Mike Wild - The Clockwork King of Orl

"Mister Deadnettle?" their somewhat obese leader enquired. "Mister Red Deadnettle?"

Still hunched at the bar, his back to the man, Red did not move or respond to the question in any way. The thug swallowed and thumped him on the shoulder.

"Deadnettle, I know it's you. I insist you — "

There were sharp intakes of breath — warning hisses, really — from the others seated along the bar, and then a slow and universal shaking of their heads. The hubbub of the tavern quietened as Red rose from his seat, dwarfing the hulks before him as his fists balled.

Kali sighed. She was tempted to let Red continue but if she didn't want her relaxation — and indeed the Flagons itself — ruined by the earthquake that would suddenly and inevitably come, she knew she had better intervene. She leaned down and opened the captain's chest Aldrededor let her use, pulling a small blackjack from beneath a pile of maps, diagrams, schematics and other Old Race paraphernalia, just in case. Then she picked up her ale, descended the steps, and with a slow lowering of her hand bade Red sit down. That done, she tapped the guard on the shoulder.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"No problem," the guard said tiredly, without even looking at her. "This gentleman and I needs a little chat, that's all. A matter of a small misdemeanour."

"He was taking a short cut across your boss's fields, unless I miss my guess," Kali said, though she knew full well that Red had been poaching again — it was in his blood. "Don't you think misdemeanour is a little strong?"

"It's the law of our lands, Miss. Or do you think that folk should just be allowed to wander wherever they want, eh?"

"I do, actually, yes. To wander… and explore." She gestured outside, beyond where the ramshackle tavern was slumped like a knackered cat beside Badlands Brook. "To see what's out there."

The guard turned and looked Kali up and down. She'd only got back to the place an hour before and, having spent a chunk of that time stabling Horse and reassuring him that Dolorosa's stew did have bacon in it, as yet hadn't changed, and the guard took in her sap-stained and torn clothing, the general dishevelment of her appearance. He sniffed as he saw the toolbelt at her waist.

"Oh, you're one of those. Take my advice and stay out of this, adventurer," he said with undisguised disdain. "Our business with Deadnettle is no flight of fancy — and no concern of yours."

Kali immediately railed at his attitude. She had never understood how people such as him could live on a world such as theirs and not be curious about it. As Merrit had said, their lives were mired in the mundane, obsessed with petty issues and their own selfish concerns. When all they had to do was look up at Kerberos and wonder -

Hells. She would have given him a lecture but he wasn't worth the bother. "Red is a friend of mine," she said.

"Yeah, he looks like he would be. Now off with you before I have the innkeeper eject you from the premises."

Red said something for the first time, then, leaning down to whisper quietly in the guard's ear. It was still a rumble. "That might be difficult, Mister Policeman. 'Cause Miss Hooper, she owns the place."

The guard guffawed and looked Kali up and down again. "Don't make me laugh. A strip of a girl like her owning a grub's den like this in the back of beyond. Why would she want to do that?"

Kali took a sip of her ale and stared at the guard measuredly. What Red said was true — the tavern had hit hard times a few years ago, and so, when she'd had the funds, she'd bought it, simple as that. But she hadn't changed anything. Except the name. You just didn't with this place. The year before one of the local gentry had objected to the fuggy atmosphere and had suggested it became a non-smoking tavern. After the laughter had died down — a non-smoking tavern? — Red had dragged the man to Bottomless Pit and thrown him in. After setting him on fire.

"It relaxes me."

Fatso guffawed again. "Bet that don't take much, either. Size of you, it'd only take a thimbleful before you was off your bloody head!"

"And ready for a good time, eh?" Kali said, calculatedly.

The guard's eyes narrowed, and he smacked his lips. "Tell you what — why don't we put that to the test?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"A little competition. You, me, a few drinks. And if you're the one that remains standing, I let Deadnettle off the hook. Whaddya say?"

Kali slipped the blackjack back into a pocket, relieved she hadn't needed to use it. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Whoa, careful, little lady," another of the guards interjected. "At the Dead Duck in Miramas they call Sarge the Ale Whale."

Kali stared at the Ale Whale, hardly surprised. "Phoo. Well, it won't be a problem, then, will it?"

"'Ere, Sarge," another said. "You're supposed to be on duty."

Kali smiled her most girlish smile. "Surely he can hold his own against me? A thimbleful and I'm gone, remember?"

"Go orrrn, Sarge," one of the other guards snickered dirtily. "'Old your own against 'er, eh?"

"Why not, eh?" the sergeant cackled. "Why not indeed."

Kali looked at the bar but Dolorosa was ahead of her, having the first drinks lined up in readiness — four flummoxes with ale chasers. She dipped her head towards Kali as she swept them up.

"Poor bastardo," she whispered.

"Hush, woman."

Kali and the Sarge retired to the nook, and it began. One drink. Two drinks. Three drinks, four. An hour later, the Sarge's mates had lost count.

"'Ere, jush 'ang on a mo'," the Sarge said at last, slurring and straightening himself none too successfully in his chair. He made circles with his tankard, spilling great slops of ale over the side. "If thish is your hosteryl… your hotslery… your hoslerurry…" He hiccupped and frowned, determined to get something out. "If this is your pub, how am I to know your shour-faced wench ain't sherving you shome speshal watered-down muck?"

Kali looked down at her own ale, a thwack, triple the strength of his own. She'd tired of flummox and, besides, liked a challenge.

"Taste it for yourself," she said, smiling and proffering her tankard, which he took and quaffed greedily. All that was left, just to be sure.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Ish very nishe, yesh. Blup. Orf."

Nodding, Kali motioned to Dolorosa to bring two more of the same. None too keen on being referred to as a sour-faced wench — or, indeed, any kind of wench at all — the concavity of the tall woman's cheeks clearly signalled she was sucking up to deposit a small present into the guard's beer, until Kali shook her head subtly. Dolorosa shrugged — okay, maybe the man was suffering enough — and instead slammed his tankard down hard, soaking his lap with beer. The guard looked down vaguely, his head bobbing, as the ale penetrated the cloth of his pants.

"Gawds, ah fink arve gone un me pished meself."

"No need to waste time going, then, is there?" Kali observed as he giggled. She raised her refreshed tankard to show she was still willing and able. "Come on, Sarge, drink up."

"Wha — ?" the guard said, startled. "Oh, yeah. Cheershh!"

The Sarge raised his tankard to his lips and stared hard at Kali. Or at least as hard as he could when he had finally managed to pull her into focus. Almost got her now, he thought to himself. Ah mean, look at the state of the bloody woman… so betwattled she's blurred and swaying all over the place. Ey up, she was bringing on a reserve now, and all — another one who looked just like her. Nah, stood to reason that, as a gentleman, like, he was gonna have to say something for her own good, or she'd be off the bleedin' chair.

"Wimmin," he bemoaned to himself. "They jush can't take their drinksh."

"Dolorosa!" Kali called. "Another!"