The Forlorn(33)

The tavern smelled of beer, urine, and also, vaguely, of decay. Keilin entered with caution. There was a small crowd of men getting noisily drunk in the one corner, and a morose-looking individual sitting at the bar. As Keilin came in, the solitary fellow looked up. He brightened visibly at seeing the dry-land-honed youth in desert garb.

"Buy you a drink, youngster?" he asked, as Keilin looked carefully around the dingy room. "How's the diggin's been?"

He took in Keilin's measuring look, "It's all right, digger. You can trust Honest Clarence." He pushed a barstool out. "Sit. Let's see what you've got."

A shadow of a smile flitted across Keilin's face. He'd heard stories about all of the buyers. Honest Clarence . . . the name itself was a joke among the desert prospectors. "My partner mentioned you. He said you weren't to be trusted."

"Naw, couldn't be me. He must be muddlin' me with Square-Deal Tom, or maybe ol' Jep Deep-Pockets," said Honest Clarence, with an attempt at self-righteousness. "Who is your partner anyhow?"

"Marou Skyann."

A look of profound respect came over Clarence's face. "You don't say! Ol' Marou's mind must be wandering. How could he have said somethin' like that about me? Where is the ol' bugger then? Already gone into Lucy's to screw himself silly? Randy ol' sod never had a bath in his life. Lucy's girls mus' be workin' with clothespegs on their noses."

His statements made Keilin suddenly aware that he hadn't actually washed for the better part of a year himself. "Marou's dead," he said shortly. "Puff adder got him."

"Naw! The grand old man of the desert himself, took out by a puffy? I'd have thought the snake'd die of food poisoning first." He chuckled. "If he hadn't been to town. Then the poor beast would've had alcohol poisoning too." He shook his grizzled head. "Hard to believe, boy. Ol' Marou has been coming in every couple of years or so since my father's time. I reckoned he'd still be around for my son, that's Honest Clarence the third, to take to the cleaners."

He sighed. "Beer, digger? Or are you in too much of a hurry to get along to Lucy's place? Want to sell your stones quick, and go and give good money to bad women?"

Keilin felt himself blushing. To hide his confusion he took the few stones out of his pouch and laid them on the bar. Soon they were wrangling. Keilin was sure he got less than the stones were worth, but he also got more than he'd expected. Clarence handed him a handful of silver and copper. "Not the best stones, not Ol' Marou's usual quality at all, but the price is up with the Morkth invasions around Shapstone City cutting off the western fields."

One of the bunch from the far corner staggered past, on his way to part with the beer he'd briefly rented. He bumped into Keilin as the boy stood up. His blurry eyes focused on the desert garb and then on the turquoise-studded belt. "You're one o' them fucking miners from across the mountains!" He turned to his mates. "Hey, boys. One of them thieving pricks is here."

Honest Clarence spoke. His voice was free of the lazy digger's drawl he'd affected when dealing with Keilin. "Leave him alone, Tomas. The turquoise miners are dangerous men, out of your league."

When Keilin had gone into the desert he'd been a boy. When he came out it never occurred to him that he was not a man. So he was unprepared for the next statement. "Maybe so, Mister Clarence, but I ain't 'fraid of no fucking kid."

Keilin stepped back, feeling the reassuring smoothness of his spear shaft in his hand. "I don't want trouble," he said, looking up at the big man who was drunkenly rocking on the balls of his feet.

If the hunter had been sober, the tone would have been warning enough for him. But the fool was very drunk, and only heard the words. "Well you've found it anyway, you little turd." His friends came staggering across from their corner, and their breath was hot behind him, driving him to prove himself. He half-turned to his drinking companions and said extravagantly, "What do think, boys? I reckon those stones ona' li'l lizard fucker's belt will make up for the rou-deer pelts that some shit stole from us other side o' the pass?"

Clarence snorted. "You stupid buggers. I told you before you went that most of the diggers'll kill you if they even see you on their land. If someone only stole your pelts, likely the thief was one of your own mates."

"Me mates? Never!" said the hunter. "Prob'ly this little fucker. So . . . I'll just have that belt . . ." He reached forward, to find something very sharp pressing into his ribs.

"On the other side of the pass," said Keilin conversationally, "we dig up shriba grubs. Fat, ugly things, like you. Then we squash them very carefully, 'cause if you get the juice in a cut, you're going to die. Then we rub our spear blades in it. Touch the belt my partner gave me again, and I'll push this spear in so deep, it won't matter that it's poisoned."