They went to three public houses named by the museum drudge. The god was not in any of them, because he was in the Nelly Bold, of course. Indeed, from what Trassan had heard of the size of Eliturion, he doubted the god would have fit through the doors of any of them. They were dark, noisy places, not fitting for a divinity in his or Garten’s opinion. The Nelly Bold was where the god was famous for being, he reasoned. But Trassan insisted on inspecting all.
“They are, after all, on the way,” he said, ordering beer at every one.
It was on exiting the third such establishment that Trassan was robbed. A hand went for his pocket watch. He fell for the feint and instinctively reached for it, only to be relieved of his wallet by a second hand.
There was a flurry of movement at his feet, and a youth burst up from the ground, pushing hard into the crowd. Trassan had the presence of mind to trip him, and he stumbled. “Stop thief!” he bellowed.
The crowd, turning toward the commotion, inadvertently parted. With a desperate, terrified glance backward, the boy regained his feet and lunged heedlessly forward, flattening bystanders, Trassan in hot pursuit. His cry of “Stop thief!” had been taken up, and echoed off the tightly packed buildings. Trassan charged after the boy, upsetting a stack of linen as he blundered into a stall. Ignoring the holder’s angry shouts, he forced his way on, following the wake of flapping arms and outrage the boy left as he pushed deeper into the Off Parade. Trassan caromed off a man, sending him sprawling, went round a corner into a threatening alleyway, and then was unexpectedly into a space in the crowd. In the centre of this clearing, fenced by faces, two men of the watch had the boy pinned to the ground. He wriggled and shouted, but was held fast. A third watchman kept back the gawpers. Trassan lunged for the boy. “My wallet! Give it back!”
“Stand back, master engineer! You obstruct us in our duties.” The watchman shoved at him without restraint. A thick-faced man, his eyes lacking the vital spark of humanity. He was the kind of man to be wary of, but Trassan was angry.
“That boy,” panted Trassan, “took my wallet.”
“How do we prove that?” said the watchman kneeling on the boy’s back.
“It’s a difficulty, goodfellow,” said the first watchman without regret.
Of course, thought Trassan. The thieftakers would divide his money among themselves, “owner unknown” they commonly said. He was having none of that.
“Ask him,” said Trassan.
The watchmen’s faces soured.
“Go ahead,” said Trassan. “Do your duty, as you say you should. Ask the boy if it was me he robbed. He has no reason to lie now he has been caught.”
The watchman nodded. “Right you are, goodfellow,” he said sourly, but Trassan was of high birth and the crowd was paying close attention to their exchange. Trassan got a glimpse of a defiant, foreign face as the watchmen barked questions at him.
“He says it was you, goodfellow, but he is a thief, and what worth is the word of a thief?”
“And it was me. I am no thief; do you doubt the worth of my word, the word of a goodfellow and master engineer?”
For a moment the watchman stared into Trassan’s eyes. Trassan tensed.
“I believe you have something of mine,” he said levelly. “Hand it over.”
The watchman looked down suddenly, some internal calculation returning unfavourable results. “Yes sir, here you are, sir.”
He held out Trassan’s wallet. Trassan snatched it. It was noticeably lighter than it had been.
“Thank you,” Trassan said. “Now I will go about my business. You go about yours.”
The watch hauled the boy upright roughly, landing blows on him as they hustled him back onto the main way. Trassan supposed he should feel glad for it. After all, the boy had robbed him. But the boy was pinched-looking, and Trassan was sickened by it, and wished he had not spoken.
Garten’s hand caught his elbow.
“I lost you there, brother.” He had his sword out in his other hand, its length was pointed downward, but the gleam of naked steel bought them some space in the crammed alley. “They caught him?”
“They did,” said Trassan. By now the street was returning to normal.
“You should file a report.”
Trassan grimaced. “I have no stomach for that. Let’s go before the watch return and insist that I do.”
Trassan and his brother pushed their way back out of the alleyway, braving a crossing of the open sewer at its centre to get out the quicker. They went back into the more genteel area of Off Parade, where there were signs of new construction and preliminary explorations for the building of Allian’s sewers, towards the Nelly Bold.
Ah, the Nelly Bold! A name worthy of legend. She stood at the intersection of three streets which were undergoing modernisation. Much of the square had been repaved with the hard black rock of Karsa’s cliffs, the streets lined by new kerbstones. A triangular seating area had been fenced off by gleaming rails. Three saplings, sickly from filthy air, were caged at each point. To the north side of the square an entire block had been flattened. Gaps in the roofline further back toward the Parade indicated that this area was next to suffer the attentions of the architects. The surveys for the sewers were being conducted in a most direct manner. More buildings would fall later to provide space for a new boulevard.
Not the Nelly Bold. Somehow, she had been saved when countless other buildings of note had not. Is it her indomitable skirts of stone, or her impressive height? Five storeys, higher by far than the slums about her. Is it the venerable history of the place, standing as she had there for three hundred years, when this was nothing but a wind-blasted heath, and the sea could still be spied from her topmost windows? Is it my presence here, for it is my favourite hole? Or was it, perhaps, good Ellany’s strategic application of monies and other favours? Who knows? Perhaps it is unimportant. The Nelly Bold would remain, and that is that. She was wearing a fresh coat of paint in anticipation of new suitors. Modern glimmer light shone from the tall windows and from lamps upon her front. Her sign was bright and new. The brothers paused outside. Another tremor rocked the Earth. Neither the crowds or the pub paid it notice. Of more annoyance was the rain sweeping in from the sea, chill and thick.
“Now this is more like it,” said Trassan, and reached from the door handle.
“I hope he’s in there,” said Garten, shivering.
I see from your faces that you anticipate what’s coming, as you should, for the place I describe is this the very one where I sit now telling you this tale and the brothers are outside this very moment. Now, look to the door. It opens.
In they come.
CHAPTER SIX
The Nelly Bold
FUGGY AIR AS thick as bricks walled the threshold of the Nelly Bold. But although the Nelly Bold appeared a down at heel establishment, it was, for a large part, sham. Doormen appeared silently, taking the brothers’ coats and hats in exchange for garderobe copper chits, and the two brothers found themselves not so uncomfortable after all.
To go from the dark and cold to a noisy house discloses to a man the true state of his mind. Outside, the brothers had felt sober as Guiders. Inside, their drunkenness was revealed to them entire.
“The god is here!” shouted Trassan. “I’m getting a drink, then I’m buttonholing the bastard.”
“Cider, I’m sick of beer. Why that face?” he said to his brother’s expression of distaste. “You come to The Nelly Bold to appreciate the rougher side of life. Cider! And, and food!” he yelled after his brother, who although only three paces away had been swallowed by the crowd. “I’m starving!”
Trassan emerged back through the press, and grabbed Garten.
“Eh?”
“Look who I’ve found,” he said, dragging his brother after him. Scowls followed them as Trassan jostled arms and elbows.
“Look!” Trassan pointed to a man sitting in a booth, all alone. He was shorter than either of them, more slender, with long pale hair arrayed o
n a large lace collar. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, even indoors, and was nursing a glass of wine.
“Guis? Guis!” shouted Garten. “Where have you been?”
The two brothers were obliged to shout together to attract Guis’s attention. The scowl he wore at the disturbance melted into a fragile smile when he saw who addressed him.
“Trassan? Garten!”
The two younger Kressinds forced their way to their brother’s table.
“What a fine bit of luck!” said Garten.
“Can we join you?” said Trassan.
Guis shrugged amiably. “It’s not like I have company.”
The brothers exchanged hugs and took their seats. Trassan waved frantically at a harassed looking serving girl. He held up three fingers, she nodded wearily.
“Cider, ale and...?”
“Wine,” said Guis. “A bottle.”
“Wine!” shouted Trassan.
The girl waved at her ears, then pointed.
“She can’t hear me,” said Trassan.
“Are you surprised?” said Guis. “This is a rowdy night.”
“Ah, she’s coming back,” said Trassan.
“The god is over there then,” said Garten, craning his neck. Back off the main room was a large booth, almost a room in itself. At the very back a giant sat, a caricature of a rambunctious rural goodfellow, all good cheer, rosy cheeks and loud laughs.
“He is,” said Guis.
“Terrifying,” said Garten sincerely. He had never seen the god out of his case.
The god looked Garten right in the eye, winked and pressed one enormous finger against his nose. Faces about his table turned to look at the brothers. They raised their tankards and shouted salutations that were lost in the hubbub of the crowd.
“Why are they looking at us?” said Garten.
“He’s been expecting you, he’s been talking about you.”
“What?”
“You’ve never been in an alehouse with the god?” said Guis. “Why Garten, you are duller than you look. It is his habit to tell stories.” Guis patted at his shoulder where something stirred in his hair. “It is his habit to embarrass at least one of his listeners while doing so.”
“God of wine and drama,” said Trassan, pleased to have been anticipated.
Garten was dismayed. “It is no small thing to draw the eye of a god.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Guis. “He does it to everyone. To be frank, he can be a bit of a cock. He enjoys disturbing people.”
“Where is that girl?” said Trassan. He fidgeted in his seat, craning his neck this way and that.
“Where have you been, brother?” asked Garten. “We’ve missed you.”
“Away up north, in Stoncastrum. I’ve been there for seven weeks or so,” said Guis.
“Have you moved?” said Garten incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell us. You should have written, sent a message, anything.”
“It’s just a short stay. I’ve been busy. I have a play on. I would have sent notice but, you know.” He smiled, but sadly.
“You should not keep your movements to yourself so. Does mother know you are back?”
Guis shrugged. The accompanying smile was a little sour.
“Well!” said Garten with forced cheer. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “We’re all here now, that’s the important thing. Three Kressind brothers in one place at one time, that’s worthy of celebration.”
“We’ll all be together tomorrow,” said Trassan ruefully. “Rel’s getting kicked out of the country. I assume you’re coming to see him off?”
“I did hear,” said Guis. “Any idea why?”
“Ah,” said Trassan dismissively. “He fucked the wrong man’s wife, is what I heard. They’ve had him banged up for a fortnight in the regimental prison. Big fuss about nothing if you ask me.”
“He’ll be missing Katriona’s wedding.”
“I can’t help but think that was intended,” said Trassan. “Alanrys is a sod, no matter what father thinks of him. There’s something going on there. Father pulled some strings,” said Trassan. “Apparently it was before the wedding or fighting Ocerzerkiyan corsairs.”
“He’ll be halfway across the continent in a week,” said Garten.
“Katriona will be livid,” said Guis.
Trassan huffed in agreement. “She is.” He picked up a pewter salt cellar and fiddled with it. There were few objects Trassan would not worry at. He was a devil with knickknacks.
“Leave it be!” Guis scowled; it settled into deep lines worn into his face by its many predecessors.
“Have you still got it then?” asked Garten. “Let’s say hello.”
“It’s not a pet,” said Guis sharply. “It’s a fucking great pain in my arse.”
“If you were nicer to it, then it might not be,” said Garten.
“Are we getting drinks here or not?” said Guis, desperate to change the subject.
“No sign of that girl,” said Trassan. He dropped the salt cellar. It rolled on its bulbous side in a slow arc, spilling white grains upon the wood. “Hang on.” He stood up and shoved his way out of the booth.
“Tyn! Tyn!” said Garten softly. “Are you there? Come out. It’s me, Garten. Come and take some salt.”
“Name not Tyn,” said a small, papery voice, somehow managing to make itself heard. A patron, sat at the head of a nearby table, glanced over uneasily.
“I’ve got to call you Tyn. If you don’t like it, tell us your name.”
“Name not tell,” said the voice. “Name not mine to tell. Not yours to know. Name not tell. Geas.”
Garten tugged off his glove and licked his fingertip, dabbing up salt from the table. He held it up near Guis’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ve got salt. Come out.”
The thing in Guis’s hair blew a raspberry, but came forth nonetheless. First a spindle-fingered hand parted Guis’s hair like a curtain. Then a face emerged on a neck as delicate as a grass stalk. He was as ugly as could be, a hairless bat crossed with some goggle-eyed ape. Its nose was all twitching folds and frills. A roar of laughter from a nearby table sent it darting back. It emerged again, ever so timidly. Then with a sudden rush it scampered off Guis’s shoulder and ran down his arm, hopping from the table onto Garten’s outstretched hand. It was tiny, the size of a small rat, yet possessed of humanoid anatomy in miniature. It wore no clothes but for a tattered mouse fur loincloth and a pair of pointed boots. A topknot tied in a bow of red thread was the only hair on his scalp. The arms were disproportionately long, the hands and feet big. A delicate chain ran from a twist of iron wire at its neck to a fastening on Guis’s necklace.
Tyn stood in Garten’s palm for a moment. He flinched at every sound. It looked up at Garten, asking for approval. Garten nodded encouragingly. In a flurry of movement Tyn pounced on his finger to lick greedily at the salt. Garten laughed at the sensation.
A gasp at Garten’s shoulder. He turned to see the serving girl, her hand to her mouth, lips and eyes wide and white. Tyn spun around in fright and shot up Guis’s arm.
“My brother’s pet,” explained Garten.
“It is not a pet,” said Guis darkly.
The girl continued to stare.
“Can we order, do you think?” said Garten gently. The girl nodded.
“Where is Trassan?” said Guis.
“Who knows. Let’s get him a drink and some food.”
“And what if he’s already on his way back here with some drinks?”
“Then we’ll have two drinks apiece. That’s a lot less than I intend to drink. I have children, a wife, and a patron who demands I be available at all hours. I don’t get out much,” said Garten.
“How is Charramay?”
“I don’t get out much,” repeated Garten flatly.
Guis laughed.
“Oh do fuck off,” said Garten, which only made Guis laugh more.
TRASSAN FORGOT ALL about finding the girl. The god was watching him, ruddy cheeks
split by a knowing smile. In the museum Eliturion seemed smaller. Out in public he was immense. His drinking cronies followed his gaze, and soon Trassan was being stared at by a table’s worth of drunken men.
“Good evening, Trassan Kressind!” boomed the god, waving his arm in an arc over the heads of his friends. “You sought me at the museum today. Here I am. You wish to ask me something, so why do you not ask it?”
His fellows made loud noises of agreement. “Ask him, go on! Ask him! We’ve been hearing all about you!”
Trassan ignored them. If there was anything to be offended about, he could be sure Guis would have become offended by it on his behalf. Trassan put on his most confident smile, and stepped nearer.
“They tell me you know all that is to be known.”
Eliturion inclined his head. “One might say such a power lies within ambit of the god of drama. For what is history but a story done, the present a story in the telling, and the future a story yet to be told?”
“‘Drama is truth, not fact’,” quoted Trassan.
“So said Damarteo of Hethika,” said Eliturion.
Trassan smiled back and bowed slightly.
“Very pithy,” said the god. “But balls. Damarteo of Hethika was an enormous tosser, and I knocked him on his backside for it two thousand years ago. There is no such thing as absolute fact, only truth. Truth is to be found only in story. I am therefore, the master of what is to be known.”
“Tale-telling more like!” shouted one of the braver bravos.
“That is exactly what I said, dunderhead. Hush now.” Eliturion clucked irritably at the man.
“That is nonsense,” said Trassan. “Damarteo has it quite the other way around.”
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