The Hollow King, page 29
‘Grungni-damned, Grimnir-cursed stupid umgak city,’ growled Kedren as Gord deposited him on the pavement. One after another the crew scrambled up, shedding filthy water. Buildings covered the pavement over, forming a sheltered area, though to duardin sensibilities it looked like it had been done by accident rather than by design. Buildings of stone leaned on buildings of wood, propped up over the pavement on wonky timber posts and rusty iron girders.
‘This place was surely built by grobi,’ said Evrokk. There was a sense of wonder in his voice. ‘You couldn’t design a collapse better than this if you tried.’
‘You say that every time we go to an umgi town!’ said Evtorr, still peevish at his brother.
‘Worth saying, that’s why. Unlike your verse, brother,’ said Evrokk.
‘Come on, come on, beards straight! Keep your aether shining,’ said Drekki. ‘Umgi build as they will, and bad weather we have, but good beer awaits.’ Even Drekki didn’t swallow his own bluster. His jollity was entirely forced.
There were a few folk around up above the flood but they hurried on by, heads down, eager to escape the weather, and not one recognised the captain, to his chagrin. The crew trudged into tottering alleys as water and shit surged down the streets below. A rat’s maze to be sure, but it could not defeat their beer-sense. A duardin can find his way to a pub all turned about and blindfolded.
Drommsson’s Refuge was the sole duardin-built place in town, with four square walls and a roof of precisely engineered bronze plates. Old Drommsson hadn’t trusted human foundations and had cut his own right through the clay until he hit rock. Old Drommsson didn’t like human beer, so served only the best duardin ales. Old Drommsson didn’t like humans at all, but always seemed to find himself among them. Old Drommsson was a host of contradictions. Old Drommsson was a lot of things, but most of all Old Drommsson was dead.
‘Fifty raadfathoms!’ Drekki said, recalling the old publican’s words. ‘Do you remember that?’ He elbowed Kedren. ‘He boasted long and hard about the depth of the pilings he had to put in. He always used to say that, remember? Fifty raadfathoms! Good old Drommsson. Eh, lads?’
He turned about. His duardin were subdued, aetherpacks steaming, rain plinking loudly from the brass.
‘Well, a more miserable line of skyfarers I never did see. Show some spirit! You’re Drekki Flynt’s swashbuckling crew, not a bunch of half-drowned skyrinx. I’ve got an image to think of!’
Nobody spoke.
Drekki sighed into his helm, a noise like a night wind teasing the rigging. For a moment, he wished he were back out at sky. ‘All right, lads. First round’s on me.’
The crew perked up remarkably.
Behind the Refuge’s roof the great copper sphere of the brewery vat swelled invitingly, not dissimilar in appearance to a Kharadron aether-endrin globe.
‘Now there’s a promise of beers to be drunk, eh, lads?’ said Drekki.
They reached the doors. They were sheathed in bronze, and decorated in beaten, geometric designs of the sort that once graced the gates of the ancient mountain karaks. Very inviting, but Drekki stopped, and turned to face his crew.
‘Hold it right there, lads,’ Drekki said. ‘Before we go in…’
‘Can we at least get out of the rain before you give us one of your interminable pep talks?’ Adrimm moaned.
‘Eh? Interminable? Pep talks? You stow it, Fair-weather,’ said Drekki, using the nickname Adrimm hated. ‘This is important. We’ve got our rivals. We have our friends. There might be either in here tonight. We’ve a delicate job ahead of us. Our client does not want a fuss, of any sort. Keep yourselves below the aethergauge. I don’t want a lot of notice. Certainly not like last time, right, Umherth? Umherth? Are you listening? That was embarrassing.’
‘If you say so, captain,’ said Umherth, not at all abashed. Hrunki, his constant companion, sniggered into her helm.
‘A low profile, right?’ said Drekki, wagging his finger. ‘All of you. Low profiles. So low, I don’t want to see your heads over the bar. Got that?’
A rain-sodden chorus of ‘aye, captain’ came back.
‘Right then,’ said Drekki. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Beer time.’ He took a step, stopped, and looked up at Gord.
‘Actually, you’d better go first, Gord. Just in case.’
‘Right you are, captain,’ said Gord. He covered three duardin strides in a single, decisive step, both hands out. They banged into the doors like battering rams, flinging them open with a metallic boom and revealing a big entrance hall, full of lockers for skyfarers’ kit. From the atrium, inner doors led into the common room. Gord strode right in and pushed those open too.
Warmth, light and laughter streamed out. Someone was playing an aether-gurdy. Badly.
Gord stopped in the middle of the bar.
‘Oi!’ the ogor bellowed. ‘Clear a table! Captain Drekki Flynt’s in town!’
The noise faltered. When the hubbub returned, it had a different flavour. Urgent, excited, somewhat annoyed.
Drekki grinned. ‘Say what you like about our ogor,’ he said, ‘he certainly knows how to make an entrance.’
‘I thought you said low profiles all round, captain?’ said Evtorr sharply. He could nurse a sulk like no one else.
‘Hush now,’ said Drekki. ‘You’re spoiling it.’
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