After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

  “I truly am sorry to have brought such trouble to your door,” said James, for at least the tenth time. Margaret placed a hand on his arm, smiling ruefully, before returning her attention to the enchantingly unusual experience of drinking a cup of tea without it attempting to ice over.

  “As long as all damages are covered as a part of my bill, I really see no reason to be put out,” I said, continuing to collect bits of Andy from the floor. “It was quite educational, and I’d been wanting an excuse to renovate—especially with someone else supplying the funds.”

  “And you say this . . . disconnection ... will last until we wash it off?” asked James.

  “Yes. Longer, if you drank the stuff, but I don’t recommend it. No telling what it might do to the seasons if you decided to disappear for more than a few hours.”

  “It’s never happened,” said Margaret. “Let’s not test it.”

  “My thought precisely.” I placed one of Andy’s feet on the bar, adding it to the heap of rubble I had already created. “I always did have a reputation for brewing stronger drinks than was strictly necessary.”

  “Well, Miss Norton,” said James, gravely, “after tonight, I don’t suppose anyone will say it’s undeserved.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I looked thoughtfully at Margaret, who showed no signs of going back to sleep. “So, out of curiosity—what will the two of you do with these three extra weeks?”

  Margaret smiled. That was, in its way, quite enough.

  Margaret and James left shortly after midnight. I waved them out and locked the doors securely before picking up Andy’s head, walking through the storeroom, and descending the stairs to the basement. He looked around with interest, apparently enjoying the new perspective that being carried under my arm was affording him. I set him gently on the duplicate bar. “Comfortable?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” I turned to survey the shelves. “I’ll have to start with rum, I think. . . .”

  “Ma’am?”

  I cast a quick smile back in Andy’s direction. “If I’ve woken one, it stands to reason that I’d best be prepared to wake the other. In case of the inevitable emergency, you understand.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “That’s all right, Andy. That’s just fine.”

  In the end, the mixing took most of the night, and several medicinal shots of rum, to get precisely right. Ah, the sacrifices I make for my art. If only every sacrifice could taste so terribly sweet.

  COCKTAILS

  To Wake the Winter Queen

  1 part midwinter midnight (or, failing that, 1 part vodka) 2 parts gin 1 part applejack 1 splash pomegranate molasses or cordial Garnish with a slice of fresh or crystallized ginger

  Mix gin and applejack in a highball tumbler. Add pomegranate molasses and stir. Pour a shot of midwinter (or vodka) on the top. Ice to taste, garnish with ginger. A sweet, tart taste of winter, smelling of apples and pine.

  To Wake the Winter King

  1 part summer noon (or, failing that, 1 part blackberry brandy) 1 part light rum 1 part golden rum 1 part dark rum 2 parts rose mead Garnish with candied orange or lemon peel

  Crust the rim of a pint glass with sugar. Mix the rums and the mead in the glass. Top off with summer (or blackberry brandy), and garnish with candied orange or lemon peel. A sweet and syrupy glass of summer, smelling of sugar and harvest berries.

  Thanks to Elizabeth Bear for her alcohol assistance

  THE GRAND TOUR

  Juliet E. McKenna

  n.esp. hist. a cultural tour of Europe, made for educational purposes.

  Concise Oxford English Dictionary

  “HAVE you any idea where we are?” Hal demanded.

  “Not since you took that turn I said not to,” retorted Eustace. “We should have stayed on the main road to Vienna.”

  He peered at the map in the gathering dusk, struggling to pick out routes and writing alike. Snatching a glance ahead, he was relieved to see a small town nestled at the bottom of the valley. “We must find someone to ask.”

  “If we stop, I don’t rate our chances of starting again.” Irate, Hal thumped the steering wheel. “Your Aunt Verity’s chap swore this bally motor was fit for the trip.”

  The Lanchester coughed spitefully one last time before falling silent. The only sound was its wire-spoked wheels rumbling down the road.

  “Hal!” Eustace exclaimed, alarmed.

  “Show some backbone, Ferrars!” Though Hal sounded none too calm as the automobile gathered speed on the steep slope.

  Eustace gripped the top of his shallow door with one hand, the other clinging to the front of his seat. “Over there!” He didn’t dare let go to point. “A fuel pump outside that blacksmithy!”

  “Right you are.” Setting his jaw, Hal wrestled with the steering wheel.

  The Lanchester wobbled perilously as they swept into the market square. Eustace’s heart was in his mouth until more level ground prevailed and the vehicle slowed to a halt.

  His relief was short-lived. There was no sign of life in the blacksmith’s workshop; no lamps lit or any breath of a fire within.

  “Try the starter,” Hal ordered.

  Eustace swallowed a curt rejoinder as he opened his door. Going to the front of the vehicle, he bent to crank the obdurate engine’s handle. He tried, once, twice, a third time. All his efforts went unrewarded.

  “The rotten thing’s dead.” Standing up, he rubbed his aching wrist.

  “Then we had better find that blacksmith and see if he knows anything about motor cars. If he does, all well and good. If not—”

  Hal paused to take stock of their situation. The market place boasted some splendid dwellings crowned with bulbous turrets, their windows festooned with swags of carved garlands. Though the cobbled expanse was entirely deserted at this dinner hour.

  “We find somewhere to stay for the night,” Eustace decided. “I’ll cable Aunt Verity in the morning. If there are no Royal Automobile Club patrolmen, she can at least send her beau to explain himself and get us back on the road.”

  Unless the motor was completely crocked. Pa would get in the most fearful bate.

  “Try—”

  Whatever Hal might have suggested was lost as a group of youths entered the market square. One hailed them.

  “What did he say?” Hal asked quickly.

  “I don’t know,” protested Eustace.

  Hal shook his head, exasperated. “I thought you were the linguist.”

  “When they’re speaking Latin or Greek, I’ll parse the conversation,” Eustace offered, sarcastic.

  “It didn’t occur to you to learn the lingo, when you knew we were coming to Austria?” But Hal’s heart wasn’t in the rebuke.

  The approaching youths paused to contemplate them from a distance. One stepped forward.

  “Good evening. What appears to be the trouble?”

  “You speak English?” Eustace broke off, confused by unseemly laughter among the fellows, followed by a scornful flurry of German.

  “Get back in the motor car, Eustace,” Hal said quietly. But the English-speaker was approaching, a tall youth with an athlete’s build.

  “I have learned your language among several others.” He smiled, supercilious. “At Heidelberg.” He turned his head this way and that, to display the neat scars on his chiseled cheekbones.

  “Good evening.” Eustace offered his hand. “We’re Oxford men ourselves. At least, we will be this Michaelmas.” He smiled hopefully.

  Hands still in his pockets, the Heidelberger inclined his head in a curt bow. “My condolences.”

  “I’m sorry?” Challenge sharpened Hal’s tone.

  “On the recent death of your king,” the Heidelberger said smoothly.

  That’s not what he’d meant at all. Eustace was convinced of it, as the rest of the gang sniggered.

  “May I offer my congratulations on your King George’s accession?” the tall blond youth continued. “And his lovely qveen. Let
us hope good German blood will strengthen your so-called royal line.”

  Eustace couldn’t believe he’d heard the bounder correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Forgive me, but Great Britain is ruled by mere Hanoverian Electors.” The Heidelberger didn’t sound in the least contrite. “You must admit that’s barely a monarchy compared to the Imperial powers of Europe.”

  “What about India?” Eustace demanded. “Africa? Canada? Australia? That’s the British Empire, you know!”

  The Heidelberger didn’t reply, addressing Hal instead. “Do you suppose your new king can save England from all these anarchists and socialists running riot in London?”

  “That’s enough of your infernal cheek,” Hal said wrathfully.

  The Heidelberger spread innocent hands. “There have not been anarchist outrages? What of that Tottenham incident last year, when that poor policeman was shot?”

  Hal’s lip curled. “Piccadilly’s gutters are hardly running with blood.”

  “My pa says this new Home Secretary will put an end to such nonsense,” Eustace said stoutly. “Quite the coming man, Winston Churchill, so my pa says.”

  But the Heidelberger threw back his blonde head with a raucous laugh. “Churchill? Horsewhipped by some suffragette whore last month? How can such a man command anyone’s respect?”

  Eustace saw Hal redden with anger as he flung open the Lanchester’s door. He was all the more furious himself because he could hardly deny that the lunatic woman had tried to give Churchill a thrashing.

  “We’ve had enough of your jaw.” Stepping over the running board onto the cobbles, Hal squared up to the Heidelberger. “I’ll take an apology, if you please.”

  “An apology?” The tall youth feigned surprise.

  “When you English owe the whole German people your apology? You English with your arrogance, who deny us our rightful place in the sun? You boast of your British Empire, when you have kept the German Empire from the overseas possessions that are our due? While your British Navy builds mighty Dreadnoughts to forbid free passage of the seas to every other nation?”

  The Heidelberger punctuated each challenge with a shove to Hal’s chest, forcing him away from the car. Anxious, Eustace moved to follow, only to find his path barred by the youths who’d originally accompanied the Heidelberger.

  “What right have you two fools to be in Austria?” the young German demanded. “Are you spies? We know how England conspires with the Russians and the French against the Hapsburgs. We know your government has divided up Persia with the Tsar, so the Romanovs can hem in all of central Europe with their railways.”

  “That’s utter rot,” Hal said hotly.

  “You are welcome to your Triple Entente,” the Heidelberger sneered. “Germany has science and industry.

  While your English aristocrats bleat about being bled white by taxes, Kaiser Wilhelm oversees triumphs like Graf von Zeppelin’s airships. Britannia might think she rules the waves, but Germany will claim the skies.”

  Eustace thought, just for a moment, that the youth had satisfactorily vented his spleen. Perhaps he intended to spit on the cobbles, not on Hal’s shoe. But as the repellent spittle landed, Eustace saw his friend’s fists clench and that was that.

  Hal swung with all the pugilistic science of an English boarding school education. The punch connected with the ruffian’s scarred cheekbone to send him spiraling away. As he fell, he knocked several of his fellows flying.

  Eustace braced himself as the closest ill-shaven brute aimed a brutal blow at his stomach. Tensed muscles kept his wind intact. Two more yahoos rushed him, fists milling wildly. Eustace landed solid body blows on each and followed up with a right hook and an uppercut.

  But he couldn’t fend them all off. Vicious fists landed thick and fast. Insults rang in his ears, incomprehensible yet unmistakable. He couldn’t see what was happening to Hal over on the other side of the car.

  An agonizing stamp on his ankle and Eustace dropped to one knee. His enemies seized their chance. As their brutal jostling floored him, he could only curl into a ball. One hand clenched over his groin, he buried his face in the crook of his other arm. Boots and fists pummeled him, merciless, bruising his back and his thighs, his shins and his shoulders.

  Until they broke away. For no apparent reason their attackers scattered, tossing a last barrage of insults as they fled. Eustace lay dazed, hardly able to believe the torment was over.

  But what about Hal? Eustace blinked away blood and tears, trying to focus on a dark shape slumped beyond the motor car. He cautiously raised himself up on his elbow. He grimaced. How could such a beating leave him in such agony and yet numb? He didn’t think his legs could support him. Eustace forced himself to his knees. After a moment’s concentrated effort, he managed to stand, albeit doubled over. Step by excruciating step, he staggered towards the huddled shape.

  For a heart-stopping instant, he truly thought that Hal was dead. He lay limp as a discarded rag doll, his face an ashen mask smeared with filth. Then he drew a shuddering breath and Eustace’s relief momentarily overwhelmed his own sufferings. Until he saw Hal cough up a mouthful of blood and groan with heart-rending agony.

  “I’m here, Hal.” Eustace knelt, ignoring the pains that cost him. “Come on, old chap. Upsy-daisy!”

  As he tried to lift his friend, Hal yelped. Worse, he was wracked by a ferocious coughing fit. Fresh blood trickled down his chin.

  Eustace was terrified. But what to do? He dared not leave Hal alone. There was no knowing if those roughs would return. They had to find somewhere safe, some chance of summoning a doctor, of sending a telegram back to Salzburg.

  “You have to get up!” Steeling himself, Eustace hauled Hal to his feet.

  He draped Hal’s left arm over his shoulder, gripping his hand mercilessly. Shoving his right shoulder into Hal’s armpit helped him bear as much of his friend’s weight as possible. He wrapped his arm around Hal’s waist and grabbed a handful of tweed. “Come on, old chap!”

  “Just—” Hal gasped in pain. “Let me get my breath.”

  “How badly are you hurt?” Eustace had to ask.

  “A broken rib, I think,” Hal took a labored breath. “Dash it all, I’ve had worse playing rugger. Let me get my hands on that blighter. I’ll make him sorry.”

  “You and the Brigade of Guards?” Eustace snapped. “Don’t be an ass—”

  He broke off as heavy boots echoed somewhere between the houses set around the square. Hal stiffened with an inarticulate whimper.

  “Let’s try that way.” Eustace nodded towards a lane bounded by garden walls topped with leafy trees.

  But as they toiled through the gloaming, closed gates and shuttered windows offered them no succor. Eustace pressed doggedly onwards. They soon reached humble streets very different from the baroque elegance of the market place.

  The lane grew steeper. They found a flight of stone steps, treacherously dished by the tread of countless centuries. Eustace forced himself upwards, jaw clenched. Hal’s breath hissed painfully through his nose.

  After what felt like an eternity, they reached the top of the steps to find a small square. On the far side lamplit windows glowed golden in the darkness. One illuminated a swinging sign. The White Rose.

  Eustace managed a faint laugh. “We’ve made it all the way to Yorkshire!”

  Hal’s only response was a pitiful moan.

  Eustace summoned up the last of his strength to carry them both to the tavern’s door. He had to let go of Hal’s hand to reach for the handle. That was a dreadful mistake. Hal slumped senseless on the threshold. Unable to rouse him, Eustace could only batter the nail-studded wood with feeble bloody knuckles.

  A broad-shouldered man, aproned over shirt and trousers, opened the door.

  “Please—”

  Before Eustace could continue, the man stooped to scoop Hal up into his arms. He turned to carry him inside.

  “He’s hurt. He needs a doctor.” Eustace ignored his own
agonies. “Doktor.” That was one German word that he knew.

  The barman carried Hal to an alcove tucked beside a black-leaded stove mercifully unlit for the summer. He slid him on to the padded bench by the table.

  Hal’s head lolled against the oak-paneled wall, his eyes glazed. Eustace’s heart twisted in his chest.

  “He needs a doctor!” Overwrought, he grabbed the sturdy barman’s sleeve, shaking his arm like a terrier.

  Only then did he wonder what he was doing. The man topped him by more than a head, solidly muscled with curling black hair and a handsome beard.

  “Don’t worry, my friend.” Though accented, the man’s English was fluent. “We will look after you both.” His grey-green eyes were calm and reassuring. “Please, sit.”

  Astonished as well as exhausted, Eustace did as he was told. What else could he do?

  He searched Hal’s white face for any sign of his wits returning. Nothing. Sick at heart, he turned away, only to realize that the other patrons of this out-of-the-way inn were staring at them. Some were avid with curiosity. Others looked indignant, even outraged at such rude interruption to their peaceable evening.

  What must the two of them look like? While his tweeds had endured their rough treatment surprisingly well, Eustace could see that his shirt was an utter disgrace, his collar half torn from its studs.

  He looked up, as if to study the carved beams supporting the creamy plastered roof. Countless knickknacks crowded the high shelves that ringed the room. Pewter-lidded tankards jostled dusty flagons with faded labels and all manner of trinkets from fat-sailed ships in bottles to a gunmetal model of the Eiffel Tower. Lamplight burnished Mediterranean pots for all the world like the ones in the British Museum. Greek athletes cavorted on red-glazed curves. Propped in a far corner, a slab of ancient terracotta was checkered with incomprehensible symbols.