Pryce marveled at how the stairway was entirely concealed by the vines, so no one could see in and they couldn’t see out. He could hear the water of Lallor Bay lapping in the distance, however, and could see the light which bathed this stairway interior in a yellow-green glow. As they descended, Covington counted the steps. At the twenty-fifth step, they emerged from the vines onto a level between the inner wall of wizards’ castles and the bay. There Pryce looked out onto the most rustic area of the waterfront.
“It’s the oldest section of the city,” Lymwich told him curtly. “Made by our first residents as an unprepossessing retreat.” She sniffed at its ancient stone and wood dwellings. “The whole thing should be torn down, I say.”
Pryce disagreed. He admired the cunning way the original Lallor vacationers had made the dwellings seem simple, while still imbuing great character and charm to the houses. It reminded him of quaint rural villages back home, which practically exuded the sight, smell, and sound of family togetherness. Even now he thought he could hear the welcome sound of families singing and laughing with one another.
“Come on,” Berridge grunted. “I didn’t bring you here for a picnic.” She motioned behind her with her thumb. Pryce looked where she was pointing and saw an establishment built directly into the rock wall. The window frames were wooden beams, the glass panes clear and thick. The big gray steel-enforced door bore a simple sign: Schreders. At Your Service.
Inside, it seemed to be a comfortable combination of the most luxurious sea captain’s quarters and an imperial wizard’s cave. The walls and ceiling were not a consistent width or height throughout. Instead, upright wooden beams and crossbeams vied willy-nilly with stone and rocks to create many heights and widths. Between them were some of the finest wood chairs and sculpted stone tables Pryce had ever laid eyes on.
Pryce was studying some lamps made to look like bottles, tankards, and casks of liquor when he was distracted by a booming voice. “You don’t have to tell me who this is!” Azzoparde Schreders, the proprietor of the establishment, had made himself known.
Who else could he be? Pryce wondered with amusement as a full-bearded, ruddy-faced man in a white shirt, black pants, and brown apron stood before him, arms spread wide. His head was as round as the moon, and his thick black hair came down from an equally round bald spot. His arms, torso, and legs were round, thick, and sturdy, and his expression, like his restaurant and bar, was open and inviting.
“It took you long enough to get here, eh? Eh?” he jibed in a voice that sounded like a sack of gravel dragged behind a cart. ‘You expected us to wait for you forever? Fall Festival time is almost upon us!”
Pryce smiled pleasantly. “I had far to come.”
“I’ll say,” his host said conspiratorially, moving his elbow like a bird’s flapping wing. “I should say you did! Eh? Eh?”
Rather than deal with this increasingly confusing conversation, Pryce continued to admire the rough-hewn beauty of the extensive place. An inviting series of alcoves featured both transparent and darkly colored window panes. To his added pleasure, magical illumination made everything clearly visible to the eye without unnecessary brightness.
“Welcome to the most exclusive epicurean drinkery in an already very exclusive city,” Schreders boasted. “Just smooth enough for the gastronome” he elbowed Lymwich and gave a knowing wink”and just rough enough for the earth-salters!”
“Nice place you have here,” Pryce told him, then leaned toward the inquisitrix. “Cliches for every occasion.” Lymwich barked out a polite bray.
“Perhaps you are as great as they say!” Schreders marveled. “Getting the great inquisi-witch to laugh is no mean feat! Eh? Eh?” Berridge hit Azzo on the arm as he rocked back and forth, clutching his solid belly.
Lymwich could only sigh with resignation. “Anyone who’s anyone will eventually show up here,” she reluctantly admitted. “The comfort and privacy are topnotch.”
“So’s the security.” Azzo winked at the inquisitrix again before rising to his full height to study Covington’s face. “What’ll you imbibe, my good sir? If we don’t have it, you can’t drink it.”
‘Truer words have I rarely heard,” Pryce said appreciatively, rising to the challenge. “I know a town by its brew. It rarely fails. As goes the local liquid, so goes the locality. Rough, coarse ale? A fight is no doubt brewing. Smooth, full-bodied grog? There’s love in the air.”
Schreders started to slap Pryce on the back, then thought better of it. Instead, he stepped back and pounded the bar. That sound, like almost all his other noises of bravado, was quickly swallowed up by the various nooks and crannies in the large, sprawling room. “And truer words have rarely heard, sir,” Azzo replied. The bar was in the very back of the establishment. It wasp› constructed in a horseshoe shape, so those seated there could either maintain their privacy by keeping their backs to the windows and the restaurant, or face toward the front door.
Azzo slipped between the back wall at the left end of the bar and took his position behind a row of taps. “I like you, sir,” he told Pryce. “I truly do. The first round, at the very least, is on me!”
Pryce Covington had seldom heard words any sweeter. And if the first brew he soon quaffed was any indication, Lallor was full of promise. It remained so for the second round, personally served by Azzo at a recessed table, where Pryce parried Berridge Lymwich’s questions with the always reliable “Please-Iet’s-not-talk-about-me-I’d-rather-hear-more-about-you” gambit.
He learned that the inquisitrix was pretty much what she appeared to be: fiercely loyal, dedicated, and ambitious, but with a streak of insecurity. Her slight inferiority complex manifested itself in expressions of sullen disapproval whenever Azzo’s beautiful blonde serving wench got too close. But then Lymwich suddenly changed the subject to inquiries about the books in his new dwelling.
“I told you,” she admonished with the careful enunciation of the slightly inebriated. “I notice everything. What is it with Geerling and you and all those books?”
Covington grew still. It was getting late, and apparently she couldn’t handle her drinks. One more, he was convinced, and her minking and words would become too mushy to be useful. If he was going to learn anything, it was time to draw her out. “I can’t speak for Geerling, but I’m fond of books because they don’t change.”
“What does that mean, Blade?”
Covington leaned back. What had she called him? He shook his head. He decided that it must have been the drink slurring her words. He shrugged casually and leaned forward again. “You know. People change, places change, but books don’t.”
“What are you talking about? Books get older… the pages yellow…”
“I’m not talking about age,” he said, surprised at how the words flowed from him. Maybe the deceptively powerful mead had gotten to him as well. “I’m talking about where it countsfor books and people. Inside. People who once told the truth can start to lie. Books don’t. If they start with the truth, they will always tell you the truth.”
Suddenly Berridge Lymwich leaned over the table, placing her face not more than two inches from his. To Pryce’s amazement, he could tell that she wasn’t intoxicated in the slightest It was she who had been testing him. “Oh, you and your flowery words,” she said evenly, her face a knowing mask. “Gamor Turkal and Geerling Ambersong may have impressed everyone else with the tales of your spectacular adventures, but I want you to know one thing. You’re going to have to prove yourself to me, Darlington Blade!”
CHAPTER THREE
Pryce Covington was afraid he might be sick, and it wasn’t the drink that made him feel that way. Mystran Inquisitrix Berridge Lymwich might as well have hit him in the solar plexus with a bar stool. Calling him by that name had the same effect.