The Forlorn(94)

It was after dusk when they reached the tavern that Bey had been looking eagerly ahead for. It was already a busy evening there, with calloused hands holding beer tankards, and a happy, warm raucous noise emanated from the public room along with the scent of roast mutton, garlic and rosemary.

"Bumps!" bellowed Bey joyfully from the doorway. "Why's the service so bloody slow in this dump?"

A brief silence fell across the pub, till a broad man in a wheeled chair came forward, grinning broadly. "You noisy bastard. Want a beer, or do I chuck you out?"

For an answer Bey picked him up by the elbows, holding him above his head. "Beer first. Hell, beer for everybody! Then later you can chuck me out, as usual." He looked around at the cheerful room with its polished brassware, gleaming dark wood and a jam-packed bar. "I see you've let the bloody place go to wrack and ruin. Lost most of my blooming customers, too. Probably drunk my damned wine cellar dry as well."

"The old one was too small to keep all the rotten turnips in, so we dug a new one. There might be a few bottles so like cat's pee that nobody has drunk 'em yet. Hell, Bey! It's good to have you home."

"Grand to be back, old man. Where's the boy?"

"Flambéing the orange and brandy sauce for somebody's duck. Probably set the kitchen on fire by now. Just like his dad. You go see him while I dole out beers. I hope you've got the silver for it, 'cause your tick's no good here any more! Are this bunch friends of yours, or do I throw 'em out?" Then he caught sight of Cap standing in the shadows. "Sir! Cap! Come in, come in. If you'll honor the house, that is?"

Cap stepped forward. "I'll have dinner in the private dining room, Bumps, and my usual chamber."

He walked through the now silent room. As he arrived at the far door people began raising their tankards and glasses and calling his health.

The man in the wheelchair led the rest of them through to a table at the back of the room, near the big open fireplace. The room was not the province, as in most of the other taverns Keilin had seen, of a male crowd. In fact, it was about half and half. There were also a few children eating. The comments and invitations as they passed were thus not restricted to wolf whistles for the girls. Keilin kept a tight grip on S'kith's elbow, and seated him firmly, before he could respond to some of the comments from the girls. Within a minute heavy foaming pewter tankards of a brown nutty brew had been plonked down in front of them by a barmaid who made a careful point of rubbing her large and barely contained bosom across Keilin's cheek.

Sweating, Keilin was glad she'd chosen him and not S'kith, despite the look of pure poison Shael gave him. Minutes later Beywulf came through. With him was a giant. A younger carbon copy of Beywulf except for two things. He outtopped the broad man by at least two feet. And his hands were enormous, each with six long spidery fingers.

"Leyla you know, boy, but Princess Broad-Beam, Keil . . . and my friend S'kith. I want you all to meet my son Wolfgang."

He turned to S'kith. "I've only one boy. But what I lack in numbers I make up for in size." Pride shone from every inch of the broad face.

To their surprise S'kith rose to his feet, extending a hand. "I am pleased to meet the son of a great foodmaker, and an honorable man."

The boy betrayed his youth, with his embarrassment, as he enveloped the hand in a web of fingers. "I'll be cooking for you tonight, sir. But I'm not in my old man's league yet. He's a legend hereabouts. Hard to live up to."

"Nonsense, my boy. The addition of anise to that soup in the kitchen was masterful. They'll be talking about you when I'm long gone."

The boy grinned. "That wasn't what Bumps said. Or at least he said they'd still be swearing about the bloody mess for twenty generations. Wanted to know if I'd left my brains in a bucket, ruining good onion soup like that."

"Absolute rubbish. We'll start with it to prove him wrong. Then the duck, I think. Only don't flambé the sauce in the kitchen. Do it in a chafing dish here. The customer needs to get his eyebrows singed to be suitably impressed. Then those lamb shanks, and an almond tart to finish. I leave the choice of side dishes to you . . . as long as they include the stuffed artichoke bottoms. And to prove your worth, the wines are also in your hands."

* * *

It had been a memorable evening, full of wonderful food, cheerful conversation and hauntingly beautiful and sad music. It was strange. The loud cheerful extrovert nature of the people showed a very different facet in their songs. There was a sea-deep bitterness and terrible poignancy in those lyrics. They were a people wronged, a people exiled. And they would not forget.

That wasn't the only strange thing. Another had been S'kith, after the delicate crumble of the almond tart with its caramelized sugar lacework and lathering of yellow cream, leaping to his feet—and it was amazing he could still leap with all that food in him—and shaking Wolfgang's hand furiously. He then demanded that the boy help to teach his children to cook. Puzzled, and not a little alarmed, Wolf had nodded. And Bey had shouted with laughter. "You've just acquired a couple of thousand sous-chefs, son."