors, that much was certain. He considered saying that, then remembered the way the candlestick had felt and decided against it. Instead, he picked himself up—with a bit of groaning and more than a bit of cursing, and stared at her—and the dozen or so onlookers that had gathered behind her in the doorway—raising his nose with as much dignity as he could. “My lady, I have found your establishment…inadequate and your hospitality, such as it is, appalling. I, then, will remove myself from the premises at once and take my business else—”
“What business?” she snorted. “And say one more word,” she went on, stepping out of the doorway to reveal a man that, while not as big as the man from his dream, certainly seemed plenty big enough to make sure a man’s day went to shit and fast, “and I’ll get Herb to show you exactly how I feel about you and your business.”
Chall opened his mouth to do just that, to launch into some scathing remark involving wrinkles or fence posts but in the end—and as was so rarely the case—greater minds prevailed. He told himself
