Part 2, Chapter 2

II. Spilling the Golden Brew

            There is nothing else of note to say for the Awakening festival. After the opening ceremonies, I made an explicit effort to avoid attendance at future performances. The worst of the whole affair came when Orchid asked me what I thought of his routine, and I stuttered, unable to recall his act.

He made no fuss of it, but laughed and said, “Well, you were one ale a-plenty, weren’t you, boy?”

            He knew I had not yet acquired a taste for Northern brew.

After the festival ran its course, all performers were evicted from public grounds, thus our first order of business was to find a suitable location to stay until winter. As luck would have it, there is not a wealthy sow in all of Ambitus who will pass up the opportunity to further their name by entering the sphere of the arts. A good player, Orchid had told me, will always be able to find a friend among despicable people, and Orchid happened to know a great deal of despicable people.

            From Rupheo, I learned that Orchid’s most devote patron was aligned with the Luciphytes -- a word he pronounced with evident distaste. The Luciphytes, he told me, were pro-democratic supporters, and made up the majority of the population. They were rivalled by the Crowns, the leader of which was Porphyry the Wise, who, as I’d heard mentioned, was presently taken into custody. I understood not what forces assailed Ambitus so, as to split its belly in two, setting this part against the other. In their bubbled existence, the Ambitans somehow found just as many ways to kill one another as any North Augustinian could name you.

            Whatever the cause, it took much coaxing on Orchid’s part to convince Rupheo and Gulliver to come beneath the roof of a Luciphyte patron. At long last, exasperated by their refusal to cooperate, the entire troop lay siege to them, with Gulliver’s wife front and center of it all, until they submitted -- Gulliver with haste, and Rupheo with no small amount of reservation.

            The name of the patrons were Ambrosia and Cyrus Naithos. They were well-to-do, but not excessively wealthy. They offered us the basement of their house for our use, in which we slept together in one large room, arranged in our slumber as we had been around the campfire during our travels.

            When summer came, I could feel it in my bones. It was foreran by the kind of humid heat that sunk beneath the skin and made the joints limber. In the middle of the night I would wake with droplets of sweat clinging to my brow, and during the day I could feel the heat break upon my skin, prickling up and down my exposed arms.

During the summer, Orchid decided to perform a few extra shows in order to raise revenue. Though the patrons who housed performers rarely demanded a fee, they did require a certain percentage of whatever money their artists brought in. Thus, Orchid was eager to pounce on any opportunity to perform if it made him a few extra quid. He would perform all manner of marvellous cons for his audiences, making them believe he could cause a tree to grow on command or a dove to disappear in his hands. As a stagehand in charge of props and stage effects, I quickly learned the craft behind his trade, and the sleight of hand behind his tricks. Do not be fooled by the whimsical illusions of magicians -- the man of magic does magic kill, and his acts are as opaque as the paper screen through which the conjuror’s puppets play. It is a play of shadows by which the magician convinces his audience to believe in his act, wrought from his sensitivity untoward the spectator’s desire to place his faith in a great, supernormal narrative. As a magician, Orchid was a cheap show, but as a storyteller, he was enrapturing.

Despite my close studies of Orchid’s performances, I had yet to cultivate a desire for showmanship myself.

            One night, while the others slept, I stayed up late to practice my guitar. On the steps I sat, instrument draped across my lap and my fingers strumming along to some nameless tune that had burrowed within my brain over the past week. Sometimes, I would hum it aloud to myself, to gain a better grasp of how it went. Only within the past few days had I tried the melody on the guitar -- it was a soft and mazy song, one through which I returned to the quiet contemplation of Augustine amid the turmoil of the city, and by the melody of which I could sit upon a slick and grassy bank with my feet submerge in a cool, murmuring stream, sheltered from the sun by the watery, shifting shadows that flittered beneath the orchard’s canopy…

            So intent was I on my playing that I scarcely noticed the upper door creak open, and it was only when Ambrosia Naithos addressed me that I realized I had been overheard.

            “Cyrus says you’re keeping him up,” she said.

            Heat flashed across my cheeks. “My apologies,” I murmured.

            “Oh no, no need for that. He sends his complements. Used to play the guitar a bit himself, when he was younger.”

            “Did he?”

            “He was rubbish at it, come to think of it. Anyways, continue on. Goodnight.” She started back up the stairs, but paused to say, “Actually, before I go, I should ask: have you played any shows before?”

            I was startled by her asking, but managed to answer is a level voice, “No, madam, I cannot say I have.”

            “Well, you should.” A look came over her that betrayed the turning of her mind’s cogs; some plot or another was already gestating in her thoughts. “In fact, I’ll mention it to Cyrus right now!” she exclaimed. “That ought to shut him up for the rest of the night.”

            Before I could protest, off she went to inform her husband. At the time I believed nothing would come of it, but by morning Orchid and the others knew.

            “So the misus and her man have taken a hoot to you!” Quagmire barked over breakfast.

            “Whatever’s scoring up coinage, I suppose,” Orchid grumbled. For some reason, the news that I was going to be performing my first show had made him extraordinarily irritable. “They’ve already sniffed out a venue for you -- some pub by the Occidentalis gate. Don’t go getting your hopes too high, kid. It’s probably a dive.”

            Denthilde, who was not thrilled to hear of my fortune either, couldn’t resist piping in, “Well, suppose this means I’ll get my first gig too before the summer’s run out!”

            A cacophony of snorts and rolling eyes followed his remark.

            “You would -- if you could keep your attention turned to one thing at a time!” Mechias shot back. “You try to be good at everything, but don’t put an ounce of work into anything you try!”

            “Says you, old man! There’s not a finer talent in all Ambitus!”

            Not wanting to be caught in the middle of the argument, I attempted to make my escape, only to be halted by Omar.

With such venom as the tongue doth possess, she launched herself at the others: “Shame on you! This is a great opportunity for our Dark, but you are all acting like children!”

            “You needn’t defend me,” I said. “Furthermore, I have no desire to put on a show at this time. Pathetic as I am at my art, I’ve not the ambition to put it on display.”

            “Well,” Orchid began, “maybe it’d be best…”

            “You’re not taking him seriously, are you?!” Mechias jumped in.

            “Dad, let me --.”

            “Come, now, you know as well as I do that what’s raw is sometimes nearly as lovely as the refined thing. Raw the boy is, but that’s exactly the beauty of it. You can tell he’s a natural -- that’s far more impressive a thing than any rehearsed prig you’ll get from your university or your seller of advice!”

            Omar must have the puzzlement upon my face, for she remarked, “Showmanship is a business of blood. Though I don’t know how my father-in-law managed produce such an ungrateful offspring!”

            Bested, Orchid looked about, and seeing no one but Denthilde to call to his side, he gave in. “Alright. But you don’t expect me to send him in alone, do you? He’ll hack the life out of a bloody toaster thinking the devil’s in’t, if you set him loose!”

             Before I could assert that, having acquainted myself with the Naithos’ kitchen, I was quite familiar with the operation of toasters and knew they were perfectly harmless, Omar said, “Let us send Gulliver and Rupheo with him, then. They can provide accompaniment.”

            Hearing his name, Gulliver was thrilled -- and Rupheo, far less so. We two were equally disparaged over the show, I for my want to talent and he… I cannot be too sure why, but I believe, to speak in generalities, that Rupheo distained anything that involved an immoral crowd. He’d been absent throughout the entire Awakening Festival, and not one member of the troop had any clue as to where he might have gone, except maybe Gulliver, and you would be hard-pressed to find another so eager to keep secret all his brother’s affairs.

            Against all sincere judgement, a week later I was sitting atop a stool on what must have been the tiniest, most squalid stage in all of Ambitus. Oddly, I do not remember actually arriving at the bar, nor how we had gotten there. The brothers had been the ones to lead the way, taking me down street after street until the roads grew narrower and the light of the streetlamps disappeared into nebulous darkness. After that, all I recall is the warm, dim lights of the bar, and the rank, bitter stench of ale.

            Looking over the faces in the crowd, I felt neither fear of them nor bashfulness for myself. What were they, that I should hold them in any regard? They were nothing -- half-washed between the ears and without a care for the man onstage. If the drunken crowd could pay me no heed, then I imagined it would be just as easy for I, the performer, to ignore them in like fashion.

            That is not to say I was without nervous pangs that first night. Regardless of the audience’s status, my inner critic was ever attentive to every slight I made.

            Beside me, Gulliver and Rupheo were setting up. Gulliver had slipped a harmonica from his shirt pocket, and Rupheo was testing a microphone.

The latter turned to me and said, “Don’t worry about the backup. Just play whatever you want, and we’ll follow along.”

            “I thought you were acrobats!” I exclaimed.

            “Acrobats, showmen, musicians…” Gulliver whistled a beat. “Not a spec of difference between them, far as I can tell.”

            “You pick up many trades as a performer,” Rupheo added. “Once you get into the arts, one love proceeds the next. It’s a dangerous profession in that regard.”

            By then, the crowd was plenty intoxicated and beginning to grow rowdy. Though I could scarce see for the spotlight aimed upon me, I could hear the men at the bar singing and chiding us.

Gulliver inclined his head to the packed bar and mouthed, “You better start playing.”

            The slurred and impetuous voices all around me melded into one tongue that cried out, “On with it already!”

            So on with it I proceeded. At first, I began playing softly, strumming lightly against the strings of the acoustic guitar Mechias had lent me, but when I did so angry voices arose:

“Play louder!”

“We can’t hear you!”

So louder I played, by fingers striking violently at the strings. It was a quick song, lyric-less song that charged along without pause or shift; I had only learned it from Mechias that very week. I had planned on performing my Augustinian song first, but this new song, whose notes almost hovered in the murky air before me, seemed better suited to the pub’s licentious scene.

The song must have reminded the patrons of a particular bawdy folk ballad, because less than a minute into playing, the boys at the back of the pub burst out into song, though their attempt to transcribe lyrics upon the melody was garbled by an extra note which did not quite accord with the length of the chorus, for which they, in a drunken attempt at coherence, attempted to rectify by the addition of surplus syllables:

            “On the windowsill-ill of the Grumbler,

            I saw bald Mary sitting there,

            With her co-omb and her mirror,

            Brushing out her pretty hair!”

            Gulliver joined in on his harmonica, while Rupheo sat silent at the microphone, refusing to add to the crowd’s foolery.

            We played that song the whole way through, and by the time we had finished half the bar had joined in the chorus of embarrassingly ill-fitted lyrics. Then came a cheer from the flush-faced audience, wherefore after they returned to their ale.

Rupheo turned to me, a frown narrowing his lips into a tight line. “Do you have another set to play?”

            I told him I had, thinking I would finally play the Augustinian song.

            Even before my fingers touched the strings, however, I knew it was wrong. Now was neither the time nor place for what I’d composed -- it was far too personal to cast before the drunken, swinish masses. Therefore my hand remained frozen on the bosom of my guitar, and for the first time in my life I felt entirely paralyzed. 

            I heard a voice mutter in my ear and I realized Rupheo was gripping my arm.

            “I beg your pardon?” I asked.

            “I said don’t worry about it; just try your best to follow along.” He then commanded his brother, saying, “Gulliver! Play us ‘The Devil’s Vaudeville’!”

            “Oh, that’ll get ‘em good and riled!” Grinning, Gulliver raised the harmonica to his lips.

            When Rupheo sang, his voice was low and husky. He wrapped his hands around the microphone, leaning in so close that his lips practically brushed the screen, causing each breath of air he expelled to echo through the pub.

                        “People laugh! People Cry!

People shrivel up and die!

That’s the way it goes.

 

The saints and the sinners,

The losers and the winners,

All wind up six feet under in the end.

 

But not me, no not I,

I’ve my perks, you can’t deny

My services can’t be mistaken for another’s!

 

Just stick with me, kid,

Unless your life you’d rather bid.

If you are not a gambler, nor am I.

 

Yes, I know it seems absurd,

To give your life for this devil’s word,

But there’s no other path down which to go.

 

So from death, spare your pride,

For those who have died,

Don’t have to put up with us anymore!

 

But if you think the past null,

And the coming future dull,

Recall the present’s where the devil has his fun!”

            …And so the song carried on for several more brisk and snarling verses, and as before the whole pub joined in and sung along. After a verse or two, even I was able to strum along with ease.

A bell jingled, and raising my eyes, I saw one enter from the inky night outside and slip through the crowded bar, pushing her way towards the stage. But fifteen wings’ breadth away she stopped, pulling back the cape which had kept concealed a shock of short, choppy red hair.

            As the last note Rupheo sang hovered midair and slowly died away, Kindred gazed up at us with bright and awe-struck eyes, a friendly smile upon her face. But there was something more there, too. It was a sadness that fought against her smile, rendering it contrite, and an eagerness in her eyes. She seemed ready to throw herself upon us at any moment.

            Those whose attention we’d managed to hold throughout the song applauded -- more for Rupheo’s singing than my guitar playing, I suspect -- while the rest turned their backs and returned to their drinking and chatter.

 Kindred made no move towards us but remained in place, her smile gently urging us to continue. I glanced to both Rupheo and Gulliver, but they simply shrugged and agreed to continue with the set.

            When our show was over, we put away our instruments for the night and descended into the crowd to join Kindred.

            “What brings you here at this hour, miss?” asked Gulliver. “You’re way too young to be frequenting this kind of sty.”

            “They’re quite informal, aren’t they? There’s no one at the door, and they let me walk right in -- and I’m hardly fifteen!”

            She seemed too at ease, too upbeat -- for whatever reason, I did not like it.

“It worried me to see you numbered among this crowd,” I said. “Something ails you that you cannot conceal. What is it?”

            A blush spread across Kindred’s cheeks, nearly shading them the same color as her hair. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. You didn’t need to worry -- I feel bad about that now. It’s just a bit of news I wanted to share with you, if I knew -- .”

            “Come on, then, quit laying a beating on yourself!” said Gulliver. “It’s not your fault if Dark’s a smidge uptight --”

            “She worried me too,” Rupheo cut in, but Gulliver paid him no heed.

            “ -- So let’s have your news then!”

            From one brother to the next Kindred glanced, keeping her eyes turned away from my own as she said, “Denthilde’s asked me to marry him. Orchid’s already give permission… it should happen by the summer’s end, I suspect. I told you it wasn’t anything important.”

            At those words, my blood became like Luna’s breath -- chilled and brewing with violence.

Gulliver Whistled and clapped her on the shoulder. “Not big news, hunh?”

             Rupheo rolled his eyes and waded his way over to the bar.

            “Ignore him,” Gulliver said. “He’s not the romantic type.”

            While I wished to show Gulliver’s enthusiasm, it was beyond my capabilities. Instead, I burst out, “What, Denthilde? Have you both drunk from the brim of madness now? You’d make a stagehand your husband!”

            I thought Kindred would be upset with me, but she undercut my suspicions by firing back with equal candour, “And I suppose you think you’d be better suited for the part than he! We aren’t your Augustinians, Dark; we’re a people of sorrows. Choice is a luxury. Denthilde’s a fine fellow -- far from the best, you and I know.”

            “Why, then?”

            “Because if you were my age and had someone care for you as much as my Denthilde does for me, you’d do the same too! Not that you would --” she bit her lip, a look of fear filling her eyes. “Oh. Oh no. That’s not what I meant, Dark, I -”

            “ -- I needn’t hear more,” I said. And in earnest, I felt no anger over her words, but only the sudden weight of exhaustion and frustration. “I wish to know why. What cause had thou to see us out tonight to share this news, and what approval could thou possibly require of us? Dost thou mean to make trouble for thyself?”

            “You’re doing the Renaissance theatre thing again.”

            “That is irrelevant.”

            Kindred’s eyes lowered. “I just wanted you to be happy for me… I like you, you know, even if you’re a stuck-up idiot at times.”

            Before I could answer, Gulliver clasped my shoulder and said, “You’d do good to get home now, Kindred. Need an escort?”

            It was probably for the best he stopped me, for I fear whatever I said next would have made a fool of me.

As for Kindred, she simply shook her head and muttered, “No, I’ll be fine, but thank you, Gulliver.”

            After she’d left, I turned to Gulliver and said, “Did you hear her?”

            “I thought I did, unless you caught something that gave me the slip!”

            “She said she liked me! The woman has a most curious way of showing it.”

            “Ah, well, there’s a woman for you. My Sarah still gives me the run around. You feeling up to spit, Dark? You’re looking a bit pale. We ought to take you home.”

            “No; in fact, I should very much endorse a drink right now.”

            The look upon Gulliver’s face altered from concern, to shock, and ended in glee. “Well, sprout, didn’t think you took to the ale!”

            “I don’t.”

            “Well, we’ll make a proper Ambitan out of you yet! Come on, Rups already has a start on us!”

            My decision to stay that night was not one which, under normal circumstances, I would have made, but I was so stung by anger and self-pity that I saw it fit to inflict even more suffering upon myself. While I supposed I should be furious at Kindred, it was Denthilde who managed to garner my vexation. Why? I knew not at the time. Perhaps I thought him a fool for choosing to marry while he was still scattered in mind and could scarcely tie his shoes aright. Kindred would cut a strange figure next to his own gawking cake topper!

            My mind a-muddle and the success of that night’s show forgotten, between Gulliver and Rupheo I slumped, laying one cheek upon the bar’s counter.

            “What’s gotten into him?” I heard Rupheo ask.

            “Got himself a spat with Kindred. I don’t think he fancies seeing her hitched off so young. There was a few sharp words between the two.”

            “Really?”

            “Yup. Think our boy wants to try some Northern pint, what do you say?”

            As Rupheo ordered me a drink, I lifted my head and discovered that across the bar, many of the patrons were staring at me over their froth-topped pints. Unlike the other customers, who were mostly young and high-spirited (students from the University of Occidentalis I would wager), these men were all around Rupheo’s age or older, haggard in face and sullen in composure.

            Before I had any more time to wonder at these men, a bartender with a crude face and a cruder demeanor slammed a pint down in front of me, amber liquid sloshing over the rim and puddling on the filthy wood table, which, I remarked, was already sticky from previous spillages. The drink held little appeal for me, but I swigged it back regardless, if only to prove that I could. It was far bitterer than any spoiled wines I’d ever tasted back in Augustine. All the way down my throat the liquor burned, until I felt its raw heat grip my chest.

            Rupheo leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Don’t be such a light sipper. I’ll buy you as many as you like.”

            So, cringing, I finished off my pint and allowed Rupheo to order me another. From then on, things became blurry for me. Another glass appeared before me, and without noticing, I soon emptied it, and then another…

            With vague fascination, I watched the empty glasses begin to accumulate, yet I could not seem to keep up with Gulliver, and Rupheo -- whom one might categorize as a lightweight (not that I was much better off) -- outpaced us all, and seemed for a while to fall into a stupor. I remember his hand -- a bit hesitantly, now that I reflect upon it -- touching my back, and then resting heavily upon it, rubbing the heel of his hand in slow, shallow circles against the small between my shoulders. Though I thought it a bit odd, I was too far gone to really pay this gesture much heed. It felt as though I were one foot within a dream, everything around me seeming like a heavy curtain through which I was forced to look. My mouth, I’m afraid, was placed in disjoint with my better sense, for the thoughts of my brain begin to flow stupidly past my lips. On and on I blabbed about Denthilde, about how much of a fool he was for thinking he could have such a gentle spirit as Kindred when we was himself piss-poor, cowardly, and not to mention a complete bore -- “and what does she see in him anyways?!”. I am sorry to report that while drunk, my tongue has a tendency to wag like a Northerner.

            Only Gulliver had the good sense to shut me up, thought he was not entirely successful at that, for still I grumbled to myself. Of course, in my inebriated state, how was I to notice the looks the other patrons were giving Rupheo and I?

            At length, one of them spoke out, “Well, look at the lovely b***h Rups’s dragged in tonight!”

            I glanced over Rupheo’s shoulder at the woman sitting beside him. She had a nice figure, but it seemed a stretch to deem her lovely.

            “Rups? Our old Rupheo?” another piped in.

            “Who else?”

            “You say he’s with a lady?” still another added. “By God, that would be something!”

            To my left, I noticed Gulliver tighten his grip on his pint.

The three older patrons carried on in their blathering: “Didn’t think our Rups put in with the, uh -- .”

            “ -- With the damsels!”

            “Well, then maybe it’s not a lady after all.”

            “Are you barking mad? Just look at ‘er! Long-haired down to the a*s like one of your street w****s! And the face -- .”

            “Oh, but it’s exactly the face -- I’m telling you boys! If that’s a dame, that’s got to be the ugliest croc’dile I’ve ever smacked eyes on -- jaw’s too square, see. And those shoulders -- .”

            “ -- Just look at those hands! I’ll be bent if they ever saw a day’s work -- they’re practically the color of my Grammy’s arse!”

            “And how might you know what your Grammy’s arse -- .”

            “Come on, he’s right! She’s a terribly flat chest if she’s a she. It’s a man, I say!”

            Once again, I peeked over Rupheo’s shoulder to see if their assertions concerning the poor woman were true, only to realize that her seat was now vacant. At that point, I ought to have come to an unfortunate epiphany about the identity of the individual whom the patrons were describing, but I suppose all hands were not, as they say, on deck.

Only when one cried out, “And look at the ears! She’s like a bloody elf!”, did it occur to me to answer:

            “I’m not a woman!”

            For a moment, the men halted mid-conversation, as if baffled I possessed the faculty of speech. Then their silence turned to riot.

“Well!” exclaimed the first. “That explains it then! Never did think our Rups would go straight with a gal!”

            “Still a trouser-chaser, then.”

            “And this new bloke! What happened, to that captain of yours, Rups? -- what was his name? … Emir, wasn’t it? Did the pair of you get tired of sacking?”

            Into violence, the pub suddenly reeled. Gulliver had leapt clear across the bar, grabbed one of the three by the front of his shirt, and hauled him over the counter. To the ground he sent the man flying -- and his fists followed after. Blow after Blow, Gulliver let his blows fly, each landing a square hit on the apples of the man’s cheeks.

In between hits, Gulliver, drawing short on breath, cried out, “Never… talk about… my brother… that way… again!”

            He wasn’t long at his sport, however, for the man’s companions were quick to leap over the counter to his aid.

            “Gulliver!” Rupheo hollered at once, tottering forward in his seat, “You let that b*****d be!”

            It was far too late, however, though I doubt Gulliver would have listened anyways. He threw himself at the two men, both of whom laid hands upon him and flung him over the counter. Through the curtain of intoxication, I watched as his elbow smacked hard against a barstool on his way down, producing the distinct snap of bone breaking.

            At that moment, with the fire-water of the Northerners boiling in my blood, I felt invincible, as though no man on earth could put a stop to me so long as my will was set against his. Without any concern whatsoever for the consequences of my actions, I drew forth my rapier from its sheath and pounced upon the pair.

            Though they disarmed me quick enough, my foes discovered that even without weapon I could be numbered as one of the beasts, for soon I had battered them both to the ground. Never before had I given my strength any estimation, and the fact that I beset two men of far greater stature than I ought to have raised questions -- had I been in my right mind.

            I might have killed those men, had Gulliver done a proper job with the first thug, for the rogue leapt upon me -- much to my bewilderment! -- and flung me to the floor. Into my gut, a fist slammed. All air fled my lungs. Another blow shattered my nose, but I did not cry out, not even as hot blood poured into my throat. I merely flinched, preparing myself for the next blow -- but it never came.

            Hesitantly, I cracked one eye open, and saw standing above me Rupheo, his rapier driven into the man’s shoulder. He had the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his collar pulled back, revealing a red lining on the inside.

            “Don’t move or I’ll rip your bloody throat out!” he snarled -- or at least that’s what I suspected he was trying to say, though it came out slurred as, “Dun move or Illa rib yer boody trout out!”

            One of the other men cackled. “Think you can scare us off by waving that stick at us, do you?”

            “I’m a member of the Red Battalion,” declared Rupheo, barring his red collar for all to see.

            “And why should I listen to a bloody crown?”

            Rupheo turned his head. I followed his gaze and noticed that the pub had gone quiet. Many of the younger patrons had jumped to their feet, intent on the three ruffians, their collars turned out and lined in red -- exactly like Rupheo’s.

            Cussing under his breath, the man who’d previously spoken summoned his companions to him, saying, “You’ll get your way -- for now. Doesn’t mean I won’t screw you a fast one next time we catch you around here, Rups. That goes for your brother and this mean hussy of yours too!”

            As Rupheo and I helped Gulliver to his feet, the bartender approached and told us to leave, for he suspected we would sow the seeds of riot yet again. Without further word (for our fighting spirit had been drained), we packed up our equipment and marched off.

            The trip back from the bar was just as dark and immemorial as the trip there. Rupheo and I spent the entire length of the walk supporting Gulliver between us, who was only half-conscious, though on greater account of his intoxication than his injuries.

            One positive that came from the walk in the brisk night air, was that it provided an opportunity for us to sober up. As my head cleared, I became aware that Rupheo was muttering something to me.

            “How are you feeling?” I asked.

            “Better; more level-headed now,” he rasped, voice harsh. “But… I’m afraid I must apologize, Dark. I was hardly myself in there. From vice, a man’s other vices are drawn out, and mine are strange vices indeed.”

            Baffled, I demanded, “What do you mean? You’ve done no offence unto me.”

            A sheepish look came over his face, causing his lips to twitch. “Is that raisin of yours so shrivelled, friend? It was all my fault -- the more so because I should have known those old chums of mine, if they can even be called that, would react so uproariously when they saw me at it. A bad reputation’s one thing you can never have in ample.”

            Gulliver, apparently, had sobered up too, for he suddenly bit out, “D****t, Rupheo! Y’oughtta learn to say something back! Can’t believe any brother of mine would let those hooligans have the best of him…”

            To this, Rupheo made no reply. Then Gulliver really sobered up, for he began yowling with pain.

            Mr. Naithos was a doctor, so when he saw Gulliver injured, he was quick to secure some ice and a splint to set Gulliver’s arm.

            All this, Orchid observed. Though he was preoccupied with Gulliver, occasional his eyes would stray to mine, and I’d catch a hard, frigid look within them. He was far from pleased with me, though I understood not what I had done to aggravate him.

            “It’s broken, isn’t it?” he asked Mr. Naithos as last.

            His patron nodded. “It’s a clean snap. There won’t be any acrobatics in time for Oktoberfest, I’m afraid.”

            Cursing, Orchid left the room. The others, who’d all gathered to receive Gulliver, peered at their leader as he left, though not one of us was bold enough to say a word. Eventually, we all let Gulliver alone and went to sleep, myself included. As far as I know, however, his brother remained at his side all night.