"Hey!" The angry little bartender shouted at Chuggie as Chuggie pondered the exit. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, the universal gesture for money.
"You want a tip, you greedy weasel?" Chuggie called out. "I'll pay you in one respect… I'll let you live." He walked out the back door.
The alley's quiet darkness offered a scene at least thirty-eight times better than the one inside. The establishment didn't deserve such a wonderful sign as hung over its door. A crafty fellow wouldn't have much trouble at all getting his hands on that masterpiece.
He wedged himself against the wall in the shadow of a trash bin, and got out his pipe for a smoke. Before he struck his match, however, he heard rapid footsteps approaching. Chuggie sat quiet and still in the shadows. The footsteps stopped nearby.
"Are you sure about this?" asked a voice he recognized.
Chuggie, without making a sound, leaned out from behind the trashcan.
Jaron the Mutt stood right there, plain as day, in the alley.
"Yes, dammit!" said Stinkface Dan. "Bastard threw our blades down the fucking alley after parading us through town like goddamned dogs. Penalty for that is death in my book. And remember, we are
supposed
to kill him."
Light from inside the bar glinted off the edges of Dan and Jaron's daggers.
"Aren't there going to be witnesses in there?" Jaron said. "Or are we just supposed to kill everyone inside?"
"I don't see the authorities doing an investigation, but if you're worried put your scarf over your face," Dan pulled his scarf up over his mouth as he spoke.
They hurried into the bar.
Chuggie waited and listened. Nothing happened. A moment later, they darted back out into the alley.
"How could we miss him?" Jaron looked right and left.
"Shit!" Dan kicked the trash bin next to Chuggie. "He beat us. The drunken bastard beat us."
"What do we do now?" asked Jaron.
"Go home and get some sleep." Dan gave the trash bin another kick. "Fuck it all, we've got to report to Kale in the morning. We better have something good to tell him."
"Can't say we got our asses kicked," Jaron agreed.
"We were bewitched!" Dan raised his hands to the sky. "He used some kind of conjury to see our ambush. He was ready waiting for us. Then he bewitched us!"
They left the way they came, and Chuggie had the alley to himself once more. He got up and walked in the opposite direction.
As Kale had predicted, Haste's little meeting had been a waste of time. Haste could cry about the Steel Jacks all day and night, but nothing would ever change. Kale knew the answer was to take control — just
take
it.
Kale poured himself a glass of whiskey. He admired the amber light shimmering through the most expensive liquor in Stagwater. When he entered the sitting room to enjoy his drink, he was assaulted by the sight of the little shit orphan boy sleeping on his fine leather couch. The child had either spilled a drink or pissed himself, and Kale didn't see an empty glass anywhere.
He already felt like stomping a kitten, having lost his entire evening in Haste's office. And having Fitch present at the meeting hadn't done anything to improve his mood. Haste loved group discussions, but he never followed Kale's sound advice. If he did, the fat bastard always claimed the idea was his own.
I had the very same notion,
Haste would say.
Hearing you say it reinforces its validity.
Kale swirled the liquor around in his glass and glared at the brat on his couch.
He was through having his best ideas stolen. Once he took his rightful place, he'd put an end to that bullshit. Would he keep Haste on staff as some sort of consultant or put him in charge of collecting goat shit? Would he execute Fitch for bogus treason charges? For that matter, would he execute them both for conspiracy? Or would he simply dissolve the Magisterial Council and lock them up?
A warm tingle of pleasure spread through Kale. He knew exactly what he'd do. He'd bewitch them and send them on a northbound hike. He laughed into his drink.
The orphan on his couch stirred in his sleep. The boy was the key to Kale's success. Kale would put up with as much urine on his couch as he had to. He fought the urge to grab the boy right then and there, drag him out to the woods, and get on with his plan.
"
Haste
only leads to mistakes. It's all going to work out soon enough," he said to himself. "A little death, a little paperwork, and Chief Magistrate Kale will hold the reins."
Chuggie wandered up one alley and down another. Carnietown was not as cheerful as its name suggested. The litter-strewn streets formed a maze through the shanties cobbled together out of bits of metal and scraps of wood. He was relieved to see most of the people out tonight were at least as intoxicated as he was. He followed a boisterous group of men to The Fifty Moons Inn.
Chuggie stepped over a laughing vagrant and peered in the window. Inside, tattered-looking patrons crowded around the bar. They toasted each other, cheered and clapped. Onstage, a heavy-set gal sang in front of an old-timer with an accordion and a guy banging a bucket like it was a drum.
On the sign over the entrance, glowing white spheres strung together spelled "The Fifty Moons Inn." The sign painter obviously intended the spheres to represent moons. Chuggie resisted the urge to count them. It'd take a mighty talented artist to use all fifty moons. Some sort of magic must have lit up those painted moons. However it was done, he liked it.
When Chuggie entered the bar, no one noticed. The patrons were either too deep in conversation or too enthralled by the chesty singer and the songs she belted out. Her smoky voice sang of carnivals in distant lands and ships lost at sea. Now more than ever, Chuggie loved songs about the sea. Tonight, the song made him think about how, before long, he and Shola would smell the warm, salty air of the ocean.
Chuggie slid a stool up to the bar and plopped himself down. The décor featured dirty moon paintings, chipped moon carvings and cracked mirrors with moons painted on them.
The bartender made his way over. "What'll you have, stranger?" The man, a lanky fellow in his late thirties, jittered and twitched as if he lived only on coffee.
"Lemme get a pitcher of your best," Chuggie said.
"That's going to be four bucks," The barman said. He didn't move, as if he was sure Chuggie would decide to order something cheaper.
"I'll take it." Chuggie grinned and slapped some bills on the bar.
"All right then, a pitcher it is." The barman hustled away to the tap. His eyes darted around as if searching for the next thirsty customer. He itched at a metal collar around his neck as the beautiful, golden ale streamed into the waiting pitcher.
Chuggie smiled upon seeing the man tilt the pitcher. Here was a guy who knew how to pour beer, and that alone would earn him a good sized tip. Already, The Fifty Moons Inn had far surpassed The Gulping whatever it was.
The barman set the big, beautiful pitcher of frothy goodness in front of Chuggie, along with a single glass. Ignoring the glass, Chuggie lifted the pitcher and drank the beer down.
The bartender watched as if amazed.
Chuggie drained the pitcher and slammed it on the bar. "What the hell you got around your neck?" Chuggie asked.
The singer finished a song, and the bar filled with applause. The bartender raised his voice to be heard over the din.
"It's a torturgy collar," he said. "The sign out front — this keeps it lit. If I take it off, the sign'll go dark."
The barman grabbed the pitcher and refilled it. "If you can do that again, this one's on me. They call me Baker, by the way." He set the pitcher down in front of Chuggie.
Chuggie shook his head with a grin. Torturgy? For something as minor as lighting a bar sign? He chuckled, lifted the pitcher, and guzzled it down. Banging the empty pitcher on the bar, he unleashed a mighty belch of satisfaction. The ale had been masterfully brewed.
The bartender applauded.
A woman perched on a stool down the bar a ways cheered for him, too. She undid the top button on her blouse and tossed her hair. "Hey, big drinker," she grinned, displaying a smile with a few gaps in it. "Come and sit by me a while." She unbuttoned another button of her blouse.
"Alrighty." Chuggie said as he got up from his stool. "Hate to pass up some nice scenery."
At that moment, a big, burly man with a face scarred from brawling stepped up behind her. His sneer said he wanted a fight. Her hungry smile said she wanted to
see
the fight.
Chuggie veered from his course and headed toward an empty table along the wall. The young, blonde waitress smiled at him and leaned down to take his order. He smelled the liquor spilled on her clothes and felt a little bad for her. He ordered a jug of good wine and resolved to tip the young lady well.
"Nice hat." Another young woman, a girl really, called out from the next table over. Her friends agreed, and their voices merged in a chorus of giggling. He couldn't tell if they were making fun of him or not, but he tossed them a twenty-buck bill just the same.
Before he'd even managed to get his pipe lit, the waitress returned with his wine and a glass. Not bothering with the glass, Chuggie glugged his wine from the bottle and smoked his pipe. Glug, smoke, glug, smoke.
A man, skinny as a post and drunk as a monk, stumbled over to Chuggie's table. He sat himself down, nearly turning the table over. "'Nother bottle o' Hound's Head," the skinny drunk yelled across the room.
"Thanks," Chuggie nodded. "Don't mind if I do." He didn't know if he wanted a drinking buddy or not, but he was sure he didn't want it to be this guy.
"What you wearing that chain for?" the young man asked. A bit of drool slid down his chin as he pointed a wavering finger.
"Shipwreck." Chuggie put a hand on the anchor. "Every man who survived wears one o' these for the men who didn't."
Chuggie bowed his head thoughtfully, giving the impression that a long, depressing story would follow. This was an old trick: make it seem the story is as sad as it is long, and people will leave you right alone. That skinny young fella all of a sudden had important business to attend to. He tipped his hat and went on his way.
For a while, Chuggie watched a woman spin on her bar stool. In spite of the spinning she did a pretty good job of singing along with the crooner onstage.
Chuggie did his very best to ignore the conversations going on all around him. He'd have enjoyed himself more if he didn't speak the language. Who was belly-slappin' who didn't interest him any more than who owed money to the drunk hollering two tables away. Chuggie just wanted to
be
there, to glug his wine and puff his pipe like some kind of Steel Jack-designed coal engine.
"Hey, stranger!" The scar-faced brawler from the bar bumped Chuggie's elbow. "Do you know what we do to people like you when they come in here?"
Without taking his eyes off his pipe, Chuggie said, "Buy 'em a beer and a steak?"
"No!"
"Then I ain't interested." Chuggie's fingers tightened around his pipe. "Piss off."
The man grabbed Chuggie's shoulder.
Chuggie looked down at the guy's hand as he rose to his feet. He turned his gaze to that sneering, jigsaw face. "Get that hand off me, or I'll keep the damn thing as a trophy." And his night had been going so well.
The man threw a quick jab. His fist connected with Chuggie's mouth. It wasn't a powerful blow, but it stung plenty.
Baker the Bartender jumped from behind the bar and scurried to intercede.
Chuggie lowered his head. He spat blood. Did it always come to this? Sure seemed like it. His arm shot out, delivering a speedy back-hand to his new pal. One the fellow's bloody teeth flew through the air and landed in the giggling girl's drink. She and her friends screamed and laughed at the same time. The guy twisted and fell to the floor. His hands clapped to his face and he moaned as if he was pretending to be a ghost.
The man whimpered as he sat up, holding his mouth. His jaw hung open and off to the right.
"Got what you deserved this time." Baker dragged the man to the door and shoved him out onto the street. He delivered one last kick to the man's backside.
Chuggie dropped down into his chair and scowled hard enough to keep everyone away. He wished he was back with Shola, naked in the autumn sun, with clouds dancing behind her. One eye blue, one eye white. He held the rope of her hair to his nose. Maybe it was time to call it a night. Drinking in a bar wouldn't help him find the goat-face purse he was after. The mission, the mission.
Shola.
He puffed on the boar-tusk pipe. His cloud of smoke kept growing and growing.
"Aach! A man smokes like that, ought to do it outdoors."
Chuggie snapped back to reality. "Sorry 'bout that. Guess I got a little carried away in my thoughts."
A spry-looking woman with short hair had walked up. Her eyeglasses were amber rectangles that glinted when they caught the light. He couldn't tell her age, but her tone and posture said she'd seen a lot. Her stern brow said she didn't take any shit.
"I'm Faben Brassline." She dropped into the chair across from him without asking.
Intrigued, Chuggie held out a hand. "Name's Norchug mot Losiat." Maybe she was worth a minute of his time. If she wasn't worth talking to, he'd be on his way.
Faben shook his hand. "Where'd you get that fancy pipe of yours?"
Chuggie looked to his left and right as though he had a secret.
"On the afternoon I captured this here trophy," Chuggie stroked the smooth side of his pipe, "I came across a whole herd o' firehogs. Dozens of 'em, no less than fifty. I tracked these wily beasts to their lair, silent as death and twice as deadly, I was. They knew I was coming for 'em, just not when. The crafty bastards, they waited and waited and planned their ambush." Chuggie's face was as serious as an empty bottle.
Faben helped herself to a glass of wine from his jug.