[Mister Underhill]

Many a curious stare followed Orogarn Two and Singéd as they trudged through the muddy streets of Improvas. Dirty-faced, tow-headed children, legs already beginning to bow, laughed and pointed as they passed. Men nudged their neighbors and tipped their chins towards the pair. ‘Hey, nice dog!’ someone called out.

Orogarn paused, meeting the eyes of the onlookers, and gestured grandly.

‘Behold!’ he cried. ‘Here is Singéd the Great, whom no other hand can tame.’

‘We have leash laws in Soreham, Grundorian.’

Orogarn ignored the taunt and continued on. Singéd shot him a thankful glance for at least making the effort.

Men of the Mike were busily repairing a large hole in the glinting roof of the distant hall, a sure sign that his companions were near. Drifting smoke which still lingered from the previous night’s party soon led the two trail-stained travelers to the courtyard in front of the Horse Head Inn. Inside, the Whatchacallitship was just finishing up breakfast.

The sudden reappearance of Orogarn was met with great wonder by his fellow adventurers, who had long since given him up for dead, divided up some of his gear, and written off their debts to him. Nevertheless, they greeted him enthusiastically. Merisu almost went in for a hug, but at the last moment gracefully opted instead for a comfortable distance and air-kisses on either cheek – the Tower of Dorktank to the north had recently begun dumping industrial sludge into the Contrived River, and Orogarn smelled none too clean.

Vogonwë returned Orogarn’s crystal locket and gave him a swift slap on the rump in the Soreham style, which nearly led to a duel until the custom was patiently explained by Etceteron and cooler heads – for once – prevailed.

Just as Orogarn got caught up on all that had transpired during his absence (the retelling accompanied in four part harmony by a few Riders who had roused from their slumber), a horseman who had not been at the previous night’s party – and who had a decidedly shady cast to his narrow eyes – arrived to summon them at once to an audience with Théboleggen King. The time was full ripe for the Itship to move on to the next scene, so, gathering their gear, they followed the messenger without question.

* * * * *

Bypassing all description of the quaint homes of the Sorethighhim and the clear, clattering stream flowing beside the path and suchlike, the Uniship soon found themselves at the top of a high green terrace where two guards sat on stools with naked mikestands laid across their knees. Their golden hair was plaited and arranged on their shoulders just so, and blazed fetchingly in the early morning sun. One of the guards stepped forward and spoke to them in Westestosterone.

‘I am the Bouncer of Théboleggen. Hámanchese is my name. Here I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter.’

Hands strayed towards scabbards and into the folds of cloaks. Handles lovingly bound in tooled leather were fingered, morningstars hefted, twin axes clicked against one another. A rumble from Chrysophylax spoke of searing fires stoked deep within the wyrm’s belly.

Hámanchese coughed into his fist.

‘...or, or you could just promise not to use them. Without provocation. Unnecessarily. You look like good people, I’ll trust you on that.’

The adventurers began to move past the Bouncer, but he spoke up again.

‘Also, I’m supposed to check to make sure that you’re not sworn enemies of Théboleggen King, the Mike, and/or the good people of Soreham over which he rules etc., etc. And that you’re all over twenty-one.’

Twin puffs of smoke escaped Chrysophylax’s nostrils.

‘Right, but of course we’re all square on that. Except these ladies here, if I didn’t know better, I’d never guess you were a day over eighteen. Thirty-three at most in Elf years. I mean that.’ Then he continued in a lowered voice, ‘Listen, this is just a day job for me. I’m really an actor.’

The Bouncer carefully stamped the hands, claws, and mailed fists of the Itship, each in turn, then pushed open the tall doors so that they could enter the Goldlamé Hall. Sounds of music and desultory laughter drifted out of the dark opening.

As they passed inside, the voice of Hámanchese followed them in an afterthought.

‘Entering the Hall also implies agreement to the two drink min—’

But he was abruptly cut off as Grrralph swept the doors closed.

Inside it was close and dark after the wind and bright sunshine upon the hill. As their eyes changed, the travelers saw that tables were arrayed on the main floor of the hall. Golden cloths were hung upon the walls, and at the far end of the house, beyond the tables, was a raised stage. Most of the damage from the previous evening had been repaired, and only one thin shaft of light shone in through the nearly patched hole in the hall’s great roof. It was made of decidedly cheap materials and was rather shoddily constructed, and so was quickly and easily repaired.

The place stank of cheap booze, and a thick haze of pipeweed smoke filled the chamber even at this early hour. A general pall of disreputability hung like a shroud over the audience seated at the tables. They seemed restless and sullen, and when they laughed or applauded, no trace of sincerity could be found in the gestures.

‘That isn’t golden cloth, right?’ asked Merisu in a hushed voice.

‘Gold lamé,’ said Kuruhuran, then added quickly and a bit too casually, ‘At least, that’s what it looks like from here.’

‘It looks smaller than I thought,’ whispered Pimpi, who had heard many a tale of the glory days of Improvas from her father.

‘And tackier,’ added Vogonwë.

The reason the hall had not completely collapsed was immediately evident: two mighty pillars sprang from the flagstone floor and soared in gently bowing arcs to the roof. The pillars were stout, almost muscular, shaped from beautiful, intricately carved wood which gleamed with a rich golden hue that a thin film of nicotine only enhanced. The Gallowship perceived that these must be none other than the fabled Thighs of Soreham. Despite their great age, the wooden pillars seemed to throb with life and a certain impalpable earthy wisdom.

Beyond the Thighs, on the left side of the stage, was a bandstand. A pale man in a suit of extravagantly bright purple cloth stood at the head of a group of Riders who clearly had been handpicked not for their talent with their instruments, but for their brawn and their dumb, brute loyalty to the bandleader, Grimy Hasbéen.

On the right side of the stage was a plain desk, behind which sat a bent old man. He was clad in a golden sansabelt jumpsuit which must once have been dazzling, but now seemed shabby and dull with years. A rakish ascot was nearly hidden under a frizzy white beard, and his face was as seamed and wrinkled as an old adventurer’s codpiece. A line of drool depended from his lower lip and glistened in his beard like dew in a spider web.

‘So, a funny thing happened,’ mumbled Théboleggen King in a cracked old man’s voice. ‘Uh, the roof fell in.’

‘The roof fell in?’ Grimy asked loudly.

‘The roof. Fell in. We got a big hole up there. Men working. The whole thing. What’s up with that?’

One of the Riders rolled off a lackluster BA DUM PSHHH! on his drum kit. The audience, under a heavy glare from Grimy, laughed and clapped in insincere appreciation. The old king seemed not to notice.

‘It’s crazy!’

The Itship was milling about in the back of the room, wondering if it was possible to fade back out the door or maybe just pick a fight, when a haggard young woman approached them.

‘I’m Éowhine of the Mike and I’ll be your serving wench this morning. There’s a two drink minimum. What can I get you?’

But before they could even react, the crowd quieted and Grimy’s eyes were upon them.

‘Now, your lordship,’ he said in a loud voice that dripped with menace and contempt, ‘I understand we have some guests with us today.’

‘Yes, yes. They’ve come all the way from... somewhere else to be with us. Ladies and gents, please put your hands together and give a big Soreham welcome to... those people back there. Yes, you. Come on.’

The audience clapped lightly, and all eyes in the room turned to the Itship.

[ September 11, 2003: Message edited by: Mister Underhill ]