and continued: “because they all of them like to think they stand a chance, eh?”
“Somethin’ like that, aye,” she nodded. “But they don’t.”
“I’ll get dressed and come on down,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “But I’ll skip the wee dram. I’d prefer a glass of that wine of yours, that’s if you keep any in the bar?”
B.J. smiled and nodded an affirmative. Oh, there was a full bottle of her wine in the bar, all right—kept out of sight of the customers but within easy reach. One glass of that and he’d be ready for bed again—this time to sleep. Then, after closing the bar, she’d be able to talk to her girls, her moon-child pack in private, reminding them of the dangers out there in the streets and the night and warning them against…against what she couldn’t say, not yet. But something, she felt sure. It was in the night air; and, in addition to what two of her girls had told her, B.J. could sense it.
As if her thoughts had been spoken out loud, Harry appeared to answer them, saying: “Bonnie Jean, I came back early because you told me there might be a problem here in Edinburgh—but we haven’t talked about it. Do you want to take five minutes, tell me what’s troubling you, what’s going on?”
Halfway to her bedroom door she considered it for a moment, and thought, Well, why not? For Harry’s mind would be too dull, blunted, after drinking her wine. Tomorrow, in the light of day, he might not remember what she’d told him; her words might have flown right over his head without making sense to him. That was something of the nature of her wine.
B.J.’s wine: a potentially addictive soporific, and on certain occasions an aid to her hypnotic powers:
Its recipe had been old when most of Earth’s sciences were yet unborn, and even alchemy was in its youth. B.J. didn’t know what the ingredients were, but she knew something of their origins, where to find them today, and how to brew them up and make the brew potent. Certain of the herbs, pollens, and resins came from the Greek islands—also from Bulgaria and further afield—and in the long ago some had come from the Far East with the Hsiung-nu in the form of precious balms and medicines. But that was centuries before men learned how to synthesize such chemicals. The wine had been known in Manchuria and Sinkiang, also to the Takla Makan Desert’s Worm Wizard cultists, and later to the Arab alchemists of olden Irem, the City of Pillars. In the 14th century it had been used by the Bulgars—who were good chemists and vintners both—and by the Serbians and Ottoman Turks, to ward off the Black Death, which also had its source in eastern parts.
After that its secrets had been lost to mankind in the reel and roil and turmoil of a troubled world. Lost to mankind, perhaps, but not to B.J.’s Master—who remembered all such things from the olden times—and not to Bonnie Jean herself, in whom, over the years, the dog-Lord had invested many items of esoteric and otherwise forgotten knowledge…
“Well?” said Harry, getting dressed. “Is there a problem or isn’t there? Someone being a nuisance in the bar, maybe—like that Big Jimmy bloke: that jealous clown who fancied you, found he couldn’t have you, and decided to take it out on me? Well at least he tried, and we can do without more like him! I mean, he was a roughneck, a street fighter, and dangerous! Hardly one of your ‘usual bunch of likely lads,’ now was he?”
“No,” B.J. replied, “and neither are you! He was twice your weight, built like a gorilla, and you handled him like a baby!” And Harry made a mental note that her Edinburgh accent had completely disappeared again.
“It was him or me,” he answered, and shrugged. “I suppose I was lucky.” But he knew that luck had nothing to do with it. It was simply that he’d called on a dead friend—an ex-Army PTI, a Physical Training Instructor and expert in a handful of martial
“Somethin’ like that, aye,” she nodded. “But they don’t.”
“I’ll get dressed and come on down,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “But I’ll skip the wee dram. I’d prefer a glass of that wine of yours, that’s if you keep any in the bar?”
B.J. smiled and nodded an affirmative. Oh, there was a full bottle of her wine in the bar, all right—kept out of sight of the customers but within easy reach. One glass of that and he’d be ready for bed again—this time to sleep. Then, after closing the bar, she’d be able to talk to her girls, her moon-child pack in private, reminding them of the dangers out there in the streets and the night and warning them against…against what she couldn’t say, not yet. But something, she felt sure. It was in the night air; and, in addition to what two of her girls had told her, B.J. could sense it.
As if her thoughts had been spoken out loud, Harry appeared to answer them, saying: “Bonnie Jean, I came back early because you told me there might be a problem here in Edinburgh—but we haven’t talked about it. Do you want to take five minutes, tell me what’s troubling you, what’s going on?”
Halfway to her bedroom door she considered it for a moment, and thought, Well, why not? For Harry’s mind would be too dull, blunted, after drinking her wine. Tomorrow, in the light of day, he might not remember what she’d told him; her words might have flown right over his head without making sense to him. That was something of the nature of her wine.
B.J.’s wine: a potentially addictive soporific, and on certain occasions an aid to her hypnotic powers:
Its recipe had been old when most of Earth’s sciences were yet unborn, and even alchemy was in its youth. B.J. didn’t know what the ingredients were, but she knew something of their origins, where to find them today, and how to brew them up and make the brew potent. Certain of the herbs, pollens, and resins came from the Greek islands—also from Bulgaria and further afield—and in the long ago some had come from the Far East with the Hsiung-nu in the form of precious balms and medicines. But that was centuries before men learned how to synthesize such chemicals. The wine had been known in Manchuria and Sinkiang, also to the Takla Makan Desert’s Worm Wizard cultists, and later to the Arab alchemists of olden Irem, the City of Pillars. In the 14th century it had been used by the Bulgars—who were good chemists and vintners both—and by the Serbians and Ottoman Turks, to ward off the Black Death, which also had its source in eastern parts.
After that its secrets had been lost to mankind in the reel and roil and turmoil of a troubled world. Lost to mankind, perhaps, but not to B.J.’s Master—who remembered all such things from the olden times—and not to Bonnie Jean herself, in whom, over the years, the dog-Lord had invested many items of esoteric and otherwise forgotten knowledge…
“Well?” said Harry, getting dressed. “Is there a problem or isn’t there? Someone being a nuisance in the bar, maybe—like that Big Jimmy bloke: that jealous clown who fancied you, found he couldn’t have you, and decided to take it out on me? Well at least he tried, and we can do without more like him! I mean, he was a roughneck, a street fighter, and dangerous! Hardly one of your ‘usual bunch of likely lads,’ now was he?”
“No,” B.J. replied, “and neither are you! He was twice your weight, built like a gorilla, and you handled him like a baby!” And Harry made a mental note that her Edinburgh accent had completely disappeared again.
“It was him or me,” he answered, and shrugged. “I suppose I was lucky.” But he knew that luck had nothing to do with it. It was simply that he’d called on a dead friend—an ex-Army PTI, a Physical Training Instructor and expert in a handful of martial
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