evening of drinking excites no curiosity, and when I returned to the common room my capacious sleeves were not quite as roomy. I waited until Sunfirth was behind the bar, and then, when no one was looking, I allowed six small mice to run out of my sleeves onto the bar top, and another half dozen to take their chances on the floor.
The effect was more than I had hoped for. Sunfirth gave a cunning little scream and began slapping at the mice with her bar rag, shouting a wordless “Ah! Ah! Ah!” with every blow.
“Vermin!” yelled Shortshanks, who was in front of the bar. “Vermin in my tavern!” He dove behind the bar, nearly knocking over Sunfirth, grabbed his mallet, and proceeded to play whack-a-mouse on the tavern floor while Sunfirth played slap-a-rat on the bar, and the patrons cheered.
In the midst of this merriment, no one noticed yours truly, the founder of the fun, slip behind the bar, slide the account book into my once again empty sleeve, and sidle off into the night. The account book joined Dovo’s cloak and hat in my saddlebag, and I untied Jenkus, mounted him, and rode south out of town.
16
I had scarcely gone fifty yards when I heard the sound behind me of people coming out of the Bold Bard. At first I thought my theft had been discovered, and that a posse of barflies was coming in hot pursuit. But then I saw that they were only patrons who had had enough excitement for one night and were seeking another watering hole, heading for the more respectable bars of the two inns in town, or the scruffier environs of the Swamp Rat.
Among the escapees were the unmistakable figures of round Mayor Tobald and massive Grodoveth, who mounted their steeds and, instead of heading toward the mayor’s dwelling just north of town, rode south in my direction. That meant, I surmised, that they were heading to the Swamp Rat, and I spurred Jenkus on, thinking to stay well ahead of them and be at the swampside tavern long before they arrived. There were many things that I didn’t like about Grodoveth, and I wanted to observe him further, particularly near the spot where Dovo’s murder had taken place.
I arrived at the Swamp Rat without incident. A couple of anxious drinkers had galloped past me on the way, but I met no one headed toward Ghars. As I have said, the Swamp Rat was a less than elegant establishment. Sawdust and crushed oyster shells littered the floor, as did one or two heavy imbibers. The lights were as low as a goblin’s belly, and jars of greenish pickled eggs sat on the bar, looking about as appetizing as ogre eyeballs.
But they did serve ale, cheap ale at a cheap price, and that was the Swamp Rat’s chief attraction, along with its location, as far as the local farmhands were concerned. I ordered a light ale, which Hesketh Pratt, the owner and sole worker, presented with less than a flourish, but with a smarmy smile on his ratlike face. He was the perfect man to own a tavern called the Swamp Rat. With the first sip of my ale, I knew that its lightness was due to added water. Shortshanks had been right on that count.
After I had removed a small bug from the surface of my glass and taken a few more sips, Grodoveth and Tobald entered. Tobald smiled and hailed me. “Ah, young Jasper! Had enough of the old rat race in town, have you? Rat race? Eh?”
I smiled and nodded. “One more before home and sleep, Mayor. I pray little fuzzy things don’t haunt my dreams.”
Tobald chuckled and sat nearby with Grodoveth, who had been watching me with an emotionless face. I in turn sat and watched Grodoveth, by way of a smoky mirror over the bar. There was little else to do. The Swamp Rat’s patrons were sturdy farmer types whose conversation this night mostly consisted of:
“Hear about that, what’s ‘is name, that feller whut died.” “Devo, was it?”
“Nah, ‘Twasn’t that… ah, Dovo.”
“Aye. Quite a thing.” “Aye. Murdered he was.” “Aye. Quite a thing.”
“Don’t know what this
The effect was more than I had hoped for. Sunfirth gave a cunning little scream and began slapping at the mice with her bar rag, shouting a wordless “Ah! Ah! Ah!” with every blow.
“Vermin!” yelled Shortshanks, who was in front of the bar. “Vermin in my tavern!” He dove behind the bar, nearly knocking over Sunfirth, grabbed his mallet, and proceeded to play whack-a-mouse on the tavern floor while Sunfirth played slap-a-rat on the bar, and the patrons cheered.
In the midst of this merriment, no one noticed yours truly, the founder of the fun, slip behind the bar, slide the account book into my once again empty sleeve, and sidle off into the night. The account book joined Dovo’s cloak and hat in my saddlebag, and I untied Jenkus, mounted him, and rode south out of town.
16
I had scarcely gone fifty yards when I heard the sound behind me of people coming out of the Bold Bard. At first I thought my theft had been discovered, and that a posse of barflies was coming in hot pursuit. But then I saw that they were only patrons who had had enough excitement for one night and were seeking another watering hole, heading for the more respectable bars of the two inns in town, or the scruffier environs of the Swamp Rat.
Among the escapees were the unmistakable figures of round Mayor Tobald and massive Grodoveth, who mounted their steeds and, instead of heading toward the mayor’s dwelling just north of town, rode south in my direction. That meant, I surmised, that they were heading to the Swamp Rat, and I spurred Jenkus on, thinking to stay well ahead of them and be at the swampside tavern long before they arrived. There were many things that I didn’t like about Grodoveth, and I wanted to observe him further, particularly near the spot where Dovo’s murder had taken place.
I arrived at the Swamp Rat without incident. A couple of anxious drinkers had galloped past me on the way, but I met no one headed toward Ghars. As I have said, the Swamp Rat was a less than elegant establishment. Sawdust and crushed oyster shells littered the floor, as did one or two heavy imbibers. The lights were as low as a goblin’s belly, and jars of greenish pickled eggs sat on the bar, looking about as appetizing as ogre eyeballs.
But they did serve ale, cheap ale at a cheap price, and that was the Swamp Rat’s chief attraction, along with its location, as far as the local farmhands were concerned. I ordered a light ale, which Hesketh Pratt, the owner and sole worker, presented with less than a flourish, but with a smarmy smile on his ratlike face. He was the perfect man to own a tavern called the Swamp Rat. With the first sip of my ale, I knew that its lightness was due to added water. Shortshanks had been right on that count.
After I had removed a small bug from the surface of my glass and taken a few more sips, Grodoveth and Tobald entered. Tobald smiled and hailed me. “Ah, young Jasper! Had enough of the old rat race in town, have you? Rat race? Eh?”
I smiled and nodded. “One more before home and sleep, Mayor. I pray little fuzzy things don’t haunt my dreams.”
Tobald chuckled and sat nearby with Grodoveth, who had been watching me with an emotionless face. I in turn sat and watched Grodoveth, by way of a smoky mirror over the bar. There was little else to do. The Swamp Rat’s patrons were sturdy farmer types whose conversation this night mostly consisted of:
“Hear about that, what’s ‘is name, that feller whut died.” “Devo, was it?”
“Nah, ‘Twasn’t that… ah, Dovo.”
“Aye. Quite a thing.” “Aye. Murdered he was.” “Aye. Quite a thing.”
“Don’t know what this
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