Better when it isn’t reheated.”
Surprise, surprise. That old boy knows how to take my mind off my troubles. One more talent and I’d marry him.
I trotted up to my special closet and dressed myself for the street, then headed out. Not for the first time I didn’t have the foggiest notion what the hell I was doing. Or maybe it was the first time and it just hadn’t ever stopped.
11
The Dead Man had suggested a stop, coming back, at the Joy House, owned and operated by one Morley Dotes, friend of mine, professional vegetarian, assassin, and elf-human breed. I gave it a think and decided to skip it. Morley is handy when the going gets rough, but he has his liabilities. Most of them are female. No sense bringing him in where he’d face so much temptation. Besides, not having him in meant the odds were better for me.
The Joy House. Some dumb name for a restaurant with a menu fit only for livestock. How about the Manger, Morley? How about the Barn? Or the Stable? Though that kind of smacked of upscale chic.
What people call Dwarf Fort or Dwarf House sits on four square blocks behind the levee in Child’s Landing. The Landing abuts the river north of the Bight, where the big water swings sharply southwest and the wharves and docks start and go on for miles, all the way to the wall. Legend says the Landing was settled when humans first came into the region. First there was a fort, then a village that grew because it lay near the confluence of three major rivers. Then there were more fortifications and a growth of industry during the Face Wars, when human insecurities compelled our ancestors to prove they could kick ass on the older races.
The Face Wars were a long time ago. Things have come full circle. Now the Landing is occupied by nonhumans come to grab at the wealth floating around because of Karenta’s endless war with Venageta.
I can always work up a case of indignation about the war and its spin-offs. One is, the nonhumans are picking our pockets. Our overlords are cheering them on. Someday they’ll be picking our bones.
That’s not racist, either. I get along with everybody but ratmen. Our rulers, in their wisdom, in their infallible opportunism, made treaties with these other races that shield them from military service even if they’ve lived as Karentines for ten generations. They gobble the privileges and don’t pay the price. They’re getting fat making the weapons carried by youths who couldn’t be conscripted if the nonhumans weren’t there to replace them in the economy.
If you’re human and male, you’ll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they’re talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.
I’m bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.
Hell with it.
Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They’re connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.
The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn’t want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.
I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn’t like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.
I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren’t in any hurry in there.
I knocked a third time.
The door swung inward. “All right! All right! You don’t have to break it down. I heard you the first time.” The hairy runt in red and green was probably six
Surprise, surprise. That old boy knows how to take my mind off my troubles. One more talent and I’d marry him.
I trotted up to my special closet and dressed myself for the street, then headed out. Not for the first time I didn’t have the foggiest notion what the hell I was doing. Or maybe it was the first time and it just hadn’t ever stopped.
11
The Dead Man had suggested a stop, coming back, at the Joy House, owned and operated by one Morley Dotes, friend of mine, professional vegetarian, assassin, and elf-human breed. I gave it a think and decided to skip it. Morley is handy when the going gets rough, but he has his liabilities. Most of them are female. No sense bringing him in where he’d face so much temptation. Besides, not having him in meant the odds were better for me.
The Joy House. Some dumb name for a restaurant with a menu fit only for livestock. How about the Manger, Morley? How about the Barn? Or the Stable? Though that kind of smacked of upscale chic.
What people call Dwarf Fort or Dwarf House sits on four square blocks behind the levee in Child’s Landing. The Landing abuts the river north of the Bight, where the big water swings sharply southwest and the wharves and docks start and go on for miles, all the way to the wall. Legend says the Landing was settled when humans first came into the region. First there was a fort, then a village that grew because it lay near the confluence of three major rivers. Then there were more fortifications and a growth of industry during the Face Wars, when human insecurities compelled our ancestors to prove they could kick ass on the older races.
The Face Wars were a long time ago. Things have come full circle. Now the Landing is occupied by nonhumans come to grab at the wealth floating around because of Karenta’s endless war with Venageta.
I can always work up a case of indignation about the war and its spin-offs. One is, the nonhumans are picking our pockets. Our overlords are cheering them on. Someday they’ll be picking our bones.
That’s not racist, either. I get along with everybody but ratmen. Our rulers, in their wisdom, in their infallible opportunism, made treaties with these other races that shield them from military service even if they’ve lived as Karentines for ten generations. They gobble the privileges and don’t pay the price. They’re getting fat making the weapons carried by youths who couldn’t be conscripted if the nonhumans weren’t there to replace them in the economy.
If you’re human and male, you’ll do five years in service. Nowadays, with the Cantard in the hands of Glory Mooncalled and his mercenaries and native allies, they’re talking about making that six years. Meaning even fewer survivors coming home.
I’m bitter. I admit it. I survived my five and made it home, but I was the first of my family to do so. And nobody thanked me for my trouble when I got back.
Hell with it.
Dwarf House covers four blocks. A north-south street cuts through the middle. A canal spur runs through east to west. Rumor says the blocks are connected by tunnels. Maybe. They’re connected by bridges four stories up. Make that four human stories. Dwarves are dwarves. There would be more floors.
The buildings have no outside windows and few doors. Humans seldom get inside, I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was if they let me in and didn’t want me out, I was sunk. Not even my pal the King would come rescue me. Dwarf House enjoys virtual extraterritoriality.
I looked the place over before I knocked. I didn’t like what I saw. I knocked anyway. Somebody has to do these things. Generally somebody too dim not to back off.
I knocked again after a reasonable wait. They weren’t in any hurry in there.
I knocked a third time.
The door swung inward. “All right! All right! You don’t have to break it down. I heard you the first time.” The hairy runt in red and green was probably six
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