Tales from the vulgar unicorn- Thieves World 02 by Robert Asprin Page A
Authors: Robert Asprin
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Short Stories, Anthologies
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Beef Market
- the Man in Motley. They say there's a network beneath like worm tunnels, not really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days without ever seeing another soul.'
Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty mug to the tapster behind the bar. 'Just curiosity,' he said to his companion. 'I've never been in Sanctuary before.' Samlor stepped into the street, over a drain which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the perfection of an ancient cameo.
Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing, so he did not bother to hire a linkman. When he passed a detachment of the Watch, the Imperial officer in command stared at the dagger the Cirdonian now carried bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to be no more than he was, a sturdy man who would rather warn off robbers than kill them, but who was willing and able to do either. I'll have to buy another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for the time he'd make do, make do...
The Man in Motley was a floor lower than the four-storey tenements around it. The ground level was well lighted. Across the street behind a row of palings, a slave gang worked under lamps scraping dung from the cobbles of the Beef Market. Tomorrow their load would be dried in the sun for fuel. The public room of the inn was occupied by a score of men, mostly drovers in leather and homespun. A barmaid in her fifties was serving a corner booth. As Samlor entered, the host thrust through the hangings behind the bar with a cask on his shoulder. Samlor had sheathed his knife. He nodded to the brawny innkeeper and ducked beneath the bar himself. 'Hey!' cried the host.
'It's all right,' Samlor muttered. He slipped behind the hangings. A stone staircase, lighted halfway by an oil lamp, led down into the cellars. Samlor followed it, taking the lamp with him. The floor beneath the public room was of dirt. A large trap, now closed and bolted, gave access to deliveries from the street fronting the inn. The walls were lined with racked bottles, small casks, and great forty-gallon fooders set on end. One of the fooders was of wood so time-blackened as to look charred. Samlor rapped it with his knife hilt, then compared the sound to the duller note of the tun beside it. The stairs creaked as the host descended. He held a bung-starter in one heavy fist. 'Didn't they tell you to go by the side?' he rasped. 'D'ye think I want the name of running a devil's brothel?' He took another step. 'By Ils and his sisters, you'll remember the next time!'
Samlor's fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from the innkeeper. 'We don't have a quarrel,' he said.
'Let's leave it at that.'
The host spat as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ' Sure, I know you hot pants folderols. Well, when I'm done with you, you take my greetings to your pandering psalm-singers and tell them there'll be no more customers through here!'
'The priests share their privileges for a price?' Samlor said in sudden enlightenment. 'But I don't come for sex, friend.'
Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight of the dagger had not. He paused with the bung-starter half raised. First he swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound of pure terror he flung the mallet into the shadows and fled back up the stairs. Samlor frowned, shrugged, and turned again to the fooder.
There was a catch disguised as a knot, obvious enough if one knew something of the sort had to be there. Pressed, the side of the cask swung out to reveal a dry, dark tunnel sloping gently downward. Samlor's tongue touched his lips. It was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now burned well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him. The passage twisted but did not branch. It was carven through dense,
- the Man in Motley. They say there's a network beneath like worm tunnels, not really connected to each other. A man could enter one and walk for days without ever seeing another soul.'
Samlor shrugged. He stood and whistled for attention, then tossed his empty mug to the tapster behind the bar. 'Just curiosity,' he said to his companion. 'I've never been in Sanctuary before.' Samlor stepped into the street, over a drain which held something long dead. When he glanced back, he saw the local man still seated empty-handed on the bench. In profile against the light, his face had the perfection of an ancient cameo.
Samlor wore boots and he was long familiar with dark nights and bad footing, so he did not bother to hire a linkman. When he passed a detachment of the Watch, the Imperial officer in command stared at the dagger the Cirdonian now carried bare in his hand. Still, Samlor looked to be no more than he was, a sturdy man who would rather warn off robbers than kill them, but who was willing and able to do either. I'll have to buy another boot knife, Samlor thought; but for the time he'd make do, make do...
The Man in Motley was a floor lower than the four-storey tenements around it. The ground level was well lighted. Across the street behind a row of palings, a slave gang worked under lamps scraping dung from the cobbles of the Beef Market. Tomorrow their load would be dried in the sun for fuel. The public room of the inn was occupied by a score of men, mostly drovers in leather and homespun. A barmaid in her fifties was serving a corner booth. As Samlor entered, the host thrust through the hangings behind the bar with a cask on his shoulder. Samlor had sheathed his knife. He nodded to the brawny innkeeper and ducked beneath the bar himself. 'Hey!' cried the host.
'It's all right,' Samlor muttered. He slipped behind the hangings. A stone staircase, lighted halfway by an oil lamp, led down into the cellars. Samlor followed it, taking the lamp with him. The floor beneath the public room was of dirt. A large trap, now closed and bolted, gave access to deliveries from the street fronting the inn. The walls were lined with racked bottles, small casks, and great forty-gallon fooders set on end. One of the fooders was of wood so time-blackened as to look charred. Samlor rapped it with his knife hilt, then compared the sound to the duller note of the tun beside it. The stairs creaked as the host descended. He held a bung-starter in one heavy fist. 'Didn't they tell you to go by the side?' he rasped. 'D'ye think I want the name of running a devil's brothel?' He took another step. 'By Ils and his sisters, you'll remember the next time!'
Samlor's fingers moved on his knife hilt. He still held the point away from the innkeeper. 'We don't have a quarrel,' he said.
'Let's leave it at that.'
The host spat as he reached the bottom of the stairs. ' Sure, I know you hot pants folderols. Well, when I'm done with you, you take my greetings to your pandering psalm-singers and tell them there'll be no more customers through here!'
'The priests share their privileges for a price?' Samlor said in sudden enlightenment. 'But I don't come for sex, friend.'
Whatever the tavern-keeper thought he understood, it frightened him as sight of the dagger had not. He paused with the bung-starter half raised. First he swallowed. Then, with a guttural sound of pure terror he flung the mallet into the shadows and fled back up the stairs. Samlor frowned, shrugged, and turned again to the fooder.
There was a catch disguised as a knot, obvious enough if one knew something of the sort had to be there. Pressed, the side of the cask swung out to reveal a dry, dark tunnel sloping gently downward. Samlor's tongue touched his lips. It was, after all, what he had been looking for. He picked up the lamp, now burned well down. He stepped into the tunnel, closing the door behind him. The passage twisted but did not branch. It was carven through dense,