"Do you know where this Zhakar, Splintersteel, is?" Ariakas inquired.
"He lives in the slum, somewhere-no one knows exactly where. However, he frequents a tavern owned by another Zhakar, near the West Bridge. The place is called the Fungus Mug, and chances are good that you will be able to find him there."
"Very well," said Ariakas. "I'll seek him there tomor shy;row."
Without further exchange, they departed the Sancti shy;fied Catacombs, Ariakas walking in silent reflection. He bade farewell to the high priest and emerged from the darkened cavern of the temple to stroll reflectively down the mountainside, under the glowing crimson clouds of Sanction at night.
He reached his house very close to dawn, and when he slept his dreams were filled with squirming lizard crea shy;tures, spawn of the metal dragon eggs. Yet the images of the grotesque creatures, he was surprised to find, gave him not horror, but hope.
Chapter 12
The Fungus Mug
After sleeping for most of the day, Ariakas awakened to a steaming bath followed by a massage from his valet, Kandart. The man was a middle-aged Nerakan mute, completely attentive. Deciding that he enjoyed the life of nobility, the warrior followed his relaxation with a meal of tender roast lamb, and by the time he had briefly honed his white sword, it was time to set out once again into the streets of Sanction.
Ariakas had some difficultly finding the Fungus Mug; the bar occupied a street of seedy taverns in a district composed exclusively, so far as he could tell, of seedy taverns. His only clue was the West Bridge, and after an hour of fruitless searching he concluded that 'around the West Bridge' could serve as a direction to something like a thousand saloons and taverns.
And none of these thousand was a place called the Fungus Mug. He tried asking passersby and received replies varying from completely uninformative to down shy;right hostile. He began the second hour of his search along a dingy row of alleyways that ran perpendicular to the busy Bridge Road. Pedestrians hurried through these alleys, keeping their heads low and their ears alert. Here, too, flopped the destitute, the drunken, the losers at gambling … and anyone else temporarily bereft of lodg shy;ing and funds. Sometimes these pathetic wretches begged for alms-pleas that Ariakas inevitably ignored, or responded to with a kick of his heavy boot. Occasion shy;ally one would wait until he'd passed, and then slip toward the warrior's back. Ariakas whirled several times, half-drawing his huge sword; always the culprit scurried away.
In the third alleyway, he felt a glimmer of optimism. Several stocky characters trumped along in front of him, and though they were heavily cloaked, they looked like dwarves. Then, too, there was a scent on the air here that actually suggested mold and mildew, like a cellar that was flooded and left closed. In time, he saw the small sign, chiseled stone set in a wooden frame. Beneath a carved image of a stout drinking glass Ariakas made out the words: "The Fungus Mug." The stonecarver had added a curious detail to the mug: it seemed to be puff shy;ing out gentle clouds of steam, as if the contents were very hot.
Pushing through a low doorway, Ariakas was forced to duck his head. He remained stooped within, for the ceiling support beams were exactly the height of his fore shy;head. His first sensation was the overpowering smell he had detected in the alley-it was as if he had entered that cellar he had earlier imagined. The next thing he noticed was the nearly complete darkness of the inn. He could hear sounds of laughter and angry words exchanged in a variety of languages. Somewhere a glass broke, and a female voice joined the cacophony.
Ariakas bumped into a stone ceiling support and mut shy;tered in vexation. He massaged his forehead and groped his way past the obstacle. A huge fireplace stood in the far wall, and within the vast hearth the remains of a coal-fire smoldered. The embers did not cast much light, but slowly Ariakas made out vague details of his surround shy;ings.
There were many tables between him and the fire shy;place, and most of them seemed to be occupied. The laughing and bickering immediately around him ceased, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious. A long, low bar stood along one wall, and small oil flames glimmered in several places behind the bar. Hunched silhouettes showed Ariakas where the customers were, and by avoiding these he found a seat facing the barkeeper.
Sitting, he now got a good look at the little flames. Each flared beneath a copper kettle, and from these con shy;tainers steady clouds of steam escaped. He watched the bartender fetch several empty mugs from dwarven cus shy;tomers and refill them from the steaming pot. A waft of steam floated past his nose, and he realized that the warm liquid was the stuff he had smelled even out in the alleyway.
"What'U it be-I ain't got all night!"
The cantankerous voice drew his attention down, and he saw the shadowy outline of a dwarven barmaid, fists planted firmly on her hips, face upturned. Though he couldn't see details of her features, the irritation in her voice blended well with the other sounds of debate and disagreement in this place.
"An ale, cold as you've got it," he replied curtly.
"Don't get your hopes up," she retorted, ducking behind the bar. She drew a mug from a tap, and brought the stuff over to Ariakas.
The warrior flipped her a silver piece, declaring he'd be ready for another in a few minutes. When she marched off, presumably to harass a few more cus shy;tomers, he turned and slumped his elbows on the bar, wondering how to go about finding Tale Splintersteel. Tasting the brew, he found it palatable, if a bit more bitter than the grainy eastern ales he was used to-but nowhere near as bad as he had already decided the steaming stuff in the pots must be.
Looking up and down the bar, his eyes grew further accustomed to the gloom. The warrior observed several other humans, but most of the customers had the short, stocky outline of dwarves. He noticed, with curiosity, that the dwarven figures were universally cloaked in dark cloth, often with garments wound so tightly as to expose only eyes and mouth. Others had their faces free, but hid their features within deep hoods. Though the dwarves used their hands frequently, both for drinking and for communicating, they all wore gloves. Often they gestured with clenched fist right in the face of a com shy;rade, and he saw several dwarves shoving each other back and forth brutally. Among humans, he would have expected such duels to explode into fights, but the dwarves seemed able to settle their differences thus, with one or the other finally conceding and the whole group sitting back down.
"Well, drink up if you want another-like I said, I ain't got all night!" The barmaid barked at him, appearing suddenly out of the darkness. Her face glowered at him from the depths of her hood. The dwarf woman's skin seemed pocked and rough, though Ariakas could see no details in the dim illumination.
He drained his mug, and when she returned with the refill, he asked a question. "That stuff in the pots . . . what is it?"
"Tea," she explained brusquely.
Ariakas grabbed her shoulder as she turned to go.
"What's it made from?"
She looked at him fiercely, apparently torn between bashing him on the jaw and answering his question. "Mushrooms. Zhakar mushrooms," she answered, jerk shy;ing free of his grasp and starting through the darkness again.
He regarded the pungent scent critically. So the Zhakar dwarves liked 'mushroom tea,' he reflected with a grimace-quite a difference from the other dwarves he had known, all of whom preferred drink of a much stronger nature.
His curiosity grew. What horrid plague effects caused them to cloak themselves so heavily? And if the argu shy;mentative atmosphere in the bar were any indication, they were more hostile and unpleasant than any other dwarves he'd encountered-and that included a fair number who lacked social grace.