sleepy, filled with scandals of the frilly petticoat and the embezzling kind.
All, that is, except for the stout brick walls encircling the central portions of the town, the watchtowers manned by bright-helmeted men bearing spears, and the way no houses or vegetation were permitted within a bowshot of the walls. Mind you — the bowshot was a short bowshot; the impression was gained that as bows improved the folk of Tuscursmot had not bothered to keep their killing zone in step with changing technology.
So, an interesting town. Industry was decently concealed away in a curve of the river out of sight of the town. No doubt there were shanty towns down there. If this was true of Earth, it was no less true of Kregen.
As far as I knew, the name of the street I wanted had been Lower Squish Street. This ran from the cleared space fronting the South Gate down alongside the river bank and so trailed away at last when no more houses were built beside the track. Bushes — even trees — loaded with squishes grew everywhere, and I thought of Inch, and sighed, and went along to a neat little tavern halfway along Lower Squish Street, under the trees.
Carts pulled by krahniks passed, loaded with produce. The air smelled sweet with that particular aroma that is of Pandahem South — much invigorated here, I might add, by the scents of squishes. This close to the equator they’d get ripe harvests on a regular basis. A gang of Rapas wearing striped aprons busily unloaded a cart of its barrels. Grapes could be produced readily enough, but ale — that might present a problem. The Kregans have ways of producing wine and ales in the most unlikely circumstances — which is a thirst-quenching miracle.
“Hai, doms,” I said pleasantly. “Warm work.”
The beaked faces turned to me, the feathers bristled, and then the biggest Rapa — the one with the yellow feathers beside his beak — contorted his face into the grimace that passes for a smile among Rapas.
“Aye, dom, warm work. You’ll be quenching your thirst inside.” He nodded toward the tavern into which he and his mates were unloading the barrels. The sign said, beside the swinging flagon, The Swod’s Revenge.
I smiled. I liked that name.
“Aye. If the ale is good.”
Ashti decided it was time she took a hand in all this chatter that wasted time. After all, she had walked quite a long way before I’d picked her up.
She jumped down and started for the tavern steps, her white dress like a flitting moth in the suns light. The Rapas smiled. Truly, Tuscursmot was a friendly place.
“Come on, Jak!” she admonished me over a shoulder. “I’m thirsty.”
“You’re never anything else.”
The tavern, low-ceiled, seemed to me of that order of establishment that would boast a cheery mine host, a good wine list, an ample cellar, good honest plain fare that melted in the mouth, and, if you stayed, beds that enveloped you in soft slumber. Well, I was half right.
The landlord greeted me in a friendly fashion. He was a Khibil, and his fox-like face with the arrogant moustaches and that air of supercilious superiority that most Khibils have did not, in this context, set my teeth on edge.
All the same, in the tap room I recognized as being either a copy of or an attempt at a tap room of Hamal, I wouldn’t come to the point at once.
He put the jar of ale on the counter. There were two Ochs giggling in a corner, a couple of Fristles playing dice by the window, and three apims at the other end of the bar. I sipped.
“By Beng Dikkane, I needed that,” I said.
Ashti piped up.
“Sazz! Sazz! Sazz!”
The foxy landlord poured and placed the glass on the counter. I gave it to Ashti, who drank it off like a trooper. I wondered if I was getting her into bad habits. Well, she was nearly four years old. Kids are tough at that age, far tougher than I was likely to be.
The silver winked as it lay on the counter.
The two Ochs stopped giggling and, hand in hand, went out. The
All, that is, except for the stout brick walls encircling the central portions of the town, the watchtowers manned by bright-helmeted men bearing spears, and the way no houses or vegetation were permitted within a bowshot of the walls. Mind you — the bowshot was a short bowshot; the impression was gained that as bows improved the folk of Tuscursmot had not bothered to keep their killing zone in step with changing technology.
So, an interesting town. Industry was decently concealed away in a curve of the river out of sight of the town. No doubt there were shanty towns down there. If this was true of Earth, it was no less true of Kregen.
As far as I knew, the name of the street I wanted had been Lower Squish Street. This ran from the cleared space fronting the South Gate down alongside the river bank and so trailed away at last when no more houses were built beside the track. Bushes — even trees — loaded with squishes grew everywhere, and I thought of Inch, and sighed, and went along to a neat little tavern halfway along Lower Squish Street, under the trees.
Carts pulled by krahniks passed, loaded with produce. The air smelled sweet with that particular aroma that is of Pandahem South — much invigorated here, I might add, by the scents of squishes. This close to the equator they’d get ripe harvests on a regular basis. A gang of Rapas wearing striped aprons busily unloaded a cart of its barrels. Grapes could be produced readily enough, but ale — that might present a problem. The Kregans have ways of producing wine and ales in the most unlikely circumstances — which is a thirst-quenching miracle.
“Hai, doms,” I said pleasantly. “Warm work.”
The beaked faces turned to me, the feathers bristled, and then the biggest Rapa — the one with the yellow feathers beside his beak — contorted his face into the grimace that passes for a smile among Rapas.
“Aye, dom, warm work. You’ll be quenching your thirst inside.” He nodded toward the tavern into which he and his mates were unloading the barrels. The sign said, beside the swinging flagon, The Swod’s Revenge.
I smiled. I liked that name.
“Aye. If the ale is good.”
Ashti decided it was time she took a hand in all this chatter that wasted time. After all, she had walked quite a long way before I’d picked her up.
She jumped down and started for the tavern steps, her white dress like a flitting moth in the suns light. The Rapas smiled. Truly, Tuscursmot was a friendly place.
“Come on, Jak!” she admonished me over a shoulder. “I’m thirsty.”
“You’re never anything else.”
The tavern, low-ceiled, seemed to me of that order of establishment that would boast a cheery mine host, a good wine list, an ample cellar, good honest plain fare that melted in the mouth, and, if you stayed, beds that enveloped you in soft slumber. Well, I was half right.
The landlord greeted me in a friendly fashion. He was a Khibil, and his fox-like face with the arrogant moustaches and that air of supercilious superiority that most Khibils have did not, in this context, set my teeth on edge.
All the same, in the tap room I recognized as being either a copy of or an attempt at a tap room of Hamal, I wouldn’t come to the point at once.
He put the jar of ale on the counter. There were two Ochs giggling in a corner, a couple of Fristles playing dice by the window, and three apims at the other end of the bar. I sipped.
“By Beng Dikkane, I needed that,” I said.
Ashti piped up.
“Sazz! Sazz! Sazz!”
The foxy landlord poured and placed the glass on the counter. I gave it to Ashti, who drank it off like a trooper. I wondered if I was getting her into bad habits. Well, she was nearly four years old. Kids are tough at that age, far tougher than I was likely to be.
The silver winked as it lay on the counter.
The two Ochs stopped giggling and, hand in hand, went out. The
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