“I'm not asking your leave. I'm simply telling you I'm going. To get fresh clothing for Letitia, though it's none of your concern what I do. Clothing, and-no offense, unless you care to take it so-some sort of decent food. Your meals are atrocious here. I don't know how you stand it. You've been abroad, I know. I can't believe you never dined on a dish that wasn't gray. Something that looked as if it might run away.”
“Ah, you're fooling no one, craftsman, certainly not me.” Sabatino gave him a bawdy wink. “You're going because you think you'll find some clever way out of our lovely town. You won't, you know. But you're welcome to give it a feeble try.”
“Go anywhere near her-just glance in her direction while I'm gone-and you'll answer to me.”
“You strike terror in my heart.”
“I mean it, Sabatino.”
“Of course you do. Have a marvelous time.”
Finn was near certain everyone in town knew who he was. Any other place, and he'd dismiss the thought at once. Here, it was no aberration of the mind. Men, women, babes in arms-no one turned his way. Still, when each was well past, he could feel their eyes poking at his back.
The chair he'd left in the street was gone. Most likely, the Master of Chairs had hauled it back inside. Who'd want to steal the thing? He thought about going in to check, but only for a second and a half.
The sign above the tavern read TAVERN. A sound and frugal name, Finn decided, no one putting on airs. One mug of ale before he went about his tasks. One cool mug couldn't take a lot of time.
He climbed three wooden steps and entered the dimly lit room. A bar made of planks was on the left, tables on the right. Feeble oil lamps and the smell of sour ale. At once, Finn felt somewhat at ease. If everything else in this land was awry, at least taverns smelled the same.
A man the size of a storm was suddenly in his way. He had no neck and no brow, and his body was so immense that his arms likely never touched his sides.
“Your pardon,” Finn said, “I'd like to get by.”
“What do you want,” the man said, in a voice surprisingly shrill, “What you doin' here?”
“What I'd like to do is drink an ale. Would that be all right with you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. It's not all right with me.”
“Would you care to tell me why?”
“It's not all right because it's not. Why you askin' me something like that?”
“I don't know, it just seemed the thing to do.”
“Those people.” He glanced past a massive shoulder. “Those people drink in here.”
“Yes, I see they do.”
“They drink here. Not somebody else.”
“This is a club, then. It's not a public bar?”
“Who told you that?” It was clear all this was hurting the fellow's head. “You see the sign, you see what it says outside?”
“I surely did.”
“What does it say?”
“TAVERN, I believe.”
“Tavern. That's what it is.”
“Fine. I'd like an ale, please. A dark if you have it, if not I'll take a red.”
The man was growing puffy about the eyes. Behind him, Finn could see faces, pale little moons floating in the dark.
“They drink here. Other people don't. These are the folks that drink here.”
“And where,” Finn wanted to know, “do the people who don't drink here go?”
“Somewhere else.”
“And the people, the ones that drink somewhere else. They don't ever drink here. The ones that drink here, I'll bet they never drink anywhere else.”
“I think I know you. You're the one doesn't come from here.”
“I'm taking up your time, and I'm not really thirsty anymore. Let me ask you this. You know where I can find some Mycer folk in town? I'm trying to find a Rubinella; that's who I'm looking for.”
The man's eyes grew wide. As wide as his butter cheeks would allow, as wide as little birdy eyes can go.
“You turn around and get out of here, you got a second and a half. I know who you are, all right. You been-you been staying over-eatin' and sleepin' overnight. Why you want to come to our town? Why'nt you stay where you belong?”
The big man could scarcely get the words out. He made no effort to hide his disgust. He looked at Finn as if he'd swallowed a bug. Now, some of the moon faces were looking his way.
“I'm not entirely familiar with your ways,” Finn said. “If I've said something to offend-”
The man stabbed a finger at his chest. “You say somethin' dirty to me, I'll knock you flat.”
“Thank you for your time,” Finn said, “you've got a nice place here …”
23
Answers,it seemed, did not come easy in this queer, uncommon land-not as autumn leaves that fall in plenty from the tree, but tardy and slow like the lazy sap of spring. And, worse still, answers and questions looked strangely alike, the same as two dust balls, the same as two peas:
As far as Finn could tell, nearly everyone here was a Hatter or a Hooter. Hatters ruled the day, and Hooters ruled the night.
Hatters carried sharp pointy sticks.
Hooters liked to burn things down.
Torture and murder lead to spiritual growth.
There were inter-faith rules to the game.
The food was awful and the people smelled bad.
Bad manners were the rule, hospitality was a sin.
Questions had no answers, and answers were questionable at best.
Still, Finn felt he had gained real insight into the ways of this land. Everyone lived according to his creed, and everyone was totally mad.
Leaving the tavern called TAVERN, Finn passed a similar place called BAR. Reason said there was no use stopping there, so he made his way toward the broad market square.
The clouds had blown away and the sun had appeared to warm the dreary day. The square was crowded with booths, stands, and stalls of every sort. Stalls made of blankets on a pole. Stalls that sold melons, magic and simple card tricks. Big shops, little shops, shops no more than a stool or a bench. Each one squeezed, packed against the next. Finn could scarcely tell where one left off and another one began.
Working his way through the drab and odorous crowd, he found it hard to forget he was at the very site where Fate had slapped him silly and shown him what for. That too familiar tingle at the back of his neck was present there again.
After a bit of searching, he found the stall where he'd bought some tin scraps and a roll of silver wire. With a sigh of relief, he saw the same merchant was there.
“Good day,” Finn said, offering a smile to a fellow he'd met before, “it's quite nice to see you again.”
“I don't do returns,” the man said, wary, as ever, of a pleasant attitude. “You bought it, it's yours, don't come whining back here.”
“I'm very satisfied with my wares,” Finn said. “I have a question, is all.”
“I can sell you brass, bronze, nickel, or lead, copper, iron or tin. I can get you gold, I can get you gilt. The gilt's so good you could fool eight people out of ten.”
“My question's not about that.”
“Then you're in the wrong stall, friend.”
The merchant, a wiry man with a buzzard's nose, spat on the ground close to Finn's boot. Finn noticed he had a tattoo of a fish with a woman's head and breasts, ranging from the bald pate of his head to the base of his scrawny neck. He wondered how he'd possibly overlooked this striking image before.
“I'm willing to pay,” Finn said, reaching in his jacket and showing the man a silver coin. “This is yours if you tell me what I want to know.”
“Be still my beatin' heart. How can I resist such a fortune as that?”
“Right. Two silver pieces, then.”
“Three. And they'd better be silver 'stead of plate of some sort. This is what I do all day, friend.”