* * *
Lemmy’s was a bar situated at the very top of Tallyflop, built on a giant platform right on the rim of the oak’s giant hollow main trunk. Surrounded by lush gardens, art carvings and statuettes, Lemmy’s was a synonym for opulence. A stark contrast to the less refined and a lot slummier promenades of Tallyflop, Lemmy’s catered to the most expensive tastes and only the wealthiest of people could afford the establishment’s fine services. That being said, its clientele consisted mainly of slavers, contraband traders, blockade runners, and the meanest, craziest cutthroats alive.
Little did the establishment’s fame mattered to Wince while him and Lernea were going up the last few marble steps to the grandiose copper-lined entrance: all he cared for was getting a drink before collapsing from the exhaustion of travelling through every single step and rope ladder in Tallyflop.
“House! Water!”
Water, though a most readily abundant substance around the known universe, is generally frowned upon in places where alcoholic beverages are mainly on offer. Lemmy’s was no exception either, if not the rule.
“I think you’re in a very wrong place, my friend,” said a tall, thick-set doorman at the entrance, wearing tight leather pants, a loose linen shirt and a wooden, colourful curio around his neck. He was looking at Winceham and Lernea with a consternated, perhaps even constipated look. His voice was a keen whisper. It sounded like the man had a sore throat, if not an outright speech impediment.
“We’re exactly where we want to be, sir. Now please, we want to order.”
Lernea sounded tired, almost exhausted, but she was trying to be as polite as circumstance would allow. The doorman cocked his head to the left slightly and looked at them with beady eyes.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Lernea took on her most threatening face. It was plain for all to see and hear, that she was nothing short of royally pissed.
“By Skrala, I’m not in the particular mood right now. And even though as custom would have it, I would be inclined to inquire further on the reasons of your barring us from entering this establishment, I am left with no other recourse than to completely disregard you.”
“You don’t want to do that,” said the doorman who was built much too closely to the actual door’s dimensions. He showed them the palm of his outstretched hand as an indication to stop. Winceham looked at the hand momentarily.
“You’ll live a long and prosperous life. Unless you don’t step out of our way, in which case your lifeline will be cut abruptly short. Like, a minute. Two, tops,” said the halfuin in a deadpan voice. He was looking at the doorman as if searching for an invisible ceiling, or maybe a specific star.
“We don’t serve water,” said the man and for the first time smiled thinly, or at least made an effort to rearrange his face. It was like he had been taught to smile through the use of bad, generic drawings.
“How about beer? Do you serve cold beer?” asked Lernea, putting on a real effort to contain her own irate disposition.
“There is beer served at a certain temperature,” answered the doorman and his head clicked back into its upright position.
“Right then, we’re having beer,” said Winceham and tried to go past the doorman with all the rush of a pig about to hog its way through mud. The doorman blocked his way with an outstretched leg.
“Not dressed up like that you’re not.”
Lernea had had enough.
“I demand entrance to this.. This..” she was shaking with aggravation and had all but lost her words.
“Pigs’ sty?” offered Winceham with a deep-set frown, eyeing the doormans kneecap with the untold ambition of gnawing at it first chance he got.
“Ignominious excuse for an establishment that would rather have its patronage diminished to a dry husk in case it might dissuade the local fauna from entertaining its use as a urinal!”
The doorman blinked a couple of times, while Lernea near-screech had left her fuming.
“There’s no local fauna, miss. Except for the badgers. And you do know whose fault that is,” said the doorman accusingly and raised an eyebrow for good measure, as if somehow he knew his message, whatever it was, was getting accross.
“Less than a minute,” said Winceham mostly to himself as he flexed his palm, itching for his stiletto.
“I am Lernea Teletha, Queen of Nomos in exile, scion of the line of Teletha, hallowed by the Eternal Spring of the Holy Mountain, and you’re telling me I can’t have a beer with my formerly smelly, albeit still short friend?”
“I didn’t realise you were nobility, Your Former Highness. Welcome to Lemmy’s,” he said in a surprisingly apologetic way. He then stood aside and ushered them both in with a tight-lipped, wide smile, before he bowed slightly, his curio jingling like a cheap toy. Lernea sighed, took a deep breath and walked inside, Winceham already somehow a few steps ahead of her.
“I’m glad we got that out of the way,” she said and instantly aware of her surroundings, she straightened her hair somewhat and tried to maintain as much authority of style and etiquette as her leather bodice allowed.
“Still, he needs some stickin’,” the halfuin insisted, looking over his shoulder a couple of times.
“I think there’s been enough sticking for today,” whispered Lernea. It sounded like she was referring to a rather terrifying or perhaps completely embarassing experience.
“I was only acting according to what is expected of me,” said Winceham and grinned profusely, a regular indicator he had enjoyed something most people in their sane minds would prefer not to remember.
“Antics like starting a fight and bringing a pack mule to a.. I cannot even utter the word!” whispered Lernea as if the shock of what had transpired was still haunting her. Still, she couldn’t pry her gaze off the wonderful chandeliers, the beautifully hand-crafted furniture and the suave atmosphere the light show and melodic, ambient music gave off. Winceham for a moment lost her; he was trying to remember what exactly she was referring to. Then, he had a moment of clarity.
“You mean the brothel?” he shouted with excitement, and an alarming gleam in his eyes.
“Keep your voice down! I thought it was a bath house!” she hissed and became red in the face as if she’d just dipped herself in a pool of dye. Her training in all matters of the court kicked in soon afterwards; she immediately straightened herself and calmly walked towards the bar, as if nothing had happened. She avoided any and all eye contact, especially with a rather burly, hairy man with a six-foot long double-edged sword, wearing nothing but a sheepskin while not being so picky about which parts of him were covered with it.
“Ah, don’t be such a prude; you’re in your prime time. If I were you, I’d be going for it. You know, they say in space, noone can hear you scream,” said Winceham with a grin that threatened to tear his face apart. Not a moment later, he was twirling like some sort of exotic, drunken dancer before he crashed onto the soft, carpeted floor. His cheek had the print of a palm on it; his head throbbed and ached, but his hearing was fine.
“There will be no more mention of this, now or ever again. Am I being pristine?” said Lernea this time not at all mindful of the many sets of eyes and ears upon them both.
“Too pristine if you ask me, but aye, I can see there are deleterious effects to continuing this sort of discussion,” he said, got up and dusted himself, in effect adding a layer of dust and grit to the previously immaculate carpet.
“All too right; for a change. Let’s get what we came here for. That Rat character.”
“Right. Let’s sit at the bar then. You’re buying though,” said Winceham, still nursing his cheek.
“And how are you planning to do that?” asked Lernea with a sour expression marring her clean, strong characteristics.
“I wasn’t, you’re the one who’s buying. I’m broke. Really, halfuin’s honor and all that, haven’t you heard?”
The feeling of hurt and begging on Winceham’s face begged belief. One could?
??ve argued he had been in fact slain and these were his last, dying words.
“How do you plan on getting up on that stool?” said Lernea and pointed at the three-foot high stools against the bar, with no handles or the like whatsoever. Winceham turned and looked at Lernea with the eyes of a young boy who has just realised his little pet is dead and gone forever.
“I was hoping you’d prop me up.”
“Hope is an admirable notion, in general. In your case, it is wholly misguided,” said Lernea and proceeded to sit at one of the stools. Winceham sounded quite displeased about the whole turn of events.
“And what am I supposed to do then? Scale the bloody walls?”
“I’m really not that interested about that right now. Bartender, if you will!”
The bartender turned around; the man under the fancy pressed red-and-black striped suit, was in fact a five-foot rat with a sevn-foot tail that not unsurprisingly, wore glasses as well.
“What can I get you for?”
“A bloody beer’d be an awful good idea!” grumbled Winceham without being able to show his bare, gritted teeth since he was trying to climb up the stool, meeting with little success.
“Ventriloquist?” asked the rat bartender, fixing his glasses.
“Pest control, really,” said Lernea and kicked Winceham away with the heel of her boot. By an unfortunate timing of events, what would’ve been a rather forceful nudge, ended up being a kick in Winceham’s private parts, which as is the case with most humanoids, translates to a world of pain. Winceham went out of breath, double over and fell sideways like a dead log, writhing in agony and the near-silence of pained breaths coming through clenched teeth.
“Ah. What will you be having then?”
“Ken sent me,” said Lernea and raised one eyebrow.
“Dunno that one, never heard it before. Does it got bitters or grog innit?”
“Ken sent me?” repeated Lernea, with both eyebrows raised, believing she’d got everything right.
“Wot, just because I work at a fancy place I hafta know every drink some gobbleflopper’s dreamt up?”
“Aren’t you the Rat?”
“Lady, the tag here says Vishjay. Now if you can’t spell it, that’s fine. Can’t pronounce it, even bettah. But I’m a rat, a ratman really, not the Rat.”
Lernea checked on the small brass tag pinned on the suit. It did spell Vishjee, which was probably close enough to be true.
“My apologies, dear sir. Where can I find this Rat you speak of?”
“Well, he’s got weird hours. I’m not sure.”
“It’s really important. It could also be quite profitable.”
“I’m in then.”
“Not for you, for the Rat!”
“Wot’s that gonna git me then?”
“I don’t know! You sort this out between you!”
“Sounds fair. But still, he’s not here right now.”
“And when might he be in?”
A small, tiny bell chimed and a wide door next to the bar slid open to one side. Lernea’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped to the point where it probably hurt like hell. Then she just pointed a finger at the open door, fainted and landed on Winceham who was only then beginning to breathe again, the pain starting to subside. As luck would have it though, her elbow struck Winceham’s sensitive nether region once more. He let out a cry of anguish and passed out as well. The bartender was at a loss of words.
“He’s not that good-looking, I can tell,” he mumbled to himself and turned around to greet the newcomers from the Elevator.
“Monsieur Rat, what’ll be? Dry gin? And your friends here?”
“Make it an extra dry gin and some ginger ale for these two. We can’t have a nine-foot bear in a toga go on a drunken rampage around here now, can we?” said a wholly unassuming man, dressed in an elegant, yet no-frills, quality silky robe. Rat had the bland, common face of a peasant and a decidedly shiny scalp, but his eyes radiated a shiny, crisp, intelligence. He exchanged knowing, smiling looks with Tej.
“No sir,” said the bartender who seemed to have heard the same joke before. “What about the tall fella?” he asked.
“I dunno. I asked him what he’d like to have and he just started crying for no reason. Tejwel had to hug him like a baby to make it stop. Something about a lost brother or something. And the bloody Ygg are in the middle of this, too. I’m beginning to think it’s time for an early retirement.”
“You will help us, Rat?” said Tej, letting go of Theo who was still wiping away his tears, his back against the rest of Lemmy’s.
“Why not? It’s just another rotten day in my line of business. Speaking of rotten, what’s that smell anyway?”
“Must be coming from the short fella. Stinky, hey? To think people say I’m rotten,” said the bartender disaffectionately.
“Rodent, Vishjay. People say you’re a rodent, and you know what? They’re right.”