great strength seemed to be waning. 'I can't see anywhere else that looks like an inn,' he mumbled in reply.
Robin looked back up at the sign. 'Marasmus West?' he muttered to himself. 'Marasmus must be at least half a dozen leagues away. This, if it's anywhere, is Marasmus, Middle of Bloody Nowhere.' But he entered anyway.
The man behind the reception desk was a small weasel-like man with a straggly moustache and sticky-out ears, his head bowed to a ledger. A tarnished badge on the man's lapels stated that he was called, Mr. Pants. T. Esq. Above the man's head, pinned to the wall, there was a poster declaring, 'Hungry? Tired? Then tarry awhile at Tarry's Tavern!' which was accompanied by a badly drawn sketch of a large, grey-haired, square-chinned, ruddy-faced man.
Robin approached the desk and waited to be acknowledged. After a few seconds of being ostentatiously ignored he took a further step forward and, his patience already worn thin, placed a hand upon the ledger. Mr. Pants raised his head, a look of outrage at being disturbed appearing upon his rodent-like face.
'Yes?' he demanded, in a high-pitched, reedy voice.
Robin, not in the mood to take any shit, merely stared at the man, who suddenly grasped the fact that he was being confronted by a gang of rough-looking, well-armed men. Oh, and an elephant. One thought immediately sprang into his mind -customers! He immediately slipped into obsequious mode.
'I'm sorry,' he apologised with a small bow. 'Paperwork, don't you know. What can I do for you fine... gentlemen?'
Robin made a play of peering at the badge on the rat-faced man's lapel. 'Mr Pants, is it?' he asked, looking up into the man's face.
'As a matter of fact, yes,' replied Mr Pants.
'And you are the owner of this establishment, I take it?'
'Oh no,' said Mr Pants. 'I am, as a matter of fact, the manager. The owner,' - he pointed to the poster behind him - 'is the famous Mr. Tarry Hernia-'
'Famous?' asked Robin.
'Indeed. Mr Tarry Hernia is extremely famous in the world of hospitality-'
'So not very famous at all, then?'
Mr Pants looked upon the expression upon the outlaw leader's face and made the wise decision to pointedly ignore the last comment. 'Mr Hernia is, as a matter of fact, not here at the moment, unfortunately,' he continued to explain. It was becoming increasingly obvious that little Mr Pants hero-worshipped the apparently larger than life Mr Tarry Hernia. 'He is, as a matter of fact, currently at our sister Trek-Lodge, Marasmus North-West.' He dipped his head and smiled a sycophantic smile. 'But, as I said, I am the manager, so maybe you'll permit me to assist you.'
Despite his rising anger and declining patience Robin found himself asking the obvious question. 'Marasmus North-West? And where exactly is that?'
'As a matter of fact,' said Mr. Pants, a trifle haughtily, Robin thought, 'Marasmus North-West is situated in, um, Port Tawny.'
'Port Tawny?'
'Indeed. Marasmus North-West is, as a matter of fact, in-'
'If it's in Port Tawny, which, if I'm any judge, is about sixty miles away from our splendid capital city, then why do you call it Marasmus North-West?' Robin interrupted.
'Ah,' Mr Pants replied somewhat defensively, 'as a matter of fact it is company policy that all Trek-lodges are named after the nearest major conurbation and the direction from that city in which the Trek-lodge lies.'
'Really?' replied Robin. 'And exactly how many Trek-lodges are there?'
'Er, as a matter of fact, two,' Mr Pants replied, 'but Mr Tarry Hernia,' he went on quickly, 'is currently embarking on a programme that will see a 50% growth in the number of Trek-lodges within the next decade.'
Robin took a moment to work this out. 'You mean,' he said slowly, 'there'll be one more.'
'I mean,' replied Mr Pants, who spoke Business Bullshit as his first language, 'a 50% growth, as I just said.'
'Okay, okay' replied Robin, sorry he'd started the conversation. He decided to get to the point. 'We'd like some rooms.'
'And have you booked?' asked Mr Pants.
'Sorry?'
'Have you, as a matter of fact, made a reservation with our Central Reservations Centre?'
Robin looked mystified. 'I didn't realize you had a... what did you call it?'
'A Central Reservations Centre, as a matter of fact,' replied Mr Pants proudly.
Robin rubbed his temples. All he wanted was a bed and a few hours sleep. 'Which is where, exactly?' he asked, a hint of despair in his voice.
'Er, in Marasmus, as a matter of fact.'
'Really? Well I'm sorry, I didn't know that,' Robin replied in a voice edging towards the manic. 'You see, the thing is, we don't really get into Marasmus very often these days. But, tell you what, now that we're here, I'll make the booking now.'
'I'm sorry,' said Mr Pants, who very obviously wasn't. 'I can't just take a booking from you. It simply doesn't work like that. You see, we've outsourced our booking arrangements, as a matter of fact, and without a booking reference number, well, I find myself, um, unable make a booking for you.'
Robin forced himself to refrain from grabbing the little man by his neck and shaking him until the bugger's badge dropped off... 'Can't you give me a booking reference number?' he asked through gritted teeth.
Mr Pants shook his head. 'The system won't allow it.'
'What system?'
'Me, and my quill. The nib's broken. Also I've spilt coffee on the ledger, as a matter of fact.'
Robin stared at the little man. It really was proving quite difficult not to use physical violence... He made a show of rubbing his temples. 'So, what you're telling me is this: in order for a guest to book in at this inn, which, despite being called Marasmus West, is more than twenty miles away from Marasmus, that guest would have to go to Marasmus in order to make a booking, even when he was standing right here in front of the bloody reception desk!'
'Yes, as a-'
'If you say 'as a matter of fact' one more time, Mr. T Pants Esq., I promise you that you will never be able to use your 'system' ever again.'
Mr Pants gulped as he looked into Robin's face. 'Why not?' he ventured quietly.
'Because Ron here will have rammed your quill and ledger right up your-'
'Pigeons!' shouted Mr. Pants.
'What?' asked Robin, momentarily taken off his stride.
'Carrier pigeons! You see, if I take your details I can send them by pigeon to the Central Reservation Centre and they will provide a booking reference number. Then there's no problem.'
Robin rubbed at his eyes. 'Alright, that makes about as much sense as anything else you've said tonight. Okay, I'll buy it. So how long will it take before we can get a room?'
'No time at all, as a matter... actually. The pigeon will be back by, oh, about a week on Thursday.'
Robin's patience, which had been hanging on by a thread throughout the day's arduous journey, was now completely severed by Mr. Pants' intransigence and obvious jobsworthiness. 'Mr. Pants,' he said very softly. 'I threatened you a moment ago and I am very sorry-'
'Apology accepted,' Mr. Pants replied, obviously failing to take notice of the quiet menace in Robin's voice.
'Please, let me finish, Mr. Pants. I threatened you a moment ago and I am very sorry, truly sorry, that I didn't carry out that threat immediately. I am tired and very close to the end of my tether, and, as a bloody matter of bloody fact, you, Mr Pants, are making things much, much worse. Therefore, if I do not have keys to' - he looked around at his companions - 'five rooms in the palm of my hand within 10 seconds, then not only will your quill and ledger disappear, but this reception desk and that bloody awful picture of Mr. Tarry '50% growth' Hernia will also be making an appearance in your lower intestinal tract. Do I make myself clear?'
Mr Pants visibly paled. 'Mr. Hernia's picture?' he finally managed to squeak.
'Yes,' Robin confirmed. 'I'm sure it will make a refreshing change for you - him being up your arse instead of you being up his. Now give me the damn keys.'
It was the thought of t
he desecration of Mr. Hernia's picture that finally decided Mr. Pants. 'Here. Rooms 1 to 5 on the ground floor,' he said as he handed over the keys. 'Actually, there's nobody else in tonight, as a matter of fact...'
69
It was a ride like no other in the history of Terra Infirma. It was a ride that would become fabled throughout the land. It was a ride that Anyx would never forget... Actually, to be more precise, it was a ride that Anyx's backside would never forget.
It had been almost dusk when they had turned eastwards, and Azif had set a punishing pace. The Moor was obviously a superb horseman, and it took all the Maid's and Will's skill just to keep up. Anyx merely clung tightly to A'Veil in an effort not to fall off.
They had set off with the setting sun immediately behind them, the magnificent orange orb casting elongated silhouettes ahead of them, giving them the impression that they were chasing... well, shadows. Presently day gave way to night, and the four horsemen - well, two horsemen, a horsewoman and a horsedwarf who was, of course, really only a passenger - rode on relentlessly, their way guided by the pale light of the gibbous moon. Although the day had been hot the night soon turned cold, the sky appearing cloudless and the myriad stars putting on a magnificent celestial show.
As they continued their epic ride Anyx shuffled forwards on the horse and hunched further into the Maid's back. Thus, protected from the wind, warmth began to creep back into his body and he started to feel drowsy. Fearful of falling asleep and thereby falling off he forced himself to stay awake. He hummed to himself and put his head out from behind A'Veil's body and into the onrushing wind, the equivalent of opening the window and turning the stereo up. He looked up at the moon which seemed to be straight above them, at its highest point. He wondered idly if the zenith of the moon indicated midnight in much the same way as the zenith of the sun indicated midday. But that couldn't be right. They hadn't been riding that long, and they hadn't even come to the Forts yet. But surely they must be close.
'Are we there yet?' he asked A'Veil.
'What?' replied the Maid, exhaustion apparent in her voice.
'I said are we there yet?'
'Where?'
'The Forts.'
'Soon.'
'How soon?' the dwarf persisted.
'Just soon,' A'Veil replied, and suddenly she had a very strong sense of déjà vu. 'And if you're about to say that you need the toilet,' she said, 'don't!'
70
More-Grim sniffed at the body of Grim, to ensure that his brother was dead. The pack only respected strength, and by killing Grim, More-Grim had, in their eyes, certainly proven his strength and dominance. Therefore he was pack-leader, and they would follow wherever he went. Frankly, as far as the pack was concerned, as long as they were well fed and given the occasional rest break by which they could take time out to cheerfully lick themselves in intimate areas, they would continue to be happy. Grim had always managed to provide adequate food for the pack and they had been contented. Now as long as More-Grim could ensure a ready supply of meat and groinal-grooming opportunities, he would remain unchallenged as pack-leader. And, More-Grim promised himself, he would provide meat, but not in the manner of his dearly departed brother. Grim, as far as More-Grim was concerned, was nothing more than a traitor to his species. Yes, he had provided for the pack, but only by pledging his life to the service of the trolls, and thereby pledging the lives of the pack. And in return, the trolls had provided food for the wolves - being fed like pet dogs, as far as More-Grim was concerned. But now they would hunt for themselves - they would become proud wolves once again. More-Grim had hated Grim for his subservience to Grantt, and he had hated Grantt for forcing such subservience upon him and his pack. So now he would lead the pack back to their traditional hunting grounds in the north... but first he had to do something, something that would erase the shame that Grim had, as far as More-Grim was concerned, brought
Rude Awakenings Page 19