Bridget ban? Images of flesh and petal skirts whirled in his mind.
“Ah surely, the madness has you.” The Fendy laughed. “May fortune fly with you on your quest. On each of your quests, haha! You could have had a dancer here tonight; but perhaps you will find another Dancer later. You and this Alabastrine woman.”
The Fudir had already joined his host in the laughter; but the last comment brought him up short. An Alabastrine woman?
Hugh took the Tigrine Avenue tube to Alkorry Street, where he departed the capsule to find himself in a neighborhood of narrow buildings and narrower byways. Most of the windows were dark or dimly lit through yellowed shades, and Alkorry Street itself lurked in permanent shadows. The Tigrine Line was elevated in this part of the City and so the rows of apartments had that look of dimness that evenfall only accented and daylight could not dispel.
On Venishànghai, people lived on the outside—the evening pramblo around the streets, greeting friends and neighbors, the dining ’frescos, the liveliness of the pyatsas—and went home only to sleep. Here, everyone seemed to huddle inside, like they were hiding, like the whole planet was a planet of vermin-boys. They must emerge sometimes, he thought, but only to work, not to live.
He shouldn’t judge everyone by the standards of his homeworld. Die Bolders might live as lively as anyone—but indoors; though “lively, but solitary” seemed a contradiction to him. Yet, if he had not spent so much of his childhood in hiding, would Die Bold strike him as grimly as it did?
He consulted his wristband. The Mild Beast was around the corner on Raggenow Way. According to the Terrans, their quarry could be found there almost every night. A Gat, they had said, and was that not a stroke of luck, for Hugh had heard the unmistakable Gatmander accent in the Hatchley Commonwealth years before.
He wondered what else the Terrans told the Fudir. He had seemed troubled on his return.
Raggenow Way was a gloomy side street lined on both sides by red-stone apartment buildings whose sameness was only heightened by the small tokens of differentiation. Each was precisely five stories tall; each possessed a broad stone staircase leading a half flight up from street level to the main entrance. Each had a passage under the staircase to a garden-level apartment half a flight below street level. But the moldings and cornices were slightly varied in pattern: geometric here, floral there; and the stairs were flanked by different cast-stone beasts perched on their concrete newel posts: lions, eagles, bears, and so on. Hugh wondered why they’d bothered.
The buildings were separated by narrow airyways. Reflexively, Hugh glanced down each as they passed, and noted iron grates blocking them. Back gardens, he thought, or car parks in the rear.
Stolid. That was the word to describe Die Bolders. They were not going anywhere, at least not anymore; but neither would they be moved from where they were.
He stopped before a wooden sign bearing the likeness of a Nolan’s Beast. The “blackface” bull wore a wreath of flowers girdling its horns and a look of unlikely benevolence on its features. The public house—they called it a “local” here—occupied the garden level and the entrance was underneath the main stairs. On New Eireann, the pubs had flaunted themselves. But then, if this were a local, the locals undoubtedly knew how to find it.
Inside, the taproom was low-ceilinged and raftered with black oak; but whitewashed between the beams, so the overall impression was not as oppressive as it might have been. The musty smell of beer mixed with the sharp metallic tang of whiskies. The haze of various leaves and smoldering lemongrass dubars hovered cloudlike just below the ceiling. On the farther side of the room, four men around a manual piano were singing something about “The Brazen Boatman.” They had not agreed upon a key beforehand, but such an agreement was of obviously little concern.
A few heads glanced his way when he entered, but only for momentary scrutiny. Yes, thought Hugh, a very private people, even in public. He found an empty table and sat there until a barmaid came by, cleaned it, and took his order. The men’s choir shifted to a different song, this one involving Dusty Shiv Sharma, “the best Beastie boy o’er all the High Plains.”
Hugh settled in, watching for anyone with the bearing of a ship’s officer and the peculiar rhythm of Gatmander speech. He saw a plaid-turbaned Chettinad sharing a booth with a local businessman and two capable-looking hired women. Shortly afterward, a tall, thin Alabastrine woman entered from the street and took a position foot a-rail at the bar. Everyone else had that dough-faced, rather wistful look of the Die Bolder born. Hugh drank his stout with some satisfaction. A Gat would stand out in this crowd.
Two mugs later, a short, burly man entered the Mild Beast and received a few nods of recognition from others. His skin had the appearance of leather, both in color and in texture and his clothing had the nondescript look of castoffs, but Hugh could see the darker spots on the fabric where insignia had once been sewn. Hugh’s suspicions were confirmed when the newcomer faced the barman and said, “With regard to the rum unto me, there is an occasion of thirst.”
Without turning, the Gat lifted a glass of rum high and said to the room at large, “Die bold!”
The locals lifted their own drinks in turn and “Live bolder!” rumbled in a dozen throats, above which the Alabastrine could be heard piping “Leaf boolder!”
Hugh emptied his mug in a single long swallow and carried it to the bar. Hugh could see that the Gat watched his approach in the mirror, and his hand crept near the open flap of his jacket. Hugh placed the mug on the bar. “Draw black,” he said. When the barman had filled it, Hugh lifted the mug to the stranger. “Far Gatmander.”
The Gat looked him over and the skin of his face tightened. “Not far enough.” He shot back the rum and thrust the empty glass straight-arm to the barman, who filled it without taking it from the spacer’s fingers.
“Not many outlanders here,” Hugh said. “Would you like to join me?”
Leather-face grunted. He shifted the glass to his left hand and held the right out as before, beckoning with his fingers until the barman put the rum bottle in their grip. “The invitation as it regards myself is acceptable,” the Gat said.
Hugh led him back to the table. “My name’s Ringbao,” he said, not entirely lying.
The Gat gathered glass and bottle into his left hand and held out his right, which Hugh took briefly. “The name as it pertains to me is Todor,” he admitted, taking his seat. He poured another glass and lifted it to eye level. “It shows a pretty color. And”—he sipped—“a prettier taste.”
“What brings a Gat all the way to Die Bold?” Hugh asked.
Todor gave him another look and let the silence lengthen before he said, “A ship,” in front of another sip of rum. This time, he set the glass down on the table half empty. “With regard to the years upon me, there have been many,” he said.
Meaning he wasn’t born yesterday, so get on with it. Hugh nodded. “We heard you were with the fleet that passed through Die Bold a month ago.”
The other grunted again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the table. “We,” he said.
“Myself and a few friends.”
Another sip. “And regarding the information, what will be paid by you?”
“What is your price?”
The Gat drew in his breath. “A ticket. Passage to Gatmander.”
Hugh knew that the Kennel had deep pockets, and passage on a Hadley liner would not be the greatest expense the team would incur. “Done,” he said.