big town,” Swinehild said reverently, brushing a curl from her eyes. “Port Miasma—and it’s even bigger and glamorouser than I expected.”
“Um,” Lafayette said noncommittally, leading the way toward the lighted entry of a down-at-heels grog shop just visible at an angle halfway up a steep side street, before which a weathered board announced YE GUT BUCKET.
Inside the smoky but warm room, they took a corner table. The sleepy-eyed tavern-keeper silently accepted their order and shuffled away.
“Well, this is more like it,” Lafayette said with a sigh. “It’s been a strenuous night, but with a hot meal and a good bed to look forward to, we can’t complain.”
“The big town scares me, Lafe,” Swinehild said. “It’s so kind of impersonal, all hustle-bustle, no time for them little personal touches that mean so much to a body.”
“Hustle-bustle? It’s as dead as a foreclosed mortuary,” Lafayette muttered.
“Like this place,” Swinehild continued. “Open in the middle o’ the night. Never seen anything like it.”
“It’s hardly ten P.M.,” Lafayette pointed out. “And—”
“And besides that, I got to go,” Swinehild added. “And not a clump o’ bushes in sight.”
“There’s a room for it,” O’Leary said hastily. “Over there—where it says LADIES.”
“You mean— inside?”
“Of course. You’re in town now, Swinehild. You have to start getting used to a few amenities—”
“Never mind; I’ll just duck out in the alley—”
“Swinehild! The ladies’ room, please!”
“You come with me.”
“I can’t—it’s for ladies only. There’s another one for men.”
“Well, think o’ that!” Swinehild shook her head wonderingly.
“Now hurry along, our soup will be here in a minute.”
“Wish me luck.” Swinehild rose and moved off hesitantly. Lafayette sighed, turned back the soggy lace from his wrists, used the worn napkin beside his plate to mop the condensed moisture from his face, sniffing the bouquet of chicken and onions drifting in from the kitchen. His mouth watered at the prospect. Except for a chunk of salami, and that plate of dubious pork back at the Beggar’s Bole, he hadn’t eaten a bite since lunch ...
Lunch, ten hours and a million years ago: the dainty table set up on the terrace, the snowy linen, the polished silver, the deft sommelier pouring the feather-light wine from the frosted and napkin-wrapped bottle, the delicate slices of savory ham, the angelfood cake with whipped cream, the paper-thin cup of steaming coffee—
“Hey—you!” a deep voice boomed across the room, shattering O’Leary’s reverie. He looked around to see who was thus rudely addressed, saw a pair of tall fellows in gold-braided blue tailcoats, white knee breeches, buckled shoes, and tricorner hats bearing down on him from the door.
“Yeah—it’s him,” the smaller of the two said, grabbing for his sword hilt. “Boy oh boy, the pinch of the week, and it’s ours, all ours, Snardley—so don’t louse it up.” The rapier cleared its sheath with a whistling rasp. Its owner waved it at O’Leary.
“Hold it right there, pal,” he said in a flinty voice. “You’re under arrest in the name of the duke!”
The second uniformed man had drawn a long-muzzled flintlock pistol of the type associated with Long John Silver; he flourished it in a careless manner at O’Leary’s head.
“You going in quiet, rube, or have I gotta plug you, resisting arrest?”
“You’ve got the wrong rube,” Lafayette replied impatiently. “I just arrived: I haven’t had time to break any laws—unless you’ve got one against breathing.”
“Not yet—but it’s a thought, wise guy.” The rapier-wielder jabbed sharply at him. “Better come along nice, Bo: Yockwell and me collect the same reward, dead or alive.”
“I seen what you taken and done to a couple pals of mine, which they was snuck up on from behind,” Yockwell warned. “I’m just itching for a excuse
“Um,” Lafayette said noncommittally, leading the way toward the lighted entry of a down-at-heels grog shop just visible at an angle halfway up a steep side street, before which a weathered board announced YE GUT BUCKET.
Inside the smoky but warm room, they took a corner table. The sleepy-eyed tavern-keeper silently accepted their order and shuffled away.
“Well, this is more like it,” Lafayette said with a sigh. “It’s been a strenuous night, but with a hot meal and a good bed to look forward to, we can’t complain.”
“The big town scares me, Lafe,” Swinehild said. “It’s so kind of impersonal, all hustle-bustle, no time for them little personal touches that mean so much to a body.”
“Hustle-bustle? It’s as dead as a foreclosed mortuary,” Lafayette muttered.
“Like this place,” Swinehild continued. “Open in the middle o’ the night. Never seen anything like it.”
“It’s hardly ten P.M.,” Lafayette pointed out. “And—”
“And besides that, I got to go,” Swinehild added. “And not a clump o’ bushes in sight.”
“There’s a room for it,” O’Leary said hastily. “Over there—where it says LADIES.”
“You mean— inside?”
“Of course. You’re in town now, Swinehild. You have to start getting used to a few amenities—”
“Never mind; I’ll just duck out in the alley—”
“Swinehild! The ladies’ room, please!”
“You come with me.”
“I can’t—it’s for ladies only. There’s another one for men.”
“Well, think o’ that!” Swinehild shook her head wonderingly.
“Now hurry along, our soup will be here in a minute.”
“Wish me luck.” Swinehild rose and moved off hesitantly. Lafayette sighed, turned back the soggy lace from his wrists, used the worn napkin beside his plate to mop the condensed moisture from his face, sniffing the bouquet of chicken and onions drifting in from the kitchen. His mouth watered at the prospect. Except for a chunk of salami, and that plate of dubious pork back at the Beggar’s Bole, he hadn’t eaten a bite since lunch ...
Lunch, ten hours and a million years ago: the dainty table set up on the terrace, the snowy linen, the polished silver, the deft sommelier pouring the feather-light wine from the frosted and napkin-wrapped bottle, the delicate slices of savory ham, the angelfood cake with whipped cream, the paper-thin cup of steaming coffee—
“Hey—you!” a deep voice boomed across the room, shattering O’Leary’s reverie. He looked around to see who was thus rudely addressed, saw a pair of tall fellows in gold-braided blue tailcoats, white knee breeches, buckled shoes, and tricorner hats bearing down on him from the door.
“Yeah—it’s him,” the smaller of the two said, grabbing for his sword hilt. “Boy oh boy, the pinch of the week, and it’s ours, all ours, Snardley—so don’t louse it up.” The rapier cleared its sheath with a whistling rasp. Its owner waved it at O’Leary.
“Hold it right there, pal,” he said in a flinty voice. “You’re under arrest in the name of the duke!”
The second uniformed man had drawn a long-muzzled flintlock pistol of the type associated with Long John Silver; he flourished it in a careless manner at O’Leary’s head.
“You going in quiet, rube, or have I gotta plug you, resisting arrest?”
“You’ve got the wrong rube,” Lafayette replied impatiently. “I just arrived: I haven’t had time to break any laws—unless you’ve got one against breathing.”
“Not yet—but it’s a thought, wise guy.” The rapier-wielder jabbed sharply at him. “Better come along nice, Bo: Yockwell and me collect the same reward, dead or alive.”
“I seen what you taken and done to a couple pals of mine, which they was snuck up on from behind,” Yockwell warned. “I’m just itching for a excuse
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