by Bibby, James
As they reached the top of Wolfpole, he was even more saddened to find that Jalapeno's Bistro had closed, and been replaced by a nasty little shop selling pornographic pamphlets. He'd had a great night at Jalapeno's, last time he'd visited Welbug. Got very drunk indeed on Pol Perot wine with a group of tinkers from Far Tibreth. So drunk, he'd ordered two plates of the hottest Mulampos in the house. Klat! He'd spent nine hours on the toilet and lost half a stone in weight the next day! Happy times!
The huge market square, however, had hardly changed at all. Gaily-coloured stalls stretched from one end to the other, and even though it was almost evening, people of every race still jostled and pushed between them. All round the edge of the square, street-vendors, barrow boys, entertainers, and tricksters were plying their trade. Tarl watched with a smile on his face as a shell-game operator separated a baffled country-boy from his money. Close by, a group of yelling soldiers were betting heavily on a slug-race. Next to them, a street-mage was taking coins from passers-by and making them vanish before their very eyes. Tarl grinned wryly. He'd often thought of trying that as a career. If only he had some control over his little problem...
Suddenly, his arms were nearly yanked out of their sockets. Puss, who Tarl was leading on the end of a tether, had spotted a butchers shop and had taken off like a rocket. Tarl hauled it back.
"Listen, Puss!" he said. "We don't go charging into shops and pinching whatever we feel like. Round here, you're expected to pay for things. Savvy? Otherwise they're likely to throw you into jail. And you wouldn't like Welbug jails. They're filthy, smelly, and boring."
"Look who's talking," thought the donkey, but it came back and stood quietly beside him.
In front of them, Ronan had been standing watching the interplay of the crowd with a pensive frown on his face. "This isn't what I'd expected," he said to Tarl. "There's a much greater feel of evil in this town than there should be."
"It's changed," replied Tarl. "It's going downhill. Getting shabby. Or, maybe it's just me. Maybe I just built the place up too much in my memory... maybe I need a drink. Or several."
"Maybe." Ronan didn't sound convinced. "So, where's the Dragon's Claw?"
"I dunno... I've heard of the place, but I've never been there", Tarl answered. "But it should be easy to find. We just need a copy of the party-goer's Bible..."
He walked over to a bookstall, and bought the latest edition of Welbug Weekly. As he strolled back to Ronan he opened the paper, turned to the Listings pages, and started to thumb his way through them. Klat, this really took him back! Adverts for places he'd known and loved... "Pilgrims! Travellers! For the hottest babes in town, try The Club Gargantua, just off Eastgate!"... "Oubliette's - for a night that you'll never forget, but you sure as hell won't remember!"... "Dastard's Troll Bar, on the corner of Wolfpole and Maim"... It had been in Dastard's that he had got so pissed one night that he had tried to pick a fight with an eight-foot cave-troll. Luckily the troll had been kissing drunk, and they'd ended up staggering off to the Dragonbone Rib-house together. Great days!
Happily he worked his way through the listings like a gourmand working his way through a menu, until half-way down the third page, he found what he was looking for.
"Here we are! This is it: Gentlemen! For a different class of entertainment, try the Dragon's Claw, Rue Battue. Hm... that's over in the elven quarter."
"Then let's get moving." Ronan looked at the donkey, which was standing staring at the butcher's shop with its tongue hanging out. A small pool of saliva was forming on the ground underneath. "We'd better get the animals fed and watered, too. Any tavern will have stabling for horses... but will they have anything this creature will eat?"
Tarl laughed. "Ronan", he said, as they started to thread their way through the market place. "The roughest dives in this town serve meat of every description... and I mean every description. Orcs and Southrons eat here. If you've ever wanted to try cannibalism, this will be your chance."
"Charming!" said Ronan.
"Yeah", said Tarl.
"Yum!" thought the donkey.
Councilman Ritta sat in a darkened room at the top of one of the tallest towers in Welbug. He was fidgeting and sweating slightly, and his piggy little eyes were flickering uneasily as he stared into a crystal ball the size of a man's fist that sat on the table in front of him. It rested on a jet-black stand, on which were ten numbered buttons, and from it issued a dull, faintly shimmering white light. All at once the light changed to a red glow, and Ritta swallowed nervously, and then spoke.
"They failed", he said, and then winced.
From the depths of the crystal an evil voice spoke. "Then you must try again. And this time, do not fail. Understand?"
Ritta nodded. He seemed to be having difficulty in speaking. The sweat was beginning to trickle into the folds of his neck.
"He is trouble. He must be stopped. And he must be stopped before he meets Tyson." The evil voice paused, and then continued in a tone that could have frozen water. "If you do not succeed this time..."
"I will!" Ritta cut in. "I'll send Karth. He's the best assassin in Welbug!"
"Report when it is done", said the voice, and the red glow changed back to the dull white light.
Ritta let out a great gasp of relief. Thanks be to Grak! Another chance! He stood up, held one hand out in front of him, and looked at it. It was shaking badly. His bowels felt as though they'd turned to iced water. "Thank Grak I didn't have that plate of Mulampos for lunch", he thought, and went out to brief Karth.
Evening had fallen by the time Tarl and Ronan found the Rue Battue, which was dark and deserted. It was lined with tall, elegant houses built in the elven style, set back from the road with pleasant tree-lined gardens in front of them. The night air was heavy with the fragrance of Taboghee blossom, and there was little sound save for the clip-clop of horse and donkey hooves. A gently swinging sign with a rather stylised dragon's foot on it was the only hint as to which house was the Dragon's Claw. They tethered the horse and the donkey to a rail outside and studied the heavy oak door. All was quiet.
"Popular place", said Ronan.
"Well, what do you expect?" replied Tarl. "This is supposed to be the roughest dive in Welbug!" He looked round doubtfully at the neatly-kept garden. " Half the regular clientele have probably been murdered by now! And it's only six o'clock.... the rest probably aren't out of bed yet. Come on."
He strode forward, followed by the warrior, and pushed open the door. It opened on a small stone-flagged vestibule. Ahead of them was another door. They could just make out the low hum of conversation beyond it. "Here we go", said Tarl, as the second door opened in front of them. "Welcome to the roughest, vilest..." His voice slowed as he looked round. "... most dangerous... er... plushest..." His voice died completely.
They had entered a room some forty feet long, with a high ceiling, walls panelled in finely-carved satinwood and decorated with exotic tapestries, and a floor covered in red carpeting that had a pile so deep that you nearly had to stand on tiptoe to see over it. Along one side were a few alcoves with plumply-cushioned semi-circular couches and low marble tables, and halfway along was a magnificent life-size marble statue of a warrior, naked save for a helmet. At the far end was a bar, behind which a barman in a crisp white shirt was mixing cocktails from a few of the hundred or so bottles that lined the shelves behind him. The room was brightly lit by a chandelier of fifty candles, which fired off countless shafts of diamond light from the shimmering crystal ornaments that hung underneath, and the musky aroma of exotic Southern Isles perfumes hung in the air.
There were maybe twenty people in the room, seven or eight of whom were wealthy-looking merchant types, and the rest of whom were expensively dressed, beautiful women. As Tarl watched, one of the women took a couple of cocktails from the barman and undulated across to an alcove where a merchant sat. She put the drinks down in front of him, then sat beside him, draped one long elegant leg across his, and started to play with his hair. Two o
ther women who were chatting near the bar looked across to Tarl and Ronan, smiled, and winked. Both were blonde and tanned, with the sort of figures that you normally only see on the front covers of slimming magazines.
"By the balls of Amrod!", exclaimed Tarl, slapping his forehead with one hand. "I don't believe it! The roughest pub in Welbug only turns out to be a high-class cathouse! Your orc was feeding you porkies... they'd never let a band of orcs in here!"
Ronan was gazing round, bewildered. "It can't be right!" he muttered. "He wouldn't have dared. This can't be..."
"It's a cat-house, all right", said Tarl. "I can tell. See those two girls who are eyeing us up? One winked at you, and the other winked at me! Look, she's still giving me the come-on!" He paused, and flashed her back one of his best leers. "Now, I don't want to sell myself short... there are plenty of women who think I'm pretty cool. But when two girls like that look at us, what do they see? Mr Universe, and Slug of the Week here..." He tapped himself on the chest. "And if one of them wants to make it with me, it ain't for my boyish good looks. Right?"
"Well...", Ronan sighed, "I guess you're right."
"Oh, thanks!" Tarl sounded hurt. "You might at least have argued a bit!" He turned away, and found himself confronted by someone who could only be the doorman. He was wearing a smart dark-blue coat and a peaked cap, both of which were edged with gold braid. This neat ensemble was a little spoiled by the three-inch fangs that jutted up from his lower lip. He bowed to Ronan, and started to speak.
"Kazad, nik grechik bee blollong."
Ronan flashed him a hopeful smile. "What?", he said.
The doorman began to look agitated. "Kazad", he repeated. "Kazad!"
"Tarl, I can't understand a thing this guy is saying!"
"It's OK, Ronan, don't worry", said Tarl, confidently. "It's the Easterling tongue. I've picked a bit of it up over the years. Let me." He smiled at the doorman. "Kazad Tarl", he hazarded, pointing at himself. "Y kazad Ronan."
"Ah!", said the doorman. "Kazad Grimbal!"
"Grimbal". Tarl was confident now. "Kazad du-long. Gron zintal dee wangeh. Wangeh ti kak."
"Wangeh?" The doorman looked surprised. He stared at Tarl, then shook his head and retreated to rummage in the bottom drawer of a desk in an alcove behind the front door.
"Hey, very good", said Ronan, impressed. "What was he saying?"
"Well, he asked who we are, and what we want. I think. I told him we only wanted a quick drink."
"Oh. Listen, ask him if they've had any orcs in lately."
"OK." Tarl turned back, but before he could say anything, the doorman walked back up to him, handed him a box of tissues and a picture of a very rampant stallion, and walked away, shaking his head disgustedly. Ronan tried not to laugh.
"Speak it fluently, do you", he said. "Hello... what's this?"
The two girls who had been watching them were sauntering over, accompanied by a smartly dressed man. He was wearing black trousers and Tuxedo, a stiff white shirt, wing collar, and bow tie. He had a small, neatly clipped moustache, and his oiled hair was parted in the middle and clung tightly to his head as though it was scared of falling off. He nodded politely to Tarl, and flashed a set of perfect teeth at Ronan. "Good evening, sir", he drawled. "Welcome to our establishment. Allow me to present Serena..." at which the smaller of the two girls pouted at Tarl, "....and Attali." The larger girl moved next to Ronan and purred up at him.
"You are the owner of this... place?", Ronan asked, with a wave of his hand.
"Merely the manager. You may call me Posner. No, the Dragon's Claw is owned by Tyson." He stopped, obviously expecting Ronan to know the name.
"Tyson?"
"Ah, you gentlemen must be strangers in town. Tyson is a warrior, the most feared in Welbug, upholder of right and the champion of our fair city."
"Then we're in the wrong place", said Ronan. "I thought we must be. We'd heard that the Dragon's Claw was the roughest tavern in town, and we hunt one who might be found in such a place."
"I think you may be mistaking us for the Dragon's Gizzard, on Quayside", smiled Posner. "Haunt of the dregs of the city. But if you have business there, could we not... entertain you, before you leave?"
Attali began to rub herself against Ronan's side. He swallowed. He was beginning to find it difficult to concentrate. "Sorry", he said, "we have to go. Tarl? TARL?"
Tarl was staring at Serena, who was standing with one hand on Posner's shoulder, the other on her hip, and was returning his gaze beneath lowered lashes. For some few seconds she had been very gently gyrating her hips and making little moues at him, and his eyes were riveted on her like a starving rabbit eyeing a large, juicy carrot. Ronan realised his friend was vibrating gently and making a low growling noise.
"Tarl!", he repeated, shaking his arm. "Time to go."
"What?" Tarl was jerked out of his reverie. "Must we? Surely we can stay for an hour. Or four."
"We must go now! Time is important. Every hour we waste, the trail gets colder."
"OK. I guess you're right", Tarl said reluctantly. "Let's go."
"If you must, gentlemen," said Posner. "But perhaps we may see you again." He bowed, and then made his way back to the bar, with Serena wriggling after him. Attali smiled sadly at Ronan, leant forward, and touched his chest with the very tip of her tongue. Then she stretched up and whispered in his ear. A look of surprise crossed his face. She smiled, and whispered some more. Ronan looked shell-shocked.
"With ice-cubes?" he said. "You're joking!".
"Hey - let's go", repeated Tarl.
"No, listen," said Ronan, suddenly reluctant. "There's no real hurry. We could stay an hour..."
Tarl put his hands between Attali and Ronan, and detached her. It was like prising a limpet off a rock. "Come on, lover boy," he said, and hustled Ronan through the door.
Outside in the garden, the chill of the evening air hit them like a cold shower. Ronan stood blinking in the darkness. His thoughts were on Attali and he completely failed to notice the doorman whispering to a shadowy figure that slipped away into the darkness. Tarl, however, did, and he was just about to comment on it when it was unfortunately driven from his mind by a voice that spoke beside him.
"Hey, you!" it said. "Help me do something about this moth-eaten donkey, will you." The speaker was an unpleasant-looking warrior clad in full armour. He was hopping about on one leg and waving his arms around in an attempt to keep his balance. Standing in front of him, with its teeth firmly clamped firmly around the armour on the man's second shin was Puss. It was determinedly chewing away in an attempt to get at the leg inside.
"Sorry about this," said Tarl. "He's only playing."
"Am I bollocks!" thought the donkey. "My Ma always told me not to play with my dinner."
Tarl grabbed its halter and tried to pull it away. "He's a bit hungry," he continued. "I recognise the signs."
"Absolutely amazing," thought the donkey. "You'd almost think intelligence was at work."
With a slight rending sound the metal greaves of the armour gave a little, and the warrior began to look worried. Tarl yanked at the halter again. "Come on, Puss," he said. "We're going to go and get you some real food. How about a few nice juicy steaks, eh?"
"Ah, now you're talking," thought the donkey, and let go of the warrior's leg. "Anyway, I hate tinned food," it thought, staring disparagingly at the buckled armour.
The warrior glared at Puss with a look of fury on his swarthy face, and was just dragging his sword loose when Ronan stepped forward and laid one hand on the donkey's neck. He stared coolly at the warrior for a moment, then the other's eyes slid away and, slamming his sword back into its scabbard, he pushed roughly past Tarl and into the Dragon's Claw.
Tarl exhaled thankfully. "Nice one, Puss!" he muttered. "Next time you want a quick snack try and pick on someone a bit more suitable. Preferably someone small and weedy who can't fight back."
"I would have done," thought Puss, "but you'd gone inside."
&nbs
p; Tarl turned to Ronan, who was staring after the swarthy warrior with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Come on," he said. "Let's go and find the Dragon's Gizzard, before Puss decides to take on the entire City Guard."
Ronan nodded and untethered his horse, and the two men walked off down the street, completely unaware of the stealthy figure that followed them at a distance, gliding from shadow to shadow like a malignant ghost.
ASSASSIN
...Of all inns, most dangerous to the unwary traveller was probably the Grave Mistake in Orcville, a tavern run by Cecil the Pink, a nine-foot mountain-troll with a very short fuse. Almost as dangerous was the Dragons Gizzard in Welbug Town. It was the haunt of wild and savage folk, and many was the dwarf found face-down in the toilets, singing...
THE PINK BOOK OF ULAY
Whatever you do, avoid the Dragon's Gizzard. They have their own Judicial System operating in the pub. Crimes (and punishments) include Spilling Someone's Beer (fine of all your money, or be kicked unconscious), Drinking Someone Else's Beer (fine of all your money and be kicked unconscious), and Failure to Buy Your Round (they cut your hand off). And don't drink with any guys who only have one hand...
TARL'S WORLDWIDE GUIDE TO FREE BOOZE
Ronan slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and dragged shut the broken stable door. Inside, his horse was chomping resignedly on some mildewed hay, while in the next stall the donkey had its muzzle happily buried in a double helping of some unidentifiable meat stew. Ronan crossed the cluttered stable-yard and emerged on the quayside. Above him the town walls stretched up into the night sky, blocking off the northern stars. In front of him the Great River Leno flowed slowly past the old stone jetties, and the battered wooden skiffs and wherries jostled tiredly at their moorings. On the far side of the river he could just make out the few lights that marked the huddle of houses about the ferry-point. Beyond lay the wide plains and fields of Behan and the road to Far Tibreth.