Avarilous gave him a disbelieving look and stared at the muddy spot on the ground. The driver, who had regained his feet, started forward with a cry, choked off as one of the other guards clamped a hand round his throat. Another, coming up behind the merchant, gave the back of his knees a violent kick, knocking him to all fours. The captain thrust his foot on the smaller man’s neck, pushing his head down. “Drink, Ulgarthan pig!”
There was a roar of laughter from the rest of the watch. Avarilous twisted away and came to his feet, mud splashed around his mouth, streaking his cheeks. With as much dignity as he could muster he remounted his wagon and sat still, waiting for his driver. The man from Whitevale hastily climbed into his place and shook the reins. They drove down the winding street and out of sight. The guards laughed scornfully, then the captain thrust his glass at his lieutenant. “Here, lad. I’m off for the evening. Where did that fool say he was going?”
“The Tall Tankard?”
“Aye. Well, maybe I’ll seek him out there and make him pay another tax.”
Avarilous and his companion proceeded through the streets of Tharkar in silence for some moments. Silent groups of heavily armed men glared suspiciously at the wagon from arched doorways. Avarilous took no notice of them; he was well aware of the tense stalemate that existed between the Five Kingdoms, whose rulers jealously guarded their most powerful magical items. The bloodforges allowed them to conjure armies to defend against attacks from fiends and from each other. In the Utter East, temporary, armed truce was the status quo.
The oncoming evening was hot, and steam rose from the horses’ flanks. After passing a few streets, the merchant cleared his throat. “How is your mouth, Necht?”
The driver shrugged and touched the blood crusted on his lip. “Could be worse.” He turned to Avarilous. “But you really must be more careful, sir. This isn’t Ulgarth, and our ways aren’t yours. The gate watch almost always steals from goods wagons, especially those from Ulgarth.”
The merchant nodded humbly. “I see. I’ll try to do better in future.”
He sank into a thoughtful silence, broken by Necht asking him, “Just what are you selling, sir?” Avarilous glanced at him, surprised. Necht, looking resolutely ahead, continued, “Mind, it’s really none of my business, but if you’re planning to get me into any more fights, I think I should know what’s going on.” He turned from the road and looked his employer full in the face. “So what’s really in the barrels?”
Avarilous gave him a look of astonishing blandness. “Why, ale, of course. Just what we told those louts at the gate.”
Necht shrugged and shook the reins again. “Whatever you say, sir. Ale’s as good a story as anything else.”
There was a moment of silence between the two men. Avarilous glanced sideways at his companion, then cleared his throat. “Just in case something does happen, though, I’d much appreciate a pair of eyes at my back.” He stared hard at Necht, who grinned back cheerfully.
Necht swung his wagon into the courtyard of the Tavern of the Tall Tankard and leaped easily from his seat. The merchant descended more slowly, as befitted his greater age and weight. In the dark beneath the stars, his eyes glittered. From the open door of the tavern came light, music, and a blast of beery air. A figure emerged, observed the wagon, and approached Avarilous.
“Ahoy, good sir. Have you goods for my master?”
“Aye, boy, fetch him and some stout fellows to unload these casks.”
In a few moments, the landlord came out of the door, a fat, oily man with the air of being constructed of badly pressed butter. Behind him were four helpers who, without a word, set to removing the barrels from the wagon and carrying them through a small side door into the tavern while the landlord directed their work. When they were done and his helpers had gathered behind him, he turned to Avarilous.
“Now, sir, how much for the kegs, then?”
Avarilous and Necht had watched the proceedings without saying a word or moving a muscle. Now the merchant spoke in a soft voice. “As you well know, Daltrice, the amount we agreed upon was five crowns per barrel. Forty-eight barrels makes two hundred and forty crowns.”
Daltrice shook his head, smiling and rubbing his greasy hands. “Now, sir, you are mistaken!” the landlord exclaimed. “Why, I was right here all the time, and I’ll swear by Umberlee I counted only thirty-eight barrels carried into my establishment. I believe that brings your total to, let me see, one hundred and ninety crowns.”
Avarilous shuffled his feet impatiently. “Come, Master Daltrice, stop this fooling. Two hundred and forty crowns is the sum owed, and two hundred and forty crowns I’ll take.”
Necht tugged nervously at Avarilous’s sleeve. “Remember,” the driver hissed. “Discretion in all things. We don’t want trouble.”
Avarilous snorted. “There won’t be trouble if Daltrice pays what he owes.”
Daltrice laughed, a giggle of pure delight. “Oh, my dear Avarilous,” he said, “such a foolish man. But perhaps they don’t educate you Ulgarthans in the complex ways of commerce, as do we of Parsanic. Very well. One hundred and fifty it is, then.” He motioned to the largest of his helpers. “Sirc’al, pay the merchant.”
The big man stepped forward and tossed a small sack on the pavement. Avarilous, hesitating a moment, picked it up and counted the money it contained. He looked sourly at Daltrice.
“There’s one hundred here.”
“That’s right. Payment in full.” Daltrice laughed again. “Come now, my good fellow. Come into the tavern and have a drink on the house.” Turning his back on the merchant, he squeezed through the doorway.
Avarilous glared after him, then at the landlord’s employees, who eyed him stolidly. He shrugged his shoulders and snorted under his breath. “Thank you very much,” he muttered to no one in particular.
Passing through the door of the inn, Avarilous and Necht emerged in an arched passageway with doors penetrating the walls on either side and torches flickering in iron sconces. At the far end of the tunnel was a pair of wooden doors, paneled and intricately carved. These swung open as Avarilous and Necht approached them, and they passed into the main area of the Tall Tankard.
Of all the ports along the Utter East, Tharkar was the most popular with traders, travelers, and pirates. Ships put into its docks carrying goods to Doegan, slaves to Konigheim, and mead and battle-axes to the far-off halls of the northmen. Because of its position, the city was also the first port of call for the infrequent ships from Ulgarth, Chult, and even more faraway places in Faerun. The taverns of the city were famous throughout the Five Kingdoms for their food, ale, dancing girls, and other, less explicitly defined forms of entertainment. Among these houses, the Tavern of the Tall Tankard was the most well-known.
Smoke from a hundred pipes rose to the night sky, sparkling with stars, above the open courtyard that was typical of Parsanic inns. Palms waved, and hrashaka- tiny lizardlike creatures-ran to and fro beneath the feet of the patrons snatching scraps of food from the unwary and disappearing down holes and into cracks. A chorus of raucous voices continuously called for ale, wine, brandy, and tareetha-giris, whose services could be purchased for a few coins. Serving wenches moved about bearing platters of steaming elephant and zebra meat and tall tankards of ale with which to wash it down. Snatches of broken song resounded from the room’s corners and escaped through the open windows.
Avarilous cast a swift eye over the courtyard. He gestured to a raucous group of drinkers in one corner, away from the light of the torches. “Who are those people?”
Necht narrowed his eyes, squinting at the group. “Those are the inquisitors from Whitevale, sir. The ones I told you about.”
“Ah, yes. Looking for adherents of the Fallen Temple.” Avarilous apparently lost interest in them and glanced at the other side of the courtyard, where a collection of tough-looking bearded men were swiftly and silently downing tankard after tankard of ale. “And those?”